by Sabrina York
Oh, yes. That. There.
Lachlan groaned and closed his eyes, but other than holding tight to her hips, he didn’t guide her. He seemed to know that she wanted, needed to discover this for herself. His lack of command emboldened her. She leaned forward—he huffed a moan—and kissed his neck. She loved his neck. It was a thick, muscled column with a bristly dusting of scruff where his beard trailed down. And his shoulders. She loved those, too. Powerful, broad. And below that, his collarbone. She peppered little kisses along each wing. All the while she moved on him, circling him, embracing him, tugging on his length with slick inner muscles.
She kissed his nipple, suckled it as he had hers, and his cock lurched. She liked the feel of that, so she did it again. His fingers tightened on her and she glanced at his face. His eyes were wide, red-rimmed. “Lana.”
“Do you like that, Lachlan? Do you like when I touch you here?” She closed her fingers on a copper disc. He hissed through his teeth. “Do you?”
“Aye. God, aye.”
“Mmm. Good to know.” She lowered her head again and barraged him, licking, lapping, and nipping his nipples, tormenting him as he had her.
“I canna take much more of this, Lana,” he said in a growl.
She chuckled. “Och, aye. You can, Lachlan. You can.” But she decided to show him some mercy and shifted position, onto her knees, with him beneath her. With this leverage, she could move with more freedom and more quickly, in the manner he had the night before. And aye, it was splendid. His cock, hard, thick, deep within her, filling her. Completing her.
Water sloshed and heaved in the tub as her lunges became more frenzied. The waves were like little licks on her back. As she pumped up and down, her breasts submerged into the heat and then woke to the cold. She found the dual sensations maddening, almost as maddening as his tongue on her.
Their grunts and groans washed the room. The splashes became more turbulent. Lachlan’s expression hardened. His hold on her became her only moorage in this world. Because even as she’d pleased him with this play, she’d brought herself to some strange and glorious place as well. Her focus skewed. Her grip on her purpose slipped. She had to let him take the lead. She had to let him move her as her muscles failed her.
She could tell he was close. The veins on his neck stood out as he struggled, thrusting his body upward, into hers, finding the angle, the depth, the rhythm that pleased them both.
Faster, harder, ever more frantic.
She’d stopped thinking about the water on the floor or the fact that her sister and her husband were in a room not far away. Nothing mattered. Nothing existed. Nothing but herself and Lachlan and this place they’d created together.
She gasped as his cock lengthened and swelled, filling her more completely, anchoring her, locking her to him. The slick slide of his skin abraded her nerves as he made one final thrust that did her in. He hit a spot inside her—a place so hidden she hadn’t even known of its existence—and she dissolved.
Even as pleasure swamped her, he kept moving, sending even more spirals of bliss through her. Then his cock lurched and jerked and heat suffused her. It was a delicious heat. A rapturous rain.
She collapsed on his chest and clung to him as pings of pleasure barraged her in the aftermath of bliss. He stroked her back, whispered into her hair, and every now and again rocked … and shuddered.
When she was capable of such a complicated maneuver, she tipped up her chin and put her lips to his neck. It was all she could reach. It was all she could manage. “Lachlan.”
“Mmm.” His murmur rumbled through her.
Neither of them, it seemed, was capable of more.
But that was all right. The world did not require them to be capable of anything but this, but clinging to each other. Not at the moment, at any rate.
And all things considered, this wasn’t a bad place to be.
He was still buried in her, and the water was warm around them, and they were wrapped together as they should be. It was, perhaps, divine. It felt divine.
It was a long while before he murmured, “We should get out. The water is getting cold.”
Lana wanted to pout, but she lacked the energy. Besides, it was true. The water was getting cold. And the towel was probably quite toasty by now. With a sigh, she heaved up and away, but had to pause to kiss him. And then he had to pause to kiss her.
