She couldn’t stop herself from kissing him back. Oh, my, she wanted to kiss him back. Wanted to feel his hands on her, and his mouth on her, and she wanted to run her palms along his skin—except that he still had her wrists and she couldn’t move. Marjorie kissed him again, hungrily. “Let go,” she muttered, her voice muffled against his mouth.
The second he released her arms he swept her up in the air and carried her to his bed, his mouth teasing and nipping at hers until she couldn’t even breathe, much less think. He set her down and followed her onto the soft bed, dark gray eyes meeting hers for a long moment before he sank over her onto his elbows.
“This is wrong,” she managed, her voice breathy and not sounding like her at all.
His mouth stopped its very wicked trail along the base of her throat. “Ye willnae marry me, but ye said ye were ruined, lass,” he murmured, his mahogany hair falling across his eyes as he lifted his head to look at her again. “I aim to make certain of it.” With his left hand he gathered up the material of her skirt so he could rest a palm on the inside of her thigh.
Oh, good heavens. “I’ve spent a very long time being proper, you know.”
The hand began sliding upward. “And answer me someaught, Lady Marjorie. Ree. Has being so very proper gotten ye what ye want? Has it made ye happy?”
“You should have asked me that days ago.” If she had any coherent thoughts left in her head, that would have been a very complicated question, she was certain. At this moment, with the weight of him across her hips, his hands on her bare skin, and his teeth—ohhh—nibbling on her earlobe, all she could recall was how hard she’d been trying, and with no detectable results. “No, it hasn’t,” she breathed.
“Then try someaught else.”
“But I’m your prisoner.”
“I havenae let ye go,” he agreed, and shifted to tug her gown down past her shoulders. “I dunnae ken if that makes ye still my prisoner, but I’ve a mind to keep ye here a bit longer, regardless.”
He kissed her again, his fingers trailing down in exquisite shivers to circle her breasts closer and closer until his thumbnail scraped lightly across a nipple. Marjorie jumped, digging her fingers into his tawny, red-tinged hair, and he did it again.
Before she could catch her breath, he lowered himself along her, replacing his fingers with his tongue. She jumped again, arching her back as swirls of pleasure jolted down her spine. Evidently he knew exactly the effect he was having on her, because he chuckled, the sound muffled against her skin, before he licked her other breast and then put his mouth over it to suck.
She arched again, shifting to curl her fingers into fists and press herself against him. This was what all those looks he’d given her meant. This was what he’d wanted of her. And so far, she liked it. She liked it very much.
He slid down still further, bunching up her skirt and sliding his palms up between her legs. When he dipped a single finger up inside her, she thought she might faint. Her heart beat so hard he could surely hear it, and she felt hot beneath her skin.
“Sit up, lass,” he muttered, taking her hands to pull her upright—which was a good thing, because she didn’t think she could have managed it on her own. Her grasping arms and legs didn’t even feel like they belonged to her any longer, but they seemed to know what to do without her even consciously having a thought about it.
He knelt in front of her, leaning in to kiss her again, and reached around to undo the ribbon at her waist and the single button at the back of her neck. Then he took the hem of her dress and her shift in his hands and lifted them off over her head.
With him stretching up in front of her, the bulge in the front of his kilt was unmistakable. She’d wanted to know what lay beneath there. Very conscious of his rough fingers roving across her skin, Marjorie tentatively reached a hand out to brush across the front of the plaid. He jumped, slowing his own exploration to watch hers.
Emboldened by his quick intake of breath and the half smile on his very capable mouth, she scooted a whisper closer and ran a hand from his bare knee up his thigh and beneath the kilt. Two round, velvety-soft … orbs, she supposed, and a hard, jutting rod that felt both warm and full beneath her fingers. And very, very large. Looking up at him, she found his amused, hungry gaze squarely on her. Still looking at her, he unfastened the pin at the bottom of his tartan, then unbuckled the waist and drew it off, dropping it to the floor.
