Dancing for the Devil

by Marie Laval

  All he wanted, all he needed right now was her, and to lose himself inside her.

  He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. Feelings, urges and reason raged a desperate war inside him. Let her go. She suffered enough with McRae. You have nothing to give her.

  He kissed her again.

  Let her go. You’re ill, and you’re going mad. No good can ever come of it.

  That did it. He couldn’t ignore the madness that lurked and grew inside him like a greedy shadow ready to devour him – and his failing health, the headaches, the chest pains. No, he had no right to her, no right to love her. Not now. Not ever.

  He let her down slowly and she slid along him until her feet touched the floor.

  ‘I have to leave now, Rose, before I …’

  Like a woman awakening from a deep dream, she opened her eyes slowly. They were dark, cloudy, unfocussed. Her cheeks, still damp with tears, had turned the delicious shade of pink he found so tempting. Her lips were red and swollen, begging to be devoured again and again.

  ‘Please stay, please love me,’ she said in a whisper.

  He swallowed hard. ‘Don’t, please. I can’t.’

  Did the woman really have no idea of the way he felt? Could she really be that naive? Right now, he clung to the last shreds of his willpower to resist the urge of ripping her clothes off, throwing her on the bed and covering her body with his.

  She tilted her head back to look at him. Her chains and necklaces made a soft, tinkling, seductive sound – little fairy bells in a summer breeze. The pink of her cheeks deepened, her blue eyes shone like precious gems.

  ‘I want to be yours.’

  He drew in a sharp breath and stiffened as her hands slid upward to his shoulders. She was so small she had to rise to her tiptoes to link her fingers behind his neck. Blood thudded hard and fast, desire surged, irresistible.

  ‘Stop this. You don’t know what you’re saying.’

  His voice sounded hoarse and burly, almost angry.

  She didn’t reply but her fingers lingered along the side of his neck in a provoking caress.

  ‘This isn’t a game,' he growled. ‘Stop it, right now.’

  He reached out to unlock her arms from around his neck and held her wrists down. He tried to give the kind of stern look which used to make his men grow pale with fear. She only smiled.

  ‘What if I don’t want to stop? You may have shaved your beard and put a smart shirt and waistcoat on, but you’re still behaving like a grumpy ape. And you know what? I don’t care. In fact, I rather like it when you’re grumpy. Well, at least sometimes.’

  ‘You can’t possibly want this … want me.’

  He let go of her, but she only came closer and pressed her body against him. ‘I do … and I’ll show you how much,’ she whispered, a wicked glint lighting her eyes and an enticing smile touching her lips. ‘I’m going to dance for you.’

  As she stepped back her body started to move to the sound of a music only she could hear. Her necklaces slid from side to side, brushed against her breasts. She lifted her arms above her head, her movement gracious, snakelike, and tapped her feet on the floor, making her ankle chains tinkle. Soon her whole body undulated, fluid and tormenting. He stared at her, mesmerised, as her hips rocked forward and back, again and again. His heart thumped so hard it felt about to burst, his body grew even tauter, harder.

  She moved around him, a temptress taunting him with her scent, the light touch of her fingers on his arm, his shoulders, his chest, the jingling of her jewellery. He stood still, hardly breathing.

  As if she knew he couldn’t take any more, she faced him at last and looked deep into his eyes.

  ‘Shall I carry on or do you believe me now?’ She kissed the side of his mouth. ‘Oh Bruce, when will you understand that I love you …’

  He closed his eyes. No one had ever told him they loved him before. Not when he was a child, growing up at Wrath Lodge, between Morag grieving for her own son and husband, and the grandfather who hated the very sight of him. Not later, when he started enjoying women, because he never let any of them close enough. Even that crazy lass who’d insisted on marrying him a few months before, and who he’d had to bundle into a coach to Tongue to get rid of, had never dared say the words.

  Rose was the first, the only one.

  Then it hit him, hard, a punch straight to the heart. He loved her, too, with a fierceness, an intensity he only now started to grasp. He’d do everything, and anything, for her.

