Kenleigh-Blakewell Family Saga Boxed Set (Books 1 & 2)

by Pamela Clare

  She clutched her chemise to her breasts, looked at the floor, stepped away from him.

  “You are beautiful, Bríghid. But I’m sure you’ve heard that before.” He tossed his waistcoat carelessly onto a nearby chair, bent to loosen the buckles at his knees. Why he should waste time on such words was beyond him—he wasn’t really making love to her, after all. Then again, he’d only spoken the truth.

  “Father Padraíg says beauty is a curse for Irish women.” There was fear in her voice, but her words were lilting, her accent enticing.

  Jamie removed his shoes and stockings, tossed them aside. “Then you are likely the most cursed woman I’ve ever seen.”

  Her head snapped up. There was anger in her eyes, behind it desperation. “’Tis no laughing matter, my lord. I am here against my will, a prisoner.”

  “I’m not laughing.” Jamie reached for the fall of his breeches, began to unbutton them. “And I’m no lord.”

  She looked at him curiously for a moment before her gaze fell to what his hands were doing. She gasped, looked away.

  Jamie pulled his breeches down over his thighs. They joined his waistcoat on the chair. Then he realized the men in her life were likely unable to afford linen for drawers. She probably thought he was standing before her bare from the waist down.

  He removed his shirt, tossed it aside. “Bríghid, look at me.”

  She shook her head.

  He ran the back of his hand down her cheek, tucked a finger beneath her chin, forced her to meet his gaze. “You’re trembling again.”

  “I … I cannot help it. I’ve ne’er been so near a man. I want to go home.”

  Her fear, her unhappiness tore at him. “How old are you, love?”

  “Almost eighteen.”

  “In all your years, has no man ever kissed you?” His fingers sought the pins that held her hair and began to remove them one by one.

  She shivered. “No.”

  “Has no man even tried?”

  “A few have tried.”

  Her hair fell in a glorious mass to her hips, thick, dark and soft as silk. The warm scent of roses filled the air. The feminine sweetness of it was torture.

  “And did you make them suffer?” He ran his fingers through her tresses.

  Her eyes closed. “M-my brothers did.”

  “I see.” He pulled her close against him. “And what would your brothers do to a man who kissed you like this?”

  He kissed her again, deeply.

  This time she melted against him, her palms flat against his chest. A little moan escaped her throat, her breath warm and sweet. Her lips yielded to his, as his tongue sought union with hers. She was soft and pleasing and utterly innocent.

  Jamie felt himself grow hard, his body more than ready to mate with hers. He was getting lost in her. He was forgetting. This was an act. It wasn’t real. He couldn’t let it be real, for her sake. She did not want this.

  He pulled his mouth from hers, looked down at her face. Her eyes were closed, her lips swollen, wet. Her cheeks were flushed. Then her lashes fluttered open, and she glared at him.

  “You lied! You are trying to seduce me!” She trembled, her breathing rapid.

  He lowered his voice. “If that were my plan, I would already have succeeded.”

  He reached down to untie the lacings of her petticoats. His hand touched something sharp and hard. She gasped, reached for the hidden object, but he was quicker.

  He caught her wrist with one hand, pulled the knife from the waistband of her skirts with the other, whispered. “Was this intended for me?”

  Her petticoats slipped to the floor with a rustle.

  She looked up at him, met his gaze, whispered. “If that were my plan, I would already have succeeded.”

  Her words showed spirit, and Jamie almost laughed. But he could see the terror in her eyes. He raised a hand to brush the hair from her face.

  She shrank from him.

  He spoke aloud again. “I’m not going to strike you, Bríghid.” He kissed her, his lips just brushing hers. “I’m going to do everything I can to keep from hurting you.”

  He reached over and pulled down the coverlet on the bed. He let the knife fall into the folds of cloth, where it lay hidden. It would come in handy later.

  He turned back to her, lifted her into his arms, lay her on the plush feather mattress.

