Kieran was being an arse and he knew it.

They’d ridden all day in stony silence, but it was obvious Vivienne was struggling to keep up with the grueling pace he set. She was so delicate and ethereal, like some sort of angel. All airy refinement and graceful composure, she was clearly not meant to ride long hours with minimal breaks.

Yet the space between Kieran’s shoulder blades itched as they rode across the open, rolling French countryside. Without the cover of trees or a familiar landscape to use to his advantage, they were far too exposed for his liking.

Still, insisting on a punishing speed until nearly dusk might be for her own safety, but it didn’t excuse being an arse to her that morning. He’d mercilessly torn through her trunk and had barely given her time to say her farewells.

The blasted truth was, he was scared witless. His worst fears had been confirmed—she was in danger, and William de Soules was likely behind it. Even from within Scone Palace’s dungeon, the man still had influence as far away as France.

And if Kieran’s instincts were right, which they almost always were, that meant the single attacker posing as a palace gardener was just the beginning. Kieran was the only thing standing between Vivienne and those who would see her dead.

But none of that was her fault, so he didn’t bloody well need to take it out on her.

That was why, when blue dusk began to creep across the sky, he led them toward a nearby village’s inn rather than insisting they sleep on the ground, as he’d told her they would.

Once they’d guided their horses to the inn’s stables, handed over the reins to a stable lad, and Kieran had slung their saddlebags over his shoulder, they went inside.

The inn was quiet and mostly empty, yet the handful of men who sat nursing mugs of ale or wine at the counter all turned at their entrance.

And stared openly at Vivienne.

Hell and damnation. Even surrounded by other beauties at court, she had been a rare gem to behold. And they certainly weren’t at court any longer.

He closed his hand possessively over hers, daring any man in the inn to continue ogling her. Most cleared their throats and returned their attention to their cups, but a few could not seem to help but gape at her.

Kieran strode to the counter, Vivienne in tow, toward a man whom he assumed was the proprietor.

“A room,” Kieran said, placing a coin on the countertop. He glanced around at the narrow, rickety looking stairs that led from the sparsely furnished common room toward the chambers above. Vivienne huddled against his side, clearly exhausted.

With a muffled sigh, he set down another coin. “Yer best. And we’d like a meal—delivered to us.” The last thing he needed was a room full of lonely, curious men gawking at Vivienne all night.

The innkeeper grinned at the coins, then hustled around the counter to show them to their room. He led them up the stairs and down a hallway to the last door. Inside, the room was simple but serviceable. Kieran was glad he’d paid for the “best,” if the others were any worse than this.

A wooden table and two chairs were pushed against one wall. Opposite the table was a narrow cot. A small brazier with a fire laid and ready to be lit and a little stand with a pitcher and basin for washing rounded out the furnishings.

Once he’d closed the door on the innkeeper, who promised to bring up food and drink shortly, Kieran dropped their saddlebags in the middle of the floor and rolled his shoulders. Vivienne moved toward one of the chairs, gingerly lowering herself down.

It was only then, once they were alone in the small, plain room with naught to look at but each other, that Kieran realized just how much trouble he was in.

Bloody hell and damnation.

There was no way in hell he was going to let Vivienne out of his sight after the attack yesterday. Of course, even before the attack, they’d been forced into close proximity due to his role as her bodyguard. For the last fortnight at the palace, he’d been like her shadow, only leaving her side when she sought privacy or rest in her chamber.

But now even that extra sliver of space would not be afforded to them. He wouldn’t risk getting his own room and leaving her alone in this unsecured inn just for propriety’s sake. No doubt that would irk her refined sensibilities, but he didn’t give a damn about that.

Nay, the darker, more insidious danger might be not in leaving her alone, but in remaining so close.

There was no denying it—he wanted her.

Their kiss, hot and needy, flooded back to him. Just as he’d suspected, a river of passion surged just below her prim and proper exterior. Despite being his opposite in nearly every way, she stirred him like no other. She was sophisticated and mannered where he was rude, polished where he was rough, and soft where he was so achingly hard.

