The Thistle and the Rose(19)

“I'm not saying another word about myself until you feed me, Lord Campbell.” Celia tried to ignore his manly presence, the pressure of his enveloping hand, but she couldn't. She could feel her own quickening pulse.

“If we're going back to that Lord Campbell form of address, then I'll just have to start giving commands again. And I will not let you off so easy...this time.” Colin leaned down until his mouth was just a breath away from hers.

She tried to smile. She wanted to make some sharp remark. To tell him where he fell far short of courtesy's requirements, but his face was so close to hers now, his finely sculpted lips so attractive. She wondered if those lips tasted as wonderful as they looked. They were so full, so inviting.

His one hand was pressing hers against her thigh, but suddenly his other reached to her chin, lifting it until she looked into his eyes. The hunger that she found there frightened her, yet somehow drew her on.

Colin looked into Celia's direct gaze. For a moment—he didn't know how long—he was mesmerized, lost in the dark depths of her black eyes. Moving his hand slightly, he brushed her soft lips with his thumb, smiling at the tremor that she visibly experienced. She closed her eyes momentarily. Sliding his hand across her cheek, Colin brushed back the silky ringlets that hung teasingly against her face. Running his fingers through her hair, he traced a course around her petite ear and stroked the velvety skin beneath it.

Responding to the soft moan that he felt rather than heard, Colin reached his hand around her neck and pulled her upturned lips to his own.

“Kiss me,” he commanded softly, his voice as gentle as the warming sunlight.

Celia's good intentions were overwhelmed the moment his soft hands traveled across the skin of her face and neck. She wanted to brush her lips across his, to feel his warm, strong body pressed against her own. She wanted to be so close to him that there could be no breath between them. Colin's lips awaited hers.

Celia's lips touched his lightly, chastely. Then her hands came up to feel the chiseled features of his eyes, his cheekbones, the strong, clean cut of his jaw. Bringing her hands together like a sculptor shaping a masterpiece, Celia's thumbs caressed his full lips.

She fought the urge to taste those lips, to reveal the fire that was raging within her, to feel herself melt into him.

But she knew she had to stop now, or there would be no stopping.

She stopped.

“There you are, m'lord, I've done as you commanded. Now feed me.”

In one quick, outward snap of her arm, Celia dislodged his hand from her neck, placed her hands firmly against his chest, and shoved the leaning laird back on his haunches.

On her feet the next instant, Celia stepped back a safe distance and looked playfully at the surprised warrior. He looked so comical, his legs stretched out in front of him, his face openly perplexed. But she knew that he was just an instant away from being very, very dangerous.

“You are teasing me, you imp,” he growled. Her speed and sureness in disengaging herself were impressive to the giant. But as he looked at her, he knew that they would someday bring great pleasure to each other. He'd seen that look of passion in her eyes. She desired him as much as he wanted her.

“No, m'lord,” Celia said. “But you promised me lunch, and a promise is a promise.”

At that moment, Colin moved deftly to his knees, and as he did, Celia took another two steps back, smiling.

“I'm giving you fair warning, I'm a very fast runner.” Truly, it was not Colin that she was afraid of. He was being as chivalrous as one could imagine. Celia was afraid of her own reactions, of her own desire—not to run away, but to run to him—to give herself fully to this man. Never in her life had she felt that way.

Colin laughed and sat back onto the cloak.

“All right. Lunch. A promise is a promise. I only hope you do not choke on it, m'lady.” Colin began to pull the food from the satchel.

Smiling, Celia moved back to the edge of the cloak and knelt down, keeping her eye on him. Colin broke up an oat bannock cake, handing her a small piece, and placing the rest on the cloak.

As Celia ate the cake, Colin continued to empty the satchel, removing the stopper from the jug of ale and placing the bottle just off the cloak, but within Celia's reach. Breaking off another piece of the cake, Colin tossed a portion to Bear, who had just wandered back from his exploring.

“Aren't you going to eat, Colin?” Celia asked, reaching for the small jug.

