And all the while, he kissed her deeply, the most exquisite, heartrending, tender kiss...
She was passion incarnate.
Iain marveled at the way she embraced loving him. She moved with complete abandon, gave him everything unabashedly, kissing him back with the slow, erotic cadence they shared together in other regions.
He wanted... God, he craved... madly... to turn her about and bury himself deep within her body, spend himself violently and furiously within her. Wholly. Completely. Irrevocably.
Ending the kiss, he let her rise, one hand still upon her breast as he lifted his hips, following her movement, undulating beneath her.
Withholding his own release was the most painful pleasure he’d ever experienced, but he did so, wanting to feel her, intending to withdraw. Clenching his jaw, he lifted his head from the bed, watching her, mesmerized by the artless beauty of the woman loving him.
When she opened her beautiful eyes, glassy with passion, and gazed down upon him, he thought he would lose his resolve completely, so disarmed was he by what he saw within them.
There, in the fathomless depths of her eyes, he spied everything he’d ever yearned for.
Everything.
Christ, and she was right here within his arms—all he needed to do in order to know she was real... was to feel. And God, did he feel.
A shudder shook him as he slid his hand back down, his fingers skimming her belly. Like a mistress of the loch calling out to him, her body’s sinuous movement was like a siren’s lay, coaxing his seed from his body.
And he wanted to give it... craved the release she could give him. But he didn’t dare.
Still she seduced him... nearer to the edge, closer to his release, wooing his body with too little effort. When she closed her eyes, he closed his own, summoning every last shred of will he possessed.
Damn, but he wasn’t going to allow himself this. Wanted her to experience it—but God help him, she cajoled him so sweetly with her soft moans and her uninhibited responses. He knew by her rhythm she was nearing completion, and the very thought nearly lost him his control. He opened his eyes to watch her face, wanting to see her at her moment of release, and the intensity of her expression nearly unmanned him.
She struggled to capture it, he knew.
His heart hammered fiercely. “D’ ye feel it?” he whispered softly. The muscles flexed in his legs and arms as he vied for control of his body. “D’ ye feel it?” he asked her urgently.
Her answering moan sent his pulses leaping and his body into carnal oblivion. He bucked beneath her, groaning in torment, losing himself, losing restraint.
God help him, he was losing control.
Iain squeezed his eyes shut and thought of his horse. Damn, but a vision of mating animals suddenly came to mind. Mentally eradicating the image, his mind searched for a safer device—bloody hell, but he couldn’t do it!
Couldn’t hold back!
His hands grasped her hips. “Seize it!” he demanded, groaning, his body moving against his will, convulsing. “Seize it,” he urged her. “Now before I canna... ahhh, God!” he cried, when her body tightened about him. “Bluidy hell!” It was almost too late for him, he felt himself begin, and tried to lift her at once from atop him.
“Nay!” she cried out, resisting him.
His hands trembling, his body stilling at once, Iain told her, his breath labored and his voice harsh, “Ye dinna understand!” He could scarce focus upon her, his eyes were so glazed.
“I do,” she whispered fiercely, shuddering and moving once more atop him, stubbornly disobeying. “I do!”
Iain’s climax was immediate and violent. “Ah, Christ!” he cried out, and bucked against her, driving his seed within her womb. He clutched her to him with quivering hands, and still she moved atop him, milking every last drop from his body.
Gratitude washed over him first, a fierce satisfaction that he’d never in his life experienced—and close upon its heels an overwhelming, blinding emotion he’d never known could possibly exist within his long-jaded heart.
In his instant of gratification, he loved intensely and without restraint.
She fell forward, crying out softly, and he clutched her against his thundering heart. Stroking her hair, he vowed with all his soul and his might that he’d please her always and keep her safe. That, he vowed with his life.
And God have mercy upon his wretched soul if she ever looked upon him with such loathing as Mairi had that last morn.
Needing her embrace even more than he had her loving, he held her fast against him, not allowing her to rise when she tried.
They drifted to sleep just so.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Always the room precipitated the dream.
