Chapter Twelve
“Where angels fear to tread.”
~Alexander Pope
Several hours later, exhausted in body and soul, Angel longed for the oblivion of sleep, but her agitated thoughts would not let her rest. A sliver of silver outlined dark grey clouds set against a blanket of ink outside her windows. No sound came from the room below, and Simon snored at the side of her bed. Donning a pink fleece robe, she slipped down the balcony stairs and crossed the backyard to the bench under the old oak. A mist hung heavy in the air, not quite fog or rain, more like gentle tears of despair.
“Angel? Ye cannae sleep either?” Jolted from her thoughts, her stiff fingers clutched the robe draped across her knees. Brian stood an arm’s length in front of her, and she hadn’t even heard his approach. She stared at his tall, strong frame. A loosely cinched white robe gapped open to his waist, his legs and feet were bare.
A raw hunger seized her. Without a word, she stood and moved into his embrace, touched his stubbled jaw, traced his lips with her fingers then pulled his mouth to hers. They collided with near violence. Crushed against his hot length, she sucked feverishly at his lower lip. He opened to her, and she tasted a hint of brandy and the warmth of his mouth. With one arm clamped at her waist, the other trailed up her side to graze her breast
After a few devouring minutes, she pushed him away and took his hand into hers. This was not the time for thoughts or words. Angel led him back to his bedroom and pulled him onto the rumpled, sleep-tossed sheets still warm from his body. Hungry for more, she released the sash on his robe and shoved it off his shoulders. Swept up with her demands, his hands seemed everywhere at once.
They faced each other on the bed. Her nails scraped over his chest, thick with muscle and a matting of dark hair. His powerful neck and biceps tensed when she touched those areas. She raked her nails through his thick, wavy hair, kissed and sucked along his neck and shoulders, rubbed her hands over the broad slope of his back down to his tight butt. With ravenous hands and mouths, they explored what their eyes couldn’t see. Hard abs rippled under her fingers, but he froze to marble when she slid her fingers around his long, thrusting shaft.
He rolled over her, kissing and rubbing against her with his big hands and long body. His mouth, a hot cavern of desire, trailed a fiery path at her neck, shoulders, and finally closed over a nipple already peaked from his questing attentions. Moisture built between her legs. His deft fingers found her heat. When he slid between her legs, she felt the hard tip of his shaft at her entrance and panicked. Pushing back toward the headboard, she pressed her palms against his chest. “Wait. Stop. Please, wait.”
Brian froze at her command. His muscled arms pulsed like overstrained ripcord under her fingers. This was madness. They’d lost control, and she had no one to blame but herself. They’d taken things too fast and too far. This isn’t how she wanted her first joining to happen.
“Angel?” He pushed her shoulders against the pillows and rose above her while disentangling their lower bodies. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Angel, listen to me, lass.” When he fully rolled away from her, goose bumps coursed over her body from the loss of his heat. Frustrated and confused by the powerful pull of his body, his hands, his heat, she buried her face in her hands.
“You’re right, lass.” His words came in short pants. “We must stop and take a breath—consider our actions.”
He turned toward her again and threaded calloused fingers through the sweat-dampened hair at her temples. “Mo chuisle, ye are so beautiful, I crave your presence, your laughter, everything about you. I want to be with you all the time, but ‘tis battle-lust that rages through our veins now. I want you desperately, but I dinnae wish to take advantage of you.” He pressed his lips to her forehead, “My perfect Angel.”
“Stop, stop it. I’m not your perfect Angel!” A sudden tornado of unwanted emotions exploded. “I’m not your perfect anything.” With lashing arms and fists, she flailed against his upper body, bit his shoulder, and kicked her feet knocking him away from her.
Her voice trembled in a harsh whisper, “I’m a woman. A woman hungry for a man. You want me. I know you do. But I…I…Oh God, I don’t know what I want.” She did though; she wanted Brian, just not like this.
