The Hunter (Highland Guard #7)(58)

He just hadn’t anticipated the blow to the chest that crippled him with longing, the overwhelming desire that crashed over him, the mind-numbing pleasure, or the fierce and nearly irresistible urge to take her into his arms and make her his.

How could a kiss do this to him? How could the simple contact of her lips on his make him so weak? Strip him of almost everything he believed in?

Because it felt good. Really good. It felt like nothing he’d ever experienced before. It felt big and powerful and significant. It felt like nothing else mattered except for the two of them. And for that one precious moment in time it felt something else, too. It felt perfect.

It would have been perfect. He knew without a shadow of a doubt that making love to her would be as close to heaven as he would ever hope to get on this side of the gates. But he had just enough conscious thought, just enough strength, left to put an end to it. Because no matter how desperately he wanted a few minutes of heaven with her, he’d be left with a lifetime of hell and recriminations.

He wasn’t his father. He couldn’t ignore his duty and responsibilities. Even for her.

But the look on her face tore his resolve to shreds. She looked stunned and dazed, and too damned aroused for any innocent maid.

Hell, he almost wished she’d go back to pretending to be a nun. At least then she’d attempted to hide her desire. But not anymore. It was there, naked, staring at him, daring him to take what she offered.

He clenched his fists so he would not reach for her again, and then turned away. Recalling the state of his clothing, he finished wrapping the clean cloth around the wound and pulled up his breeches. But the thin layers of cloth weren’t enough. He’d need a suit of the English mail to arm himself against her—and that probably wouldn’t be enough.

She was still standing there, watching him, when he was done. He wished he hadn’t looked at her. The stunned look had turned to something else: hurt. And it knifed in his chest like a mangled blade.

“Is there … was there … is something wrong?”

He steeled himself against the urge to comfort her. To offer her reassurance. To tell her it was too damned perfect—that was the problem.

He couldn’t meet her gaze when he said, “You shouldn’t have kissed me.”

“I didn’t …” Her protest dropped off when he looked at her. It was nearly dawn, and there was enough sunlight to see the spots of dark pink on her cheeks. “You didn’t seem to mind so much last time.”

He detected the challenging glint in her eyes and knew he had better put a stop to this. “As I told you before, I am no longer interested.”

The glint turned to a full spark. “What has changed? Other than the fact that you do not now think I am a nun.”

He ignored the heavy sarcasm. “The fact that you are not a nun doesn’t make any difference. You’re the king’s sister-in-law, and it’s my duty to bring you back to Dunstaffnage—that’s all.”

“So it didn’t mean anything to you? The fact that you are here doesn’t mean anything?”

“I’m a warrior, Janet; I go where and do what I’m told. I’m here for one reason and one reason only: to do my job. Don’t read anything more into it.”

She sucked in her breath, her eyes widening. He’d never struck a woman in his life, but somehow it felt as if he’d just done so. The wave of remorse hit him hard. He didn’t want to hurt her, damn it.

He didn’t even want to have this conversation.

He shouldn’t need to explain it to her. It was obvious. This wasn’t how it was done. They weren’t free to follow their feelings. They weren’t free to marry. And she sure as hell wasn’t free to do anything else. She should know that.

But if he expected her to run away, he was the one who should have known better. She was Janet of Mar. The sister-in-law of a king, and daughter of an earl. She wasn’t sweet and docile but bold and confident. She didn’t cower or run from danger, she met it head on with a knife in her hand.

How could she have possibly thought he would think her stupid? The accusation had taken him aback. Christ, if anything, the lass was too intelligent—and too headstrong and stubborn, for that matter. Bold, confident, opinionated—none of the things a woman should be. Which sure as hell didn’t explain why he liked her so much.

He was trying to protect her from the horrible things he’d seen, but she’d taken his concern as criticism, as a lack of intelligence, as patronizing. He cringed inwardly, realizing from her perspective that it probably was. But he hadn’t meant it that way, damn it. What did she expect, that he would sit back and let her be captured by the English? Tortured? Killed? It was almost as if she wanted him to defer to her judgment. That was crazy, wasn’t it?

Stewart was going to have a hell of a time stopping her.

What if he couldn’t?

The lass was too prone to getting into trouble, as her next step—toward him—proved. “I don’t believe you.”

His fists clenched. He wanted to pull her back into his arms so much, the physical restraint hurt.

Damn her. Couldn’t she see that this was impossible?

He swore, taking a step back (not in retreat, damn it!), and raked his fingers through his hair. He wasn’t good at this. He didn’t like conflict. He just tried to keep his head down and do his job. But she wouldn’t let him. “What the hell do you want from me, Janet?”