The Rogue: A Highland Guard Novella (The Highland Guard) Page 6

  Did she think he’d never gotten dirty before? Or objected to a little manual labor every now and then? He wasn’t uptight, damn it. She should have seen him digging pits and trenches for Hawk when he’d come back from England. The famed seafarer descended from Viking pirates had made Randolph eat his comment about not wanting to fight like a brigand in dirt.

  He’d been lucky to be forgiven at all. His youth and the fact that he’d been taken prisoner had worked in his favor. Alex Seton, the former member of the Guard who’d turned traitor a couple of years ago, didn’t have that excuse. Randolph pitied him if Hawk and the others ever got ahold of him.

  Both his smile and spine were stiff as he turned to the prioress. “I insist. What do you need me to do?”

  The prioress told him, and it took everything Randolph had not to mutter the curse that sprang to his lips.

  The old nun had to be kidding! But she wasn’t; he could tell by the way the woman at his side was trying not to laugh.

  Isabel walked out of the hall and came back a minute later, carrying a pile of linen in her arms. “Here,” she said, holding out what appeared to be an old apron. “You might want to wear this.”

  She wasn’t smiling, but he could hear the laughter in her voice.

  “That won’t be necessary,” he said tightly.

  She shrugged. “Suit yourself. But that leather cotun won’t be easy to clean, and the scent…”

  “Izzie,” he said darkly, cutting her off. If she was surprised by the use of the diminutive, she didn’t show it.

  She blinked up at him a little too innocently. “Yes?”

  “Shut up.” He marched outside, but not before starting to work the buckles of his cotun.

  Isabel was trying not to laugh as she handed him the shovel—truly she was—but the jest possibilities were endless, including the one he made without intending to do so.

  “This is what you volunteered to help with—shoveling shite?” he said incredulously, taking the implement from her.

  She lifted a brow at his choice of words; dung or manure sounded much nicer. He had no idea the self-restraint she exercised to refrain from pointing out that surely “shoveling shite” was something he was used to.

  But she didn’t need to point it out; he read her thoughts easily enough, and his eyes narrowed to two piercing green daggers. His eyes turned very green when he was angry, she’d noticed. They were green a lot when he looked at her.

  She might have been intimidated if she wasn’t concentrating so hard on not bursting into laughter. The great Sir Thomas Randolph, Earl of Moray, in his shirtsleeves, slinging manure. What had she done to be so rewarded? She only wished she had an artist here to paint a picture so that she might immortalize the event forever.

  “Don’t blame me,” she said with a mischievous grin. “I tried to warn you.”

  “Next time try harder—and mention the word fertilize.”

  She laughed and rolled her eyes. “Don’t be such a bairn. There is no one here to see you toiling in the muck, and you certainly don’t need to impress me. I know this doesn’t have the glamor and shine of your usual heroic deeds, but it will all wash off, and you’ll be all shimmery again in no time.” She grinned. He must have realized she was teasing him because his jaw didn’t lock and his mouth didn’t pull into that familiar tight line. “Come, my lord, surely you know how to get a little dirty?”

  “I know how to get plenty dirty but not in a garden.”

  Her brows drew together. She didn’t understand. “My lord?”

  He held her gaze and the hot, wicked look in his eyes led her to what he meant. Led her rather hotly and with far too many bodily twinges. Her stomach seemed to dance with a dip and a flip. Her cheeks flamed, and this time it was she who stiffened, pretending not to understand.

  She heard him laugh when she turned and started on her own pile.

  She couldn’t say that she regretted his offer. With Randolph’s help—especially with the tasks that required physical strength like lugging the carts back and forth to be filled in the barn and then returned to where they were working in the garden—the work that would have taken all day was finished in a matter of hours.

