Lana and the Laird

by Sabrina York

  Oh, holy God in heaven above.

  Insanity flitted through his mind as he stared at the sight in the hallway. Lana, in her flowing nightdress, in the arms of a rough and brawny brute. The savage had his hand over her mouth and was attempting to drag her into a room. Her eyes were wide, frightened. It was this that unleashed the beast within him.

  Lachlan roared. His muscles bunched and he sprang. He was taller, but the other man was bulkier. Lachlan, however, wasn’t drunk. He swung at the man’s face and landed a heavy blow to his jaw. He reeled and stumbled back, releasing his hold on Lana. She darted away and the man snarled his rage. Finding his center, he launched himself at Lachlan.

  It was a stumbling rush at best and Lachlan had plenty of time to take his aim. Thankful for the many hours he’d spent at Gentleman Jackson’s boxing establishment in London—not to mention countless brawls at Eton—he put all his knowledge into play. A left uppercut to a beefy jaw, followed by several quick jabs to the midsection. When the man was reeling, heaving, gasping for breath, Lachlan finished him off with a mighty blow to his cheek. With a wheeze, he collapsed.

  It was damn satisfying.

  First of all, the physical activity was invigorating. For another, he had rescued his woman.

  He turned to her with a smile.

  He did not expect a frown in return.

  His heart lurched. “Lana. Darling. Are you all right?”

  She turned her frown on the insensate behemoth. “Aye. But why did you do that?”

  What?

  “Why did I clobber him?” The man who was, most likely, intending to rape her?

  “Ach, nae. I’m verra thankful you clobbered him. But Lachlan…” She sighed and threw up her hands. “I do wish you’d clobbered him in the hall.”

  Really? He hadn’t had much choice. When one had the need to clobber someone, posthaste, the where of it was rarely a consideration.

  She tapped her lip, which distracted him. His blood was still running high and the action turned his thoughts from battery to passion. He very much wanted to kiss her. “He is far too heavy to move,” she said.

  Lachlan glanced at the ruffian. He was. Like a mountain, crumpled on the floor. His gaze danced over the chamber and stilled on Lana’s trunk.

  Oh, hell.

  “This is your room?”

  She nodded. “Now where shall I sleep?”

  Ah.

  The thought that whipped through his mind was evil indeed. He should not even countenance it. But he couldn’t help it. He couldn’t drive it away once it landed and took root. He had a bed. And he had French letters …

  It must have been plain on his face, for when she glanced up at him, her gaze stalled, her lips parted, her eyes glazed over. Her tongue darted out to dab at her lips, which was a staggering sight indeed. It sent waves of lust licking through him.

  Her fingers fluttered together and then apart in a tantalizing mockery of the urges dancing through his mind. “We could wake Dunnet,” she said. “The two of you could drag him out, I suppose.”

  “If you wish.” He knew she did not wish. “Or you can come to my room.” A whisper. It hung on the air between them. “I would let you have the bed.” Though they both knew he would not be sleeping on the floor.

  She swallowed. “I … ah … That is verra generous of you … Lachlan.”

  Not in the slightest. It was the most selfish offer he’d ever made.

  But she did not say no.

  He trembled as he led her to his room. It was a short walk, but it seemed to take an eternity. He was certain that at any moment, Dunnet, who should have been roused by the tumult, would open his door and espy Lachlan leading his sister-in-law to her doom. But his door didn’t open.

  No one stopped them.

  It seemed, for once, fate was on his side.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  When he closed the door, his excitement, his ardor, rose. He was possessed of the urge to yank her into his arms and cover her mouth with his. Possessed of the urge to take her here, now, against the wall like a beast.

  But he would not.

  He would allow her to make the first move. He needed to know—to know—this was what she chose. And if it was, above all, he needed to be gentle.

  He didn’t know if he had it in him. But he would try.

  As he stood by the door, holding himself at bay, she surveyed his chamber, though it was very like hers. A bed. A chair. A fireplace. His pulse pinged in his temple. And yes, in his cock, which was stiff as a pike. Just the thought that she was here, in his rooms, was enough to arouse him.

