He followed her tug even though he shook all over like he had the ague. Her fingers went to the tie on his kilt. His mouth opened to say this wasn't a good idea, but the words that emerged were “Sweet merciful Jesus.” It might have been a prayer or a plea, but it wasn’t no. Her deft hands had him bared in a flash. His kilt fell and he didn't make the motion of his hands or say the syllable that would have stopped her. They stood bared to each other for the first time. He stumbled backwards, nearly falling before his back met the tree.
Heather quirked a brow in silent inquiry.
“My love, I can't take you now. I will not dishonor you before we take our vows. You deserve to walk the aisle a virgin, and I will not take that from you. So please, toss me my kilt and we will both dress and have some dinner and then I’ll take you back.” His tone was cajoling as he cupped his hand to catch the garment she didn't throw.
She was amused that he didn’t trust himself enough to walk forward the three or four steps it would take to reach his kilt. His weakness imbued her with strength and for the first time she understood the female power that Viv ranted about so often. This strong-willed leader of men was at her mercy. Female she was and virgin she might be for a few more moments but she held sway over the warrior who could have broken her with one hand.
“If you want it, you’ll have to come and get it.”
“That would be a bad idea, love. If I get that close to you, I fear its not my kilt I’ll take.”
She smiled and spread her legs. He stumbled and grasped a limb either for support or to restrain his progress. She slowly took her index finger and wet it in her mouth. He shook his head and reinforced his denial with his words. “No, baby. Don’t.”
She knew where she needed him so she took the wet finger and slowly trailed it down through her brown rainbow, slowly making the trek to the plump outer lips of her cleft. She let the finger play there and smiled in surprise that she could rouse herself, but that wasn’t the goal. “I need you here, love.”
She didn’t know it was the first time she'd used the word.
Nial knew. "Love, you called me love. Thank God and his angels and all the faeries in the universe and mostly, thank you, love of my life, bearer of my soul." As he murmured his gratitude in a spiel of words that became softer and more incomprehensible he leapt forward, pushing her to the ground. There was nothing sophisticated or worldly about the man above her now. This was the primitive warrior. All of the masks were tossed away, and she saw him shaking with the force of his urges as he positioned himself above her.
Still, he paused, and the effort he made to take the time to ask her the question was visible. “Are you sure?”
She smiled and said yes and he surged inside only the tiniest bit before he stopped again. This time, the pain of waiting throbbed in his voice as he asked, “Do you love me, Heather?”
“Yes, Nial. I have always loved you.”
As though he waited for that, he surged forward, unable to take the time to prepare her more, and the mutter he uttered changed from words of gratitude to words of intent. "I must take you, brand you, mark you as mine, all mine."
At the instant he changed her from virgin to woman, his eyes locked with hers. “I love you Heather, my fate, my fantasy, my mate, my life.” She told herself that she would only believe those words for this single moment. Still, they poured like a healing salve over the rips and tears in her soul from years of inferiority, brutal taunts and jeers and his betrayal. Despite that, she grimaced from the pain of his invasion, from the breech of her maidenhead. He saw the grimace and halted, closing his eyes for a long moment before he started again, accompanying his now gentle thrusts with laps and nips of her breasts so that they sailed over the sun together.
Afterwards, he gathered her close, and whispered his love for her and his dreams for their future. Then he caressed her hair and asked, “Don’t you think we should set a wedding date, love?”
Set a wedding date? Her insecurity showed in her eyes as she replied, “I haven’t agreed to marry you, Nial. You're getting ahead of yourself.”
"Am I?" He asked in an odd tone as he tucked her chin under his head to hide the steely determination in his eyes that proclaimed otherwise.
Over their lovers’ feast, which he insisted be eaten in the nude – he spent more time looking at her than eating – he brought up the subject of her reticence to allow him to see her breasts. She nibbled on a strawberry as he asked about it and her hand shook, which he saw. She thanked her maker that he couldn't see the quivering mass her insides became at the inquiry.
“Nial,” she said, reluctantly meeting his eyes, “I’ve always known I was odd, ugly, strange and inferior. When we traveled to Kilcuillin that time, I'd convinced myself that you would be the man who could overlook the odd outside and appreciate me as a person. The me inside.”
“I don't know who convinced you that you were odd, but they used the wrong word, love. You are not odd, you are exotic, extraordinary, unique.” She stared at the fruit in her hand, which still quivered. She closed her eyes and wished that he'd leave the subject alone.
“Darling, do you remember what I first called you at Almack’s?”
“You called me a panther.”
“Yes. Most women are like tabby cats. They are rather cute in the same way. A panther is a cat too, but it’s nothing like a tabby. A panther is beautiful in an exotic, sensually enticing way. You are a panther.”
She looked at him, framed now in moonlight, and saw that he was serious. He thought she was exotic and beautiful. A panther. Suddenly she felt like one, sensual and exotic and mischievous, in the way of such regal felines. The moon twinkled above them so she knew it was late and they should have been gone long ago. But she didn’t feel like leaving, she felt like Nial. She rolled onto her back, with her golden eyes shining wildly and said, “Make me purr.”
