by Ann Jacobs
He had called her a strumpet! And it was true, she was acting the part of a whore. Lifting her hands from his chest, she narrowed her gaze. “Unhand me. Now. Before your days of handling strumpets are brought to a painful and permanent demise.”
His fingers stilled and his lips compressed. Puzzlement shone in his eyes. “Do you wish to be the one doing the seducing, my lady?”
“Nay, sir. I wish to be the hell free from your violating hands!”
The fury in her voice must have reached him, because with nary another word he released her. Kristiana stumbled backward until the stone wall was again at her back. She yanked her nightdress to her throat and clutched it there. For a long moment, she could only stare at Tavish, not his magnificent body stripped and laid bare to the night, but the guilt-riddled look in his dark gaze. Then reason took over and she bolted past him for the safety of her bedchamber.
Chapter Three
Two days he had ignored Lady Kristiana, two days spent with a half hard cock and thoughts of fucking her senseless running rampant through his mind. The latter was why Tavish had ignored her. After the way she’d bolted that night on the battlement, he no longer knew what to make of her.
Had the fear he detected in her eyes just before she ran from him been real, or merely a game? Could she be toying with him, making him feel guilty for his advances so he would come to her and beg pardon, and then when she had him in her realm, she would become the vixen he first guessed her? Or was it her own guilt that ate at her, guilt for offering herself to an Englishman? As much as she seemed to want him, she had made it clear she did not approve of his heritage.
And that was pure horseshit.
He was no more the Englishman than his brother had been. He had been raised in that country against his wishes and in time had learned to accept it as his temporary home. That didn’t mean it was where his faith lay. No, that would always be here, in the country he loved like no other.
Shaking free of his thoughts, he focused on Kristiana’s stiff back. Beyond her childhood home, she knelt before a trio of small headstones. This morning he had been forced to end the silence between them and ask her assistance in speaking with the villagers. He had been surprised at how easily she’d agreed. He was even more astonished that she chose to bring him here, a place she held sacred. As she rose from her perch in the clean, white snow and turned to him, his curiosity was sated.
“My mother died from sickness when I was a babe. Every spring my father heaped her grave with the roses she loved. This year there’ll be no roses.”
“And you would blame that on me?” he asked, not missing the bite in her tone, nor the wintry sting in her ice blue eyes.
“I would blame that on your kind.”
And which kind would that be? Tavish wondered, as she hurried past him. A scoundrel who dared to violate her whilst she was drunk from his kisses, or an Englishman? Clearly she spoke of his blood, for if anyone had been intoxicated that night on the parapet it was he. He had to have been drunk to have wanted the insolent chit so badly. And if that were true, then he was still inebriated, because as he watched her walk to the front of the manor, the sight of her rounded hips and her plump ass swishing beneath her long coat had his cock hard all over again.
With a grunt, he cursed his body’s desire and followed her into the house.
She stood in the sitting area, glancing around the dank, starkly furnished room—the place had been stripped of its finery. Her gaze lighted on him for the briefest of moments, and Tavish could not help but register the sadness there. If she had brought him here to further berate him, she had done so at a cost to herself.
Compassion for all that had been taken from her these past months swept through him, striking a chord of understanding deep within. He knew the sense of loss that rallied through her eyes, knew how it felt to lose everything and every one you knew and loved. To be surrounded by a bleakness that seemed would never dissipate.
On instinct, he opened his arms and took a step toward her. Her eyes flew wide, panic burst through her gaze and her ruby-red lips parted to form an O. He halted and cursed inwardly. If what he read in her gaze, in the delicate features of her face were accurate then she truly had not wanted his advances two nights prior. Was it possible he had imagined her lustful response to him in the courtyard as well? Or had that much been real but meant for another man, one she cared deeply for?
“What kind of man was my brother?”
Her distress fading, Kristiana lifted her chin. “An honorable one.”
“And the villagers? How did they treat him?”
