His darkly wicked smile alone curled her toes.
His big, strong body, now fully naked and so near to her, stole her breath. His skin gleamed, the soft glow of the fire playing over his hard-muscled form. She saw the scars he’d taken in battle. Her heart squeezed to see them. She meant to caress and kiss each one, erasing the hurt they must’ve caused. She also ached to touch the dusting of his dark chest hair, to trail her fingers over such pure male glory, trace the arrowing line of that crisp hair straight to where his long, thick manhood strained so proud against his abdomen, his desire apparent.
Mirabelle drew a breath, so pleased that he stood there, bold and glorious, letting her look her fill of him. She’d never tire of gazing on him, so heady was the sight of his raw male beauty.
“Enough, lass. It’s no’ easy to stand here, you studying me as you are.” His words, the implication behind them, sent a new barrage of tingles sweeping across her most tender flesh. “For truth, I’d rather look at you,” he said, the roughness of his voice exciting her even more. Reaching down, he eased her thighs apart, his eyes darkening as he gazed at her. He stepped closer, trailed his fingers over her damp curls. “Ne’er have I been more roused.”
“O-o-oh…” She leaned back against the pillows, barely breathing as another floodtide of delicious shivers raced across the soft, sensitive place he stroked so expertly.
“Sweet lass, sweet precious lass.” He cupped her hard, squeezing. “You dinnae ken what you do to me, but I’m about to show you.”
Then, with the same speed with which he’d removed his clothes, he was on the bed, stretched out beside her. He pulled her into his arms, holding her tight against him as he slanted his mouth over hers, kissing her deeply. It was a hard, rough kiss, full of breath and tongue, and so savage that her entire body quivered. She returned the kiss with equal fervor, twining her arms around his shoulders, gripping tight as he plundered her lips, the sensations so intense, so pleasurable, she didn’t want him to ever stop.
She cupped the back of his neck, clutching him to her, melting into his kiss. But he tore his lips from hers and caught her hand, bringing it to his mouth. He nipped the flesh beneath her thumb, and then kissed her wrist before he raised her arm, stretching it over her head.
“My heart,” he hushed the endearment against her shoulder, pressed his lips there as he rolled on top of her. He reached down between them, guiding the hard, hot length of him to her entrance. “I’d no’ hurt you for the world.”
“You won’t—only if you do not claim me now.” Mirabelle grasped his face with both hands, turning him to her for more kisses.
He obliged, sealing his mouth over hers in a hungry, open-mouthed kiss, the glory of it proving again that she could never live without such pleasure, without him.
Then all thought vanished when she felt him tense and begin pushing his maleness slowly, carefully inside her. She kissed him more deeply, swirling her tongue round and over his, savoring the intimacy, not minding the hot, tight, pinching sensations clenching at her center. The pressure did hurt, but it was also thrilling. A union with the man she’d loved and wanted since girlhood.
“My love…” She thrust her fingers into his hair, holding him tight, kissing and kissing him as he eased ever deeper into her, claiming her innocence, her heart, body, and soul, granting her heart’s desire.
“You are mine.” He pulled back, breaking their kiss to push up on his arms and look down at her, his expression almost feral.
“Only yours.” Mirabelle held his gaze as he pressed deeper, now fully inside her, riding her. She soared, wrapping her legs about his hips, needing, craving the closeness of being one with him.
“My precious lass.” He tipped back his head, staring up at the rafters, the cords of muscle in his arms and neck straining, his jaw clenched. “My sweet Mirabelle…”
Then he stilled, a great shudder passing through him as he jerked and called out her name, a flood of heat filling her as he released his seed.
“Sorley…” Mirabelle lay perfectly still, half afraid to move, not knowing what to do.
She felt awed, humbled, and blessed to have brought him such intense pleasure.
“You unman me, sweet.” He eased off her, drawing her gently into his arms, nestling her head against his shoulder. “I should have lasted longer, but”—he slid his hand between her damp thighs, his thumb once again finding that wondrous knot of sensation he’d rubbed before. He began circling the spot now, slowly and gently, his touch so light that it could’ve been a butterfly wing.