It began in that half-conscious state, once the room fell to darkness—in that surreal moment when, after he’d eluded sleep so long, the candle at last guttered. With the final hiss of the extinguishing flame came the disorienting glow from the hall. First, merely a flicker, one that urged him to crawl from beneath his covers and spy into the corridor.
He didn’t go.
Then came the wails, the woman’s shrieks and entreaties for mercy.
He clung to the blankets as a procession of voices passed his room. A flurry of torchlight. Rushing feet.
And he was a bairn once more... a child of no more than two... though he couldn’t be certain... whether it was a dream... or a long-buried memory.
In his dream, the pleas were his mother’s.
Beyond the doorway, the light shone brightly, a beacon in the darkness of the corridor, and he lay beneath the blankets, sweating and afeared to move.
The screaming intensified.
At the end of the hall, the door slammed shut, casting the hall, along with his chamber, in total darkness. The boy he was squeezed his eyes shut and wished the screams to end. He wished with all his might. Wished. Wished.
Silence descended.
Irrevocable silence.
And suddenly he was a babe in arms, cooing as he peered up into blue eyes.
Hush ye, my bairnie, my bonny wee dearie, the voice crooned, sleep, come and close eyes so heavy and weary... Closed are ye eyes, an’ rest ye are takin’... Sound be your sleepin’, and bright be your wakin’...
Iain shuddered awake, his eyes flying open, his lashes damp. Though the room was cool, sweat drenched his brow.
This time, he wasn’t alone in the room, he told himself. He wasn’t alone in the entombing darkness.
Nor was the silence so deafening or impenetrable.
Though his heart pounded fiercely still, the warmth of the body lying within his arms assured him that it had merely been a dream.
Willing his breath to ease and his heart to calm, he analyzed the dream.
There had been a new element this time. The lay. The eyes. Familiar eyes.
But whose?
And whose voice?
Always before he had awakened with the impact of silence. A silence that was damning and irrevocable. A silence that fell like the dread of the thunder.
Not this time. This time there was light—faint though the candle’s afterglow might be. And sound. The sound of a woman’s sighing breath as she slept. His woman. The very thought made his lips turn with pleasure. And when his senses cleared enough, he made out yet another sound. He heard and understood the faint wail of a pipe coming from deep in the night, and without hesitation rolled free of the tangled, sleeping form beside him to seek it.
Page was uncertain what prompted her from slumber, but the closing of the door brought her full awake.
Though she awoke disoriented within the darkened chamber, her eyes were drawn at once to the door. And though she knew instinctively she would find the bed empty beside her, she rolled into the space where Iain had lain, sighing contentedly. It was still warm from his body, and she caressed the sheets adoringly with her palms, her fingers... as though to drink in the intoxicating heat of the man who had rested there mere mo
ments before.
Had she ever thought herself immune to him? How could she have thought it possible? Jesu, but she was both terrified and exhilarated at once—terrified because she knew instinctively that this was the last time she could dare lay her heart so bare.
And it was bare... No matter that she would deny it... she could scarce deceive herself.
Somehow, without even trying, he’d found his way beyond the carefully tended barriers that had long since kept her safe... and so alone.
Once upon a time she’d sworn never to care about love, or even the respect of others—she couldn’t control those things—had even ceased to vie for them, choosing instead to go her own way. That frame of mind had gotten her into so much difficulty with her father! She knew that, and yet had provoked him nevertheless—not because she’d so desperately craved his affection, but because she was furious with him. She knew that now because Iain had forced her to acknowledge the truth of the matter. That she was furious with her father—enraged with a strength and depth of emotion that could never have waxed so full overnight.
God, help her... dare she open her heart completely? Dare she hope he could love her in return, when no one else had?
Page nipped at her lip, biting until she felt pain, for she wanted to so very desperately.
Swallowing the knot that rose to choke her, she lay there and contemplated the sparseness of the room. Even in the darkness she could sense its nagging emptiness. There was nothing here to give even the slightest insight into the man with whom she’d lain with so freely.
The man she dared to love.