Her full lips twitched until the slightest of smiles claimed them. “They loved him, of course. He was a brave man who fought for what he believed in.” Her mouth fell flat as she pinned him with a glare. “He fought for the right side.”
As opposed to Tavish, who’d fought for the wrong.
The barb pricked far deeper than he cared to admit. Struggling to keep his voice even, he pressed, “And how did he treat his lady wife? Did she love him as well?”
Wrapping her arms around her middle, she fixed her gaze elsewhere. “’Tis really none of your business, sir, but we had a very special relation.”
If that were the truth then why had Tomas called the woman garish, detestable in countenance? No man who had tasted her fiery kisses, felt the high, firm globes of her breasts pressed against his mouth, or the ripeness of her silky ass swaddled in his hands could make such a claim. His cock responded with a fierce pang of need as he recalled her throaty mewls of passion, of undeniable pleasure as he petted the folds of her pussy. She was a woman capable of great emotions, of far reaching desire.
Of unyielding love…that which surpassed even death.
Obviously, he’d been mistaken. It was Tomas she had thought to be kissing in the courtyard. Tomas she ached to have hold her, console her sorrow. Tomas who’d occupied her mind even as she had melted in Tavish’s arms and cried out his name.
He bit back his growl of displeasure. He was by no means an unsullied lad, but he was also no scoundrel who cared naught for the imaginings of the woman he pleasured. If she were to cry out his name, she would damned well do so because it was he she savored behind her closed eyes. He, and he alone, she wished to have holding her, stroking her to orgasm, and not because she thought to earn her right to stay within the walls of Castle Wynderon, but because she wanted to be with him, to feel him fucking her deep into the night.
And he realized with startling clarity that he wanted her to picture him thus. Wanted her to burn for his touch, long for his mouth on her breasts, her nipples, for the furious thrust of his hot, hard sex into the deepest recesses of her cunt. Circumstances be damned, he wanted her for his mistress.
And why the bloody hell not?
She already thought him a rake, why not live up to her belief and make her yet another mistress in the slew of lovers she had undoubtedly already assigned him?
It would take only the slightest of provocation to garner her agreement. For as much as she might have imagined another man as he fondled first her ass and then her heated mound, it was not another man who had her pussy lips slippery with the dew of ecstasy. Not another man whose thumb she nibbled upon, or whose mouth she ate at again and again, like a starving woman possessed.
She would agree to this arrangement. He need only decide upon the best way to approach her with his offer.
Kristiana’s wistful sigh brought his attention back to her profile. His fingers itched to trail over her lovely alabaster skin, to peel away her coat and gown to reveal the feminine layers of lace and cloth beneath. Then strip them away as well, until nothing but Kristiana and all her womanly charms stood before him.
Only this was not the time, nor the place. Undressing her in a cold, empty house was certainly not the best way to make her see his reasoning. For now he settled on following her gaze to the object that held her enthralled—an oil painting of a formally garbed couple settled amidst several other port
raits over the hearth mantle. The woman’s hair was swept back in the fashion of that day, the locks that were visible almost the same deep shade of red as Kristiana’s. Eyes of a brilliant green gazed adoringly at the man who stood near her. She was a striking woman, he a handsome man. A couple who’d clearly played some elemental part in Kristiana’s heritage.
“Family?” he questioned, moving to stand beside her.
She nodded, but spared him no glance. “My great uncle and aunt, Laird and Lady Garrick. She was such an attractive woman.” Her voice a gentle whisper, she added, “I’ve always wished to have been passed down her eyes.”
“Would be a shame had you, yours are far more engaging.” As much as Tavish told himself this was not the place to start enticing her, he could not stop the words from tumbling out. “They remind me of the loch in the wood. Crystal clear and sparkling blue. One dip into their cool, liquid depths could never be enough to sate a man.”
“You know well I care not for your pretty words, my laird,” she said, but the breathy quality of her voice assured the opposite. The gentle lilt reminded him of that moment when she rummaged her fingers through his hair and whimpered her pleasure. He felt nearly as heated now, remembering the look of rapture on her beautiful face, as he had then.