“Just lie still, let me pleasure you.” He kissed the top of her head, his circling thumb rubbing round and round. Melting her until, as before, the waves of bliss washed over her, rushing her into that dark, glittering place where nothing existed except the ecstasy he gave her.
She closed her eyes, felt herself falling as the room spun away and all she heard was the thunder of her blood in her ears, the beating of her heart.
And, though she couldn’t quite be sure of this, Sorley’s softly muttered praise. Thanks for all she’d given him.
Of course, she saw it differently.
And the more she came back to her senses, the more she knew that was so. Words of love and endearment weren’t all he’d said as he’d made her his.
Taking a deep breath, she opened her eyes, still too drained to slip from the bed. She did note that Sorley had done so. He stood across the room, at the small table that held her water jug and wash basin, pouring water, delightfully at ease in his nakedness. Indeed, she enjoyed the view of his strong back, his legs and buttocks, so much that she almost wished he wouldn’t turn around. But she needed to clarify something, so she scrambled up against the cushions and pulled a pillow before her.
Not to hide herself, but because the hearth fire had dwindled to little more than a flickering red glow of ash, and the night’s chill was biting now, the room’s cold raising gooseflesh on her bared skin.
“Sorley…” Her voice was hoarse, her lips tender from their kisses. “Did I truly hear you say you wish to marry me? I didn’t think—”
“That I’m the marrying sort?” He turned, striding toward her with the basin and a few linen cloths clutched in his hand. His manhood hung loose and free, relaxed now, yet still so beautiful to behold that another faint wash of tingles rippled across the still-throbbing flesh between her legs. “That I am no’, as anyone will tell you. In truth,”—he stopped before her, setting the bowl and cloths on the night table—“you couldnae land a worse husband, there’s no denying. But no man will ever love or want you more.” He dipped one of cloths into the basin, wringing it out before he planted a firm hand on her belly, holding her still as he slid the linen between her legs, wiping the blood smears from her thighs, her aching female flesh.
Mirabelle felt herself flushing at his ministrations, but…
They also roused her—that he would tend her so intimately, his gaze on that exposed part of her, thrilling and exciting her. It made her want him to claim her again. First with his bliss-spending fingers and mouth, then—she shivered—once more with all of him, again and again.
She bit her lip and glanced aside, wondering if she wasn’t the one unsuited for marriage.
Surely she’d turned wanton?
“You are a prize any man would give his soul to claim, Mirabelle.” He parted her thighs a bit more, rubbing her with the cloth. “So beautiful, so responsive, so proud and true, courageous. You are caring.” He glanced at the corner brazier where Little Heart slept contentedly. “So many good things that I’d need the whole of our lives to count them all.”
“You do not think I am brazen?” There, she’d said the word aloud.
“You are perfect.” He tossed aside the damp cloth and reached for a dry one, dabbing her gently. “I wouldnae want you any other way.
“I am the one no’ bent for marriage.” He didn’t sound as if he objected, though. “We’ll just have to think on where to wed, where to live, how
to shape our lives. We’ll manage. I should warn you that I have a stubborn streak. I am no’ dissuaded by difficulties or challenges. Indeed, I aye find a way to master the first and welcome the second.
“The King will surely want us to marry here, at Stirling.” He finished drying her and dropped the linen to the floor. Sitting beside her on the bed, he pulled her against him. “William will ne’er speak to me again if we dinnae hold a wedding celebration at the Red Lion. Your father, once I have spoken to him, may wish for a further feasting at Knocking.”
“My father…” Mirabelle felt a pang of doubt, tamping it down before Sorley noticed. “He has always wished me to settle in the Highlands. He is eager for grandchildren and—”
“He shall have them, and plenty.” Sorley took her face between his hands, kissing her deeply. “I will purchase or build a small tower house somewhere between here and your beloved Knocking Tower.”
