by Candace Camp
His mouth came back to hers, his lips soft and gentle, coaxing every sensation possible from her. His hands moved over her slowly, fingers featherlight on her skin, until her knees were trembling, and she thought her legs might give way beneath her. As if he’d guessed, Coll lifted her, settling her onto the bed with as much care as if she were glass. Then he stretched out beside her and, as he had promised, set out to please her.
With hands and lips and tongue and teeth, he aroused her, tantalized her, traveling every inch of her skin, stoking the fires of her hunger until she thought she could not bear it but must explode with pleasure. She felt as if she were racing toward something, need coiling deep within her. Though it came ever closer, each time when she thought that she was going to snap, Coll pulled back, finding some new place to touch or kiss, some new way to send her spiraling upward again.
He feasted on her breasts until they were heavy and full, her nipples hard and dark rising from the hot pull of his mouth, and all the while his agile fingers played between her legs, opening and teasing her until she was blazing. Then he moved behind her and started his slow way down her back, his mouth traveling along her spine while his hand slid down her side, lingering over the curve of her hip and drifting over to spread across her stomach.
She let out a gasp when his hand stole between her legs from behind, finding the same slick, throbbing folds. He nipped at the fleshy mound of her buttocks, and Violet writhed beneath his ministrations. She ached for him, yearning to feel again the supreme satisfaction as he filled her, wanting something that she did not know, aware only of her desperate need.
“Please,” she murmured, turning to Coll, her eyes huge and lambent, her hands moving restlessly over his arms and shoulders. “I want you. I want to feel you inside me.”
His skin, slick with sweat and already blazing, flared even hotter at her words, and his breath came out in a shudder. He rolled over her, positioning himself between her legs, and shoved into her inch by inch. Violet could not hold back a groan as he filled her with piercing sweetness. She shifted to fully take him into her, and he went still, his fingers digging into the sheets beneath her. Then, slowly, he began to move, pulling back and thrusting deep.
Violet wrapped her arms around him, burying her face in his shoulder, as she moved with him. Now the desire that built in her was unstoppable, clawing and tightening with each movement he made. She gripped him tightly, holding on as if she might fly apart. Suddenly, violently, the need inside her exploded. Violet clamped her teeth into his shoulder to muffle the cry that was torn from her, and he let out an answering roar as he jerked wildly, the cataclysm storming through them, sweeping everything before it. Waves of pleasure washed out through her, stunning her and leaving her replete and limp.
Coll collapsed onto his side and pulled her into the shelter of his arms. Violet clung, too astounded, too enervated, to move. She pressed her lips against his flesh, so attuned to his heartbeat, his breath, she scarcely knew where he left off and she began. His skin quivered at the touch of her mouth, and he curved his hand over her hair.
“So that is what you meant,” she murmured.
“That is what I meant.” She felt Coll’s smile against her hair, and his voice was laced with masculine satisfaction. He pulled the covers up over them, tucking them in around her shoulders.
“You are right. ’Tis much more comfortable here.” Violet snuggled into the curve of Coll’s arm.
“Mm.” He kissed the top of her head. “I am sorry I spoiled your news.”
“What? Oh.” She smiled. “It doesn’t matter. I much preferred what happened.”
“I feared you might regret it.”
“No.” She lifted her head to look into his eyes, frowning. “Do you?”
“Me? Regret this?” The astonishment in his face was enough to soothe her pride. “Nae. How could I regret making love with you? You are . . . beautiful. Perfect.” Coll bent to kiss her lips, then lay back with a sigh. “But I broke my vow. I find that I am weak where you are concerned.”
“I did not ask for your vow.”
“I know. ’Tis fortunate, since clearly I canna keep it.”
She looked into his eyes. “I do as I choose.”
“I know.” He smiled, his hand coming up to cup her cheek. “And I am glad you chose me.”
