He could feel her breasts pressing on his chest and his hands enfolded her soft waist, fitting perfectly in the sweet curve there. He wanted to throw her on the bed and strip her of the fine linen gown, to let his body thrust in her and thrust again, letting her overflow with his need. However, he wouldn't. This was her night as well as his.
He stroked her hair gently and breathed in the sweet, soft scent of it. Her body was curved and sweet, and pressed against him as he kissed her again, this time more slowly and tenderly.
She moaned as his tongue explored her and he tensed, unable to hold back any longer. He wrapped his arms around her and walked back a little, until they stood beside the soft, linen-canopied bed. Then he pushed her back.
She let out a little giggle and fell onto the bed, her sweet curves so perfect on the cream linen of the coverlet. Rufus stood back and looked at her where she lay, her hair a cloud around her, breasts pointing and thrusting out from her sweet form in a way that fired his loins with aching longing.
He stretched the length of his body beside her on the covers and his mouth moved over hers. He held her in his arms, her breasts pressing against his chest and he shivered with the intensity of his longing.
“Amabel,” he whispered.
He ran a hand down her hair and then moved slowly downward, reaching for the buttons of the back of her gown. He wanted to see her naked. He had to kiss each inch of that sweet, curved body.
He undid the topmost button and then moved the neck of the dress down lower. He undid the next one, and then the next. She tensed and then relaxed and he kissed her lips and then moved lower, nuzzling at her neck. Her skin was soft, so soft. He licked at it and felt his loins flood with longing as he reached the softness of her breasts. He drew the gown down and then, gently, unlaced her under-dress. He heard her gasp and slowly kissed her skin.
He pulled the gown down from her breasts and tensed in amazement as he stared down at them. They were full and round, with pink nipples. He took one into his mouth and sucked, feeling it harden under his tongue.
Amabel moaned and he worked at her breasts with his lips, loving the way they felt under his tongue. He moved lower, feeling his need heighten as he worked the dress down her body until it lay in a pile on the floor at the bed's end. The under-dress followed.
He sat on the edge of the bed and looked down at her. The firelight was soft on her pale skin and it flickered along her curves, highlighting them sweetly in light and shadow. He teased himself by letting his eyes travel from her beautiful oval face and long pale neck, down to her sweet breasts and down the pale belly, ending at the gentle rounding of her thighs.
He reached forward and let his hand stroke the soft skin of her leg and then, very gently, work the two legs apart. She tensed as his hand moved between her thighs and he held his breath as he gently stroked her there.
He moved lower, and he let his tongue work her there, moving over her sweet folds. He heard her cry out, breath sobbing in her throat, and knew that she was ready.
He knelt up and looked down at her face, her eyes open now and watching him with no fear, only a rising longing that matched his own. He felt his loins throb and he undressed fast and came to kneel between her thighs.
“Yes?” he whispered.
“Yes,” she whispered in reply.
***
Amabel looked into Rufus's gentle eyes as she lay underneath him. She felt her whole body shiver as he moved between her thighs. His body was so beautiful, with its broad shoulders, rippling biceps, and that narrow waist. She had known she wished to see more of it, but had never imagined it would be so beautiful.
She could barely keep her eyes off him as he moved and, very carefully, slid himself inside her. Oh!
She tensed, feeling him probe against her. Something hurt and she cried out, knowing it would be painful, but not expecting that brief, intense pain. Then, almost as soon as it stabbed into her, the pain vanished, replaced with a pleasure so intense that she thought she would melt, that she was dying, that she was afloat in a vat of sweetness that lapped through her and in her and round her as he moved, slowly and carefully, within her.
“Oh,” she gasped. He was moving slowly, but each thrust seemed to press new spots inside her, each time filling her with a sweetness that was part tickle, part pain, part pleasure. She felt him reach a place where she thought the pleasure might actually overwhelm her, it was so intense. Each time he moved the waves of pleasure jolted through her, at first slow and sweet, and then intense and almost unbearable as he moved, faster and faster and faster...
“Oh!”
She screamed aloud as the feeling built and then broke over her like the spark that ignites an inferno. She closed her eyes and let the sensation flow through her, her entire lower body feeling as if she was drowning in a bath of syrup, so sweet, so tormentingly warm.
She closed her eyes as he cried out and collapsed on top of her and he held her close. She wrapped her arms around him and they must have slept, for the next thing she knew was him kissing her lips and murmuring her name and then rolling over to lie beside her.
She lay with her head on his arm, her own arms wrapped around him and they rested. Then, slowly, she felt his hand stroke her thigh and she felt her body tense and start to feel that same sweet longing that she had earlier, only now it was slower, more intense, more directed.
They found fresh pleasures, learning the ways they liked to touch each other. They each learned much about their own pleasure and that of the other that night until, eventually, they collapsed and slept.
They slept with her wrapped in his arms, her arms around him.
The next morning, Amabel awoke with the grayness of light filtering through the screens and the warmth of her lover's arms around her.
She moved closer and they lay together, savoring the warmth of morning.
“Good morning, my dear.”
Amabel smiled as he kissed her shoulder. She felt her body tense again and realized with some surprise that she was ready for more loving.