It was more than enough to encourage him to continue. “I can only guess at the splendor of her bosom beneath all those layers, but yours I can well picture. High, firm, ripe breasts made for spilling into a man’s hands.” My hands.
“I beseech you not to speak so, sir. ‘Tis quite disconcerting.”
And quite arousing, judging by the undeniable husk that peppered her words and the erratic rise and fall of her chest beneath her coat. His shaft throbbed painfully beneath his breeches, aching for release. How would she react if he took down his pants and saw to his pleasure here and now, before her eyes? The urge to take his cock into his hand and stroke its inflamed length until hot come flowed freely was almost too exhilarating for Tavish to ignore.
Only the notion he would scare her off before he had time to convince her of her body’s desire stopped him from doing just that. He couldn’t refrain from lifting his thumb to her mouth. Her breath hitched when he traced her full lower lip. All but oblivious to the sound, he continued his exploration, mesmerized by the lushness of her mouth, the memory of how sinfully sweet she tasted.
He ached to imbibe of her flavor again, to kiss her with the slow, heady thoroughness he so rarely took the time to enjoy. Though her gaze remained focused on the portrait, her eyes had darkened and her breathing grew increasingly fast. He grinned at the knowledge she fought the same desire. Yes, the next time she called his name, it would be for all the right reasons.
“Your aunt’s mouth is closed,” he continued in a tone thick with lust, “but yours I prefer open.” He stroked his thumb upward, against the arch of Kristiana’s cheekbone. Then, slowly, he caressed his thumb down her neck to the fair skin that showed at the opening of her coat. Her pulse flitted beneath his touch. “I’ve been told you’re willful, but I find I like that quality. Especially when it’s your willful tongue that’s pressed up against mine. And then there’s your fine, plump backside. Never have I felt an ass so—”
Her loud gasp brought him up short. “Have I said how very much in love my uncle and aunt were?” she asked quickly. “This setting was done for their betrothal.”
Aware he still held her rapt, Tavish thought to start where he’d left off, but then he turned to look once more upon the painting she seemed so taken by and the only thing that came out of his mouth was a gasp. He dropped his hand to his side and swiveled to stare at the couple. His deduction was confirmed by both their attire and portrait’s setting.
He looked back at Kristiana. “By God, they’re English!”
She gaped at him. The passion he’d suspected burned hot in her gaze and her brow crinkled with fine lines. “Whatever do you mean?”
“Your uncle and aunt were English.”
She crossed her arms over her chest and glared. “And your point, sir?”
Tavish couldn’t stop his smirk, nor keep from reaching out to once more stroke her cheek. “My point, darling, is your precious Scottish blood is every bit as tainted as mine.”
She wrenched from his touch, putting distance between them with two backward steps. Her eyes flashed hotter yet, blue fire all but singeing him in its magnitude. “I am not your darling, nor ever will I be. As for my blood, ’tis folly you speak. I’ve never even been to England. I care not to go.”
He took a single step forward that brought him within half a foot of her, and forced his smirk into a reckless grin. What he really wanted to do was pin her with his darkest scowl and tell her just how inept and addled her reasoning was. “I cared not to go either, darling,” he said from between clenched teeth, “but we don’t always have a choice as to what we wish to have happen.”
Kristiana drew her coat tighter, but said no more, merely continued to glare at him. Loathe to argue with the woman he would soon spend his nights pleasuring and seeking gratification from in return, he shook off his temper and offered his arm. “Come, m’lady, introduce me to these villagers o’ yers.”
Her eyebrows rose and her lips twitched, almost as if she fought a smile. “If you think a false tongue will sway their faith, ‘tis a waste of your efforts, my laird. Actions speak far louder than words, or so I am told.”
