The Hunter (Highland Guard #7)(71)

Her eyes fluttered open. The smile that spread across her face squeezed his chest like a vise, cutting off his already labored breathing. So beautiful …

“That was wonderful. I never imagined …” She looked up at him. “Is there more?”

Greedy lass! He smiled. “Aye, this is only the beginning. I am going to make you—”

Mine.

He stilled. The word jarring something inside of him, rousing his conscience from its drugged slumber.

“Make me what?” she said gamely. She glanced down, eyes widening as they fell on him. “Oh … Oh!”

Her eyes shot back to him uncertainly, and with more than a little fear. It wasn’t without cause. He was built for a woman’s pleasure.

But she wasn’t a woman, she was a maid.

Is a maid, he corrected.

Every muscle in his body flexed with restraint. It would be so easy to surge inside. He bowed his head, his body shaking, fighting for control as the need of his body warred with his mind. A mind he wanted to shut off.

Just finish. You can make it good for her. She wanted this. It’s too late, damn it.

But it wasn’t too late. Not yet.

She isn’t yours. But she can be. A few more inches, and you can make it so.

But at what cost? Everything he’d been fighting to achieve? Was he like his father after all?

He swore, not realizing he’d uttered the vile oath aloud until she gasped.

“What’s wrong?” She reached up and touched his taut face.

He shrugged her off and pulled away, every instinct in his body roaring in protest.

“I can’t do this.”

“Why not?”

He was already on his feet, moving away. He couldn’t look at her; the emotion in her voice was eating away at him enough. He needed a minute—more than a minute—to get himself under control. “There’s some soap and some extra clothes in my bag. Wash off the damned flowers. As soon as you are done we can go.”

Walking away was the hardest thing Ewen had ever done. He cursed every step that took him away from her. His honor and loyalty had been pushed to the very breaking point, leaving him nowhere to go.

Sixteen

Janet didn’t understand what had just happened. One minute he was there with her, and they were as close as two people could be; the next he was somewhere else. Somewhere she couldn’t reach. The fierceness of his expression alarmed her. He looked broken—tortured. She called after him as he walked away, but he acted as if he hadn’t heard her and continued on.

Leaving her flat. Literally, on her back. If she weren’t so confused, she might have felt like crying. How dare he leave her like this! She’d been ready—eager—to experience it all. She’d given herself to him, and he’d rejected her.

Alone, and without the heat of his body, she shivered. The chill of the misty morning once again seeped into her bones. But it was nothing compared to what was to come. With no choice but to do what he said, she then spent two—perhaps three—of the most unpleasant minutes of her life, bathing in the icy pool of water below the falls.

Forcing her feet off the rocky ledge was no mean feat. Only knowing that she was to blame for the English tracking them compelled her forward. She jumped. To say the water was a shock was an understatement of prodigious proportions. It leached every bit of sensation from her bones, taking her lethargy and any lingering memory of what had just happened with it. But she would never forget. He’d shown her a glimpse of heaven, and nothing could take that away. Not him. Not the water. Nothing.

Sputtering to the surface, she scrubbed her hair and limbs with the sliver of plain soap, attempting not only to erase the “reek” of bluebells, but also to keep the blood moving so she didn’t freeze to death.

Getting out didn’t provide much relief. Her teeth were still clattering minutes later when he returned. She didn’t have to ask where he’d been. From his damp hair, she realized that he, too, had bathed, albeit farther down the river.

His gaze swept over her. If he was pleased to see that she’d done as he bid, she couldn’t tell. All evidence of the tortured expression was gone from his face, his features once again schooled into a blank mask.

The lack of emotion rankled. How could he be so unaffected, when she was so very affected? Her mouth pursed, anger breaking through some of the confusion.

“Do you need any help?”

Apparently, he’d noticed the difficulty she was having getting dressed. Though she’d managed to don one of his shirts and a pair of wool breeches, the shirt was already half-sopping from her wet hair and her fingers weren’t cooperating as she tried to pull on the hose.

She shook her head. As a peace offering—if that’s what it was—it wasn’t enough. He’d rejected her, leaving her like that, and she wasn’t going to let him pretend it had never happened. As if putting on her clothes could blot the evidence from memory!

She was just about to wrap herself in the plaid again, when he stopped her. “You can’t wear anything you had on before. We’ll leave it with the other things.”

“But it belongs to Eoin, and it’s warm.”

She thought his mouth pulled a little tighter. “MacLean will understand.” Ewen took off his own plaid and handed it to her. “You can wear mine.”

Their eyes held for one long heartbeat, as if there were some kind of significance beyond the heat it would offer, but then he looked away, and the moment was gone.