“Gladly,” he said and came to her immediately.
He kissed her tenderly before, with the glint of mischief in his eyes too, he slid down between her legs and put his face to the wild mass of brown hair guarding the seat of her passion. She gasped and tried to push him away, but he only smiled, tilted his head up to wink at her, and returned to his forbidden feast. She stopped trying to push him away after a couple of the pointed forays of his tongue. Soon she panted and urged him on, grasping his head to keep him there. He brought her to a peak and then entered her as she still throbbed and still said his name, over and over.
They returned home with the greatest reluctance.
“This is complete idiocy,” Nial said savagely as the coach neared her Aunt and Uncle’s. She had sensed his turn of mood earlier but hadn’t commented.
“What is complete idiocy?” She steeled herself for the words that would call the most wondrous day of her life a game or worse, a mistake.
“Returning you here is idiocy. You are mine and you belong with me,” he snarled.
“You’re moving a little fast, Nial.”
“Fast? If we were in Scotland you’d have had my name last night. This night and every one that followed would find you in my arms and in my bed where you belong,” he sputtered. “I’ll play your game, love, but not for long.”
He walked her to the door, and paused for a lengthy farewell that grew so heated she pressed her face into his neck and told him she could feel the press of his need against her. Then she swiveled wickedly and he stepped back, holding her face between both hands. "If you keep that up, my love, I'll toss you over my horse and carry you across the border to the nearest kirk." He sighed and asked, “I presume you will insist on going to the Bascombe ball tomorrow night?
“Of course. I haven’t had a chance to test that Maclee swipe yet,” she said with a tilted smile that only pretended to tease.
"Don't you think you'd have gotten it by now, sweetheart?"
"No," she said with a determined quirk of her brow. "But then many hands play over you in private without getting that swipe, don't they? The hands
of loose women, deprived widows and even a witch or two precede mine in private play. A public touch differs from all that for it marks possession - a female form of branding that no Maclee laird tolerates."
"Again, I remind you love, every Maclee laird, including this one, will tolerate that female branding from one set of hands," he said, holding her hands to his lips. "If not for my own vast stupidity you would already know that I am yours and only yours to possess and brand and mark at will."
"That is an easy claim to make in private. 'Twill be intolerable in public for a Maclee laird trained since toddling to allow only one set of hands such liberties."
“Then, love, I will be by to pick you up, ” he said, consigning himself willingly to an evening of unrelenting public arousal. “Lass, one warning about the ball.”
“What warning, Nial?” .
“I’m not English.”
“And just what does that mean, my braw Scottish laird?”
“The bloody English rules that bind their ton do not bind me,” Nial said before he turned and left, still muttering about the idiocy of leaving the woman whose place in the world was under his arm and close to his heart.
It was, perhaps, better for his peace of mind that he didn't hear her quiet whisper agree with his sentiment. "Those rules don't bind me, either."
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The following evening, Heather dressed to arouse.
She didn’t consider herself a debutante, and, as Nial said, she wasn’t constrained by the rules here anyway, which was fortunate. She wore red, a deep, dark sinful red that picked up the auburn tones in her hair. The neckline started at the outer curve of her shoulder and circled her breasts, and in the cleft of her bosom dipped down in an oval so low it nearly reached her naval. It was daringly low, even by ton standards, and with the aide of her corset’s thrust, her udders swelled over the top of the gown, giving the illusion that they might – just might – overflow at any moment.
Wispy sheer red sleeves swirled about and revealed her entire arms, if she moved just so. A daring insert of the sheer red fabric at the sides gave glimpses of her leg. The garment had no back to speak of because the fabric started barely above her bottom. With it she wore the rubies that her mother had insisted on buying, saying, “We must celebrate your entry into the world, my darling daughter, ” upon their arrival to London.
Her pelisse, the most important accessory, she donned in her room when Viv dashed in, saying, “Nial is here and he looks yummy enough to eat.” She didn’t want him to see the gown before they arrived at the ball because he would pretend to be upset and jealous at the thought of her displaying herself for other men. She had to force him to admit that he played a game with her before her silly heart actually believed that “Heather the hag” could be his fated mate. She suspected he felt guilty for his earlier actions and treatment, but guilt could never build a strong marriage. If she wed him, she would be destroyed when Nial met his fate.
Best to nip this in the bud, so tonight she prepared for battle. When he saw her outfit at the ball, he would pretend to be upset, because the role he played required that response. He would likely even pretend passion, as he had last night. But regardless of his absurd claim that Heather would never know the Maclee swipe, she knew that her behavior tonight would force the truth.
She walked downstairs sedately, and tried not to look impressed at how glorious Nial looked turned out in formal black. This one had been tailored for him. He had looked grand in the borrowed attire he wore to Almack’s but tonight, he looked dangerously sexy, and altogether too enticing. She could not allow his appearance to undermine her resolve. Like yanking a bandage off a wound, it would hurt less to end this quickly. No matter that she'd be miserable away from him, she'd be destroyed if she spent years deluding herself into believing she had a happy marriage. Especially after he tried to resist the natural urges he would have towards his fated mate. Soon enough, guilt would fade and she would become the jailer he hated.
