To Love a Scottish Lord

by Karen Ranney

  She propped her chin on her hands and looked at him directly. The smile on her face wasn’t the least bit innocent, but it did have a tinge of self-mockery to it.

  “You’re a very arrogant man, Hamish MacRae,” she said.

  “Do you think so?”

  “Yes,” she said calmly. “It’s a pity that I’m not a better player. I might have at least lengthened the time between the beginning of the game and its end.”

  “You’ll get better. All you need is practice. You already understand the rudiments, and beyond that you have the intellect, and if I may be so bold, the ability to smile at your opponent while trying to trounce him fiercely.”

  “Is that a requirement?”

  “No, but it’s certainly distracting.”

  “Do you think so?” she asked, mimicking his earlier question.

  “Yes, I do,” he said, wondering why he was so charmed by the competitive spirit she showed.

  “I’ve lost, then.”

  “Yes, you have.”

  He leaned back in the chair and let his left hand fall to his lap, the better to cover his tumescence. However, he’d been hard for the last ten minutes, and it was foolish to pretend himself unaffected.

  “Come here, Mary,” he said softly. He pushed his chair back, extending his right arm to her. She took his hand, stood, and circled the table. Finally, she stood in front of him, as he deliberately widened his legs, pulling her even closer until her skirt covered his trousers.

  Once again, he cursed his useless left hand. When he’d awakened that morning, he thought he’d felt some sensation, like a tingling, in his fingers, but he’d not yet gained any movement. Nor could he lift his arm.

  He fumbled with the ties at her waist. A measure of his true arrogance, perhaps, that he didn’t intend to ask for her help. Finally, he pulled her skirt from her, and pushed it to the floor. She stepped away from the garment delicately, balancing against his shoulder with one slender hand.

  “I’ve been undressed in front of you more than I have been dressed, Hamish,” she said. But her voice held no embarrassment or shame, for which he was profoundly grateful.

  His hand flattened against her shift-covered body, feeling the curve of her buttocks and the slight flare of her hips. She was so essentially female. Pretty wasn’t a good enough word for Mary. Beautiful was more apt, but if he labeled her that, the comparison between them would be so drastic that he’d be able to think of nothing else. So to equalize them, he lessened her beauty and mediated his own ugliness.

  Once, however, he’d been known as a handsome man. Once, he’d winked at more than a few young girls, and they’d giggled in delight. Once, he’d been sought after for the fact that he was a MacRae, and for his own attractiveness.

  How foolish to be concerned about his appearance, when he should be more concerned about his immortal soul. But the topic of souls was for moonless nights and lonely days, and nightmares that made him awake gasping, frozen with fear. Not for moments like these, poised on the edge of seduction, sensual, heady, and silent with too many pained breaths.

  He reached up and unfastened her bodice, easing it off her shoulders while she stood unprotesting in front of him. He’d never known a woman as acquiescent as she was. She was stubborn, and firm, and didactic in her insistence on treating him, but when it came to their mutual lust, she let him take the lead.

  No more. Not after tonight. He wanted her to be his equal in this. They were not unevenly matched in life. She was a wealthy widow. His fortune had done nothing but multiply during his time in India until he was rich as well. Unlike his older brother Alisdair, Hamish bore no title. Neither did Mary. They were both unmarried.

  But there were other things that separated them. Mary had a quest in life, a goal. He had none. For months, all he’d cared about was survival, never thinking beyond that fact. Now the years stretched out in front of him, empty and without purpose.

  He missed the sea, his ship, and the men who’d sailed with him.

  Mary had a past filled with love and affection. That was evident from the fond way she talked about her husband. All he had was his family, and he’d tried to distance himself from them.

  Her life was richer, not beset with the doubts and the condemnation that accompanied him every hour. Her conscience was clean, unlike his.

  Yet she was his equal in willingness and curiosity. Here, at least, they were the same.