She knew Iain MacKinnon loved his clan fiercely—knew he loved his son even more. But who was he?
There was a brooding sadness about him—a sadness he hid behind that mask of unrelenting good humor. She sensed that. She knew, too, that he suffered nightmares... but of what?
As she lay there, contemplating the possibilities, she came aware of the distant wail of a pipe. Melancholy and haunting, the melody drifted through the night like a shuddering cry.
Driven with curiosity, she rolled from the bed and searched out her clothing, intending to follow the piper’s haunting song.
“Da!” Malcom shouted at seeing him. He came running, leaping into Iain’s arms, his smile brilliant, his eyes shining.
Iain laughed as he caught his son. He squeezed him tightly, embracing him unabashedly.
“Glenna told me no’ to pester ye,” Malcom complained. “She said I couldna go an’ wake ye!”
Iain’s grin widened at hearing his son’s grievance. “Did she now?”
“Aye,” Malcom declared, squeezing him back with all the strength his stout little arms possessed. “I wanna ride your shoulders, da!” he declared.
“Verra well, y’ wee auld man.”
Malcom giggled a mischievous little giggle and nearly strangled Iain with his glee. When, at last, he released the hold upon his throat, Iain hoisted his son atop his shoulders and waited until he was settled before making his way toward the gathering of kinsmen. “Well, now,” he remarked, more to himself than to Malcom. “I see everyone is ready at hand.”
“Aye, da, but dinna worry. We didna begin withoot ye.”
“I see ye didna,” Iain remarked blithely, and thanked his son for standing in for him while he’d been else-wise occupied.
“Aw... dinna fash yourself, da. I told ‘em ye couldna help yourself.”
“Ho!” Iain choked in surprise. “Did ye now?”
“Aye, and Angus said I had the right o’ it, too.”
“Did he now?”
“Aye! He said ye been without a woman too long.”
Iain strangled on a chuckle. He made a mental note to speak with Angus about Malcom’s premature education. Och, but he thought his son understood far too much for his tender age.
Then again, he reconsidered, mayhap ’twas for the best. God, but he knew better than any that one could not control fate. Were he to cock up his toes this very night, or tomorrow, or the next, Malcom would need every wisp of knowledge he might possess in order to survive. Aye, for he could shelter his son only so far. MacKinnon men had not the luxury of languishing in boyhood. Damn, but they were pulled from the womb as men, with the weight of the clan upon their shoulders, and the shadows of their predecessors pecking at their backs. In truth, though Iain had vowed to allow Malcom as ordinary a boyhood as was conceivable, he was sworn by birthright, and by duty, to prepare his son to lead.
“Well, now,” Iain began.
“Awwww, dinna worry, da,” Malcom broke in as he wrapped his chubby little hands around Iain’s chin and laid his own chin atop the pate of Iain’s head. Iain savored the feel of his son’s wee pointy chin needling the crown of his head. Och, but it wouldn’t be long before this was naught more than a pleasant memory. The thought made him sigh wistfully. “I understand,” Malcom said, his tone conspiratorial.
Iain’s brow furrowed. “D’ ye now, son?”
“Aye, da,” his son declared with a certainty. “I been without a woman too long, too,” he revealed somewhat dejectedly.
Iain choked, but not solely because of the little hands that were now tightening their grip upon his throat. Bones o’ the bloody saints, he wasn’t certain whether to be amused or disconcerted by his son’s revelation. “You’ve been without a woman too long?” he repeated with no small measure of surprise.
“Aw, yeah, da!” Malcom answered resolutely. “Och, but I been thinkin’ it would be a guid thing to have a lassie aboot to croon me to sleep now and again.”
Iain chuckled at his son’s waggish admission. Struggling to contain his mirth, he whacked his son’s leg affectionately, and smiled as he walked.
“Oh, da,” Malcom ventured once more.
“Aye, Malcom?”
“Di’ she sing ye a guid lay, I was wonderin’?”
Iain blinked at the innocent question.
“I heard cousin Lagan say she was gonna gi’ ye one.”