Shamed by her rapacious response to him, she couldn’t suppress the sob that burst like a bubble in her throat. Tears threatened. Tears she refused to release. She threw her head into the pillows effectively blotting out what little she could see of his shocked expression. Whatever had possessed her to this insanity? His assessment of battle-lust explained only part of it.
Had she lost her mind? A sudden hiss of Pete’s words, “ice-bitch, frigid, prick-tease” unraveled her. She wanted Brian desperately, and yet she wanted things to slow down, not give into what he termed battle-lust. In truth, she didn’t understand why their heightened desires frightened her.
It made no sense, but his apology only served to add more distress. It felt like a rejection, even though she was the one who stopped them. She couldn’t unscramble her irrational thoughts.
“It’s her, isn’t it? Char’s caught you in her talons.” She deflected by capitulating to an unreasonable fear that he and Char were seeing each other.
“I would caution you, but like most men, it’s unlikely you’ll heed any warnings. Have you been seeing each other? Is that why she showed up at the clinic tonight?” She couldn’t have voiced a more absurd attempt to divert their passion or excuse her behavior. She was certain that Char would have told her if she’d hooked up with Brian.
Rolling to the other side of the bed, she stood on unsteady feet. Her hands twitched to cover her nakedness. Gripping her thighs with her nails, she stilled.
He didn’t move, and his firm answer offered both relief and irritation. “No. I—we—haven’t seen each other since that dance—disco. She told me she came by this evening to see if you’d go for a drink with her.”
“I see.” What the hell did she mean by that statement? She couldn’t see anything, not metaphorically or otherwise. A dark statue draped in shadow stood on the opposite side of the bed. What did it matter if she exposed herself in such a raw, vulnerable state? He’d draw the same conclusions about her as Pete had. She teased, but couldn’t follow through.
“No, lass, I don’t think you do.” The shadow bent to pick up their discarded robes. He tossed hers across the bed and slipped into his.
Once she’d put on her robe and collected her wits, she moved toward the door.
“Angel, will you not sit with me and talk for a few minutes? Please, lass.” He moved the rocking chair to a spot beside the bed. She sat down and immediately began a slow rocking motion. He sat on the edge of his mattress.
“That’s quite the ingenuous design, don’t you think? Whoever thought to bend strips of wood so a chair could rock? So clever.” Attempts to change the subject and ease the tension didn’t help. She could hardly force a reply, and he probably couldn’t see her head dip in agreement anyway.
“My mother rocked us in this chair when we were fussy babies, just as Granny M had rocked my mother as a baby. I think it’s my earliest memory of me with my mother, and with Granny too. Sometimes, even Daniel would take me on his lap to read me fairytales or ease my childish hurts.”
A stilted silence followed that neither one of them seemed willing or able to break for several minutes.
Brian cleared his throat. “We both suffered a shock tonight. I could have ripped those men to pieces with my bare hands when they hurt you. I only failed to finish them because of your intervention. Truthfully, it went against everything I believe. Do you understand what I’m saying, Angel? I’m a warrior, I dinnae forgive such transgressions against—when—‘tis not a warrior’s response, ye ken.”
“You would have gone to prison, maybe for a very long time. I couldn’t let that happen. You are still unfamiliar with how things work in this era.” Her outrage over the assault had been equal to his. His protective rage, his willingness to commit violence in her defense had soothed rather than shocked her. That awareness disturbed her self-image.
Brian ran his fingers through his hair, lifting it into tufted spikes visible even in the dark. He leaned forward and placed both elbows on his knees. “Angel, I’m sorry if I’ve hurt you in any way. You deserve far better. I’m just so damned confused most of the time. Women are so open, free with their bodies—and—well, with everything.”
The ensuing pause made her question what that said about her on-again, off-again uncontrollable desire to have his hands on her body, his mouth hot and demanding on her flesh. Maybe Pete was right; she deserved the prick-tease label.
“You invite me to attend shockingly decadent venues and then tell me they are normal. It makes me question…” He paused for several seconds. “Never mind. And that whole business with Char a few weeks ago…”
He stopped speaking, again. The tightly clasped hands in his lap, the droop of his shoulders and head, suggested he struggled to find the right words. She refused to help or put words into his mouth. She waited for his explanation, though she wasn’t certain his words would provide any comfort.