  He removed her stays, but left her adorned in her shift. The areolas of her breasts, large and dark, pressed against the fine material, nipples protruding. He touched one with a tender exploring finger, and it felt hot and hard.

  She didn’t look away when he glanced upward at her face, but her cheeks deepened in color once again.

  “You’re blushing, Mary,” he said, placing his hand on her back. He pulled her forward, pressed his mouth against the material. Her nipple strained against his lips as if to find a way through the fabric. When he drew back, there was a circle of moisture there. He did the same to her other nipple, then sat back to survey his handiwork.

  They looked at each other, the moments stretched out and waiting.

  Finally, Mary spoke. “What do you want from me, Hamish?”

  “You must kneel now,” he said gently.

  She knelt on the floor between his legs, reaching up to place her hands on each of his thighs, her thumbs pressing against the swelling of his erection behind the cloth.

  He smiled at this sign of her eagerness.

  “You must release me.”

  Unbuttoning his trousers, she freed him from the constriction of the fabric, brushing her fingers down his length. “Am I going to put my mouth on you, Hamish?”

  His smiled broadened. “I fervently hope so. But first, make a ring of your thumb and forefinger and wrap it around me.”

  She did, slipping her fingers around the head of his penis, her thumb on the bottom of the underside ridge. But before he could give her any further instructions, she made another ring with her other hand and slipped it below the first. She slid her top hand up while the bottom one exerted pressure downward. The sensation was indescribable.

  Her gaze was rapt as she studied him, and he felt himself lengthen in her grasp. He was fully dressed, his engorged erection being tantalized between her busy hands. She kept up a steady rhythm, smoothly driving him slightly insane.

  He reached out and pulled her to her feet, but she didn’t relinquish her grasp. Only when he pulled her atop him did she release him. Bracing herself with her hands on his shoulders, she lowered herself slowly over him. He entered her firmly and selfishly, grateful for the wet heat that welcomed him.

  When she would have moved, he shook his head. When she would have kissed him, he pressed two fingers to her lips, and when she would have spoken, he kept them there.

  He whispered something soft and comforting to her, closing his eyes at the feeling of being deeply in her. Slowly, he lifted her with one hand and removed himself from her.

  Her eyes looked confused as he lowered her to her knees once again. Only then did he kiss her gently. Short, darting kisses that made her open her mouth for more. But he pulled back when she placed her arms around his neck.

  He ran his fingers delicately over her hard nipples beneath the fabric of the shift.

  “A taste,” he said softly. “It must last us for a while.”

  “You intend to drive me wild,” she said, her voice husky with passion. “Am I to beg you?”

  “Never,” he said firmly. “Not here and never between us.”

  She braced her forearms on each of his thighs and reached down and touched his erection again, her fingers smoothing up and down the shaft and pressing gently on the underside ridge.

  Once more she made rings of her fingers, repeating a stroke upward and downward at the same time. Just when he decided that he was the one who would beg, she removed one hand, sliding it downward until she cupped him gently. One finger slid behind, pressing tiny circles while sh
e kept up the stroking of her other hand.

  “You never told me you were so talented,” he said in a voice that sounded unlike his own.

  “It’s not something one boasts about,” she said, so close that he could feel her breath on his stomach.

  “My curiosity is vying with my self-preservation,” he confessed. “I’d like to know what else you know, but I’m almost afraid to ask.”

  “Perhaps I should show you,” she said.

  “Will I survive the demonstration?”

  “Perhaps you won’t,” she admitted, a small, teasing smile appearing on her lips.

  “But then, perhaps we should wish to die in such a fashion. I can see the epitaph on my tombstone now. Here lies Hamish MacRae, the victim of a beautiful woman.”

  “But he died with a smile on his face?”

  “As your husband did?”

  She stood, so quickly that he was jarred by her movement. One moment, he was being teased by her talented fingers, entranced by her husky voice. In the next, she was standing on the other side of the room, her back to the wall, her gaze on him so cold and distant that he felt as if she’d turned into another person in a matter of seconds.

