by Caroline Lee
He wasn’t the villain.
Nay, Lachlan Fraser was a good man.
He was a good man!
Why did that certainty fill her with such a surge of joy?
A smile—one she couldn’t have hid if she tried—curved her lips upward as she reached once more for him.
This time he didn’t stop her, not when she cupped the back of his neck and drew him down toward her. He allowed her to brush her lips across his, but then he pulled back.
His eyes were darting between hers, as if looking for a lie.
“Ye’re sure?” he whispered.
“Aye,” she breathed in return, willing him to see her certainty. “I want this.”
A woman I can trust.
Could Mellie, one day, be that woman?
Lachlan studied her, and she held her breath, even as she nodded slowly.
“The truth, Lachlan,” she whispered.
She saw the exact moment he stopped fighting, stopped denying them both. With a groan of surrender, he lowered his head once more, his lips unerringly finding hers.
And this kiss—?
This kiss was nothing like what they’d shared yesterday, in his chambers.
Because this kiss was the truth.
But, just as he did the day before, he was the one to pull away, though this time he did so with a reluctant groan. Bracing his weight on one arm, he rested his forehead against the pillow beside her head, breathing heavily.
She could feel his hardness pressed against her thigh. A fortnight ago—yesterday, even!—she would’ve crowed with victory at this evidence of her success.
But now…?
Now she wasn’t sure.
For the first time in her life, she was well and truly aroused by a man. Her body reacted to Lachlan in a way she’d never experienced before.
Oh, she’d felt arousal before, certainly, but never from just a kiss. Never from just the way a man sounded as he breathed near her.
“Mellie.”
Never from the way a man groaned her name so helplessly.
Intrigued, she squirmed, and the contact of his hardness at the juncture of her thighs caused them both to gasp.
“Mellie,” he repeated, more sharply, as he pushed himself upright. “I’ll no’ take ye like this.”
She wasn’t exactly sure she’d been offering, but she blurted the first thing which came to her mind. “I’m no’ a virgin.”
“Neither am I,” he said with a shrug. “It matters naught. I’ll no’ have our first time together be…”
When he trailed off, Mellie realized she was holding her breath.
First time. He meant to have her.
Nay.
With Lachlan, ‘twould be making love.
And that would be a first for her.
“I want ye, Mellie,” he growled as he arched his back, pushing his member against her in a crude, wonderful reminder. “I’ve wanted ye since I first saw ye, but now?” He shook his head. “I’m in awe of ye, and confused as hell, and I still want ye so much, I’m afraid I’ll spill if ye so much as grin at me.”
Sainte Vierge, really?
Slowly, unintentionally, Mellie felt her lips curl upward.
Lachlan frowned.
“I mean it,” he said sternly, then rolled off her.
She felt a moment of loss, before he settled onto his knees beside her on the bed. When he pushed back the coverlets, she shivered, but not because of the cold.
“Lift yer knees,” he commanded.
Mellie was used to men giving her commands, but this?
“What?”
Lachlan lowered his head until he was resting his weight on one planted fist, his nose inches from hers. “Lift. Yer. Knees.”
His growled command, his intense stare, his scent all bombarded Mellie’s senses, until she could do naught more than scramble to lift her knees as he’d ordered.
“What—what are ye doing?” she managed to stammer, as he pushed himself upright.
His wicked grin reached down between her thighs and caused her muscles to clench so suddenly, she gasped.
He placed a hand on each knee. “Seducing ye.”
It was the promise in his voice which had her arching her back, not bothering to contain her moan.
Sainte Vierge!
For the first time, Mellie wasn’t in command of the seduction.
“Lachlan,” she whispered.
“Look at me, lass,” he commanded, and when she did, he nodded. “This isnae about my pleasure, do ye understand? Ye shouldnae look away.”
What was he—?
And then he began inching her leine up, and she stopped thinking altogether.
