The Saint (Highland Guard #5)(57)

A wry smile turned her mouth. “I’m not sure the king shares your gratitude. He isn’t very fond of greenery.”

Magnus grinned, and it went straight to her heart. God, he was so handsome. She felt herself pulled by an invisible rope. They were alone, and she wanted him so desperately. She leaned toward him, her br**sts brushing against the leather of his cotun.

He was so warm. She remembered how it felt to have his arms around her and willed them to close around her again. “Magnus, I …”

He flinched; his muscles turned as rigid and cold as stone.

Instinctively, she pulled away. The visceral rejection stung.

He doesn’t want me.

“I’m sorry,” she said, toneless, unable to look at him. “I need to go. They will be waiting for me.”

She spun away, knocking his arm. At least she thought she knocked it. For the next minute she cried out in surprise as ale doused her gown.

“Oh, no!” Her hands flew to the front of her bodice, the left side of which was now soaked with the lemony brew. “My dress!”

“Ah, hell.”

Something in his voice made her eyes fly to his face. He looked away quickly, but she’d seen it. Hunger. Raw hunger.

He’d been looking at her breast. She glanced down. Whatever had been hidden by her gown was hidden no longer. The water molded the fabric to her like a second skin. She might have been naked after all. She sucked in her breath, the primal awareness of his attraction washing over her in a hot wave.

“It’s ruined,” she said.

He’d gotten his reaction under control. “Is it?” He didn’t seem overly concerned. Actually he seemed pleased. “What a shame.”

Her eyes narrowed. It was almost as if … he’d done it on purpose. “It’s a new dress.” He didn’t say anything.

She stuck out her chest and held the skirts wide. “Don’t you like it?”

He gave her a swift once-over, assiduously avoiding her chest. “It’s stained.”

“I shall have to go change.”

“I won’t keep you.”

He was pleased. But why would he do such a thing? Only one explanation made sense.

“Here,” he said, taking the plaid from around his shoulders and wrapping it around her, covering her up. “You don’t want to catch a chill.”

For one flight of stairs? Her room was located directly under the king’s. He’d bundled her up as if it were the middle of winter in Norway. Very interesting. Very interesting indeed. It seemed her brother had been wrong after all. Not only had he noticed, he didn’t want her wearing the gown.

Magnus looked so pleased with himself, she couldn’t resist taking him down a notch. “It’s fortunate I ordered a number of new gowns along with this one.”

He stilled, and Helen felt a deep wave of satisfaction surge through her. Good God, she hadn’t thought him capable! He actually looked scared.

“You did?” he choked out.

She smiled with wide-eyed innocence. “Aye, though I’ve been a bit nervous to wear them.”

“Why’s that?” This time it was more of a squeak.

She grinned devilishly. “They aren’t nearly as modest as this one.”

She was rewarded with white lines around his mouth and the faint hint of a tic below his jaw.

When Helen left him standing there, he was clenching his fists, and she …

She had a decided skip in her step. The doubts of a few moments ago were gone. He did want her, and if his reaction was any indication, badly. Things were going to work out all right in the end—she just knew it.

A little more prodding and she’d have him.

Magnus watched her prance away and knew he’d just been deftly outmaneuvered. Worse, it was his own damned fault.

He’d been half-crazed with lust watching her serve the king his meal. It had taken every scrap of discipline he had not to let her see it. He’d done a good job of it, too—except for the shifting. Piles, Jesus! He shook his head with disgust. He’d been swollen all right. His c**k had been as hard as an iron spike.

And Bruce—the blasted cur—had enjoyed every minute of his discomfort. A little too much. Magnus had seen the way the king’s eyes had lingered appreciatively on the swell of flesh rising above her bodice.

Magnus knew that he had better do something if he didn’t want to be fighting the urge to slam his fist into jaws all day. He thought he’d been so clever, coming up with the idea of the ale.

But he’d miscalculated. Badly. He hadn’t anticipated the effect of wet fabric.

Jesus, his mouth went dry just thinking about it. The heaviness. The roundness. The faint, wrinkly edge around the perfect bud of a nipple. He ached to slide his finger over the soft ridges. To lower his head, put his lips around the taut tip, and suck every last bit of ale from her skin.

His c**k swelled, throbbing at the memory.

Hell, he’d go to bed with every inch of that incredible breast emblazoned on his mind. And he knew that as he’d done many nights before, he’d take himself in hand and try to take the edge off.

But the edginess only got worse over the next few days. His hand didn’t help. Working himself senseless on the practice field didn’t help. Nothing helped.

Helen had found his weakness and took every opportunity she could find to test him. Brushing up against him. Dropping things at his feet so she could bend over and pick them up. Reaching for anything she could on high shelves.