Perfect Timing

by Catherine Anderson

  Ceara’s lips pursed as she chewed. “Yer cheese is . . .” A blush flagged her cheeks. “Well, ’tis na so rich and flavorful as what we make at home.”

  “It’s low-fat, much better for your heart.”

  Judging by her slight frown, she preferred good taste over healthfulness. Quincy made a mental note to stock the fridge with some whole-fat dairy products. “You actually make your own cheese?” he queried.

  Her eyes widened on his. “Ye do na?”

  He loved the way she spoke, and nearly chuckled. “No, I buy it already made.”

  “Ach!” Her cheek dimpled in a glowing smile. “Ye need a new cheesemaker, Sir Quincy. This isna as good as what we have at home.” As she chewed a bit of cracker, she held up a finger. After swallowing, she said, “And ’twill be me! Yer new cheesemaker, I mean. Ye’ll think ye’ve died and gone to heaven. Me mum’s recipe is grand!”

  He definitely needed to go grocery shopping. Ceara could afford to lose no weight, and she obviously wasn’t going to adapt well to his preferred foods. “I can’t wait to try it.” He could almost feel his arteries preparing for the onslaught. “Maybe I can help you make a batch.”

  When she drained her flute, he sat forward to refill it and then his own. She was well into the second glass when his cell whinnied again. He plucked the phone from his belt to see that it was Clint calling. Or so he hoped. He wanted no more barked orders from Aislinn.

  “Yo,” Quincy said after answering. “How’s it—”

  “Have you gotten the deed done yet?” Clint demanded.

  Quincy was glad he hadn’t turned on the speaker. This experience was bad enough for Ceara without his whole damned family calling in rush orders. “No. It’s what you might call a delicate situation, Clint. We’ll get there. Just give us a reasonable amount of time.”

  “Loni’s worse!” Clint cried, talking so loudly now that Ceara straightened on the chair, giving Quincy the uncomfortable feeling she could hear his brother’s every word. “She’s bleeding from her gums, and pink shit is coming from her eyes. Her pulse feels weak. I’m afraid she won’t make it until morning. I called our hospital here. The ER nurse says they can give her IV fluids and a transfusion if they can find a good vein, but I’d have to take Loni into town for both. She refuses to go. If she’s going to die—and she stresses the if—she wants to be at home with her family.”

  “I can’t get anything accomplished until you get the hell off my phone!”

  Quincy rammed his thumb on the “end” icon, knowing even as his hand shook with anger that he had no business being pissed. Clint was desperate, and he obviously couldn’t spare a thought for what this might be like for Ceara.

  Quincy saw Ceara set aside her glass of champagne, fold the throw, and lay it on the ottoman, so he knew she’d heard Clint’s roaring. She stood and held out her hand to him. He enfolded her fragile fingers in his, rose from the chair, and followed her back to the bed.

  At the foot, she wiggled her hand free. “I am prepared to do me duty. Are ye prepared to do yers?”

  Quincy had no idea how to commence. He yearned to make this at least nice for her, but how the hell could he do that when she was shaky with nerves and his frantic family members were calling for updates?

  Standing before him, she loosened her braid, tossing the leather tie to the floor atop a rumpled towel. In seconds, her glorious red hair flowed around her body like a flaming curtain of rippling heat. As she removed the shirt, Quincy went to turn off the overhead lights, plunging the room into amber-kissed shadows. He couldn’t drag his gaze from her as he closed the distance between them. Maybe, he thought, God knows better than I when it comes to what’s good for me. Ceara was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, her petite but curvaceous body artfully concealed with long, undulating curtains of hair, the parted strands revealing a glimpse of bare hip as creamy and luminous as ivory satin, the dip of her slender waist, the flatness of her belly, and legs so lovely that most men saw their equal only in dreams.

  She scurried to one side of the bed to slip between the sheets. As she lay back, she requested in a tremulous voice, “’Tis grateful I will be, Sir Quincy, if ye’d make short work of this, please. I shall ne’er ask it of ye again, I promise. Me mum says a man quite enjoys his baser pleasures, and it is a wife’s obligation to endure his whims. I will pleasure ye in any fashion ye wish, every other night fer the rest of our lives, but fer tonight, ’tis me wish fer it to be finished quickly.”