“Such a site would be near to your father’s Duncreag.” Mirabelle touched his cheek, not liking how his expression hardened on her suggestion. “I know Archibald. He is a good man, old and cranky at times, but—”
“I will deal with him in my own time, lass.” He gripped her wrist, lowering her hand. “First, I’ll postpone my journey north with Grim Mackintosh. That can wait. I’ve other, more important matters to attend. For the now, I will leave you be.” He stood and began gathering his clothes off the floor, dressing as quickly as he’d disrobed. “You’ll need a good night’s rest and I’ll no’ have folk wagging their tongues if a servant should enter and find me naked in your bed.”
She wanted him to stay. “But I’d rather—”
“I told you once, sweet…” He came back to the bed, leaned down, and dropped a quick kiss to her brow. “I dinnae use the word ‘but.’ ”
Already clothed, he stepped back and slung his sword-belt low about his hips. The flame of the night candle caught the jeweled eyes of the belt’s wolf’s-head buckle, making them gleam as if the beast lived.
Mirabelle shivered, rubbing her arms against the chill that swept her. “What of the Fenris? Will you not be missed if you leave Stirling?” She surprised herself by mentioning the secret brotherhood.
But the wolf’s-head buckle brought the myth to mind.
The way Sorley’s gaze sharpened on her was even more telling.
She scooted from the bed, went over to him and gripped his arms, challenging. “I know the name hails from Fenris the Wolf in Norse mythology. He was a troublemaker, the son of Loki the trickster.”
“Aye, and Thor shoots thunderbolts at every man who displeases him.” Sorley broke free of her grasp and wrapped his arms around her, drawing her close. He stroked her hair and smoothed his hand down her back, cupping her buttocks. “The Fenris are a legend, love. If I was one, I’d be oath-bound no’ to speak of them.”
“You wear a wolf’s-head belt buckle.” She lifted her chin, met his gaze. “I have never seen it on you before this night. There must be a reason.”
“There is.” He squeezed her bottom, and then slid his hand beneath her, between her thighs, lightly teasing her intimate curls. “I like the buckle. It was a gift from the King’s brother, Alexander Stewart, the Wolf of Badenoch. Truth is I wore it to impress you. It is a fine piece of workmanship.” He glanced down, his gaze on the wolf’s head. When he looked back up at her, his face was serious. “This, too, I will tell you. Listen hard for I’ll no’ say the like again. I’ll aye protect you as fiercely as a Fenris would guard his lady.”
He took her face between his hands, something in his eyes almost frightening her. “Woe be to any man who’d dare try to harm you. Or when they come, our children. I’d follow such a fiend to the ends of this earth for vengeance, even into the coldest pit of hell.”
“I know you would.” She did, she’d always known.
“If aught should e’er happen to me, send the buckle to the earl.” He released her and strode to the door, where he turned back, fixing her with a level gaze. “Alex will then set guardsmen to watch o’er you for life. That, sweet lass, I promise you. Remember it always, for that truth is the reason I wore the wolf buckle. To make sure you’re aye safe.” He cracked the door, glanced left and right down the corridor before opening it wider. “I will come for you in late morning. By then, I will have made plans for us.”
“Can you not stay…” Mirabelle let the words tail off, for he’d stepped into the passage, closing the door behind him.
She hurried across the room, opening the door again and peering out, but he was already gone. She couldn’t even hear his retreating footsteps, which shouldn’t surprise her. Wouldn’t a Fenris be able to disappear swiftly and silently into the shadows?
She was sure that was so.
Just as she was certain he’d done exactly what he’d sworn never to do. He might not have broken an oath verbally, but he had let her know the truth.
He’d done so because he loved her.
His trust only made her love him more.
Her heart swelling, she returned to her bed, smoothed the rumpled coverlets. As she did so, a hint of sandalwood and pure male musk rose to tease and tantalize her. She closed her eyes for a moment, inhaling deeply. Images of everything they’d done together swirled across her mind, exciting her so much she wondered if she’d catch fire.
Shivers of delight rippled through her.
She just hoped her heart was big enough to hold her happiness.