Violet felt awash in happiness. Coll had accepted how she felt, what she wanted. No doubt he understood her position better than most men, having grown up with such independent women as his mother and sister. Even more amazing, he knew her better than anyone else ever had and yet still he wanted to be with her.
She stretched up to kiss his lips, and his hand went to her nape, holding her there for a longer, deeper kiss. When at last she pulled back, he said huskily, “You’d best go ahead and tell me now before I lose track again. What was it you found?”
“Well, I didn’t find it exactly.” Violet sat up, heedless of the covers sliding down to provide him with an enticing view of her bare breasts. “It’s more that I found what it meant.”
“Did you now?” His eyes drifted downward, and he reached up to brush his knuckles across one rosy nipple.
“Coll . . . you’re not paying attention.”
“Oh, but I am.” He cupped his hand around the heavy orb.
“Not to my words.” She could not keep from smiling even as she pushed his hand away. “Where is that shirt?” She twisted around to look for it.
“No, no. Don’t put it on. I’ll be good. I promise.” He linked his hands behind his head. “Now tell me.”
“I think I figured out the mark on that little knife of yours.”
“The sgian-dubh?” His gaze sharpened.
“Yes. It reminded me of a Nordic rune. So today I went through my books.”
“Why would there be a Nordic rune on my knife?”
“I don’t know. I presumed it had something to do with the Vikings who invaded Scotland hundreds of years ago. According to my book, they often left their runes carved on things—as a message to their compatriots, I suppose, or maybe a sort of signpost for other Norsemen who came afterward.”
“But why on a knife? And why would Sir Malcolm have a sgian-dubh with anything Norse on it?”
“I have no idea. That’s why I was intrigued.”
“Was it a rune?”
“Not exactly. There was one quite similar—a sort of Y with a pole in the center.” She drew the mark with her fingertip on his chest.
“Ah, the part that looks like a bird’s footprint.”
“Yes, I suppose it does. But that is only the bottom part of the mark. The top section is a line with the five crosshatches.” Again she sketched the pattern on his chest with her fingertip.
“You keep doing that, and I shall lose track of the conversation again.”
Violet rolled her eyes. “Hush. So I was at a loss.”
“Not for long, I’ll warrant.”
“Actually, I think I was very slow. But then it struck me. The Irish used symbols, too.”
“The Irish?”
“Yes. They came here, too. Everyone wants Scotland. You’re both Celts, so it isn’t a great leap that Scots used the same or similar symbols. An alphabet rather than runes. Different marks stood for various sounds, like letters.”
“So it spells a word? Let me guess: Rose.”
Violet laughed. “No. A symbol can also represent a certain tree. A line with five lines crossing it is . . .”
His eyes lit up with understanding. “A yew tree.”
“Yes. I think the insignia is two different marks that have been put together.”
“Why would someone do that?”
“I don’t know. Maybe someone saw them both carved somewhere and thought they were one mark. Or maybe there is a message in it. The top is a yew tree, and the rune on the bottom means ‘protection.’ ”
Coll sat up, too, his face suddenly much more serious. “As in guarding?”
“That was my thought. The
word above yew on that page of Faye’s journal is protection. I thought that was the name of the remedy. But maybe she meant the symbol on his knife—and that is why she thought it would be so easy for him to recognize. Perhaps the knife was the real key. Maybe the mark identifies where the treasure is hidden.”
“So we should look for a grave with that mark on it?”
“We don’t know that it’s necessarily a grave, but I think it must indicate something of the Rose family’s—ancestors, the symbol, and so on. It could be something larger and more noticeable. Perhaps a location that Sir Malcolm would have known instantly.”
“Like the old castle.”
“You said the Roses had built tunnels beneath the castle running to various places. Or there might be a secret room where it was safe to hide.”
“Och . . . not another hidden room.”
“You said they were a secretive family.”
“That they were.” He let out a long breath, thinking. “It makes sense. He and Faye used to meet, we think, in the room Jack and Isobel discovered last summer. She had some familiarity with the ruins. I don’t know why their child would recognize it, though, if the laird never returned.”
