Rebel Warrior (Medieval Warriors #3) by Regan Walker

tower from his sword practice, Steinar spotted what looked like a tree nymph darting past him. Running on the path with the abandon of a wild thing, she had not seen him hidden among the trees. But he recognized the slim figure in the leaf-colored gown, her auburn hair, like a crimson banner, flying out behind her catching the sunlight filtering through the trees.
    A free spirit alone in the woods to tempt him.
    He could not help wondering if, like his sister, Catrìona had been indulged by a loving father who allowed her pursuits that were more properly those of a son than a daughter. Women like Serena were rare and Catrìona, so like his sister, called to some part of him long dormant.
    Intrigued, he decided to follow her.
    When she started to cross the stream, he remembered the moss he had seen growing on the fallen tree. Mayhap she had not recognized the danger, how slippery the growth would be under her feet.
    He opened his mouth to warn her just as she gave out a shriek and fell into the water with a loud splash. It had to be cold. But he could not resist a chuckle for her dazed expression as she sat blinking in the shallow water.
    “Does your father allow you to run barefoot in the forest and dance across logs?”
    She whipped her head around and narrowed her eyes. Her long hair fell around her shoulders like a dark crimson shawl, dripping water onto her gown. And still she was beautiful.
    “That is none of your concern, Scribe.” With a muffled curse, she struggled to rise. He reached out to help her just as she added somberly, “My father is dead.”
    The way she had said it, the look of anguish in her eyes, told him she still mourned her father’s loss. Mayhap his death had been recent.
    “Here,” he said reaching toward her, “take my hand and allow me to help you out.”
    There was fire in her eyes but she took his hand while holding on to her shoes, soaked with water.
    He pulled her from the stream, sodden and shivering. It was the first time they had touched and even dripping wet, the feel of her skin caused a surge of desire to course through him. The wet gown clung to her body, revealing her nipples hardened to small buds and her curves in vivid detail. Wet, she was even more alluring than before. He wanted to pull her close, to feel her softness, but instead, he merely steadied her with his hands. “Did you not see the moss that grows on the log? ’Tis quite apparent.”
    Her brow furrowed. “You might have warned me.”
    “You fell before I could.”
    Wiping water from her face, she looked up at him. Her eyes were the green of the forest around them. Light filtering through the trees added a soft glow to her pale, damp skin. His gaze dropped to her lips, the color of wild roses. He ached to kiss them.
    Bending his head, he moved his lips closer to hers.
    Water suddenly dripped from her hair onto her nose, causing her to sniff and step back.
    Still holding her shoes in one hand, she shivered. “I… I must look a mess.”
    “Indeed not, but you are pale.” Recognizing her predicament, he said, “I wear no cloak to offer you, but I can give you the heat of my body.” Taking the shoes she carried and dropping them to the ground, he pulled her into his arms and held her against his chest, ignoring the water soaking into his tunic. Her breasts pressed into his chest, warming him as his body responded to the nearness of the woman he could not dismiss from his thoughts. She might be innocent but she possessed a natural seductiveness that promised passion to the man who would claim her. And he wanted to be that man. Every warrior in the king’s hall had noticed the girl. Of all the queen’s ladies, she was the most talked about. They had taken to calling her the Rose of Dunfermline, a coveted prize for the one who would gain her hand.
    He stared into her eyes as he lowered his mouth to hers, waiting for a sign he should stop. She may have been too dazed or too wet to remember the rules. Or mayhap