Bowen turned to go inside his chamber, but was stopped by Taliesan’s soft call. Leaving the door open, he waited for the lass to approach and then took the soft bundle of clothing from her.
“My thanks, Taliesan. You are a good friend to Genevieve. I’ll make sure she knows of your kindness.”
Taliesan’s cheeks colored and she dipped a curtsy. “Please tell Genevieve that if she has need of me I am but a few doors away.”
Bowen nodded and then withdrew into the chamber, closing the door behind him.
Genevieve was sitting up in bed, the bed linens pulled to just underneath her chin. Blood had dried at the corner of her mouth and along her jawline, and her bottom lip was swollen.
“Taliesan brought you clothing,” Bowen said as he approached the bed. “Let me build up the fire and then you can dress in front of the hearth. I’ll not look. I promise.”
She smiled faintly. “ ’Tis too late for modesty, I think. You’ve seen all.”
He sat on the edge of the bed, her clothing on his lap. “ ’Tis not too late for respect,” he said in a serious tone. “And ’tis respect that I give by offering you privacy in which to dress and make yourself more comfortable.”
Damn if the lass’s eyes didn’t tear up again. It was like a fist to his gut, and suddenly it was hard for him to breathe.
He touched her cheek as if to ward off the tears.
“You’ve not had much to smile about, lass, but I plan to remedy that. I would give anything to make you happy again.”
“You are a good man, Bowen Montgomery,” she said hoarsely. “I was not wrong about you.”
He took the clothing from his lap and laid it next to Genevieve on the bed. “Let me go add logs to the fire so you’ll be warm. Your flesh is cold to the touch. When I am done, you can dress by the hearth.”
He stood and strode toward the bin where the pieces of wood were stacked. When he glanced back at Genevieve, she presented a sight that affected him deeply.
Hair tousled. Vulnerability reflected in her eyes. Covers drawn up to her chin and knees hunched against her chest. But the look on her face as she stared back at him … It was a look filled with wonder. Gratitude. Of discovery. As if she were seeing him in a whole new light.
It was a look that men coveted from women. A look that said he was her champion and that there was no other man in the world for her.
He reprimanded himself for letting his thoughts grow so fanciful. Aye, Genevieve may be grateful, but it didn’t mean she looked at him in any other way than that of gratitude. It was a look she would give to any man who’d defended her.
He busied himself building the flames, so that it became uncomfortably warm in the vicinity of the hearth. But he knew that she was chilled, that the traumatic event had given her the kind of bone-deep cold that was difficult to recover from. He’d see to her comfort even at the expense of his own.
When he was satisfied with his effort, he turned back to Genevieve and gently pried the linens from her tightly balled fists.
“Go and warm yourself by the fire, lass,” he said in a gentle voice. “I’ll stand by the door with my back turned, or, if you prefer, I’ll wait in the hall and you can summon me back inside when you’re finished.”
“You can stay,” she murmured.
Keeping her cloak tightly against her br**sts, she maneuvered out of bed and walked toward the fire. As promised, Bowen went to the door and crossed his arms over his chest as he faced away.
He could hear the light sounds of her dressing and he closed his eyes, imagining the sight behind him. Her nude figure outlined by the glow from the hearth. His breath caught in his throat and his body instantly hardened.
He chastened himself, berating himself for being no better than the bastard who’d tried to rape her. He should not be thinking on such things when the lass was recovering from the horror of being attacked.
But he wasn’t thinking of what he could take from her. He thought only of what he could give her. Of how he could woo her with sweet kisses. Tell her how beautiful she was. Stroke and caress her body until she sighed with contentment.
He wanted to show her how it could be between a man and a woman. Take away all the pain and humiliation and shame and, in their place, give her something beautiful.
Ah, he ached to be the one to show her how good loving could be. But ’twas more than that, for he wanted her more fiercely than he’d ever wanted a lass and he couldn’t even explain why. He cared not that she was scarred, that a man had marked her face so that no man would ever want her. If that had been Ian’s goal, he’d failed miserably, because Bowen wanted her with a need that bordered on obsession.