  When she turned and gifted him with a shy smile, he nearly melted into a puddle on the floor. “Thank you verra much for saving me, Lachlan,” she said in a prim voice.

  “My, ahem, my pleasure.”

  “He must have thought it was his room. He just barged in. The locks on these doors are no’ verra sturdy.”

  “Nae. They are no’.”

  Hell. Now that the time was here, he suddenly didn’t know how to proceed. Neither, it seemed, did she. Then again, she’d had quite a fright. It seemed only right to soothe her before he pounced. He wished he’d saved the toddy so he would have had something to offer her to calm her nerves, but he hadn’t. Instead, he waved to the chair by the fire. “Would you care to sit, my lady?”

  “Sit?”

  “To collect yourself.” He couldn’t have her fainting on his carpet. That would do no one any good.

  She nodded and crossed to the chair, settling in it daintily. He tried not to notice how sheer her nightgown was as she passed before the fire. But damn, it was. “I was verra frightened.”

  “I’m sure you were.” He came to stand beside her. She tipped up her chin and stared at him.

  “You were verra impressive.” He liked the light in her eyes. The quirk of her lips. Then her gaze flicked down to his bare calves and her smile broadened. “I do like a man in a kilt. But I canna help wondering…”

  He swallowed heavily. “Wondering what?”

  “Were you sleeping in it?”

  Holy hell. She was a tempting minx. “I, ahem, had not gotten around to changing.”

  “Ah.” Her lashes flickered. “And what is it dukes wear to bed?”

  A knot formed at the core of his being. And tightened. How could he tell her most nights he wore a linen nightshirt? Occasionally trimmed with lace? Nae, he couldn’t. Besides. He wouldn’t be wearing it again. Ever.

  Instead, he prevaricated. “What do Scotsmen wear to bed?”

  “I doona know.” A flush rose on her cheeks and chagrin washed through him. Of course she wouldn’t know. She was a maiden. “Though I imagine they sleep … in nothing.”

  Holy God. Heat gushed through him. Nothing. He would love to sleep in nothing with her soft skin pressed against his. From chest to groin. All night. Just one night. That was all he needed. One night. He shifted from foot to foot and she frowned and leaped up.

  “It seems wrong for me to sit while you loom over me.”

  “Would you have me kneel?” He would do so. Happily.

  “Nae. You sit.”

  “Not very gentlemanly of me.”

  “Sit.”

  He couldn’t ignore her command, and he was glad he did not. Because once he did so, she settled herself in his lap. Yes, she was an innocent. Yes, she was a maiden. Yes, she probably had no idea what she was doing, what havoc she created in his heart and mind and groin as she settled her soft body on his. But hell, she inflamed him. Her hip nudged his cock and his eyes crossed. He groaned.

  “Lachlan? Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.” Gritted. Through his teeth.

  “Is this no’ better?” She wiggled. The evil wench. She wiggled. “This way we can both sit. ’Tis much more comfortable.”

  Comfortable? Not in the slightest. But damn, he liked it.

  “Please stop moving.”

  She stilled immediately. Her charming expression melted into a grimace, althoug
h he caught a wisp of an impish smile before it disappeared. “Am I too heavy?”

  He closed his arms around her as she attempted to leave him. “Not in the slightest.” She was a lovely weight.

  “Ah.” She relaxed against him, and it was glorious. Her warmth, her scent, her presence. Simply holding her was heaven. Absolute heaven.

  Of course he wanted more, needed more, yearned for more. But he’d promised himself to be gentle and let her take the lead.

  Some promises were exceedingly foolish.

  They sat together on the chair, curled around each other, for an eternity, staring at the flickering fire.

  “Lachlan?” she said into the silence.

  “Mmm?” he murmured into her hair.

  “I dinna thank you for saving me.”

  “You did.”

  “I dinna thank you … properly.” Her fingers crept up his chest along the swath of wool, and he cursed the plaid, because it kept them apart. He would have loved to feel her touch, skin-to-skin.

  “And how would you thank me properly?” he asked, though the words were choked, because she’d reached out and cupped his cheek. Her thumb played over his lips and he knew—just knew—what she had in mind. For he had it in mind as well.

