Rogue Highlander: The Lady Sparrow

by Sondra Grey

His hands left her waist, fastened around her rear and lifted her effortlessly. He pressed her against the wall, trapping between his chest and the stone, and guided her legs around his waist. She clung to him and he ground against her most secret part. She gasped at the sensation, and as his hips moved in a primal rhythm, she felt herself writhing in return. One of his hands went up to palm the back of her head, the other fastened on her breast, kneading the sensitive mound and ringing from Isla small cries of pure sensation.

  His mouth left hers and fastened on her neck, kissing her there hotly a moment before dipping lower, kissing the base of her throat, then back up. He snagged her ear lobe with his teeth and fire shot from her ear to her very center.

  She was drowning in the feel of him, trapped between muscles and stone, and pressed into the V of her thighs… She’d seen naked men before. She’d seen people make love before, and she wanted to see him, wanting to pull up his kilt and see just what was pressing against her, so hard, and huge. As his mouth fastened on hers again, she reached between them, hand closing around the thick, hard length of him.

  He stopped moving, stopped kissing her and, for a moment, they were still. Then he tipped his head back, eyes finding hers in the dark. “That’s it, then,” he said. “Follow me.” He set her down, leaving her so suddenly she nearly cried out. Grabbing her hand, he tugged her forward, keeping to the shadows, passing no one as they circled the back of the castle, heading into the keep from the back. Together, they climbed the parapet and scaled the side of the walls until they came to a window. Calum cast her a triumphant smile and slid the window open. He climbed in and held out his hand for hers.

  When Isla scrambled over the sill, she gasped. It was her room. They’d climbed the side of the keep and into her room. But there was no time to think about how they’d done it, Calum was on her again, hands in her hair, lips to lips, driving her back until her knees hit the bed and they both toppled down.

  He was so hard, so hot. Isla needed to get closer and struggled to press herself against him. He laughed softly against her neck, sending shivers up and down her spine. One by one, he snagged her wrists, pinning them above her head until she ceased struggling.

  “I have you at my mercy,” he said. In the dark, she could barely make out his eyes, but she could sense his intensity. “Tell me, lass, what should I do with you.”

  Let me go! She shouldn’t be here, not with him. But then why did it feel so right? “Touch me,” Isla said. There was no taking it back. Calum growled in assent and transferred her wrists to one hand. Using the other, he cupped the side of her face, and bent down, his lips finding hers again and searing her with a raw, uncontrolled kiss.

  They parted.

  “More,” Isla gasped, arching up against his hold. His lips returned and they kissed and kissed. His free hand slid up her rib cage and cupped her aching breast, rolling its sensitive nipple between his fingers. Then his hand ran lower, less hurried, more controlled. He knew what he was doing, knew how to touch her to make her burn, and she was burning. She was a kiln of desire, of want and need. His hand was a brand, and she wanted him to mark every inch of her.

  As if plucking the thought from her head, Calum released her hands and untangled her from her arasaid. She thought he’d help her up, but instead, in a move too quick for her to process, he flipped her on her stomach, his lips fitting to the sensitive skin at the nape of her neck, fingers moving swiftly on the few laces that kept the dress tied in the back. His hand roamed her backside, running down her thigh and making her shudder.

  Then his touch disappeared and she gasped as her skirt was thrown up suddenly, his hands on her bare legs now, running up the inside of her thigh.

  “My…la…”

  “Calum,” he murmured against her spine.

  “C…Calum,” she gasped as his hands met the bare skin of buttocks, kneaded there a moment before slipping.

  “Oh god…”

  He was touching the most secret part of her now, his fingers parting her curls, running along the lips of her opening. Isla’s face was flaming, she was embarrassed and frenzied. He shushed her and leaned over her, turning her face with his free hand and fitting his lips to hers. As his tongue entered her mouth, his finger entered her channel, slowly. Isla gasped against his lips as he stretched her. He broke their kiss as she trembled under him.

  “Lass, you’re wet with honey,” he crooned into her temple. He pulled his finger out and slowly slid it into her again. Isla whimpered. The sensation was astonishing, she wanted more.

