Highland Storm

by Ranae Rose

  “I didnae mean to doubt that ye’ve suffered,” Alexander said, his eyes darting to her scar again, his gaze so heavy on the livid flesh that Isla imagined she could feel it, like a physical touch. “I only asked because if ye think my life will ease your troubles, then you’re verra welcome to take it.”

  Isla gaped at him, her teary eyes growing wider and wider as he unsheathed his dirk. He wielded it deliberately with his left hand while he seized the collar of his shirt with his right, holding it taut. She watched, spellbound, as he split the fabric slowly from his collarbone to his navel, baring his chest, which was slick with rainwater. He shifted his hold on the dirk, gripping the blade as he extended the hilt towards Isla.

  She rose slowly to her knees, careful not to fall on her foot again. She was unable to look away from his chest, even as he pressed the hilt of his dirk into her trembling hand. Her fingers slipped against the damp handle and she nearly dropped it. He caught it by the blade and pressed it back into her grip. Blood dripped from his hand as he withdrew it, falling onto his kilt and leaving a faint impression of redness on the dark fabric. His chest rose and fell steadily, much more steadily than her own would have under similar circumstances—much more steadily, in fact, than her own was now. She kept her eyes on the black hair that grew in a diamond shape on his breast, continuing in a line that went down to his navel and plunged below his kilt, as she gripped the dirk’s handle tightly.

  “I canna kill ye, Alexander Gordon. Dinnae make me say it again.” She dropped the dirk to the earth.

  He made no motion to pick up the discarded weapon and was silent for several moments. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and quiet, barely more than a husky whisper. “Shall I press my dirk into my own heart then, so ye can say that ye did?”

  Her own heart leapt suddenly, and she fought the urge to cry out. “No,” she said, as calmly as she could bear. She eyed the dirk as if it were a poisonous serpent. Should she toss it away from him? The thought of him plunging it into his heart made her feel strangely as if her own had been pierced. Even now it beat frantically, infusing her trembling limbs with a rush of blood that would supply the energy necessary to stop him if he tried to take his own life. Hopefully, anyway.

  “Then I cannae think of but one thing to do to remedy your unfortunate situation,” he replied.

  Her heart sped even more. “What?” she asked, acutely aware of the blood circulating rapidly though her veins, a nervous thrumming.

  He leant forward suddenly, seizing her by her shoulders and pulling her so close that his warm breath rushed against her face. His heart beat against hers, pounding steadily away beneath his bare chest and its sensual black diamond of hair. His vivid blue eyes were full of an intensity that made them difficult to stare directly into. “Marry me,” he said.

  Isla’s mouth fell open, but no sound came out, though not for lack of trying. That was just as well, for Alexander kissed her then, much more deeply than he had by the roadside. His tongue filled her mouth, making speech—and any desire to stop and speak—impossible. She kissed him back, clinging to him as best she could without moving her foot. His body seemed even warmer than it had when he’d carried her, and his hands were like hot coals against her cheeks, holding them firmly as he tangled his fingers with her hair.

  “Marry you?” she gasped raggedly when their lips finally parted.

  Alexander’s eyes looked slightly hazy as they travelled the length of her body, his gaze slowing and lingering without shame over her curves. Isla suddenly wished she wasn’t wearing her cloak, though the thought made her blush.

  “Aye—marry me, Isla.”

  “I…” She searched for words to convey what she was feeling and found none. Marry him? Her enemy, by blood and name? A man who was little more than a stranger to her…or was he? She’d certainly shared more of herself with him than she had with anyone else, and not just the kisses. She’d broken under his blue gaze and let the anguish she’d been carrying inside rush out, bare and ugly before him. And yet he wanted her. She could hear that amazing fact in his voice, gone low with desire, and felt it pulsing in his chest. Marry him. The thought made her head spin and the rain that beaded their surroundings seem suddenly silver to her eyes—brilliant and precious.