  She lay shivering, her dark hair draped in waves of ebony across the pillows. Her slender legs, held fast together, were hidden beneath gossamer silk stockings tied into place with blue ribbons. The thin chemise she wore could not fully conceal the dark thatch of curls at the apex of her thighs or the dusky tips of her breasts.

  He knelt by the bed, slipped the soft leather slippers from her feet, trying to ignore the persistent throb in his groin. To gaze upon her lovely body, to feel her ready softness, to smell her skin, all without being able to take her, was torture—a pleasurable sort of torture, but torture nonetheless.

  But he knew that she suffered truly, and suffered far more.

  He lifted one slender leg, reached for its ribbon.

  She cried out, pulled the cloth of her chemise down over her thighs.

  “You’ve a beautiful body, Bríghid. There’s nothing of which to be ashamed.” He rolled the silk down her smooth thigh, over her shapely calf, down her ankle, and slipped it off her dainty foot. Then he lifted the other leg.

  “M-must you really undress me like this?”

  Jamie chuckled for the benefit of his audience, but he understood her question.

  If this were just pretend, why couldn’t he just get it over with? Why take it this far?

  There was no script, so he improvised. “I suppose I could just toss you on your belly, lift your gown and get on with it. But it’s better this way, isn’t it?”

  This time, his lips followed his hands as he slowly slipped off the stocking. He tasted her creamy thigh, nibbled the sensitive skin above her knee, sampled the white smoothness of her calf, kissed the daintiness of her ankle, licked the delicate arch of her foot. He felt her body tense, heard her breath catch in her throat.

  She trembled anew, and he knew it was not from fear alone.

  Why had he taken things this far? He could have pretended to take her at any time. He could have left her fully clothed and pretended to rut between her thighs without prelude, yet he had insisted on this mockery of seduction. Was he taking advantage of her plight, enjoying her while pretending to play the hero? What good was it to save her virtue if he left her feeling sullied?

  He dismissed his doubts. While he couldn’t deny there was pleasure in this for him, it was also more than a little awkward. He had no more chosen to be in this situation than she. If he opted to feign seduction it was to spare her the memory of something rougher and more vulgar. From her untrained responses, he knew she had experienced nothing of the passion between men and women. Whatever he did tonight would stay with her and color her feelings about men for years to come, perhaps for life.

  It would be so different if he were truly making love to her—slower, more tender, much more ardent, more thorough. He would touch and taste every part of her until she opened to him like a rosebud opens for the sun. He would make her ache for him, make her think of nothing but having him inside her. He would take her, gently and slowly at first, until she cried out for release. Then he would thrust into her hard and fast, give her what she wanted, take what he needed. But she had no way of knowing that. She would never know. To her, he would likely never be more than a hated Englishman who had shamed her.

  But Sheff was watching. Jamie was certain. And the only way he could keep her safe was to convince Sheff he had claimed her fully as his own. If it offended her maidenly sensibilities, so be it.

  He stood, untied his drawers, let them fall.

  Bríghid gasped, closed her eyes, turned her head away. She felt the mattress yield to his weight, felt the heat of his body as he lay next to her and pulled the covers over them. She tried to ceas
e her trembling, could not.

  What was wrong with her? She wanted to scream. She wanted to hit him. She wanted him to kiss her again. Her skin tingled where his mouth had touched her. Her lips ached, and her belly felt as if a fire were blazing deep inside her. If only she could close herself off. If only she could stop feeling altogether.

  The mattress rocked, and she felt his weight settle on either side of her and knew he was above her now. She squeezed her eyes shut. But when he began to lift her chemise, her eyes flew open. “No!”

  He spoke aloud. “I’ve respected your maidenly shyness long enough, love.”

  “Please, don’t!”

  The weight of his body held her down as he slipped the soft cloth up and over her head, tossing the garment aside. He held himself above her, like prey poised to strike. “Most women say it hurts the first time. I will do what I can to spare you, but it depends in part on you. Don’t struggle.”

  At his words, raw panic seized her. What if he had been making sport of her just to pacify her? What if he had been lying all along and intended truly to bed her? She struck at him, tried to twist away, pushed against the hard muscles of his chest.

