at the strangest of moments. On the edges of cliffs. During private talks. Of course he'd appear for her seaside wash.
She straightened, steeling herself for the sight of him. What would be the look on his face this time? She wondered if an easy smile would ever be waiting there to greet her, or if he'd always bear his grim mask.
Like iron to a lodestone, her head turned toward him. He was higher up the beach, but still close enough to see.
Cormac was emerging from the waves. Naked.
Oh sweet Lord. She blinked. She wasn't prepared for this.
It was improper to look, yet she couldn't bring herself to turn away. The early morning sun was low on the horizon, and his body glistened with light. Water drizzled down his shoulders and chest, disappearing into shadowed valleys of hard flesh. His hair was plastered to his brow, and the water made it appear almost black.
Her eyes went to his face, and he looked away before their gazes could catch. He bore a dark scowl.
Of course. Why would he be friendly? She'd forced his hand. She'd all but made him accompany her to Aberdeen.
He bent to retrieve his plaid from the rocks, and her gaze slid to the flex of his taut haunches. She gasped, widening her eyes. She'd never seen a naked man before. And Cormac wasn't just any man. He was lithe and muscled, confident and comfortable in his skin.
“I… I'm sorry,” she managed, grateful for the freezing water that numbed her feet, though it was her whole body she needed to dunk. Maybe then she'd be able to cool the hot flushing sensation that suffused her. “I didn't know you'd be here. ”
He wrapped and tucked his plaid, and even though her cheeks burned hot, she couldn't look away.
“I could say the same to you,” he said blandly. “It's no' my beach. ” Finishing, he walked toward her. There was such purpose in his stride, his body all fluid power.
She held her breath.
His eyes flicked to her bodice. She was exquisitely aware of it clinging damp and tight to her breasts. Her belly quivered with something that reached even her numbed toes.
“We leave once there's food in our bellies,” he told her. And then he simply walked on past.
Cormac tucked the reins under his thigh and laced his fingers, stretching his arms before him. He flexed his wrists to the point of discomfort, but still, mastering his body was taking a conscious effort.
“So strong you are,” Marjorie cooed, her voice sounding low and sultry next to him.
He mumbled a curse. She'd been purring, whispering, and just about moaning at that damned mare all morning, and it was driving him to distraction.
“So, so strong. ” She ran her hands along her horse's neck in long, languid strokes. “You were lonely in that stall. But you like when I ride you, don't you? Yes you do. You like having me on your back. ” Cormac flexed until his knuckles popped.
He looked out of the corners of his eyes, watching the sway of her hips in the saddle. The sound of her bedroom voice was a reverberating hum through his body. What would she look like riding him?
His mind returned to the image branded there: Marjorie, standing in the shallows. Her wet bodice had clung to her, revealing every curve, every dip and swell of her soft flesh. And then she'd looked at him, and there'd been a darkness in her eyes, a wanting that he recognized as his own.
It'd taken all the concentration he had not to go hard at the sight of her. If there was anything that could make his cold cock rouse, it had been the feel of Ree's eyes on him, roving his naked body as though she'd a right to.
Her horse began to flag, and Marjorie made soft kissing noises to liven up the animal's gait.
“God help me,” he breathed. He adjusted himself on the saddle, forcing himself to focus on the path ahead, on the sway of the horse beneath him.
It should've been a decent ride. Gregor had shocked Cormac when he loaned his braw chestnut gelding, but not even the superior horseflesh at Cormac's seat could distract him.
Marjorie. Marjorie was the distraction.
“Ohhh, that's the way,” she murmured.
Cormac's groin tightened anew. He scowled. Agony. What could've been a pleasant enough ride had become his own personal hell.
He held his body stiffly, putting his mind to other things. Fishing. Hunting. The fine horse he rode. He patted the animal's neck, willing thoughts like the mending of boats and the gelding of horses to wipe the wayward images from his mind.
“What's his name?” Marjorie asked, trotting to catch up to his side. The sea breeze had pinkened her cheeks.