“You can look now.”
Her soft call tore him from his thoughts. He blinked and willed his body to calm, for he didn’t want to face her with the evidence of his arousal in plain sight.
Slowly he turned, positioning his body so that it wasn’t so readily obvious.
She looked even more beautiful. Clad in a nightdress, she stood by the fire, her bare feet peeking from underneath the hem. Her hair tumbled over her shoulders in waves and her scarred cheek was turned away.
There was still the dried blood at her mouth, and he hadn’t queried her about other injuries.
He strode forward, taking one of the cloths he used for cleaning and he dipped it into the basin of water by the window. When he neared her, he cupped her chin with one hand and then gently dabbed at the corner of her mouth with the cloth.
She flinched but remained where she was while he cleaned the blood from her swollen lip.
He frowned when he noticed that a bruise was already forming on her chin and lower jaw, where she’d been struck.
“Where else are you hurt, Genevieve?” he asked.
“Nowhere. He hit me twice, but ’tis all he had time to do. You arrived in time to prevent more.”
His scowl deepened. “I should have been there to prevent him hitting you at all.”
She slipped her hand over his arm, holding it in place as he cupped her chin in his firm grasp.
“You came. ’Tis all that is important. You kept it from happening again. For that you have my thanks.”
His heart softened, and he rubbed his thumb over her cheek in a tender caress.
“I would that you never have to experience such again.”
She closed her eyes and turned further into his caress, rubbing her scarred cheek over his palm. Then, as if realizing she drew attention to her defect, she froze and tried to shrink away.
“Nay,” he protested. “Do not hide from me, Genevieve. Never hide from me. You have to know that the scar on your face matters not to me.”
She swallowed, and he could feel that she trembled beneath his touch. She looked at him with such hope that it was painful for him to see. This was a woman who was afraid to hope anymore. Time and time again, her hopes had been crushed, and now she gazed at him as though she battled with herself over whether to allow that hope to take flight.
“Come,” he whispered. “ ’Tis time to seek our bed. I would have you warm and comfortable this night.”
Her eyes widened, and she clutched at the hand covering her cheek.
“What will be said if I spend the night in your chamber, Laird?”
His lips curled, and his words were fierce. “I don’t give one damn what is said. These people have neither my respect nor my loyalty. They’ll not disparage you, for if they do they’ll suffer my wrath. I’ve let it be known that I’ll tolerate no insult to you. You have my protection, Genevieve. I’ll not have you leave my chamber this night.”
Though he meant every word he’d said, he also recognized the validity of her fear. It would be disrespectful of him to have her name bandied about as whore to him now that Ian was gone. He would give the clansmen no further opportunity to mock or demean her.
His voice softened as he gazed at her. “No one will know, lass. I will speak to Taliesan, who champions you fiercely, and it will be known that you rested this night in her chamber.”
The relief was stark in her eyes. Her entire body seemed to sag. He lowered his hand, with hers still holding on to it, and pulled her toward the bed so they could seek their rest.
Another knock sounded, and Bowen wanted to growl his frustration at the constant interruptions. Then he remembered Teague’s promise of food. His belly growled at the idea, and he sighed.
“Go on to the bed and make yourself comfortable. That will be food sent up, fresh from the hunt.”
Genevieve brightened and slipped her hand from his, placing it over her belly. Then she grimaced.
“ ’Tis the truth I’m near to starving.”
“Then go and I’ll bring the food inside to you. Fear not. I’ll not allow anyone to enter while you are present.”
The smile she gifted him with warmed him to his toes. Then she hurried by him and crawled into bed—his bed—and pulled the covers high around her.
Never had he seen a more wondrous or more beautiful sight than Genevieve McInnis snuggled sweetly in his bed, awaiting his attendance.