  She kissed him softly again, and his last defences shook, crumbled, collapsed. Reason had lost the war.

  With an almost savage groan, he scooped her into his arms and carried her to the bed. His hand shook as he turned down the counterpane with a hard tug, laid her on the white sheet and sat on the bed next to her. He’d never wanted any woman as much as he wanted her; he only hoped he was man enough to love her without hurting her.

  As if she sensed his doubts, she put her small hand on his and smiled – a brave, trusting smile. With a care and gentleness he didn’t know he possessed, he stroked her cheeks, the outline of her mouth, spread her hair like sunrays on the white pillow. His fingers combed through the thick, silky curls, then he bent and kissed her again.

  He took his time, nipped her lips with his teeth, teased her with his tongue, in turn caressing and hard, until he heard her soft moans and felt her shudder under him. He needed to see her, touch her, take his fill of her.

  Now.

  His hands slid to the opening of her dress and he let out a frustrated sigh. Who the devil had sewn these tiny beads on? His fingers were too big, too clumsy to undo them. He pulled on the fabric, the silk tore, the pearly buttons flew everywhere. He didn’t care.

  His mouth went dry as he parted open the top of the dress. Like the other dancing girls, she was naked underneath. Her breasts peaked, high and full, the nipples a dark pink. His gaze lingered down to her waist, and the gentle swell of her hips. Every fibre of his being throbbed, tightened and strained with need. He bent down, his mouth closed on the already tight bud of a nipple whilst his fingers stroked and teased the other.

  She arched under him, her hands flew to his shoulders, clutched to pull him closer. He skimmed down the side of her waist, revelling in the softness of her skin, and lifted her off the bed to slide his hands behind her.

  Her breathing was fast and shallow as he lingered over her breasts, kissed the small hollow pulsing at the base of her throat, nipped her earlobe. He thought he heard her say something – his name, perhaps – and he took her mouth again.

  Feverish now, he pulled down what was left of the dress. He stroked and caressed her until she cried out. It was the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard.

  He held her against him for a long time, trailing kisses along her neck, her jawline, on her mouth. He had no idea how long it took for her limbs to stop shaking and her heart to stop thudding. When she finally opened her eyes and looked straight at him, it was as if she could see inside him and understand his deepest, darkest needs.

  ‘Bruce.’ Her voice was husky, dreamy. She lay the palm of her hand against his cheek. ‘Don’t stop now. Make me yours.’

  That was all the reassurance he needed. She hadn’t changed her mind. She wanted more. He gave her mouth a long, hard kiss before tugging at his cravat, his waistcoat, and throwing them in a heap on the floor. The shirt soon followed. He kicked his boots off, unbuttoned the trousers which had been killing him for the best part of the evening and discarded them.

  She didn’t say a word as he undressed. She didn’t need to. Her eyes widened, her face paled when he turned to her. She recoiled against the bed head and pulled the snowy white sheet to cover herself. She was afraid – not half as afraid as he was, surely. Would he know how to make love to her, would he know not to hurt her? She hadn’t said it, but he’d understood her night with McRae in Algiers had been brutal and painful.

  His mouth dry, his heart jumping and every nerve ending in his body raw and tingling, he
sat next to her and reached out to stroke the side of her face, her neck, her shoulder.

  His throat was so tight he was surprised he could speak at all.

  ‘Rose, sweetheart, sit up and come closer. I won’t hurt you.’

  Still holding the sheet in front of her like a shield, she did as he said and he began seducing her all over again. Even though it was sweet torture, he kissed her slowly and deeply but didn’t touch her. He gave her softness, tenderness. And time. Eventually, the tension inside her ebbed away and she lifted one hand to grip his shoulder, the other to his chest.

  It was what he’d been waiting for. His arms encircled her waist, encountered bare, silky skin. She hadn’t thought about covering her back and his fingers trailed up and down her spine, and lower still.