It took Iain a full moment to realize what it was his son was asking. Damn, but he asked the question with such childish innocence that it made his heart squeeze. No matter that Malcom had no notion what it was he was asking, Iain’s heartbeat sped at the memory. His face and neck heated. Had she ever—with her sweet, passionate whimpers and her pleas. Her open desire for him had been like a balm for his soul. But God’s teeth, he wasn’t about to tell his son that it was the finest lay he’d ever had in his life.
“Aye, Malcom,” Iain confessed, clearing his throat. “She sings sweeter than any woman I e’er did hear.”
“I thought so, Da,” Malcom avowed. “She croons better than cousin Lagan, of a certain.”
Iain’s brows lifted in surprise. “Lagan?” He stopped walking, surprised by the disclosure. Damn, but though Lagan had always been good enough to Malcom, Iain could scarce imagine his dour-faced cousin croonin’ to anyone. “Lagan sang ye to sleep, Malcom?”
“Aye, da,” his son assured him. “He surely did.”
“I’ll be damned,” Iain declared. “Now, when did he go and do a thing like that?”
“Hmmmm...”
Iain imagined his son’s scrunched nose as he concentrated, and couldn’t keep from smiling once more.
“I dunno, da,” Malcom yielded after a moment’s deliberation. “But he surely did. I canna remember when, but I know he surely did.”
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Iain said again, and started once more toward the gathering. He decided there was much about his cousin that he had yet to learn.
“Oh, da?”
“Aye, son?”
“I was wonderin’ too... does she sing a finer lilt than did me minnie?”
Once again Iain halted in his step, his heart squeezing within his chest. His brows drew together at the simple question, and he swallowed the knob that appeared in his throat, answering honestly. “I dunno, Malcom. I never did hear your minnie sing, at all.”
“Oh.”
There was keen disa
ppointment in the single word. Iain heard it and his heart twisted.
“Da, you’re hurtin’ me leg,” Malcom said, a frown in his voice.
Starting at the complaint, Iain eased his grip upon Malcom’s little legs at once. He sucked in a breath and said, “Forgive me, son.” He swallowed the grief that rose to choke him, though it was no longer grief for himself. “You know what, though, son,” he lied with ease, for Malcom’s sake. “She woulda sung to ye... if she could have..””
“D’ y’ think so, da?”
The note of hope in his voice was like vin aigre spilled into a freshly healing wound. Iain’s eyes stung, though not from the smoke of the raging bonfire. The image of Mairi standing before the window, her eyes burning with hatred, rose up to mock him. There was no doubt in his mind that she had left them both, for she’d left him standing there with their brand-new bairn cradled within his arms. Still, he forced the lie from his lips. Again for Malcom’s sake. “I know so, son,” he swore vehemently. “I know so. Had she been able to see your wee li’l face, she would have sung to you. I know it.”
“I would have liked that, da,” Malcom exclaimed, and Iain could hear the smile in his son’s voice. His jaw clenched, and he closed his eyes, swallowing the curse that rose to his lips.
Damn Mairi’s soul to hell.
“What about you? Did your mammie e’er sing to you, da?”
Iain opened his eyes, watching the gathering at the bonfire as he considered the question, uncertain as to why he hesitated, for the answer could only be no. He closed his eyes once more and contemplated the woman’s voice from his dream—the song, the eyes—and was filled with keen frustration. “Nay,” he answered, confused. He opened his eyes to stare at the bonfire, frowning.
And it occurred to him suddenly that his own mother’s death had gone undiscussed much too long. It was something he and his son shared in common, the lack of a mother from birth, and yet he’d grown so accustomed to it being an unspeakable matter between himself and his own da that he’d never even thought to broach it with his son.
As a boy, Iain had asked questions interminably, only to be turned away at every occasion. And not merely by his father, but by every last clansman who might have known his ma. If your da wants ye to know, they had all persistently told him, he’ll tell ye himself. Och, but his da had never told him a damned thing, and after a while, Iain had quit asking altogether. All he knew of his mother, he’d learned from his aunt Glenna, and even that was precious little.
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