That she’d be able to wait until he returned for her the next morning. It seemed like ages away, and she already thrummed with anticipation.
Chapter Eighteen
Sometime in the small hours the next morning, Mirabelle sat up in her bed, knowing something was wrong. She just didn’t know what had wakened her, pulling her from a deep slumber. Sorley had been right, she’d needed the rest. Even now, she felt dazed from their lovemaking. Sated and sweetly replete, though a lingering soreness did throb between her legs. But that slight discomfort wasn’t what had disrupted her sleep. It was much less tangible, an inner knowing. The kind of sensation Highlanders thought of as a “stirring in the air,” even when not a breath of wind blew.
She pushed back her hair, glancing about, seeing nothing unusual. Sorley’s sandalwood scent still clung to the bedsheets, as did a trace of heady masculine musk. His powerful physical presence had also left a mark on the chamber, branding it so soundly, she could almost imagine him standing before her now, bold and gloriously naked, ready to pull her into his arms and ravish her awake.
Regrettably, he wasn’t here.
It was much too early for him to come calling for her.
Not the grayest sliver of light crept through the shutter slats, though across the room, peat ash still glowed in the hearth. All was still and quiet, even the corner brazier no longer burning. The few furnishings in the chamber stood out black against the softer gray of the night shadows.
The room was also bitterly cold.
Settling back onto her side, Mirabelle started to pull the covers over her shoulders, deciding it was the chill that had disturbed her, when she realized the truth.
Little Heart was gone.
He’d slept curled into the crook of her neck, his wee head resting on her shoulder. His soft, sweet warmth, tiny and light as he was, had soothed her, helping her drift into her dreams after Sorley left. She’d felt the steady rise and fall of his breaths, heard his gentle snores. She’d appreciated the comfort of his nearness.
Now he wasn’t there.
Blessedly, he couldn’t have gone far.
Like as not, he’d hopped off the bed to visit the crate and its layer of river sand, thoughtfully recommended by William Wyldes’s aunt, Berengaria, and delivered by Sorley, his kindness to her kitten touching her deeply. She waited for the now-familiar scratching to alert her that Little Heart was again ready to join her on the bed.
The sound didn’t come.
Indeed, she didn’t hear him at all. That was strange. He’d taken a fierce
liking to her, never leaving her side except when he slept before the brazier. Already feeling at home with her, he purred, trilled, or hopped about like a flea when he wasn’t snuggled against her. There was none of that now.
Worry niggled at her, dread creeping in as the stillness lengthened.
“Little Heart!” She sat up again, this time flinging back the covers and swinging her legs over the edge of the high mattress. “Little Heart, where are you?”
She looked about, straining to see in the dark as she slid off the bed, the rushes cold and prickly on the bare soles of her feet.
Naked, for she always slept so, she wrapped her arms around her waist for warmth and hurried about, searching for her precious wee kitten. Her mouth went dry and her heart raced in alarm. She feared he’d slipped out and couldn’t bear if something had happened to him.
It was then, as her eyes grew accustomed to the shadows, that she noticed his new braided wicker travel basket was missing.
She frowned, turning in a circle, searching to see if she’d put it somewhere else, in a place she’d forgotten.
But she hadn’t.
The basket wasn’t in her room, and that meant…
“Oh, Little Heart!” She dashed from corner to corner, hoping she was mistaken. Dropping to her knees beside the bed, she lifted the heavy dressings and peered into the blackness beneath the four-poster. “Where are you, my sweet one?” She didn’t see anything, only gloom. Nothing stirred. “Did Sorley come back and take you away?”
She couldn’t imagine he would, not when he’d promised to fetch her later that morning. For sure, he’d been good to Little Heart, but she also knew he wasn’t overly fond of him.
Yet the kitten and his basket couldn’t have vanished into thin air.
Mirabelle pressed a hand to her cheek and drew a long shuddering breath, terrible heat stinging the backs of her eyes, thickening her throat.
Little Heart couldn’t be missing.
She’d already given her heart to him.
To Love a Highlander Page 29