But they didn’t pause for long. Once they were out of the water, the air was cold. Lachlan strode to the hearth and picked up the towel, holding it out for her. She eased into the warm embrace and shuddered. But it was wrong for her to enjoy this alone. She turned around and opened her arms, making wings to enfold him. He stepped in and she closed about him. They stood like that for a long while, enjoying the heat of the bath sheet, the heat of each other.
Pity there was nothing else to do but kiss.
At length, they dried each other and then Lachlan sat her in the chair by the fire and combed out her hair as she sipped a glass of wine and nibbled on cheese, occasionally feeding him a bite or a sip. It was a new experience for her, sharing her food with someone in such an intimate way, but it felt so right. They spoke a little, but not much. Then again, little conversation was necessary.
When her hair was dry, he led her to the bed and they crawled beneath the covers together and held each other. They both knew their time like this was precious, and they relished it.
After a while, Lachlan left the nest they’d created and padded to the tray, coming back with the domed custard, although Lana wasn’t hungry.
He, apparently, was. He dabbed the sweet treat on her nipples and ate it off, then did the same on her belly and her thighs. And then, he simply supped on her, with his head between her legs, shocking her and delighting her at the same time. He brought her to bliss with his mouth and then he made love to her again, this time slowly, languorously, to the great pleasure of them both.
When they were finished, she needed to bathe again, because she was sticky, and so was he, but the water was cold. Neither of them cared. They had enough heat between them to make up for it.
He left her in the wee hours. She protested and he reminded her that they couldn’t be discovered like this. And while she knew it was true, she didn’t want him to go. Tomorrow, they would arrive at her home and it would be difficult, if not impossible, to find opportunities—or places—they could be alone.
It was a long time after he left, as she lay in her large and lonely bed, that she remembered … he hadn’t once mentioned his precious French letters. He certainly hadn’t used them.
She hugged that knowledge to herself, hoping it meant he’d released his hold on his fear, on his curse, and decided to embrace whatever fate might have in store for them. With that lovely thought wafting through her mind, she closed her eyes and slept.
And she dreamed of him.
It was a wonderful dream.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The ride from Forss to Dounreay was a short one, which was a blessing. Aside from Hannah’s continued illness, it was difficult for Lachlan to sit next to Lana in the carriage and not stare at her. He did his best to engage in conversation with Alexander, about the ideas his baron had to increase profits without clearing the land, but he had doubts anything coming out of his mouth made any sense. In the end, he allowed them all to chat and simply sat and nodded his head, murmuring thoughtfully.
But there were no thoughts involved. At least, none that didn’t involve finding ways to get Lana alone.
Once, when Hannah required a stop, he pulled Lana into his arms and kissed her, but it was, perforce, a brief kiss as they couldn’t be caught reveling in such pursuits. And he only kissed her because he hadn’t been able to evict the impulse from his mind.
The prospect of kissing her had been on his mind all night and all through the morning. Breakfast had been particularly difficult. Watching her eat. Seeing her lick her lips and murmur her pleasure as she nibbled a scone.
Torment.
Would that she were nibbling him …
Ah yes. He was a man in torment. In more ways than one.
For even as one part of his brain plotted ways to touch her, hold her, keep her, another part showered him with recriminations.
He knew, deep in his soul, what he was doing with Lana was wrong. Seducing and debauching a maiden for one—that was bad enough. But there was something else to this that was even more deplorable.
He was pretending.
Yes, as delicious as it was, holding her, kissing her, having her—he was pretending it could be this way. Pretending they could explore their love with no regrets. That they could live in this dream world they had created without thought to the consequences.
It was a folly. A fantasy. Possibly a sin. Simply because the consequences could be devastating.
The possibility of planting a child in her belly horrified him—once he fought through the skeins of pleasure at the prospect.
He had no right to yearn for such a thing. Not a man in his position.
