Five Unforgettable Knights (5 Medieval Romance Novels)

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  “Yesssss,” she whispered, and felt him shudder above her.

  His kisses became more fervent then, straying to her breasts. He suckled through her wet gown, and Page’s heart thundered, for she wanted in that insane instant for him to rip the offending gown from her body, to feel the heat of his lips upon her bare flesh. To feel his body lie upon her.

  Instead, he moved lower still... leaving her hands free, and sliding his arm beneath her waist to raise her body for his fervent kisses. She moaned with exhilaration, nearly mindless with the pleasure he was giving her, impatient with his caresses. She clutched at her gown, drawing it up desperately, inviting him without words.

  Still she dared not open her eyes, dared not speak to break the sorcerer’s spell, but cried out exultantly when his lips kissed her bare belly. And sweet Jesu... those lips remained for the longest instant, unmoving, frozen in place, liquid flame against her bare flesh. Page reached out to hold him to her, wanting him never to go.

  And then he wandered down to her thighs, nipping and kissing.

  She gasped aloud, her heart pummeling against her ribs, as he dared to kiss her in the most private of places. Her body convulsed with a pleasure so incredible, it was almost like a glimpse into Heaven itself. And then when his tongue slipped within her body to explore so boldly, she thought she would dissolve into a liquid pool beneath him.

  “Oh, yes,” she whispered. “Oh... my... yessss...”

  “Sweet,” he murmured, and pushed his tongue within her body, tasting with abandon, until Page thought her heart would shatter into a thousand brilliant pieces.

  Jesu, but she could scarce bear any more.

  “Please,” she murmured, and whimpered, writhing beneath him, not truly understanding what it was she was needing, but knowing instinctively it was something more.

  His hands moved over her body more insistently now, while his lips continued to worship her, and then he slid both hands beneath her bottom, cupping her, lifting her for his pleasure, and Page felt her eyes cross behind her lids, so much gratification did it bring her. Her body felt on the verge of some undiscovered glory, and she wanted so desperately to reach for it, cling to it, hold it forever.

  And then suddenly he moaned, a tormented sound, and stopped, lowering her, releasing her to the ground.

  Page’s lashes flew wide, and she stared into his fevered eyes, her heart hammering fiercely.

  He knelt before her, his expression sober, his eyes pleading. “I want you, lass,” he whispered once more.

  Chapter Twenty

  Christ, but he couldn’t do it.

  He’d thought he could, but he couldn’t.

  Wanting her was driving him to a madness beyond bearing.

  His body ached, he needed her so desperately. She blinked, her face prettily flushed, and nodded. But God, he didn’t think she could possibly understand, though he wanted so badly to believe that she did.

  “Are ye sure, lass?” he asked once more, and his voice was thick with need.

  For answer, she rose up, reaching forward to catch trembling fingers within his belt, her wide, beautiful eyes never leaving his. His heart hammering, he undid the belt at once, and tossed it quickly away, holding her gaze, afeared she’d change her mind, afeared she’d not.

  Christ, but he wanted this. More than he could recall wanting anything at all.

  Every muscle in his body tensed as she once again reached forward to touch his breacan, just a delicate brush of her fingers, nothing bolder, but he understood as though she’d spoken the request aloud and he drew it off at once, discarding the blanket upon the grass. He knelt before her, wearing only his short tunic, and he reached down to draw it off, as well, needing her to see the full measure of his desire.

  Needing her to understand before it was too late. If she would flee him, it must be now. Before he lost what will remained.

  Before he dared to touch her once more.

  One more kiss would seal her fate.

  And bind her to him eternally.

  She stared up at him, her eyes wide, her face flushed.

  Page’s throat tightened at the sight of the man kneeling before her, gloriously naked, his skin bronzed from the sun, and his body tumescent with desire. She tried not to look so well, but could scarce keep herself from it. She swallowed her fear.

  How could a man such as this... want her?

