by Jen Holling
“That’s better,” he said, his voice rough as he moved between her welcoming thighs. He was so warm and big. She pulled him into her, hooking her calf behind his leg as he set his mouth on hers again. Her heart beat thick and painful, her body alive everywhere he touched her. She felt faint from his mouth, kissing and kissing her until all will and thought dissipated into sweet sensation.
He touched her through her shift, his palms sliding sensuously over ribs and breasts before fumbling with the ties and finally ripping them. The shift slipped from her shoulders. She pulled at the ties on his shirt until he shrugged out of it and his chest was bared to her. She brushed the warm curve of muscle and smooth skin with her fingertips. He made a soft, rough sound and drove her head back in another kiss, long and hot, as he pressed himself hard between her thighs. He pushed her night rail up, stroking her thighs, so all that separated them was the wool of his trews, sparking a melting, urgent pain at her center. Her breath caught and her hips rolled hard into him, wanting more.
He murmured her name as he rained fervent kisses over her eyes and nose and cheeks. His hands roved over the bare skin of her shoulders and back. She shuddered against him, trying to press closer, to reclaim his mouth on hers, but he’d moved lower, licking and sucking at her neck as his hands slid around to her breasts.
Her head fell back, her hands threading through his hair as the tip of his tongue played with her nipple. Her breath hitched, the heat swirling through her, urgent now. She pressed his head closer. He complied with her silent request and drew deep on her nipple. Pleasure speared to her core. She arched into him with a breathless cry. He lavished more attention on her breasts, until she moaned her need, her hands working at his belt until it fell to the floor with a thump.
He caught her wrists when she tried to unlace his trews. Thwarted at her task, she gazed up at him hungrily. His eyes blazed his desire. So why did he stop her? She pulled her hand away and stroked her palm against the hard bulge. He groaned and pressed his forehead against hers, his hands gripping her shoulders.
“Not here,” he said. His hands spanned her waist to lift her off the table.
“Aye, right here,” she whispered, and when she pulled at the ties again, he let her, his chest straining, sweat gleaming on the hard, tense muscles of his shoulders. It was perfect here, a longed-for moment with the man she loved, imprinted forever in this dark, fragrant room, surrounded by the comforting scents of bittersweet and mallow, horehound and lavender.
She rubbed her hand over him until his body shuddered and he made a raw, wordless sound in his chest. His mouth sought hers again, hands sliding beneath her shift, touching the damp curls between her thighs. She jerked at the sudden contact, the bliss of it nearly blinding her. His wicked fingers stroked and probed until she thought she’d die from the desperate throbbing. Her breath came in little pants. She wanted him inside her. She pressed her palm hard against his erection and he grew wild, pulling her hard against his chest. Rose’s thighs gripped him as she moved her hips against him, urging him to take her, to fill her, to complete her.
The head of him pushed against her damp curls and her breath caught, exquisite need spiraling through her, the promise of sweet oblivion, and she wanted more. She moved again so the tip of him pressed against her entrance. But he held back, the muscles all along his arms and shoulders bunched with strain.
“God, Rose…”
“Please,” she whispered. Then she took his earlobe between her teeth. He tasted good, salt and spice, and she wanted all of him. He shuddered violently but still didn’t move—his hands braced against the table’s edge, as if holding himself back, ready to push away, but arrested in the moment.
“Our first time shouldn’t be like this.” His breath blew hot against her neck.
“Aye, it should be just like this,” she whispered in his ear. “I’m no innocent, William—I know what I want and I want this.”
He made a harsh sound behind his gritted teeth, then the fine thread of his control snapped and he pressed into her.
She cried his name on an exhalation as he entered her, the sweetness of it already pulsing through her. His hands moved beneath her knees, lifting them higher over his hips before sliding under her buttocks so she could take him deeper.