  Her arms and legs limbered by a flash of decision, she pulled reluctantly away from his warm, throbbing body and untied the front of her cloak, letting it crumple to the ground behind her, baring her bright hair and eliminating one of the layers between their bodies. Alexander took the cue and drew her into another embrace, reaching to gather her skirts in his hands and began to raise them. She shivered with delight as he touched her thighs, relishing the feel of his callused fingertips against her skin and inhaling his musky scent. Some part of her told her that she should resist, that she should pull back while her oft-doubted virtue was still intact, but it was a very small part. The rest of her wanted to seize her own skirts and throw them over her head and onto the forest floor without pause. If this was what it felt like to be loved, she wanted it. Now. She wanted him. God help her, she did want to marry him, and that wasn’t all she wanted to do with him.

  The cool forest air against her back and Alexander’s fingers fluttering against the thin fabric of her shift, so close to touching the upper curve of her buttocks beneath, told her he’d succeeding in raising her dress to her waist. She shivered again as he shifted his hands to her hips.

  “Ye willnae be cold for long,” he breathed into her ear, causing her skin to pebble all over as he lifted his hands and settled them on her shoulders. Her nipples strained against her bodice, hard and tingling. She leant forward and locked her eyes with his, seeking another kiss. Her lashes descended on her cheek as his lips met hers and he buried his hands in her hair again. The roughness of his lightly stubbled jaw tickled her chin, and his tongue made her lips burn as it pushed past them, searching out hers and entwining with it. Isla pushed back, tasting him and marvelling at the hard smoothness of his teeth against the sides of her tongue. He curled his finger under the edge of her collar, and he pulled it upwards over her arms as she raised them. He paused in his kiss for half a moment to yank the garment over her head, tousling her hair so that it fell over her shoulders in unruly waves. Several minutes passed before he ended their kiss to admire the results.

  Her nipples had hardened even before Alexander had peeled away her dress, exposing them to the cold, stormy air. Now they peeked, pink and prominent, from beneath her shift, showing through the thin fabric, which had been rendered even more translucent than usual by dampness. They seemed to contract beneath his gaze, growing a little harder, as if they would pierce the fabric and be free of the garment altogether.

  He covered her breasts with his hands, holding their weight in his palms. Her nipples were little more than tight, rosy buds against his touch, hardened by cold and arousal. His hands were hot as summer, though, and a fiery flush began beneath them, spreading through her body as if bringing her to life. The sensation would have been frightening, but there was an intoxicating edge to its wonder that stifled any objections she might have had. She wrapped her arms around his neck in welcome of him and the change he would cause in her, pressing her hands against his damp hair.

  Suddenly, he tensed against her.

  She pulled away from him just enough to be able to see his eyes and followed his gaze to where it rested on her shoulder. A bruise darkened her skin there, the yellowish-brown whirl of a healing wound. A light went out somewhere in the depths of Alexander’s eyes and her stomach contracted in response. He touched her bruise softly and she pressed her mouth to his neck, kissing him imploringly. There was still a spark in his touch, and she prayed she’d see it in his eyes again when she opened hers.

  He moved his hands slowly downwards, deliberately brushing her nipples with his thumbs as he went. Reduced to hard, pink pinpoints, they ached for more, but he let his grip trail past them, caressing the round lower curves of her arse as he pressed his palms ag
ainst them. He traced the sides of her thighs, sending shivers of delight down her spine. He didn’t stop there, but continued to simply touch her, his hands flowing over her body until they seemed to be part of her own flesh. Isla recalled something he’d said to her along the roadside, that he was known to have a ‘magic touch’ with horses. She privately thought that whoever had said so had been wrong—he didn’t have a magic touch with horses only, but a magic touch, full stop. She relaxed beneath his hands, fearing she might melt at his knees at any moment. His hands might have been those of some ancient god, or an angel, but certainly not a mere human. Every bit of the skin between her thighs tingled and throbbed. God, when would he touch her there?

  When Alexander had explored nearly every inch of Isla’s body except for the sensitive folds where she most craved his touch, he removed his hands and let them fall into his lap, sighing as his eyes travelled over her hips and breasts. Perhaps he was being teased by the way her wet shift clung to her body, allowing him to see what lay beneath as if he were looking through a foggy window.

