Molly in the Middle

by Stobie Piel

  She caught his earlobe between her teeth and bit, then sucked fiercely.

  "Then again, you might."

  A man can stand only so much. Nathan rolled her over and positioned himself above her. His hands shook as he unbound the tie of her high collar. He could have torn the garment with one finger. He wanted to.

  Her heart raced. He felt her swift pulse beneath his fingers as he touched her neck. Her dark hair splayed out across the pillow, her eyes blazed. She was the lover he'd dreamt of, a woman of natural passion.

  She smelled warm and feminine, clean and softly scented with something floral, probably from her enforced bath. He tasted her skin, just above her collarbone. She tasted sweet, too. She wrapped her arms around his neck and he bent to kiss her. Her arms tightened, but he drew away and smiled.

  Nathan kept his gaze locked with hers as he ran his hands along her sides. He indulged himself in the feel of her skin beneath her thin gown. She watched his face, wide-eyed as he gathered the gown to her hip. He slipped his hand beneath the fabric, touching her hip, her waist. Every muscle drew taut beneath his fingers. Her breath came in small, desperate gasps.

  His own pulse raged, sending merciless shocks of fire to his groin. His manhood filled beyond endurance, his whole body ached. She stared up at him, shocked, stunned by intimacy. She had no idea what to expect, but she trusted him.

  Nathan moved his hand outside her gown, annoyed with himself for the hesitation. Now wasn't the time to become honorable. He fought his nobler impulses. He would refrain from full penetration. He would seek his release outside her body. Allow only shallow entrance, to fulfill some portion of his fantasies.

  Miren didn't know the results of lust, so he couldn't convince himself that lust was her reason for lying beneath him.

  Curiosity, perhaps. No, she cared for him. He meant something to her. Maybe their "engagement" meant more to her than he realized. Perhaps only pride made her say otherwise.

  She wanted his touch. She wanted him to show her the pleasures of a woman's body. He saw it in her eyes. He wanted that, too. Nathan banished his doubts. He wasn't hurting her. They stood on equal ground. She understood.

  His hand slid up from her waist to her ribcage, then moved just beneath her breast. Her heart raced like a captured bird's. He traced one finger around her firm, round breast, examining its shape. A beautiful, maidenly shape. Small, but full. His pulse rang in his ears as he deepened the caress. He circled one breast with his palm, then the other. Her chest rose and fell in quick breaths beneath his touch.

  He brushed his palm over one small, taut peak and felt it pebble against his skin. Miren responded well. Too well. He ached to taste her, to drive her deeper into oblivion. He bent to take the little bud into his mouth. Her breath caught in surprise, but when his lips grazed the sensitive tip, she moaned softly and tipped her head back, eyes closed.

  Yes, too well. He flicked his tongue over the tip, and she arched her back. He moistened her gown until nothing seemed to remain in his way. He suckled gently, and she whimpered his name. She called him Nathaniel.

  No woman ever inflamed his desire this way. His blood pounded, his senses raged. He cupped her ribcage in his hands as he moved his attention from one perfect breast to the other. Were it any other woman, her desire would have reached the point of fulfillment. He wouldn't waithe would pull up her gown and drive himself within her. He would revel in her muted gasps, her delirious pleasure.

  But it was Miren beneath him, and she deserved more. She deserved all he had. And he had so little, beyond desire. Another troublesome thought invaded his pursuit of pleasure. Nathan rested his cheek against her breast, listening to her racing heart. Trying to ignore what he couldn't offer.

  Her fingers clutched his shoulders as if she braced herself against the onslaught of pleasure. She trembled. "Miren . . ." He straightened beside her and gathered her into his arms. She molded against him, she kissed his neck, she ran her hands along his back.

  Her hands slipped beneath his shirt. She sighed at the feel of his skin. "I've longed to touch you, you know."

  "Have you?"

  She nodded against his chest. Her hands didn't stop. She stroked the expanse of his shoulder blades, down his spine, to the small of his back. His control wavered. He wanted to seize her small, soft hand and place it over his length, to feel her fingers wrapped tight around his shaft. He couldn't rush her. She would find his desire, she was searching now.

