Their kiss quickly turned frantic, Greyson not even sure how she’d ended up lying under him. As he pressed against her, Marian did not hold back. Her moans encouraged him to trace his hand farther up her thigh.
“Can I lift your nightgown?” he asked, hating to pull away.
“Chemise.”
He took that as a yes, and instead of resuming their kiss, he watched Marian’s face as his hand moved higher and higher. Shifting his weight to the side to allow him room to maneuver her chemise up, he tried to figure out where to start.
What will give her the most pleasure?
An easy one, but Greyson wasn’t sure she was ready for that. Instead, he trailed his hand up to one perfectly formed breast, covering it and squeezing gently. When his thumb rubbed over the nipple, Marian’s mouth dropped just enough for him to be unable to resist.
Kissing her, hard, Greyson pinched and teased, unfortunately only able to reach one breast at the moment. Their kiss turned carnal and . . .
Fuck it.
Her lack of panties, another medieval boon, made it too damn easy. Repositioning them, he allowed his hand to wander, which was when Marian stopped him.
“Surely you will not touch me . . . there?”
“Not unless you want me to.”
Her look of confusion reminded him of her lack of experience.
“It will feel good. I promise. But you’re in charge here. Tell me to stop, I stop. Tell me you want more, and by God, Marian, I will give you everything. But it’s up to you.”
She still looked unsure. “We are unmarried.”
“True. But it’s not such a scandalous thing in my time, for two people to have sex outside of marriage.”
His hand, splayed across her inner thigh, did not move an inch. But man, it wanted to.
“I think I’ll like your time.”
Greyson was deadly serious. “You will like this even more.”
She nodded. He didn’t hesitate.
The first touch of his fingers on her curls was as much of a shock to him as her. Why did everything feel better, more, with this woman?
“Part your legs for me, Marian,” he said, trying to soften the edge of his tone. Greyson had always been accused of being assertive. Bedroom, boardroom, didn’t matter.
She did. He pressed his finger inside.
But not like some clueless dipshit—his finger only a small part of the equation. Greyson used his thumb too, circling her nub as he moved in and out.
The expression on her face was everything.
“Like it?”
She opened her mouth, but when no sound escaped, Greyson laughed. And kissed her then, relentless on every front. He would make her come so hard Marian would not only follow him to the twenty-first century, but she would choose him there too.
Her hips lifted to meet him, chemise bunched up around her chest, his impatience to see her pleasure evident. And when she cried out against his lips, it was like every deal he’d ever closed, every orgasm he’d ever experienced, all at once. He didn’t let up until he could feel the clenching begin to subside.
What he wouldn’t give to be inside her.
Unfortunately, he’d brought his cell phone, now dead, but no condoms.
Besides, this was all new to her. Making love to Marian and pulling out would be like if the Saints went to the Super Bowl and lost by one point.
After he adjusted her nightgown—chemise—he scooped her up beside him on the small bed, content to remain in his clothes if it meant lying just like this.
“You were right,” she said, her head tucked into his chest.
“About?”
But he smiled, already knowing.
“I liked it. Very much.”
Greyson groaned. “Just wait, Maid Marian, until the true lagniappe.”
Except even as he said it, he knew the true unexpected gift wouldn’t be them making love, but the fact that a woman like her had chosen to give herself to him.
And he was determined to earn it.
19
Marian’s eyes blinked open, but she didn’t dare move. She was tucked into Greyson’s side, and he’d removed his tunic sometime in the night. Her hand lay on his bare chest, one she could see clearly in the bit of sunlight streaming through the mostly closed shutter. It was odd, and extremely pleasurable, to wake in such a position. Unable to resist, Marian ran her hand along the ridges of his stomach, across the markings there.
So many of them.
“Tattoos.”
Her head snapped up. She hadn’t realized he was awake.
“We call them tattoos.”
“I’ve seen them before, though rarely, but I’ve never heard them called such a thing.” She continued to trace the swirling images and words, grateful James had taught her to read. “Do you believe in Odin, then?”
The word Valhalla was splayed across the top of his chest.
“No. I got that on the one-year anniversary of my mother’s disappearance.” As he talked, one of Greyson’s hands moved toward her back. “I was obsessed with Viking lore as a child. My mother would tease me, tell me perhaps I was Norse in another life.” He must have pulled the string from the bottom of her braid as she could feel it being undone.
“None of us agreed on what had happened to Mom. But I was pretty sure she wasn’t coming back. I knew I had to come to terms with that. I got that as a reminder we’d not meet again in my lifetime, that I would have to wait until another time and place to see her again.”
He freed her braid completely.
“In Valhalla,” she said.
“Or Heaven. Call it what you will. Seemed appropriate, like an inside joke. A twisted, sad inside joke between me and the mother I’d never see again.”
“And yet you will.”
She said it with certainty. Every time she lost something, which was often, Gilda would always make her say, “When I find it,” as if the certainty would make it happen.
“I hope so.”
