Part 13 (2/2)
And she began to scream.
The first scream cut through Bruce's subconscious like a razor. He bolted up, seeking the danger for a millisecond, then he burst from his bed and hurtled through the bath.
She had the door locked.
He hesitated for a moment, listening. Then, once again, he heard her scream. Swearing, he hurried back in his room and dug in the cufflink drawer of the wardrobe for the skeleton key. Seconds later, he had the door open.
She was sitting up in bed, staring, her blond hair streaming out over the lilac print of her flannel gown. Her eyes were open, dead set on something in front of her, something that he couldn't see but which was so very real to her.
Another scream ripped from her.
There was something achingly vulnerable, young and fragile about her at that moment. The fine construction of her features seemed more delicate, the wheaten beauty of her hair more sheer. She looked for all the world like an otherworld Ophelia.
And, like the mad Ophelia, if he didn't move, she would not be reprieved.
He started for the bed, then halted, because suddenly she was moving, no longer simply staring and screaming, but shrinking back. As if something--someone-- were after her.
He flew across the room, calling her name.
”Toni, Toni!”
Falling upon the bed, he caught her by the shoulders. She was stiff and cold, as if she were nearly dead herself. She didn't acknowledge him, but neither did she look through him. She looked around him.
”Toni!” He gave her a shake, drawing her to him, determined to transfer some of his own warmth into her form. ”Toni, wake up, it's a dream, a nightmare.” He stroked her head, his fingers cradling the shape of her skull. ”Toni!”
At last, he felt her resistance. She pulled away from him, her eyes wide and confused in the night. She said his name, but with a strange hesitance and uncertainty.
”Bruce?”
”Aye, it's me.”
She still looked so wide-eyed, not so much terrified as... confused.
”In the flesh,” he added, trying to speak lightly. He was very nearly in little but the flesh, and was glad he'd gone to sleep in boxers.
”Bruce?”
One of her hands fell against his chest. The fingers were still chilled, but the brush against him seemed to evoke a flash of fire. He caught that hand, held it between his own, rubbed it, tried to warm it.
”Aye, kid, you're having something of a poor time getting sleep in here, eh?” he asked her.
She flushed, then looked at him sheepishly again. ”It's rather ironic, really. I make up a fellow, only to find out that he existed, and now he keeps appearing at the foot of my bed, with his sword dripping blood.” She hesitated. ”Do you think he's trying to warn me to get the h.e.l.l out of your castle?”
They faced one another on the bed then, not touching, but very close. He couldn't help the small smile that came to his lips. ”Nae,” he said softly, purposely allowing the Scots burr into his voice. ”Nae, fer 'tis said that Bruce were a man what loved a damselle, and wouldna hae it that one should suffer at his door.”
He was glad of his speech, for she smiled, as well, and it seemed that the terror and confusion had at last lost their grip upon her. ”How did Lady MacNiall feel about that? If she was running around with some local fellow, it might have been out of revenge for all the la.s.ses he kept giving, er, sanctuary? At his castle?”
”They were different days,” he told her lightly.
”Oh?”
”Well, there were a few instances in Scottish history that certainly wouldn't be the least politically correct these days. Take Robert the Bruce. His poor wife was captured by the English and held prisoner for years, just for being his wife. He loved her dearly--honestly, he did--but there were a number of children born in those days that bore the king's protection. So.. .while she was locked up for being his wife, he was still prey to manly temptation.”
”So Bruce MacNiall cheated like crazy, then killed his poor wife?” Toni said, wrinkling her nose.
”You made that part up. No one knows what happened to his wife,” Bruce reminded her.
”I made the whole thing up!” she reminded him with a soft groan.
He pulled her against him again, stroking her hair. ”If s a castle, you invented a b.l.o.o.d.y warrior, he happens to have existed.”
She leaned against him, apparently content to be there. Her hair was a velvet tease against the nakedness of his chest, the scent of her a strange and riveting intoxication in the night. She could speak with such determination, quell with a look, move with grace and dignity.. .by day. But at night, she was like a brush of pure silk, sweet smelling, l.u.s.trous, supple and...vulnerable. Tonight she was vulnerable.
”If s more than that,” she whispered.
”What more could it be?” he asked gently.
She shook her head. He threaded his fingers into her hair, gently tugging back, anxious to see her eyes. Huge, bluer than the midnight sea, they met his. Little triggers of electricity seemed to tease both his muscles and his flesh. Something akin to pure agony clamped down upon his groin. He gritted his teem, determined not to let her see the rise of pure carnal instinct and natural humanity.
”I...you don't understand. I'm afraid. Never mind...” she murmured.
”What is it? You can tell me, honestly,” he a.s.sured her.
”Ah.. .so that you could mock an American further?”
”Americans are lovely people,” he told her, smiling.
”Most, anyway, right?”
”Toni, if there's something wrong, you can tell me. I swear, I will not bring it beyond the walls of this room,” he vowed levelly.
She s.h.i.+vered suddenly, then moved, as if pretending that she had not done so. She set her hands upon his shoulders. ”You know, you're rather a lovely man yourself--but only in the dead of night.”
”Ach, I'm really lovely as h.e.l.l by day, as well. You're just not noticing,” he informed her.
Another s.h.i.+ver, almost imperceptible, ran down her spine. She moved closer, resting her head against his shoulder and throat. ”I have noticed,” she informed him. Then she looked up. ”You know that question you asked earlier?” she whispered.
Ah, and that whisper brushed his cheek, and soft and light as it was, it beckoned to an even greater desire inside, one that shrieked and cried out, in bone and sinew and blood.
”About jumping me?” he inquired.
”Yes, I would be referring to that one.”
The flannel of her nightgown suddenly seemed to hug her b.r.e.a.s.t.s with pure temptation, concealing, too clearly giving away structure, firmness, rise....
Her voice was meant to be casual, almost haphazard, but it was tremulous.
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