The MacKinnon’s Bride(15)

He hadn’t intended to be so bold—had only meant to sleep beside, not atop her—but the beguiling scent and sight of her had appealed to his baser instincts. And then, as he knelt over her, bantering words with her, listening to her stubbornly insist that she could fend for herself, that she didn’t need his aid, and watching her stroke the blood back into her aching wrists, a strange tenderness had stolen over him. She wasn’t so strong as she appeared, he sensed, and he fully intended to hasten the negotiations and see her safely returned to her father.

In truth, had she been any other woman, in any other circumstance, he might have liked to know her better.

His nostrils flared as he drew the essence of her into his lungs. His body reacted to her siren’s perfume like a man famished and scenting Heaven’s manna.

He opened his eyes and peered up into her face, trying to ignore the insistent burn of his loins.

She slept still, her head lolled forward. Touched by the faint morning light, her features were soft and delicate, hardened only by the memory of her stubborn temper. His lips curved slightly at the image of her standing before him, fists clenched at her sides.

Her father would pluck out his eyes, would he?

Vixen.

Her hair was the color of burnt umber. Tightly braided at her back, it was of undeterminable length, but the curls that fell loose about her face were long enough to sweep his forehead. The feel of it upon his flesh hardened him fully, and he had to restrain himself from drawing a lock into his mouth to savor. He reached out, instead, testing a soft curl between his fingertips.

Her lashes were long and sooty, he noted, darker than they might have been for one whose skin was so fair.

And her lips... they were her best feature, he decided, full and luscious... made to suckle.

His gaze shifted to her breasts. Rising and falling with her slumber, they were her next best attribute, he resolved. High and round and full, they were made to nourish a man’s bairn... to whet a man’s appetite... to be suckled and loved.

Bloody hell.

Iain snapped his eyes shut, constraining his thoughts, and shuddered. Lifting his head, he rolled free of her at once, telling himself that he had no need to be preoccupied with some wench’s bosom—or her mouth!

Not now.

Certainly not hers!

Careful not to wake her, he knelt beside her, bracing his body against her so that she might lean into him, and then he reached behind the tree to unbind her wrists. Once liberated, she slumped sideways. He caught her, and eased her down upon the ground to inspect her wrists for damage. He frowned as he examined them. Though he’d taken care not to bind them too tightly, they were chafed nevertheless. They must have pained her, and yet she’d spoken nary a word in protest. Gently he began to massage her wrists and hands, her fingers, and was surprised to find them coarse to the touch, not soft as he’d imagined. His brows furrowed as he turned them, considering their callused condition.

His gaze returned to her face to find her awake and watching, the strangest look nestled deep within her soulful eyes... eyes so deep a brown, they recalled him to some cool, dark cavern. They drew him just as surely as his childhood sanctuary had—the great stone cairn that had lured him despite his father’s admonitions and curses—with the promise of secrets to unfold.

What secrets had she to be discovered?

She jerked her hand free and scrambled to sit, scooting away. “Haven’t you a bargain to put forth?” she asked him, her voice throaty from slumber. She lifted a brow. “Or have you changed your mind already, and decided you cannot part with me, after all?”

“Troublesome wench,” Iain said without much heat. He shook his head, smiling despite himself. “You just dinna quit, do ye, lass? What do you think? That I’d risk my son for the comfort of some wench’s lap? I dinna think so.”

She rolled her eyes. “Of course not,” she answered, hugging herself, and eyeing him disdainfully. “I forget myself, but he’s your son.” And then she asked with narrowed eyes, “I wonder, would you do the same for a daughter?”

Iain merely stared at her, his sense of unease sharpening. “Of a certainty, lass,” he answered after a moment’s deliberation, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “I’d do the same for any one o’ my clan. Would no’ your da?”

She lifted her chin, cocked her head, and smiled slightly. “We shall see, shall we not?” Her smile deepened when he frowned.

She was provoking him, he realized.

Such a contradictory creature, she was, noble born, with mettle enough to vanquish a king’s will, and yet—his gaze shifted to the hands she continued to stroke—those hands were more suited to a Highland lass than to a soft English miss. She followed his gaze, and seemed to understand his scrutiny, but she didn’t bother to explain. He didn’t bother to ask.