And there she sat, with her fingers wrapped around his manhood. Before she could decide whether she felt more wanton than embarrassed, he put his hands on her shoulders and pushed her down onto the bed again. This time she could taste the hunger of his kiss as he plundered her mouth, the play of the muscles across his abdomen and his back as he settled his knees between hers.
Putting his hands back on her thighs, he slowly spread her legs wider, until his manhood brushed against her innermost place. She gasped again at the sensation, at how vulnerable and yet … safe she felt in his arms, when she really had no reason in the world to trust him. And yet trust him she did.
Lifting his head a little, resettling his arms on either side of her shoulders, he looked down at her as he canted his hips forward. She worked to meet his gaze, refusing to shut her eyes even at the thick, filling sensation of him sliding into her. When she felt resistance she knew he did as well, but with a whisper of something in Scots Gaelic he continued to press slowly deeper.
At an abrupt, sharp pain she cried out, and he caught the sound against his mouth before she could stifle it herself. “I’m sorry, Marjorie,” he breathed, holding himself still inside her. “It’ll pass in a moment, and I have it on good authority it’ll nae happen again.”
So that was how a physician could tell if a female had lost her virginity. She’d always wondered. She’d never expected the experience of doing so to be so intimate, somehow. “I’m fine,” she muttered after a moment. “What happens next?”
“‘Next’?” he repeated. “We’ve barely begun, mo boireann leòmhann.”
“What does that mean?”
His smile deepened. Without answering he moved again, entering her fully. She couldn’t help crying out again, but not from pain. The sensation of him moving inside her, filling her and retreating again, over and over—the mewling, wanton sounds coming from deep inside her barely sounded human, much less like something a proper female should ever make.
He rocked into her again and again, the bed creaking in time with his thrusts. Graeme kissed her, then bent to take a breast in his mouth, and all she could do was dig her fingers into his back as she drew tighter and tighter inside. With another muffled cry she shattered into a thousand bright, floating pieces, everything fading into darkness but the two of them, locked together and moving in rhythm.
His pace increased, and with a delicious, primitive groan that all by itself nearly sent her over the edge again, he shuddered against her, inside her. With a last thrust of his hips he lowered his head against her neck, and she lifted her hands to tangle them through his damp hair. Heaven. This was how heaven felt.
God above. He damned well hadn’t intended for that to happen this morning. But then she’d stomped into his bedchamber looking so … fiery, as if for once he could see through all the propriety in which she wrapped herself like a blanket. Or a shield, more like.
Graeme lifted his head to gaze down at her. “Do ye still think that was a mistake?” he asked, belatedly reflecting that he shouldn’t ask a question if he didn’t want to hear the answer.
She looked back up at him, her hair a dark, curling halo around her head, and her eyes a clear blue even in the firelight. “Yes, I still think that was a mistake,” she answered, running her fingers along his shoulder. “But I wouldn’t mind repeating it.”
For the life of him, he couldn’t figure her out, and that fascinated him. Her answer required a kiss, her soft lips molding against his and making his heart skip a beat or two. He didn’t want to move, wanted to stay inside her until his cock was up for a
nother go. Not just because he still wanted her, but because once they dressed again all the troubles around him, most of them concerning her, would come rushing back in barking at his heels.
At eight-and-twenty and with three younger brothers and what equaled a small army of folk depending on him, he generally avoided complicated females—or any female after more than the night’s pleasure he was prepared to offer her.
If Samuel Johnson’s Dictionary had a sketch next to the word “complicated,” though, it would be of Lady Marjorie Forrester. She was English, highborn, well educated, civilized, and the sister of the duke on whom his clan had all but declared war. And that didn’t even take into account the fact that he’d kidnapped her—and done what he was beginning to realize was the stupidest thing he might have attempted; he’d attempted to bully her into marrying him. This … was much better, even with no reward he could hold in his hands.
Before he became too heavy for her, he reluctantly removed himself and turned onto his side next to her. “I’ve a query,” he said after a moment, as he pulled the remaining pins from her hair and set them aside. Goose bumps lifted on her arms as he drew his fingers through the lemon-scented mass.