“So beautiful,” he murmured, wrapping one large hand around her ankle. His gaze was locked on her calf, his eyes caressing her, as his thumb made little circles on her skin. “Ye like it when I touch ye, do ye no’? I can feel the way yer pulse jumps, right here.”
And then he lifted her foot to his lips and brushed a kiss against the sensitive spot of her ankle, just below the little bump of the joint.
Sucking in a breath, she pushed herself up on her elbows.
His wicked grin turned her way once more. “Ye like that, lass?”
Mutely, she nodded.
“What else do ye like?” Holding her gaze—and her foot—he dragged his rough palm up her leg, until his fingertips rested against the inside of her knee. “Would ye like me to kiss ye here?”
There was an intensity in his gaze which told her he wasn’t just teasing her.
She nodded again.
“Say it,” he commanded. “Take control of yer pleasure, lass.”
By all the saints, aye!
Desire pooled between her legs in a sort of liquid heat she welcomed. Her elbows took most of her weight as she lifted her hips just slightly, as if the center of her pleasure was reaching for him, and she had no control over it.
And it was all because of his words.
“Aye,” she whispered harshly.
His hand didn’t move. “Aye, what, lass?”
She cleared her throat and dropped her head back, so she was staring upward.
Was it easier to say if she wasn’t looking at him?
“Aye. Kiss me there.”
Before the words were out of her mouth, his lips were already brushing against the sensitive skin on the inside of her knee.
First one, then the other.
He was bent almost double, but when he planted one hand between her legs, and used the other to caress the outside of her thigh, she stopped caring about logistics.
“And now, Mellie?” he growled. “What do ye want me to do? Kiss yer neck? Fondle those sweet tits of yers?”
The vibrations of his voice reached down deep her in her center and shook her until she was near breathless.
“Nay,” she managed to choke out.
“Tell me,” he commanded again.
She squeezed her eyes shut. “Nay, I don’ want ye to fondle my tits.” She knew they were large, and most of her lovers had been focused on them as the main source of their pleasure.
But today wasn’t about her past.
Lachlan had said this was about her pleasure.
So she accepted his challenge. She opened her eyes, lifted her head, and met his gaze. “I want ye to touch me.”
Slowly, one of his brows rose in challenge. “How?”
Mellie couldn’t back down now. She allowed herself to flop back on the pillows, reaching between them to ruck up her leine. The cooler air caressed her thighs, then her mount of curls, but she wasn’t at all chilled.
Nay, it was the fire in his gaze—which she held in challenge—which warmed her.
“Donae let me dictate what ye like, lass. Tonight is for ye. Ye’ll have to tell me what brings ye pleasure.”
Did he think to embarrass her?
Did he think she would demur?
Nay, she knew what she liked, and despite the bandages on her palms, she would show him
.
When she touched two fingers to her opening, he lost their silent battle and dropped his gaze to her wet slit. A slight grin lifted one side of her lips.
“Like this,” she whispered.
It was the sight of those large hands reaching for her, hesitating slightly, then covering her fingers, which made her moan with pleasure and drop her head back on the pillow.
The man knew what he was doing, that was for certain.
He dragged the pad of one large thumb across her sensitive folds, then circled her pearl.
But mayhap she was different from other women, because that touch wasn’t what made her go wild. Men had tried it before, and it was likely why she rarely found release during sex.
It was—
And then he slid a finger inside of her, and she stopped wondering what was wrong with her, because Sainte Vierge it felt good!
He’d leaned forward, the stubble of his cheeks caressing her sensitive inner thigh, and she suddenly knew what she needed.
“Kiss me,” she gasped. Her hips bucked toward him as she repeated the command. “Kiss me!”
“Oh, thank the saints,” he groaned, as his head bent forward.
It was the reverence in his voice, more so than even the sensation of his tongue on her most intimate parts, which sent Mellie teetering on the edge. She sucked in a gasp, wondering if she was really about to find fulfillment so quickly.
