My Scot, My Surrender (Lords of Essex)

by Howard, Amalie

  “You are exquisite,” he murmured as he rounded his free hand over her backside and filled his palm.

  “No one has ever seen me like you do,” she said, her voice cracking over the soft admission. Whether from cold or emotion, she wasn’t sure. She knew she didn’t want Brandt’s hands to pull away, to stop touching her. How could she ever grow tired of his hands or his mouth? Just the weight of his gaze as she’d emerged from the river had made the deepest, most intimate part of her burn for his touch.

  He pulled her closer, skimming his fingers up and down her back while his teeth found the lobe of her ear and suckled. The combination of his searching fingers and mouth, together with the open air against her lower limbs and the hot sun beating down on them, made Sorcha light-headed. She arched into him as his lips traced the shell of her ear. If possible, more gooseflesh prickled over her arms, and she sighed in pleasure.

  Brandt’s beautiful mouth went still, as did his hands…and for a moment she feared his untimely sense of duty had once more caught up to his rampaging desires and had finally convinced him to stop. She opened her mouth to protest, but then he gave a frustrated grunt and swept her straight off her feet, lowering her to the warmed, river-smoothed stone. With a sound of satisfaction, he covered her body with his, his arms caging her as he kissed her lips, then her chin, and dragged his tongue down the column of her throat.

  He paused with a sharp exhale at the rounded slope of her right shoulder, and Sorcha knew he’d seen some of the minor scarring there. It wasn’t as bad as the ones lower down, but ugly nonetheless. She didn’t want to hear him gasp in shock, or pull back his hands in horror. She clutched at the fabric, not wanting anything to ruin the moment.

  “Brandt, no. Please.”

  “Every part of you is magnificent,” he replied fiercely, staring down at her. “These”—his knuckles brushed the scars on her clavicle and moved to the ones on her cheek—“and these.”

  His changeling eyes met hers as his lips feathered along the rough, reddened gouges. Sorcha shivered at the tenderness of his touch, but she wasn’t ready to expose herself fully. She didn’t know if she would ever be, but for now she wanted to enjoy every sensual jolt without feeling unworthy. If only for a moment.

  “Please,” she whispered. “Leave the shift.”

  “As you wish.” He nodded, his gaze clouded with desire. “This is madness. I can’t seem to stop myself from thinking about you…from thinking about touching you. What have you done to me, Sorcha?”

  “No more than you’ve done to me,” she whispered.

  His mouth descended to graze her jaw. “Why can’t I resist you?”

  “Because I’m nearly unclothed?”

  A chuckle broke from his finely molded lips, making her want them on her skin again. “There is that.”

  “I’ve heard the women at Maclaren say men can become so inflamed by their desires at the sight of a woman en déshabillé that they can’t see reason…that they think with other…parts of their anatomy.”

  Brandt’s eyes sparkled with mischief and humor. “Is that so?”

  “Is it working?”

  He laughed then, a deep-throated sound that made a lightness overtake her chest. “You’re in a shift, and I’m at your mercy, so I’d be hard-pressed to say no.”

  “At my mercy?”

  “Your devoted slave.”

  God, she loved their banter. It was as stimulating as the feel of his powerful body on hers. She wriggled her hips slightly, the motion making her gasp as his lean hips pressed her to the warm stone at her back. She went mute, as did he, their levity transforming into something deeper and darker.

  The sunlight made golden flecks appear in his eyes, while passion darkened the green to the color of a stormy loch. A lock of sun-bronzed hair curled into his forehead as he bent his head to her collarbone, nibbling along the edges of her shift. His wide palms roamed her sides and skipped past each rib. His mouth and fingers met at her breasts and he filled his hands with her linen-clad flesh, kneading and caressing. A moan escaped her as his lips closed over the taut peak of one breast through the fabric.

  “Brandt,” she whispered, tugging at his hair, wanting to push him away and grasp him to her at the same time.

  “So beautiful,” he murmured.