He ran his hand through the loose strands of her hair, pulling them apart, the pleasure of his touch shooting down to her toes.
She looked back down at his chest, using the markings as an excuse to explore his chest. Although she’d had little occasion to see other men in such a state, Marian did not believe for a moment most looked quite like this underneath their tunics.
She traced the flames that started just above his waistline and licked up, toward his stomach. The words Soul Survivor spread across the entire length of his stomach.
“And this one?”
“That one—”
A knock on the door interrupted him. “Breakin’ our fast, brother.”
She recognized the voice as Alban’s.
“See you in a few,” Greyson called out.
Marian smiled. “We’ll be right along,” she corrected.
“If we were staying here, I might try harder to assimilate. But we’re not. So it’s ‘see you in a few.’” His free hand grasped hers. “Best you remember it,” he teased in an accent that sounded very little like his clansmen.
“Perhaps you are right not to try.”
The hand that had been playing with her hair now grabbed it instead. Pulling her head toward him, Greyson pressed his lips to hers without warning. His kiss reminded her of what he’d made her feel the night before, as if she’d needed the reminder.
She wanted that again.
When he pulled her on top of him, Marian groaned against his mouth. His hips circled as she pressed down harder, knowing instinctively what waited for her, maybe just out of reach.
“Keep it up,” he said, his voice tickling her ear, “and we’ll be more than husband and wife in name only.”
“I know little,” she responded, neither moving against him nor attempting to get up, “of the ways between men and women, but I do know this does not necessarily lead to marriage.”
Greyson stopped moving.
“In your time, it does. No? I didn’t think casual sex was a t
hing here, at least among nobles.”
“Casual sex?” She had so much to learn.
“Making love outside of marriage.”
“No,” she said hesitantly. “’Tis not ‘a thing,’ as you say.”
Greyson flipped them around so suddenly, pinning her under him, the bed creaked from their weight.
“If you had any idea how much I want you . . .”
If she hadn’t known before, Marian was pretty sure she did now. He looked at her the way no man ever had before.
“Greyson . . .”
She wanted him to know, to understand. He was not merely a way out of her marriage with Duncan. This bond between them was so much more.
“Grey,” he said, peering into her eyes. He leaned down to kiss her, slowly this time, then sprang from the bed. His back, covered with the same type of tattoos as his front, though not so covered she couldn’t see his skin beneath.
Hard, muscled . . . were all men as such in his time?
“My family calls me Grey.”
She would not misconstrue his words to mean more than they did. He meant only that she was now a familiar.
“Grey,” she said, trying it out. The sound he made in response made her wish they could stay here, in this room, for the rest of the day.
Maybe forever.
“I quite like it.”
I quite like you.
“Shall we join the others?”
He leaned down to pick up the linen shirt he must have discarded in the night.
“Aye, Maid Marian, we shall.”
She laughed at his jest, hope blooming inside her. They would find his family and make their way back through time. It was only a matter of when. Because the alternative was one she refused to consider.
“Greetings. Please, come this way.”
The small, kindly woman ushered them into what looked more like a castle than a manor. Greyson hadn’t liked being separated from Marian, but she had been whisked away the moment they rode through the gates.
Marian had not batted an eye when a man who identified himself as the steward ushered her through the entranceway toward a young girl. Why she needed rest while they were brought to the hall for food, he could only imagine. On one memorable occasion from his youth, one of his father’s business contacts had literally shoved his mother aside so he could speak with his father in private. The insult had pissed his father off enough for him to sever a very lucrative connection.
The midday meal was already underway when they entered the hall, and immediately an entire table of men turned to look at them. No, not look. Grimace was a better word.
“I thought you said this was a safe place?” he whispered to Alban, stopping them both.
“Balliol allies. They know us as supporters of Bruce.”
They should have waited for Ross.
Greyson had argued against making themselves known here, but the others had insisted Marian would be safe. By now he understood that the situation they’d stumbled into was not a simple one. A few of his many long talks with Marian had veered into politics.
The Guardians may have officially recognized the baby Margaret as heir to the throne of Scotland, but that didn’t stop others from positioning themselves to make a claim if necessary, which it would turn out to be.
His mother’s clan, supporters of Robert the Bruce. Some said he was too old to ever see the Crown, but that didn’t stop him from putting in his bid.
His current nemesis, John Balliol, seemed like he had a fair claim being the descendant of David I. Though what the hell did Greyson know?
And then there was John Comyn, the underdog from what Greyson could tell.
Finally, King Edward of England. From what Marian had told him, the Bruce’s actions against Balliol had been intended as a signal to Edward—a not-so-subtle hint that he was more powerful than any of the other claimants. And perhaps Edward already knew that, which was why he’d roped Greyson’s mom into Irvine’s plot.
His mother’s clan was backing the winning horse, but that wouldn’t be for years to come. In the meantime, King Edward would wreak havoc on Scotland. He knew that from discussions he’d overheard between his mom and Rhys. Plus, he’d seen Braveheart. It seemed to him like a good time to find his family and get the hell out of Dodge. Somehow, though, they’d need to warn the others of the dangers they faced as he’d warned Marian, whose rightful concern still bothered him.