He kissed her hard as he drove into her again and again, touching something deep, sending pleasure beating through her, swelling tighter. She thought her heart would burst from it as she moved with him, her breath burning her throat. She tore her mouth away as her crisis was wrenched from her, wave after wave flowing over her.
“Oh God, Rose…” His voice was raw. He ground his hips into hers, his teeth sinking into the tender skin of her neck as deep tremors racked him. Rose held him tightly to her until the desperate passion began to fade.
His forehead pressed into her shoulder and his hands still gripped her thighs. Their sweat mingled where their bodies touched. The sound of his breathing was loud in her ear, and then his hands tightened on her. He swore—a vile word that caused her to wince.
He swore again, pulling gingerly away from her and yanking his trews closed. He ran a hand through his damp hair.
She felt exposed suddenly and pushed her night rail down, sliding off the table. The top hung around her waist and she pulled it up, holding it closed with her hand to hide her nakedness. She felt cold and weak and uncertain. She could feel the remnants of their passion between her thighs, and her stomach took a sharp dip at the knowledge it could result in a child. She shouldn’t hope for it, but she did.
He covered his face with his hands, his shoulders rising and falling heavily. Finally he turned to her, dropping his hands to his sides. “I’m sorry, Rose…Jesus God, I know not what I was thinking…I wasn’t thinking…ruled by my god damned cock.”
Rose stared at him, her bafflement growing. “What do you mean? It’s what I wanted. It’s why I asked you to come to me.”
He waved a hand at her, his face tight with remorse. “I should have been gentle…after…well, after. God damn it.” He stalked from the little room, full of self-recrimination again, and Rose understood. Immediately her eyes burned and her throat tightened. She hurried after him.
“William! It’s not what you think.”
When he turned to stare at her, hands on hips, she raised her brows and sighed. “I’d not meant to tell you this way. I meant to tell you before to fash not on ruining me—that I’d already been ruined.”
He rubbed a hard hand over his eyes as if he couldn’t bear to look at her. “Aye, I know. The MacLeans.”
“Well, aye, but not how you’re thinking. Fagan MacLean…did things to me, aye, things that make me sick and angry still…but not that. It was his son, Donald, and I was a willing party. It was three years ago…I was seventeen.” He stared at her now, and it was she who had to look away, sick with shame. “I don’t know why I did it…I suppose I thought I loved him at the time…and I wanted him to love me back.”
He touched her chin, lifting her face so she looked at him. “That is not why a man loves a woman.” Her neck and cheeks burned, and she tried to pull her chin away. He held her firm. “It’s not why I love you.”
Her gaze caught in his. She was so surprised to hear the words from him. Her heart swelled with happiness. She had hoped he felt as she did, but she hadn’t believed he’d ever admit it—to her or himself.
“And I love you,” she said. “I wanted to be with you tonight before you leave here forever, but I didn’t think you’d come to me just to talk.”
He pulled her hard against his chest, wrapping his arms around her. She hugged him back. He buried his face in her hair, his voice muffled. “God, Rose, I would have come just to talk to you. Whatever you wanted.”
She closed her eyes, inhaling the warm scent of his skin. “Really?”
“I don’t know. I can’t seem to keep my hands off you, so maybe not.”
She laughed softly. “I’m glad. I want your hands on me.”
Sh
e led him to the bed and tried to run the dog off, but Conan only retreated to the foot, his shiny black eyes watching them. Rose pulled William down beside her, and he held her close. He made love to her again, slowly this time, touching her everywhere and whispering words of love. Afterwards Rose relaxed in the strength of his arms and let everything slip away, all her cares and worries. She wanted to lie like this forever.
She thought he’d fallen asleep until he asked, “Tell me about your years on Skye.”
Still held fast in his embrace, Rose stared blankly into the dimness of the room. “There is little to tell. I apprenticed under Crisdean Beaton until he died. I ran away once…my father sent me back, and I was Fagan MacLean’s healer until he died.” It was a sterile, emotionless account, and she knew it would not satisfy him.