  He felt uniquely vulnerable in the face of her rage. Perhaps because he recognized that he deserved it.

  “Are you bereft of sense? How dare you bring my husband into this moment?”

  “I agree, it was unwise of me.”

  He stood, tucking his recalcitrant member back into his pants with difficulty. It seemed to have a mind of its own, straining toward Mary as if it could erupt at the sound of her voice alone. How had delight turned to antipathy so quickly?

  “Was he such a saint, Mary, that the very mention of him turns you grief-stricken?”

  She didn’t respond. Her arms were folded in front of her, and her gaze was directed not at him but at the floor.

  “What is it, Mary?” he asked, taken aback by her sudden change of mood. In one moment, she was a siren. In the next, she was a flaming virago. Now she looked as if she might weep.

  “What is it?” he asked again, cupping her face and lifting it until her eyes met his.

  “Nothing.”

  “Hardly that,” he said, irritated when she didn’t confide in him. “Tell me.”

  “A command that I’m to obey, Hamish?” She pulled away from him, slid a few inches to the left on the curved wall.

  “Please.”

  She studied him for long moments, her gaze peering into places he’d rather she not see. Dusty vaults of thought where remorse lingered in shadowy corners. Did she know that she was the only recipient of his pleas? Other than God, and He had been stoically silent in response. Hamish couldn’t bear it if she remained mute as well.

  “I should have loved him more,” she said, the words hesitant and so obviously reluctant that he almost pressed his fingers against her lips to spare her the revelation.

  “I doubt a man could have been loved more than you loved him,” he said. “You always speak of him with fondness.”

  “I respected him,” she said, turning her head and staring beyond him to the far wall. “I liked him. But I never felt the passion for him that I do for you.” Her gaze turned to him. “Make of that what you will, Hamish. I’ve given you a weapon to use against me.”

  She’d never been held captive. She’d never escaped from imprisonment. Nor had she been guilty of a deed like the one that kept him awake. But the result was the same. She knew herself well, and knew him too quickly. In that fleeting moment, he resented the knowledge she had so easily gained of herself. He’d suffered for his.

  “Do you know why I wanted to lie with you, Mary?”

  She shook her head slowly from side to side.

  “For forgetfulness. To be able to submerge thoughts and memories beneath pleasure.”

  “Has it worked?”

  “So much so that it might well prove to be an addiction.” There, he’d neutralized her figurative sword with a confession of his own.

  “Then my epitaph might well read Mary Gilly, done in by her sins.”

  “Perhaps we should be buried side by side, exiles in the same churchyard. People will walk over our graves, and whisper about our decadence. He was a rogue, they’ll say. And she was a wanton.”

  There, she finally smiled, and it was payment enough for his effort.

  “Shall I tell you how much a rogue I truly am?” he said, picking up her hand, and bringing it to his lips to softly kiss her fingertips. They were talented hands, soft and delicate, capable of bringing him a great deal of pleasure.

  He pressed her hand to the front of his trousers, where he swelled hard, stiff, and impatient.

  “Make me forget, Mary. Can you do that?”

  Her smile slipped. In its place was a look too somber for his mood. “I can,” she said softly. “But I think we would be wiser if I returned to Inverness.”

  There, she had put into words his secret thoughts. She had an uncanny ability to do that.

  Suddenly, he didn’t want any more conversation. All he desired was the comfort she offered him in lust.

  He pressed her hand harder against the bulge in his trousers, and she took on a rhythm of her own, stroking up and down with firm fingers. Unfastening his trousers, she inserted one hand inside, and he almost sighed in relief, needing her touch.

  She was the one to lead him to the bed and remove her shift, baring her body in one swift movement while he undressed feverishly. But this time, she didn’t remove her stockings, only draped herself over him like a half-clad nymph. She took his erection in her hand and rubbed it against her, teasing him by sliding it back and forth against her moisture. Finally, she guided him inside with one hand, before leaning forward and resting her hands on the bed.