  She wanted to weep with joy, for the evidence was there before her, undeniable in its magnificence. She wanted to strip herself too, be together with him as God had made them both, but was afeared he would find her lacking, and so she lay, marveling at the beauty of the man before her.

  “D’ ye wish to stop, lass?” he asked her, his voice husky.

  Page shook her head at once, meeting his gaze, her face burning with chagrin as she realized he’d caught her staring. “Nay,” she said softly, and then asked, “D-do you?” She watched as his beautiful lips broke into a disarming smile.

  He chuckled lightly. “Nay, lass, I dinna.” He shook his head and reached out. She stared at his hand a bewildered instant, dumbfounded. “Give me your hand,” he commanded her, smiling still.

  Page blinked, and yielded to him, her heart beating fiercely. She let him draw her to her knees before him, unable to keep her gaze from lowering once again to that very male part of him.

  “Och, lass, but do I look like I wish to stop?” he teased.

  Her gaze flew to his. Page couldn’t speak to answer, and he didn’t give her the opportunity. His hands reached out, grasping her waist, squeezing gently, and he closed his eyes, as though savoring the feel of her body beneath his hands.

  Page, too, savored the moment, her head falling slightly backward, though still she watched him, for she wished to miss nothing.

  When he opened his eyes again, it was to meet her gaze, his golden eyes gleaming, and he whispered, “I wish to see all o’ ye, lass...”

  Page managed a nod, but no more, and he slid his hands down to clutch the hem of her gown, drawing it slowly up, and peering up at her as though he thought she might any moment refuse him.

  She didn’t intend to. Sweet Jesu, but she was dizzy with desire, eager for whatever he would give her.

  He drew the gown up and over her head, along with her rent undergown, and tossed the damp fabric aside upon the grass. And then he simply stared. Page waited anxiously for his response, and was mesmerized by the dazzling smile that appeared upon his face.

  “Beautiful,” he whispered fervently, and Page wanted to cast herself into his arms and weep. When he leaned forward at last, she welcomed him wholly, closing her eyes, and lifting her arms in a gesture of total and joyful submission.

  And then she could think no longer, for his lips closed over the peak of one breast, and he began to suckle. She thought she would die with the pleasure he wrought from her body. His kisses lifted to her face, while his hand caressed the flesh he’d abandoned with his lips. When his mouth touched upon her own, she thought the world might suddenly spin away. She clung to him desperately, wrapping her arms about his neck, and he kissed her deeply, his tongue sparring first gently with her own, and then more urgently.

  She was scarce aware that he laid her down upon the grass once more. His body covered hers, his weight both welcome and cherished, while his lips and hands continued to explore and seduce her. Her torso, her breasts, her thighs.

  And then his fingers were suddenly there between her legs, and she opened for him instinctively, feeling again that incredible bliss. He settled between her thighs, and she felt that rigid part of him nudge her. Welcoming him, Page lifted her legs, wrapping them instinctively about him.

  The first thrust came without warning. Bracing her hips with his hands, he entered her swiftly, muffling her cry of pain with his mouth and his kisses. Her heart felt as though it would be thrust into her throat, so deep did he drive himself within her. Casting her head backward, she cried out.

  “Tell me to stop,” he murmured against her mouth,
raining tiny feverish kisses upon her chin and her throat. “It’s no’ too late. If ye will it... I’ll stop, lass... Just say the words...”

  A cold sheen of perspiration broke upon her fevered body, but Page shook her head frantically, embracing even the pain. She wanted everything he would give her—everything— knowing somewhere in her heart that her first time with him would be her last.

  And then the pain dissipated and she felt again the sweetest ache within. He lay still upon her, filling her completely, waiting, it seemed, for her to respond. Page began to move, trying to rediscover that elusive sensation.

  Iain groaned with a pleasure so keen, it was almost pain.

  He didn’t intend to move so soon, but she was too insistent, too passionate, moving beneath him as though she would milk him of every last drop of his will.

  And Christ... he wanted her to... want this...

  He couldn’t keep himself from it.