“Fagan is who mistreated you?” he asked.
“Aye.”
He propped himself on his elbow to gaze down at her. “Why did you never tell anyone?”
Rose bit the inside of her lip and averted her eyes, embarrassed suddenly at her own foolishness.
He caressed her bare arm and shoulder as he gently prodded, “How did he threaten you, Rose?”
“He…used to make me touch him…he told me it was Crisdean’s orders, that I was to learn about the male body. This went on for some time before I told Crisdean that I thought I’d learned everything there was to know about it and I’d like to stop the lessons. He was surprised, and that’s when I knew he didn’t know. Not that he cared. He didn’t like me at first anyway—thought women should stick to midwifing.” She shuddered, swallowing a wave of revulsion. “After that, I told Fagan I wouldn’t do it anymore. He said if I stopped or ever told anyone else, he would have my sisters and I burned as witches…I didn’t realize then that we were all hidden and he didn’t know where they were. I also didn’t know how much my father paid him each year for my maintenance—most of which I did not see, either.” She closed her eyes and shook her head. “I was so stupid…he couldn’t touch my sisters, and he’d never have given up the yearly payments from my father. I wasn’t thinking.”
“Jesus, Rose, you were a child whose mother had just been burned alive. He was a god dammed filthy bastard for saying those things. It’s no wonder you said nothing.”
Rose opened her eyes. His face was hard and angry as he stared down at her. Angry for her. She said, “But I did tell…eventually. I told his wife.”
His breathing paused. “Aye? What happened then?”
She snorted bitterly. “She called me a liar and a whore. Told me I made her sick and she’d throw me out with nothing if I kept spreading such lies.” William’s muscles tensed beneath her face and hands. “But she believed me. I didn’t realize it at the time, though I do now. She must have said something to him because he never made me touch him again after that, and he treated me with pure loathing. If not for Crisdean and the money, I think she might have had me burned.” Her jaw clenched as she remembered it all. How Fagan would yell at her and call her names and throw things at her as she tended him when he grew ill. “I took care of him until he died.”
“Why?” William said on an incredulous breath.
Her heart cankered at the ugly memory. “Because I caught him trying to use a servant lass as he did me. She was nine. After that I would let no one else tend him.”
William rolled over, pushing her back on the bed and looking into her face. “You have naught to be ashamed of, Rose.”
She stared up at him, tears tracking the sides of her face. She touched the wetness, surprised to find she’d been crying for some time. She’d never told anyone before. She’d been filled with shame and twisted fury. William was the only one who knew now, and he was not disgusted with her.
“And I think you should tell your father,” he said, his expression grave. “You will be angry with him until you do. And if he dies, you might never stop being angry. Tell him.”
She caught her bottom lip with her teeth. Maybe he was right, but she didn’t know if she could. She tried to imagine telling her father what she’d just told William, and her mind shied away, afraid.
“I will think about it,” she said carefully.
That seemed to satisfy him. He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I should go,” he murmured against her skin, “before someone discovers us.” But he made no move to leave. He continued to cradle her, his lips pressed to her temple.
“No.” Rose slid her arms around his neck and held him fast. “I don’t care. Stay with me tonight.”
He hesitated a moment, then sank back into the mattress beside her. She turned into his arms, snuggling deeper, content as she’d never been before and feeling a bit guilty for her happiness. With her father still so ill, it seemed wrong for her to be lying here, lazing in her lover’s arms. But what else could they do but wait for Sir Philip to return with Sir Donnan? As she was drifting to sleep, Conan crept up between them, as close as he could get, and settled between their knees.
Jamie MacPherson slumped against the table in his chambers, his head thick and sluggish with whisky. Someone tapped at the door, and Jamie’s man opened it. There was some murmuring, then the scrape of a stool.
With great effort, he raised his head, squinting at his guest. It was the uncle.