  Isla stared back at him, following with her eyes the trail of dark hair that began a couple of inches below his collarbone and narrowed to a tantalising stripe over his belly. The dark ribbon eventually disappeared beneath the folds of his kilt. The fabric throbbed, tented significantly by his erection, his sporran fallen aside to his hip. She quivered as she stared at the raised tartan, unable to look away. The only time she had ever seen a man in such a state before was when she’d been attacked by the brutal Gordon in the fields. He had worn the same tartan, and it had risen in the same way when he’d touched her, pulling her against his body as she’d struggled. She’d feared it then, and had wept when he’d pressed it against her, the bulge threatening to escape the layers of clothing that separated them. Now she still feared it, but she felt something else, too…longing. It was a revelation, but she couldn’t deny it. She wanted more of Alexander’s touch, whatever that meant. Surely he wouldn’t hurt her—not after offering to take his own life in her service. She reached tentatively towards the bulge with a pale, trembling hand.

  His cock felt firm—surprisingly firm—even through the fabric of his kilt. She closed her hand around it as best she could and felt it from end to end. It seemed long, too. Would it really fit inside her? She was a virgin, but she had known for years the basics of how these things worked…only now, she was starting to doubt the practicality of the physical facts that had been explained to her. To think such a thing could disappear into her own flesh! She felt it all the way to its tip again, and Alexander groaned. She blushed and withdrew her hand. Had he liked it, or had she hurt him? The idea that what she’d just heard might have been a sound of pleasure made her heart leap and a delighted flush creep across her cheeks. On the other hand, she was loath to find she’d caused him pain or displeasure. A half-dried stream of blood darkened his breast, evidence of her attack upon him, and guilt surged through her veins, causing tears to prick the corners of her eyes. How could she have wanted to kill him, to miss this?

  “Dinnae stop,” he said quietly, interrupting her fit of guilt.

  She reached out slowly again, her confidence fuelled by his request. He took her hand in his just as her fingertips grazed his kilt, and he guided it beneath, drawing her hand up the inside of his thigh. She watched, wide-eyed, as her scar disappeared beneath the hem. His leg bore plenty of hair, and it thickened noticeably as she inched towards the bulge beneath the tartan, guided by its possessor’s hand. Soon her fingertips met a thick nest of curls, then smooth flesh. It was hot to the touch and felt even firmer than it had when there had been the barrier of his kilt between their skins. He pressed her palm against his hardness and wrapped her fingers around the shaft. She squeezed slightly, establishing her own grip, and he trembled beneath her. Even when he stopped quivering—mostly, anyway—his cock still throbbed beneath her touch, pulsing in time with his heart. Isla realised his was beating as quickly as hers and felt a sense of amazement, of power. How very different this was from her encounter with the other Gordon, her attacker, in the field. Then, she had feared being taken against her will. Now, she almost felt as if she could take him. Maybe the pulsing length of stiff flesh she held wasn’t so fearful—maybe, just maybe, she held some power over it. She shifted her hand, gliding it slowly beneath the cover of his kilt. He really was as hard as a rock, and even longer than she’d first realised. She wondered again how he would fit inside her, but that particular detail seemed less important now. What really mattered was that he would…somehow.

  Alexander groaned, suddenly and deeply, and his hand fell to the dirt, freeing Isla to touch him as she pleased. His fingertips carved deep furrows in the earth as she continued to stroke his cock. “My God Isla,” he said in a strained voice several moments later, “ye must stop.”

  She loosened her hold and withdrew her hand from beneath his kilt, blushing. “I havnae hurt ye, have I?” Guilt assaulted her again.

  He shook his head, sending a few stray strands of his black hair flying. “God, no,” he said.

  Her confidence rose again, spectacularly this time. Had he really liked it that much, so much he couldn’t stand any more? She had never imagined anyone could like being touched that much. “What…what should I do now, then?” she asked.

