The Hunter (Highland Guard #7)(14)

Damn it, he needed to do something. Perhaps say a prayer. “Lead us not into temptation and deliver us from evil” seemed appropriate.

He bit back a groan, the prayer forgotten, when her body slammed into his again.

God, it felt good. She felt good. And his body was noticing.

He tried to keep some distance between them, but the movement of the horse over the difficult, uneven terrain made it impossible. It seemed as if with each clop of the hooves, her bottom slid back into his groin, her back into to his chest, and the soft weight of those br**sts that he couldn’t forget bounced against his arm.

No amount of prayers, no amount of saying “nun” over and over in his mind, could prevent his body from responding to the intimate contact. He was hard as a rock, though thankfully, due to the thick leather of his armor, he didn’t think she was aware of the big column of flesh riding against her.

But God sure as hell knew that every time that softly curved bottom slid against him, Ewen thought about swiving. He thought about it until he could almost imagine what it would be like to wrap his hands around her hips and sink in and out. The sensual rhythm was driving him half-crazed with lust. He was hot, bothered, and so distracted that he nearly missed the turn he’d been looking for.

He cursed, furious with himself. Control and discipline were seldom a problem for him—especially regarding women who were off limits. Lately, it seemed like every other member of the Highland Guard was marrying a beautiful woman, and not once had his appreciation for their beauty veered into an inappropriate flash of lust.

Hell, Christina MacLeod was one of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen, with just the sort of lush, well-curved body he liked—the nun was a little on the slender side—but he’d never had one impure thought about her. Of course, having the greatest swordsman in Christendom watching every man who came within a hundred yards of her served as a rather effective deterrent. But if there was anyone who could strike fear in the heart more than the chief of the Highland Guard, it was God.

He felt her shift against him as she turned her head to glance back. “Is something wrong?”

Other than the slow, torturous descent into hell that was the soft curve of her bottom pressing against his turgid cock? He gritted his teeth together. “Nay, why do you ask?”

“You cursed.”

His eyes narrowed. “I thought you didn’t understand our language.”

“I don’t. But I didn’t need to understand Gaelic to know that it was a word I should not wish to hear.”

His mouth twitched with amusement. He supposed that was true enough. Sometimes tone said it all. “There is nothing wrong.”

“I thought you might have been confused about which way to go. Are you sure you know where you are going?”

This time he couldn’t resist the full smile, even though she had no idea how amusing her question was. He was the best tracker in the Highlands; he didn’t get lost. He’d built his reputation by focusing on every detail of his surroundings. A reputation that had led to Bruce selecting him for his team of elite warriors. “Don’t worry, I know where I’m going. We aren’t going to get lost.”

A little furrow appeared between her brows. No doubt she’d sensed his amusement but didn’t understand the source. “You seem quite confident.”

“I am.”

“It’s just that it looks like it’s going to rain, and with the mist—”

“We’ll be fine.”

She tilted her head back a little to study him for a moment. Their faces were so close, it was hard for him to resist doing the same.

She really was quite pretty—for a woman of God, he reminded himself. The lines of her face were simply but classically drawn. Wide-set almond-shaped eyes framed by delicately arched brows. High cheekbones, a small, straight nose, and a tiny pointed chin. The only extravagances were those ridiculously long lashes, the brilliant sea-blue of her eyes, and that sensually curved mouth. Her lips were too pink, too lush, and too damned tempting—especially with that wanton freckle distracting him.

He shifted his gaze back to the road ahead of them, where it was safe.

He was relieved when she did the same. Until she shivered a little and settled back against him. He nearly groaned, and his voice came out a tad gruffer than usual. “Are you cold?”

“A little.”

With one hand holding the reins, he reached back and unfastened a plaid from the roll on the saddle. “You can use this,” he said, handing it to her.

The smile she gave him was almost girlish in its delight and so out of keeping with the serene nun, his heart jogged a beat or two.

“Thank you.” She wrapped it around her and sighed contentedly, sinking back against him again.

At least one of them was comfortable. Ewen had the feeling that the next twenty-four hours were going to be some of the most uncomfortable of his life.

The plaid smelled like him, cozy and warm with a faint hint of the outdoors, and the soft blues and grays reminded her of his eyes. Steel-blue, she would call them—with an emphasis on the steel.

Steel rather summed him up quite nicely, from his eyes, to his intractable temperament, to the solid shield of his chest behind her and the hard strength of the arms that had lifted her from the ground. She’d never felt arms like that in her life. She’d reached out to brace herself in surprise as he’d lifted her, and she might as well have been trying to grip rock. A strange shudder had stolen through her, and her stomach had taken the oddest little dip.