Wait, was that even a verb? Could she just verb something by using it thus— Wait, wasn’t verb a verb in that context?
Focus!
Hoisting her skirts up even higher, she fairly flew down the steps to the great hall, praying Duncan was still there.
He was.
He was still there, and he was standing at the base of the stairs, his hands gripping a scabbarded sword in front of him, staring at the cold hearth nearby.
Skye discovered this a little too late, seeing as how she slammed into him, unable to stop her forward momentum.
They might’ve both tumbled to the ground, but Duncan Oliphant was too well-built for that. Instead, he merely grunted, flexed his knees, then whirled about, grabbing her by the shoulders. Vaguely, she recognized the clatter of the sword he’d been holding as it hit the ground, but then she wasn’t thinking much at all. Because he might’ve thought her a threat at first, but the way he pulled her to his chest, holding her a moment longer than necessary, told him all she needed to know.
Maybe he dinnae come to betray me to Stewart.
Breathless—and she suspected it wasn’t just from the run—Skye tilted her head back to look up into his face.
“Why— What are ye doing here, Dunc?”
His grin flashed quickly, and when he spoke, that gravelly voice of his made her thighs clench.
“Do I need a reason to see ye?”
She blinked. “Well…aye. Ye came this far just to—to see me?”
“That, and ye have something I want.”
Pushing away from him, she stepped out of his arms—and refused to acknowledge the little spike of disappointment the movement caused—and lifted her fingers to the gold ring on the silk ribbon, hidden under her gown.
Clearly, he’d realized she’d forgotten to return it—forgotten? More like ye just couldnae bear to part with something his fingers had caressed—and had come to MacIan land to retrieve it.
But why would he need to speak with Stewart?
She swallowed. “Are ye planning to tell my brother?”
“About what?”
She noticed his lips twitch. Was he laughing at her?
Taking a deep breath, she lifted her chin and prayed no one else was listening. “About what I took from ye? About my…hobby…?”
“A hobby, hmm?”
He was toying with her!
Her jaw clenched, and Skye felt torn between anger and desperation. “Dinnae be cruel! Just tell me if ye’re here to ruin my life or no’!”
This time, a sound burst from his lips, which might’ve been a chuckle. “ ’Tis a bit melodramatic, do ye no’ think?”
Oh, God help me!
Her heart pounding in fear, she reached toward him in supplication. But her pride jerked her back, and she ended up taking a stumbling half-step before catching herself.
Angry at the terror she felt and the control this man had over her life, Skye tore at the neckline of her gown, scrambling for the silk ribbon.
“Here. Here! Ye came for the damnable ring? I’ll give it to ye then, and ye can damned well be on yer way to leave me in peace—”
“Hold, Skye.” He lifted his hand, his callused fingertips touching the back of her wrist and freezing her frantic movements.
It was a little embarrassing how her breath caught, her eyes widened, and her chest tightened.
In hope?
She said naught, but held her breath as she waited for him to continue.
He sighed and dropped his hand from her skin. It wasn’t until it was gone, she realized how much his touch had felt like a brand.
A kind of brand she liked.
“Skye, I dinnae come to cause ye pain.” Bending, he scooped up the sword and scabbard he’d dropped. When he straightened, he glanced around, then stepped away to drop the sheathed weapon on one of the tables nearby.
Why?
But then, she suddenly didn’t care, because he’d reached out a hand to her in invitation. “Will ye go for a ride with me?”
“A…ride?” she repeated dumbly.
He nodded. “I’d like to speak with ye and—”.
“Aye!” she blurted, then took a breath. “I mean, I’d like the chance to speak with ye as well.”
And possibly, the chance to do more.
Like riding him mayhap?
Snorting at her naughty subconscious, Skye shyly placed her hand in his, and didn’t even bother to hide the shiver of warmth—and anticipation—which crawled up her arm and lodged in her breasts.
Was this her one opportunity—alone with Duncan, before he tells Stewart what she’d been doing—to mayhap change his mind? Was this her one and only chance to save her clan?
And a chance to kiss him again…?
* * *
Duncan and Skye’s horses picked their way along a little-used path through a field of wildflowers. He had no idea what kind they were, but the colorful sprays rose above the horse’s knees, and each delicate stalk swayed in the slightest of breezes.
Duncan had never thought himself a particular lover of nature, but even he had to admit the MacIan land was beautiful…or perhaps it was the woman within his view which made it so breathtaking.
Skye was just ahead of him, and he was content to follow and admire the way she held herself competently in the saddle.
Her hair was bound up in braids this time, but he could well remember what it had looked—and felt and smelled—like, only a sennight before, when she’d sat proudly in his arms. And there was naught to block his eyes from admiring the way her waist flared down to her tantalizing hips.
St. Simon’s head lice!
‘Twas impossible not to remember how those hips had felt under his palms, or how she had felt, pressed against him.
Which, of course, made him remember the feel of her hands around his cock, and that memory sure wasn’t going to help matters.
He’d come here to MacIan land to propose a marriage alliance. He’d intended to discuss it with her brother, the laird, first. But the moment she’d barreled into his back, he’d realized he needed her approval first.