  He thrust again, and again, driving himself mindlessly, until the fog in his brain cleared enough for him to consider the consequences of his actions. He tried to withdraw, for her sake, but she lifted her legs, entwining them about his. He cried out, shuddered, and held on to his will like never before, refusing to spill himself within her. Though his heart felt near to strangling, he drew upon every last shred of will and thrust again, and again, never stopping until he felt her succumb beneath him.

  When her body trembled with her own release, and she gave a soft keening cry that ended in a blissful sigh, he knew he’d pleased her well, and he withdrew swiftly, spilling himself without her instead. Sated and depleted, he collapsed atop her, savoring the musky scent of their loving that surrounded them... the cool sheen of sweat upon their bodies, and the breeze across his back.

  He was grateful to her in a fashion he could never repay, and connected now in a manner he would never forswear.

  Like a besotted youth, he reached out and plucked a bright yellow crocus from the grass beside her and handed it to her. She accepted the blossom, and he buried his face within the crook of her neck, embracing her.

  She was his now.

  He’d made it so.

  And he vowed, upon his life, that he’d never let her rue this day.

  While the rest of them had waited about like idiots, fiddling their fingers, the two of them had been rutting.

  Damn but it galled.

  If he’d not witnessed the sight of them together with his own eyes, he’d never have believed it.

  When Iain should have beaten the impertinent bitch, he returns, instead, cradling her within his arms while she sleeps like a wee bairn. After the trouble she’d stirred, he’d half expected, half hoped, his brother would send her flying back to her father. At the very minimum, that their long absence meant he’d taken it upon himself to return her to Aldergh, dumping her like so much offal into the castle ditch.

  It was no more than she deserved.

  Instead, Iain had been picking crocus blossoms for the Sassenach slut. She clutched one still within her fist whilst she slept.

  Damn, but naught was going as planned—naught at all! By this time, he’d hoped to be rid of Iain’s whelp once and for all. And the wench—she never should have become a problem to begin with—rot Iain and his bleeding heart!

  He sat, watching Kerwyn and Dougal load Ranald’s still-soaked body upon the horse he’d intended for Malcom, and could feel his face burn with impotent rage. They’d had to fish the poor bastard out of the loch and then rewrap him, and only now were strapping him on again. It seemed the lass was to go with Iain, Malcom with auld Angus, and he was helpless to do anything but stand and watch and seethe. He’d hoped Page and Malcom might ride together.

  He loathed feeling this way—helpless—despised Iain’s bloody guts for it, too. Bastard! Just like his father, he was! Thinking himself so noble for the sacrifices he made.

  Iain’s da, the gaddamn bastard, had sacrificed even him—without so much as a backward thought.

  Well... he intended to right the wrong soon enough—rid himself first of Malcom, then of Iain, and then lead the clan himself.

  It was his right after having suffered in silence all these years.

  Damn Iain’s sire for a selfish old fool! Had the old man truly expected that his deceit would never be discovered? Had he anticipated that Lagan would simply accept the lie so glibly when the truth was at last made known? That he’d forget he’d been left, as a result of his father’s murder and the ultimate deception, without a mother, or a father?

  Foolhardy old man. In trying to save his son from the repulsive truth—that his wife had dared to love another man, a MacLean at that—he’d managed to strip Lagan of every birthright.

  Aye, for while Iain lamented never having known the mother who had once suckled him at her breast, Lagan had truly never known her at all. Christ, but he had not even the right to grieve for her openly. He had only snatches of her memory from Glenna, for not even Glenna would speak of the sister she’d lost so shamefully—not even to the son she’d died giving birth to.

  Iain, at least, had known her for those two years—two years Lagan might have plucked out his eyes to have had the same luxury—and his brother had not the right to grieve.

  Whether he recalled her or nay.

  Poor wretched Iain... his father’s revered son... While Iain had been assiduously trained to take the lead of his clan... Lagan had been naught more than a discarded kinsman.

