Page 12 of Ena’s Surrender

When he straightened, he found her watching him with tension pinching at her brows.

“Next time we meet, we must be enemies once more.”

It was true, he knew, though he didn’t want it to be.

Her cheeks still held a pretty rosiness to them, as did her lips. He should walk away at that moment. Walk away and never look back. After all, he had to return to Lord Bothbury to report what he’d seen today. And what he’d heard.

The walls of the hut were thin and offered little barrier from Bran’s detailed account of the plan for the Scottish reiver’s next attack.

The knowledge Renault now possessed churned in his gut. Such information could save English lives, but at the expense of many Scottish ones. Suddenly, he didn’t want to return to England and fulfill his mission to Bothbury. He wanted to remain in Scotland, in a pen beside a cottage with a goat who had fallen asleep tucked in a corner and a woman whose resolve had finally begun to unfurl into something amazing.

“Dinna look at me like that,” Ena said.

He stepped closer to her, drawn in by her beauty and strength and innocence. “Like what?”

“Like ye dinna want to leave.”

He took her face in his hands and closed the distance between them. “I don’t want to. Nor do I want to be your enemy.”

She searched his eyes. “Renault.”

Renault.

It was the first time she’d said his name. She had remembered it. And oh, how sweet it sounded burred in her husky voice.

“Ena.” Though he’d said her name before, he could not stop relishing it, savoring being given leave to finally use it.

He could say no more, not with her so close. Instead, he lowered his mouth to hers once more. What had been meant to be tender with affection quickly escalated into hungry desperation. And all it had taken was the brazen swipe of her tongue over his. Brave and fierce. Like her.

He groaned and pressed his body to the softness of hers. She moaned; the sound muted beneath mouths. The kisses became deeper, more frantic.

His cock throbbed with desire and strained at his breeches. His blood roared in his ears.

He ran his hands down her slender neck, skimming the sides of her breasts and resting at her slim waist. He wanted to let his touch continue to roam over all of her. And yet he knew if he did, he would not wish to stop.

Ena arched against him, flexing her hips against the force of his erection. The nudge of their pelvises together made chills race over his skin and his nerves tingled with awareness. She smelled of flowers and hay and sunshine, an unexpectedly intoxicating blend that he wanted to lose himself in.

He trailed kisses down her chin, her silky neck, to the sensual hollow of her throat. He brushed aside the sleeve of her gown, exposing her shoulder. A thick rope of a scar showed silvery white against her skin and twisted down into her neckline. It was so vicious that it made him draw short.

“Stop.” Ena jerked her sleeve up and held her fist over her clothing. The motion was protective. Defensive.

He immediately dropped his hands from her. “Ena—”

She turned her face away, but not before he saw the tears gleaming in her eyes. “Ye need to leave.”

“Ena, forgive me, I—”

“Bran will wake soon.” She unlatched the door to the stall with her free hand. “Leave.” Her watery gaze landed everywhere but on him. “Please.”

He’d had it in his mind to protest, but the depth of her hurt was too unexpected. He would not question what had happened to her. Not until she was ready to share. But there was one question he had to ask, even though he already knew her response. And dreaded the answer he would get.

He hesitated in front of the open door. “Is that why you hate the English?”

Her eyes settled on his, blazing with powerful emotion. “One of the many reasons.”

He wanted to reach out to her, to pull her into his arms and cradle her pain away. However, she had her dagger at her belt, and it would more likely end up in his side than she would be comforted by his presence.

“I’m not like that,” he said softly.