Yet again, he’d completely forgotten about the French letters. He hadn’t even used them once. It was as though he got close to her, drew in her scent, and his brain switched off. Something else switched on. A mindless, careless beast dwelling in the well of his soul. A beast who wanted only one thing.
It wasn’t just physical slaking he craved of her, and that was the really frightening part of this whole debacle.
What he really wanted from her was more. Something ephemeral and lasting. Something that felt and tasted like forever.
But there might well be no forever for him.
In his mind he had accepted this fact. He had no idea why his heart refused to acknowledge it.
Even with the recent revelations about his “ghosts” and the realization that the curse he’d worn like an albatross his entire life might be nothing more than a fairy story, it behooved him to take care. He could not, should not act with impunity.
The logical thing would be to step away from Lana and the hope she proffered—until he knew for certain the story his uncle had fed him, like pabulum, from the moment he could understand such things, was all lies. The logical thing would be to wait. To eschew her embrace and wait.
He was so close to his thirtieth birthday. Only a handful of months. If he woke on that day—and he wasn’t dead—then he would know the curse was a farce. Then, and only then, could he realize his dreams of the future. Entertain the prospect of a forever with the woman he loved.
His heart swelled at the thought. For he did love her. Loved her so much it hurt.
It certainly hurt to think of avoiding her for the next six months.
Six months without her seemed like an eternity of hell.
Six months with her would breeze by in a flash.
And what really clawed at his soul?
What if she was wrong? What if the curse was real and he eschewed her embrace for what little time he had left, and he died on the eve of his thirtieth birthday. He would have missed his only chance to be with her. His only chance at some hint of happiness.
Ah. He knew. He knew he couldn’t do that. Couldn’t refuse himself that one shining gift.
He should allow himself the pleasure of her presence, her friendship, her smiles, but never touch her again.
The thought settled in his soul and at the same time it speared him, it incited a harsh internal laugh.
Not touch her?
He knew better. He knew, as long as she wanted him, he would be hers, helpless in her hands.
Lana gave a delighted cry as they turned onto the coast road to Dounreay. Her delight captured all of his attention, commanded his dark thoughts back into the shadows. Heart swelling, he watched her as they neared her home. She pointed out landmarks and told him tales of her adventures as a child.
He said nothing. Was incapable. He merely sat there with a smile on his lips and watched her.
His glorious angel.
His Lana.
A time or two, he caught Hannah watching him watch Lana. Her expression caused a ripple of unease to crawl through his belly. Granted, he was a duke and used to doing as he pleased with little or no remorse, but something in Hannah’s eyes made a hint of guilt sizzle. Or perhaps it wasn’t guilt. Perhaps it was fear. If Lady Dunnet knew what he’d done with her sister, to her sister, she would eviscerate him.
Best, then, that she not know.
He fixed his features into a pleasant arrangement, folded his fingers over his stomach, and attempted to look as innocent as he could. He doubted he fooled her.
When the pink turrets of Dounreay Castle appeared on the horizon, his breath caught in his throat. Oh, yes, it was a lovely sight, but not because of that. But because Lana leaned over him to see through his window. The feel of her, so near, her scent, her warmth, poleaxed him.
It had only been a few hours since he’d loved her, since he’d been in her. He dearly wanted to be in her again.
It would be awkward, meeting her father with his cock standing high, so he closed his eyes and tried to cool his ardor.
It was an impossible task.
As the carriage pulled into the bailey, he focused on the sights and sounds, trying to fill his mind with that, rather than the vision of Lana, splayed beneath him, huffing and groaning and straining for her pleasure—
What was he focusing on again?
Ah yes. The castle. Its denizens. His people.
Dounreay was a pretty keep, and as well-kept as Lochlannach Castle. It warmed Lachlan’s heart that his vassals cared about their homes and properties. It sent a flush of chagrin through him to think of Caithness Castle, and how it had been allowed to crumble as it had. It was partly his fault, for ignoring his responsibilities for the better part of his life, but it wasn’t all due to him. There were centuries of neglect reflected in his ancestral home.