Hell, they faced life-and-death situations here on an almost daily basis.
Thankfully, they hadn’t been threatened or bothered by anyone since leaving Quinting. That might be about to change.
“So that means they could have reason to share Marian’s location with the Earl of Fife. If the topic were to arise.”
“They will nae do it.”
And here he’d thought New Orleans politics were confusing.
“And why is that?”
As the rest of their party sat two tables away from the men in question, he and Alban remained alongside a wall at the entrance to the hall. Much, much smaller than Quinting Castle, Hallstead hardly fit Greyson’s newly formed impression of a manor.
“See the one glaring at Brodie?” Alban asked.
Greyson tried to not be obvious as he glanced over.
“Yeah?”
“His wife is Brodie’s older sister.”
“What? How the hell is that possible?”
“You may avoid asking either of them. Neither are happy about the arrangement, about the new allegiances it requires. But it was a love match.”
He said it as if the fact was supposed to mean something.
“And?”
By now Alban knew something was very wrong about Greyson. But Ross had introduced him as a relative, and the men had all accepted him as such. The look Alban gave him now, though, held all of the suspicion with which Greyson looked at every potential new business partner.
Greyson ignored it.
“None would have made such a match for any other reason. ’Tis the reason marrying for love should be outlawed.”
Greyson started to laugh until he realized Alban was deadly serious.
“So they don’t like each other,” he said, trying to cover up his gaff. “How does that make Marian safe?”
Alban shook his head as if Greyson were beyond help. Not bothering to answer, he nudged him toward the trestle tables.
Was it that outrageous of a question?
Why were Alban and the others so skittish in Kenfern but confident now, in a manor hosting guests they considered enemies? Because, despite the look of venom Balliol’s men still gave them, they felt comfortable enough to stride right inside as if they owned the place.
A bond of marriage. An unwanted one, but a bond nevertheless.
Brodie and his brother-in law. Two men who did nothing more than grunt at each other in passing. But Alban thought their dubious connection enough to protect all of them.
As he sat, he felt the same niggling doubt that had always pricked at him just before he made a big decision at work—a feeling he’d come to recognize, and trust, after years of negotiations and countless instances of getting burned.
He had much to learn about how to navigate this world. More than he wanted to master. With luck, Ross would get here soon and they could make their way to Perthshire, find his mom and Rhys, and get the hell out of here before he had to learn much more.
20
“Ye’re not keepin’ her.”
Ross was angry.
Really, really, really angry. Like his two least favorite McCaim Shipping board of directors tossed in a blender and stuffed into a thirteenth-century plaid kind of angry.
Greyson couldn’t believe he’d been glad to learn his uncle had returned. A servant had found him in Hallstead’s expansive gardens, and he’d immediately hurried back to the hall to see Ross. A servant had led him to this small covered area between the main keep and the kitchens. At least the smell of baking bread and smoke coming from open wind
ows seemed to indicate as much.
If only he could go back to the gardens, where he and Marian had found a rare minute of privacy prior to the interruption.
In the past week, they’d been alone together precisely three times. On none of the three occasions had they shared anything more than a kiss so chaste not even a nun would object. She had a private bedchamber, but he’d been sleeping in the stables with the other men. The last time he’d seen a hayloft had been many years earlier, and he certainly hadn’t slept there. He wasn’t doing much sleeping there now, truth be told. But judging from the general reaction to Marian traveling with them sans an escort, one that would give even an old-fashioned schoolmarm a run for their money, he’d known better than to try sneaking into her bedroom.
Greyson tried again.
“I’m not a pimp,” he said, fully aware his uncle would have no idea what that meant. “And I don’t ‘keep’ women. Marian is free to do as she pleases. And it just so happens it pleases her to stay with us for the moment.”
“Nay, lad, she is not. Your peculiar notions of women are out of place here.”
My peculiar notions of women.
“Uncle, please listen.” Greyson hoped the reminder of their familial tie might calm him down a bit. “I’d planned to escort her, as you commanded,” he said, reassuring his uncle that he remembered who was in charge, “but she was worried. The poor woman thinks she’ll be blamed for the delay. Instead of mourning the loss of her men, she’s forced to consider the feelings of some asshole who apparently no one thinks is worthy of cleaning a toilet never mind marrying someone like Marian.”
“Asshole? Toilet? Ye’re off yer head, boy.” Ross appeared slightly less red than he had a few minutes ago, but no less pissed.
“Arse,” he corrected. “Privy.”
“I shouldae explained better, but I’m not accustomed to my orders being questioned. By my own nephew, no less.”
Greyson could keep Ross here all day with a list of everything that he wanted or needed an explanation for, but he smartly remained silent. As he often did with the only other two men he’d back down from. Ross reminded him so much of both Dad and Rhys.
Sexy Scot (Highlander's Through Time Book 2) Page 11