  How he’d envied the old laird’s attentions to his son. How he’d craved it. Never knowing...

  Christ, but he’d not even been told of his father until he’d been too old to feel anything more than bitterness. That was all he’d ever been told—that his father had been a deceiving MacLean, no more—and never once had the MacLeans acknowledged him.

  Never once.

  It had been Glenna, the aunt he’d once called mother, who had revealed the connivance after all. Her own guilt had been great—and rightly so! She should never have contrived to deprive him of his rightful life.

  Damn them all, for he’d been robbed by clansmen he’d loved—clansmen who’d favored the old laird more than they had the lonely child he had been. Every last MacKinnon had conspired to keep the dirty secret of his birth. None of them had come forth, not a one!

  And now those who would recall were mostly dead, but for Glenna and a scarce few others. They too would pay. And then... when the guilty were gone from his sight, he could learn at last to live—never forgive, but to put the past behind him once and for all.

  The jest was upon old MacKinnon—might he turn in his grave—for in trying to spare his goddamned son, Iain, he’d burdened him with a lifetime of guilt over his mother’s death. Stupid bastard, for it had been his own birth that had killed her, not his half brother’s. And yet Iain had lived every day of his miserable life thinking he’d been the one to rob their mother of her last breath of life. Let him think so—bloody bastard—he could take his bloody guilt to the grave, for all he cared—that, along with the guilt he suffered over Mairi’s death. Damn, but he’d hoped she would die at her childbed. He’d wanted her to so badly—had tried so hard to make it come to pass.

  Instead, she’d tossed herself from the accursed window, and had stolen his chance with her youngest sister. Stupid bitch. His dire warnings against Iain had been meant to frighten her, make her life miserable, not send her out upon a window ledge.

  And yet... he had to admit... she’d succeeded in wounding the whoreson in a way that might never have been possible elsewise, for Iain had not once, since Mairi’s death, taken a woman to his bed.

  Until now.

  He smiled, for this was one more way to see the bastard bleed before he died.

  His one dilemma now... to decide who should depart the world sooner... the son... or the lover.

  Mayhap both.

  Together.

  Long after Page awoke from her sated slumber, she clung to the pretense of sleep, not quite able to face Iain.

/>   Nor could she deal with the accusations from his men as Iain returned with her in his arms. She overheard their grievances, their voiced indignation over her foul treatment of poor Ranald, and felt more than a twinge of guilt over the havoc she’d wreaked once more. Certainly she’d not meant to dump the cadaver in the lake! It had been an accident, no more. But her heart had filled with joy to hear Iain MacKinnon become her champion. He’d commanded them all to silence, and with his unsolicited defense, a gladness had flowered in her heart.

  If the truth be known, more than aught else, she didn’t wish to leave the refuge of his arms as yet. He held her like a babe, his strong arms enfolding her within an embrace that felt more like Heaven than even those puffy white clouds could possibly.

  Nay... she didn’t want to wake... wanted to cling to him always.

  To this illusion of love.

  She felt cherished by the way he held her, the way he stroked the hair from her face. But it was an illusion, no more. She understood that well enough—just as she understood that once she opened her eyes, she would no more be his lover, but his hostage once again.

  Oh, but how wonderful it had been for the time.

  She would cherish the memory of their loving deep in her heart, remember every wonderful instant... and on those evenings when she stared out from her chamber window... no more would she wish for things that had never been, could never be... She would carefully unwrap the crocus she held in her hand. Though it might be faded and brittle with age, she would see it bright and yellow and kissed by the dew. She would see his face—would feel the great sweep of emotion that had twisted her heart and made a mockery of her avowal that she felt mere lust for him. Aye, for in that moment, she had loved him fiercely. In that magical instant she had wanted to stay with him always.

  Aye, and she’d wanted him to love her.

  Her throat thickened with overwhelming emotion when she recalled the way he’d plucked the bloom and placed it within her hand. It was a simple gesture, one he might have performed a thousand times, for a thousand different lovers... but this one had been for her and her alone.