  He moved to his back, drawing her with him. Separating their bodies enough for her search to reach a successful conclusion. Her hand wound its way from his chest to his stomach, but there she seemed at a loss. Directing her was too close to coercion. Teaching her by example might be a more enjoyable solution.

  He reached down and eased her gown to her waist. Miren stopped her search. "What are you doing?" He heard no suspicion in her breathless voice, just curiosity.

  "There are secrets in you, my little Miren. Secrets you don't know yourself."

  "There aren't." Still stubborn. Still . . . Scottish.

  "Oh no?" Nathan angled his brow, his gaze fixed on hers as his fingers played along her inner thigh. She watched him suspiciously as his touch crept up and inward. His fingers grazed the soft curls at the apex of her thighs, and her eyes widened like saucers.

  "You can't touch me there! It's . . ."

  Nathan grinned. "Secret?"

  She nodded, swallowing hard.

  He outlined the soft triangle, then dipped his fingers inward between her legs. He stopped her harsh gasp with a quickkiss. She tried to squirm away, but he touched moisturewarm, liquid desire. Feminine need. She froze, probably wondering if something odd had happened within her.

  "Here, you are ready for me. Here, nothing is secret."

  His words soothed her, and she relaxed slightly.

  "This is . . . normal?"

  "This is heaven."

  He hadn't prepared himself for the impact of finding her fully aroused, damp and warm and female. His seed burned and demanded release. He explored her petal softness, eased his fingers between the damp folds, and she held her breath.

  "Breathe, woman. I won't have you fainting now."

  She gulped a mouthful of air and held her breath again.

  "Slow and even, Miren. Like this . . ." He showed her, starting in a gentle stroke as he dipped his finger in slightly. Her whole body tensed. Nathan tensed, too. She was tight, her entrance squeezed around the shallow probe, and he thought he would die from wanting.

  He withdrew his finger and continued his exploration. Her tiny feminine bud met his touch, alive and pert, demanding beyond her knowledge. He centered his touch there, and her breath came as a shuddering moan. "That . . . was secret."

  "No more. Are you sorry, Miren?" He kept the rhythm of his voice in time with his caress. Her hips arched to meet him.

  "No."

  "Shall I stop?"

  "No!"

  The first light of dawn inched across the little cottage, revealing her flushed face, her glazed, passion-filled eyes. He wanted to see her in rapture. He increased the pressure of his touch, then lightened it. Faster, then barely moving. Her body quivered and squirmed beneath his direction.

  He'd come to Scotland to find justice, to set right a bitter wrong. He'd found enchantment instead. He even heard bagpipes in the distance. Bagpipes. Nathan's brow furrowed, hestopped teasing her and listened. Miren didn't notice at first, but the sound echoed over the loch. "Bagpipes."

  Miren took several short breaths. "Bagpipes."

  "Is this normal in Scotland? I've never heard bagpipes at dawn."

  Miren sat up. "It's not coming from the loch." She adjusted her gown, swung her legs over the edge of the bed, and went to her window. "It's coming from the woods behind the manor."

  "Odd." In Scotland, anything was possible. "Spirits of the dead?"

  She looked back at him, one brow angled. "Someone is practicing. Perhaps for the Games at Oban." She listened a moment longer.
"Whoever it is has great skill." Miren drew a long breath. "I can never hear a piper's music without it piercing my soul. It reminds me of who I am." She paused, and her chin rose. She looked strong and independent. "A Highlander."

  She had been on the verge of release. Her first. Now she stood at the window, thinking of ancient clan warfare. Bagpipes. Nathan tipped his head back and exhaled a shuddering, painful breath. "Scotland . . . is hell."

  Chapter Nine

  A problem arises, one I hadn't foreseen. Rather than laying claim to the young mistress and bringing her, with her house pet, to the manor, Nathan has instead come to the cottage.

  He's not a usual human. It's not beyond him to take up residence here, in the cottage. Worse, it's not impossible that he take up with the young mistress and end up following the flock, too. Something has to be done to edge them in the right direction.

  Now that I've seen the mansion's interior, I'm sure it's the most fitting abode for a house pet. Muffin's cushion, and Muffin, need to be removed, of course. Lady MacCallum must go, too. Twice she snapped at me for examining the furniture. I was testing a long, soft chair, scratching out a spot, and she swatted at me. She seized my neck ornament and tossed me outside.