* * *
Things would be a hell of a sight easier if he could look at her face, maybe he’d be able to determine her feelings or thoughts. Oh hell, the cover of dark probably made this conversation much easier.
“I haven’t been with a woman for a long while, Angel. And in this place, women throw themselves at me everywhere I go.”
“Well, what do you expect? You wear a kilt, which makes you stand out even more than your striking good looks.”
He shifted uncomfortably. “Oh, don’t feign surprise, you’re one massively hunky man, and you know it. I haven’t missed your gaping stares or all those directed at you. You stalk around like you’re king of the universe. Like every woman is yours for the taking. Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately from your point of view, that’s probably the truth. Every single one of them would jump into your bed with a flick of your fingers. Your eyes nearly popped out of your head at the disco where you salivated all over Char.”
It sounded as though she harbored more than a trace of jealousy. Could that be true? Why else this deflection suggesting Char and he were involved? Even more significantly, why had she flown into such a rage when he acquiesced to her command to stop at the height of passion. After all, she’d been the one to start this evening’s exchange.
“I’ll offer no more excuses about that night, Angel. You didn’t seem the least bit interested in me, then, she did, and the music and hedonistic atmosphere affected me. Hell, half-naked women bumped and writhed away on pedestals, displayed like wanton hussies selling their wares. I’m merely a man, Angel—a red-blooded, vital man. How did you imagine I’d react to such a place?”
She didn’t answer. The room grew thick with unspoken words. The only sound was her sharp intake of breath at that last comment. Since he’d already bungled his attempt at appeasement, he sat quietly, waiting for a response. He didn’t want to say anything that she’d mistake as further criticism.
Even though he burned for her, longed to conclude the act they’d almost engaged in moments ago, he didn’t want to take her like that. Not like that, not while in the throes of lust and shock. He needed to step back. How could he compromise this woman, the daughter of the man providing him a home and employment? His perfect angel, even if she refuted the claim, she was and would always remain his rescuing angel.
“I care for you, Angel. More deeply than you can imagine, but we need to corral our passions. I think we should spend time together without all this tension between us. And before we engage in…” He couldn’t even find words to describe how deeply engaged he wished they’d become. She rocked quietly in her chair, blinking her eyelids, but saying nothing.
“I have handled everything inappropriately. Before we move forward, I must seek your father’s permission to court you properly. Are you interested in receiving those attentions, lass? I mean… proper courting? Can you forgive so many missteps on my part?” She rolled her shoulders but maintained her silence.
She intended to make him squirm. So be it. “More often than not, you seem angry with me and uninterested. Maybe it’s best we strive for a deepening friendship and see where that leads us.”
He’d never been friends with a woman. How did one even conduct such a relationship? Whom was he kidding; he didn’t want to be her friend. He wanted to be her lover. Even now, his hands tingled with the urge to pull her back onto the bed. And that could not happen until her father declared a betrothal. Permission he’d not likely receive, especially if Alistair had the slightest inkling of what had passed between them this night. The man would probably cut off his bullocks and beat him senseless. As would be his right.
What could he offer the daughter of a respected man of medicine and keen intelligence? Nothing. Nothing beyond his strong sword-arm and quick reflexes, which had failed to prevent the injuries she’d received tonight. Strength that at best seemed of limited value.
The rocker creaked as she rolled forward and touched his cheek. “I care for you as well, Brian. You’re right though, the extreme events of this evening frayed my emotions to the point of breaking. The heat of lingering—I don’t even know what to call it, made me crazy. I’m sorry for my outburst. I think we’ll both feel better after a few hours of sleep. We’ll talk again tomorrow.”
Like a ghostly specter, she rose and left the rocker creaking in her wake, and him with a thousand questions rattling around his head. He watched as she disappeared up the stairs, Simon following closely at her heels. When had the dog joined them?