Scotsman Wore Spurs

by Potter, Patricia;

  Her eyes lit with interest. “A rogue?”

  “Of the first order,” he admitted cheerfully.

  “What does a rogue do?”

  He raised one eyebrow. “Ah … a well-bred young lady would know better than to ask.”

  She looked down at her clothes. “Do I look like a well-bred young lady?”

  He chuckled. “You look delectable. And I suspect you are a lady.”

  She studied her fingers, playing nervously with the gun.

  He put a hand on hers. “Be very careful with that. I like my body parts.”

  She looked startled. Alarmed. She really didn’t like the gun.

  “Hold it firm, lass,” he said. “Try the trigger.” He watched her for a moment, then pulled the dilapidated hat from her head.

  “That’s an improvement,” he said, grinning.

  She started to grab for it, but he threw it several feet away and grabbed her when she started to go after it.

  “I can’t put my arms around you with that bloody hat in my face,” he said lazily.

  Her shocked gaze flashed to his, but before she could protest, he stepped behind her and put his arms around her, lifting her hand holding the gun. “To teach you the intricacies of the weapon, lass,” he said in a voice meant to be reassuring. Or was it? He enjoyed teasing her, enjoyed knowing he had her as off balance as she had him.

  “It seems simple enough,” she retorted. “You pull the trigger.”

  He chuckled. “Try it. Aim at something.”

  She looked around, her eyes lighting as they reached him.

  “I dinna mean me,” he said. “And there are no bullets.”

  “I can wish, can’t I?” she retorted.

  “Ah, lass, that’s an unkind thing to say.” He looked around, spied the hat.

  His large hand fit around hers, showing her how to grip the gun. “Pull the trigger easy,” he said. “Never rush a shot.”

  When he was satisfied that she understood the basic principle, he loaded the gun and handed it back to her.

  “Now aim at the hat and pull the trigger. Slowly. The pistol will jerk, so be prepared.”

  She gave him an indignant glare. “My hat?”

  He shrugged. “A bullet can hardly do it any more harm.”

  “Hmph.”

  She half-turned away from him and took aim at the hat. He had to stifle a laugh as he watched her chew her bottom lip and squint in concentration. A full minute passed, he could swear, before she finally pulled the trigger, and when she did, her whole body jerked as the revolver kicked in her hands. The bullet stirred a pile of dust two feet to the left of her hat.

  But he wasn’t concerned with her lack of accuracy. Her hands were shaking, and he suddenly realized what courage it had taken for her to pull the trigger. Her distaste for guns went beyond a simple fear of the unfamiliar, or even a healthy respect for a lethal weapon. It was something primal, something born of experience. And it was connected to the raw grief he’d seen in her eyes only a short while ago.

  Feeling as if he were finally getting close to unlocking a great mystery, he moved to put his arms around her again. “Gabrielle,” he began, once more taking hold of her gun and lifting it. “It won’t hurt you. Hold it like …”

  He trailed off, suddenly aware of her body trembling in his arms. But was it fear? Perhaps. Some of it. Or could she be as aware as he was of the electrifying heat surging between them? Could she feel the waves of tenderness and yearning that poured out of him, having her here, like this, surrounded in his embrace?

  He tried to ignore his hunger, tried to keep his voice even, but he heard the hoarse quality of it as he spoke. “Squeeze slowly,” he said, “and hold it in both hands.”

  She leaned back, into him, as she fired again, guided by his hands. The bullet hit the hat, sending it scooting across the ground a foot or so before it came to rest on its side. She made no sound of triumph, uttered no cry of satisfaction. Instead, she seemed to sink into him.

  Hell, he’d known holding her was a mistake. Yet, he’d done it anyway. Even through her layers of clothing, he felt her curves, the curves he’d first seen in the moonlight, when she was clad only in his shirt.

  He let go of her hands, and her arms fell to her sides, and he heard a slight thud as the gun slipped from her fingers. When he turned her around to face him, it rocked him to see tears glistening in her eyes.