  When she threw her head back, he leaned over to nuzzle her throat, feeling the need increase and take over. Her scent, her taste threatened to make him lose control. The sheet slid down and he shuddered when his chest made contact with her breasts, skin to skin. Casting the sheet aside, his hands cupped her breasts, his thumbs stroked, his lips teased and aroused. And when she was full of sighs and murmurs and moans, he slipped his fingers between her legs and applied a little pressure, then a little more, all over again.

  Soon she moved with him, against him, for him. The sound of his blood pumping hard, of his heart drumming filled his ears. He saw nothing but the dark red haze descending on the room, engulfing everything.

  ‘Lie down.’

  Did that gruff, hoarse, urgent command really come from him?

  Without a word, her lips swollen, her body warm, damp and mellow, she reclined on the pillow and he bent down to cover her body with his. None to gently, his knee parted her legs, he pushed into her, and filled her. She gasped, dug her nails into his arms. Damn. He was too rough. He was hurting her. Straining to hold back, a thin layer of sweat covering his body, he paused to kiss her faced, her mouth.

  When he felt her yield again, he slipped his hands under her hips to lift her, grind her closer to him, open her to him. He started moving inside her, thrust deeper and deeper, faster and faster. She tightened around him and cried out. Pleasure swelled, and soared.

  The last thing he saw before it annihilated him was a flash of deep blue. The colour of Loch Meadie’s water irises in the summertime. The colour of Loch Meadie itself, of life and hope. The colour of his woman’s eyes. How quiet it was outside … only the occasional call of a night bird and the creaking of the inn’s wooden sign in the breeze broke the stillness. Inside the room, the fire had died down to glowing embers, the flame in the oil lamp flickered and dimmed, letting the shadows creep closer to the bed. Soon it would be dawn and Bruce would leave.

  Even though he hadn’t said a word for a long while, she knew he wasn’t asleep. His heart thumped loud and fast. His arms were wrapped closely around her, and every so often, his fingers stroked her back and the side of her waist, brushed her hair to one side to tickle her neck. She let out a contented sigh.

  Could she ever want more than this, or wish for a more perfect night and a more beautiful love? She was exactly where she wanted to be, where she was meant to be. Oh, she wasn’t completely deluded. He didn’t love her, but at least he liked her well enough. He had showed her, with his touch, with his kisses and his loving, if not with words. And it was enough for now.

  She shifted on top of him and kissed the tattoo just above his heart. Now it was her turn to show him. Her tongue followed the outline of the words stencilled in dark blue ink – the words he called his curse. His arms tensed. his body shuddered, hardened against her. He drew in a sharp breath, let it out slowly. Desire rose like a flame inside her, grew hotter, bigger, bolder. She placed her hands flat on his chest and carried on kissing him, right there near his heart.

  ‘Rose, gràidheag. Don’t.’ His voice was a low growl.

  She ignored him. He tensed under her, the steely muscles of his arms strained and quivered around her.

  ‘We mustn’t … not just yet. I don’t want to hurt you again.’ He tugged on her hair to tilt her face up and looked at her, deadly serious.

  ‘You didn’t hurt me at all,’ she protested with a smile.

  The stinging between her legs was nothing compared to the desire to be his again. His lovemaking was nothing like Cameron's brutal, senseless assault. Cameron had been wrong. She didn’t need to be taught anything, she only needed to be loved by the right man. By Bruce …

  Her fingers lingered over his chest, ventured over the hard ridges of his stomach. His body responded to her touch. It made her feel strong, powerful, glorious. Like before, when she had danced for him, shamelessly – to tempt him.

  ‘Rose. I told you, it’s not a good idea.’

  Grabbing hold of her wrists, he rolled on top of her and pinned her hands on the pillow above her head.

  ‘This reminds me of my first night at Wrath Lodge,’ she said with a smile. ‘The night I followed the Dark Lady to your room. You know, the more I think about her, the more I believe that she wanted me to find you – she wanted us to be … like this.’

  He frowned, darted his serious grey gaze into her eyes.

  ‘The Dark Lady doesn’t exist, Rose. She’s a story, a legend. Every other keep in Scotland has a ghost just like her.’

  She shook her head. ‘You don’t believe that for a second.’

  ‘Don’t I? And what makes you say that?’