“Good morning,” she whispered back.
He moved beside her and she rested her head on his shoulder as, together, they watched the morning settle over the hills beyond the window.
Amabel was sure she had never in her life before felt quite so amazing.
EPILOGUE
The day was dark, though it was afternoon. Amabel felt the warmth of the fire soothe her bones and she sat closer, feeling completely content.
“My dear?”
“Mm?”
Amabel smiled at her mother, who came in briefly. Her smooth oval face was grave, but her eyes were warm.
“I just wanted to ask if you would like more of that tea I brewed earlier?”
Amabel smiled. “It is lovely, Mama,” she said fondly. “But it does make me so peaceful that I think I might drift away to sleep and not wake. I am so very peaceful already.”
Lady Joanna smiled. “I am glad to hear it, Daughter.”
“I'm glad.”
Lady Joanna smiled. “I think I do not need to tell you what I have foreseen?”
Amabel smiled. “I think we have seen the same.”
Her mother's grin lit up her gentle eyes. “I am almost certain of it.”
“It's a daughter, is it not?” she said. She rested a hand on her belly protectively. It was six months since the wedding and she was more than certain that she was with child.
“Yes,” Joanna smiled. “With your appearance and...”
“And Rufus' hair. And his difficult character.”
They both laughed. “Well, yes,” Lady Joanna nodded, smiling. “I couldn't have put it better myself.”
Amabel smiled. “You know I love him, despite how harshly I might seem to critique him.”
Joanna grinned. “You love him, Daughter. He loves you. Were you any different together, it would not be...as it is.”
“I know,” Amabel nodded. She was so happy. Their relationship was exactly right for h
er. Their banter and teasing, the way they could discuss things, even heatedly sometimes. Their passion. The trust they felt for one another, which was absolute. It underlay all they did.
“I am so glad,” Joanna said, rising from where she had seated herself briefly on the settee, to leave.
“Well, I must hie to the still room,” she said.
“Yes,” Amabel nodded.
“I shall see you later, Daughter.”
“See you at dinner, Mama.”
Her mother left. Amabel heard her footsteps heading softly down the hallway and she sat where she was, looking into the fire. She smiled at the visions and memories that mingled there, all equally tender to her heart.
She was thinking of Rufus when she heard steps in the hallway. She knew that footfall by heart now and her heart thumped with happiness as she heard him enter.
“Amabel?” he called out softly.
“Rufus.”
He came to sit beside her and she felt his lips move softly over her hair. She smiled and leaned against him, her heart warm as he held her with such care and sweetness.
“You look happy,” he said gently.
“I am happy,” Amabel murmured.
“Me, too.”
They sat quietly a while.
“You've been on the practice ground?” Amabel asked. He nodded sleepily.
“Mm. I was sparring with Brogan. The boy is coming along well.”
“I'm glad to hear it,” Amabel said fondly. Brogan was a good addition to the household guard already, steadfast and true. Amabel knew that, should Rufus ride to battle, she would feel better knowing the youth rode with him. They were already well-accustomed to working together.
Amabel felt Rufus rest a gentle hand on her belly and she smiled.
“You've thought of a name?” he asked.
Amabel smiled. “This one is a girl,” she said with complete certainty. As usual, Rufus did not think to question how she knew.
“Well, then,” he said with tenderness. “You have many names to choose from.”
“I have,” Amabel smiled. “But I want to name her for you, somehow.” She touched his hair, the chestnut brown just gently lit with red highlights.
“Well, I'm not sure if there is a female “Rufus”, my dear...” he paused. “Is there?”
Amabel smiled. “Well, Rufus means red – or red-haired, rather – as I suppose you know.”
He smiled. “I suppose I knew that too.”
They both laughed.
“In which case,” Amabel continued gently. “I suggest we call her Rubina.”
Rufus raised a brow. “I like that. It's unusual.”
Amabel nodded. “I think she will be an unusual lady.”
Rufus chuckled. “If she's anything like her mother, then yes. I can say that with complete sureness.”
Amabel felt love suffuse her chest, so intense and massive she could barely breathe.
“Oh, Rufus,” she said gently. “You are unusual, too. Unusual and wonderful and quite, quite lovely. I love you so much.”
She kissed his cheek and he giggled and kissed her back. “You are unusual, and wonderful, and lovely,” he said, kissing her on the cheek with every descriptor. “And clever, and wise, and beautiful and....oh!” He chuckled, sitting back. “I love you, too.”
They kissed. Outside the sun shone in a red sunset, filling the room with warm golden light. Inside it was warmer still, a place of firelight, trust, safety, and love. Now and always.
SOUL OF A HIGHLANDER
LAIRDS OF DUNKELD SERIES
A MEDIEVAL SCOTTISH ROMANCE STORY
BOOK 9
* * *
by
EMILIA FERGUSON
Book Description
A frail and innocent beauty…a handsome and stubborn Highlander…and a calculating, underhanded man with a murderous plot…
A Poisoned Mind…
Gentle and sweet, Claudine Poitiers longs to be like the other girls…able to whirl and dance, walk and frolic, but she can’t. Her frailty is well-known and a source of teasing in her small circle, leading to a lack of self-esteem for the young beauty. She desires to be loved, but totally relies on her medicine just to be able to stand on the sidelines of life.