  I look forward to the day when it's Lady MacCallum tossed into the cold, and myself at the door . . .

  "Twenty-five shillings! Just enough for a new ram." Miren held up the small felt bag and jingled the coins. Simon stood beaming with pride.

  "Got more for it than I thought, but that's the way of a good bargainer. Got myself up before dawn and headed into Inveraray. Early bird, they say."

  "Thank you, Simon. I would have gone myself if you'd told me."

  Simon clucked his tongue. "You had a busy day, lass. You needed your sleep."

  Miren's face flushed pink. She hadn't slept at all. She'd done things she'd never imagined possible, but she hadn't slept. If not for the far-off bagpipes . . . She drew a quick breath to banish the memory of Nathan's touch. "Did you hear bagpipe music this morning around dawn, Simon?"

  Simon's brow furrowed. "Can't say as I did. But I was in Inveraray by the time the sun rose. Why?"

  "Someone was playing in the hills beyond the manor. The piper has impressive skill. I wondered if you knew who it was."

  "Only a Scot would play afore dawn, and that's a fact. One thing for certain, it weren't Nathaniel."

  Miren gulped. Nathan had returned to the manor before the others woke up, leaving her shocked and embarrassed by her wanton behavior. But at least she considered their interlude secret. "Why do you say that?" Her voice came small and very guilty. Simon eyed her doubtfully.

  "His kind don't take to music."

  "Oh." Prejudice. Good. Simon didn't know just what Nathan's "kind" had been up to in the night. Miren relaxed. "Where will we purchase my new ram?"

  "Got a market in Inveraray today. There'll be a fine selection of wool rams."

  "I suppose we should go early . . ." Miren glanced toward the manor. "He probably doesn't want to see a sheep again for a long while."

  Simon huffed. "I think you can count on it, girl. That boy weren't meant for farming. His kind, they're hunters. They use what's near and easiest, and then move on. Don't you be forgetting it. You're a good Scottish lass. You don't want to tangle up with the likes of that black-eyed"

  "Savage?" Nathan appeared in the doorway, behind Simon. The old man jumped and swore, then spun around, his face flushed with anger.

  "Creeping up on me, you were. And not for the first time."

  Miren's cheeks warmed, but she fought for her composure. They weren't alone. He wouldn't touch her. They wouldn't kiss. She was safe. "Has he crept up on you before, Simon?"

  "Aye. Once in particular, and it being a day I won't forget soon . . ."

  Miren peeked around Simon to Nathan. "What did you do to him?"

  "Nothing significant. And it caused no harm."

  "No harm!" Simon shook his fist. "You snuck up on me whilst I was at fishing, and myself being an honored guest of your grandsirethe only honorable one of the bunch."

  Miren's brow knit. "That doesn't sound so bad."

  "I were standing on a rock, missy. A slippery rock out in the Genesee River, and it weren't warm, I'll tell ye."

  "How do you know how cold . . .? Oh. I see. You fell in."

  "I didn't fall. He pushed me."

  Nathan's hands rested on his hips. He looked casual. Superior as he angled one dark brow. "You fell. I never touched you."

  Simon straightened like a ramrod. "You crept in, you and those little buggers who followed you. You hid in the bushes, and you all burst out screaming like beansidhes."

  "Banshees."

  "Same thing." Simon turned his attention to Miren, as if she were judge. "They were waving tomahawks"

  "Sticks, but go on."

  "They were carved like tomahawks!"

  Nathan scoffed. "A few little nicks and cuts don't make a weapon, Simon."

  Miren positioned herself between them, closer to Simon. She held up her hands, separating them. "Now, did Nathaniel actually hit you with his tomahawk"

  "I told you, woman, it wasn't a tomahawk. It was a gnawed-off oak branch."

  Miren cast a dark glance Nathan's way. "You were waving it, weren't you? That makes it a weapon. Simon, did he hit you?"

  "He meant to."

  "I see. But he didn't actually make contact."

  "Because I'd already fallen in!"

  Nathan looked smug. Simon went red with fury. "Those little red devils stood on the bank howling like wolves."

  "We were laughing."

  Simon glared, angered beyond words.

  "We offered to pull you out."

