startled me, my reaction to him, the need he summoned in me. But I offered no protest when he lifted the front of my shift to gain access to my bare breasts. He gasped a savage, deep sound, touching me with the most careful placement of his fingers, rubbing me gently and pulling me to his mouth. With no barriers between my skin and the slippery play of his tongue, the craving that had begun the very first time I’d looked into his eyes grew in its power. The pulsing heavy ache in my nipples as he teased me with his teeth and his mouth swelled and compounded to touch my heart, my core, my soul, overwhelming me entirely. I held his head, stroking his hair, offering myself to him.
“Angel,” he said, almost panting. “You’re a dream, yet I feel you. I’ve never felt so much. Do you feel me?”
“I feel you, warrior. I feel all of you. Everywhere.”
“How can you be here, like this, burning me so? You can’t be real. Who knew death would be so enchanting and so achingly beautiful?”
His words slurred at the end, and it occurred to me then that he might have been somewhat delirious and that his heavy breaths and his moans were double-edged. He needed to be careful not to rip his stitches, and the way his arm had looped itself around my waist was endangering his recovery. I suspected that the severity of his injury was the only reason I was able to extricate myself from his grip, to place his head gently on the furs and lie next to him.
“You must rest, warrior. I’ll stay here with you.” My fingers smoothed his unruly hair.
“Roses,” he murmured, his eyes never leaving my face.
“Aye. I’m here.”
“Where have you come from?” he asked. “Why are you alone?”
Only hours ago I had fought against him to avoid a very similar question. But now, softly touching his chest, with his hand cupping my face and his blue eyes vivid and sublime, I wanted to give him whatever he asked of me. I wanted to satisfy his curiosity, and more.
“Clan Ogilvie.”
“Ogilvie?” He contemplated me thoughtfully, as though surprised by this information. “You don’t look like an Ogilvie.”
“I wasn’t born an Ogilvie. I was adopted as a child of three or four.”
“From where?”
“I don’t know, warrior. My origins are a mystery.” A wretched mystery that had left me with a small inked tattoo and a restless spirit. “And now I work at the Ogilvie keep as a kitchen servant. Or at least I did. Until yesterday.”
His thumb brushed across my bottom lip. He studied my face as I studied his. I could feel his aching beauty down to the pit of my stomach.
“I have many questions to ask you, mysterious angel,” he said, “but first I need you to kiss me again. Your lips are too sweet. If I’m to die, let it be with your taste in my mouth. Kiss me, angel. I’ll die a happy man.”
“You’ll not die, warrior.” The thought jarred me. I needed to seek out help for him. I felt his forehead. Too warm.
He murmured a husked word that might have been please.
I leaned over him, running my fingers along the rough surface of his jaw. His dark-lit blue eyes were dreamlike, his lips beckoning me. I touched my lips to his, as I had once before. His hand reached to grip the nape of my neck with raw strength, even in his weakened state. He held me in place as he returned the kiss. I felt his tongue lick my top lip, then slide gently between them. As soon as my lips parted, his tongue delved farther. He tasted of desire and of sweet hunger. I opened to him, wanting everything about this connection to continue. I had never felt anything like the sensation this warrior delivered with the touch of his tongue to mine.
He seemed to forget himself then, and he moved as if to rise over me, to hold me closer. But the effort clearly speared him with pain. He fell back, releasing his hold.
“Warrior?” I whispered, but he was gone to me.
I could stay here and watch over him and do my best to help him. But I was not an expert healer. Ismay had taught me well in our many stolen moments, and she’d often commented on my natural abilities, but there was much I felt I still didn’t know.
I had to seek out his family, and quickly. They would take him home to his comfortable, lush chambers, to their team of healers and their stores of medicines, cooks offering hearty broths and ale, to the best care a man could be given.
I laid my riding blanket over him, up to the middle of his chest. And I adjusted my own clothing, pulling my shift back down into place. I replenished the bowl of water and left it within his reach. Then I found the bag of loot I’d stolen from his clan’s gardens. I put an arrangement of fruit next to the bowl of water.
“I must get help for you, warrior. I’ll come back to you as soon as I can.”
I took a moment to loosely stitch together the gaping rip in my tunic, at the shoulder, where Wilkie had sliced through it, making a small attempt to improve my ragged appearance. Then I eased it over my head and fitted it into place, taking care not to dislodge my bandage. I went to hunt for my sword, which, after some searching, I was able to find. I strapped it to my belt, grabbed three apples for myself, and began walking down the mountain toward the Mackenzie keep.
CHAPTER THREE
AS I APPROACHED THE guarded gates of the keep, I could take some comfort from the assumption that they were unlikely to turn me away. Not when I was the one who could lead them to their missing clansman. And not just any clansman: the laird’s powerful brother. Once he was returned to them, I hoped they would let me go, peacefully.
When Wilkie Mackenzie recovered—if he recovered—would he awaken in anger? I thought again of his kiss. Of his mouth on me. The fresh memory of it brought warmth to my body, and it infused me with an unrestful anticipation. But still, I was the one responsible for his injury. And if he died, it was possible that the blame would be placed on me. I might be punished or killed in retribution.
There was much activity in the vicinity of the Mackenzie keep. Search parties on horseback were taking leave, it appeared. Wilkie’s absence had made itself known.
Two guards watched my approach with puzzled expressions. I stood before them. “I would request to speak with Laird Mackenzie,” I said. “I have news of Wilkie Mackenzie’s whereabouts.”
The two guards looked at each other, skeptical, but they took my words seriously, and they didn’t waste time. “Follow me,” one of them instructed, and began walking toward the stone castle. Several young boys were playing in the gardens, and the guard called to them. They scampered over, eyeing me, my clothing.
“Run to the yards to see if the laird can be found there. He is needed in the hall urgently. Hurry to it!” he commanded them. The boys ran off, gleeful with their assignment.
I was led at a brisk pace along a wide path to the looming stone castle. I was struck again by the beauty and orderliness of the landscape. Workers paused in their tasks and stared at me as I walked alongside the guard. I envied these workers their teamwork and camaraderie, their clan and sense of belonging. I wished I, too, had a clan I could feel a part of and that I could be allowed to contribute to in a meaningful way. I had felt as if I’d belonged to the Ogilvie clan