“About what?”
“Ye said yer neighbors didnae so much as bid ye good morning. Did ye mean they willnae, now that ye’d been kidnapped and deflowered by a strapping Highlander?”
She grinned, but shook her head. “I moved into Leeds House over three months ago, right after my brother inherited the property. As unnoticed as I was before, within two days everyone in London seemed to know that before I became Lady Marjorie I was Miss Forrester, a paid lady’s companion. And they were all horrified, as if they worried they might catch some commoners’ disease or something from me.”
Of all the things he’d thought to hear, that hadn’t been one of them. He didn’t know much about Gabriel Forrester other than the fact that he’d been serving on the Peninsula before he inherited Lattimer, and that some of the local soldiers who’d returned said he’d acquired the nickname the Beast of Bussaco. Likewise he’d just assumed the Forrester siblings had wealth and station before the brother had inherited the title from his uncle, or great-uncle, or whoever old Lattimer had been to them. He’d bloody well never thought that Ree hadn’t been born Lady Marjorie. She carried herself like a damned queen, and that was certain.
“Well?” she prompted, still watching him. “Are you horrified now, as well?”
“What? Nae. I’m just surprised. When I called ye yer grandness or yer highness ye didnae bite back at me.”
She shrugged, the motion doing some very pleasant things to her tits. “You’re the first man ever to think me grand, even if you did mean it as an insult.”
“Ye want to be seen as grand, then.”
“Gabriel—my brother—saw to it that I received the best education an army officer could afford. I learned all the same things the daughters of marquises and earls did, and then I spent three years in the spare rooms of some fine gentry houses, and I joined some wellborn ladies on their shopping trips to Bond Street or when they took the waters in Bath. I ran their errands and fluffed their pillows, and listened to them complain about ungrateful relations and how much they used to love to dance, and they paid me for it. Until Gabriel called on me that day, I thought I’d seen what the entire rest of my life would look like. And I didn’t care for it.”
“I can understand that,” he said quietly. “Ye’ve spirit, lass. Ye werenae made to spoon-feed soup to old women.”
“Well, I don’t have to do that any longer. The—”
Small footsteps pounded up the hallway. With a curse, Graeme rolled Marjorie off the far side of the bed onto her gown and slid beneath his blanket just as Connell flew into the room.
“Brendan says he’s going to enter the archery competition at the fair,” his youngest brother announced, clambering onto the edge of the bed. “What competition should I enter?”
Graeme tried to angle his thoughts away from the lovely naked lass just out of sight on the floor. The lass who was turning out to be nothing like he’d expected. “There’s to be a pie-eating contest. Ye could enter that.”
“Nae. If Rob the blacksmith competes, I’m likely to get eaten along with all the pies.”
Laughing, Graeme tousled the lad’s red hair. “Ye make a fair point. How aboot a foot race?”
Connell cocked his head. “A foot race fer everyone? Because Dùghlas has longer legs than me.”
“So ye want a contest ye’re certain to win, do ye?”
“Well, that would be brilliant, I ken.”
“I reckon so. And I also reckon ye’ll be more pleased to earn what ye get. So two foot races. One fer lads under … ten years old, say, and one fer the older lads.”
His younger brother grimaced. “Ye should make it under thirteen years old, then. Because Jamie Howard’s wee, but he’s twelve, and he’d nae have a chance otherwise.”
Graeme smiled at him. Every once in a while he could believe that he’d done something … proper in raising his brothers. This felt like one of those times. “And that, duckling,” he said aloud, “is one of the many reasons I’m proud to be yer bràthair. Now, go away and pester Mrs. Woring in the kitchen. I’ll be doon shortly. And shut the door.”
With a backward wave Connell scampered off, doing as he’d been asked. As soon as the door clicked shut, Graeme rolled onto his stomach to peer over the edge of the bed. Marjorie, Lady Marjorie, lay there on her back with his kilt covering her most intimate bits, a grin on her soft lips.
