His grip loosened on her wrists, even as he tightened his hold on her hip, pulling her closer against his cock.
“Aye, lass?” he managed with a choked voice, dropping his forehead to hers. “What do ye need?”
Oh God.
“I need…”
With a moan, she pulled her hands free and dropped them to her sides, frantically pulling her gown up, desperate to press her fingers into her aching core.
But somehow, his kilt became tangled with her skirts, and instead of lifting her silk, she lifted his plaid.
And then she was standing, pressed against the tree, holding his kilt above his thighs, and she stopped thinking.
Reaching for his thickness was instinctual, and as her fingers wrapped around it, he sucked in a startled gasp and reared back.
But she didn’t give him time to object; didn’t want him to back away, not when she was finally able to explore what she’d seen a fortnight ago in his ancestral great hall.
It took both her hands to hold him, to cup his bollocks, as he stared at her in disbelief.
“Skye, I—”
“Shh.” She leaned forward and planted a kiss on his jaw, which was as far as she could reach.
But when he surrendered with a groan and leaned forward once more, resting his weight on the hand which was braced against the tree above her head, she placed a kiss on his neck. Then his throat, then his chest.
Blessed Virgin, his skin tasted as good as his lips did!
And his cock…?
She slid one hand along its length, marveling at how smooth it was for something so hard. She’d seen it, and felt it pressing against her. But holding it was entirely different.
It was everything she’d hoped it would be.
“Skye…” He groaned again, closing his eyes, as he dropped his head forward.
He was entirely at her mercy, and that knowledge was more arousing than anything else.
“I want ye, Dunc,” she whispered, barely audible. She was breathing too hard to know if he heard her, though she wasn’t all too sure she wanted him to. “I have since— God help me, I want ye!”
From the way he swallowed—the stubbled column of his throat moving heavily so close to her lips—she knew he’d heard her for sure this time. She continued to stroke him, marveling at the moisture which had gathered at the tip of his cock, her fingertip spreading it around.
“This isnae— Skye…”
The way he moaned her name reached down between her thighs and pulled hard. She dropped one hand away from his cock to reach for her own core through the layers of silk and linen. She cupped herself, pushing the heel of her hand against her bead of pleasure, and pressing her fingertips into her wet warmth.
He must’ve seen what she was doing, because with a sudden curse, he pushed away from the tree. But instead of leaving her, instead of pulling away, he dropped one hand atop hers, and his other hand…
Well, he wrapped his other hand around hers, where it curled around his cock.
And then he was staring at her, his face curiously blank as he showed her how to stroke, faster and faster, his cock caught between them. The fingers of his other hand curled around hers, as thick and strong as the rest of him, pressing her gown into the center of her pleasure.
The pressure was building under the heel of her hand, under his fingers. Instinctually, she flexed against the sensation, her pelvis moving in the same pattern as her hand on his cock. Her chest tightened as the pleasure built inside her, more and more desperate for release.
The pace of their breathing increased, matching one another, until his breath caught completely.
And then wet warmth spilled over her hand, and she twitched forward.
The knowledge she’d just brought him to release, while holding his gaze, sent her over the edge. As her lips parted on a little whimper, she came undone against his hand as well.
Both of them jerked toward one another, breathing heavily, as they broke their staring contest.
She planted her forehead against his shoulder, and he loosened her hand—her pleasure—to prop his hand above her head and lean against the tree once more.
“St. Simon’s tits, Skye!” came his strangled whisper. “Ye just jerked me off like—”
Like a whore?
Her face hidden against him, she didn’t bother holding in her wince. Still, she wasn’t one to back down, and as he’d noted, she was impulsive.
“Like what?” she mumbled the challenge.
“Like I was a green lad,” he finished with a sigh, lifting his head. “Do ye ken how long ‘tis been since I soiled my kilt this way?”
Well, if he wanted to joke about it…
She lifted her head too, her heartbeat still not back to normal yet. “Dinnae fash. I think as long as ye wash the damn thing yerself, yer mam will never ken.”