  She stared into his eyes. It was excruciating, being so close and not claiming what he desired. But he held back. “I should like to kiss you. If you doona object.”

  Object? Not bloody likely.

  But he couldn’t speak. Something clogged his throat. Probably his heart, which was pounding like a hammer on an anvil. So he nodded.

  She leaned up—he groaned as she pressed against his cock—and set her lips to his.

  Ah, yes. He’d vowed to let her take the lead. He’d sworn to be gentle, but damn it all, with her body against his, and little between them but her nightdress and a length of wool, her lips moving on his, soft and sweet, her breast nudging his chest … his resolve crumbled the way a castle made of sand dissolved before the encroaching sea.

  He pulled her closer, though there was little room between them. Clutched her shoulder then walked his hold to her nape. He held her tight and tipped his head, deepening the kiss.

  When she opened to him, to his invading tongue, a shiver rippled through him. And when she sucked on him, his vision went red.

  God. Oh, God. Lana. Lana.

  As the kiss grew hotter, as desperation and need howled through him, his hands became restless, wandered. He scudded a palm over her arm, down her side, and to her hip. Of their own accord, his fingers roved, reveling in the curve of her body and tugging at her nightdress, urging it ever upward, until he found the hem.

  She pulled back as he touched the bare flesh of her thigh—and ah, it was silky smooth—but it wasn’t to stop him. It was to urge him on. She stared into his eyes, hers glimmering with what seemed to be a hungry light. “Lachlan.” She kissed his chin, his cheek. His neck.

  Surely an encouragement.

  Everything in him shook as he rubbed her thigh and then, slowly, made his way to her center. She gasped as he neared. Gazes locked. Breath commingled. The moment hung between them. And then, he found her. Touched her.

  Her nest was as downy soft as he recalled, and slick.

  Heat snarled through him as he dabbed at her pearl. She issued a whimper and then exhaled one word. It was a word that resounded in his brain.

  “Yes.”

  Yes. Yes. Yes.

  As he had before, he played her, circling her nub, teasing it and occasionally scraping over the tip. Drawing her closer and closer to some ephemeral bliss. He eased her back, over the arm of the chair so he could reach her breasts with his mouth. Gently, he touched her, kissed her, laved her hard nipple as he tormented her clitoris. She began to pant, to moan, to writhe in his arms. It was hellish torture for him, but he would bear it. He wanted, needed, to bring her to heaven.

  As the furor took her, it claimed him as well. His busses to her breast became nibbles, then nips. The press of his fingers on her dampness quickened. It was magnificent watching her expression as she made her way to rapture. He knew when she came close. He knew when she teetered on the edge. Probably because of the depths of her growls, her sizzling intensity, the hold she had on his hair.

  And then, with a soft cry, she broke, shuddering and quivering and writhing in his arms.

  Though his body ached, though his soul was still ravenous for her, he was filled with an odd kind of bliss. Because, once again, he had completed her.

  As she regained her senses, he continued to stroke her. Though he wanted to plunge into her, feel the tight grasp of her sheath, he did not.

  Again, she would need to take the lead. If she wanted to go there. And God, he hoped she did. But if she didn’t, he reminded himself, this was enough. For now.

  When she recovered herself sufficiently—and how he loved the fact that she required recovering—she stared at him. “Lachlan.” A sigh. Her eyes glowed.

  “Did you enjoy that, my darling?” he asked.

  Her lips quirked. “You know I did. But…” She arched against him. Heat lanced him.

  “But what?” Good God, she was tempting.

  “But shouldna there be … more?”

  Ah, yes. There was more. “What…” He cleared his throat. “What did you have in mind?”

  Her pout was adorable. “I think you know what I have in mind.” She shifted again, this time with purpose. It didn’t escape him that her hip pressed against his straining cock.

  “Are you … sure?”

  “Sure?” She gaped at him. Something resembling determination, or possibly annoyance, flitted over her expression. She nudged him again.

  “This is a decision that cannot be unmade, Lana.”