Colin's head was turned toward the dog when Celia reached for the ale. But with the speed of lightning, his hand shot out, taking her wrist in a viselike grip. In an instant Celia found herself on her back, her wrists pinned to the ground, and the huge warrior leaning over her. He is faster than a man his size has a right to be, she thought.

Suddenly she laughed out loud at the ridiculousness of such a thought at this moment, and her laugh brought a look of pleasure to Colin's face.

“Well, did you get enough to eat, my speedy runner?” Colin asked with a wry look.

“I think being so full slowed me down,” she responded, “but perhaps we're only as fast as we want to be.” As the words left her mouth, Celia regretted saying them. As much as she wanted him to kiss her, she knew that she couldn't let it go far beyond that. The consequences were too serious. But she did want to feel his lips against hers once more.

Looking into her eyes, Colin saw that spark of desire glowing like an ember in a midnight fire. He knew that it only matched his own. Releasing her wrists, Colin slowly lowered himself beside her outstretched body. She could roll away from him, run if she wanted to, but he knew she wouldn't.

Propping himself on one elbow, he cradled the side of her face gently with his other hand.

“You are so beautiful,” he murmured, smiling at the blush that spread immediately from her face to her neck, disappearing under the collar of her dress. Celia returned his smile with the look of an angel. She looked so innocent.

And yet, as Colin looked at her, he thought of all the metaphors of courtly love that she must have heard in her life. But still, she blushed at his simple words.

“Never in my life,” he continued, “have I—”

“Please do not speak,” she interrupted in a whisper, silencing him with a single finger pressed to his lips.

Colin watched her lift her head from the cloak, and as she did, his lips descended to meet hers.

At first, their lips tentatively brushed against the other's, creating a sensation of shock waves that shuddered through their bodies. Colin was surprised that such a harmless act could trigger such a response in him. There was a simplicity, an honesty, an openness in the act, and in the resulting pleasure, that he had not expected.

Colin did not want the magic of this moment to pass. He pressed his lips to hers again, as a sense of urgency began to seize him. He wanted to kiss her deeply, to taste her, to delve into the mysteries of this woman.

The pressure of his lips increased, and Celia's head sank against the cloak. Colin ran his tongue lightly across her lip.

Celia's startled hands flew up, one clutching at his back and shoulder, the other gripping the back of his neck. Again his tongue darted across her full, sweet lips, seeking access. He moved his hand to her chin, lightly pressing downward. Her lips parted, and again his mouth descended upon hers, his tongue thrusting into the luscious opening—sampling, tasting, learning the texture of her soft mouth.

Her tongue responded to his, tentatively at first. She had never experienced the kind of heat that was coursing through her veins. A raw desire was growing within her. What restraint she had in her was quickly slipping away. Her tongue became as bold as his, searching and rubbing against his in an exploration of discovery. She loved the taste of him, the scent of him, the pressure of his body against hers.

Colin lifted his face from hers and looked once into her eyes. The clouds of passion that he saw there answered his unspoken question. Gently burying his face in her neck, he took her earlobe between his teeth and lips. His warm breath surged in her ear, bringing renewed shudders from her frame. Her smell was so fresh, so sweet, so warm and inviting. He traced a line with the tip of his tongue from her neck, along her jaw line, to her waiting lips as he reclaimed her mouth hungrily.

Colin felt his own discipline crumble as passion ripped through him. He wanted to touch her completely, to feel her, to be inside her. Colin's hand ran the length of her side, rising under her elbow and gently caressing her full, soft breast. Her body responded to his touch, arching against his hand instinctively.

But even as her body was melting into his, as her mouth yielded up its soft mysteries to his searching tongue, as her hands traced the muscular lines of his shoulders, of his back, something within Celia was alerting her to the line they were about to cross, a line that threatened the security of all who depended on her.

Within her, a new life was awakening, a life she desired with all of her being, but a life that she also was fearful of embracing.

Colin's impulse was to unfasten—no, to rip away—the clothes that kept them apart, to crush her skin, her breasts, her thighs beneath his own. Colin wanted to make love to her wildly, without reserve, to enjoy her mounting passions, her crowning ecstasy.



But something in her resisted his impulse. He sensed this. It was almost a resistance that was growing in spite of her own surging desires.