No man had ever done this for her. No man had ever cared so much about her pleasure. No man had ever cared for her at all.
It was the knowledge this man did care, and had made tonight all about her, which brought her so close to her release. God help her, but she was about to fall.
In more ways than one.
And then he dragged his other hand down her thigh to cup her arse. His fingers brushed against her second opening, the taboo one, and she bucked against his mouth, her release bursting upon her so suddenly, she cried out.
The waves of pleasure rolled over her as she flexed so hard, her hips came off the bed. He pressed his fingers into her, and she could swear he was smiling against her skin.
As she came back to earth, she sagged against the mattress, feeling boneless, and wondering if she should be embarrassed.
But he slid his fingers out of her and sat up, then pulled her leine down, as if naught was wrong, then moved up to lie beside her.
Her heart was hammering inside her chest, torn between confusion and joy and exhaustion. Her back and shoulders ached, her palms burned, and she felt close to tears at any moment.
But he’d brought her pleasure.
On purpose.
A man had set out to bring her pleasure, without regards to his own, and had asked her for guidance on how to do it.
He’d given her control—
Nay.
Nay, she’d taken it.
When Lachlan wrapped his arms around her again, bringing her against his chest and cradling her as if she was special to him, Mellie almost lost her fight against her tears.
This man, this good man, treated her as if she was a prize.
And she was betrothed to him!
She ought to be joyful. She ought to be smiling, full of hope for their future together, where she’d become the lady of An Torr and Simone’s mother.
But she couldn’t.
Because no matter how good this man was, no matter how guilty or innocent he was of treason, she had to betray him.
Soon.
Chapter 9
Why in damnation did his betrothed have an arrow wound in her shoulder?
Was she really who she said she was?
Her stories about her childhood—shared over the last sennight, and a few since that horrible, wonderful evening in her arms—seemed real enough. Mayhap it wasn’t who she was he was questioning…but what.
Mayhap she wasn’t his betrothed at all.
Mayhap the Queen had sent her here for another reason.
With a growl, Lachlan slumped in his chair, frustrated by all the damnable papers which seemed to accompany being a laird. Father had always seemed to handle this with grace…or mayhap he’d just turned it all over to Martin and Gillepatric.
Stealing a glance out the open window, Lachlan stifled a sigh. He wanted to be out there now, training with his men or out on the loch.
Or with Mellie.
The idea gave him pause, and a slow smile tugged his lips upward. It’d been three days since that storm, since she’d saved Simone, and since she’d come apart in his arms. Sometimes he thought he could close his eyes and remember the taste of her on his tongue.
Those times necessitating him taking himself in hand, or he’d never been able to concentrate.
But as she’d been recovering in her room, she seemed…more relaxed. Twice now, Lachlan had stopped by to see her, and had been rewarded by the absolutely perfect sight of his daughter sitting cross-legged on Mellie’s bed, the two of them giggling over something.
Once, Simone had been teaching Mellie some sort of string-game, and their voices melding in song had caused him to suck in an awed breath, before he’d even reached the room.
He and his daughter had dined in Mellie’s room each evening—easier now that Mother and Gillepatric were gone—and those meals had been joyous each time.
When had there ever been this much laughter at An Torr?
It was wonderful, aye, but why did Lachlan get the feeling she was holding a part of herself back, somehow?
Who was she?
“Well, it looks as if ye’ve finally wet yer wick!”
Lachlan’s gaze jerked up to see Owen lounging against the doorframe.
“What makes ye say that?”
“Because in the time I’ve stood here watching, ye’ve gone from smiling to satisfied to confused, and back again.” The other man sauntered into the room and leaned a hip against the desk, as he crossed his arms with a smile. “Only a man who’s finally tupped the woman he loves looks like that.”
Lachlan scowled at his best friend’s nonchalance. “Any man who can’t figure a woman out looks like that.”