  But it was more than that. Once the shock wore off, Randolph dove right in—to the job, not the dung—and took to the work with enthusiasm and zeal. He was a good laborer. The earl could proudly stand toe-to-toe with any farmer, ploughman, or villein. He didn’t only know how to get dirty—she blushed recalling his earlier boast—he knew what he was doing. This wasn’t the first time he’d fertilized a garden or done “menial” labor, and oddly the outdoor work suited him. When he put aside all the knightly bravado and perfection, she liked him. Maybe too much. The way her heart fluttered in his vicinity alarmed her. She almost wished she could go back to just seeing him as the larger-than-life legend in the making.

  As the day progressed, he became noticeably more relaxed, jesting good-naturedly with the nuns, and even—she couldn’t believe it—teasing her about her apron. “It’s getting a little saturated.” He sniffed. “Shall I fetch you a new one or have you grown used to the stench?”

  She might have thrown something at him by accident. The clop of dirt—well, mostly dirt—landed right in the middle of his chest, but he didn’t seem to care. He only laughed.

  Blighter. She had told him that he didn’t need to impress her, but she hadn’t thought that she would care that he was seeing her looking so decidedly unglamorous. Not that she ever looked glamorous, but still!

  That brought up one more reason why she didn’t regret his offer to help. The view. It was spectacular. He was spectacular. Perhaps all those fawning admirers weren’t so silly. She’d seen men in their shirtsleeves before but few—any?—could compare with the king’s nephew. It was a warm day, and with the strenuous work, he got a little sweaty, and his shirt became a little damp and clingy, revealing the impressive bunches and bulges of muscle as he flexed. His chest was like a shield of steel—if there was fat anywhere she couldn’t see it—and his arms…

  Good gracious, his arms! They were sway-inducing, as she had discovered more than once. She felt a little light-headed every time he lifted something. Big and strong, they were the fodder of fantasies she didn’t even know she had. Worse, she could recall too easily how they felt wrapped around her, holding her up.

  Izzie knew she was in trouble. The amused indifference she’d felt toward her cousin’s soon-to-be betrothed wasn’t there anymore. It had started to change with that kiss, but had become far worse after today—first with Annie, and now seeing him like this.

  But he wasn’t for her—whether she could control her fluttering heart or not—nothing had changed about that. She needed to stay away from him if she didn’t want to cause herself a lot of misery.

  As soon as they were finished, she practically ran down to the large pond that was fed by the Leith River to wash as much of the muck off herself as she could. She would have to bathe, of course, but she could hardly go walking through town covered in shi—dung. She’d removed the stained apron and was kneeling on a large flat rock poised over the edge of the water trying to wash the worst off her face and hands when she sensed someone behind her.

  She tensed, knowing who it was before she turned.

  “Looks like we had the same idea,” he said with a smile. “When I came back from returning the cart and you were gone, I thought you might have left.”

  Was she imagining the relief in his voice? Had he been disappointed to think she’d left without saying good-bye? God, she was a fool.

  She plastered what she hoped was a careless smile on her face and said, “I thought I’d better wash the worst of it off before I returned to the abbey, or they might bar the door against me.”

  “Aye, even at camp where the stench is less than pleasant most of the time, I figured I’d better do the same.”

  He knelt beside her. The rock wasn’t that big and his side brushed hers, as he washed his hands with the harsh effi
ciency she’d noticed of most soldiers and started to scoop water in his hands to splash over his face, not caring that he was getting his shirt wet.

  It wasn’t fair, she thought to herself. Even after a day of hard labor in the garden, covered in dirt and dung, he was gorgeous. Maybe even more gorgeous than usual. There was something primitively appealing about this physical side of him—the raw masculinity of a hot, sweaty man.

  He didn’t look so perfect, and she realized she liked it. She liked him like this. Like a man who knew how to get dirty.

  Her body flushed. She shouldn’t think of that. It was dangerous. He was dangerous, and the intimacy of the situation certainly wasn’t helping. They were alone in a secluded section of the garden, washing side-by-side. It would be fine if he were her brother or—her flush intensified—her husband.

  It felt a little too natural, a little too perfect, and a little too much like they should be in a bedchamber. There was a sensual undercurrent in the air that made her heart flutter and her belly quiver. Did he feel it as well?

