“You’re not answering my question. Where will you be?”
He took her stick from her back and tossed it down on the bed, shrugged off his sword, laid it beside her stick, then took her back in his arms. “There’s a chamber pot behind that screen and fresh drinking water in the pitcher on that table,” he continued, nodding at the far wall. “And someone will be up shortly after daybreak to take you back to Ian.”
“Robbie.”
He kissed the tip of her nose. “I’m leaving tonight,” he said softly, covering her mouth with his before she could protest, his lips warm and sweet and coaxing.
Catherine refused to respond.
He pulled back and cupped the sides of her face to look directly into her eyes. “You have my word, little Cat, that I’ll return safe and sound. Mary will be guarding my back, and I’ll get in and out before Cùram even knows I’m around.”
“I—I think I love you.”
He went utterly still for a good ten beats of her racing heart, then broke into a smile.
“You think you love me?”
“I don’t know for sure. This is a dream, remember?”
“Aye. And you’re safe in your dream, are you not, to say what’s in your heart? And when you wake up, will you still think you love me?”
“I don’t know. That’s the funny thing about dreams.”
“Aye. But when we’re home, standing in our modern kitchen, and I remind you of your words here tonight, will that not prove that you said them to me? How else could I know what you’re dreaming, if I’m not here with you?”
Catherine thought about that, and while she was thinking, he apparently decided he might as well kiss her again.
And this time, she responded. She backed up her words with actions, opening her mouth to his, leaning into him as she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him back.
Only this time, it was different.She was different. Catherine felt as if a hundred and eighty weight had finally been lifted off her shoulders. But what most amazed her was that she’d replaced it with a two-hundred-pound giant, and she wasn’t at all scared.
Lord, she loved the freedom of dreams.
Catherine used her own insubstantial weight to push Robbie back until he was lying on the bed and she was lying on top of him. He was very cooperative. Helpful, even. He slid his hands down her spine to her backside and squeezed, groaning into her mouth as he positioned her hips directly over his. And there were those noble intentions again, solid and hot against her most intimate place. Catherine couldn’t stop herself from wiggling just a little bit, just enough to slide along him, and she smiled against his mouth when he growled and grabbed her hips to stop her.
He was wearing his own plaid again, the one that smelled like him, and Catherine ran her hands under it, slid it down his shoulder, and traced her fingers over his broad chest. She wiggled backward until she could follow the path of her fingers with her mouth, kissing the soft, silky hair on his chest until she found one of his nipples.
His entire body turned to stone the moment her lips closed over the firm bud, and his hands moved from her hips to her shoulders, lifting her face back to his. He claimed her mouth with fierce urgency, pressing her hips with one hand on her backside and crushing their chests together with the other.
Sensations exploded inside her. Shivers of pleasure wracked her body as his heat blasted through their clothes to scorch her skin. Catherine refused to give in to her need to breathe, using her mouth instead to savor his sweet, masculine taste that held just a hint of the scotch he’d had earlier. It was so simple, she decided as she lay sprawled across him, to give herself over to the passion.
His hand began exploring ways to get under the colorful blouse Gwyneth had given her.
But after several frustrated, unsuccessful attempts, Robbie rolled them over until Catherine was on her back and he was looming above her, glaring at her clothes.
“I’m not in the habit of undressing medieval women,” he growled, his voice guttural with desire as he impatiently tugged at her belt.
His plaid was hanging down to his waist, his broad upper torso completely naked and heavily muscled, blocking out the light from the fire. He looked powerful and imposing and…
Old fears rose unbidden as she lay beneath him, his solid weight pushing her into the bed, making her unable to move. The terror of being trapped and vulnerable and utterly helpless suddenly rushed through her, pricking her skin and quickening her breathing, urging Catherine either to fight or run.
She tried to do both and suddenly cried out and bucked beneath him, slapping at his hands as he tugged the hem of her blouse up over her breasts.
Chapter Twenty
Robbie reared backin surprise. “What the—Cat!” he growled, capturing her flailing hands, pinning them beside her head, and tightening his knees around her thighs.
She whimpered and frantically bucked beneath him, twisting to throw him off, kicking at his back, and turning her head to bite his arm.
“Catherine, no!” he shouted, using his weight to pin her down. “Easy,” he said more softly.
She was panting uncontrollably now, her desperation to get free closing her mind to all but her struggles. Robbie realized she couldn’t hear him, couldn’t even see him anymore. She was completely consumed by the terror, her mindless panic dictating her actions. He immediately rolled off her and stood by the bed. She scrambled away in the opposite direction, grabbing her stick as she did, until she was standing with the bed between them, her weapon poised to strike.
He stepped toward her, his hands up in supplication, and she whimpered and scurried back until she was pressed up against the wall. Robbie stopped, tucked his hands behind his back, and went utterly still. “It’s okay, little Cat,” he whispered. “No one is going to hurt you.I’m not going to hurt you, Catherine.”
He fell silent after that, realizing there was nothing else he could say, and waited for his words to reach her. He watched her eyes, wide with terror in the firelight, and saw the moment she came back inside herself.
She blinked at him, standing there so small and vulnerable and scared, and started to tremble. Robbie stayed where he was, keeping his hands behind his back, and put every ounce of warmth he could muster into his smile.
It was a difficult task, considering the rage inside him right now—rage that warred between his desire to kill Ronald Daniels and his need to pull Catherine into his arms and never let her go.
But he stood his ground, not moving closer, not backing away, and continued to wait. It took her a good three minutes, though, before her shoulders stooped and her head dropped to stare at the floor. She suddenly threw down the stick, covered her face with her hands, and started to sob.
And still he didn’t move.
“Oh, my God,” she whispered. “What have I done?”
“I can’t say for sure,” he whispered back, “but I’m guessing that was the panic attack you mentioned this morning.”
Her shuddering sobs wracked her body as she stood there, her face buried in her hands.
“Catherine,” he said, gently but firmly. “Look at me.”
It took her another full minute to do as he asked, before she slowly lifted her head and blinked through her tears at him.
Robbie untucked his hands, settled his plaid back over his right shoulder so that most of his chest was covered, and then held his hands out from his sides, palms forward.
“Come here, Catherine,” he softly entreated. “Walk into my arms.”
She swiped at the tears streaming down her cheeks, then balled her fists and shook her head as she looked at the floor again. “No,” she whispered. “I want you to leave. Please.
Just go find your wizard’s tree.”
“Nay, Catherine. A dozen warhorses couldn’t drag me out of this room. Not until you walk into my arms.”