Yet naught could come of the desire that sparked between them. They belonged to two different worlds, she the dazzling, complex realm of the French court and he the punishing, brutal conditions of the Scottish army. Hadn’t he learned the hard way not to long for a life that wasn’t meant for him?

The problem was, even after all that had happened ten years past, some part of him still hungered for more—more than a warrior’s life. And more with Vivienne.

If he wasn’t careful, things were liable to get intimate between them again in such close quarters. So to cool his blood and break the awkward silence hanging around them, he did the only thing he could think of—he brought up another man.

“What is de Pontier to ye?”

She lifted her drooping head, her eyes clouded with confusion. Leave it to Kieran to speak so bluntly as to be nonsensical. He drew in a breath and went on.

“He seems to pay a great deal of attention to ye.” That was, when Kieran wasn’t chasing the man off with a glower—or better yet, simply moving him bodily away from Vivienne.

“Thierry has made his interest clear, oui.”

He eyed her. “Ye dinnae discourage him, yet neither do ye turn dunderheaded and moon-eyed in his presence.”

She sniffed in offense. “Ladies do not become dunderheaded and moon-eyed.”

Kieran liked to think he’d gotten more of a reaction from Vivienne than that de Pontier fop had, even if it tended toward anger and outrage rather than the more flowery emotions.

A sudden, gut-twisting thought hit him—had she kissed Thierry? Had the bastard elicited as passionate a response as Kieran had?

Mayhap this wasn’t as safe a topic as Kieran had hoped. But he wouldn’t stop now that his dander was up.

“Ye want him, though, dinnae ye?”

She seemed to pick her next words carefully. “He is a nobleman with a large and important holding. He could provide me with a lifetime of security.”

Of course—the bastard was everything Kieran was not. Wealthy. Refined. Powerful. Stable. Yet through the sudden surge of jealousy, a niggling voice told Kieran that she hadn’t truly answered his question.

“Ye wish to marry him,” he prodded, watching her closely.

“Oui.” She met his gaze then, and he saw the truth of the word in her eyes. But he also saw a flicker of pain and hesitation, too.

“Do ye care for him? Desire him?”

Bloody hell, these questions were mad. What could he possibly hope for her to say? She’d already more than confirmed what he already knew—that there could never be more besides lust between her and Kieran. Why did some perverse part of him wish to make her say so aloud?

Vivienne’s throat bobbed as she swallowed, yet she held his gaze. “Non.”

Unexpected satisfaction surged through him, but before Kieran could parse what that implied, a knock sounded at the door. He rose and cautiously drew the door open a crack, but it was only the inn’s proprietor with a tray of food, as promised.

Kieran snatched the tray and closed the door in the innkeeper’s face with naught more than a grunt of thanks. He set the tray on the table and took up the chair opposite her. They ate the simple meal of lamb stew, bread, and wine in taut silence, but Kieran’s mind wouldn’t let the matter go.

“Why would ye marry that fop if ye dinnae care aught for him?” he demanded when she finished her last spoonful of stew.

She pulled up her chin, and despite her earlier fatigue, a new spark of angry energy lit her eyes. “Not all of us have the luxury of choosing a spouse based on affection or attraction.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Of course, he knew that many nobles married purely for the purposes of alliance or advancement, yet there seemed to be something else lurking behind her words.

“It means that if I am to maintain my position at court, I must make a good match,” she snapped, some of her composure slipping.

Kieran rolled his eyes. “What is so damn important about a position at court? I’ll never understand yer obsession with all the extravagance and gossip and frippery.”

She rose abruptly, stalking toward where he’d dumped her saddlebags. Her normally graceful gait was hindered by her obvious soreness, yet she still managed to look haughtily regal as she went.

“Others are counting on me,” she said, bending to fetch her comb and violet oil. “You wouldn’t understand, I’m sure.”

His ire spiked at her barb—what the hell did she know about him, anyway—but he let it go, instead remaining focused on the topic of her marriage like a hound on a scent.

“But why de Pontier, then?” he persisted. “I’ve seen the way men look at ye. Ye could have yer pick from any eligible nobleman at court.”