******
She didn’t realize how long she spent standing at the foot of the stairs gazing at him but he surely did. Abruptly, he said, “Bloody almighty hell with this,” and strode over to take her in his arms for a passionate kiss in full view of her parents, her Aunt and Uncle, Viv and Peter. The outbreak of coughing, throat clearing and even a high pitched sneeze from Viv didn’t phase him. He didn’t lift his mouth from hers until she forgot anyone else was in the room.
His mouth left hers and trailed across her cheek to her ear, where he nibbled as he whispered, “Lord I missed you, love.” He rested his forehead against the top of her head.
She whispered, “It’s only been a day.”
“Sweetheart, this day lasted decades.”
At another loud bout of coughing from her Mother, Nial lifted his head with a grin, placed both hands on her shoulders in a message of possession and said, “Lady Bonnie, you really should have Heather mix you a tonic for that cough.”
To Carrick, he merely raised a brow in silent inquiry, and did not move until the other man lifted a brow and shrugged his shoulders. The exchange was the equivalent of an hour-long verbal battle between an Englishman who anticipated marriage vows with a beloved daughter, and her father who at long last decided that at least the right man compromised her. Both men were Scottish enough to convey all that needed to be said in seconds without a saying a word.
Nial placed a hand to her waist and urged her towards the door, saying, “We will see you at the ball.”
Peter rather admiringly tossed out, “I’m not sure I’d bet on that.”
Nial replied, “If it were up to me you would be exactly right.”
He guided her to the carriage and helped her inside. Then he sank to the seat beside her while he gathered her close all in one motion. His mouth was on hers again before the door closed. The coach jerked to a stop far too soon. Nial lifted his mouth, saying, “We could let Peter win his bet,” but she smiled and shook her head no. She was bound and damned determined that she would get the Maclee swipe if she petted him enough, publicly enough.
He grinned at the futility of her quest. He’d drop his trousers and let her bring him to peak with her hands in full view of the lot of the English snobs if it took that to convince her of the truth. She couldn’t provoke him into swiping her away, but he anticipated enjoying every minute of her provocation. How far would his bold lass go?
He tried to remember that he had been grinning a second ago when they got inside and she tossed her pelisse to a footman. Her garment made her the living embodiment of sensual enticement. No hidden messages here, it was all front and center. Between the cut of the dress and whatever blasted chemise she wore, not only did her breasts look ready to pop out, they were squeezed together so that the cleft between them said ‘come suck me.’ His mouth went dry in his desire to lick that cleft, and keep licking until his mouth drenched the silk over her nipples and roused them to turgid peaks. She didn't have to lay a finger on him to get him aroused because the sight of her packed into that dress changed his blood flow so quickly he had trouble standing upright.
Someone jostled his elbow as he stood gaping at her like a schoolboy, and he turned to find three other recent arrivals enjoying the view as well. That awoke Nial’s possessive instincts easily enough and he stepped in front of his lady to block their view. “Gentlemen, I have one question for you. Would you prefer to wear your privates home or leave with them stuffed in your mouths?” He said the words in a monotone, but his expression provided the emphasis – the same one he wore before he thrust his sword into an opposing warrior. A single glance at his face let them know that his statement was a promise and not a threat, and they decided no view, however well framed it might be, merited the price he demanded.
His jaw set as he seized her elbow and pushed her in front of him down a quiet hallway. He propelled her into a room that turned out to be a study and kicked the door closed behind him. He shoved her to the wall and pressed forward until hi
s erection ground into her. He spread his hands spread on either side of her head to support himself, to imprison her, or both. He didn’t look happy. He looked turned on and pissed off to be turned on.
“What are you wearing?” He leaned down to get so close to her face that his eyes filled her vision. “How dare you display yourself like this!” He cupped each breast, squeezing as he spoke. “These are mine. Got it? Mine. They are mine and you are mine. I don’t want other men looking at what fate, nature, God and I, most of all I, think, believe, and damned well know is intended for my eyes alone.”
The outrageously visible milky white expanse of her breasts distracted him, and aroused him, moderating his motions to sliding, gliding caresses that soon had her panting for breath. With each pant, the globes lurched up and he flicked his thumbs over the pebbled nipples unwillingly. He closed his eyes and sighed, with an expression of dismay at his vulnerability to her. With a grimace, he forced himself to step away, taking three steps backwards. At the third he nearly stumbled over his own feet, floored anew by the seduction of her in that dress. It begged a man’s hands to slip inside to feel whether the fruit could really be as ripe as it appeared.
Begged a man’s hands. Begged any man’s hands. His jealous rage rose again and he clung to it, nurturing it because he needed it to intimidate her into realizing her grievous error in dressing in such a manner. He refused to tolerate her wearing attire that transformed her into temptation on the hoof. He would work on intimidating her any second now. First, he had to stop leering at her. How long had it been since he blinked, anyway? Distance. He needed more distance. He just wasn’t far enough away. He crossed to the other side of the room, with his back to the door.
A Faerie Fated Forever Page 17