  “Shhh, greedy,” he admonished, his hand left her face and travelled to her rear, spanning it while his finger slid slowly in and then out.

  Isla’s breath stuttered as another finger came to probe, the second fitting in slowly, working at her entrance until she was a storm of need, the fire inside her raging. She pushed against his fingers but they retreated, teasingly.

  “Thomasina,” his voice was raw and she looked over her shoulder at him, straining to see his face. His looked hungry, intent, intense, and barely in control.

  As if her look had kindled something, he took his hand away. She nearly cried out, but he was on her again, lifting her up to stand on her feet.

  For a moment, she thought he was going to bid her goodnight, but in a swift move he bent down and lifted her dress from her. Isla gasp was muffled in the wool over her mouth as the gown was lifted from her head and tossed onto the floor.

  Bare as the day she was born she stared at him, but he was staring at her breasts, heavy and white in the moonlight streaming in through her window.

  Then he was stripping, unfastened the brooch that pinned his plaid in place, the fabric falling from his hips, his shirt following. And then he too was bare, but Isla had no time to look. He moved like a cat, quick and reflexive and they were both atop Isla’s bed covers, skin to skin now, Isla beneath him.

  There was no time to think about it, not that Isla wanted to, not that Calum asked. He spread her legs and came between then, reaching down to touch her again, his fingers sliding in more easily now, her channel widening to accommodate them. Isla moaned as his thumb reached up and touched something that shot electric currently through her. He fit his mouth to hers to swallow her sound.

  “Lass,” he said, lips leaving hers, “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever beheld. Do you know how much I’ve wanted you?” he pulled his hand away and something hot and hard pressed eagerly against her opening. Isla panted, looking down, wanting to see all of him.

  Calum chuckled. “That’s it lass, look your fill.” But he grew impatient after a moment, taking her chin in his hand and directing her back to him. Slowly, he bent his head to hers, eyes open until they were face to face. Then he kissed her slowly, eyes open, as if challenging her to keep hers open as well.

  Isla had never felt anything like this before had never…

  His hands were on her again, fingers widening her until… Oh… He was at her entrance, pressing in relentlessly, and she tensed beneath him.

  “Shhhh,” he said against her ear, “Hush lass, relax into me. It’ll only hurt a moment.” Isla relaxed against him. “You’re a virgin then,” he whispered, “I might have guessed, but you certainly don’t kiss like one.”

  Isla tried to breathe, to will her body to relax against the thick object pushing its way in. Calum was patient, he worked himself back and forth until she was practically drenched with want. And then he sank in, slowly, filling her impossibly. It was uncomfortable, but the more she relaxed, the less it hurt. Instead as she breathed against him, as he fit into her, she felt a strange sensation of homecoming, her heart was pounding madly, but as she locked her legs around his hips, welcoming him deeper, she couldn’t regret what she’d given up.

  He seemed to feel it too, for his breathing was ragged, and he stilled, pressing his forehead against hers, his hands on her hips. Then he began to move. He drew away from her, pulling out and then pressing in, heavy, dragging thrusts that made her nerve endi
ngs sing. He rocked against her, hitting that spot that made her see stars and she felt the fire again. Hot this time, so hot, and building towards something unstoppable. She began to keen, to beg, and he kissed her to quiet her, lest anyone hear them. She whimpered against his mouth as he picked up his pace, his thrusts quickening, growing more forceful, insistent, insisting Isla give him something. He begged her for something, but Isla was senseless. She was wild, and the fire was building the pressure so exquisite, reaching a fever-pitch.

  He was pounding into her now and she was begging him, begging. She was close to something incredible. And then – an explosion of stars, her world rocketing from this plane and onto another, body shattering into fragments. The sensation, the release so searing, so powerful… Something was happening to him as well. As her muscles spasms, squeezing him tighter, he grew impossibly larger, harder and then time seemed to stop: he bit her shoulder to muffle his own low groan. Isla barely registered it, they spiraled together, panting with their release, until stillness overtook them both.