  He rose to his knees and planted his hands on her hips. “Nothin’, Isla. Just tell me if I hurt your foot…or anythin’ else, all right?”

  Her stomach erupted into a bout of nervous, excited fluttering at the sound of his words and her thoughts of what they might foreshadow. A throbbing deep in her core echoed her wild heartbeat. She nodded as he slid his hands beneath the hem of her shift and began to push it upwards. Her cheeks burnt as he thrust it up over her navel, exposing the fiery hair that grew between her thighs. She pressed her face against his neck. It was easier not to look. The fabric of her shift brushed her nipples as he raised it, and she pressed a kiss against his throat. The cold air wrapped around her bare body like an invisible, icy blanket. Her nipples tightened, her skin pebbled and she craved his warmth. She kissed him harder, tasting his skin with her tongue and letting her teeth scrape the soft, slightly swollen flesh of his lips.

  “Ye must raise your arms,” he breathed.

  She did so, raising her hands above her head and meeting Alexander’s eyes. They burnt like blue coals, making her blush even more deeply. Nobody had ever looked at her like that. If she had not seen it for herself, she would have doubted anyone could look at another person like that, with fire in their eyes but no intention of doing harm. What exactly would it be like to surrender her maidenhood to him? She was halfway there already, her body aching for it, and the thought both excited and worried her. Would she burn beneath his intensity, her flesh seared from her bones beneath the sheer force of his desire? Or was that same fire in her own eyes, evidencing the excitement that was causing the skin between her legs to dampen and her heart to race as her inhibitions burnt away?

  He tossed her shift aside and it fluttered to the ground like a fallen leaf.

  He was still for a moment, drinking in her image with a gaze so intense that she didn’t doubt he’d never forget it. Had it not been for the steady rise and fall of his chest and the pulsing beneath his kilt, he might have been a statue. She nearly jumped when he moved his hands, reaching for her. His touch on her hips was warm, though—even calming. It was impossible not to relax a little when he drew her close. His touch made her crave more and the wanting quelled her fear. Mostly, anyway. She could feel his fierce erection pressing against her belly, its stiff urgency so at odds with his tender touch. It was caught neatly between their bodies and she worried again about how it would feel inside her. Would it hurt? Would it…break her? No—she could feel her body readying for it. She was, it seemed, made for this—for him, his body, his cock. The realisation dispelled the last of her worry and stirred her core. Everything between her bellybutton and her thighs seemed to clench at once, and she swayed, rendered m
omentarily light-headed.

  He placed one hand behind her head and the other against her back, steadying her before he pressed his chest against hers and lowered her softly to the ground. She shivered as her back met the cold earth, and he loomed over her, his kilt more disturbed than ever. He stroked her from shoulder to hip with his left hand while he buried his right in her hair, lowering himself until their lips met. He plunged his hand between her legs as he kissed her, his rough fingertips making her delicate skin tingle as he massaged it. They slid over her skin, which had grown very slippery—something Isla had never experienced until today. It was as if the longing she felt was escaping from her body, beckoning him in.

  A minute thud announced that Alexander had removed his sporran. The leather strap that had secured it had brushed Isla’s thigh as it fell to the ground. She reached out and touched Alexander’s leg, which rested beside her own, and brushed his kilt with her fingertips. She searched for the hem and forced her hand under it when she found it, feeling her way to his groin as he covered her mouth with his and his hair tumbled into her eyes, blinding her. When she grasped his ready cock he moaned, the sound escaping only to be trapped between their lips. She moved her hand from end to end, pausing only to reach beneath and cup his balls. They were heavy and hot in her hand. He kissed her as he continued to touch her, fluttering his fingers in the slick cleft between her legs. He moaned again, and stray wisps of his hair brushed Isla’s cheeks. A hint of wetness met her fingers as she slid them over the blunt tip of his cock, and her hand glided all the more smoothly back down his shaft for it. Then, suddenly, he withdrew his touch, darting his hand below his kilt to seize her wrist.