The Recruit (Highland Guard #6)(20)

Mary’s mouth quirked with amusement. Robert Bruce had never been subtle about what he wanted. It had taken a bold man to attempt to wrest a crown from Edward Plantagenet’s iron fist. Robert had made no secret of his wish to have her son under his banner. But secreting her son out from under the English king’s nose would be a risky proposition, and for what? What was there for her in Scotland but politics, intrigue, and men who would control her future? Things from which she’d been blissfully free in England. Besides, she remembered what had happened the last time she’d tried to leave.

“I should like that, Sire,” she said noncommittally.

“I would like you to meet him.” At her confusion, he added, “Our soon-to-be champion. Perhaps you will sit with us at the feast tonight?”

Something about the way he said it set off alarm bells clanging in her head. If the king wished her to meet a man, it wasn’t hard to guess why. But she was just as eager for a Scottish husband as she was an English one. “It would be an honor, Sire. I do hope I shall feel up to it.”

But alas, she suspected her illness was going to return in full force.

The king moved off to have some words with the MacKenzie chief, and Mary settled back in her seat to watch the contestants who had just begun to gather in the field.

She could feel the excitement growing around her; it was impossible not to get caught up in it. Even in self-imposed exile in her room she hadn’t been immune. She’d watched from the tower window, too far to be a part of it, but not far enough away not to want to be.

She hadn’t been able to stay away. She told herself it was because people were starting to worry about her health—not just her former sister-in-law, Lady Christina and Margaret, but also the lady of the castle, Lady Anna Campbell. But she didn’t think she could listen to one more evening of the ladies she shared a chamber with reliving every minute of the day’s events without seeing it for herself. The only time she’d been to the Games, she’d been so enthralled with her husband that she didn’t remember much else.

All of a sudden she heard a large roar go up in the crowd. She turned to Margaret. “What is that for?”

Margaret grinned, pointing to a man who’d just entered the field. “Him.”

Mary followed the direction she’d indicated and froze. Oh God, it was him! Though he wore a steel helm that masked his face, something about that arrogant set of his shoulders made every muscle, every nerve ending, every inch of her body tense with instant recognition. Or perhaps it was that the very breadth of those shoulders, the bulk of his arms, and every muscle of that imposing chest had been emblazoned on her consciousness.

Her gaze dipped before she could stop herself. It wasn’t until she’d returned to her room that she realized she still had her glasses on—she’d tied them around her head with a ribbon so they wouldn’t keep falling off while she was sewing. That must be why he’d looked so … large.

So much for the hope to never see him again, to bury what had happened in the deepest, darkest corner of her memory and pretend it had never occurred. Seeing him brought it all back again.

Heat crawled up her face. What could she have been thinking? Why hadn’t she run away? She should have run away. She still couldn’t believe she’d stood there and watched as first he’d pleasured the woman and then as he’d …

As he’d pleasured himself.

She’d never seen a man take himself in his own hand before. Surely it was a wicked thing to do? She just hadn’t realized wicked could be so arousing.

She couldn’t think about it without feeling the heat of shame wash over her (at least she told herself the blast of warmth that shot over her skin was from shame). Sweet heaven, she’d never felt anything like that before in her life. For a moment, when he’d looked into her eyes as he’d found release, she’d actually let herself believe that she’d done that to him. That all that intensity, all that heat, all that raw masculine energy as he’d taken his pleasure had been for her.

The way he’d looked at her …

No man had ever looked at her like that. As if she were desirable. Even when she’d been young and pretty, her husband hadn’t seemed to notice. Not when he had so many beautiful women falling at his feet.

Listen to her, what a fool she was! After all these years she still thought she could inspire a man’s lust. She hadn’t been able to keep her husband’s interest when she was at her best; how could she think to attract a man now, when she’d purposefully made herself look as unattractive as possible?

Worse, she knew he’d seen her arousal and guessed how much she wanted what he was giving that woman. The passion and pleasure she’d only glimpsed but had never experienced.

How pathetically ironic that the most sensual moment of her life had occurred when she wasn’t even a participant!

Mary didn’t know whether she was more horrified at him or at herself. Him for his wickedness or her for enjoying it. Mostly, she was just embarrassed. He was probably still laughing at her. The silly little mortal who’d thought a god could actually be interested in her—even for a moment.

But she couldn’t help asking, “Who is he?”

“Impressive, isn’t he?” Margaret said with a mischievous twinkle in her eye.

Obviously, Mary had given something away in her expression. She shrugged indifferently, but it didn’t fool either of them.