Claimed By a Scottish Lord

by Melody Thomas

  As if the darkness had conjured him from the shadows and given him wings to glide.

  The kiss went on and on. He tasted alive. Life-giving. Like the rain that drummed in a restless cadence on the canopy of branches above their heads.

  It was too late to reconcile the woman she was with what she was doing now. Too late .

  Not even the ache on her thigh could vanquish the sweet fire of sensations. She had never felt anything so sweet touch all of her senses at once. Her palm grazed his upper arm and shoulder and discovered where braided muscles tightened beneath flesh. His hand traced the curve of her waist and he pulled her against him so that her breasts flattened against his chest. The quiver that vibrated through her body sent a corresponding response through his. She could feel the beat of his pulse as if it were her own. His fingers splayed the round curve of her bottom and brought her more fully against his arousal. Little separated them from full contact but the leather of his breeches. Her fingers tangled in his thick course hair. He smelled of earth and rain and sweat, an utterly male essence foreign to her.

  ‘Twas not at all unpleasant. Her breathing had slowed as she followed his lead. Where his hands and mouth went on her body, hers followed on his.

  In the darkness, nothing mattered but that he made her feel alive and free.

  She was safe in the darkness.

  His presence surrounded her.

  Sliding her palms over his shoulders and down the slope of his back, she melted against him and met the plunder of his tongue. His clothes were damp, the linen of his shirt rasping against her more tender flesh, but she did not care.

  He lowered his mouth to her breasts. The graze of his teeth brushed her nipples and she murmured incoherently. His hand moved between her thighs and with the gentlest of pressure nudged her legs apart. She was hot and damp. His fingers played upon her intimately, teased her until she was anxious, doing things that made her forget everything but the moment at hand. His finger pushed into her, then pulled out, in and out, pushing upward in the most exquisite way. He knew just where to touch her. How much to give before she asked for more. The pressure in her womb became insistent, spreading up through her body from his fingertips. He was fire, touching her.

  It did not matter that she could not see him working his fingers and mouth over her. She had closed her eyes.

  He did not seduce. He conquered with an expertise she would never have.

  And she let him.

  From somewhere a voice cried out . her own.

  His mouth was still on her breast, laving her with liquid heat, but he had moved over her body. Then his hand was gone, and he was replacing his fingers with something much, much larger, to probe the edges of her softness. Throbbing recognition pulsed through her body. She felt discomfort as he entered her . and something strange and burning.

  He softly swore on a suffocated breath.

  And despite her want not to, she also gasped.

  She grasped his head, and pulled him into a kiss that asked for nothing, but would demand everything. She would not allow this moment to be more than what it was.

  ―What are you doing, Rose?‖

  ―Do . not stop.‖

  Their breaths mingling in the darkness, she tasted blood on her lip where she had bitten down. Not to displace the pain but to welcome it. She set her heels into the soft ground and lifted her hips to push against him, forcing him deeper. Pain anchored her. Reminded her who she was.

  His breathing had slowed. He raised his head slowly.

  His features were lost in the darkness.

  Perhaps for just a moment he had forgotten she was Lord Hereford‘s daughter. But she had forgotten nothing.

  That it should hurt. That it should be Roxburghe who hurt her was just in her mind.

  She would not make herself vulnerable.

  But she was.

  He proved that much as his body began to move, filling her completely, and he took her, lifting and stoking the fire. And then they were each taking from the other.

  And the humming grew louder in her head. Did he not feel it, too?

  Beneath her fingers, his shoulders bunched with his movements. Her nails dug into his back. There was no proof against the pleasure he gave her. She could not turn it away.

  No words were spoken between them. There didn‘t need to be.

  Only the sound of their breathing answered their need. His possession burned unchecked through her body.

  She did not want to be vulnerable. But in the end, it was her very vulnerability that made her shatter. But it was still dark.

  And for her, darkness had always been safe.

  By the time pale shafts of light penetrated Rose‘s consciousness, she was already half awake. She awoke to a burning soreness between her thighs and the smell of him on her body. The place beside her was empty.

  Only the sound of a rushing stream and birdsong intruded on her thoughts. That and the rough abrasion against her skin where Roxburghe had scraped her tender flesh with his kiss. A cloak lay over her. She still wore her shirt, and it covered her to mid-thigh. But she was still practically naked, and in daylight, she felt more vulnerable than ever before.

  She pushed up on her elbow. A low-hanging mist hovered over the ground making the trees ghostly in the morning light. She looked for Roxburghe, half holding her breath. She could see neither him nor the horse he‘d stolen from the dragoons. Her hand went to her thigh.

  He had done a fine job stitching the ugly gash. The scar would be thin. Though why should she care? She expected no man would ever see her legs.