  “Oh god, lass,” he said, his voice muffled in her hair. “Have I hurt you?”

  But Isla was beyond words, she was still floating in a dreamlike state, while her earthly body reacted – her heart bursting from her chest with the intensity of what had just happened.

  Calum took her chin again, peering into her face. “Are you all right? Was I too rough?”

  She shook her head for it was all she was capable of. She reached up, her lips wanting his again. He all but collapsed on top of her in relief, kissing her back. She could feel him softening inside her, but she didn’t want him to leave her body. She felt home, and she didn’t want to give that sensation up for anything.

  He didn’t seem inclined to leave either. He kissed and kissed her and when his mouth finally broke away, he was gasping for air.

  “You’re a witch,” he said.

  His words were cold water, crashing over her.

  For a moment she struggled against him, wanting to sit up.

  “Shhhh,” he shushed her again. “Would you like everyone to hear what we’re doing?”

  Isla settled, but her heart was hammering. “I’m not a witch.”

  “Well you’ve bewitched me,” he said, rolling onto his back. “Lord, look at you. The most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, every inch of you.”

  Isla relaxed. He wasn’t accusing her of anything. “You’ve seen a lot of beautiful women, then?”

  The laird smiled at her, looking rakish with his bruise and stitches, dark hair tumbling over his brow. “None so beautiful as you.”

  He reached for her again, pulling her close against him. Isla should have been embarrassed. She’d never been naked before with a man, and yet somehow there seemed nothing to be embarrassed of. This is what marriage must be like, she thought. This is what the bible speaks about, about knowing someone. She ran her hand down the hard ridges of Calum’s abdomen and he murmured his approval of her exploration. He was beautiful. All hard, thick muscle. She pressed her palm against his heart, beating firm and steady against her hand.

  When she looked up at him, his eyes were heavy with heat, desire. Isla felt an answering tide sweep through her.

  “You’ll be sore, lass,” he murmured, thickly, as her hand travelled down the length of him. Her answer was a bold smile.

  When she awoke the next morning, Isla had only the faintest recollection of Calum leaving. He’d awoken, cursing, holding his head as it meant to roll of his shoulders. She’d reached for him, but he’d rolled up, eyes closed and dressing in a hurry before leaving as quietly as he could.

  Isla had been hurt for a moment, before telling herself that he probably didn’t want them to be discovered. It wouldn’t do to have everyone think they’d been sleeping together before they wed.

  A wedding. Isla heart sang with joy. Married to the Laird of Dundur. And Isla was certain they’d be married. Her mother had always warned her away from certain men who’d come calling. You’ll not go with him. He’ll see you ruined before your wedding day. But there were others with whom Deirdre hadn’t been as concerned. He’s a good lad. You mind yourself with him, but should something happen I’ve no fear he’ll make an honest woman of you. Isla knew, instinctively, that her mother would have approved of Calum. She’d always aimed high for her daughter, but to wed a laird…

  Isla’s heart was brimming with joy. Last night had been one of the most incredible of her life. Calum had been insatiable. They’d made love three times, and each time was different, more passionate than the first. Isla’s lips were swollen and, true to the laird’s word, she was sore. But she couldn’t wait to see him again. She lay abed another few minutes just replaying it all in her head.

  When she thought of the moment he’d taken her virginity she stilled. Had there been blood? Did it get on the sheets? Would the maids talk of it? Isla threw back the covers, relieved that the only bit of blood was smeared between her thighs and hadn’t gotten on the sheets.

  Relief swamped her. It wouldn’t do to have Maggie telling everyone in the castle that the Laird had deflowered Isla the Healer.

  That stopped her dead in her tracks. Oh God. They wouldn’t call her Isla the healer, they’d call her Thomasina. Calum had called her Thomasina. He’d no idea of her real name. Oh no! What if she told him and he was furious with her! Should she even tell him? Could she not go on just being Thomasina?