“What do you want?” Jamie’s speech was slurred. He cleared his throat and made himself sit up straighter, though he still felt himself swaying gently.
The usually jovial uncle was very grave. “I want to make amends afore you leave in the morn. Your quarrel is with Rose and Strathwick, not with me. I will soon be chieftain of the Glen Laire MacKays, and I want no feud with the MacPhersons.”
“Too late.”
“Is it?”
Jamie tried to fasten his gaze on him, but the red-haired man swam in and out of focus. “What mean you?”
Roderick considered him. “What if I can give you your revenge?”
Jamie’s brows drew together in confusion.
“The wizard and his family. I want him dead, too—”
“Why do you want him dead?”
“Because he killed my wife.”
Jamie scratched at his head. This conversation wasn’t making sense. “I thought she died in childbirth.”
Roderick leaned forward, blue eyes fierce. “Rose told me she was alive after Liam’s birth, so Strathwick must have killed her. I have been to the next village, right outside the glen. There is a witchpricker there. I have told him a witch has come to Glen Laire. The villagers had suspected something of the sort, as their oats were struck with a plague, so hearing a traveling witchpricker was near, they asked him to root out the witch. I hinted to the elders that if they take care of the witch, we will make sure they are well supplied with oats through the winter.”
Jamie felt as if he were underwater, the uncle’s words not quite penetrating his mind, his body swaying in the thick current.
“You want me to give them oats?”
The uncle’s jaw hardened, and he looked skyward for a moment. “Try to follow. You will have your revenge on Strathwick. He is with Rose now, in her bed.”
Black fury shot through Jamie, and he tried to stand, stumbling and falling against the table. “That blackguard! The whore!”
The uncle was beside him, his hand on Jamie’s shoulder, urging him back down on his stool.
“Save it. Save the hate. Use it. He will have to leave her sometime. Your task is to make certain he and his daughter make it to the next village and into the hands of the witchpricker.”
Jamie nodded, his fury clearing away some of the drunken fog. “Witchpricker. Next village.”
“Good. Rest now. I have someone watching her chambers. I will alert you when he leaves.”
William woke with a start, gasping for air. Something sat on his chest, crushing him. He could not move at first, but with a great effort he thrust his arm out. Nothing was there. He found himself swiping frantically at naught but air. He propped himself up on his arm, panting. A
nightmare. Nothing more.
When his heart slowed, he put his hand on the woman sleeping beside him. In the gray predawn light he could make out the curve of her cheek, the sweep of lashes. He was not sorry about what they’d done. He wanted her with him always. He only hoped she wouldn’t find more unhappiness at Strathwick.
He yawned so wide that his jaw cracked. He was surprised by how tired he was. His limbs felt leaden. He started to sink back into the bed when he thought of his daughter. He should be in his chambers when she woke. He dragged himself from the bed, dislodging the dog sleeping between them. It resettled itself against Rose’s belly. He found his clothes and dressed slowly, lethargically, finally pulling his shirt over his head and looping his sword belt over his shoulder, too tired to actually buckle it on.
He returned to the bed and leaned over it, pressing a kiss to Rose’s closed eyelid. “I’ll be back,” he whispered, but she did not wake.
The castle was silent, and when he arrived at his chambers he slipped in, heedful not to wake his brother and daughter. The room was completely dark. He wondered who’d let the fire die. He felt his way to the shutters and pulled them open, then lit a candle. He was turning toward the bed when he noticed something on his wrist. He pulled his sleeve up. A dark bruise in the shape of a star mottled the inside of his forearm. He frowned at it for several moments, then pressed on it. Touching it caused him no discomfort. He never bruised—and besides, he couldn’t remember when he’d hit his arm. He turned to the bed, still puzzled.
Drake was asleep, buried under mounds of blankets. William crept to the bed to check on his daughter. She still slept at the end, beneath a plaid. As he watched, she twitched, then writhed, her face contorting.
“Deidra.” He touched her cheek.
