The Raider (Highland Guard #8)(83)

He was furious—not with her, but with himself. In his effort to prove that she meant nothing—that all he felt was lust—he’d only served to prove her point.

He couldn’t do it, damn it. He couldn’t even pretend. He’d tried to be crude and rough, but the moment he touched her something came over him. A powerful feeling that drugged his senses and dragged him into some kind of sensual haze, where all he could think about was bringing her pleasure.

Her responses hadn’t helped any. Damn it, she was an innocent, proper English lady. She was supposed to be shocked by his playacting from behind. Shocked as in horrified, not shocked as in awakened with far-from-maidenly curiosity.

She wasn’t supposed to dissolve against him, arching into his hand, pressing her sweet little bottom against his sorely abused c**k and making soft, breathy whimpers of pleasure to egg him on. She wasn’t supposed to be so damned hot. He’d been one wiggle of those shapely bu**ocks away from unmanning himself and coming along with her.

Young, innocent, and English did not apparently mean meek and easy to maneuver. Nor did they seem to preclude enjoyment in the baser pleasures. Someone should have warned him.

The whole thing had left him in the unusual position of feeling distinctly overmatched. As if he’d shown up to battle with a pike to find out he was facing a siege engine.

He’d expected her to take his word for it—not to press. He sure as hell hadn’t expected a perfectly executed counterattack that would have made Striker proud. The lass had developed an uncanny ability to identify and take advantage of his weaknesses. All of which seemed to be related to her.

Wasn’t she supposed to be the one who was inexperienced? Yet he seemed to be the one left flailing in the dark, ill equipped to navigate the intricacies of a lady’s mind. Truth be told, he’d never gotten that far before. He’d had many relations with women, but never a relationship.

He stopped suddenly, as if he’d run into a wall. Was that what this was? How the hell had that happened?

He didn’t know, but it had. She’d insinuated herself into his tent, his thoughts, his life, and somehow along the way, she’d begun to matter.

Nay, he realized. She’d always mattered. He’d been doomed from the moment she’d opened the door to the pit prison. Not that it would change a damned thing.

As he was only a few feet away from the burn, he quickly divested himself of his armor and clothing and dove in.

He tried not to shriek like a five-year-old lass as the cold water closed in around him, driving icy needles into his skin. Robbie might be from the west coast of Scotland, but he didn’t seem to possess the inhuman ability to acclimate to the cold water that his brethren from the Isles did. MacSorley, MacRuairi, and MacLeod could swim in this shite for hours. Robbie did what was necessary and then got the hell out.

Having effectively chilled the unspent lust from his body, he washed quickly and climbed up the rocky banks.

With the roaring in his ears quieted, he could finally hear the other voice—the far quieter one—whispering in his ear. The one that told him he’d acted badly. That she hadn’t deserved to be treated like a whore. Nor had she deserved the harsh words uttered in an attempt to push her away.

She’d told him that she loved him, for Christ’s sake. He might not have wanted to hear it, but he should have shown some consideration for her feelings. Lasses were fragile, emotional creatures. Not cold, unfeeling bastards like him.

He owed her an apology.

He’d just finished strapping the baldric he wore across his shoulder for his sword when he heard a sound. He tensed, instantly primed for battle. But then, recognizing the footsteps, he moved his hand from the hilt of his sword.

“You’re supposed to whistle,” Robbie said with annoyance as his partner came into view. “I could have taken your damned head off.”

Seton shrugged. “You knew it was me. Besides, I wanted to make sure you were alone.” He gave him a pointed look. “What in the hell was that show in the Hall all about? Fraser said Clifford agreed to the truce.”

“He did.”

“Then why were you so angry with Lady Rosalin?” Robbie didn’t say anything. “Does it have to do with Sir Henry de Spenser by any chance?”

Robbie shot him a warning glare. “Leave it, Dragon.”

But the young knight had never heeded caution. That was part of the problem. “Not this time. I won’t let you hurt that poor girl. What you are doing to her isn’t right. She’s young and fancies herself in love with you, and you are confusing her with your…whatever the hell you want to call it. When you send her away you are going to break her heart. So leave her be.”

Robbie wanted to be angry. He wanted to tell Seton to bugger off, but he couldn’t. His partner wasn’t saying anything he didn’t already know. His chest was squeezing so tightly his lungs were burning. He could barely get the words out. “What if I care about her?”

Seton held his stare, and for once it felt like their positions were reversed. It wasn’t without sympathy that his partner gave him the cold, unflinching truth. “If you care about her, you’ll leave her be. Unless you are prepared to throw away your chance for a truce and the king’s two thousand pounds?”

Robbie’s mouth clenched in answer. Never.

“Even if you were, are you prepared for what would come after? If you think Clifford wants your head now, how do you think it will be if you try to take his beloved sister? He’ll never let you have her. Christ, Raider, you should know better than I that what you want is impossible.”