  At one point she straightened up and clasped her hands behind her, a position that thrust her breasts forward. Reaching up, he cupped one and then the other, his fingers gently pinching the nipples. She slowly lifted herself up and then down, then slowly from side to side. She rode him like a horse, and like a beast of burden he lay, letting her use him as she will. A fitting punishment, perhaps, for his earlier crudeness.

  His body had once betrayed him, giving out when he needed strength. In India, his mind had refused to remain rational, sending him traveling through dark corridors of nightmares accompanied by the faint reverberation of his own screams. He had begged God toward the end, for them to kill him. The fact that the words were never uttered aloud was due more to the fact that he’d lost the ability to speak than to any remnant of courage he might have possessed. He’d waited for death to claim him, barely clinging to life, like a drowning man treading water.

  Now, however, he gloried in his life, in this moment, in the sheer joy of feeling all the separate sensations flooding his body. When the end came, his gaze darkened as if it were death itself coming to claim him. Or a rapture so deep that his bones shook. He heard Mary cry out, and some errant thought matched the sound with an earlier comment, making him feel vindicated that he, too, had made her cry in release.

  Chapter 14

  W hen Mary entered the tower room, she found it empty. Hamish wasn’t there. Nor had he been in the courtyard. Had he gone hunting, then, as he promised? A movement to her right captured her attention. Going to the window, she pushed open the shutters and stared in fascination at the sight that met her eyes.

  Hamish was emerging from the sea, like a creature from a tale, half man, almost beast. His skin was colored so brightly that she could see the twisted shapes from there. But it wasn’t the pattern of Shiva that she concentrated on as much as a look on his face. A bright and disarming smile, one whose origin was either amusement or enjoyment, altered his face, making it something youthful and carefree. In his right hand he carried something that looked like a spear.

  Naked, he looked like one of the first warriors, a long ago ancestor of the people who’d lived in Scotland and fought against the Romans. Even in depths of her imagination, sh
e could never have envisioned anyone like him.

  As she watched, he tilted back his head, raised the spear as if challenging the world itself. She wondered if he’d always been this way, serenely himself. Not selfish as much as centered in himself. Confident and strong, certain in a way that most people are not. Or had this knowledge of himself been thrust upon him during his imprisonment? Either way, it didn’t matter. He was who he was.

  A little of his assurance must have rubbed off on her. The longer she remained at Castle Gloom, the less she cared about what other people thought. What, after all, could they say to her? Nothing that would, in any way, offset the sheer joy she felt.

  She’d experienced physical pleasure before, but never to this magnitude. Nor had her mind ever been so free and her thoughts so unfettered. It was a heady mixture, a seduction of all her senses. She didn’t care what she revealed to him, silly notions or incomplete wonderings, or secret musings that she’d never shared with another soul.

  With each conversation, each laughing quip, each somber moment shared, he began to occupy a place in her mind as real and as uniquely his as if she’d invited him into her house and given him a room.

  She was too honest with him, too giving of herself. This morning, she’d dressed in full view of him, asking for no privacy as he watched her. Until today, her body had simply been part of her, but as she had dressed with him watching her, she had the most curious sensation of being distant from herself, almost as if she hovered at the doorway, looking back on both of them.

  That curious feeling of being detached had lasted as long as it had taken to dress. She’d watched herself stand and don her shift, knowing that the garment offered no shield from his gaze. Then once more she’d sat, rolling up her stockings, patting them in place and securing them with her garters, all the while feeling him watching her.

  He hadn’t said a word and neither had she, and when she was dressed she’d gone to him and kissed him slowly. For long moments they’d simply stood there together, holding each other. She’d tasted new ale once, and it had peppered her nose. The feeling she’d had inside was similar, something effervescent and sparkling.