  Quincy believed in using a slow hand when he made love to a woman, and he hated to give Ceara short shrift. But as he sat on the opposite edge of the mattress to kick off his boots and shed his clothes, he thought of Loni’s bleeding gums and the pink seepage coming from her eyes. No matter what, he and Ceara needed to get this first time over with as quickly as possible. He glanced down and sent up a quick, silent prayer. His tool was limper than wilted lettuce.

  As he stretched out beside Ceara, who awaited his invasion of her body with closed eyes and a resolute expression, he got a strange, twisting sensation in his chest. Beautiful and brave. He knew in that moment that he no longer questioned the truth of her crazy tale of time travel, and he greatly feared she was in the process of stealing his heart. He’d never met anyone quite like her.

  He was far too old for her. She was far too young for him. Yet when Ceara opened those blue eyes, Quincy saw deep wisdom in their depths. No child, this, but a woman full-grown who was ready to sacrifice herself for the well-being of others—right now Loni, who was little more than a stranger to her. Searching Ceara’s gaze, Quincy knew it was important to her to end this curse. And, damn it, he should be just as committed to ending it. He would never forget the day his mother died from hemorrhaging during labor and then childbirth with his baby sister, Sam . . . the kitchen floor covered with pools of her blood before his dad got to the house and could rush her to the hospital. His eldest brother, Clint, had never really gotten over it. Quincy suspected that Clint blamed himself for their mother’s death, but if so, it was something Clint never discussed.

  This lady wanted to end all that. She was here to save Loni’s life, and the lives of all Quincy’s brothers’ wives, not to mention the wives of future Harrigans. It was a noble intention, which he must keep foremost in his mind. Big problem. In order for him to consummate this marriage, a certain part of his anatomy had to rise to the occasion, and that wasn’t happening.

  As if she sensed Quincy’s dilemma, Ceara turned onto her side and touched her palm to his cheek. “Ye’re a kindly man, Sir Quincy. ’Tis sorry I am that ye’ve been forced into marriage and now must lie with a woman ye do na want.”

  How could she think he didn’t want her? Dear God, she was every man’s dream. “Sweetheart, you’re beautiful. It’s not lack of wanting that bothers me.”

  She trailed her fingertips over his hair, her touch so light he yearned for more. “Push yer troubles from yer mind.”

  Quincy lowered his head and kissed her—a feather-soft pressure of lips, a quick exchange of breath. He felt the tip of one of her breasts graze his chest as he drew her into his arms until only her lovely hair formed a partial barrier between them. He felt her stiffen at the intimate contact of their bodies, but then the tension drained from her, she pressed her face to his neck, and he felt her lips curve in a smile.

  “’Tis not like with pigs,” she whispered with a shaky laugh.

  “What?”

  “Me father’s pigs. ’Tis a terrible sight when one of the gigantic boars corners a first-year sow.”

  Quincy choked back a startled laugh, and then, following instincts he hadn’t known he possessed, he rolled with her in his arms until she lay on top of him. She planted her bony elbows against his armpits and reared back to frown at him. “What is it that ye’re about, Sir Quincy?”

  “Trying my damnedest not to act like a pig,” he replied, barely able to suppress another chuckle. The press of her thatch just above his groin brought Old Glory to attent
ion, and her blue eyes widened when she felt the stiff nudge against her silken thigh. “As I recall, you’re absolutely right. The mating rituals of pigs are a terrible sight. So how’s about you get us lined out here, doing things the way you think will be nice.”

  Her elbows pressed deeper. She shook her head. “Do ye have rocks betwixt yer ears? The wee bit I know about this . . . this process is what me mum told me in private.”

  Quincy splayed one hand over her back, tracing the prominent little bumps of her spine with his forefinger. She shivered, and goose bumps rose on her skin. He made a mental note to revisit that erogenous zone later.

