The MacKinnon's Bride

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  She felt him then, unmistakably male, and her breath caught. Though she trembled at the proof of his desire, she exulted in it as well. For no matter what else he might feel for her, this, Page knew, could scarce be denied.

  He did want her.

  As a man wanted a woman.

  The knowledge thrilled her.

  Once again his mouth covered hers, achingly tender, tasting, caressing, suckling, coaxing, and it was all Page could do to cling to him while he savored her lips in that slow, erotic way that snatched her breath and whetted her senses. She felt the passion he held in restraint in the shuddering of his body, in the way that he gripped her arm and urged her backward into the room while he kissed her, and was wholly undone by it.

  “I need you,” he whispered, removing his breacan and jerking it free, casting it to the floor. “So much...”

  Page couldn’t reply, too overcome was she by the power of his words.

  His hand splayed across her back, lowered to her bottom, pressing her more solidly against his arousal. He held her there, and his lips slid to her cheek, to her temple. “D’ ye feel how much?” he whispered at her ear.

  “Aye,” Page answered, swallowing.

  “Och, lass...” She felt his jaw tauten against her face, heard him swallow, and felt her throat convulse with overwhelming emotion.

  “Jesu,” Page croaked, her eyes closing, her heart pounding madly. She wanted him to want her.

  Wanted him to make love to her. So very much.

  “I need you to tell me what it is you wish me to do...”

  Page shook her head, unable to voice her single coherent thought.

  “D’ ye wish me to stop?” he asked her.

  “Nay,” she answered at once.

  Never did she wish him to.

  He growled, a sound of immense satisfaction, and bent to sweep her up into his arms suddenly. Page gasped, clinging to him. Her heart hammered fiercely as he bore her to the fur-strewn bed and laid her down upon it.

  Standing before her, he drew his tunic up and over his head, and the sight of him, magnificent in his nakedness, filled her with awe. She swallowed.

  “Now, lass... I’m gain’ to show you how ‘tis really done,” he promised, straddling her and trapping her beneath him. His smile was utterly wicked.

  Without another word, he bent to kiss her, and Page thought she would draw her final breath, so profoundly did the touch of his lips affect her.

  For the briefest instant, she forgot even how to respond.

  “Open for me,” he demanded. “I want to taste you,” he whispered seductively against her lips. Page obeyed, shivering at his whispered words. “That’s it,” he murmured, coaxing her lips and her heart. He dipped his tongue gently within her mouth. “Mmmnnnnnn,” he whispered.

  Page’s heart jolted. Tentatively, her heart hammering fiercely, she gave him her own tongue to spar with, taking his example, wanting to give back equal measure. She wanted to please him. Dear God, she wanted to please him. Lifting her hands to his chest, she allowed her fingers to roam his shoulders and tangle within his hair.

  “Ah, Christ,” he hissed, and groaned, wrapping his arms about her and rolling with her unexpectedly. “I believe I’ve changed my mind,” he revealed. He grinned engagingly as he settled her atop him. “Make love to me,” he urged her. She froze, as though unsure she’d heard correctly, and he tossed his hands playfully. “I’m yours,” he declared with a wink. “Do wi’ me what you will.”

  Iain thought she looked terrified, and he suppressed a chuckle. His grin widened, and he lifted a brow in challenge. “You might even torture me if it please you.”

  At once her beautiful lips broke into an impish smile, and she asked, “I can do anything?”

  “Anything’ at all,” he assured. What better way to be certain she dictated their lovemaking?

  Her brown eyes flickered with mischief. “And what if I should, indeed, decide to torture you?”

  Iain’s heart lurched. His eyes narrowed with infinite pleasure over the wicked possibilities that flashed through his thoughts. “Then I should die a contented man,” he disclosed. And God help him, he thought he just might.

  His hands slid beneath the hem of her gown, guiding it up her bare calves. His body quickened painfully at the delicious feel of the warm, soft flesh beneath his fingertips.

  Still, she hadn’t moved, merely watched him, her breasts rising and falling with her every breath, her expressive eyes wide and anticipating. When he reached her thigh, she suddenly reached out, stilling his hand.

  For the space of a heartbeat, Iain thought she meant to refuse him, and then she slid his hand away, smiling softly as she did.

  His heart stilled as she lifted herself enough to tug the gown from beneath her. It snatched free of their bodies and she drew the gown up, slowly, teasing him. The wench. His heart hammered fiercely. He dared not look away, wanting to miss nothing as she tugged the gown up and over her head. She flung it aside, and with it came free the gold braided binding from her hair. Like strands of silken thread, her beautiful tresses cascaded down to cover her exquisite breasts. It was all he could do not to reach out and brush it aside, expose her to his hungry eyes once more.

  Ah, but Christ, it was the look in her eyes that made his heart quicken painfully. Pleasure. There was no mistaking it. She took immense pleasure in revealing her body to him—though no more than he did in watching her do so.

  She was beautiful.

  Exquisite.

  And God, but he wanted her... now... this moment... madly.

  Reaching out, he grasped her by the waist and lifted her from his body, eager to take her. She gasped softly, and then again when he settled her over his shaft. His body trembling, he guided her down over him. “Ride,” he bade her, his jaw taut with savage pleasure as he watched the rapturous expression come over her face while she sheathed him fully.

  Her head fell slightly back, her eyes closed.

  The sight of her drunkened him.

  “Marchaich mo ghradh,” he murmured, lapsing into the old tongue as he cast his head back against the bed to savor the feel of her body enclosing him. “Ride, my love,” he whispered.

  For an instant Page was too overwhelmed by the feel of him filling her body so completely to hear, much less understand, his behest, and then he spoke so passionately in his guttural tongue—some strange endearment that prickled her senses and made her bold. Warmth flooded her from within, flowing there from that region where they were joined.

  And then he repeated his wicked demand, and a shudder shook her. Sweet Jesu, scandalized though she might be by his bawdy request, followed by those words... my love... she knew she would do anything at all... if only he asked.

  She wanted to please him—that was all that she wished. Nothing more.

  His hands gripped her hips, guiding her movements, gently at first, and tentatively Page began to move with him. She was rewarded with a deep moan of satisfaction from Iain MacKinnon’s sensual lips.

  “Aye, lass,” he whispered. “That’s it.”

  Page continued to move atop him, marveling at the power of her woman’s body. Her breathing belabored and her heart pounding madly at the sight of him lying so powerless beneath her, she took immense satisfaction in every groan of pleasure she elicited from his lips. Every sigh.

  And then he suddenly abandoned her to her own pace. His head cast to one side, his jaw taut, he allowed her to move at her own will, while his hands slid upward, exploring her breasts, her sides, her shoulders... her face. He drew her down and kissed her deeply, and dear God, wanton though she might feel, she closed her eyes and abandoned herself wholly to carnality.

  His hands left her face. Like flittering butterflies they explored her shoulders once more, moved down to cup her breasts, kneading them gently, his fingers masterful in their stroking, and Page thought she would die from so much pleasure.

  And all the while, he kissed her deeply, the most exquisite, heartrending, te
nder 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 27

  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 moments before.

  Had she ever thought herself immune to him? How could s
he 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.