  She paced her floor and fretted. She’d have to think on it. As it was, she’d better get a move on with her day lest anybody think something was amiss.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  T hat morning no one said a word to her about last night, although one of the kitchen girls commented that she’d seen Isla dancing with Leith MacLeod, and wasn’t he so incredibly handsome. Isla pretended to be enraptured by Leith’s good looks. The more they thought her staring after The MacLeod’s son, the less they might suspect what she’d been doing last night.

  When she looked in on Hugh, he asked about the party, telling her that he’d heard the music from the hall. Isla recounted the evening for him, leaving last part out.

  That dinner, the laird was not present, and neither was MacLeod.

  As Isla sat beside Mr. and Mrs. Allan, it took all of her willpower not to ask after them both.

  “How’s your head, lass?” Mr. Allan asked her, looking at her with concerned, fatherly eyes. “Half the castle is laid up today with bad hair-aches. Goes from mixing the grape and the grain, aye,” he winked at his wife who looked sourly back at him. There’d been wine and ale last night. Many people had had both.

  “I went to bed before I could drink enough to do me in,” said Isla, lightly. “I’ve seen enough men sick in the morning with drink to know when I’ve had enough.”

  That wasn’t entirely true. She had a feeling that if she’d been in her right mind, she might never have allowed things to get out of hand last night. She might have remembered the complication surrounding her identity. Might have saved herself the uncertainty, for she’d come to the conclusion earlier on in the evening. She’d tell him everything tonight. She had faith in him. He’d still marry her. He’d murmured his love to her during their union last night. “I love you, lass,” he’d groaned into her hair.

  She’d wanted to tell him that she loved him too, but she didn’t quite know if it were true. She was fascinated by him; he made her heart pound in her chest. But love? Maybe that was what that feeling of homecoming had been, love settling into her. She liked the idea and clung to it. It would give her the courage to tell him the truth.

  “Can’t say the same for the Laird,” murmured Allan. “Saw him this morning in a fine fettle, between the knock on the head and the morning distemper, he was in the blackest of foul moods. Fergus thought it was a terrible idea to let the two Laird’s speak this morning, but it looked as if Leith was equally affected by last night.” He started chuckling to himself. “They were in there so long that Fergus sent Geordie in to check and make sure the one hadn�
��t killed the other…”

  He started laughing a bit harder, silently quaking with it. Isla shot a glance at Mrs. Allan who looked at her husband perplexed.

  Finally, Allan gasped for breath and choked out. “They were both passed out in their chairs. The MacLeod slumped over the desk, the Laird with his… with his head…” The rest of the words were lost as Allan started choking on laughter.

  Isla found herself smiling bemusedly.

  “Oh!” said Allan, wiping the tears that had formed on the corners of their eyes. “Geordie thought they’d been poisoned. He ran up and startled the Macleod so that they knocked noggins…” he was lost to laughter again.

  “Men,” murmured Mrs. Allan, but she looked amused.

  The rest of the dinner passed without incident with Mrs. Allan commenting that Isla hadn’t really touched her dinner. Isla was off her appetite. Her thoughts kept travelling back to last night, and she was nervous about her upcoming conversation with the Laird. Still, she’d sworn to herself that she was going to tell him the truth, and she wasn’t going to be a coward about it.

  “It sounds as though the Laird might use willow bark for his head,” she said. “I have to remove the stitches, in any case.”

  “Gird yourself, lass,” warned Allan. He didn’t need to warn her.

  Isla ascended the stairs twenty minutes later with the tea and her bag of herbs and salves. There was nobody waiting on the Laird this evening, and when she knocked on his bedchamber door there was no answer. Was he in the solar then? Isla turned the corner of the hall. There was a door to the solar on the other side of the hallway and she knocked there.

  “Enter,” came the command from within. Isla opened the door, hoping that he was alone. To her relief, he was. He was sitting at his desk, staring at few papers, holding a quill in his fingers as if he’d been writing. When he saw her he placed the quill down. Isla wasn’t sure what she was expecting from him, but it wasn’t wariness.

  Perhaps he thought he’d hurt her? Perhaps he was waiting to see what she’d do? She drew her healer’s persona around her, standing tall and moving brusquely inside the room. “I brought you tea, for your head,” she said. “And those stitches need to come out.”