He leaned close to her. “I’m here, lass. Tell me what ye need.”
She breathed deeply in and out her nose as she fought the nausea. When she was sure it was over, she scooped up a handful of snow and pressed her face into it, reveling in the cool relief. When she shook the snow off her hands, she croaked, “Quit pretending ye care.”
She thought she saw him flinch, but sparks of silver still blocked her vision. Suddenly he was on his knees facing her and offering her his wine skin. Her pride made her want to smack it out of his hand, but the more sensible part of her reached out to take the offering. Yet her hand trembled so badly that he ended up pressing the wine skin to her lips and tipping it up for her. She drank slowly, the wine sliding down her throat to her belly to calm and warm her. When she was done, she nodded and he lowered the wine skin. He stared at her for a long, silent moment. Why did she think she saw yearning in his gaze? What was wrong with her? She squeezed her eyes shut and willed herself to see what was truly there, but when she opened her eyes once more, she could have sworn he was looking at her with yearning. She was so daft. When he motioned to her lip, she cocked an eyebrow at him, vowing not to speak to him for the remainder of the day. Maybe longer. Maybe never again.
“Ye’ve wine on yer lip,” he said, his voice husky.
She started to raise her hand to wipe it away, but his thumb was already pressing on her lip gently, rendering her immobile with shock. He glided the pad over her sensitive skin, causing her to shiver, and then he withdrew his hand.
“Why did ye do that?” she asked, breaking her vow in no less than two breaths. She’d have to do better with the next vow. Two breaths was shameful. There it was again—yearning. And there, blast it all, was hope once more.
“As I said, ye’re a temptation to me,” he replied.
She clenched her teeth on the desire to scream at him for making hope wiggle in her yet again. She willed her hope to die a swift death.
He assessed her with seeming concern that she knew was likely only in regard to if she had felt anything useful. So when he asked, “Did ye feel anything that might aid us?” she snorted even as disappointment slashed through her. Why could she not quit allowing herself to think there was something more between them when there simply wasn’t?
She wanted to say that she had felt nothing that would help him, but instead she found herself saying, “Aye. Brothwell. He’s coming. I feel it—here.” She touched her gut. Good God, could she not lie about her instincts to William because he was her husband or because he had her heart? Both thoughts terrified her. Could she lie to him at all?
William nodded, as if he had expected her to say such a thing about Brothwell. “He’ll be going for Bram because he kens I will be attempting to rescue him.”
“Aye,” she agreed, and then she decided there was no moment better than now to test whether or not she could hold something back from William. She pressed her lips together on the words that would alert him to the part of her intuition that made her feel Brothwell was first and foremost coming for her. William surely knew that. Brothwell would want vengeance upon William for duping him, of course, but her gut told her he’d sacrifice his revenge if it meant having her and her gift in his clutches once more. Suddenly, William swooped his arm under her legs and hoisted her against his chest.
“What are ye doing?” She squirmed in an effort to get out of his hold.
“Carrying ye. ’Tis it nae obvious?”
“I dunnae need ye to carry me,” she growled, angered that her foolish heart tightened just from his touch. When he did not release her but his hold grew tighter and her heart beat harder, she became desperate for him to leave her be. She had to protect herself from him now. “I dunnae need ye!” she thundered.
She felt him tense under her and pause in his steps, but then his eyes met hers. He cocked his dark eyebrows, sardonic amusement flickering in his gaze. He brought his lips to her ear, and said, “Quit trying to seduce me. We have to make haste.”
She gasped at his outrageous words and the way his warm breath fanning her ear and neck made her body feel aflame. “I’d nae try to seduce ye again if ye were the last man alive,” she forced through clenched teeth, even as the warmth of his flesh against hers made her feel as if she’d imbibed a good deal of wine. And then, because she really had to get out of his hold before she became a quivery mess, she wiggled more while pushing her palm against his chest.
“Ada,” he said, his tone now a warning, “ye may nae be aware of this, but every time ye wiggle yer sweet bottom, the movements sends a message to the part of me that makes me a man. And that message tells me to take ye, damned the consequences.”
She sucked in a sharp breath at his words and the thrill they made spiral through her, which caused her to squirm again.
“Ada!” he growled.
“It was nae on purpose that time,” she snapped. “Yer breath on my ear and my neck makes me wiggle.” And his hard body. And his words, which should have angered her but instead filled her with lust. Her mood veered sharply to anger at him and herself. “If ye insist on keeping me near, dunnae breathe on me and I will nae wiggle against ye, ye scurrilous beast!”
He chuckled at that and swung her up onto their horse. “We’re back to me being a scurrilous beast, are we?”
“Aye,” she gritted. “We are. That should please ye.”
William mounted the saddle behind her, his powerful thighs encasing her, his chest pressing against her back, and his breath tickling her neck. “It dunnae please me to hurt ye, Ada.”
“Ye’re breathing on me again,” she said, feeling spiteful and lonely, though William was so very close.
The journey to Theondor Forest, which faced Trethway Island, was fast, hard, and uncomfortable—physically, mentally, and emotionally. Ada’s bottom ached, but her heart ached more. It was exhausting trying to ignore William. He commanded space and attention naturally, and though he had not touched her again, except the occasional brush of his leg against hers on the horse, or when he set his hands on her waist to help her dismount, he had done other things that seemed contrary to his claim that he did not care for her. He’d given her his blanket each night, going without himself, and he’d given her his rabbit when she’d commented that she was still famished. She caught his gaze on her constantly, and she suspected he sacrificed sleep to guard her as she slumbered. When she went to sleep, he was awake watching her shelter from a distance, and no matter what time she awoke, be it the middle of the night or before dawn, if she glanced out of her shelter, he was sitting in the snow outside his, eyes wide and focused on where she was.
Why did he guard her if he didn’t care about her? In the hope that she would get another feeling that would provide more insight? That was likely the case.
When they reached Theondor on their fifth day of travel, William pulled the horse to a halt, swung off without a word, and grasped her around the waist before she could lodge a protest. The minute his strong hands encircled her waist, the cold December chill that had burrowed into her bones was chased away by the warmth he radiated. A longing for his arms wrapped around her in tenderness uncurled within her. She clenched her teeth against the foolish, hopeless yearning, and suddenly another feeling gripped her.
Loss. Death.
But whose? And why? Unaware of what she was sensing and the spinning in her head, William set her on the ground and started to pull away. She grasped his forearms, unsteady and hoping more intuitions that would aid William and Bram would come.