“It’s been many years now, much longer than she expected. Perhaps it was something more well-known back then.”
“Aye. Perhaps knowledge of it was lost when the English banned the Highland traditions. She couldn’t have known that the English would do that, that the knowledge might be suppressed and die out.”
“We could try the castle next.”
He nodded. “I canna go tomorrow.” He cast a faint smile at her. “I got little enough done here today.”
“I thought you were working in the village.”
“My work was staying out of the carriage with you.”
Her brows shot up. “Well, I like that!”
“I knew I could not keep my hands off you in that little space.” Coll’s eyes darkened. “It was all I could do not to touch you in the churchyard.” He reached out, taking her arm and pulling her down onto the bed with him. His eyes traveled over her body, following the path of his hand as he caressed her. “I’m surprised I wasn’t struck by lightning for my thoughts at the kirk.”
“Oh, really?” Violet stretched languorously beneath his searching hand. “What were you thinking?”
His gaze heated and he bent to trace his tongue around her nipple. “I was thinking of doing this.” His hand slipped beneath her to squeeze her buttocks. “And this.” He nuzzled her neck, his breath hot upon her. “I wanted to pull you to the ground and make love to you right there.”
“That might have shocked the vicar.”
“It might.” Coll trailed kisses down her.
“But I would have liked it.”
Coll let out a throaty chuckle. “Then perhaps I should do it now.” He rolled between her legs.
“Yes,” Violet agreed, linking her hands behind his neck. “Perhaps you should.”
And with that, talk ceased.
It was long past supper when they returned to Duncally. Violet was sure they were both in Mrs. Ferguson’s black books now—worse, they were probably in Sally’s as well. But Violet had not wanted to face any of the servants tonight. Anyone who saw her would doubtless guess what she had been doing this afternoon. It was not so much her disheveled state as the glow that lit her face.
They made do with a supper of cheese, bread, and tart apples, eaten before Coll’s fireplace, and afterward they sat in sweet lassitude, Violet leaning back against Coll’s chest, and watched the flames flicker. Violet wished they could stay here all night, locked in their own little world.
But they could not. It would first cause unwarranted worry among the staff at Duncally, followed no doubt by tremendous scandal. At first Coll said Violet should return to the house alone, with him following later, thinking, unsurprisingly, of Violet’s reputation. But by the time she started out the door, he had changed his mind.
“I dinna like you walking by yourself.” He looked past her into the night, his fingers intertwined with hers.
“I came here by myself.”
“Yes, but it was day.” Idly his thumb rubbed over the back of her hand as he considered.
“You think something will happen to me between here and the main house?” She cast an amused glance at him.
“It’s possible.” He moved a step closer, his other hand slipping around her waist. “It’s dark. There was an intruder in the house.”
“Weeks ago.”
“Little more than a week.” His hand caressed her back. “Trust me. I have counted every day I’ve been in that house with you.”
“Indeed?” Violet’s eyes lit provocatively and she swayed toward him.
“Every day. Every hour.” His mouth softened, his eyes turning darker. “I should walk with you.”
“I’d like that.”
He brushed his lips over her forehead. “We’ll go together till we can see the house. Then you continue and I’ll wait to follow.”
“Lurking in the trees?” She grinned and went up on tiptoe to press her lips softly to his. “That seems a bit silly, doesn’t it?”
“Maybe.” His mouth followed hers as she went back down on her heels. “But I’d be sure you’re safe.”
“I am sure it would have nothing to do with stopping now and then.” She spread her hands out on his chest. “To do this.” She stretched up to kiss him again, her lips lingering.
“Not at all.” He nuzzled her neck. “But maybe—a little—to look at you in the moonlight.” His teeth worried her earlobe. “To watch you walk.”
“To watch me walk?”
“You have a particular way of walking. I have discovered it’s a very . . . pleasant view.”
“You stand around watching me walk?” She quirked an eyebrow at him.