Son of a Count…
Highlander Francis McNeil is bold and confident on the outside, but inside believes himself unworthy of the love of the woman of his dreams. He knows that his only hope is to find a woman willing to wed him, regardless of the fact that he’s an outsider. However, when he meets the stunning beauty who thinks herself frail and ungainly, he knows that his heart is forever lost.
Recipe for Disaster…
Ever since Claudine can remember, she’s been made to take her medicine…made by her uncle, who also reminds her constantly that she’s of little use to him or anyone else. With one kiss from Francis, she begins to see the truth—that she too can be loved, desired and cherished, and by the dashingly handsome Highlander, no less! When she learns that the medicine may instead be the cause of her weakness and ill health, she knows that only one person can be to blame…and it’s her own uncle.
Could her own family really be to blame for the frailty that’s left her at death’s door for so long —or is something truly sinister at the bottom of the poison plot?
Should Francis claim the beauty as his bride—regardless of the fact that he believes that her family could never accept him as good enough?
PROLOGUE
The words floated past Francis' ears, making him instantly alert. He understood both French and Gaelic. However, Gaelic excited him. It sounded magical and made him wonder why his parents had left their Scottish homeland. He ran a hand down his long, lean face and went to join the others.
“Maman?” he asked.
“Oui?” Lady Leona, countess of Annecy, raised a pale brow.
“Maman? Pourquoi restons-nous ici? Pourquoi ne retournons-nous pas avec Oncle Brodgar?” Why stay here? Why not return with Uncle Brodgar? It was a question that had plagued him all his childhood. At nineteen, it still did. No more so than now.
Uncle Brodgar excited his imagination. Big-shouldered, loud and funny, Uncle Brodgar was fascinating. He also spoke Gaelic. He was visiting from Scotland. Francis had been begging his parents for as long as he could remember if he could voyage to their homeland. It seemed all the more pertinent now, when he was a year or two shy of starting his own search for a wife.
“Porquoi?” he asked again, softly. Why?
His mother gave her answer. “Parce que nous possédons ces terres maintenant.” We own these lands now.
“Mais comment?” Francis wanted to know.
“C'est une longue histoire.”
Francis sighed. What did it matter, that it was a long story? He was quick and deft at his lessons, almost as appreciated there as he was on the practice ground, where Sir Anselm taught him sword skills. She should tell him!
Francis glanced up at his mother again, about to tell her something along those lines. She was already talking, making some important point to Uncle Brodgar and his moment passed.
“You have done well to extend those borders, Brodgar,” she said, raising a thin brow at the chieftain.
Brodgar chuckled. “Aye. As you can imagine, it took a fight. Old McAverly drives a hard bargain.”Uncle Brodgar looked like what he was, Francis thought, a chieftain from Scotland. He wore a tartan cloak in the green his mother said was the green of Dunkeld, her own family. That part of the description made no sense to Francis. He never had been to Scotland, and his mother's silence on the topic only added to his curiosity.
He knew a little of the family story. His mother was the granddaughter of the Count of Annecy. She and his father, Conn McNeil, had come to be the rulers here. Francis' father, Conn, looked little like the French nobles Francis had seen before.
The fact was a source of concern. Of all the youths his age – Gaston, Louis, Mathieu – Francis was the only one who looked like him. The only lean,
red-haired, green-eyed youth at any gathering or joust in the estate courtyard. The girls noticed too.
His mind wandered to Millicent, a lady his father had suggested as a bride for him. With dark curls and big eyelids like his mother's, Lady Millicent was beautiful, poised and French. She stirred the young man's blood with her curvy figure and her red lips, but she was not as moved by him as he was by her. He knew she whispered disparagingly about him to her maid. Like the other youths, she called him “Redcap”.
Uncle Brodgar has the same sort of hair as Father. I reckon I look like him. Why can't we go back to Scotland?
It was useless asking his mother.
Now, Francis listened to a language he barely understood washing round his ears like the river against its banks – sweet, whispering, beguiling. He liked the sounds in it. He had to go back. The thought of finding a wife there appealed also. He imagined a woman with his mother's delicate, fair-haired beauty.
Francis made up his mind to ask his Father. His chance came later. His father was in his study, but the door was open and Francis cautiously approached his desk.
“Father?”
“Yes?” His father frowned. “What's the matter, son? Just let me finish reading this document...”
Francis watched his father scroll down a long parchment. It always impressed Francis that his father could read. All the others had fathers who employed stewards to do that for them.
“Very well,” he said after a few moments had passed. “All done. What's the matter, son?”
Francis frowned nervously. “Papa?”
“If you want to know if you and Mathieu can borrow Blade and Blaze tomorrow,” he said without looking up, “I'd say wait a day or two – they're still recovering after that last hunt.”
Blade and Blaze were his father's hunting horses. That wasn't what he wanted to ask.
Adventures of a Highlander Page 40