  “Kiss me,” he whispered huskily. “That’s usually the first step.”

  She bent to do that, coming at him nose-to-nose with her first try, which was quickly aborted because his prominent schnozzle got in the way. She backed off and tipped her head to try a new approach, and this time, as her lips barely brushed his, Quincy cupped his free hand over the back of her head, applied gentle pressure, and guided her in for a more satisfying landing. She sighed as he deepened the kiss, exploring the recesses of her mouth, tasting how sweet she was. Then, with no prompting, she slipped her arms around his neck, letting her body melt against his, and returned the kiss with a notable lack of experience but plenty of enthusiasm.

  Magic. Quincy had always searched for it with other women, but never had he found this spark of something inexplicably right. Ceara tasted like honey and champagne. She moaned into his mouth. That was the only signal he needed to forget everything else, let nature take over, and make love to the lady properly. He felt as if he were embracing a sunbeam. She responded as if she belonged in his arms, and only his. He kept trying to remind himself that she was bound to be shy, but he was an experienced lover, and soon he let most of his worries drift away.

  * * *

  Ceara couldn’t think, and at times the sensations Quincy evoked within her were so intense and wondrous, she could barely breathe. His hard, work-roughened hands touched her everywhere, so gently but masterfully that she felt one rush of pleasure after another. She forgot to be afraid. She no longer worried about the strange fancies of some men. In his arms, she felt safer than she ever had, protected on all sides by the heat and strength of him. When he closed his mouth over the tip of her breast, she cried out at the rush of tingling that zigzagged through her, and later, when his hand slipped between her legs to find her most secret and guarded place, she arched to press her pelvis against the heel of his palm, wanting more—and more. A curious tension mounted within her, and with it came need. His masterful fingertips stroked that need to a fiery urgency. She lifted her hips to accommodate him, and then it felt as if she lost control of her body. Her every shred of consciousness centered on the place he touched. As if from a distance, she heard herself panting and crying out. And then, as if controlled by invisible strings, her muscles started to jerk and quiver as a lovely, molten jag of what felt like lightning coursed from his fingertips up through her body.

  Afterward, Ceara went limp, her heart pounding, her skin dewy, her breath coming in uneven gasps. Quincy gathered her close to his chest and feathered soothing kisses over her face, whispering words she couldn’t quite catch, but his tone told her all she really needed to know, notably that what had just occurred was the natural way of things.

  She felt rather than saw him position himself over her. A crinkling sound brought her eyes open. He’d just opened a small, shiny packet, and as she watched, he withdrew a round object. Her mum had warned her of this.

  “Nay,” she protested weakly, and plucked it from his hand to toss it aside. “No sheepskin. ’Tis an act of procreation as well as pleasure. In order fer the curse to be broken, naught must separate us when we join as man and wife.”

  “But, Ceara, I don’t want to get you pregnant. It’s way too soon. We need some time to get better acquainted and enjoy each other’s company.”

  Ceara no longer felt quite so uneasy about what was yet to come, so she looped her arms around his neck and drew him to her. “’Tis a worry fer later. Tonight it is our duty to break the curse, and naught else matters.”

  She felt him tense, and then the resistance left his muscular frame. He pushed up on his elbows to gaze down at her. His eyes glistened, looking different from before, and a flush colored his corded neck. Ceara caught his face between her hands.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, his voice oddly ragged. “And I know I will this first time.”

  Earlier, Ceara had dreaded the virgin’s pain, but now, after experiencing the wonders of being in Quincy’s arms, she no longer felt so frightened. “Women have endured it for centuries,” she assured him. “I’m made no differently than they.”

  “You’re tiny, much smaller than most women today. What if your insides are tiny, too?”

  Ceara’s mum had given birth to five plump babies. “I think me insides are made to stretch. I doubt yer manly part is larger than a newborn babe.” She didn’t allow herself a glance down to check. “Forget about hurting me, Sir Quincy, and get on with it.”