He’d been thinking about that as well, and the money it would take to refurbish it and what a waste it all seemed now, in retrospect. That he’d even considered clearing the land to finance such a folly was a mortifying thought.
It made much more sense to focus on the making the main hall habitable. It would require a fraction of the work and, frankly, he only really needed living quarters for himself and his staff. Most important, it wouldn’t require a fortune.
He was still determined to set up a trust for the orphans of Caithness. If he sold all of his extant properties and turned the profits to that cause, it would be a robust fund, and an excellent legacy. A much better decision than refurbishing an ancient pile of stones. The rightness of the choice warmed him.
He would set up a fund for Lana, too.
Just in case.
He needed to know she would be taken care of. No matter what.
As they descended from the carriage, it took everything in him not to curl his arm around Lana’s waist. He had to remind himself that not only did he not have the right to touch her with such familiarity, but in the eyes of the world they’d never kissed. Never touched. Never spent two nights wound around each other.
He shoved his fists in his pockets instead—and tried not to glare at Alexander, who had his arm around Hannah’s waist—even though he knew it made him look like a petulant boy.
They found their host, Magnus Dounreay, in the parlor sipping whisky. He seemed in that moment, to be a very happy man, ensconced—alone—in his parlor … sipping whisky at noon. But when he saw his daughters, true happiness flooded his features. He leaped to his feet—belying all the rumors Lachlan had heard about his ill health—and bounded across the room, sweeping Hannah and Lana into his arms.
“Ach, my darlings!” The old man nearly wept. “I dinna know ye were coming.”
Alexander stepped forward; the two men clasped hands. “We had to come, once we received your letter.”
Dounreay’s furry brow wrinkled. “Which one?”
“Which one?” Hannah whipped around and glared at Alexander. She looked prepared to smack him if it came to
light he hadn’t shared all the letters.
He ripped his gaze from her face and focused on her father. “The one about Isobel. The kidnapping attempt.”
“Ah…” Dounreay paled and scrubbed his face. “Which one?”
“There was another?” Alexander boomed.
“Aye. Bluidy bastards. This time they crept into the castle and stole her from her bed.”
“Oh, dear.” It was a testament to Lana’s shock that she clutched at Lachlan’s arm.
It was a testament to Hannah’s that she didn’t notice. “Where is Isobel?” she wailed. “Is she all right?”
“Ach, she’s fine, my lass,” her father reassured her. “They’re all fine. There was a…” He shot a wary glance at Alexander. “Kerfuffle, but it all turned out well. Isobel is safe, thanks to Andrew.”
Hannah narrowed her eyes and studied Magnus with a growing suspicion. “Where are they?”
Her father blinked. Several times. More times than necessary. “Why, in Brims, of course.”
“Brims!” Lana murmured. “We must have passed them on our way here.”
“Why are they in Brims?”
Magnus didn’t answer. Instead he patted Hannah’s hand and, in a patent and pathetic attempt to distract her, said, “No doubt they’ll be back at any time and they will want to tell you their tale. In the meantime, sit. Sit.” He forced her onto the divan. “Can I get you a drink?” This, he asked the men. Before either could respond, he poured them both a draught, and he barked at a passing maid for a tea tray for the ladies. He handed Alexander his glass and then turned to Lachlan.
He froze with the drink outstretched. His eyes narrowed. “And who are you?” he asked.
“Oh, lord,” Alexander moaned. “I’m so sorry. I forgot to introduce you. Magnus, Laird of Reay, this is His Grace, Lachlan Sinclair, Duke of Caithness.
Magnus’s friendly expression soured. He jerked the glass back. It sloshed over his fingers, but he didn’t seem to care. “Caithness.” A hiss.
Ye gods.
It was one thing, being greeted with such blatant repugnance from one of his barons. It was another thing entirely when the man in question was the father of the woman he loved.