“Then what you mean to say, Kristiana, is that whilst your words made it quite clear you wished me to stop, I should have instead listened to your actions. The way you arched your nipples so shamelessly against my mouth, the wetness that lathered the lips of your cunt, the way you wriggled your ass again and again against my hands as if you couldn’t get enough, and continued to…violate you, I believe it was?”
The twitching of her lips ceased and her gaze became frigid. The husky tremor in her words assured she wasn’t nearly as unaffected as she pretended. “You’ve asked me to assist you in gathering the villagers, sir, which I’ve done. Now I suggest you speak with them before they grow weary of waiting for their laird and turn to stoning him.”
Tavish’s smirk returned with renewed force. Warmth he deduced to be amusement settled in his upper chest, and his expression became an all out grin.
Scowling in return, Kristiana turned on her heel and made her way to the manor’s front door. He chuckled in her wake. If it was stoning the villagers chose to partake in, he held no doubt their lady’s would be the first stone cast.
* * * * *
The last thing Kristiana wanted was to like Tavish. More to be lured in by promises spoken in his deep Scottish burr—not the broken dialect he’d used at the manor, rather the proud and true tongue of a born leader. But as he stood before the villagers and shared his visions for the future of Landon, she could not help her feeling of hope. And maybe even a little respect.
“I would not lie to you, I’m every bit the Englishman my brother was.” A collective gasp stole through the crowd with this little known and even more rarely discussed truth. “But ‘tis Scottish blood that runs the truest.”
“Ye fought for the bastards,” a stout man cried out from the center of the pack. “How do we know ‘twas not yer own hand that felled our laird?”
Tavish nodded, the secure half-smile never leaving his face. “Aye, sir, I was at Culloden, but you’re wrong about my faith. I fought under the name of the King, but I fought for the Highlanders. Whilst several men were injured, only one was downed by my hand and that man was an English soldier.” His lips drew into a hard line as he added, “One who robbed your late laird, my brother, of his life.”
Kristiana’s heart turned over with the barely concealed ache in his words. She fought the sudden urge to massage the harsh lines of sorrow from his face. Was it possible he spoke the truth? Had he truly killed a man over Tomas?
“How can we believe you?” She heard the plaintive yearning behind the question, but not until Tavish met her eyes and a crooked
grin turned his full, sensuous mouth did she realize she’d voiced it herself.
“You have only my word, my lady. If you allow me to prove myself, I will show you where my loyalty lies. I will show you the worthiness of your patience.”
She shivered at the promise in his black gaze. His attention flickered to her lips, and she held her breath against the anticipation that assaulted her, the sudden stroke of heat that caused her limbs to tremble. The wetness that had gathered in her undergarments back at the manor grew heavier and she could smell her arousal on the air.
Did the devil know the effect he had on her? How badly he made her want? His wicked words about her actions two nights prior had her so hot, so ready to beg to feel his mouth on her again, to feel his fingers fondling her nether lips. Only this time she would not have him stop after a few idle strokes that took her to the edge and no farther, but bury his fingers deep into her slick core, until she was screaming his name in delirium.
At the image of him doing just that, liquid heat coiled between her thighs and an intense tingling had her shifting her stance. As if he knew her mind, he lifted his gaze to hers and winked. “Later, my lady, we shall bring an end to your squirming.”
The whispered promise had been spoken for her ears only, and still the idea others might have heard had her breathing increasing, her nipples turning to hard peaks that ached for his words to come true here and now.
Sweet Lord! He was turning her into a mindless tramp.
Tavish returned his attention to the people. When he spoke next, his voice rang louder, prouder, truer for his immoral actions, she was certain of it. “I wish to see this land restored to its former glory, the men, women, and bairns who once called Landon home return to their clansmen. First and foremost, I wish to see those gathered here before me this day trust again. In yourselves, in your neighbors. In your laird.
“’Tis the truth my heritage is flawed, but I’d wager few of you can claim better of your ancestry. Why, even your lady’s father, the beloved Rector Farleigh, God rest his soul, was a descendent of the English.”
