5
AT FIRST EOIN thought she’d followed him. Sitting on the bench in the mural chamber with a flagon of whisky and a folio he’d grabbed without even looking at the title—The Rules of St. Benedict in Latin, for Christ’s sake!—he’d heard her enter and been about to address her when young Comyn had shown up. Realizing he would likely make the situation worse if he let his presence be known, Eoin was forced to sit there half-hidden in the shadow of the alcove and listen to their conversation.
A conversation that was making his blood churn hotter and hotter, which to Eoin’s already on-edge state was like tossing oil on a roaring fire. What the hell was she doing? Didn’t she know that standing so close to Comyn like that, lifting her mouth to his, and telling him she wished he’d been the one about to kiss her was practically an invitation for him to do just that?
When the pup accepted, putting his hand on her chin and tilting her mouth to his, Eoin had felt a primitive swell of emotion unlike anything he’d ever experienced before. All he could see was red. His chest burned, his muscles flexed, and every instinct he possessed clamored to put his fist through the young lord’s mouth for touching her.
But his anger wasn’t reserved just for the lad. If anything, what he felt toward the lady was far worse. If he didn’t know that she’d felt exactly what he did during that dance maybe it wouldn’t have been so bad. But she had. And somehow, rational or not—forgetting that minutes before she’d entered the room he’d been denying the whole thing—it stung like a betrayal.
How much longer he would have been able to hold himself back, he didn’t know. But he did know the moment she realized they were not alone.
Comyn mistook the startled gasp and sudden loss of color in her cheeks for maidenly shock at the kiss, which in Eoin’s present state of mind, he thought, was ironic.
Maybe Fin was right. Maybe the rumors were true. Maybe she knew exactly what she was doing when she looked at Eoin like that. “I’d give her exactly what she was asking for and swive her senseless.”
Right now he was wondering what was stopping him.
“I probably should apologize,” Comyn said upon stepping back.
She shot an anxious glance in Eoin’s direction and quickly turned back to the lad, obviously distracted. “For what?”
“For taking advantage of your innocence like that.”
Eoin saw a small frown gather between her brows before she seemed to realize what he meant. “Ah, yes, of course, the kiss.” She bit her lip, and shifted her gaze down. “I think it’s best if you leave now. It would not do for us to be discovered like this.”
If Eoin heard the slight inflection in her voice, signifying a question, Comyn did not.
“You’re right.” He smiled. “Although maybe it would be easier if we were.”
She frowned again, clearly not understanding. But Eoin did. The lad was obviously aware of his father’s sentiments and looking for a way around them. Being caught in a compromising situation could suffice.
Although Comyn was not yet a knight, he had all the honor and nobility of one. Eoin, on the other hand, wasn’t a knight and had no pretense of wanting to be to keep him in check.
With a short bow, Comyn left the room. As soon as she closed the door after him, Lady Margaret turned around and folded her arms across her chest. “I know you are there, you might as well come out.”
She made it sound as if he were a bairn hiding or purposefully lingering in the shadows to spy on them. Neither of which were true, damn it. He’d just been sitting there when she’d come bursting into the room and headed straight for the brandy. But somehow, the lass had managed to put him on the defensive.
Though she wouldn’t have been able to see his face from where he was seated with his back to the stone wall of the alcove, she didn’t look surprised to see that it was him when he stood.
“Had I known what I would be interrupting, I would have made my presence known sooner.”
“You speak!” she said with mock surprise. “I wasn’t sure if dark, brooding stares were the extent of your communication skills.”
Handful.
His eyes bit into hers unrelentingly. “I didn’t realize we had anything to say.”
She held his stare for a long moment before turning away. “Perhaps you are right.”
Her voice held a note of sadness that made something inside him tug. Hard.
He should have left. He should have taken the opening she’d given him and walked away. Instead, he crossed the distance between them in a few strides. The soft scent of flowers that he’d noticed during their dance taunted his senses. But he was still too angry to heed caution. “Comyn isn’t for you.”
She lifted her brows, obviously taken aback by the adamancy of his tone. “You sound very certain of that.”
He was trying to protect her, damn it. Badenoch would never let his son marry her. “I am. And letting him take liberties won’t change anything.”
“Liberties?” Her brows drew together. “You mean that kiss?” She laughed. “Lud, that hardly signifies.”
He didn’t know whether it was the laugh or the way she dismissed it as nothing that fanned the flames of his anger like a smith’s bellows. “And you are so experienced as to know the difference?”
Something in his tone made her eyes narrow. “Have you never kissed a woman, my lord?”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
She looked at him for a long moment, as if willing him to see something, and then shook her head. “What I know or don’t know is none of your business.”