  Simon's jaw bunched into a stubborn ball. "You'd have handed me a snake instead of a rope." He nodded to Miren. "His kind has an affection for the creatures. If that isn't heathen"

  "As I recall, the snakes preferred you. They kept finding their way to your bed."

  "Nathan!" Miren grabbed his arm. Curses! Now she'd touched him. His arm was strong, warm. She eased her hand back to her side. "You're deliberately baiting him. Behave! Simon and I have work to do."

  "I know. I'm coming with you."

  Simon groaned, but Miren couldn't help a surge of happiness. "If you must."

  He smiled. His dark eyes twinkled. "I must."

  Inveraray Market was filled with farmers mulling around looking for good buys. The atmosphere was exhilarating. Miren found herself looking at dress fabric and new shoes,

  tasting offered sweets and shortbread. She sampled a shortbread biscuit that sandwiched a layer of crisp toffee, topped with a thin layer of chocolate.

  ''Good." Miren finished her sweet and licked her fingers. "I hope I have enough money left over to buy the whole thing."

  "Rams, Miren. We're not here to quench your appetite." Nathan took her arm and they followed Simon to the rear of the market. Molly trotted along beside, her tail up, her ears pricked in excitement. Miren shared her sweets with Molly, but Molly seemed more interested in a collection of ornate cushions.

  "She wants a cushion."

  Nathan rolled his eyes. "That dog of yours wants a coach, livery, and eight horses, maybe a castle to put it in. Move on, woman."

  Miren reached down and patted Molly's head. "If we have enough money, I'll buy you a cushion of your own. Like Muffin's, only bigger."

  Simon marched through the crowd like a ship in full sail. If someone got in his path, he shoved them aside, then doffed his cap respectfully. Nathan shook his head. "That man should be at sea. There's not enough room on land for Simon MacTavish."

  Miren scurried along beside Nathan, eager and happy. "I haven't been to a market since my father died. Maybe you should buy yourself a shoulder plaid, Nathaniel. Or a sgiandhu. Yes, you need a dagger, for protection. See those, with the jeweled hilts!"

  Miren veered from the onward path to study a collection of Scottish dirks. "There's a nice one!" She pointed to a small dirk in a glass c
ase. The merchant beamed and nodded.

  "That's one for a laird and no mistake, lass."

  Nathan placed his firm hand on her shoulder. "I don't want a dirk, Miren."

  "It's a little small." She fixed her gaze on a large empty slot. "What was there?"

  "That wasn't much, lass. Big sticking knife, good for butchering hens, maybe a small pig"

  Miren grimaced. "Never mind."

  "Told the fellow that bought it he could do better with one of these." The merchant gestured toward the other dirks. "Them as got the fine quality craftsmanship. Everything you're seeing, done by my son and myself."

  Nathan nodded without much interest. "They're well made. Miren"

  "Glad I am to hear you say it, sir. Tried to tell that fellow the same, but he just wanted the big knife. Try telling an Englishman anything. Don't know what he wanted with a butchering knife, anyway. He was all set up as a gentleman. Didn't have the muscle to wrestle a hen, let alone a pig."

  "How odd! I wonder what he wanted with"

  "Thank you for your time." Nathan seized Miren's arm and drew her aside. "We're here for a ram, woman, not an hour's conversation."

  "Oh, very well. It was interesting, I thought."

  "Rams, Miren."

  Nathan pointed to Simon as he stomped through the crowd. Miren clucked her tongue, but she continued toward the livestock pens. "Men shouldn't be allowed at market. Just get in, get out . . . No time for anything interesting."

  "I was just thinking how much faster these transactions would occur if women were left at home."

  Miren lifted her chin. "Rams, Nathan."

  They found Simon waiting by the sheep pen, examining the offerings. A stocky farmer with a bright red beard and a bald head proudly displayed his rams. His red-haired wife was equally formidable, perhaps more so than her husband. She braced pudgy arms over her immense chest and nodded to Miren.

  Miren hesitated, then nodded back. "How do you do, ma'am?" The woman smiled but didn't answer.

  The farmer stepped through his rams and set his hands on the railing. "Mrs. MacBain don't speak English, lass. Only the Gaelic." He lowered his voice. "And too much of that."