The laugh which whooshed out of him was part surprised, part sarcastic, as he straightened away from the tree.
“I am sorry I put ye in a position to think—”
She never found out what he was apologizing for, because hoofbeats interrupted them.
Duncan spun around, his kilt falling back into place as he crouched slightly and flexed his arms, standing between her and whatever danger approached.
But as her men rode into sight, she stepped out from behind him, meeting Fergus’s gaze and willing him to understand she was fine.
“Fooking poor timing,” Duncan muttered, his hands curled into fists.
She hummed, doing her best to surreptitiously straighten her gown and pluck leaves from her hair. “I dinnae ken. Ten minutes ago, I would’ve called it ‘fooking poor timing.’ ”
His grunt sounded as though it might’ve been an agreement as he straightened from his crouch.
“Milady!” Fergus shouted, swinging down from his horse before the thing had fully stopped. “Are ye hurt? Did this honied fruit-cake of a custard hurt ye?” His eyes frantically darted across her ripped gown, to her swollen lips. “I’ll kill the tarting bastard!”
Yesterday, she’d been ready to steal Duncan’s gold and leave him. Today, now…
Skye straightened her shoulders and took a deep breath. After the time she’d spent with him yesterday, the way he’d protected her and cared for her, even though she was his prisoner, the way she’d come apart under his fingers and felt his release in her hand…?
Well, saying things had changed would be the mildest way to put it.
“Peace, Fergus,” she called, one palm out. Her gaze took in the rest of her men, who’d now appeared. “I am well.”
She stepped up beside Duncan, shoulder to shoulder, and prepared to lie.
“Duncan Oliphant is my brother-in-law.” More or less. “And my time with him has reminded me of my responsibilities, even if he is no’ a MacIan.”
Atop his huge horse, Bean shifted uneasily. “Milady?” he rumbled; his big hand clasped around the hilt of his broken sword.
She gentled her tone. “Give Duncan back his gold, Bean.” Her gaze swept her men. “All of ye.”
Fergus glared at Duncan. “What did ye do?”
And Duncan, bless him, merely shrugged. “My master’s art for the return of yer mistress. ‘Twas the deal all along.”
“Fig tart,” Fergus muttered, then whirled back to the other men and jammed his sword into the scabbard.
Skye had just enough time to exchange a glance with Duncan—filled with uncertainty and about a thousand things she wished they’d had time to say to one another—before Fergus began to bark orders.
“Ye heard the plumcake! Hand it back over! Come on, Rabbie!”
With various levels of grumbling, the men pulled out Duncan’s gold and tossed or handed it to Fergus. Beside her, she could feel Dunc holding his breath.
The older man at last turned back, his cupped hands brimming with the gold jewelry, and was glaring daggers at Duncan, who slowly exhaled in relief.
But was he relieved to have his master’s art back,
or relieved to be getting rid of her?
“Oatcake!” Fergus cursed, tossing the gold to the ground in front of Duncan.
But instead of bending to pick it up, he—the man who’d just brought her the most intense climax she could recall—turned to look at her. His dark eyes were inscrutable, but she thought she saw sorrow in their depth.
Sorrow he was getting what he wanted?
Or, like her, was he sorry their time together had been interrupted?
Still, she couldn’t allow him to think she lacked control…control over her men or over her own emotions.
He called ye impulsive.
But she didn’t have to be.
So instead of grabbing his ears and pulling him down into another soul-searing kiss, she lifted her chin and reminded herself she was in control. “What took ye clot-heids so long? I was stuck with this pile of dog’s vomit for too long. Ye were supposed to come after us!”
It was Rabbie who whined, “ ’Twasnae our fault, milady.”
Crossing his arms in front of his chest, Pierre controlled his horse with only his knees. “Je pense que j'ai une éruption cutanée sur mes fesses.”
Bean nodded. “Aye, Hoarse Harold is a right pickle.”
“Hoarse Harold?” Skye’s gaze slammed back to Fergus. “Ye ran into Hoarse Harold?”
