Beauty and the Highland Beast
Page 19
She rose, pulled a gown over her nightdress, and told herself to be sensible, to go back to bed—her own bed . . .
She looked at her sister, fast asleep despite the thunder, and told herself this was madness, that she should not, must not, open the door and leave this room.
Then she was rushing along the corridor, her heart pounding with trepidation and desire, terrified she’d meet someone coming the other way, be forced to explain herself. She couldn’t. She’d never felt like this before. Her skirts rustled loudly around her ankles, and a crash of thunder made her cry out, cling to the wall in surprise. She put a hand to her breast, felt her heart pounding under her palm.
Fia glanced back once more. In that direction were the room she shared with Meggie, sanity, and good sense, and she’d been sensible, dutiful, and good all her life . . .
She turned and rushed on toward her heart’s desire.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Dair opened the door.
Fia stood on the threshold, breathless, her eyes bright, her cheeks flushed. His arousal was instant, fierce, and urgent. He stared at her, not daring to speak, or think, or hope. She slipped past him, darted into the room, and turned to face him as he stood frozen in the open doorway.
He dug his nails into the wooden panel, tried to find the fortitude to send her away. But he didn’t. Couldn’t. She was breathless, her hair loose, her gown half laced with no stays beneath, no barriers this time . . .
“I want—” She swallowed. “I want to finish what we started. There’s more, and I want that, your body inside mine, your pleasure.”
Dair shut his eyes. The scent of her filled the room, and the memory of her body, the taste of her mouth, filled his mind. She surrounded him, enveloped him in desire, pure and thick and sweet. He closed the door, threw the bolt.
He stared into the golden pools of her heavy-lidded eyes, and her emotions easy to read. “Have you bewitched me after all?” he asked softly, drowning in honey.
She put her arms around his waist, laid her cheek against his chest. “I want this, Dair. All of it.” She looked up at him, slid her hands over the soft linen of his shirt, caressed the hard muscles beneath, and he watched desire flare in her eyes. It was his undoing. He took her mouth, plundered it, kissed her hard, with all the desperation and confusion he felt. She didn’t melt. She opened her mouth to his, met him kiss for kiss.
She reached down to caress his cock through his kilt, but he caught her hand. “No,” he managed to mutter.
“No?”
He pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it aside, then undid his belt, let his plaid slide to the floor. He stood before her, scarred, battered, and fully erect, a sight to terrify any virgin lass. He waited for her lust to turn to horror, for her to recoil, run.
Her eyes slid over him, her lips formed an O, and color filled her cheeks. “Is it right to call a man beautiful?” she asked. “I’ve never seen a man fully naked before. Och, I’ve seen bare chests and bottoms aplenty, but not like this, not like you—” He held his breath as her gaze fell on his arousal, his cock standing to attention. She blushed again, and her eyes darted up to meet his, a plea in their depths. Ah, now it would come—she’d say she’d made a mistake, changed her mind . . . He braced for it.
Instead she reached for the laces of her gown, worked at them with fingers made slow by desire. He watched the ribbon unfurl from one loop after another, until her bodice parted, and the garment underneath, to reveal the white slopes of her breasts. “Show me what to do, how to please you.”
He scarcely believed what he’d heard. Her laces caught, and she struggled with them.
“Let me,” he said, and took charge of undressing her.
“You’ve probably seen dozens of women,” she babbled, nervous now. “Hundreds. Thousands.”
He slid her clothing off her shoulders, parting the silk and lace, caressing each inch of skin as it was revealed to his hungry eyes. She pulled free of the sleeves, let him tug her garments down past her breasts, her waist, her slender hips. They fell with a sigh, and she stood in a billowing, shimmering froth of blue silk, like Venus on a cloud. She did not raise her hands or shield herself. She kept her expression carefully flat as she waited for his opinion, expecting rejection, as he had. “Not thousands,” he said, his voice thick. “And none so beautiful as Fia MacLeod.” He saw tears spring to her eyes, and he took her in his arms, held her against his chest, felt her skin on his, her heart pounding against his own. She raised her face for his kiss, and he lifted her, carried her to the bed, and laid her down under the watchful eyes of Neptune and his nymphs.