  “Don’t fight me, Bríghid.” His voice was sharp this time. He captured her wrists in one hand, pinned her arms above her head, held her motionless.

  She felt overpowered by his size, his male strength, overwhelmed by his presence. She was helpless, trapped.

  His lips found hers again, ravished her mouth, leaving her unable to breathe or think. His tongue explored her, twined with her own. The hard wall of his chest brushed her nipples—a new sensation, both disturbing and seductive. She felt her nipples tighten, begin to ache. Then she knew.

  Some part of her desired him. Him. Her enemy. A hated Sasanach. The man whose attention had made the iarla notice her.

  The man who’d saved Ruaidhrí.

  His knee nudged hers apart and his weight settled between her thighs. He reached down between her legs with his free hand.

  She froze, heart pounding. But instead of his using his hand to guide himself into her, she felt cloth settle against her. Somehow he’d maneuvered a bundle of blanket between her thighs.

  He’d been telling the truth.

  She gaped at him in astonishment.

  His pupils were wide, his eyes dark with some emotion she didn’t understand. “I want you.” His lips traced a line along her throat. Then he whispered for her ears alone, “Cry out. Now.”

  She felt his weight shift, felt his body thrust against the cushion of blanket that separated them. Startled by the intimacy of his motions, she shrieked.

  He moaned, rained kisses across her cheeks. “Shh, love. The pain will pass.”

  Instead of pain, Bríghid felt sweet relief wash through her. He’d been telling the truth. He wasn’t going to rape her. He was trying to help her escape.

  “You feel so good.” He moaned, began to move between her thighs in a rhythm that needed no explanation.

  Relief turned to mortification. She felt her face burn with embarrassment. She squeezed her eyes shut, would have turned her face away had his lips not reclaimed hers.

  He kissed her forcefully. His tongue probed her mouth, searched for her secrets. She succumbed to his invasion, discovered she was kissing him back. Through a haze, she struggled to regain control of her emotions.

  What magic did he use to make her feel this way? What was wrong with her that any part of her responded to this man? Though he had spared her the worst, he was touching her in ways no man should. He was a stranger. He was a Sasanach.

  Just then, he arched his back, called her name, groaned. Then he was still.

  For a moment there was no sound but their mingled breathing.

  “Oh, Bríghid.” He kissed her lips lightly, brushed the hair from her face. “I don’t think I shall ever let you go.”

  She could not meet his gaze. The fire burned inside her still, and she felt ashamed and furious—ashamed of her body’s response, furious that he had forced so much upon her. Hadn’t he done everything a man could do to a woman but take her virginity? He’d made her feel things she shouldn’t. His touch was now a mark upon her soul, for surely what she’d felt had been sinful and wrong, even though she hadn’t meant to feel it.

  He rolled off her, pulled her into the crook of his arm, stroked her hair. “Sleep, love.”

  She lay stiffly beside him, her head resting on his chest. She would never be able to sleep like this—naked and so close to him she could hear his heart beating. Something tickled her cheek, and she found her gaze inadvertently drawn to his body. Crisp gold curls were sprinkled lightly across the planes of his chest, which rose and fell slowly with each breath. His nipples were flat and sandy-brown, his skin smooth and kissed by the sun.

  Bríghid closed her eyes. She’d seen men’s bare chests before. Why did the sight of this one make her blood grow warm?

  And that other part of him. She’d gotten only a glimpse. It was the first time she’d seen a fully naked male, or at least a naked male over the age of five. There were some clear differences—first and foremost size. His sex had stood huge and rigid against his belly. The sight of him had left her …

  She felt his body tense. Then she heard. The door to the next room squeaked on its hinges, closed almost silently.

  From the hallway came the sound of approaching footsteps.

  Chapter Five

  Bríghid felt her heart lurch. She would have sat bolt upright had he not held her tightly against him.

  He pressed a finger to her lips. “Shh.”

  The footsteps drew near, stopped outside the bedroom door.

  Her breath froze in her chest.