She was right, and yet she was so bloody wrong. “Not all men are pups like Comyn, my lady, to be so easily turned away when you are done with them. Some might see your kiss as an invitation for more.”
The flush of pink to her cheeks told him she wasn’t unaware of her reputation. He didn’t realize how close they were standing until she straightened her spine and the dart of her nipples grazed his chest.
His knees almost buckled. He clenched his teeth against the guttural groan of pleasure that sent a flood of heat to his groin.
She lifted her chin, tilting her head back to meet his angry glare. “A man like you, you mean?”
Whether it was sarcasm or a challenge, he didn’t know, but Eoin’s control snapped. He wanted to punish her. He wanted to teach her a lesson. He wanted to prove to her that she played a dangerous game.
But most of all he wanted to kiss her so badly he couldn’t see straight.
“Aye, that’s exactly what I mean.” He slid his arm around her waist and hauled her up against him. It was so bloody perfect he couldn’t have pulled away if he wanted to. All of those lush, feminine curves molded against him felt incredible. He was hard against her. Pounding. Throbbing. Even when he was a lad he’d never felt desire like this so intensely. Need had reached up and grabbed him by the cock, stroking, licking, with more potency than a wanton’s tongue.
He took advantage of her gasp and lowered his mouth to hers. The first touch, the first taste of her was like wildfire. Heat engulfed him. Pleasure tore through him in a scorching frenzy. Whatever rationality he might have still possessed went up in flames when she opened her mouth and kissed him back.
Margaret had laughed when her brother Duncan caught her kissing Tristan in one of the caves below Dunskey Castle last year and warned her to be careful. She was playing with fire, he’d said. A kiss was one thing, but it could very easily end with something else. Beyond the fact that he referred to fornicating, she hadn’t understood and thought he was exaggerating.
Out of control? Dangerous? What was he talking about? There was nothing that felt dangerous about kissing Tristan. It was pleasant and nice, but she was fully aware of what was happening. She wasn’t going to end up with her feet by her ears, grunting enthusiastically, as she’d had the misfortune of witnessing more than once when visitors bedded down for the night in the very un-private Hall of Garthland.
But Margaret wasn’t laughing now. If anything her brother had understated the danger. Curiosity and experimentation might not be dangerous, but passion certainly was. And the moment Eoin MacLean had pulled her into his arms she’d felt the difference to the bottom of her soul.
Desire practically exploded between them. All those sensations awakened and primed by their dance returned even more powerfully. A blast of heat poured over her in a molten wave. The strength of his arms and powerfully muscled body against her made her weak. She felt stunned—dazed—as if she’d fallen into a bog of sensation and couldn’t pull herself out. Or rather didn’t want to pull herself out because it felt too good. He felt too good.
She didn’t want him to stop. Ever.
His mouth was hot and possessive. He kissed her as if he belonged there. And truth be told, it felt as if she did.
He tasted of an intoxicating mix of cloves and whisky, and she drank him in, opening her lips to taste him deeper. The deft strokes of his tongue weren’t tentative and probing like she expected but fierce and demanding. The first powerful stroke licked all the way down between her legs and nearly made them collapse.
She felt a strange fluttering low in her belly that made her moan with pleasure. He answered with a harsh groan that sounded almost like a curse. Whatever restraint had existed between them in those first few moments was gone.
His hand plunged through her hair to cup the back of her head and his kiss turned punishing, ravishing, desperate. She understood because she felt it, too. She was kissing him back with passion that seemed to spring from nowhere, borne more from instinct than from experience. In the five or six times that she’d allowed Tristan to kiss her, she’d never felt a fraction of this kind of fervor. She’d never felt anything like this at all.
All that she knew was that she wanted him—more than she’d ever wanted anything in her life. Her fingers gripped the hard ridges of muscle on his shoulders as if she would never let go. He was even taller and bigger than she realized up close like this, making her feel oddly vulnerable.
She wanted to kiss him, to feel his tongue in her mouth, his hands on her body, and his big, battle-hard body wrapped around her. She wanted to inhale the delicious masculine scent of pine and soap. She wanted to feel her breasts crushed against his chest and her hips pressed against his. She didn’t know how much she wanted that until she felt the thick club of him against her stomach. Good lord! And then she couldn’t seem to think of much else.
Desire crashed over her in a drenching wave, dragging her under. She felt so heavy. Especially her breasts and the intimate place between her legs. She moaned at each new sensation as he kissed her deeper and harder, silently urging him to give her more.
He answered with a groan and more pressure. Their bodies seemed to be melded together. She could feel the hard flex of his arm muscles as he drew her in tighter and tighter. Their tongues circled and sparred, waging a desperate battle of desire and urgency. Yet she never felt threatened. Even in the midst of this fierce onslaught of passion, there was an underlying emotion she didn’t recognize but trusted. It felt almost like tenderness, which seemed silly given the frenzy of the kiss. But it was there, squeezing her chest and hovering over her like a warm sentinel, silent and protecting.
