The Recruit Read online

  Jesus.

  It was the most intelligent thought he could muster. His mind was gone. All that was left was pleasure. The most incredible pleasure he’d ever experienced.

  When the last spasms of release had ebbed from his body, he collapsed on top of her, every muscle, every ounce of his body spent. Even his bones felt like jelly.

  After a minute, the heavy sounds of their breathing began to quiet. Realizing he was probably crushing her, he found the strength to roll to the side.

  He couldn’t ever remembering feeling so weak. It was a damned good thing the contest wasn’t today. He’d barely be able to stand, let alone defeat whoever would stand against him tomorrow.

  He didn’t know quite what to make of what had just happened. He was having a hard time ordering his thoughts. But the lass had surprised him. The sweetness of her passion went far beyond the sensual promise he’d noticed in the barn. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d enjoyed a liaison more. Hell, he doubted he’d ever enjoyed a liaison more. He frowned, remembering another oddity. Even when he was a lad, he’d always withdrawn before spilling his seed. But he was too bloody sated and contented to give it more than a passing thought. All he knew was that the strange ennui that had been dogging him was apparently gone, and he wasn’t ready to let go of her. Not yet.

  What had she done?

  Mary’s heart pounded in her chest as she stared at the ceiling. It was made of stone. The small library had been built into the thick walls like the vaulted storerooms below.

  But it was gray and colorless, with little to distract her, so her thoughts returned to what had happened. To the cataclysmic event that had devastated her just as harshly and ruthlessly as a raging wildfire, leaving only ashes in its wake. It had been amazing. Wonderful. More beautiful than anything she could have imagined. And that was the problem. How was she ever to put this behind her? How was she to go on with her life in England and forget about the passion she’d found in his arms?

  How was she going to forget about him?

  He wasn’t supposed to be like this. She’d wanted a too-handsome, too-arrogant man built for sin. She’d wanted lust, nothing more.

  He rolled to his side, leaning up on one elbow to look at her. She felt his eyes rake her face and held her breath as his hand reached out and brushed aside a few strands of hair that she hadn’t even noticed were tangled in her lashes. The touch was so intimate—so sweet—her chest squeezed with longing.

  His fingers lingered on the side of her face, turning her gaze to his. “You’re full of surprises, aren’t you, little one?”

  The way he was looking at her made her chest ache. She stared up at him wordlessly, not knowing what to say. She felt exposed. Raw. Vulnerable. What had just happened had stripped the last years of hard-wrought independence from her as if it were no more substantial than a thin chemise, revealing the lonely, heartbroken girl underneath who’d so much wanted her husband to love her. And Kenneth Sutherland, the soon-to-be champion, the handsome knight, the hero with an adoring throng of admirers, was cut from the same cloth.

  At least she thought he was. Had she been unfair? Was there perhaps more to him than she’d thought?

  It surprised her how much she wanted to be wrong.

  Her heart slammed against her ribs when he leaned down and kissed her. It was a soft, lazy kiss. A tender kiss. Everything she shouldn’t want, yet craved like a greedy child.

  Lifting his mouth from hers, he smiled. “When can I see you again?”

  Her heart stopped. One night. “I-I’m leaving soon,” she hedged.

  His eyes narrowed. “I hope not too soon. You’ll stay at least until after the Games? My sister is getting married on Saturday. There will be a few days of celebration.”

  Did he want her to go to his sister’s wedding? She tried to hold back her racing heart but it was sprinting away from her. “I don’t know.”

  “Of course—it depends on Lady Margaret. Would it help if I talked to her for you?” He slid the back of his finger down her cheek, down her throat, and over the firm slope of her breasts, drawing a feathery circle around the tip. “I’m not done with you yet,” he said in that dark, husky voice of his that seeped right through her good sense. “I don’t think I’m going to be done with you for quite a while.”

  Her skin prickled. Her nipples beaded. Her breath quickened. Her entire body responded to the sensual promise in his words. Was it just words, or did it mean something? She had to find out. “Lady Margaret told me you are to be betrothed.”

  He frowned, as if he were surprised she’d heard about that. “What does that have to do with us?”

  She looked away so he wouldn’t see the stone of disappointment he’d just cast carelessly at her heart. He said it with such honest befuddlement she couldn’t even be angry with him. She was angry with herself. “Nothing,” she said softly. “It has nothing to do with us.”

  Why should he think there was anything wrong with making love to another woman while his betrothed or his wife waited for him at whatever castle he put her in? There was nothing wrong with it. It was the accepted—expected—thing for noblemen in a political marriage. She was the one who had unrealistic expectations, not he.

  One night was all she’d wanted, so why was she disappointed that it was all she was going to have? His response had just ensured it.

  “Good,” he said, rolling back over and tucking her against him. She rested her cheek against his chest, listening to the beat of his heart and trying not to cry.

  “We should go,” he said, though his voice gave no indication of any hurry. “But I’m just so damned tired. I can’t seem to make myself get up.”

  His voice trailed off. She wasn’t surprised when a few minutes later she heard the even sounds of his breathing. He’d drifted off.

  Grateful for the reprieve, she was careful not to wake him as she slid away from the warmth of his body, stood, and straightened her clothes. All she could think about was getting out of there. She didn’t want to face him again. Not here, and not at the feast.

  This had been a mistake.

  Kenneth Sutherland wasn’t like her husband at all. He was far more dangerous. Atholl had never bothered to try to seduce her. Kenneth Sutherland seduced with every long look, every gentle touch, and every heart-pounding kiss.

  Would she ever learn?

  She needed to leave. Not just this room, but Scotland. Before she forgot how to be content with what she had and yearned for things that would only make her miserable. Again.

  Seven

  Kenneth woke slowly, trying to clear the fog from his mind. But his head felt as if someone had sheared a sheep inside it. Opening his eyes, he shot upright, startled by his surroundings. By the shards of light streaming through the planks of the door.

  He winced at the knife of pain in his side.

  Hell. Covering the offending area with his hand, he braced himself as he stood. Whatever dulling effects last night had worked on his pain, they were gone.

  Last night. He realized three things at once: it was morning, he’d missed the feast, and he was alone.

  He swore, not knowing what angered him the most.

  What the hell had happened to him? It felt as though he’d been knocked out. The moment he’d closed his eyes, he’d slipped into a deep sleep. He hadn’t slept that solidly in years.

  His mouth fell in a grim line when he reached down to pick up his tunic and saw a swatch of dark green silk. He knew what had happened to him. She had happened to him.

  Why in Hades had she run off without waking him?

  In many cases he would be relieved to wake up and find himself alone after a night of lovemaking, but damn it, this wasn’t one of them. He vowed to go back to uncomplicated and eager-to-please just as soon as he was done with her.

  He jerked on his tunic, wrapped the plaid back around his shoulders—the fire in the brazier had gone out hours ago, and it was bloody cold in here—and picked up the offending veil.