The Knight

by Monica McCarty

  As a youth, James had been somewhat fastidious in appearance, and though the English had dispossessed him of his lands and robbed him of his lordly robes, essentially forcing him to live like an outlaw in Ettrick forest, vestiges still remained. He always smelled clean for one. Beneath the cool brace of the wind on his skin and the warm scent of leather, she could detect the fresh hint of his soap. And the black hair that had given rise to his epithet might be longer, but it was still neatly trimmed and combed—except for that one wavy, untamed lock that fell across his forehead. He was freshly shaven as well, though the shadow of his beard was already dark a few hours later. She could feel the rough scrape as he kissed her.

  And God, how he was kissing her. The stroke of his tongue in her mouth sent shudders of sensation rippling through her. She could taste the spiciness of the cloves he liked to chew on.

  She whimpered as he deepened the kiss, pulling her closer and holding her more firmly against him. Their bodies locked. The thick slab of his erection pressed insistently against her belly, and her body responded with a swell of heat between her legs. He wanted her, and the proof of that want, big and hard against her, made her quiver.

  The first time she’d thought the fit impossible. He was too big, and she was too… innocent. But he’d proved her wrong. The memory of the initial pain was a distant one, fading beneath the far greater memory of pleasure. Pleasure that he would give her again. But it wasn’t just the pleasure she craved, it was the closeness. She wanted to feel joined to him again. Wanted to feel him inside her—filling her—forging the bond that bound them together forever.

  James fought to take it slow as control quickly spiraled away from him. He wanted to give her more pleasure than she’d ever dreamed of, for God knows what she did to him was beyond his wildest fantasies.

  Just the press of her body against his was incredible. The soft crush of her breasts against his chest, the gentle sway of her hips to his groin…

  She drove him wild.

  A flood of heat washed over him, and he pulled her closer, deepening the kiss. Her hair slipped from its binding, pouring over his hands like a silken waterfall and filling his nose with the heady scent of the roses she used in her bath water. She always smelled good. Like a hot apple tart pulled from the oven, he couldn’t resist inhaling and drawing the sweet scent deep into his lungs.

  But it was her response that undid him. The circling of her tongue, tentative at first, and then bolder as she met his determined strokes with her own. The soft whimpers of pleasure that quickened and grew more insistent. The gentle sway of her hips against him that turned into a base grind. Every primitive instinct in him had been stoked to the point of no return. Like a boat headed over a waterfall, there was no turning back.

  Seton and Boyd were going to have to wait.

  She was making erotic little gasps deep in her throat. Her hands clutched wildly at his arms and shoulders, his muscles flexing with restraint underneath.

  A haze descended over him. All he could think about was the woman in his arms and the incredible sensations she wrought in his body. Nothing else mattered.

  His hands filled with the soft flesh of her bottom, her legs, her breasts. God, those breasts! She had the most spectacular breasts of any woman he’d ever seen. Full and round and topped with the rosiest tips. He cupped the soft, ripe flesh, running his fingers over the taut peaks until she arched into his hand.

  They were both breathing hard, and he was perilously close to spilling in his braies, but he was determined to make it better this time. The first had been a frantic fumbling, a frenzied, youthful explosion of long-repressed lust and passion. Yet amazingly, despite the initial pain, he’d managed to give her some pleasure. This time he wanted to give her everything. The lass was born for lovemaking.

  He forced himself to slow and lowered her to her knees with him, breaking the kiss only long enough to tear the plaid from his shoulders and spread it on the ground behind them. For now, nature’s bower would have to do, but one day he swore he would give her the fine bed with the silk linens and bed hangings that she deserved.

  When he returned what the English king had stolen from his family.

  Something must have flickered in his gaze.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked.

  He gazed down into her upturned face, into the big blue eyes soft with passion, the flushed cheeks, and kiss-swollen lips, and felt a hard lump of emotion in his chest.

  He reached out, cupped her velvety chin in his hand, and shook his head. How could anything be wrong when they were together? “I just wish I could give you more than a plaid under the trees.”

  She smiled. “I don’t mind. It’s beautiful here. When you are gone, I come here, and it makes me feel closer to you.” A blush rose up her cheeks. “I think of it as our place.”

  Her sentiment touched him. They’d been meeting here for years, but he knew that was not the reason. It was because of what had happened last time. Trust Joanna to always see the good—even in something that could be viewed as illicit. Determination rose hot and heavy inside him. “One day I’ll build you a palace like you deserve.”

  Her eyes met his; she looked unaccountably relieved. “Do you mean it?”

  “Of course.” He frowned. “Do you doubt me?”

  “Never. But I don’t need a palace; I’ll be happy anywhere as long as we are together.” She beamed up at him, as brightly and warmly as the sun, and like Icarus, he was helpless to resist the magnetic pull. With a groan, he covered her mouth once again and eased her back on the plaid.

  He propped on his side to protect her from the brunt of his weight. The benefit was that it not only gave him a better angle to kiss her, it also gave his hand free access to explore.