Skye was the one who mattered.
Ye need to tell her how ye feel about her.
The problem was, he wasn’t sure if he could put into words the exact way he felt.
He liked her, aye. He enjoyed being around her. He enjoyed touching her, for certes.
Was that love? Was that enough to propose marriage?
And would she agree?
Did she even feel the same for him?
He growled at himself, at the stupid way his thoughts were chasing themselves around his head.
The low rumble he released was louder than he’d intended, and Skye turned in the saddle to raise her brows at him. “Did ye say something?”
Nay.
“Aye,” he blurted. “I said, let’s stop here.”
She pulled her horse to a stop and looked around. They were completely alone in the middle of a little valley, the wildflowers blanketing a vast distance in all directions.
“Here?”
Duncan winced. Knowing him, once he started talking, he’d have to touch her, and then where would that leave them? Stuck out here, with their horses wandering around aimlessly?
“Let’s head for that big oak.” They could tie their animals there.
She waited for him to lead, and when he reached the tree, Duncan swung down from the saddle and looped his reins loosely around a branch.
There. The horse can still graze, and I can—
The thought—and his breath—fled as he watched her dismount. She was competent and sure, aye, but her movements revealed one stocking-covered calf, and he couldn’t help but think how those legs would feel wrapped around him.
The kind of woman who took a man’s cock in her hands, stroking him until he embarrassed himself all over the inside of his kilt, would not shy away from wrapping her legs around the man she loved.
Love.
There was that word ag
ain.
He watched her take a deep breath and step away from the horses, squaring her shoulders as she met his eyes.
“Aright, Duncan. Here I am. Here ye are. Ye said ye wanted the chance to talk to me, so let us talk.”
Talk?
What he was imagining—what he had been imagining all these days—hadn’t included using their tongues for talking.
But he cleared his throat, knowing he did indeed need to speak to her. “Skye, I needed to see ye again.”
By St. Simon’s big toe, ye sound pitiful!
He grimaced and shoved his thumbs into his belt, shifting his weight, as he worked up the bollocks to tell her how he felt.
“Why are ye here, Dunc?”
Well, that was simple enough.
“I owe ye something.”
Her lovely blue eyes widened, and her hand flew to her chest. Her fingertips pressed against something hidden under the neckline of her gown, and he remembered the way she’d earlier reached for whatever was hidden there.
“Ye owe me? Something?” she repeated, then shook her head. “I—I think ye have that backward.”
It was her breathlessness, the way she sounded unsure, which bolstered Duncan’s courage, more than anything else.
Skye MacIan was not hesitant. She was wild and adventurous, and if she were unsure, then it was up to him to be the one with all the confidence.
He took a step closer to her. “I owe ye a kiss.”
The way her head snapped back, and her nostrils flared, told him he’d surprised her, and he felt his lips tug up on one side as he took another step.
Her lips formed the words, “A kiss?” but she didn’t speak them.
“In fact…”—he lowered his voice, holding her gaze—“I owe ye more than that.”
“Owe?” She sounded as if she were choking.
Another step, and now he was standing right in front of her. “Do ye ken I had to scrub my own kilt? I had to borrow one of Finn’s plaids while it dried.”
Her beautiful lips formed a little “oh” of surprise. Then she shook her head, and her eyelids lowered as she peeked up at him, a blush staining her cheeks. “That kind of owe,” she finally said wryly.
He’d made the impulsively wild MacIan sister blush?
Excellent.
She made his heart swell.
Well, his heart and other things.
Lifting one hand, he brushed the backs of his fingers across her cheek. And when her lids fluttered and she leaned into his touch, he turned his hand around to cup her face.
“Will ye let me repay ye, lass?” he whispered, wondering if those words were enough to convey exactly what he wanted.
When she opened her eyes to meet his gaze, she didn’t pull away from his touch.
“I’ve thought of it,” she said simply.
He swallowed.
It?
Did she understand what he was asking?
I want to love ye, Skye MacIan. I want to bring ye joy, pleasure and ecstasy. Let me repay ye.
But why the fook couldn’t he just say those very words aloud?
Mayhap she’d heard them anyway, because she straightened, and his hand slid down to cup the back of her neck, holding her, because to not hold her in this moment would be impossible.
“Duncan…” Her tongue flicked out over her lower lip, a surprisingly arousing sign of hesitation. “I’ve thought of ye. When I touch myself, I imagine ‘tis yer hands on me. Yer lips. Yer—”
Her words had struck him mute, but his breath burst from his lips in a desperate groan, and he pulled her tight against his chest.
She was tucked against him, his hand splayed across her back, holding her safe, and her words echoing in his ears.
I imagine ‘tis yer hands on me.
His hand shook as he slowly began pulling the pins from her hair, letting it cascade down and fall loosely around her shoulders.
St. Simon’s beard, but her locks felt silkier than anything he’d ever touched before, and likely anything he’ll ever touch in the future.
I imagine ‘tis yer hands on me.
Touching her hair—although he’d ached to do so for much too long—wasn’t enough. He needed to touch her.
I imagine ‘tis yer hands on me.
It took two tries to get his throat working again. “Let me,” he finally managed hoarsely.