“My sincere apologies aboot that,” he said, holding down an arm to help her up. “I generally lock my door when I dunnae want company, but ye surprised me a bit.”
“Mm-hm.”
As she stood, handing over his kilt as she did so, he noted that he liked seeing her in Maxwell plaid. The thought startled him to his bones, but after a stunned moment he realized it didn’t signify. He wouldn’t be marrying her. And what she most wanted was to be in London and have her damned pointy-nosed neighbors wish her good morning. And that was one thing he could never give her even in his wildest, maddest dreams—especially considering that he’d been the one to take away any chance she might have had at seeing it happen. And now he’d done it twice over.
“I still want Mrs. Giswell out of that shackle,” she stated, digging her shift out of the pile of clothes on the floor and pulling it on.
“Only if ye convince me that ye’ve convinced her to follow my rules,” he returned. “I’ll nae have her roaming aboot whispering that she’s been kidnapped and offering a huge reward to whoever sends fer Lattimer.”
“And what about me?”
He looked at her standing beside the bed, the light from the low fire outlining the edges of her shift in red, an ancient Celtic goddess come to life. That, despite the fact that she was English. Or perhaps he’d lost his mind; he hadn’t slept in better than a day, after all.
“Ye’re nae leaving. Nae with Hamish Paulk so close by here. Ye can interpret that however ye please.” Aside from the politics and the danger to his family, once she left he would never see her again. And so he wasn’t prepared to allow her to go. Not yet, and not after this morning.
For a moment she regarded him, her gaze thoughtful. “Just keep in mind, Graeme, Laird Maxton, that my location may not always be up to you.”
“I will. I’ll also keep in mind that ye said ye were surprising yer brother with this visit of yers. Lattimer’s nae expecting ye, and he doesnae know ye’re missing.”
She wrinkled her nose. “I said that when we—when I—”
“Was it a lie, then?”
“No.”
“Then dunnae expect me to disregard it.”
“Barbarian.”
“Princess.”
She blinked, clearly surprised that he’d returned her insult. Rather than replying, though, she slipped on her emerald gown and knotted the ribbon around the high waist. Before she could reach around for
the button at the nape of her neck, Graeme climbed to his feet.
“I’ll do that, lass.”
“You do recall that you’re naked,” Marjorie pointed out, taking a long moment to look him up and down before she turned away.
Just her gaze made his cock stir again. “I thought I felt a breeze up my backside.” He took his time with the button, breathing her in all over again. Lemons had never been so arousing.
As he finished he pulled her long, loose hair back from her shoulders again. He’d never been a delicate or a gentle man, because he’d never found much use in it. His three brothers damned well didn’t require subtlety. Likewise the Highlands lasses with whom he’d spent an evening now and again knew they weren’t there for wooing or courtship.
Neither was Marjorie, but she was—despite what he now knew of her past—every inch a lady. He wanted to be gentle with her. He wanted to know every inch of her, spend long evenings before the fireplace in her company, wake to find her sleeping in his arms. Graeme took a hard breath in through his nose. Next he’d be writing poetry to her, trying to rhyme all the pretty words he generally avoided like the devil.
Damnation, she was going to be more trouble than he’d ever anticipated. If he had any sense, he would send her away. Now. And he would burn the marriage license the moment it arrived.
“I’m going to fetch breakfast and bring a tray up to Mrs. Giswell,” she announced into the silence, shaking him out of his daydream. Or nightmare, rather.
Evidently she’d been less unsettled by the sex than he was. Graeme clenched his jaw. “I’ll join ye after ye’ve had a chance to talk to her. I suggest ye be persuasive.” He put a hand on her shoulder. “Ye should leave yer hair doon.”
“And see myself called a lightskirt in addition to an upjumped heiress?” Her shoulders lifted and fell, and then she moved away from him.
Graeme didn’t want her leaving the room, not until he figured out what it was about her that he found so compelling, but he held himself still, anyway. He’d put enough chains on her, both literal and figurative. This one thing should be her decision.
My One True Highlander Page 16