  While his tongue delved into the warm recesses of her mouth, his hand roamed over the lush curves of her body—all over her body. He couldn’t get enough of touching her, feeling all that soft feminine flesh filling—spilling over—his hand, feeling her flush and heat for him. She was so hot. Hot and anxious and needy.

  She writhed and arched under his fingertips, unconsciously seeking the pressure and friction her body desired.

  She moaned into his mouth when he finally cupped her breasts.

  He kissed her harder, working her mouth with the stroke of his tongue, as his hand did the same with her breast. Cupping, squeezing, circling the taut nipple with the pad of his thumb before finally taking it between his fingers and giving it the friction her arching back demanded.

  Despite the cool February day, sweat spread over his skin as the force of his desire grew hotter and harder to control. He felt as if he were about to explode. When her hips started to lift, he let her find him.

  Christ. He groaned at the contact. Nestling the throbbing column in the sweet juncture between her legs, he cupped her bottom, holding himself firmly against her as she started to grind against him with frantic little lifts and circles of her hips.

  Her breath was coming faster now, a mix of soft cries and moans. He could feel her body quickening underneath him. The cries turned more insistent, the grip of her fingers into his shoulders more demanding. He could feel the sweet tension claim her. Feel as she began to dissolve.

  Oh God, she was going to come just from rubbing against him. He gritted his teeth against his own urge to do the same and let her ride it out. Let her discover how to find her pleasure and take it.

  He held himself very still, trying not to think about how good it felt. Or how responsive she was. Or how damned lucky he was to find a woman with such unbridled passion. Christ, it felt as if they were swiving, even though they still had their clothes on.

  A moment later her body seized. He broke the kiss to watch her face as she broke apart.

  Her eyes flew to his in wonder. “James!”

  Something jammed in his chest. A hard, hot stab of pure emotion. She was so beautiful. “It’s all right, love,” he said huskily. “I’ve got you.”

  And he did. The
y were so connected he could feel the spasms and shuddering of her release reverberating through her—and around him, pulling and gripping. So tight. So warm. So good.

  God, he needed to be inside her.

  Stunned by the power of the sensations that wracked her body, Joanna was barely aware of James’s jerky movements as he tore off his cotun and worked the ties of his braies.

  The sharp spasms had just begun to ebb when she felt a cool blast of air wash over her legs as he tossed up her skirts. Looping his arms under her legs, he lifted her hips to where he was positioned on his knees between her legs.

  The blunt tip of his manhood nudged against her for a moment, and with one purposeful thrust he sheathed himself inside her.

  His head fell back with a deep cry that was somewhere between agony and ecstasy.

  She gasped—more with shock than with pain, although his size still elicited a twinge of the latter. It was the thoroughness of his possession, the fierce primitiveness of his claim, and the incredible fullness of him inside her.

  He held himself still for a minute, as if giving his body a chance to get used to the sensations, before drawing himself in and out—slowly.

  She’d wondered at their position until then, but suddenly it became clear. Unlike the first time when he’d been on top of her, with him on his knees and her hips tilted to him, he had a perfect vantage of what they were doing. He could watch himself moving in and out of her.

  And so could she. Her eyes widened as her body stretched to take him in, and inch-by-inch he disappeared inside her.

  She knew she should be shocked. Should be ashamed. Should turn her gaze. But instead, she flushed with arousal at the erotic display. At the intimacy and the carnality. Heat spread through her limbs.

  Their eyes met, and a flush rose up her cheeks.

  His face was a tight mask of pleasure, all hard lines and dark shadows. His jaw was clenched, his mouth was thinned, and his eyes were slitted with passion. He looked fierce and dangerous, and so attractive it sent a fresh wave of heat right to the place they were joined.

  “Don’t be embarrassed,” he said as if he could read her thoughts. “Your passion arouses me. I like to feel your eyes on me.”

  As though on command, her eyes fell to his manhood, poised at the precipice of another stroke. “You do?” she asked.

  He groaned in response, sinking in and out again. His voice was tight, as if every movement was torture. “God, you have no idea. Watch me, Jo. Watch me love you.”

  She did. She wondered at the size of him. At his thickness. At the bulging vein that ran down the long length. At the ability of her body to fit him inside. She watched as the slow, wicked strokes quickened, as his hips beat faster, as the heat and dampness of her arousal coated him in a thin sheen, easing his path.

  She gasped as the beat intensified. Her heart started to pound, and the restless sensation started to build in her again.

  The exquisite friction.

  The sinful fullness.

  The perfect rhythm.

  Heat spread over her limbs as every hard slam of his body into hers brought her closer to that quicksilver peak.

  She could feel the fury of his passion unleashing, feel the storm that he’d held at bay the first time begin to break free. It was wild and primitive and raw.

  Never had she imagined she could do this to him, and the knowledge both humbled and empowered her. She could bring him to his knees just as easily as he brought her to hers. He might be the son of a lord, and she might be the daughter of a marshal, but here, like this, they were as one.

  Beneath the linen of his shirt she could see his powerful muscles flex and tighten as the rhythm of their joining set a frantic pace. His face darkened, his eyes hooded, his jaw tightened, the muscles in his neck and shoulders flared.