“I stand around watching you do a number of things.” He pulled her hips flush against him. “To be fair, sometimes I sit to watch you.”
She could feel him hardening against her, and her lips curved in a knowing, gratified way. “Coll Munro, I do believe you are positively lecherous.”
“And I believe you are positively seductive.”
“I am?” A laugh bubbled out of her. “I have never been accused of that.”
“I’m glad.” Coll kissed her with slow deliberation, then released her with a sigh. “Come. We’d better leave, or I’ll wind up dragging you back to my bed.”
“We could arrive a little later.”
“No.” He assumed a stern expression and shrugged on his jacket as he followed her out the door. Hands stuck in his pockets, he walked a careful foot away from her side.
Violet glanced at Coll as they walked. Though she would not have told him so, she found his concern over her reputation endearing. Or perhaps, she reflected, in her present mood she found anything he did endearing. There was, for instance, the way his fair skin showed, immediately and vividly, his embarrassment—or his passion. Or the way mischief sparked in his eyes, belying the serious set of his jaw.
That was in addition to all the more obviously appealing things about him—the long, supple fingers, the breadth of his shoulders, the length of his legs. She enjoyed watching him walk, as well. It was too bad, she thought, her eyes sliding over to him, that his loose-fitting workman’s breeches did not adhere as tightly as a gentleman’s garb did. She had enjoyed very much the sight of his naked buttocks and thighs as he moved across the floor today without any concealing garments.
Violet realized that she was now close beside him, and their steps had slowed. He curled an arm around her shoulders, fitting her to his side, his stride slowing to an amble. It took them far more time than it would normally have to reach the clearing where the great house lay. When they came to the edge of Duncally’s wide lawn, they stopped, still in the concealment of the trees.
“We should go in separately.” Coll kept his arm around her shoulders for a long moment, not moving. He kissed her, his mouth h
ot and hard. “Now go.”
He released her, jamming his hands back into his pockets, and Violet started forward alone. It felt strangely empty not to have Coll beside her, and she was tempted to turn around and look back at him. But she knew he would fuss, and besides, it seemed a weak way to act.
Violet stepped into the house and paused, taking stock of herself in the wall mirror. Her hair was knotted insecurely, strands straggling down her neck; she had not been able to find all her hairpins. Her lips were soft and faintly swollen, a deep rose. She touched her mouth. Could someone tell that she had been kissed? Kissed many, many times? Her eyes turned lambent and dreamy. She twined a loose lock of hair around her finger, her mind drifting.
“My lady.”
Violet jumped, letting out a squeak, and turned. Mrs. Ferguson stood on the other side of the wide, square entrance hall, her hands folded primly in front of her. Violet felt a flush rising up her cheeks. She knew how she must appear to the other woman. Her mussed hair and her face dreamy with remembered passion gave away what she had been doing before she returned to Duncally. It had been easy to say she did not care what other people thought of her, but now, under Mrs. Ferguson’s basilisk stare, Violet could not help but quail a little. If everyone learned that she had spent the afternoon in Coll’s bed, she would see this disapproval from others, too. What if Sally looked at her this way? Or Isobel and her aunt? Violet swallowed. It was harder to be indifferent than she had thought.
But that was not going to stop her. She refused to let others rule her life, least of all Mrs. Ferguson. Violet lifted her chin and said coolly, “Good evening, Mrs. Ferguson.” It occurred to Violet that she should already have prepared a story to explain her absence this evening. “I apologize for not returning for supper. I was working, and I fear time slipped away from me.” Firmly she repressed the urge to babble on in explanation.
After a long moment of silence, the housekeeper inclined her head. “Of course, my lady. I believe Cook kept some food warm for you in the kitchen.”
“Oh. Thank you. I mean, please thank Cook for me, but I, um . . .” Violet wanted only to escape to her room, but it would be strange indeed to turn down food since her excuse had not included a meal. “Of course. That is very kind of her. Of you.”
