The Raider (Highland Guard #8)(57)

But it wasn’t helping. Closing his eyes only made his other senses work harder. He could smell her warmth, the fresh scent of the heather soap, the mint on her breath, the press of every one of her soft, slim fingers on his skin.

Christ. He almost groaned.

He opened his eyes. Her golden head bowed forward as she drew the cloth over his stomach, perilously close to the heavy head of his cock, which hovered just beneath the water’s edge.

He was about to put an end to it, when she lifted her gaze to his. A gaze that was closer than he would have liked.

“Does this please you, my lord?” she taunted with a sly smile. “I’m afraid I’ve not much experience bathing men. But it isn’t much different than washing a pig before market.”

Robbie was playing a dangerous game and knew it. The heat that sprang between them had just notched up quite a few degrees. But the pig comment had struck too close and demanded retaliation. “I think you missed a spot on my arm.”

Their eyes held. He could see the green flare of temper and thought he’d won. But then her mouth pursed, and she slunk the cloth back into the water with renewed determination.

He knew the exact moment he’d made a mistake. Her movements slowed, and her hand gently started to slide the cloth over the bulge of muscle in a soft caress. He watched as her breath hitched and then quickened. As her lips parted and the glare of her eyes softened with arousal.

Their eyes met, and all the anger that had started this dangerous game fizzled away. A different kind of tension now snapped between them. His heart made a violent thump in his chest. A thump of awareness. A thump of question. A thump of expectation.

With the anger stripped away, he felt bare. More naked than he’d felt when he’d stripped in front of her. There was no hiding how much he wanted her. No hiding how much she affected him. No hiding that the attraction between them was so strong not even he could fight it.

Twelve

Rosalin knew she was in trouble.

For a while she was so furious, she was able to keep her mind off the body parts—the rather magnificent body parts—she was scrubbing. The stomach that looked as if it had been forged from steel like a centurion’s breastplate, every band of ridged muscle hammered with perfect precision; the broad shoulders, solid chest, narrow waist, arms that bulged thick and heavy with muscle. There wasn’t an ounce of spare flesh on him—every inch of his warrior’s body had been honed and crafted for battle.

The strongest man in Scotland. Aye, he certainly looked the part. She feared no other man would compare. He’d ruined her—if not in fact, then in all the ways that mattered.

And then there was that other part of him. The thick, long column of his manhood that should have made her turn and run.

He wasn’t the first naked man she’d ever seen—there was little privacy in even the largest and most luxurious of castles—but he was by far the most impressive. And he was the only one she’d ever wanted to look at. The only one she’d ever wanted to explore with her hands…her mouth. A flush rose to her cheeks as she thought of his taunt the night before.

When she lifted her head to see him watching her, everything seemed to change. They both knew it. It was as if the roar of battle, the clatter of swords, the tempest of wills suddenly went silent. In their place was the crackle of awareness, the magnetism of attraction, and the hammering of lust that rose to a deafening crescendo.

There was no pretense of indifference. He wasn’t looking at her with distrust. He wasn’t thinking of her as the enemy or as Clifford’s sister. He was looking at her as if he wanted her. As if she were the only thing that mattered.

Her hand had slid to his stomach without even being aware of it. But he was. The line of muscles in his stomach clenched. His breathing was shallow, almost pained. His steely blue eyes watched her like one of her hawks.

He wanted something from her, but she didn’t know what. Then his hips lifted ever so slightly, and she understood. He wanted her to touch him.

Their eyes held. She felt poised with indecision, her heart teetering on a precipice. It was a moment of decision. The point of no return.

But she couldn’t go forward without knowing. “Did she…did you…?” She couldn’t seem to form the words. But she had to know whether he’d done what he’d said he was going to do with the dark-haired woman—Deirdre, he’d called her.

He didn’t say anything for a long moment. It almost seemed as if he wanted to lie, as if he knew that what he said would be important.

If he said yes, it would have been over. She would have found the strength to stand and walk away from him. She would have known that she didn’t matter.

But he told her the truth. “Nay, Rosalin,” he said in a soft, low voice. “She didn’t.”

Her heart seemed to grow too big for her chest. Without any further hesitation, Rosalin lowered her hand.

Robbie’s muscles clenched as he waited for the moment of contact, for the first tentative brush of her hand. The anticipation was nearly as sweet as—

Christ! The heel of her hand grazed the heavy tip, and he nearly jumped out of his skin. He groaned as sensation exploded from every nerve ending. Anticipation, hell! There was nothing as sweet as the feel of her hand touching him. And when she covered him with her palm…he gave thanks to every god he’d ever heard of, even as he prayed to a few nameless ones for strength. Biting back the pleasure, he had to fight the urge to thrust up into her hand.