  She crawled out of the shelter, dragging the cloak, and limped to some dense brush to relieve herself, watching the camp through wispy willow branches surrounding her for any sign of Roxburghe. She was tender in the most private of places where he had touched and done things . impossible things that made her cry out with the pleasure of it. She closed her eyes.

  Nothing had ever consumed her so utterly as last night. She should be more shocked at herself than she was, and wondered if something was wrong with her that even now her heart tripped. She wanted a cold bath, as if clean water could scrub away the passion as easily as it could the blood. There was a tremor in the cadence of her thoughts.

  Blackbirds circled the treetops and she had the sudden unpleasant image of carrion-eating crows. She combed her fingers through her hair. She began to feel like the only surviving human in a world gone insane, completely alone in this foreign wilderness forest. She recognized nothing.

  Then the faint wicker of a horse caught her ear and she limped down a path, stepping through the trees to see a stark blue pond as still as glass in the morning sunlight. The black gelding stood hobbled in a patch of grass. She drew a deep breath and started to make her way to the animal, with no thought of where she might go unclad and hunted . and lost. Only that she would be free.

  Roxburghe suddenly strode into the clearing. He saw her by the rocks and stopped, then wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, looked from her to the horse. She sensed more than saw the amusement in his eyes as he approached. She had been melded with him all night, perhaps more than his body had imprinted itself upon her senses. She could feel him inside her head.

  He held a self-made spear crowned by her dirk tied to the stick with a band of cloth. Three nicely sized trout were impaled on its tip. He wore no shirt, as if he had just come from the water. His wet hair carelessly brushed the tops of his bronze shoulders. The sight of him caused a deep intake of breath.

  Fully clothed, Ruark Kerr was impressive. Unclothed, he could stir a rock to life. He was large and strong, wrought from muscle and flesh and a smattering of hair that narrowed like an arrow from his abdomen to disappear into the waistband of his breeches. Hair the shade of the stubble that darkened his jaw.

  Last night he had been clothed when he had lain next to her. Then she had awakened in the throes of a dream, and Roxburghe had been there in the darkness. She had found more than succor in his arms.
/>   Now his silence played at the hunger he had awoken in her.

  A wolf howled just then. Hugging the cloak to her torso, she diverted her attention to the trees. This place, her feelings, everything was unfamiliar to her.

  ―These woods are filled with predators,‖ he said, a predator himself who would easily recognize the dangers. His hand was suddenly below her chin and touched the tenderness there.

  ― ‘Twould be a mistake for you to think you could leave here alone and survive.‖

  ―Predators? The two-legged or four-legged kind?‖

  ―Both. You have courage. I would hate to see it all thrown away on an imprudent decision.‖

  Her pulse fluttered beneath his touch. ―I want to wash,‖ she said bluntly, feeling dizzy as she looked at the pond. ―Alone if you will.‖

  ―Within sight of the camp.‖ The lack of timbre in his voice pulled her gaze back to his. ―I mean what I say, Rose. You are in no condition to go anywhere on your own. And I warn you, the water is cold.‖

  The colder the better, in her mind, Rose thought as she limped down the hill to where water trickled over rocks into the cold pond. When she sensed Ruark had moved away, she stole a glance over her shoulder and watched as he squatted near the fire to tend to the fish. With his elbow braced on his knee, he looked over at her, and she turned abruptly, aware of his interest.

  She removed the cloak. Part of her felt emboldened enough to strip away the shirt in defiance of her shyness, and so she did, for the devil had seized her. Only because she knew that he had seen her wariness of him. Let him watch if he chose. She was not afraid of him.

  She walked through reeds and mallow ferns and dove into the water, only to come up sputtering as the icy water snatched a gasp from her throat. Bloody hell! The pond must be fed by an underground stream.

  She forced herself to swim and after a while the cold felt good against her tender flesh if only because she could no longer feel her limbs. Treading water, she looked about her at the open meadow, escape always on her mind. Then she turned on her back to enjoy the rare bout of sunlight warming her face before she forced herself to return. If he could withstand the pond long enough to fish, then so could she. Being a proficient swimmer helped, and with deep strokes, she waded farther out and floated on her back. Finally, she swam back to the bank.

  A shadow fell over her. She looked up to see Ruark standing near the rock where she had laid her cloak. Fully dressed now, he held the rest of her clothing balled up in his hand. He‘d tied back his dark hair with a leather strip. His earring glistened silver in the sunlight and momentarily drew her attention.

  ―Breakfast is ready,‖ he said, amused and clearly recognizing her quandary. She would have to climb out before she turned blue.

  She wished now she hadn‘t been so eager to shed her shirt.

  ―Turn around.‖

  ―And give you my back? Not on your life, love.‖

  Damn him. She rose out of the water feeling like a mermaid with her wet hair hanging like reeds to her hips. She struggled up the embankment and snatched up her cloak. Then faltered and would have fallen to her knees had he not grabbed her arm. He set the cloak around her shoulders and handed her her clothes.