  The silence pressed against her. Seconds passed with agonizing slowness.

  Then footsteps. They moved away from the door, grew distant, faded.

  Bríghid felt the Englishman’s body relax, released the breath she didn’t know she’d been holding.

  “I would not have let him take you, love.” His voice was deep, resonant in his chest.

  “Don’t call me that.” She pushed away from him, more than a little distressed to discover that she’d been clinging to him in her fear, heedless of the way her breasts pressed against his side and her thighs stretched alongside his. She gathered the sheets and pulled them up to her chin, scooted to the far side of the bed. Rage, shame, fear, relief churned through her, mixed, entwined. This Sasanach had seen her naked. He had touched her in the ways of a husband. He had forced her to feel things she should not.

  He would not have let the iarla take you.

  He turned on his side to face her, folded one strong arm beneath his head. “You’re not still afraid of me are you?”

  She’d taken most of the covers with her, leaving him exposed to the hips. Try as she might to avert her gaze, she couldn’t help but look. A scar on his right shoulder, still red as if the wound were recent, was the only blemish on his strong body. Even his stomach was molded into ridges of muscle, his skin tawny, smooth. Stretched out on the bed, rippling muscle beneath sun-browned skin, he made her think of a lion—beautiful to behold and dangerous. Her pulse quickened. “I was never afraid of you, Sasanach.”

  “I’m not one to call a beautiful woman a liar, but if you were to say that again, that’s what I’d have to do.” His expression was grave. “And call me Jamie. This Sasanach business is getting old. What does it mean, anyway?”

  “Englishman.”

  He shrugged. “That’s not so bad.”

  “A dog does not mind being called a dog.”

  “Do you hate us all, Bríghid?”

  She had grown up hating the English. The English had killed Aidan’s father, starved her mother, sold her father into slavery, stolen her family’s land. The English had taken away the churches, killed or exiled priests, slaughtered countless Irish. Just today, an English lord had tried to rape her, had stolen her from her family and given her away as a prize. Did she hate them all? She looked i
nto Jamie’s green eyes. “I want to get dressed now.”

  “You should sleep while you can. We’ll need to leave in a few hours if we’re going to get you away from here.”

  “I can’t be sleepin’ under his roof with you here and both of us … naked!”

  “I see.” He rolled out of bed, an irritating grin on his face.

  Bríghid got a glimpse of his backside, tight and muscular, before she averted her gaze. She heard the rustle of cloth, felt something soft land on the bed beside her. It was her chemise. She grabbed it, pulled it beneath the sheets and tried to find the sleeves.

  Jamie stepped into his drawers, tied them fast. He was still hard, near to bursting. He didn’t suppose he’d ever been so aroused without enjoying sexual release, and he ached from lack of it. God, how he wanted her. It had taken every ounce of decency and will he possessed not to press her further, not to seduce her. The sight of her beautiful body—her full breasts with their dusky nipples, her softly rounded belly, the creamy curve of her hips—had been more than he could take.

  He tried to pull his mind away from his aching cock. He’d never had trouble finding women eager to spread their legs for him. Bríghid didn’t want to be here to start with, and she certainly didn’t want him. There was no reason for him to waste time burning for a woman who hated him when there was willing flesh to be had elsewhere. When he returned to England, he could call upon any number of women who would welcome him into their beds. But they were not like Bríghid.

  He watched, genuinely amused, as Bríghid struggled to dress beneath the covers. “It might be easier if you got out of bed. I’ll turn my back.”

  She ceased struggling, looked at him doubtfully from beneath impossibly long, sooty lashes. “If you would, please.”

  “Let me know if you need help.” Jamie picked up his breeches, turned away. He could hear her soft footfalls on the lush carpet, the rustle of petticoats and silk. The sound and the thought of her putting on clothing he had removed only a short time ago did nothing to cool the heat in his blood. He tried to shut out thoughts of her—the feel of her breasts against his skin, the scent of her, the taste of her lips. Pretending to deflower her had cost him—exactly what it had cost him he wasn’t certain, but it had cost him.