Dair’s body pressed hers into the feather mattress. She reveled in the way his male angles felt against her curves, how they fit so perfectly, were made to do so. She’d heard lasses gossiping in whispers, giggling together, knew it was pleasant to lie with a man, but she had not understood how wonderful, how utterly delicious it was . . . she felt a tingle go through her limbs, peak in her nipples. There was a shiver of trepidation too. It wasn’t more than that. She’d heard enough to know that the first time a lass lay with a man there was a wee bit of pain. She could endure that, for this, for him, the man who’d told her she was beautiful, made love to her in the heather. She trusted him implicitly, with her life and her body. He was kissing her, deep, slow, sweet openmouthed kisses that set her on fire.
She must not fall in love with him—well, any deeper in love. A broken heart would hurt far longer than any slight pain the loss of her virginity might bring. He wasn’t hers to keep. This was only for now, and then they would part. His hand slid along her body, caressing her breasts, her hips, the length of her legs. His mouth followed his hands, driving all sensible thoughts from her mind. She just wanted to feel, to please him as he pleased her, to be deflowered, bedded, wanton, wild, and wicked. She touched him in all the places he touched her, learning by the sounds he made, the way his body reacted, what he liked. She could feel his hardness against her belly, and she arched against it, wanting more. It made him groan with desire. She felt powerful, bold. She reached down carefully, slid her fingers along the length of his shaft, cupped the tight, hot balls beneath. His hips jerked forward, and he put a hand over hers to show her that, too—how to thrill him with slow caresses. “Mo eudail, my treasure,” he murmured, nuzzling her ear, thrusting against her palm. He gasped and bucked as she squeezed. “Go slow,” he said, and she wondered why. She didn’t want to go slowly. She wanted—everything, all at once, in this moment and forever. He kissed her breasts, circling her tight nipples with his tongue, his breath warming her flesh. She liked that. Then his lips trailed across her belly, her hips, and lower still, and it was better still. Her body was on fire, and she reached for him, but he smiled softly. “Wait, love. Be patient. You wanted me to teach you.”
She didn’t want to be patient—and she opened her mouth to tell him, but he kissed the soft fluff of hair between her thighs, and she gasped. Then his tongue dipped between, and she cried out at the jolt of sweet, hot pleasure that went through her body. Her bones turned to water as he used his lips and teeth and tongue to pleasure her. She gripped the sheets, caught in the maelstrom, let him work magic as she stared up into the knowing eyes of the naked nymphs above her, boldly watching as she was initiated into the most precious feminine mystery of all. The sensation rose like the tide, floated her up, flooded her until she could scarcely breathe. His fingers stroked her along with his tongue, probed, drove her higher and hotter, until she sobbed, and the nymphs cried out with her, and she joined them in heaven. Pure heaven.
He held her as she returned to earth, to the joy of being held in his arms as he kissed her gently, stroked her hair. She could smell her sex on his hands, his mouth. “Is there more?” she asked, breathless.
Dair chuckled. “Yes, there’s more. Infinitely more. A lifetime more.” He frowned, realizing what he’d said, the almost-promise he’d made. She put her finger to his lips, ignored the hitch in her breast.
He slid in carefully, big and hard and hot, and she tensed. He murmured sweet words in her ear, in Gaelic, Italian, French, gentled her with his hand, teased her, pleasured her all over again. There were beads of sweat on his forehead from waiting, holding back. She wouldn’t have it. She took a breath, tilted her hips, and pressed hard against him, and he drove forward with a shout of surprise. She felt the sting as he sheathed himself in her, a tight fit, an invasion. She held her breath, and he began to thrust, moving within her, creating a world of sweet sensation and heat, filling her, withdrawing, filling her again. She felt complete, whole, thrilled utterly. She clasped her arms and legs around him, dug her nails into his shoulders. She threw her head back and said his name, over and over again, and this time they rose into the painted clouds together, and he poured himself into her, his growl of pleasure guttural, raw, and wonderful.