  She needed to do something to lighten the mood. To dispel the aura of intimacy that made her imagine how easy it would be to do this every day, and how easy it would be to fall into his arms again.

  Brother. What would she do if he were her brother?

  A wicked smile turned her mouth. She dipped her hands into the water and looked at him. “I think you missed a spot.”

  As soon as he looked at her, she was ready. “I did?” he asked.

  “Aye, right here.” With as much force as she could, she pushed her hands through the water and splashed him in the face.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The dousing of cold water shocked the lust right out of him. Randolph had been struggling. He’d made the mistake of watching one stray drop of water make its way down her throat, to the bare skin above her bodice, and disappear between the deep cleft of her round breasts. He’d wanted to follow it with his tongue—wanted it with an intensity he didn’t understand. He’d wanted to watch the water slide all over her body and lick the cool droplets from her flushed skin. Suck it from the tip of the tiny nipples that were beading through her dress from the chill of the water.

  Those prickled nipples did him in. He’d turned as hard as a rock. Desire surged like a thunderbolt of fire through his blood.

  He’d been trying not to think about how easy it would be to pull her into his arms again when she spoke. But when the water came barreling at him a moment later, he couldn’t believe it. Bloody hell! She’d splashed him as if he were a lad of ten and not one of the most formidable knights in the land.

  It wasn’t indignation that roared through his blood, however. He wasn’t just a knight; he was also a warrior. A Highland warrior whose first—only—instinct was to fight back and do what it took to win.

  Shaking the water from his hair, he dipped his hands into the water. But the lass had obviously learned a thing or two from her always-fight-dirty Black Douglas cousin. Anticipating his retaliation, she put both her hands on him—not in the place he ached for her to touch, unfortunately—and gave him a big shove. Forward. Perched as he was on the edge of the rocks, he only had one place to go: right into the damned pond. A moment later he was covered in about four feet of water that was marginally warmer than freeze-your-bollocks-off cold.

  The lass might not have realized it, but she’d just declared war. And as one of Robert the Bruce’s greatest knights, he had no intention of losing. Before he surfaced, a plan had already formed.

  He stayed down at the silt bottom of the pond and didn’t come up for air. He was almost grateful for the training (torture) he’d experienced at the hands of the Highland Guard. Hawk had taken Randolph’s change of allegiance personally, and when he’d returned to the Bruce fold, he’d spent over a month in the Western Isles under Hawk’s command—most of that time spent in the icy cold water of the Irish Sea suffering and learning how to curse like a seafarer. He’d been a passable swimmer when he’d started, but by the time Hawk was done with him, Randolph could swim for miles in the open ocean, stay afloat in the harshest storm, and hold his breath underwater for four minutes—Hawk could do over five.

  Although he was out of practice, Randolph figured the most he would need was three. But he’d barely counted to two when the shadow appeared over him. As he’d expected, she’d grown concerned that he couldn’t swim and was looking down into the water to see if he was all right.

  He was ready. Moving too quickly for her to react, he sprang from the water, grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her in.

  The yelp of surprise would have become a scream if he hadn’t dragged her down under with him. Once he was sure she was good and soaked, he brought them both up to the surface.

  The sound of laughter was the first thing he heard as she twisted out of his hold and darted away from him. His hand latched around a slim ankle. She tried to kick free—losing a slipper in the effort, which he tossed back onto the rocks—but she was good and caught. Ignoring her laughing protests, he slowly wheeled her in.

  Randolph couldn’t remember the last time he’d had this much fun or felt so carefree. That he was doing so during the siege—the most important test he’d ever been given by Bruce—was even more remarkable.

  Sliding one arm around her waist, he hauled her tight against his body. She wasn’t getting away again; she was good and trapped in the ironclad bands of his arms. Every time she wriggled and pushed against his chest, his arms tightened. Their bodies were fused together, and even in the icy water he started to warm.