  His lips scorched her as he drew its rigid tip into his mouth, dampening the linen to wet, near transparency once more. His tongue raked over her nipple before he took it between his teeth with just enough pressure to make her arch her back. Crying out in mindless pleasure, Sorcha gripped his shoulders and tipped back her head, pushing her chest closer to him, only wanting more. The sight of him feasting on her body nearly made her faint.

  “This is indecent.”

  He lifted his head to grin at her. “The only indecent thing is the depth of my hunger for you. I want to kiss every inch of these”—his voice was a rough rasp as he dropped a kiss to the peaks of both aching nipples protruding through her shift—“and touch every last inch of this beautiful body until you scream with bliss.” He watched her, the devil in his slumberous eyes, as his erotic words seduced her as effectively as his mouth did. “And you’re going to let me.”

  “Am I?” she gasped.

  “Yes, you are. I’m your devoted slave, remember?” He flicked her taut, aching nipple with his tongue, the coarse graze of it beneath the dampened linen making her senses dilate. “The question is, what do you want, my lady?”

  “I want…I want…” She wanted his kisses where it ached the most. She trailed off, biting her lip in mortification. “I can’t.”

  He bit gently on the underside of her breast, his fingers pinching its tip. “Yes, you can. Tell me what it is you want.”

  Damp heat gathered between her thighs at the unconscionable images flooding her brain. What she wanted was this man, body and soul. She wanted all the pleasure that was in his power to give her. She wanted him to soothe where the fires blazed the hottest. The heart of her throbbed almost violently as he held her eyes, waiting.

  Sorcha wanted nothing more than to be honest with him. To be honest with herself, bugger propriety and modesty. Blushing furiously, she gave him her answer. “I want you to kiss me everywhere.”

  Brandt grinned and licked his lips like a man about to sit down for a banquet. “Now that I can do.”

  And it was a banquet. He gorged himself on her, leaving every part of her stroked, bitten, and suckled as he inched his way down her quivering abdomen. Sorcha felt like a river nymph, lying there in the sun, with her own adoring paramour serving her every need.

  “May I?” he asked, his fingers reaching down to bunch around the hem of her shift. His knuckles grazed the bare skin of her thigh, and she couldn’t breathe. She nodded, her throat tight. What she needed covered was above, not below.

  Slowly Brandt pulled upward, and she felt the fabric slide until cool air chased through the curls at the junction of her thighs. His tongue dipped into the hollow of her navel, and she nearly came off the rock at the lush feel of his mouth on her bare skin. It almost made her want to tear off her shift, fears be damned. But then she forgot her thoughts as he circled the shallow indent and trailed lower, sending bolts of shivery warmth panning out wide. Reaching for his hard shoulders and tugging his shirt upward, she kneaded his muscles, splaying her hands over the hard, masculine planes of him.

  Brandt shifted out of the reach of her greedy hands, and she held her breath as his knuckles drifted over her hips, gently brushing the raven thatch between them. His touch was sinful. Divine. Some tangle between the two.

  “You’re so beautiful, Sorcha,” he whispered, his hand grazing her again. This time, lower. A wild gasp left her mouth. Her world spun into blinding sensation at the fire his fingers left in their wake, stroking and seeking entry.

  “Easy,” he murmured when she clenched her thighs together. “You’re safe with me.”

  Sorcha knew it was true, and slowly, let the rigidity out of her legs. Without hesitation, h
is fingers slid to the burning heat of her. She made a soft sound of protest, embarrassed to feel how damp she was there, but Brandt only murmured his satisfaction.

  “You’re perfect,” he said, watching her intently as she felt the exquisite pressure of his finger glide into her. Her body felt like it was being pulled in different directions as wild currents coursed through her, centering at that one pulsing place where all her nerve endings seemed to gather. Instinctively, Sorcha curled her hips upward, wanting more, needing to be closer to him.

  With every push of his finger, he stroked deeper into her, his thumb grazing over the small, sensitive pearl at her entrance. The pressure grew deliciously as another finger joined the first, stretching her, making her moan, but then he moved away, taking his clever fingers with him, and Sorcha whimpered her frustration.