“It’s nearly dawn,” he whispered in her ear, holding her against his chest, sleepy and warm. Outside, the storm had spent itself, and he could hear the distant wash of the waves on the shore.
Fia stirred in his arms, shifted to face him, her eyes on his, and smiled sleepily. “So soon,” she murmured.
“I’m sending you home,” he said. “You and Meggie.”
Her smile faded. “Because we—because I seduced you?”
He stroked her hair, twined a red lock around his finger. “It’s not safe here, lass.”
She wriggled against him, snuggled deeper, as if his bed was the safest place possible. It wasn’t. He was instantly hard, wanted her again, but there wasn’t time. The servants would wake soon, and so would her sister. He had to let her go. She’d made him feel like a man again, whole and normal, from the very moment he met her. Had she cured him of madness? He felt like he could do anything with Fia MacLeod by his side, in his bed.
“You’ll go home, marry,” he said, his voice raw. His hands tightened on her shoulder instead of letting go—she was his, and he’d kill any man who touched her . . .
“Will I?” she asked. She drew circles on his chest with her fingernail. His balls tightened. “Perhaps I will marry,” she said. She brushed her hand over his erection, driving him wild. “Take me again,” she whispered.
He didn’t need any more encouragement. This time he rolled onto his back and pulled her on top of him.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Was there no end to the interruptions? Moire looked up, sensing someone coming. Folk had started coming to her cott for salves and brews for all manner of minor ailments—all the wee things they’d asked Fia to cure until recently. Moire shaded her eyes with her hand, watched Effie Sinclair hurrying along the path, awkwardly carrying a child in her arms.
“My Robbie is sick. He was fine and fit yesterday, but he sickened in the night. He’s feverish, and his belly is swollen. He sees things that aren’t there, rants and sweats.” Effie laid her son on the grass at Moire’s feet.
The boy’s face was pale, and his limbs were slack. Moire lifted his eyelids, saw the flat, cold look of death in his eyes. She felt his belly, but the lad didn’t stir. His lower legs and hands were already cold, his nails blue.
“Please—I can pay—not just a pebble or a ribbon—a silver coin. Help my lad.”
“When did he last eat?” Moire demanded.
“Breakfast yesterday. Then he went off with Wee Alex, Angus Mor’s lad.”
Dread crept up Moire’s limbs. “Is anyone else sick?”
Effie shrugged. “I’ve only had eyes for my own son, but I did hear that old Muriel Sinclair, Wee Alex’s great-gran, is poorly.” Her eyes pleaded with Moire, and tears spilled out over her plump cheeks. “Is it a curse? Can the goddess save my son?”
Moire looked up sharply. “A curse?”
Effie wiped away tears with the back of her hand. “There’s talk that the Sinclairs are cursed, or ill wished, that evil came when the holy maid died, and all those men with her, then the chief, murdered on his own lands. And Alasdair Og is mad as a—”
“Wheesht!” Moire said quickly, not liking where Effie was going. Folk needed someone to blame when things went awry. Fear gripped her old bones, hummed a warning along her limbs.
“Should I bathe Robbie in the spring? Make him drink the water?” Effie asked, stroking her son’s face. But it was too late for that. Moire closed his eyes and sat back to let his young soul pass unimpeded.
His mother’s wail shook the birds from the trees.
Not an hour later Annie Sinclair came to fetch Moire, her face white with worry. Her son was sick as well, and her elderly grandmother was failing. Annie was still grieving the loss of her infant daughter, and the stark terror in her eyes made Moire follow her.
The village was a somber place, with folk muttering among themselves. Several made a sign against witches as Moire passed by, and she felt fear chill her old bones.