His jaw scratched the tender skin of her chin, but she didn’t care. Closer . . . Harder . . . She wanted to be consumed. She wanted to melt into him. To become one.
His hand was no longer in her hair. It was on her bottom, lifting her . . .
The floor dropped out of her stomach. A rush of liquid warmth flooded between her legs. She could feel him, the hard column of his manhood fitted intimately against her. It felt . . . big. Powerful. And really, really good.
Especially when he started to move his hips in insistent little circles. Her stomach dropped again, and the place between her legs grew even warmer and more needy. Her body trembled. She ached to press back. And she would have, had the sound of the door opening not torn them apart.
He released her so suddenly she stumbled and might have fallen had she not hit the stone support of the wall behind her.
“MacLean, are you—” The man stopped, and seeing them, he swore. Still in a lust-induced daze, it took Margaret a moment to recognize Eoin’s foster brother standing in the doorway. “Oh hell, I didn’t meant to . . . interrupt.”
Though there was nothing overtly lascivious or suggestive in his tone, the way his eyes slid over her bruised mouth and still-heaving chest when he said the last made her stiffen.
Eoin recovered faster than she did. He stepped in front of her. The instinctively protective gesture—as if he could shield her from the embarrassment of being discovered in such an intimate embrace—was surprisingly sweet. She felt a strange swell of warmth fill her chest.
“I will join you in a moment, Fin,” he said sharply.
Fin gave him a slow smile. This time there was no mistaking the suggestiveness. “Take as long as you need.”
Margaret couldn’t see Eoin’s expression, but from how fast his friend left the room, she suspected it had been threatening.
By time he turned back to her, however, the look was gone, replaced by the inscrutable mask. “I owe you an apology. That never should have happened.”
Looking at his hard, implacable features, it was hard to believe this was the same man who’d been kissing her so passionately a few minutes before.
What was it about Eoin MacLean that drew her? She’d known handsome men before, and even a few who were as tall and powerfully built. She’d also met serious men—although maybe none who were quite so intense. But she’d never met a man whose gaze could level on hers and make her feel as if he knew what she was thinking.
She tilted her head, studying him contemplatively. “What did happen?”
For one brief moment their eyes connected and she felt the force of it like a steel vise around her ribs. “I don’t have any idea.”
The blunt admission charmed her, and she couldn’t resist giving him a teasing smile. “Well, in case you were wondering, I think that signifies as ‘liberties.’ ”
He surprised her with a sharp laugh, and then a smile—a crooked half-curl of his mouth that hit her square in the chest. The furrowed lines between his brows disappeared, and the smile transformed his features, making him look boyishly charming and so handsome she thought she might just be content to stare at him forever.
“Ah, yes, I can see the difference now,” he said dryly.
“I thought you might. And I can see what you meant about pups.” Her smile turned wry. “Although I didn’t mean to offer quite that big of an invitation.”
He sobered instantly. “I didn’t mean what I said. I spoke out of anger. You did nothing wrong. What happened was my fault.”
“What happened happened. It was no one’s fault.” She fought back a smile. “I’m glad to hear I didn’t do anything wrong though. In case you are wondering, I don’t have any complaints on your end either.”
He bit out a sharp laugh and shook his head, as if he couldn’t believe she was teasing him about something so intimate. “Good to know.”
They shared a moment of silence that was surprisingly comfortable. She liked him, she realized. This quiet, serious, intense young warrior. She liked seeing the cracks in his reserve and the dry sense of humor that emerged. She liked making him smile, and seeing those lines between his brows disappear. She liked the way he looked, the keen intelligence in his eyes, the way he held her as he kissed her, and the way he’d jumped to protect her both on the dance floor and when Fin had interrupted them.
She liked him . . . a lot.
Maybe her thoughts were more transparent than she realized. His half smile fell, and his eyes softened almost imperceptibly. “Fault or not, it cannot happen again.”
She wanted to argue, but how could she? He was right.
“You should go,” he said. “Comyn is probably wondering why you haven’t returned to the Hall.”
If there had been anything in his voice to suggest he cared, she might have hesitated. Instead, she nodded and did as he’d bade. But her chest ached as she walked away. There was something about Eoin MacLean that called to her, that felt special, that made her want to hold on to him and never let go.
She told herself she was being as foolish as Annie, the thirteen-year-old butter girl, who’d followed the sixteen-year-old stable lad, Padraig, around moon-eyed for nearly a month last year, thinking she was in love.
Daughters of powerful lairds didn’t fall in love.
She bit her lip. At least she hoped they didn’t.