He needed an experienced healer, one with knowledge, teas and tinctures. Would he wake soon? Would he be able to make the trek back down the mountain? He should drink.
I lifted his head gently into my lap.
“Warrior,” I whispered in his ear. “You must drink. Wake now. I have fresh water.”
He groaned softly, and his eyes blinked open. I held the bowl to his lips.
“Drink this. ’Tis cold and will quell your thirst.”
He gulped it thirstily, drinking most of it. This relieved me. I put the bowl aside and smoothed his hair back from his face. He turned his head to gaze up at me, the expression in his eyes unfathomable. There was fierceness there, and something more. Was he still vengeful? If I healed him and comforted him, he might forgive me my crime. I dared to imagine he’d let me go and trade food for duties I could perform for him, such as sewing or preparing healing paste, or...gardening, even. It was a lofty hope, though, I knew; he’d be unlikely to trust me inside his clan’s walls. And what of this warrior and his kinsmen—could I trust them? I knew of the ways and intentions of tyrannical lairds and their ranks, and I was wary.
The warrior winced briefly at his own movement as he reached to touch the long off-white end strands of my hair. I hadn’t yet braided and bound it after it had come loose during our chase and our battle, so it hung down around my shoulders to graze his arm. He wound his fingers through it and held it to his cheek where he rubbed it softly against his skin.
“You left me,” he accused, somewhat sulkily.
“Only for a moment,” I said. “I went to bathe my wound.”
His gaze traveled to my bandaged arm, as though he’d forgotten.
“I cut you.”
“Aye, but I’ll live. And I cut you. Now I must heal you.”
His head turned just slightly, so that his cheek barely touched the pillowy curve of my breast. I blushed at the contact, as the thinness of the cloth of my shift would have, in different circumstances, been fairly scandalous. I had not yet put on my tunic. The warrior’s breathing became heavier then, so I could feel the hot strikes of his breath through the very light layer of my clothing. Where his heat warmed me, sensation gathered and pooled, spreading across my skin and deeper, to the lower depths of my stomach. Against my will, my body responded. My nipples, so close to his mouth, budded into tight peaks, almost painfully.
And he noticed. The black pupils of his eyes grew, swallowing all but the outer blue edge of his irises. This sudden darkening made him appear all the more dangerous.
I was unsettled enough to consider how I could carefully lower his head back to the furs, to remove myself from his hold, but his hand remained coiled around my hair.
“Your hair is so fair,” he said. “As wheat. As honey. As gold.”
And I didn’t want to run from him. His touch was too delicious. I knew it was sinful to gain pleasure from such things, but it was hardly a most pressing concern. Here I was, a traitor and a thief. In the past few days, I’d stabbed two men, stolen as much food as I could carry and now found myself trapped with a fearsome warrior who might just as well kill me as save me. My list of crimes grew longer by the hour. Kissing a handsome stranger was the very least of my wrongdoings. Surprised by my own urges, I leaned ever so slightly forward, allowing his mouth just the tiniest bit closer...
The thoughts evaporated as his mouth closed over my breast. Even through the thin veil of my shift, the pressure was exquisite as he pulled my nipple farther into the hot flame of his mouth, licking his tongue against the underside of the tip, biting gently with his teeth. The scraping, scalding pressure funneled into my body, between my legs, where I grew moist and swollen, tingling with expectation.
A small moan escaped me, and him, too, as he moved to reach for my other breast. He held the full weight with his large hand, rousing sparking pleasure in my body with the pinching, circling pressure of his fingers.
It 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