She sighed loudly and put her hands on her hips, facing him. “The how d’ye propose I get over? I dinnae see any boats hereabouts, d’ye?”
He ignored her facetious question. “I’ll take the horse across and then come back for ye. I’ll carry ye across.”
She bridled. “That willnae be necessary. I can dae it by mesel’.”
“If ye wantae drown.” He took up the horse’s reins and stepped closer to the water’s edge. “Wait here.”
“I willnae wait. I dinnae need ye tae carry me like a child. I’m comin’ with ye,” she insisted, trying to follow him.
He stopped and turned to her. “If ye dinnae stop right there and wait fer me, then I’ll throw ye in the water meself and ye can take yer chances.”
“Ye wouldnae dare.”
His dark brow quirked. “Wantae risk it?”
Catriona stamped her foot in frustration, but after considering his threat, she decided she had to give in because she could not trust him not to carry it out.
“Nay,” she replied irritably. “I’m sure ye’d enjoy watchin’ me struggle, and I wouldnae wantae tae give ye the satisfaction.” With a huff of defeat, she slumped down on a rock to wait for him while he took the horse into the water.
Ten minutes later, Catriona discovered there were some things more mortifying and confusing than sharing a horse with Malcolm. He had come back for her all right, and without a word, bent and hoisted her on to his shoulder like a sack of turnips.
That was bad enough, and she had strongly protested, kicking her legs and battering at his back with her fists, all to no avail since he completely ignored her. But worse was in store. For when the water threatened to soak her feet, he suddenly put his hand beneath her bottom, lifted her bodily into the air as though she weighed nothing, and sat her on his right shoulder.
Catriona shrieked in panic, scandalized by the outrageous manhandling of her person as well as fearful of falling in. She instinctively clutched at her only available handhold—Malcolm’s head.
“Will ye get yer hands off me eyes,” he shouted, “I cannae see where I’m goin’.”
“I cannae help it,” she cried, more panicked, moving her grip she knew not where.
“Ach, me ears are stuck tae me head, ye ken?” he complained, flicking his head like an annoyed bear to shake off her unwitting assault on his ears.
“Sorry!” Catriona let go his ears, her hands scrabbling for something else to hang on to, anything! Her hands wound into his thick hair and gripped it tightly between her fingers as they bobbed along.
“Ow! Jaysus, woman! Are ye tryin’ tae kill me? Now ye’re tryin’ tae pull out me hair by the bloody roots!” he protested, trying to pull away from her hold. How he was managing to maintain his steady pace through the roiling waters Catriona had no clue, but part of her admired him for it. Not that she would ever let him know it.
“Ye should have let me dae it on me own like I said,” she countered, settling for bending low enough to clasp his neck with both arms as she rode him like a beast of burden, uttering occasional small screams of alarm. This seemed to work reasonably well. But aside from all the bickering, Catrina was being forced to deal with something that threatened to overturn all the rules of propriety the nuns had drummed into her.
Secretly, she was burning with shame, for she was acutely aware of his large, warm hands gripping her thighs just above the knee. And, God forgive her, her left breast was practically jammed into his ear. Worse, her buttocks and tender parts were rubbinglewdly against his shoulder with every step and sending shards of heat shooting through her body. Worse still, she was enjoying it.
This is so wrong. I shouldnae be likin’ this.
Malcolm broke into her mental litany of her sins. “Dinnae fash, woman, I’ve got ye. I’ll nae let ye fall, I promise,” he shouted above the river’s ceaseless cacophony, clearly thinking her shrieks were due to her fear of falling in. Catriona, desperately fighting her body’s betrayal, was grateful for that at least.
After what felt to her like an eternity, he walked out of the river, onto the bank, and set her down to sit on a fallen tree.
Nearby stood Warrior, munching happily on the grass, not troubling himself even to look up.
“Ach, ye’re soaked tae the skin,” Catriona said, regarding Malcolm’s towering, drenched figure as she recovered her breath, unsure why she should suddenly be so concerned.
“Ye’re very observant.” He went over to the horse, opened the saddle bag, and extracted a bundle of clothing. Catriona watched as he laid it on the grass beside him. Then, to her astonishment, he proceeded to strip off his wet things.
This was tolerable until he pulled off his soaking wet shirt and tossed it on the ground, revealing his bare chest. Catriona had seen bodies in the infirmary, sickly, pale, thin bodies. Nothinglike this... this living, breathing specimen of magnificent masculinity standing in front of her.
Unable to look away, she openly gawped at the wide expanse of firm, tan flesh on display. Malcolm’s broad chest rippled with packed muscle that flexed with each tiny movement. The light dusting of fine dark hairs covering it looked strangely inviting to Catriona, who found herself wondering if the hairs were as soft and springy as they looked.
Her gaze traced the constellation of swirling tattoos adorning his upper arms and mighty shoulders, and took in the network of silvery scars left by past battles. Perhaps most beguiling was the mysterious, neat line of dark hair than ran down from his navel, over his flat, muscle-ridged belly, then disappeared into the front of his trews.
His body seemed made for battle and had been honed to perfection in its fiery forge. She was not prepared for the shocking way it made her feel.