Owen burst into laughter. “I retract my previous assumption. She’s got ye wrapped in circles, aye? So ye havenae tupped her?”
“God’s Wounds,” Lachlan muttered, leaning back over the contracts on his desk and wondering if there was anything there to distract him from his friend’s teasing. “ ’Tis none of yer concern.”
“ ’Twas as I thought. Ye havenae.” Owen chuckled in satisfaction, as he shifted his position, so his arse was all but planted on the desk. “When will ye?”
“Why are ye here?” Lachlan snapped out, jerking his gaze up to glare at his best friend.
Owen merely grinned. “Because I’ve missed teasing ye, what with ye hiding with yer love for the last few days. I’ve heard she’s recovered?”
The reminder of that frantic search distracted Lachlan from his irritation, and the tension in his shoulders eased. “Aye. Simone has all but forgotten the ordeal, and Mellie is…” He shook his head in bemusement. “She is strong.”
Strong.
The word hung between them, as the two men contemplated the mysterious woman in silence. Owen shifted again, and when Lachlan looked up, his friend was smiling once more.
“Ye love her, don’ ye?”
Did he?
Lachlan’s lips tugged down. He’d once thought he’d loved Alice, and look where that had gotten him. But Mellie…
He shook his head again. “She is beautiful and strong, aye. And intelligent. And she loves Simone, or at least she seems to.”
But she was keeping a secret. He was certain.
“Ye’re a lucky man, to love yer betrothed,” Owen offered in a low voice.
But Lachlan sighed. “I don’ love her. I barely ken her.”
“I needed nae more than a glance to fall in love with my Mary.”
Lachlan pushed away from his desk and propped his feet up with a scowl. “Ye met yer Mary when ye were drunk of
f yer arse at the Games, as I recall.”
“Aye,” Owen agreed, cheerfully, “but I tell her it was her wit which made my head spin so. And her beauty which had me stumbling so often.”
Reluctantly, Lachlan felt a smile tugging at his lips, despite his intention to be annoyed by his friend’s merriment. “And yer vomiting? Did ye tell her it was on account of her glorious singing voice?”
Owen nodded somberly. “Love can do odd things to a man’s stomach, Lachlan.”
Chuckling now, Lachlan made a rude gesture to his friend. “Ye’re a buffoon sometimes. Why are ye really here, other than to try to convince me I love my betrothed?”
“Convince ye? Nay, I just wanted to plant the idea in yer head. Mary said if I didnae, she’d make me get up with the bairn tonight.” Before Lachlan could do more than roll his eyes, Owen reached into the pouch at his belt. “Also, a messenger from Scone delivered this earlier, and I told Martin I’d deliver it.”
With a crash, Lachlan’s boots hit the floor, and he leaned forward to snatch the rolled parchment from his friend’s hand. “Ye couldnae have led with this?”
Owen shrugged. “And miss teasing ye?”
But Lachlan wasn’t paying attention. The scroll in his hands was small, and addressed to Mellie, and tied with a ribbon.
For a moment, he considered opening and reading it. He had questions about her identity and her reason for being at An Torr, and it was possible this letter may answer them all.
But she was his betrothed.
More than that, she was the woman he was suspecting Owen might be right about. He might very well be falling in love with Mellie Lamond.
“Go away,” he commanded in a low voice.
“Say again?” Owen asked, in an overly cheerful tone.
Lachlan looked up, glaring. “Go away. Go make yerself useful and find Mellie.”
“Find me for what?”
When Mellie stepped through the open doorway, both men rose to their feet, although Lachlan felt like an eager lad as he scrambled upright. He held the scroll out in front of him, as if it was a shield.
Mayhap it was.
She looked so lovely today—wearing that red gown again—and the sight of her lips reminded him of a particularly lurid fantasy he’d entertained last night. Aye, mayhap the letter was hiding the way his cock jumped.