  ―I can walk without aid,‖ she said weakly.

  Ignoring her, he lifted her into his arms. ―No doubt you have become accustomed to your own independence, love. But not today.‖

  He brought her into the camp and set her down beside the fire. Forced by weakness and the need to sit, she dropped on a dead worm-eaten log, feeling like one of the scaly, tattered lichen she‘d dislodged with her ankle.

  He bent and retrieved the tin cup on the fire-warmed stones next to the cooking trout. He pressed the rim to her lips. ―Drink. You will feel better.‖

  Pushing the cup away, she turned her head. ―I would beg to differ, my lord. I already feel like a foxed sailor.‖

  His mouth crooked. ―A foxed sailor? You mean a drunken jack-tar. Aye. The English cannot hold their spirits.‖

  He was teasing though he may as well not have been. He had no great fondness for anything Sassenach. ―Drink. ‘Tis hot willow-bark tea. Breakfast will be ready shortly.‖

  Unlike the heated passion of last night that left an indelible tenderness between her legs, his touch remained gentle, and to her, his kindness made a paradox of his absolute disreputableness.

  She held the warm cup in her palms and looked over the rim at the willow trees as she sipped. The taste was astringent and bitter and the tea would work to help alleviate pain and swelling in her leg. The bark was obtained in the thin channeled pieces between the slight downy and serrated leaves. He would have had to have gathered the bark earlier and dried it on the rocks.

  ―Did you learn about willow-bark tea during your time at sea as well?‖

  ―One learns something about medicine if one wishes to keep his crew alive. But McBain is the expert. I was merely the patient most of the time.‖

  She peered down at his back as he bent to slide the fish on the tin plate that went with the cup she held. ―You have been injured?‖

  ―I have seen my fair share of battle,‖ he said without looking at her. ―A broadside can destroy a man in more ways than you can imagine.‖

  She could not imagine standing on the quarterdeck of any ship facing cannon fire. Or giving the order to fire. That he had done so only brought home to her the manner of man she found herself against.

  She scraped her finger idly over the cup‘s rim. ―Last night . ‖

  He lifted his gaze and the words froze in her throat. She remembered how he had withdrawn from her and spilled his seed outside her body. ―You were careful to see that there would be no child between us . ‖

  Even as his expression remained unchanged, he said, ―Nothing is ever certain.‖

  Jack was a bastard child, she thought, hoping that Friar Tucker had taken him under his wing until she could somehow return and claim him.

  ―Do you have children?‖ she asked.

  ‘Twas a blatantly intimate question, and brought on a bout of self-consciousness. ―No one has come forward to claim me as their father yet, if that is what you are asking.‖

  ―I could not care less if you have populated the world.‖

  He braced his wrist on his knee, amusement in his eyes. ―What of you?‖ he asked after a moment. ―How is it someone of your . not so virginal passions managed to remain untouched for twenty years?‖

  She barely swallowed the sip of tea before she coughed. ―No one has ever interested me . in that way. And even if I had been interested, I have bigger dreams than to find myself someone‘s wife . ‖ her voice faded.

  ―A young girl‘s dreams found in the magic of a wishing ring?‖ he asked and her gaze dropped to the ring on his hand. ―Now that I know something about you, I am even more curious by Jack‘s statement when I came upon you in the cemetery. He said you had not made a wish upon this ring.‖

  ―You know that ‘tis a wishing ring?‖

  ―The Gypsies sell these at country fairs from Carlisle to Wick. You can buy one for a halfpenny and have more than one wish in the bargain.‖

  His mockery insulted her and made her feel foolish. ―Do you believe in magic?‖

  Clearly, he was a man who believed in very little and trusted his survival to few. ―Maybe when I was five, when my uncle pulled a coin from my ear.‖

  ―Then what does it matter what I think the ring is or was to me? ‘Twas probably all twaddle anyway, as you say. I do not believe in fairy tales and I have never cared what faults people find in my traits and appearance. I have never aspired to be a princess.‖

  She finished the tea and licked the moisture from her lips with the tip of her tongue before handing the cup back to Roxburghe. The flush on her cheeks deepened as she realized he was watching her in disbelief.

  ―Sweet Jesu, Rose.‖ He raised his eyes to the heavens and spread his arms. ―Lord, save me from my idiocy before I do something else I will regret
.‖

  Then on a note of laughter that did not quite reach his eyes he said, ―Do you not see yourself as a man sees you?‖

  She swallowed against the tightness in her throat. ―I have not known many men,‖ was all she could think to say. Then with more brevity, ―I find the male species to be much like fleas. Bothersome at best. I avoid them when I can. You have not given me a reason to reform my opinion, sir.‖

  He laughed, entirely unaffected by the insult. She wondered if anything she could say would affect him. He was like a tall stone pillar who should have left her feeling cold, not hot and flushed with a restless fever raging in her veins.