Page 15 of The Chief

Chapter 8

Cristane was not a bold person. At least, she’d never considered herself to be one. But at Cait’s urging, she’d started asking more questions. Looking others straight in the eye. Any maid who’d risen in the ranks to serve the chief’s family, Cait had argued, had within her the ability to stop apologizing for herself.

Could that simple question, as embarrassed as she was having uttered it, be any worse than what had happened to her earlier? Worse than the horrors she’d been threatened with mere hours ago?

“To speak to you about the feast,” Rory answered just as boldly.

None had ever accused the chief’s brother of being circumspect. She’d known that, of course—she knew Rory well. And yet to hear him speak in such a manner while naked from his waist up . . . well, that was an entirely different matter. Pretending his broad shoulders and thick forearms, the sight of each and every ridge of his stomach, did not affect her . . . it was becoming a more and more difficult task with each passing moment.

Cristane had lain in bed considering what she would say to him about that dance, for they could hardly avoid each other forever, but not once had she imagined their conversation would happen like this.

“Am I distracting you?”

She’d been staring. Again.

“Perhaps.” Denying the fact would be as silly as thinking there could be anything between them, which she knew to be impossible despite the way Rory was looking at her. There was nothing to be done for it. He was the chief’s brother. She was only a maid who would be leaving soon. “I will attempt not to notice”—she nodded her chin toward his naked torso—“that.”

“What precisely did you wish to speak to me about?” she said, surprised at her own bravado.

“The blacksmith. Lady Isobel.” His eyes narrowed. “Did you truly seek him out because you were jealous?”

She gasped. “Rory!”

The name escaped her before she could think on it. This was the first time she’d ever used his given name aloud, and it felt wrong. Intimate. But he did not seem to mind. In fact, it seemed to embolden him, for he took a step toward her.

“We’ve known each other a long time, Cristane.”

She swallowed.

“Never have I known you to be shy, to not speak your mind.”

Her shoulders rose and lowered with each deep breath she took. For a moment, she thought to lie, to say whatever it would take to end this impossible temptation, but both of them knew nothing could come of their connection. Why not speak her mind?

“Aye, I was jealous,” she admitted.

He took one final step toward her, and the space between them disappeared.

“Did you think the blacksmith’s kiss would banish all thoughts of me?” He covered her hand, the one clutching the blanket, with his large palm. “Was it as you’d imagined it would be?” he asked, his intention clear.

He meant to kiss her, and God help her, Cristane would let him.

“Nay.” She lifted her chin so their eyes met. “Nay, it was nothing like I’d imagined.”

Prying her fingers loose, Rory took the edge of the plaid blanket from her hand. Grasping it with his own, he opened it to reveal her shift. Damp from the rain, it left very little to the imagination.

“What, if I may be so bold to ask, did you imagine?”

He glanced down between them briefly and then swept the blanket from her. Sweeping it around his own shoulders, he closed what little distance remained between them.

Cristane’s breath caught as his arms encircled her shoulders, the blanket now covering them both. Their bodies, once separate, pressed together. His lips hovered inches from her own.

“I imagined,” she managed, “his kiss would stir something within me. Stir the same feelings that came over me whenever I spied you in training or simply sitting at the head table sipping a mug of ale. That it would eradicate the burning in my chest at the thought of you and Lady Isobel together.”

“Instead?”

“You taunt me,” she tossed back.

“Nay, Cristane, I do not.”