Chapter 26
Genevieve snuggled tighter into Bowen’s embrace and sighed in utter contentment. Lazily, she opened her eyes only to discover that it was already past dawn.
Dismay filled her that the night was over. ’Twas the most beautiful night she’d ever spent. Never had she felt such peace, nor had she ever felt as safe as she had wrapped in Bowen Montgomery’s arms.
“The lass has awakened.”
Bowen’s teasing voice slid like silk over her ears. She was reluctant even to answer for fear that he would immediately cast her from his chamber. She wanted this moment to last forever.
“Aye,” she finally whispered, knowing she couldn’t delay the inevitable.
But he didn’t hurry her, nor did he tell her to return to her own room.
Instead, he stroked a hand up and down her back until she nearly moaned from the pleasure of it.
“How do you feel this morn, Genevieve?”
She rubbed her cheek against his chest, savoring the smell and feel of him. It seemed so odd to her that she felt no fear in Bowen’s presence. She’d learned to fear all men. There was not one she trusted, and she’d been abused by many.
And yet Bowen was … different. From the very start he’d been different. He’d treated her with kindness and gentleness, and he’d defended her.
“Better,” she said, her words escaping on a sigh.
“ ’Tis good to hear. I hope your jaw isn’t paining you too much.”
She attempted to shake her head, because she was too content to speak.
His hand closed over her nape, massaging and caressing. Then he nudged her head upward, using his other hand to slide under her chin and prop her up as he examined her mouth.
He frowned a bit as he tilted her head left then right.
“There’s a bruise. And your lip is still swollen.”
His expression was murderous by the time he finished his perusal of her features. Then, to her surprise, he hauled her upward, so that she sprawled over his body, her face just inches from his own. His arms closed over her back so that he hugged her to him.
“Bowen, your wound!” she protested.
“ ’Tis naught but a scratch, and you did a fine job stitching it. It doesn’t pain me at all.”
She didn’t entirely believe him, and it shamed her that she’d only just paid heed to his wound. He’d fought with her attacker when he was only a day from his sickbed.
“I should look at it,” she said anxiously. “You could have torn the stitching in the confrontation yesterday.”
He gave her an amused smile, his eyes alight with warmth.
“If it will put you at ease, I’ll let you examine it.”
She pushed back from his embrace and then positioned herself on her knees at his side.
He sat up and then tugged his tunic over his head, baring his muscled shoulders and chest to her view. Her gaze wandered over his torso, drawn inexorably to the expanse of male flesh.
Her fingers came out to trace the puckered line of the still sealed wound.
“Does it pain you?”
“Nay, lass. Not when you touch me so. I feel naught but the sweetest of pleasures.”
Heat rushed to her cheeks and she nearly snatched her hand away, but he captured it and held it firmly against his chest.
“I like your touch,” he said huskily. “I remember you touching me when I was insensible with the potion they gave me.”
More embarrassed now than ever, she ducked her head. How bold he must think her. She should not have taken such liberties with his person, certainly not when he was barely conscious.
“Are the stitches to your satisfaction?” he asked.
“Aye,” she whispered. “I see no sign of infection.”
He tugged her back down to his bare chest. ’Twas like being touched by fire. His heat surrounded her and beckoned her closer still.
His hand feathered over her cheek and then delved into her hair, circling to her nape, and then, to her shock, he raised his head and pressed his lips ever so gently to hers.
She gasped against the fullness of his lips, but all tension fled her as she relaxed into his hold.
Oh, aye, this was a kiss.
He was exceedingly tender as he explored her mouth, his lips sliding over hers. His tongue brushed against her bottom lip, lapping at the cut in the corner of her mouth.
It was intoxicating, like drinking too much ale. She was drunk on his touch and the sensation of him against her. She experienced a rush such as she’d never felt before, and she never wanted it to end.
His other hand went to her scarred cheek, and when she would have pulled away, he caressed the damaged flesh and framed her face with both hands in order to deepen his kiss.