“What happened?” she repeated the question, coming back to her senses.
“As ye see, lass, the English and I talked.”
She couldn’t resist it. She reached out and cupped his jaw, willing to make the bruise on his cheekbone go away. His eye widened for a split second in surprise, then he held his breath and leaned into her palm. His skin was warm, and the bristle on his jaw rough. How would it feel to have him brush against her inner thigh with it?
“Your turn for some salve now,” she said, clutching the cloak around her shoulders with one hand. “I’ll put it on your neck.”
He chuckled, but a grimace of pain distorted his face. “I can do it myself. Although I would prefer for ye to do it.”
“Then let me.”
Amber asked him to look away and quickly put on the undertunic. When she was decent, she sank to her knees in front of him, itching to put her hands on his thighs and feel the steel of his warm muscles. She took out the clay box with the salve and opened it. The aromatic herbal cream melted against her fingers. She put a good heap on Owen’s burn and gently spread it around. He hissed under his breath, his fingers clenching around the bench until his knuckles whitened. Amber took out a fresh cloth and tied it around his neck.
“Is it okay like this?” she asked. “Not too tight?”
“’Tis all right.”
“Let me put some on your face.”
She scooped more of the salve and spread it against the swollen bruise on his cheekbone. His intense gaze left pleasant tingles on her skin.
“Yer touch makes the pain go away,” he said.
Amber’s hand lingered on his hot skin. The world stood still and time froze. She was lost in the green depths of his eye, in the golden glow of his skin, in his masculine, musky scent.
“I highly doubt that,” she said, her voice coarse.
“Aye, ye have a magic touch, lass. Is yer kiss magical, too?”
A kiss. Amber’s breath caught in her throat, and her stomach did cartwheels. She imagined his lips on her. Would he be demanding or gentle? Would he taste as masculine as he smelled?
Her whole body melted like that salve on her fingers.
No. What was she doing? Kissing would only complicate things. She’d decided not to trust him, not to get involved. She should follow through with her decision.
Amber withdrew her hand and closed the clay box. The air felt hot around her, and her skin broke out in a sweat. She didn’t look at Owen, but she sensed his confusion, his disappointment. She put the box away along with the other pieces of clean cloth.
“You should rest,” she said.
Right, pretend like he didn’t say anything about a kiss. Pretend like I didn’t just melt.
“Lass—”
“No. Please. Let’s not.”
The dungeon door clunked open, and Muireach’s shuffling steps approached. Then he stood before them on the other side of the bars.
“If ye want to escape, tonight is yer best chance,” Muireach said. “MacDougall and de Bourgh just left.”
Chapter 12
Amber gathered the edges of her shirt in her hands to pull it up and over her head so she could get dressed in the clothes Muireach had brought her.
“Turn away,” she said.
Owen did as she asked, his mouth suddenly dry. The images of Amber’s naked back and the sides of her breasts burned in his mind. Her back wasn’t injured in his imagination. Instead, her dark skin was smooth and glowing and soft as silk. Blood flowed to his cock. What was wrong with him? She was still injured. And she’d very clearly indicated she didn’t want anything between them.
How could he be so aroused just because she was taking off her shirt? Muireach had brought them clothes the guards wore. Two red tunics with three golden lions embroidered on them lay on the bench.
Owen let out a long breath and made himself think of something else. Of the escape.
This was their only chance. If they failed now and got caught, de Bourgh would figure out that Muireach had helped them. And then the poor man wouldn’t come out alive.
Owen undressed and put on the English tunic. Muireach had managed to steal them from a heap of fresh laundry, so they smelled crisp.
“Okay, decent,” Amber said, and he turned around, his mouth still dry.
Even in men’s clothing, she looked like a woman with her long, unruly hair, her graceful movements, and her delicate frame.
“Ye need a cap,” Owen said. “Ye still look like a lass. Ye’ll draw some attention. There aren’t many people here who look like ye. I admire that, but it’ll betray us to the English.”
She crossed her arms on her chest. “What do you suggest?”
“A cap. Or a helm. A hood, mayhap. Something to put yer face in the shadows.”
“He’s right, lass,” Muireach said from the hallway where he’d waited to give Amber privacy. “The men that guard the dungeon have helms.”
“Then we’ll need to make sure we get some.”
“Are ye both ready?” Muireach asked.
Owen locked his eyes with Amber. She nodded. “Aye,” he said. “We are.”
Muireach unlocked the cell and opened the door. “God, help us,” he muttered as Owen and Amber marched out of their prison. Owen’s heart pounded heavily in his chest. They passed by the cell with the half-mad Englishman. He watched them leave but didn’t make a sound.
They stopped before the heavy wooden door of the dungeon, but Owen laid his hand on Muireach’s before the man could open it. He looked at Amber. “Ye promise to nae fight, lass? Ye might open yer stitches and bleed.”
Her jaw muscles played, showing she clearly disagreed with him, but she gave a short nod. “I’ll do my best. But honestly, freedom is more important to me than a little bleeding.”
“Lass,” Owen said as a warning, “if ye do fight, I promise I’ll put ye over my knee when this is over.”
Her face went blank at that, and even though it was hard to tell in the darkness, he thought he saw her blush.
“All right, all right,” Muireach grumbled. “Ye can settle yer marital issues after ye disappear in the air like a child’s fart. Wait for my signal.”
He walked out, leaving the door open a slit. Owen watched him through it and saw him stop and greet the guards. They glanced briefly at Muireach and then continued talking. One of them was older and sat on a small stool, the other one leaned against the wall leisurely.
Muireach made a sign behind his back with his hand, and Owen opened the door. He stepped on the stone floor without a sound, although he was afraid his thundering heartbeat might alarm the guards. Muireach walked on slowly so the guards would concentrate on him.
Owen reached the man who was standing, grabbed the sword propped against the wall next to him and stabbed the guard in the back. He grunted and sank to the floor. The second guard watched in astonishment as his comrade fell. He opened his mouth to cry out an alarm, but Muireach rushed and pierced his throat with a dagger.
“Aye, ye Sassenach bastart,” Muireach growled. “Wanted to do this since the day ye took the castle.”
Owen looked back at Amber, who watched everything with a pale face.
“Lass?” he said, worried they were taking too long.