  “Brandt.”

  He laughed quietly, his breath tickling her skin. “Patience, my fierce lass.”

  Levering himself over her body again, his mouth moved down her overheated legs, finding sensitive spots behind her bared knee and inside the arch of her ankle. The pleasure he had stoked earlier seemed to turn into something more languid as he took his time crawling back up her legs, kissing every inch of her skin.

  Basking in the sun, she gloried in it. Reveled in the sensation of being thoroughly ravished. But when Brandt’s fingers slid between her wantonly spread thighs, his wicked tongue traveling in their wake, it made all the lethargy instantly depart her limbs. A burst of intense fervor built as he again parted the sensitive, slick folds of her body.

  “You’re so hot, so wet for me, Sorcha.”

  A deep flush suffused her at the raw need in his voice, and then she lost all capability for thought as he set his mouth to her with a strangled growl.

  “Wait, what are you doing?” she gasped, pushing up onto her elbows. The lushly erotic vision of him kneeling between her legs was too much. She closed her eyes weakly. “Brandt, that can’t be…decent.”

  He drew back, though just far enough to speak. “I believe I told you every last inch. You’re not going to deny me, are you?” He lifted her ankles to his shoulders and Sorcha nearly expired on the spot when he bit her inner thigh. “And any shred of decency I possessed left me the moment I saw you splashing in this river like a naughty sprite.” He grinned, his eyes turning mischievous. “Suffice it to say, I am thoroughly inflamed at this glorious, luscious display of skin, and as your devoted slave, I endeavor only to please my mistress.”

  Their teasing banter from earlier…come back to deliciously torment her.

  Eyes glittering with purpose, Brandt’s mouth descended, and Sorcha fell backward with a soft cry as sensation after sensation tore through her. The feel of his fingers had been divine; the feel of his mouth was positively sinful. Intolerably aroused, she writhed on the stone as his tongue lapped at her with swift strokes, and she clutched at his hair when it swirled, lashing against her swollen flesh without mercy. Pleasure ran through her, low and deep. He wrung it from her like Poseidon wielding dominion over the sea. One finger slid deep into her aching passage, joined by another, and she arched into the velvet intrusion, her breaths turning into shattered gasps.

  “More,” she bit out on a sob. “Brandt, now.”

  With a triumphant sound, he gave it to her, swirling, nibbling, devouring with his mouth and tongue, while his busy fingers retreated and plunged until her last ounce of control disintegrated. She felt suspended. Untethered. Alive. Sorcha cried out as the paroxysm crashed over her, wave after wave of pleasure rolling and convulsing until she could barely breathe. Brandt crept up her limp, sated body, kissing her skin as if he couldn’t get enough, even while little tremors continued to crest inside of her.

  “You taste like heaven and heather,” he whispered, his voice caressing her drugged senses. Her fingers curled around his back as he gathered her close, his warm skin sealing to hers. “Like sunshine in the middle of a summer storm.”

  As her world righted itself, Sorcha shifted her body. She froze as Brandt hissed, his jaw clenching. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” he groaned. “Just…try not to move.”

  Oh. The hardness of him pressed into the warm, quivering crux of her…the place he’d so efficiently pleasured. Her body throbbed. Sorcha wriggled again as the fabric of his trousers rubbed against her over-sensitized body, making the brand of his engorged length settle between her thighs. She rocked upward, and he gasped. Pleasure stabbed through her core.

  “Sorcha, stop, you’ll undo me.”

  She caught his eyes and gave him a wicked smile. “I want to undo you.”

  “You don’t know…” But he lost his words as she tilted her hips up and wrapped her legs around his. He obviously liked the friction, because his body started to grind against hers. A tortured groan left his mouth, and his eyes clouded with desire as he quickened his motions. Sorcha’s fingers found his face, stroking over his sharp cheekbones and bristled jaw. She wanted to remember him like this, lost in the throes of passion.

