“It means arrogant and smug, flaunting your skill.”
“One must work with what one has.” His eyes lingered on her lips, then dropped to her breasts, before he dragged his gaze away.
“I saw that. Don’t look at me like that. You’re betrothed,” she said stiffly, resenting Anya Elliott clear down to the marrow in her bones.
“Och, but I’m not yet wed,” he muttered, looking at her from beneath his brows.
“That is a despicable attitude.”
He shrugged. “ ‘Tis the way of men.” He wasn’t about to discuss his true beliefs on the issue with her. His true beliefs were one reason why his attraction to her disturbed him so much. He’d far prefer to be chaste for at least a few weeks before his wedding, and once wed would not stray. Yet she was an irresistible temptation.
But he was strong. He would resist her. To prove it, he smiled down at her.
What was his deal today? Gwen wondered suspiciously. She knew he hadn’t decided to believe her—she’d overheard him talking with Dageus before he’d seen her entering the hall. He’d said he was taking her to the village to see if anyone recognized her.
“I can walk,” she announced.
“It’s a day’s walk,” he lied, and shrugged again. “But if you wish to walk twenty furlongs…” Without further ado, he turned his mount and slowly started off. She trailed along behind him, muttering under her breath.
Ha, he thought she didn’t know what a furlong was, but she knew all kinds of measurements. A furlong was roughly an eighth of a mile, which meant the village was approximately two and a half miles, and while it certainly wouldn’t take her all day, there was her predisposition toward inertia to consider.
He stopped and tossed her a look that said last chance. Shielding her eyes from the sun with her hand against her brow, she scowled up at him. Again, he wore leather trews, that cased his powerful thighs, a linen shirt, his leather bands, and leather boots. There was just something irresistible about a well-muscled man in leather. His dark hair spilled unbound over his shoulders, and as she gazed at him he gave that achingly familiar lionlike toss of his mane, and her hormones roared in response. She refused to think about what she knew lay in his snug leather trews. Knew from personal experience. Because she’d had her hand wrapped around it. Because she’d like to wrap her lips around it….
She tucked her bangs behind her ear with a dismal sigh.
When he nudged his mount near, she skittered back.
A corner of his lip rose in a mocking smile. “So there are some things you fear, Gwen Cassidy.”
She narrowed her eyes. “There’s a difference between fear and lack of familiarity. Anything one does for the first time can be daunting. I have no experience with horses, therefore I have not yet developed proper responses. Yet is the significant word there.”
“Then come, O brave one.” He extended his hand. “ ‘Tis apparent you won’t be able to ride on your own. If you doona ride with me, you’ll have to walk. Behind me,” he added, just to irritate her.
Her hand shot up toward his.
With a snort of amusement, he clamped his fingers about her wrist and lifted her, deftly sliding her into position on the saddle in front of him. “Easy,” he murmured to his mount. Or was it to her? She wasn’t sure which of them was more skittish.
He adjusted her lightweight cloak and encircled her waist with his arms. Gwen closed her eyes as a wave of longing flooded her. He was touching her. All over. His chest was pressed against her back, his arms around her to guide the tethers, his thighs pressing against hers. She was in heaven. The only thing that could make it better would be for him to remember her, to know her and look at her the same way he had their last night together in the circle of stones.
Was it possible that the memory was somewhere in him and, if she only found the right words, he would recall? On a cellular level, wouldn’t he have to possess the knowledge? Perhaps deeply buried, forgotten and ethereal as a misty dream?
She silently savored the contact, then realized that neither he nor the horse was moving. His breath was warm, fanning the nape of her neck. It took all her will not to shift in the saddle and plant a deep, wet kiss on those lips that were only a turn of her head away.
“Well? Don’t we move forward or something?” she asked. If they stayed still, touching like this, she couldn’t be held responsible for her actions. Some of his silky hair had fallen forward over her shoulder, and she fisted her fingers to prevent them from reaching up and caressing it. What was he doing back there? It wouldn’t do her any good to start fantasizing about him. This Drustan was a month younger than hers and a lifetime short of a lick of common sense. He was taking her to Balanoch to see if anyone recognized her, the dolt!