As he spoke, a realization began to dawn. Aye, she could have any man she chose, including Thierry, whom she likely might have married by now if she truly wanted to—but mayhap she didn’t want to marry at all.

“What are ye—three or four and twenty?” he asked, sweeping his gaze over her.

She straightened sharply from the pile of saddlebags, her grip so hard on her comb and vial of flower oil that her knuckles blanched. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“If stability and security are so important to ye, as ye claim, why havenae ye married already?”

The question hung in the air for a long moment, the two of them staring each other down. Kieran had already pushed too far, but there was no going back now that he’d begun to find cracks in the carefully constructed wall she’d built around herself.

“Ye are the bonniest woman I’ve ever laid eyes on,” he said, attempting to soften his bald question. “Ye could have any one of those idiots at court—or all of them, if ye chose. Why havenae ye picked one—like de Pontier—and married, Vivienne?”

She turned and strode slowly to the stand bearing the pitcher and basin. When she began pouring water over her hands and splashing it on her face, he feared she would never answer, but at last she stilled and spoke.

“I…I made a mistake many years ago,” she said, keeping her back to him. “I trusted someone I shouldn’t have. It has made me wary of making the same error again.”

Kieran jerked in his chair at her softly spoken words. She began unwinding the plaits in her hair. It fell in luscious pale gold waves down her back.

“I know you think me silly and vain,” she went on, taking up the comb and gently dragging it through her locks. “You think all I care about are feasts and dancing and silks and gossip.”

“Nay,” he said, his voice coming out gruff. Though he’d thrown just such an accusation at her feet a moment before, some part of him knew that wasn’t all there was to her.

“Non? If not a fool, perhaps you think me cold and calculating, a shrew obsessed with remaining perfectly in control. And perhaps I am. Marrying Thierry would confirm that, wouldn’t it?”

“Nay,” he said again, rising and taking a step toward her. “In truth, I dinnae ken what to make of ye.”

“It is not so complicated,” she murmured. “I am a woman who nearly lost everything, and who learned the hard way just how powerful society’s approval—or disapproval—can be.”

“That is why ye have hesitated to marry, even though ye claim it’s what ye want—because ye are afraid of making the wrong decision and falling out of society’s good graces.”

She turned then, her dark blue eyes flickering with pain. “As I said, I have erred in the past. If I do so again, I doubt I will get another chance. I…I am not one to trust easily.”

He took another step forward, and in the small space, it was enough to bring them nearly chest to chest. Something in the air around them seemed to shift, to thicken with anticipation.

“And do ye trust me?”

“With my safety, oui,” she answered without hesitation. Yet what she left unsaid struck him like a kick to the gut—she didn’t trust herself to be alone with him.

The knowledge that she felt the same burning desire he did was like a swig of powerful Highland whisky. It warmed his blood and made his head spin wildly.

“Ye are safe with me,” he said.

“Oh, I think we both know that is not true,” she whispered.

“And what would be the harm if we were honest about what we want?”

Aye, there was the root of his frustration, and why he’d been behaving like such an arse, especially in questioning her about Thierry. He desired her, damn it. And he was no good at pretending he didn’t.

Slowly, he slid his thumb and forefinger down one of her silky flaxen locks. “Society’s eyes arenae here to approve or disapprove. Besides, ye should ken by now that I dinnae give a damn what others think.”

A distant, sane part of his mind screamed at him that he was going down a path toward madness, but all traces of reason vanished when she brought a slim finger to her lips and began biting her nail. It was an unconscious gesture he was coming to recognize as a sign of nervousness, yet it told him she was considering his words.

Without thinking, he gently pulled her hand from her mouth and brought the abused nail to his own lips. Slowly, he kissed the pad of her finger, then drew it into the heated depths of his mouth.

She sucked in a breath, her eyes hazing with desire as he teased her with his tongue. He slid her finger free, then turned over her palm and sank his teeth into the flesh at the base of her thumb.

“Let me pleasure ye,” he mumbled against her palm.

She stiffened, and he looked up to find her lips parted in surprise.

