For the Highlander's Pleasure
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By the saints.
Highlander Finn Mac Néill had walked the Scots borders long enough to know the oaths of the Lowlanders. And at a sight like the one before him—a wanton maid enraptured by the flow of water over her bare breasts—he thought the plea appropriate.
Stilling himself utterly so as not to be overheard, he saw no harm in helping himself to a long and uninterrupted view. The ends of the maid’s dark, unbound hair slipped into the current as she leaned forward, clinging in wet pieces to the bountiful expanse of pale, creamy flesh. Her eyes closed as if in a seductive trance. Inky lashes fanned her flushed cheeks while a plump, rosebud mouth pursed in a soft bow of surprise.
For a man who had been roaming the countryside in search of a killer for weeks, nay moons, this picture of delectable sweetness was a momentary pleasure he could never have foreseen.
The dark-haired beauty was garbed, but with the way the water sealed her skirts to her legs, she might as well have been bare. The outline of shapely thighs and womanly hips was all too apparent. Her simple tunic was equally soaked, but she’d lowered the top half so much that Finn could spy the rosy tip of each breast, puckered and pink from the water’s chill. Perfectly shaped for a man’s mouth.
Swallowing hard, he reminded himself that he had no right to indulge in this view. How could he think of his own desires when his brother’s spirit roamed Neamh—heaven for the Gaels—thirsting for a vengeance that only a mortal sword could inflict?
As he saw the maiden straighten from her wanton bath, yanking her gown back into place, Finn made a sound of disgust. He watched as she peered about the clearing with the keen and narrowed gaze of a huntress, studying the trees, her gray eyes stopping when she spotted him.
What did the lass think in that silent moment of watchful regard? Did the nymph see in him a chance to slake her lust? Perhaps she considered the merits of a man’s hands to soothe her fiery flesh instead of the icy stream.
But any thought of being dragged behind the bushes to bed a woodland seductress was dashed when the lady began to scream.
“Stand back, devil’s spawn!” she shrieked, turning to run toward the horse tethered nearby.
Near him.
Her boots kicked up mud as she streaked toward the animal, spattering her soaked skirts even though she clutched them high. Pale fear washed the color from her cheeks, reminding him that he would appear as no friend to a simple maid. Even though he had not led men in battle for months, Finn was garbed in the long cloak of the Highland warlords. He had never bothered adopting the shorter hauberk of the natives, since his size and fierce aspect marked him as a Highlander at first glance.
Now, unwilling for this noisy little maid to set her village in an uproar when Finn had no dark intentions, he vaulted over a fallen log and splashed through a patch of the inlet to reach her.
She was fleet of foot, but her sodden skirts hampered her as she ran. Her hem caught on a branch, holding her fast until he reached her. She yanked at the fabric, cursing an unholy string of oaths no innocent should know, and managed to free herself for only a second before she stumbled neatly into his arms.
“Whoa, lass,” he cautioned, pinning her struggling arms from behind before she could scratch him.
She soaked his garments right through his lightweight mail. Her skirts streamed water into his boots and cooled his hose in an icy blanket. Her tunic did the same to his sleeves as he held her captive.
“Unhand me, vile beast!” she shouted, though her voice lacked the same fever pitch as before. “My maid is but recently departed. She will return with help.”
Chances were excellent that she lied, but he could not afford a skirmish with a throng of irate villagers when he needed to reach the seat of the local earldom ere nightfall.
He did not rove the eastern seacoast to ravish beguiling maids, but to stalk a vile knave unworthy of knighthood.
“I will not hurt you, wee one,” he assured her, towering more than a head above her.
She stood tall for a woman, actually, but even so he could have rested his chin upon her head. Her damp hair twisted in wild ropes around her as she swung from side to side in the circle of his arms. Like dark seaweed, it clung to him even after he held her tight enough to still her completely.
It was, he realized, quite tight indeed.
In a flash, all the misplaced lust he’d felt earlier came roaring back to life with the incentive of her sweetly rounded rump fitted to his thighs. With her arms successfully pinned to her sides, he had ended their skirmish with his hands planted just beneath her breasts, his knuckles nudging the plump flesh enough to lift the firm mounds high.