  ‘Because you know she is your past, and somehow your present too. She is the reminder that the McRaes and the McGunns are linked …’

  A cloud passed over his face.

  ‘Aye, you’re right there,’ he replied at last, ‘and in more ways than one.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  He did not answer but gave her a kiss so tender her body burned and melted. When she arched upwards, he linked his fingers with hers, pressed her hands down hard on the pillow and slowly, inexorably, drove into her.

  All she saw was the stormy grey of his eyes, intense and dark as he increased the pace. And when he kissed her again, the pleasure was so sharp, so extreme, she got lost in the black, turbulent heat. She heard her own cries from far, far away. His fingers gripped hers more tightly, his heart thundered against her, and he took complete possession of her again, body, heart and soul.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  He closed the door softly behind him and tiptoed to the washstand. He didn’t want to wake Rose, not yet. She’d had a couple of hours’ sleep, if that … he poured the hot water he had fetched from the kitchen into the washing bowl, searched his pocket for the bar of soap the kitchen maid had sold him and peeled off his shirt.

  He should have asked for cold water, or better still, he should have gone out and rolled naked in the snow, he thought, as he caught tantalising glimpses of Rose’s body entangled in the crumpled bedsheets in front of him. Never mind that he’d spent most of the night making love to her, he couldn’t get her out of his mind. He had to get his priorities right and focus on what lay ahead, not lust after a woman – however beautiful she was, and whatever new and bewildering feelings she aroused inside him.

  He slapped soapy water on his face and chest, raked his fingers into his hair, then, feeling slightly fresher and more presentable, reached out for his shirt.

  ‘Is it morning already?’ Rose called with a sleepy voice as he pulled the curtains half open and the first glimmers of daylight bathed the room.

  ‘Just about.’ He fastened his shirt, put his waistcoat on.

  She stifled a yawn, sat up against the bedhead and pulled the sheet over her chest.

  ‘Oh … you’re leaving.’

  ‘I was going to wake you.’ He unhooked his jacket from the back of the chair and slipped it on. ‘Listen, Rose, it’s important. I want you to stay in here until I come back.’

  ‘When will that be?’

  ‘I’m not sure. It depends on how my interview with McRae and his lawyers turns out.’

  She looked at him
expectantly, but when she realised he wasn’t going to say any more, she heaved a sigh, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and tilted her chin up.

  ‘Actually, there was something I wanted to discuss with you – something very important you and I have to do.’

  He crossed his arms on his chest and smiled.

  ‘Really, gràidheag? And what would that be? I do have something in mind you and I could be doing right now, but somehow I don’t think that’s what you mean.’

  She swung her feet to the side of the bed, stood up and wrapped the sheet loosely around her in the manner of a Roman toga. Her hair covered her bare shoulders, tumbled down to the small of her back, the tips softly caressing her hips. Aye, he did have something in mind all right …

  ‘We must get the Ouled Nail dancers and musicians out of the hunting lodge and find somewhere safe for them to stay, somewhere where they’ll be out of Cameron’s reach.’

  Deadly serious, she walked towards him.

  Taken aback, he stared at her. ‘Are you asking me to organise the clandestine removal of a dozen or so exotic performers from Westmore Manor?’

  ‘There are eight of them, actually,’ she corrected with slight frown. ‘I am sure you will find a way. It has to be done now, before the girls come to any more harm.’

  He shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, Rose. I don’t have time to think about that right now. There are things I need to do today, important things concerning Wrath, and … other matters.’

  ‘But I told you how Cameron and his friends treat the girls, and you saw for yourself how he behaved last night. You must help them!’ She tossed her head back. She wasn’t smiling any longer. ‘Unless you think the Ouled Nails are so beneath you they aren’t worthy of your help.’

  Annoyed with her for suggesting he didn’t care, and with himself for disappointing her, he closed his hands around her arms and pulled her to him.

  ‘That’s not what I meant at all. I just don’t see what I can do on my own when Westmore is teeming with guards, gamekeepers, household staff, not to mention Morven who is bound to make an appearance sooner or later.’