The older man looked abashed as he hooked his thumbs into his belt and hung his head. “Aye, milady. No’ long after we fetched the horses and came after ye, he and his fig tart men stopped us.”
When he paused his story, Skye lurched toward him, her arms out. “And?”
Fergus shrugged. “And what?”
“And what bloody well happened?” Her eyes darted over her men, looking for wounds, and when she found none, she began to breathe easier. “He didnae take Dunc’s gold or yer purses?”
“Nous avons battu Harold comme une laitière faisant du beurre!”
She didn’t even bother glancing at Pierre, but kept her attention on Fergus, who shrugged again.
“He only had two tarting henchmen with him, and both of them will need priest robes.”
Skye gaped. “Ye killed them?” she whispered.
In all her time as a highwayman, she and her men had killed no one. They hadn’t even seriously harmed a victim.
But Hoarse Harold’s men didn’t really count, did they?
It was Rabbie who answered proudly. “We didnae kill them, but I cut one of them badly. Bean knocked the other one senseless.”
“But…” She shook her head. “The priest?”
“Ils portaient des robes!”
Fergus nodded. “They were all dressed in custardy monk’s robes. Or priests. I can’t berries-and-cream tell the difference, can I? Anyhow, they bled all over them and will need new ones.”
Blessed Virgin.
Skye blew out a breath and glanced at Duncan. He stood now, his arms folded across his chest, eying her men, clearly not caring about their brush with one of the Highland’s most notorious highwaymen.
She tried not to notice the way his position accentuated his shoulders, or the way it made the muscles in his strong arms bulge.
She tried not to think of the way those callused hands would feel upon her skin.
She failed, and judging from the way his brow twitched at her, he knew it.
Whirling back to her men, she stalked to where Bean held the reins to her horse. “Did ye bring Duncan’s sword?”
“Ye mean the pile of dog’s vomit’s sword, milady?”
The giant’s tone was innocent, but she could tell he was teasing her. “Aye, that one,” she snapped.
“Nay, but I brought mine.”
Bean patted the hilt in his scabbard, and she forced an approving nod, knowing that’s what he hoped for, before swinging herself up onto the saddle.
They’d returned Duncan’s gold. They’d escaped Hoarse Harold’s clutches.
And Skye?
Well, Skye suspected her life had changed significantly within the last day. Since she’d opened her eyes to see a concerned Duncan Oliphant bending over her, she knew she was in trouble.
Since then, he’d held her, protected her, teased her, kissed her, made her feel…well, he’d made her feel.
Meeting his eyes across the clearing, Skye swallowed.
Somehow, she knew that warmth, that spark, that arousal she felt with Duncan was unique. She was certain she’d never find anything close to the same with another man, and since he was the one man she couldn’t have…she would have to remember this morning for the rest of her life.
Because that was all she would ever have.
Clenching her jaw, she wondered if he could see her sorrow, but hoped he couldn’t.
“Come on,” she whispered, shaking her head, as she pulled her horse’s reins to the right. “Let’s go home.”
Chapter 6
Clang!
Duncan’s hammer smashed into the soft metal, again and again, shaping the sword as well as he could.
His stepfather, Edward, had always taught him ‘twas foolish to attempt to force steel to do his bidding when he was angry.
The metal demands respect and a clear mind.
Well, to hell with that!
Duncan slammed the hammer down again, reveling in the burn of his muscles and the sweat pouring down his back. He’d tied a scrap of cloth around his forehead to keep his eyes clear, but he needn’t have bothered.
With the way he was feeling now, he didn’t need sight to shape the sword. He barely needed touch.
Really, all he needed was a hammer, some sparks, and a reason to hit something.
“St. John’s warts, Brother, what’s gotten into ye?”
Panting, Duncan straightened, throwing a scowl over his shoulder at Rocque, who merely raised a brow in return.
Mayhap if he ignored his brother, Rocque would take the hint and go away.
It didn’t work.
“Ye’ve been moping since ye returned from Eriboll two days ago. And now I’m getting complaints of the noise ye’re making, smithing this late at night.”