  His hand came up to touch her face, to wipe away the moisture. “Gabrielle?” he whispered her name, his heart pounding.

  She looked at him with an intensity that burned through him and a longing that matched his own.

  The warning bells were going off inside his head, loud and clear. You care too much, a voice told him. She’ll hurt you, betray you, lie to you. But he didn’t care. For once in his life, he was going to ignore the voice and follow his heart, devil be damned.

  Throwing caution to the wind, Drew pulled Gabrielle into his arms and brought his mouth down to cover hers.

  Chapter Eleven

  Gabrielle’s response was pure desperation, a shelter from the intense pain surging through her. Her lips sought Drew’s with frantic urgency.

  Holding her father’s gun, feeling it, remembering the lessons he’d given her with it … remembering another gun and the shot fired that had taken her father from her … all of it had come flooding back to engulf her with grief. It hadn’t taken any effort at all to pretend she didn’t like guns. She’d wanted to throw the Colt away, to run from the memories that swamped her.

  Instead, she buried herself in Drew’s embrace, lost herself in his kiss. He felt so warm, so strong, so alive. He made her feel alive. She knew in her heart that there was something strong and pure and splendid between them. There had been from the night at the river when he’d saved her life. And she wanted it. She wanted him.

  She felt the pain of grief fade, replaced by something stronger, more urgent. His mouth caressed hers, giving without demanding. Asking. Waiting.

  Her hand went to his face in an impulsive, exploring gesture. She knew so little about him, had suspected so much. And yet, she knew she was losing her heart to him.

  The tenderness of his lips, the fierce longing in his kiss, the protectiveness of his arms around her, made her feel safe. And complete as she’d never felt before.

  The warmth of his touch as his hands circled her waist drifted inward, spawning tremors that ran to every part of her body. His lips were smooth and strong, gentle beyond comprehension. She hadn’t known it was possible for there to be such sweetness between man and woman. Her lips melted under his, her body sliding against his until they were almost one. Electric, hot tension flowed through her, right down to her toes.

  The kiss turned searing, full of need, full of promise. She felt his body changing, his manhood suddenly pulsing against her, and she knew a corresponding quivering in the innermost part of her. She whimpered with need, with the voracious ache growing deep in her body. Her body strained toward his, arching into him, as his arms tightened around her.

  Her whimper drowned in his groan.

  His mouth opened, and his tongue began a sensual courtship, magnifying the throbbing yearning within her, the exquisitely painful and delicious need. Her tongue met his with wanton abandon. When she thought she could bear it no more, his mouth left hers, his lips kissing a path to her neck where he ignited a ring of fire with his tongue. She clung to him, feeling the heated tension of his body.

  “Gabrielle,” he whispered, his very breath sending quakes through her body.

  She thought she would explode with the growing need inside her. She looked up at him, at the hazel eyes lit with gold. She swallowed, unable to speak.

  “Who are you?” he asked softly. “A sorceress?”

  She could only shake her head.

  “Ah, Gabrielle. The bloody hell of it is I don’t care.”

  His arms pulled her closer. Heat seared her everywhere as their bodies touched and his lips came down on hers aga
in. And she responded with passion rising from deep within her. Her mouth caressed his, asking, wanting, demanding in some primitive way that she didn’t understand.

  “Scotty …”

  “Drew,” he corrected, whispering in her ear. “Andrew.”

  She barely caught his words. She felt dizzy, full of trembling, pulsating sensations.

  “Bonny lass,” he said. “My gallant, bonny lass,” he murmured before his mouth joined hers once more and his hands began to make their way through her layers of clothing.

  Her heart was beating rapidly, yet the flow of her blood seemed to have slowed to a heated crawl, as she waited, breathless. His hand touched her breast with several layers still separating them. Yet she felt her breast tighten, harden, his sensitive fingers creating rivers of feeling flowing through her.

  He groaned, then started peeling away her clothes: the jacket, then the outer shirt, a second shirt, until he reached the boy’s undershirt. Freed from layers of cloth, her breasts strained against the last fabric binding them. And they were sensitive. Her breasts were suddenly so sensitive.