  “Let go of me, you beast,” she said, laughing. “That wasn’t fair.”

  Her face tilted to his and he felt like he’d been clobbered in the head with a poleaxe. God, she was lovely. With her hair slicked back and water streaming down her face, the delicateness of her bone structure was more evident. Her beauty was timeless, he realized. The kind of beauty that became more pronounced the longer he looked at her. He could look at her a long time. Maybe forever.

  Not knowing where that strange thought came from, he frowned and replied, “I hardly think you are in the position to cry foul, my lady. I wasn’t the one who started it. First rule of combat is don’t start a war you can’t win.”

  She huffed with obvious affront. “I had every intention of winning until you tricked me. Really, my lord, playing on my sympathy by pretending to be drowning? That is hardly the height of chivalry. What would your legions say?”

  He gave her a devilish grin. “My legions would say I won.”

  She tossed her head back and laughed, and he felt something hard squeezing his chest. So damned beautiful.

  Perhaps the sudden coiled tension in his body alerted her. She stopped laughing and her eyes met his in… question? Longing? Desire?

  Maybe all those things and more. But whatever it was, the mood went from playful to something else in an instant. Something hot and fiery and powerful enough to make him forget the cold and all the reasons why he shouldn’t touch her again.

  Touching her, kissing her, seemed the most natural thing ever.

  So he did. But the passion took him by surprise. It burst through him at contact and barreled forward with the force of a rock slung from a trebuchet—there was no stopping it. One minute he was kissing her, and the next his hands were all over her body, and he was out of control. Which didn’t make any sense, since he didn’t get out of control. But he had become mad with pleasure, frenzied with lust, and ravenous with a hunger that would only be satisfied one way.

  Izzie wasn’t cold anymore. How could she be when she had his heat to warm her? His mouth, his tongue, his hands. My lord his hands! They were incredible. Big, strong, and possessive, yet warm and surprisingly gentle, they were on her bottom, her hips, her breasts. She didn’t know a man’s touch could do this to her. Turn her into a tangled, coiled mass of desire and need.

  When his hands cupped and squeezed her breasts, her back arched for more. More pressure, more friction, more of his t
humb rubbing over the throbbing tip.

  It felt so good. She had no idea her breasts were so sensitive.

  She moaned her pleasure, and he broke the kiss with a curse. She missed the heat of his mouth and tongue instantly—desperately. But then it was replaced with an even hotter fire as his mouth slid down her throat, over the exposed part of her chest, and then—oh my lord in heaven—over her breast as he tugged the fabric down enough to free her nipple.

  The heat of his mouth was wondrous. She gave a soft cry of pleasure and arched deeper against him. His tongue went to work, teasing her at first with gentle circles and flicks, and then when he had her squirming and moaning, increasing the friction by drawing her slowly between his teeth, and finally, when she didn’t think she could stand it anymore, sucking her deep into his mouth.

  She cried out at the incredible sensations. At the needles of pleasure that pulled between her breasts and the intimate place between her legs that felt so restless and quivery. That seemed to crave friction. Instinctively, her hips started to move against the solid length of his manhood.

  She must have been doing something right because he made a harsh sound and sucked her harder, increasing her frustration and turning her into a throbbing pool of need. When she finally felt something brush against that secret place, she was so poised on the edge, it took her a moment to realize it was his hand. No, his fingers. Caressing, teasing, and finally—oh God, yes that—slipping inside her.

  Her entire body shuddered. Shock and wonder collided in an explosion of new, intense sensations that flooded her with heat. Mirroring the rhythmic flicks of his tongue on her nipple, his finger stroked between her legs. Vaguely she realized that she should probably be embarrassed by the way he was touching her, but it simply felt too good. Her wantonness would mortify her later.

  Whatever he was doing to her, she had no ability to resist. His reputation was well earned. He knew exactly what to do to bring her pleasure. Her body was like an instrument and he played it expertly, bringing her to a violent crescendo. He made the sensations build and build until they had nowhere to go.