Ignoring Rocque, Duncan lifted the steel in the prongs, turning it this way and that, looking for defects. He was used to dealing with smaller amounts of metal, smaller tools, and more delicate movements. But ‘twas hard to deny the satisfaction which came from slamming something molten and stubborn.
“Dunc,” his brother sighed, “ignoring me willnae help. Da wants to ken why ye’re moping—”
“I’m no’ moping,” Duncan growled, as he hefted the hammer once more. “And since when do ye do Da’s bidding?”
As the hammer clanged home once more, Rocque ambled into Duncan’s line of sight. The bigger Oliphant brother shrugged and crossed his arms, propping a hip against Edward’s anvil and watching Duncan’s work.
After a long while—punctuated by the hammer’s blows—Rocque changed the subject. “Ye’re making yerself a new sword?”
Frowning, Duncan lifted it again for an examination, and blew out a breath. “ ’Tis shoddy workmanship.” He shook his head and tossed the hammer down. “Edward always said no’ to work angry, or this is what ye’ll get.”
“So ye’re angry, no’ moping?”
Angrier still to be caught in the verbal trap—and by Rocque, no less—Duncan scowled. “Why are ye here, exactly?”
His brother shrugged again, then nodded to the blade. “I wanted to ken what ye were making. And what happened in Eriboll. I’ve never kenned ye to be so…” It looked as if he wanted to say one thing, but hesitated. Instead, he finished with, “Angry.”
Duncan muttered a curse and plunged the sword back into the fire. Mayhap he’d be able to breathe easier—and focus—if he talked to someone about the churning of emotions in his gut.
“ ’Tis a woman,” he finally admitted with a sigh, eying his brother to see what Rocque’s reaction would be.
To his surprise, his larger brother simply grunted and shifted into a more comfortable position. “Ye met her
in Eriboll?”
“Nay, I…” Duncan paused as he pulled the rag from around his head and ran his hand through his hair. “I kenned her earlier, but I ran into her on the journey home.”
He wasn’t sure why he was keeping Skye’s identity a secret, but he hadn’t even mentioned to Fiona he’d seen her twin. And since it was damned hard to look at his brother’s wife without thinking of the way Skye had kissed him, or taken him in her hands, or had smiled at him…
St. Simon’s sacred thighbone, he was getting hard just thinking of her!
The last two days, since returning home, had been…difficult, to say the least. He’d more or less hidden himself in the smithy, much to Edward—and wee Ned’s—consternation. But any time he had to see his twin brother’s delirious happiness with a woman who looked exactly like Skye MacIan, he wanted to punch something.
Which was unlike him.
But it was like Rocque, so Duncan wondered if his brother may have some suggestions for how to deal with all these—these—feelings.
“Do ye ever get so angry, ye just want to…to… I dinnae ken.”
Rocque’s laughter burst out of him, sharp and quick. “Och, aye. All the time. ‘Tis why Da made me the Oliphant commander, ye ken.”
“Because ye’re angry?”
“Nay.” The big man grinned. “Because I frequently want to hit someone.”
“And do ye ever…” Shaking his head, Duncan pulled the blade from the coals to check the intensity of its heat. “Do ye ever think mayhap God put lasses here on earth just to anger us?”
Rocque didn’t respond, but when Dunc looked up at him, his brother was grinning broadly. At Duncan’s raised brow, Rocque chuckled.
“Have ye no’ met my Merewyn? She angers me at least once a day.”
Most of the village knew of Rocque’s battles with his hot-tempered mistress, the local healer and midwife. But the pair seemed content.
“And despite her angering ye, ye still love her?”
Rocque shrugged and pushed himself to his feet. “I dinnae ken about love, but she’s a good lass. And arguments are fine, when ye can be promised to make up the way we do.”
When he winked, Duncan scowled.
Which caused his brother to chuckle once more. “Ye look like a man who’s been angered by a lass, and no’ had the chance to make up. What did she do to ye, this mystery woman?”
Scot on Her Trail Page 7