  She dragged his lips down to hers, even as he mimicked the act of lovemaking with his hips. The soft fabric rasped rhythmically against her core, and Sorcha moaned into his mouth. The second climax caught her unawares, dragging her down into its blissful depths. Her release incited his, and a shout tore from his lips as he collapsed against her, his hot breath fanning her temple.

  In the midst of so much pleasure, Sorcha felt a tear trickle from the corner of her eye. Brandt looked up, his lovely eyes concerned. “What is it? Am I hurting you?”

  “No, it was better than I ever imagined.” She faltered for the words to explain the unexpected hollowness that had descended upon her. It’d been beautiful and ferocious, but strangely empty. A parody of the real thing. “I just…want more.”

  “I can’t give you more, Sorcha.” He raked a hand through his tousled hair, regret creeping into his eyes and dousing Sorcha’s insides with ice. “Hell, I shouldn’t have allowed it to go this far. I can’t seem to think straight when I’m with you.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  Brandt swallowed with an embittered expression and reached for his discarded shirt. “This is my fault. I shouldn’t be doing this with you.”

  Sorcha stared at him, her heart thudding painfully, adolescent fears rising from the dead to taunt her. “Because I’m a duke’s daughter? Because you’re illegitimate? Or do you think you’re not good enough? Or I’m not good enough? Which is it this time, Brandt?”

  Brilliant gold-flecked green eyes bored into hers, shimmering from warmth to impenetrable frigidity in the space of seconds. “All of the above.”

  Sorcha exhaled. It was suddenly hard to take in air…to breathe at all.

  “Those are all true, but you left out the most important bit,” he went on in a carefully detached tone. “This agreement was a means to an end. I have but one desire and that is to take possession of your horse.” His words were as dead as his eyes…eyes that had been so full of heat and life only moments before. “What just happened between us was a moment of weakness.”

  Anger and shame exploded within her. “Weakness? You deceive yourself, and you know it. We both wanted this, and if you can’t admit that, then you’re more of a coward than I thought.”

  His furious gaze met hers. The coldness there made her shiver. “I am not a coward, but you’re right. It wasn’t weakness, it was pure idiocy.” She flinched. His expression gentled somewhat, though the damage had been done. “Regardless of motivation, this cannot happen again. Once you are on Brodie lands, my part will be over.”

  “Your part?”

  “My role as your husband.”

  His role. What they’d just shared had been nothing more than an act. Something fractured within her. Her body felt numb and empty, much like the state of her mind. Once more, she’d been a sublime fool when it came to understanding him. Or understanding men in general.

  He was no better than any of them. Once he’d go
tten what he wanted, his tune had changed. At least Malvern hadn’t hidden the fact that he loathed the sight of her, and bedding her would be a nightmare. There’d been no risk of falling for his kisses or wanting more.

  She was the groveling fool here, no one else.

  “So what was this, then?” she asked, her voice shaking with an awful combination of misery and fury. “A scene in some sordid play you felt compelled to enact?”

  “This was pleasure.”

  If that were true, pleasure seemed like a hollow and lonely place.

  Sorcha grabbed for her plaid, pulling it around her like a shield. “Ye’re nothing but a clot-heided bastard, Brandt Pierce.”

  “I know,” he said as he started to turn away toward the riverbank. “And for what it’s worth, I am sorry.”

  She wanted to stand, but her legs, still limp from his efforts, and now trembling with frustration, wouldn’t hold her. “Ye can take yer bloody apologies straight to hell.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  The ride to Montgomery was quiet and strained. Brandt did not want to put additional weight on Ares’s injured foot, so they had agreed to share Sorcha’s horse. The agreement had been stiff and unfriendly, given the circumstances, but it could not be helped. On foot, they would be even more vulnerable and would lose valuable time. Sharing Lockie was a matter of logic and safety.

  Logical decisions aside, it had been worse than purgatory from the second he climbed up behind Sorcha. The feel of her strong, svelte body made him think of things he had no business fantasizing about, especially after his brutal words. He knew he’d hurt her, but he’d had no choice. Here in the wilderness, the pretense between them as husband and wife was not the same as it would be once she returned to society.