  “Christ, you feel good,” he bit out through clenched teeth.

  His hands slid from her thighs to grip her bottom, allowing him to sink deeper and deeper. Harder and harder until she knew there was nowhere for him to go. She gasped, as he’d reached the deepest part of her. They were joined completely… irrevocably… perfectly.

  His eyes pinned her. “You’re mine, Jo. Mine forever.”

  “Yes! Yes!” she cried out, the frantic rhythm of his thrusts taking her to the highest peak. But then he took her higher. With a rough growl, he plunged in full hilt and held her to him and started to circle his hips in a hard grind.

  Her body came apart. Sensation exploded inside her.

  “Oh God, I’m going to come,” he bit out tightly. His fingers dug into her buttocks as he stiffened and gave a deep guttural cry that sent them both catapulting toward the stars together. The spasms of her release crashed over her, as the hot rush of his seed poured inside of her.

  It was incredible. Feeling his body shudder and quake with hers. Knowing that he was sharing the same sensation, the same passion, that they were experiencing this miracle together.

  Forever, he’d said. Tears of happiness sprang to her eyes.

  When it was over, they collapsed in a boneless heap of exhausted bodies and tangled limbs.

  Neither of them seemed to move for a long time. But eventually their rising chests and heavy breathing slowed. It took a few minutes longer for the haze that had turned her brain to mush to start to clear enough to allow for rational thought.

  James swore.

  The oath was one that she’d never heard him use before, and the crudeness shocked her. Was something wrong?

  Her eyes flew to his.

  A little of her trepidation slipped away when he smiled boyishly. “Sorry. I was just thinking that Raider and Dragon are going to be furious.”

  “Who?”

  He shook his head. “It isn’t important.” He slid his hand around to cup her cheek, stroking her bottom lip with his finger. His tender gaze fell on hers. “I have to go. I shouldn’t have stayed this long. The men are waiting for me.”

  He didn’t wait for her to reply but slowly untangled himself and stood. There was something about watching him retie his braies and reach for his cotun that made it feel… wrong.

  But recalling his promise to build her a palace someday, the prickle of disquiet faded. “I need to speak with you about something important.”

  All of the attentiveness and tenderness he’d shown her a few minutes ago was gone. He was in warrior mode, his attention already diverted to whatever it was he had to do. “I’m afraid it will have to wait, Jo. I’m already late.”

  “It will only take a few minutes.”

  He frowned, perhaps catching something in her voice. “What is it about?”

  He held out his hand for her and she stood, her skirt falling back into place, hiding all evidence, as if he hadn’t just spent himself between her thighs a few minutes ago.

  She put her hands over her stomach instinctively. “Our future,” she said.

  His brows furrowed in question; he had no idea what she was talking about.

  “Our marriage,” she clarified. Embarrassed to be raising the subject herself, she tried to jest. “We will need to post the banns sooner than you may have intended.”

  The blood slid from his face. “What marriage?”

  In the shocked horror of his expression, Joanna saw the truth. The hideous, terrible, brutal truth. “Forever” and “build her a palace” didn’t mean make her his wife.

  The knowledge rippled through her in a hot, painful wave. Thom had been right, and she’d been wrong—terribly wrong.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Coming on the heels of the single most erotic, most pleasurable, most incredible sexual experience of James’s life, Jo’s words were a cold shock. Hell, they were like a plunge into the icy waters of the Hebridean sea in midwinter—bare-arsed naked. His blood, his breath, everything inside him froze.

  She looked up at him, her big blue eyes questioning and anxious. “I thought… I assumed… we would marry,” she said in a hoarse whisper.

  He looked at the wom
an he’d known since they were both children—who’d grown up with him, who knew what the English had done to his father and what they’d taken from him, who had to know how important his career was to him—as if she were a stranger. He was going to be the greatest knight in Scotland, raising the name of Douglas to dizzying heights. The horror and humiliation of his father’s death—being left to die like a dog—would never be forgiven, but he intended to make sure it was forgotten. No one would ever malign their honor and nobility again.

  “I thought you understood,” he said in disbelief. How could she not understand? She had to understand. He couldn’t marry her. It was impossible. Marriage between them was so out of the realm of possibility, he’d never even considered it. Well, maybe once when he was a lad and didn’t know any better, but his father had set him straight. James had a duty—a responsibility—to marry for the good of his family. His choice of bride had become even more important after his father’s death and Edward had stolen James’s patrimony. His sword would only take him so far.

  The woman he took to wife would be almost as important as the name he was making for himself in war. It would be a woman who would bring him wealth and titles. A woman who would further his ambition and increase the power of the Douglas lordship.

  A woman like Margery Bruce.

  James had every reason to believe—every reason to hope—that the king intended to propose a match between his youngest sister (the king had seven) and James. He’d hinted around it more than once. At three and ten, Margery was old enough to wed. The bedding would wait for a few years, but the marriage would be the culmination of all that James had fought for over the past five years. The blood connection to Bruce would not only strengthen the bond between the families, but also prove just how high James had risen in the king’s regard.