when she remained in place without a single sound passing her lips. Jemma found herself too fascinated to speak. Too absorbed in the moment to ruin it by allowing sounds to intrude.
“Up with ye, lass. This is not the sort of company ye should be keeping.”
He leaned down, his thighs gripping the sides of his horse to keep him steady. Her gaze strayed to his thighs, and she stared at the bare skin that was cut with ridges of muscle, testifying to how much strength was in him.
“Take my hand, lass. I’d prefer not to have to pull ye off the ground again.”
But he would. She heard that clearly in his voice. That tone of command that spoke of a man who expected his word to be heeded no matter what her opinion might be.
Of course, staying was not something she craved. She lifted her hand and placed it in his outstretched one, only to pull it away when his warm flesh met her own. That touch jolted her, braking through the disbelief that had held her in its grasp. Her body began to shake while her face throbbed incessantly from the blow that had been laid across it. She suddenly felt every bruise and scrape, her knees feeling weak as the horror of what she had just faced sunk in deep to torment her mind with grisly details. Details of what the English had been intent on doing to her. The idea of touching any man was suddenly repulsive, and she clasped her hands tightly together.
“I thank you for your . . . assistance . . . but I will return to . . . Amber Hill.”
Jemma looked around for her mare, but in the darkness it was difficult to determine which horse was hers. The younger boys had several horses each, and she couldn’t decide which one belonged to her. She suddenly noticed how cold it had become, and the darkness seemed to be increasing, too, clouds moving over the sky to block out even the star shine.
“Give me yer hand, lass. ’Tis time to make our way from this place.”
His voice was low now and hypnotic. Lifting her face, she found his attention on her, his eyes reflecting the starlight back down on her. Jemma lifted her hand but stopped when she felt her arm shaking. The motion annoyed her, but there seemed to be nothing she might do to banish it.
“Do it now, lass. This is nae a safe place to linger.”
“But is going with you a safe thing to do?” She truly wondered because he looked so at ease surrounded by the night. All his men sat in their saddles without any outward sign of misgivings or dread for the deepening darkness. Her words didn’t please him. His expression tightened, and something flashed in his eyes that looked like pride. A soft grumbling rippled through his waiting men.
“I will nae strike ye.”
Which was better than she might expect from the horseless Englishmen standing nearby. For all that they were her countrymen, she discovered more trust inside her for the Scots. There was no real choice; she hungered for life, and the Scot’s offer was her only way to hold on to that precious thing.
Lifting her hand, she placed it firmly against the one offered. Barras closed his hand around her wrist, and she jumped to help gain the saddle. He lifted her up and off the ground to sit behind him.
“Hold on to me, lass.”
There was no other choice. She had to cling to him, press her body up against his in order to share his saddle. Her thighs rested against his, and the motion of the horse made their hips move in unison. The thick scabbard strapped to his back was the only barrier between them. She actually welcomed the hard edges of the leather scabbard because it kept her from being completely immersed in his body. There were several things she should have been dwelling on—the English left behind in the night, or the way her brother was most likely going to have her flogged for riding so late in the day. There was also Synclair to consider. The knight was going to be far more than unhappy with her for slipping out the moment his attention was taken away from her. He was not a man who made the same mistake twice.
Instead she was completely focused on the man she clung to. Her arms reached around his slim waist. It was amazing how much warmth his body generated. Holding so tightly against him kept the chill of the autumn night from tormenting her. The wind chilled her hands on top where the skin was exposed, but her palms were warmed by the man she held on to.
Her head was tucked along one of his shoulders, one cheek pressing against the wool of his doublet. His sword was strapped at an angle across his back, the length of his plaid pulled up over his right shoulder helping to cushion the weapon. Suddenly, the Celtic fashion of dressing was not so odd. Instead it was quite logical and useful. That bit of thinking made him seem less of a barbarian and more of a very efficient warrior.
Her heart accelerated, which increased the tempo of her breathing. She drew in his scent and shivered. It was dark and musky, touching off a strange reaction deep inside her belly, a quivering that became a throbbing at the top of her sex. Each motion of the horse sent her clitoris sliding against the leather of the saddle, and the scent of his skin intensified the sensation somehow. It was unnerving, and she licked her lower lip because it felt as dry as a barley stalk. Every hot glance he had ever aimed at her rose from her memory to needle her with a longing she hadn’t truly admitted she had for the man. Now that she was pressed against him, part of her chastised herself for not jumping at him. No matter how often she had listened to other women talk of their sweethearts, it had never been something she had longed for. Now, her body refused to be ignored any longer and enjoyed being against him.
If Barras noticed, he made no comment, which she felt herself being grateful for. Sensation was rushing through her, filling every limb and flooding her mind with intoxicating feelings that seemed impossible to control. Her fingers opened up, just because she failed to squash the urge to see what his body felt like. Tight ridges of hard muscles met her fingers, covering his midsection, and even his clothing did not disguise them.
His men closed around them, the sound of horses’ hooves drumming out everything else. But a slight turn of her head and her ear was pressed against his shoulder, allowing her to hear his heartbeat. Another shiver raced through her, rushing down to her stomach where a strange sort of excitement was brewing. Her mouth was dry and her arms tightened around him because she feared she might lose her hold on him due to the quivering that seemed to be growing stronger along her limbs. It was a strange weakness, like too much wine. Even her thoughts felt muddled.
A rough hand landed on top of hers. Jemma flinched, her entire body reacting to the touch. His fingers curled around hers, completely covering her smaller hand in his. But it was his thumb that she noticed the most because it slid around her wrist to the delicate skin on the underside. That tender spot felt the rougher skin of his thumb stroking across it before pressing against the place where her pulse throbbed. It was a strangely intimate touch, and she yanked her hand away from beneath his and curled her fingers around the wide leather belt that kept his kilt in place. She felt his chest vibrate and knew that he was chuckling, even if the wind carried the sound away before she heard it.
Jemma snorted, enjoying the fact that she could make whatever sounds she wanted. But his head turned to cast a sidelong glance at her, and she realized that he’d felt the sound just as she had felt his. Jemma was startled to discover that she was communicating with him on some deeper level . . . a much more turbulent one. Her thoughts returned to the way he’d looked at her in the past.
They rounded a hill, and a fortress came into view. It was almost black against the night sky, with thick towers that rose up against the hills behind it. A wicked-looking gate began to rise, the grinding of metal chain cutting through the pounding of the horse’s hooves. Her breath froze as fear tapped its icy fingertips against her.
This was not Amber