  He unbuttoned the undershirt, then untied the binding around her breasts. Slowly, gently, his hands caressed parts of her that no man had ever touched. When he stopped suddenly, she felt a terrible loss. But he took her hand and led her to a dry nest of pine needles, where he guided her down until she was on her knees. He knelt beside her, kissed one hard nipple, then the other. Her back instinctively arched, and she moaned.

  Looking down at his tawny hair, she saw the sun’s rays had sprinkled it with gold, and thick tendrils had been swept in different directions by the breeze. She touched it, ran her fingers through the thick strands, her hand pressing him to her breast.

  And then he lifted his head, and his eyes—golden and fiercely tender—searched her features. “Gabrielle?”

  She merely nodded, and her hands went to his shirt. She tried to unbutton it, but her fingers were suddenly awkward. They became entangled in the holes, and she looked to him for help.

  He gave her a smile filled with tenderness as his hands caught hers and, together, they finished unbuttoning his shirt. She watched with fascination as it fell open, revealing a hard chest sprinkled with golden hair. Her fingers played with his chest, tracing the outlined muscles, stopping at his nipples, then following the path of hair downward toward his trousers.

  She lifted her eyes to his. “You don’t have the body of a gambler.”

  His brows knitted together. “And how would ye be knowin’ that?”

  “I’ve seen some,” she said airily, trying to regain some of her reason. Her hand, though, was still exploring. And her mind was none too clear. “Gamblers are usually quite … like jelly. Because they sit so much,” she explained hastily as if afraid he might take offense.

  He chuckled, his hand catching hers and bringing it to his mouth, nibbling on her fingers as he watched her, amusement and passion mingling together. “Jellylike?” he repeated. “I suppose that does rather describe some gamblers I’ve known.”

  “Of course, I’ve never seen any … like I’m seeing you,” she continued, rather shocked at her own words and their implication.

  “I should hope not,” he said, “But I’m flattered you don’t think I’m … jellylike.”

  Her hand pressed against the rock-hard stomach as if testing it, then wandered up to his shoulder. Her gaze met his, and she felt as if she’d been struck by lightning. Mesmerized, she fought for breath, fought for reason.

  “I used to race horses occasionally in Scotland,” he said. “Racing steeplechases keeps you fit.”

  “Steeplechases?” she echoed in astonishment. There seemed no end to his talents.

  “Aye. Have you heard of them?”

  “Of course,” she said, wishing she weren’t so dazed, wishing she were alert enough to fit this new puzzle piece into the picture of him she had created in her mind. “I’ve read about them in books and newspapers. And I went to one once. In New York.” She didn’t add that, at the time, her family had been playing a local theater.

  “But you’re larger than most jockeys,” she said.

  He grinned. “Which is why I had no real future,” he said.

  She digested that for a moment, then filed it in her mind as she did everything about him. But still, why were they talking about steeplechases?

  Her eyes met his, and she knew suddenly that he was deliberately trying to cool the air, to reduce the electricity, the overwhelming sexuality that reverberated between them. His eyes lit, and she knew that he knew exactly what she was thinking.

  “You wretch,” she said, wanting him closer, wanting so much more than the careless insouciance behind which he always hid. She wanted his strength and generosity and tenderness. She wanted his passion. She ran her fingers seductively up and down his chest, silently exulting when his body shuddered in response.

  “I’m not in the habit of taking virgins,” he said, his voice hoarse.

  Her hand stilled. If he stopped now, she couldn’t bear it. The thought of never reaching the pot of gold that lay at the end of the rainbow he’d created inside her was simply unthinkable.

  “I’m not a virgin,” she said.

  I don’t like liars. His warning sounded in her mind as the words left her mouth. But she couldn’t stop. Not now.

  His gaze held hers, searching—wanting, she suspected, to believe. She made herself hold steady. She hadn’t been wrong. He was honorable. Kind. Gallant. He had saved her life. He had kept his word. And he made her heart sing.