Angus looked up from the bed where he held his son’s hand when Moire entered. She’d feared the worst, but the boy was awake, and though he was pale, the dreadful smell in the cott attested to the fact that he’d already purged most of what ailed him. She touched his forehead. There was no fever.
“Will ye give me medicine that tastes bad?” he asked.
“If ye have the strength to ask, ye don’t need it,” Moire said.
In the opposite corner of the cott, behind a curtain, Muriel Sinclair was tucked up in bed, dozing. Annie gently bathed her gran’s lined face with cool water, her tears falling on the plaid that covered the old one’s withered body. “She’s reached a great age,” Moire said gently. “’Tis nothing for that. It’s her time to depart.” She slipped out as Annie burst into tears. Angus followed her.
“Will my son live?” he asked.
“He’ll have a life as long as Muriel’s, if nothing takes him before that.”
Folk crowded around Angus. “Was Wee Alex cursed, like Robbie?” someone asked.
“And Muriel—what cause was there to curse her?”
“’Tis not a curse—’tis a blessing to live so long,” Moire said.
“Och, aye? Then what’s to keep her from going right on living?”
There was a shout from the end of the lane, and Alan Sinclair hurried toward them. “My cow is dead,” he said. “She keeled over in her stall and died, just like that. If there’s no curse, why would a healthy animal just up and die?”
“Just like poor wee Robbie, and Muriel,” someone muttered.
“Last I saw Robbie he was running in this very lane with Wee Alex. Strange they should both become ill so sudden-like.”
“Aye—I remember that day. Fia MacLeod was here, and the lads ran into her, knocked her down.”
Moire felt her stomach draw in against her backbone. She watched as people’s eyes narrowed and they began to whisper. The sound rose, swelled, filled the road, the sky, grew louder still, until it buzzed over the whole village like a swarm of angry bees. Amid the shouts and the accusations, Moire heard just one word, repeated over and over.
“Witchcraft.”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
There were rumors that the men who’d murdered Padraig were hiding in a cave on Sinclair lands. Dair took a tail of ten men, went out to investigate, and found nothing. “No one’s been here in months,” Ruari said, looking around the old shelter travelers and herders used when sudden storms came in over the mountains or off the sea. Dair stood in the mouth of the cave, looking down over the hills and valleys of his clan’s lands—his lands. Something felt wrong here, and he kept his hand on his dirk, half expecting an ambush, but the men with him were loyal, his father’s men, men who’d sailed wit
h him a hundred times. “There are no tracks, no provisions. Who said they were here?” Jock asked.
“Logan said he heard it in the village. Some of the women told him, said they heard it from a hunter,” Dair said. “’Tis a false lead. We’d best go home, I think.”
Would someone lie, purposely lure him away? He scanned the dense forest, the deep heather, the mountains rising so high their peaks were hidden in the misty clouds. Instinct prickled along his nerves, warned of danger. He frowned as he turned the garron’s head for home.
By the time Dair got back, dusk had lengthened the shadows, turned the daylight gray. Yet another storm was coming. He felt it in his bones, smelled it on the wind. He needed a bath, a clean shirt. He couldn’t wait to see Fia again, in the hall at supper, and after . . .
A sweet, familiar fragrance stopped him as he entered his chamber. Roses and lilies. Not Fia’s perfume—Jeannie’s.
His belly turned to water, and he scanned the room, half expecting to find his cousin waiting for him. He felt the prickle of her presence, her eyes hard on the back of his skull. Had she been here, watching him with Fia? He began to shake, felt icy sweat sliding down his back. He stepped further into the twilit room, searched the shadows, his heart pounding. He stumbled on something and looked down. A silk shawl, just like the one Jeannie had worn the day they sailed, was crushed under his boot—but that was impossible. Her captors had bound her mouth with it. He picked it up. Something wet and sticky chilled his skin.
The shawl was covered with blood.
The air left his lungs, and he dropped it and stared at the stains on his skin. Blood pooled under his feet, began to spread across the floor. He could smell it now, the reek of gore mixed with her perfume, thick and overwhelming.
She was here, haunting him.