He’d assumed she was a virgin given her rigid adherence to propriety, yet something about the shadow that had crossed her eyes when she’d spoken of misplacing her trust years ago gave him pause. But even if she was innocent, she’d lived in the French court for some time, where trysts were an open secret and carnal indulgence was considered a natural part of life. Had no one ever offered to give her pleasure before without expecting aught in return?

“Why?” she asked.

“Because I want to see ye lose control,” he rasped, holding her gaze. “I want to make ye come undone under my touch.”

He moved his lips back to her finger, sucking it once more until she answered.

“Oui,” she breathed, her eyelids sliding closed.

In less than a heartbeat, he was kissing her. She opened under him instantly, surrendering to his invading tongue. His hands fumbled with the ties running down the back of her dress, eager to free her skin from the garment.

When he’d gotten a few of the laces loose, he simply tugged on the material at her shoulders impatiently. To his pleasure, she helped him by wriggling until the silk was bunched at her waist.

He slid the gown over her gently flaring hips and let it pool at her feet, leaving her only in a silk chemise. The material was slippery-smooth and warm from her skin. Even with only her shoulders and arms bare now, it was nearly the most erotic thing Kieran had ever experienced.

Unable to hold back any longer, he nudged her against the wall, bracketing her body with an arm braced on either side of her. He tore his mouth away to trail hot kisses down her throat and across her exposed décolletage. Her chest rose and fell rapidly as he found inch after inch of sensitive, creamy skin with his lips and tongue.

One of his hands fisted in the silky length of the chemise, dragging it up until his fingers brushed her smooth, soft thigh. The other rose to cup one perfect, high breast. Her nipple was already pebbled with desire against the silk. He thumbed it, drawing a gasp and a moan from her.

His cock throbbed painfully beneath his kilt, but he willed himself not to lose control. Instead, he focused on her breast until he could feel her thigh trembling against his other hand. He moved up, brushing the curls between her legs. They were already damp. He shuddered with longing.

He slid a finger along the seam of her sex, making her moan again. Bloody hell, she would be his undoing even if she never touched him. She was so sensitive and alive under his hands, so responsive and nigh overflowing with passion beneath that thin veil of control.

When he parted her and brushed his finger against that bud of a woman’s pleasure, she bucked against him.

So much for restraining himself.

He yanked down the front of her chemise, freeing her breasts to his gaze. They were round and soft and tipped with points of pink the same petal-soft color as her lips.

He closed a hand over one, letting his callused palm tease her, and his lips over the other, flicking his tongue over her nipple. Her fingers sank into his shoulders, clawing him wildly as her breaths came faster and faster.

When she was moaning and rolling her hips against his hand, he slid a finger inside her tight, wet core, dragging it in and out slowly while keeping the pressure on her bud with his thumb.

“Say my name,” he rasped against her skin. “Let me hear it on yer lips.”

“Kieran,” she moaned. “Kieran.”

She came hard against his hand, shuddering and crying out. He could feel her pulse around his finger until her breathing began to slow and she slumped against the wall.

Reluctantly, he withdrew from between her legs and lifted her chemise back in place over her breasts. He scooped up her suddenly boneless body and carried her to the cot, laying her down gently.

But when he began to move away, she gripped him around the neck. Her eyes lifted to his, dark and vulnerable.

He’d told her he wanted to see her come undone, to lose control. Now that he had, fear spiked hard in his gut. She was so damn beautiful, all disheveled and free, her defensive walls down.

He felt a stirring in his chest he’d thought himself no longer capable of—caring. But he already knew where this would end—in pain and loss. It always did. Opening one’s heart only made it defenseless against being hurt.

Kieran drew away, unlooping her arms from his neck. “Rest,” he said, his voice coming out rougher than he’d intended. “We have another half-day’s ride ahead of us tomorrow before we reach Picardy.”

She shuttered the emotion in her eyes, nodding.

Kieran settled himself on the ground in front of the cot, pulling his extra length of plaid around him. He’d made a grave error tonight in thinking giving rather than taking pleasure would keep him safe from the pull he felt toward Vivienne. Aye, there was no denying that lust crackled between them, but he had to ensure it didn’t turn into aught more.

He’d lost everything once before, and he didn’t plan on ever doing so again.