  He laughed weakly. Then he leaned down to kiss her. She felt his manly part growing long and hard again. Mayhap it was as big as a newborn babe—or bigger. But before Ceara could collect her thoughts enough to become frightened, he pressed himself partway into her. Her passage was slick and ready for him, but the fit was tight. Ceara knew that he had prepared her well, though. When he nudged gently against the barrier of her virginity and hesitated, she clasped his narrow hips, bumped up with her own, and brought the entire length of him into her. Her body clenched with that first, tearing stab of pain. But it ebbed quickly, and she sighed.

  “’Tis good,” she told him. “Ye’ve given me pleasure. Now ye must find yers.”

  Ceara expected to feel little pleasure herself from this moment on. But when Quincy drew back and then plunged forward again, explosions of delight went off deep within her. Limned by golden firelight, his muscular arms and shoulders glistened as richly as seasoned English elm polished to a high sheen. Beautiful, she thought. And then she forgot everything—absolutely everything. At some point, Quincy’s muscles snapped taut, bunching the full length of his body, and his thrusts deepened with enough force to push her upward on the bed.

  The jolts of delight within her became stronger. Her vision went dark until all she saw were bright sparkles. And for the second time, a burning need built within her, a need so great that she found his rhythm and started pushing up with her hips to meet his thrusts. They reached the pinnacle together, both of them crying out and then going limp in each other’s arms, their skin slick, their hearts pounding, his a hard, vibrating slam against her breast, hers quicker and out of time.

  Even so, as Ceara drifted over the edge of exhaustion into blissful sleep, she decided that their heartbeats harmonized beautifully, creating a perfect lullaby to carry her off into dreams.

  Chapter Eight

  Quincy didn’t know how long he and Ceara slept, but when he wakened, it was still dark beyond the windows, the fire had burned down to a red glow that barely lit the room, and he was flat on his back with his bride lying on top of him like a soft blanket that was too short to cover his ankles and feet. Her weight was so slight that he felt pretty sure he could endure the burden all night—if it weren’t for the fact that the pressure of her body against him had rekindled his desires and nudged him from dreamland into passion.

  Not happening, he warned himself. Having sex with a man out of duty was something no woman should have to endure even once, let alone twice in a row. From this moment forward, he would insist that Ceara come to him out of desire, which could happen only with time and the development of deep feelings between them.

  As if she sensed his wakefulness, she stirred and lifted her head to peer at him through the gloom. Quincy saw her eyes widen when she realized they lay skin-to-skin, with his thigh riding between her legs. As if poked with a sharp pi
n, she jerked, scrambled off him, and grappled with the rumpled sheet to cover herself. When her body was concealed, she sent him a wary look through the shadowy gloom. In all his days, Quincy couldn’t recall starting his day with the sight of a sweeter or lovelier face.

  “Good morningtide,” she said.

  “And to you, but I don’t think it’s quite morning yet.”

  She snuggled down on her side of the bed, finding a cushion for her cheek on the other pillow. Clearly, their earlier intimacy was something she wanted to pretend hadn’t happened. Quincy lacked practice when it came to morning-after shyness. In fact, he’d made it his policy never to hang around very long after having sex with a woman. He was more a “that was great, and where’s my hat?” kind of guy. The mere thought of his belt buckle wearing a spot on some female’s bedpost gave him the jitters, and he was always careful to select partners who sought mutual pleasure and understood that it came with no strings attached.

  This time there were definitely strings, and if he guessed right, Ceara might already be regretting that. He wondered if it was because he’d performed poorly as a lover and she dreaded having to endure more of his advances. His mind still foggy with sleep, he couldn’t formulate the words needed to assure her that he didn’t expect a repeat performance anytime soon.

  Settling on his side to face her, he said, “We’ve done our duty now, Ceara. Nobody can expect more from us than that. Loni will either get well now, or she won’t. How you and I move forward from here will be entirely up to us.” He rubbed a hand over his eyes, wishing he’d phrased that better. “More precisely, it will be mostly up to you. I won’t be forcing my attentions on you merely because we’re married. That sort of intimacy should stem only from mutual desire. Don’t you agree?”