  She leaned over, her lips touching his, and then his were crushing down, hungry and demanding, upon hers. He took her down, his body moving on top of hers, only their trousers separating them. Her sensitive breasts touched the bare skin of his chest, feeling the tickle of the springy golden hair. She lost her breath for a moment in the deliciously erotic sensation. But then another, stronger sensation took its place.

  He pressed against her, his manhood swelling and pulsating even through cloth, creating a need inside her so strong, so carnal, she gasped.

  He moved quickly, stripping away his trousers, then hers, then he sat back on his heels to gaze down at her. And she let her gaze wander over him, his form all grace and power. Reaching out, his hands explored her body, slowly, seductively until she arched uncontrollably. His hand touched the most intimate part of her, caressing until she felt on fire. Then, he positioned himself above her, his manhood barely touching the curve between her legs, then slowly lowered himself until his naked body covered hers, his manhood resting against her.

  His lips rained kisses everywhere, her eyes, her cheeks, her neck, and then back to her mouth. With his knee, he nudged her thighs apart, and suddenly she felt him pressing against the most sensitive part of her. His lips slid down her neck, and he whispered her name. She felt his manhood probe deeper. She bit her lips as the pressure inside her increased. But she couldn’t prevent the sound that escaped her when pressure suddenly turned to pain, sharp and unexpected.

  “Oh!”

  “Bloody hell.”

  He stopped, his face buried against her neck, his breathing ragged, every muscle in his body tense. She could feel his manhood throbbing inside her. And slowly, as the pain receded, her body instinctively arched up toward him, aching for whatever lay waiting.

  Still, he hesitated, and, nearly frantic, she wondered if he actually might leave her, even now. Instinctively, her arms tightened around him, at the same time that the passage inside her seemed to wrap about his manhood, embracing it.

  Groaning, murmuring incoherent words against her skin, he started moving again, slowly at first, then with an accelerating rhythm, until she didn’t think she could bear more, that she would disintegrate from the white hot heat.

  Waves of pleasure increased a hundredfold before erupting into a glorious fireball of sensation. Convulsive spasms rocked her at the same time she felt him tense, then suddenly, plunge into her deeply, with total abandon a fina
l few times. And they held tight to each other, riding the aftershocks of pure pleasure.

  As he collapsed onto her, she continued to feel his fullness, felt herself wrap around him and hold him close. She had never felt so drained, yet so utterly content.

  Drew fought to suppress the anger inside him as he basked in fulfillment. But in the end, he lost the battle.

  She had lied to him again. He couldn’t deny the pleasure her lie had afforded him, but pleasure was a fleeting thing. Betrayal lasted a lifetime.

  Sighing, he rolled away from her, stretching out on his back next to her to stare at the late-afternoon sky. The sun was sinking toward the horizon and, overhead, bright blue was dappled with pink and golden tones.

  Her hand was intertwined in his, and she was silent, but her fingers moved against his. She had given him the greatest gift a woman could give a man, and he felt humbled by it. She must have had many chances before this, for she was lovely and completely desirable. He wanted to say tender things to her. He should say tender things.

  But he simply couldn’t catapult the lie.

  “Why?” he asked. “Why did you lie to me?”

  He felt, more than saw, her flinch.

  A moment of silence passed, then in a low, clear voice, she said, “Do you really have to ask?”

  He turned his head and looked into her eyes. God, but they were blue. Such an intense blue. And all that intensity was focused on him. Tenderness, something that might even be close to love, surged through him.

  But he didn’t want love, didn’t trust it. He had no idea how to give it, or take it.

  “I told you never to lie to me again.” His voice wasn’t even his own. It sounded scratchy, harsh.

  “I’m not sorry,” she said softly. “I could never be sorry for what just happened. Please don’t you be.”

  He wasn’t. Deep in his heart he wasn’t. That’s what scared him.

  Scared? Bloody hell, he was terrified.

  His hand went to her face, tracing its contours, hesitating at the corner of her mouth. “How many other lies?” he asked softly.