Her voice was muffled, pressed against his chest, but he felt her words. “Aye. Please.”
Chapter 8
From what little he knew of anatomy—most of his learning having come from Malcolm’s ramblings—Duncan knew his heart hadn’t actually stopped, but it had felt that way when she reached up and pulled his head down to hers.
Their lips met in a sort of desperation he could only describe as necessity.
In that moment, it was vital he kiss her, taste her. The idea of doing aught else was inconceivable.
When she moaned against his lips, he was lost.
Duncan lifted her easily in order to trail his lips down her cheek and jaw. And when she dropped her head back and made a little desperate sound, his kisses flowed down her neck to the soft spot behind her ear.
She was tugging at his shirt and pulling at the plaid he’d draped over his shoulder. When he lowered her and loosened his hold on her, she stumbled back, and for a moment, his heart dropped into his stomach with the realization he might’ve been forcing his attentions where they weren’t wanted.
Skye stood, wide-eyed and panting, staring at him. While her breasts heaved under their silk confines, she lifted trembling fingertips to her lips, and he wondered how in damnation he was going to apologize.
But then…
Then she reached for the ties holding her gown shut, fingers trembling, yet hurrying, and he jumped forward to help her.
In moments, her gown was unlaced, and she was the one to push it from her shoulders, with an erotic little noise of desperate need.
And he saw it.
There, hanging atop her linen chemise, was his ring. The very same one he’d used as an excuse to invite himself to MacIan land. She was wearing the small metal piece around her neck on a strip of red ribbon, and it dangled alluringly between her breasts.
It was his; he’d made it, and she wore it.
She was his.
With a groan, he reached for her, not caring she hadn’t had the time to even push the material down her arms yet. Nay, all he could see was her voluptuously glorious tits, teasing him behind their translucent layer of fine linen.
One of his hands pressed against her left breast, and Duncan was careful not to squeeze as tightly as he wanted to. But when she sucked in a breath and thrust the orb harder against his palm, his gaze snapped up to hers.
She was chewing on her lower lip, searching his eyes for…something.
“Skye?” He knew his voice was hoarse, but—St. Simon help him!—it was damn near impossible to rein in the desire coursing through his blood, not to mention his cock, at that moment.
When she released her lip, it had become redder and plumper, and captured his fascinated gaze.
“Duncan…”
She whispered his name, and when he lifted his eyes to hers, he saw the need there.
“I want ye.” This time there was no denying her words. “Please.”
He didn’t hesitate any longer to pull the linen chemise from her shoulders, then close both hands around her breasts. While the pad of one of his callused thumbs played with one nipple, he nudged the dangling ring out of the way and lowered his tongue to the other. Her little whimper of approval was almost as good as the way she thrust her pelvis forward, so fast, they both almost lost their balance.
God Almighty, but he wanted her!
Any more of this though, and they’d fall over and hurt themselves. He’d love to see how they tried to explain their injuries to her brother.
Although it damn near killed him, he stepped away long enough to fumble with his belt and undo his kilt. As he kicked off hi
s boots, he shook the plaid out and laid it on the ground, crushing enough of the wildflowers to fill the air with their scent.
When he turned to reach for her again, she’d already pulled her gown and chemise down over her hips, letting them drop to the ground in a pile of color and satin, and had removed her slippers. She stood there, breathing fast, in naught but her stockings and his ring on the ribbon around her neck.
Duncan was certain he’d never seen anything more beautiful.
He held molten metal on a daily basis. He’d burned himself more times than he could count. The skin of his hands was tough and callused, but he couldn’t stop his hands from trembling slightly as he reached for her hair, then skimmed his fingers through the silky softness.
“Skye,” he whispered, knowing his voice was shaking, “I dinnae ken if I can be as gentle as ye need—”
She silenced him by lifting herself on her toes and pushing her lips against his. With a groan, his arms went around her back, pulling her flush against him. All that stood between them now was the thin layer of his shirt, which did naught to block the hardness of his cock currently pressing into her stomach.
With a gasp, she broke their kiss, then pushed hard against his shoulders. “Take this off! Lie down on that plaid, Dunc! Hurry.”
Despite the haze of desire clouding his mind, his brows rose at her commands. “Lass, are ye sure—”
Skye growled an impatient curse, then dropped to the plaid herself, before pulling on his hand to signal she wanted him to join her on the pitiful bed he’d made for them. “If I’d wanted a man who would treat me like a wee delicate creature, Duncan Oliphant, I wouldnae have fallen in love with ye. Now hurry!”
Her words registered instantly and caused his heart to slam against the inside of his chest, in a way even his arousal hadn’t. But by her actions, he doubted she’d even realized what she’d claimed.
Fallen in love with ye.
Did she…?
Could she…?
Duncan shook his head and sunk to his knees on the kilt beside her. “Lass, I…”
“Take off yer shirt,” she commanded.
Well, he couldn’t argue with that.
His mind still on her casual—accidental?—admission, Duncan fumbled with the bottom of his shirt, pulling it up and over his head. When he emerged, he did his best to hold on to his current thought.
Scot on Her Trail Page 9