  She sniffed and, to his dismay, stood. That she stood before the fire was an abomination against all that was holy. The flickering light outlined her form in the voluminous nightdress in a truly tormenting fashion. He was trying to be chivalrous here. She was making it hard.

  Oh, hard indeed.

  He tightened his fingers and clung to the arms of chair. “Lana…” A croak.

  “’Tis fine. If you doona want me. I understand.” She flicked a coy glance over her shoulder.

  Not want her? Hell, he wanted to ravage her.

  He tracked her as she crossed the room, out of the illuminating light of the fire and into the shadows by the bed. It took everything in him not to pounce. But then, God damn him to hell, she sat on the bed.

  Every nerve in his body went instantly on point.

  “You are a duke, after all. And I am but a girl.” Did she need to flutter her lashes so becomingly?

  “Lana. You know I want you. I’m trying to retain control.”

  She blew out a breath. “Whatever for?” The question stunned him. “Is it that ridiculous curse?”

  It wasn’t ridiculous. And it wasn’t only the curse. Hell, that curse was the last thing on his mind at the moment. “You are a maiden.”

  She blinked.

  “I would … want to be sure this is your choice. Your giving. Not my taking.”

  “Do you want to … take?” Annoying that, the way she toyed with the fabric of her nightgown, as though she intended to lift it up so he could see her luscious thighs.

  “By God. I do.”

  She held out her arms to him beseechingly. It was a sight he would never forget if he lived to be one hundred. Or thirty. “Then come here, Lachlan. Come to me.”

  He was on his feet in a trice, storming across the room, unwinding his kilt as he went, dropping it onto the floor with careless haste.

  When he fixed his gaze on her, he found her transfixed, her focus locked on his groin, eyes wide, mouth agape.

  Perhaps he shouldn’t have been so hasty. She was a virgin. And he was rather … rampant. He didn’t want to frighten her—

  Ah. But she wasn’t frightened. She was fascinated. She had fondled him before, tasted him, but only in darkness. Like a curious kitten, she ed
ged closer, stared at his high-standing sword, and then—God help him—she touched him.

  It was only a finger, a tender tracing of the thick vein along his length from base to tip, but it nearly unmanned him. She was so innocent, so honest, so pure in her appraisal, it almost brought him to his knees.

  “Lana…”

  “Och, aye.” She jerked away—something howled in his soul at that—but it was to grin up at him and say the most wondrous words. “’Tis not fair of me, is it?”

  No. It wasn’t fair in the slightest, but he would bear it—

  “Being clothed while you are not.”

  Every muscle locked. His breath snagged painfully in his throat. His cock surged.

  She stood, and removed her nightdress in a flurry of froth.

  And God. Holy God.

  Everything in him tightened. For there she was, bare and beautiful before him. Utterly nude.

  Her skin shimmered in the light of the fire, nearly translucent and fine. Her hair tumbled over her shoulders in a riotous fall, curling around perfect breasts and kissing the curve of her hip.

  Lachlan swallowed heavily and consumed her with his eyes. Somehow, somewhere, his instincts scuttled. He knew he should take that final step toward her, he knew he should pull her into his arms. He knew he should toss her on the bed and take her, but he was utterly mindless. Unable to move, to speak, to breathe.

  As though she sensed his helplessness, she stood, took his hand, and tugged him toward the bed.

  It was the only encouragement he needed.

  Indeed, the slightest nudge would have done. Would have broken him from the enchantment that held him in thrall. With that small gesture, she freed him, incited him, welcomed him to do what he would.

  And he would.

  He did.

  He pulled her against him, as he’d been aching to do. Sealed their bodies from chest to groin, and as delicious as he’d imagined it would be, it was far, far better. Sublime. He could hold her like this forever. And he would have, if there hadn’t been a deeper need clawing at him.

  “I want to be gentle,” he murmured as he kissed her cheek, her nose, her neck.

  She smiled at him. Raked her nails over his scalp. It woke something within him, something that wasn’t gentle in the slightest. She went up on her tiptoes and bussed his chin, his nose, and then, finally, his lips. And then she whispered, “Scotsmen are no’ gentle.”