The Warrior Bride by Lois Greiman Page A

jaw and straightened abruptly. The tunic fell to her waist in a hasty cascade.
    “I need to be going,” he said.
    She exhaled sharply while she could. “Going?” she asked, and hoped he couldn’t hear the insane intensity of her desire. “Where?”
    But his gaze had fallen to her breasts, and for a moment she let her own attention be drawn there. Through the aged fabric she could see the dusky circles of her nipples as they strained against confinement.
    Lachlan raised his eyes back to hers then turned woodenly and lifted her soiled tunic from the bed. “To get this…” He motioned vaguely, as if he were at a loss for words. “To…” he began again, then, “Anywhere!” he rasped, and turning mechanically, strode away.
    The door rocked on its leather hinges as he disappeared into the hall.
    Hunter sat unmoving, staring in bewilderment at the reverberating door and trying to catch her breath.
    He had left abruptly. Almost as if he were escaping.

Her face reddened. Was it her scars that revolted him or was it something else?
    Not that she’d wanted him to stay. She’d never primped or perfumed for any man. It wasn’t her place in life. Still… A gossamer shiver shook her as memories trickled back through her.
    How long had it been she’d been touched as he had touched her? As if she were cherished. As if she were precious.
    She stared at the door, thinking back, remembering, but not one instance could she recall. Perhaps it had never happened. Not in a score of years, not in all her life. Maybe there had never been a time when she had been touched with gentleness and caring.
    The thought made her feel strangely hollow, as empty as the shell about her neck. But nay. It did not matter. She was a warrior, strong and independent.
    Reaching across the bed, she retrieved her dirk. It felt good in her fist. She tightened her grip. Aye, she was a warrior, not some milked maid, and perhaps it was the lack of coddling that made her so.
    She had no use for Lachlan MacGowan. The sound of his voice did not make her weak, and his touch did not make her want. She had no need for either his strength or his gentleness. But how was it that such a man as he could be so tender? How could such callused hands feel so soothing against her skin?
    There had been breathlessness, an excitement akin to the anticipation of battle. She had thought he felt it too, but he had turned away. Did she disgust him or…
    Could it be that he was a man of integrity as well as strength? Long ago she had heard a rhythm. Or had it been a dream? Peaceable yet powerful he must be…
    But no. She did not believe in foolish poems and the tales of old wives. Yet… perhaps there were yet men of substance. It seemed that Anora of Evermyst had found one-Ramsay MacGowan.
    She had met him long ago, but they had been at odds.
    Indeed, they had battled, for she had planned evil against his love. Hunter closed her eyes. Guilt gnawed at her, but she thrust it aside, for guilt did no good. Actions were all that mattered-thus her need to keep Evermyst safe. It was a payment of sorts and had naught to do with emotions. After all, it wasn’t as if Hunter hadn’t caused others to suffer. She was a mercenary, but she chose her battles carefully, and long ago, she had realized her mistake. Anora Fraser did not deserve to die. Indeed, perhaps none who was loved by a man like Ramsay deserved to die. Aye, Hunter regretted her long-ago attack on Anora for though she had longed to obtain revenge for her pathetic childhood, Anora was not the one to pay. And Ramsey had made certain of that, had, in fact, come to the maid’s rescue, though Hunter had tried to take her from him, had dressed as a woman to distract him.
    Ramsay with the soulful eyes. Ramsay whom she had kissed. Ramsay, with whom she shared a brief past, and yet he didn’t know it, for disguise, in one form or another, had always been her protector. Never had he known her true identity, but it was not so with his