by Paula Quinn
“Am I dreaming now?” she asked, turning to face him.
He was close enough to slip his arm around her waist and draw her closer, until her lips dangled beneath his. “Mayhap we both are.” Caressing her cheek, he dipped his mouth to hers.
She sighed into him, savoring the supple yield of his lips and the power in his arms to subdue her so gently. He tasted of spice and desire, and she basked in the sensual stroke of his tongue, the scent of him, the feel of being held with no barriers between them. He took his time kissing her, pausing to smile at her as if he too could hardly believe they had the entire night to spend alone.
He’d planned it all, the cave, the fire, the blankets… all to be with her. But there were consequences to this. As much as she loved Edmund, giving him a sibling now would destroy everything she wanted for him. “Colin, what if…?” She pushed her palms against his chest and broke their kiss.
“Lass,” he breathed against her temple when she turned her face away. “I won’t be careless with ye.” When she looked up at him, his decadent mouth curled into a slow, confident smile. “Trust me.”
What fool wouldn’t? Every ravishing inch of him exemplified virility in its rawest form. She might be as mad as a hermit, but she trusted him completely, even letting him carry her to the blankets and lay her down on them.
“Ye’re smiling, lass.”
She looked up at his face poised above her when he joined her on the blanket. “I seem to do that more frequently when in your company.”
His smile was sensuous and genuine, searing her nerve endings and making the air hot and thick. “Such things please my ears.” His gaze moved over her face, taking in every angle, every nuance, and treasuring what he saw. “I want to hear yer laughter filling the hills. Yers and Edmund’s.”
She wanted to kiss him, to move him, to claim his heart and run away with him. For now, she would be happy kissing him. She didn’t close her eyes when he bent to do as she willed, but watched him come closer, their gazes locked and dusky with anticipation.
Gillian didn’t know what drove her madder with desire for him, the intensity of his kiss or the tenderness of his hand moving over her face. He did both as if driven by a need to know her more intimately. When he dragged his mouth to her throat, his coarse jaw scraped her skin and lit her flesh on fire. Neither of the two nights she’d spent with Reggie had felt like this. Colin was a completely different animal, groaning like a hard, lithe leopard while he moved over her, wedging himself between her thighs. He kissed a scorching path down the valley between her breasts, growing tighter in his breeches, as stiff and as hot as newly forged steel against her.
When his hungry mouth found her nipple, he sucked her through the fabric of her gown. She groaned and surged up against his arousal. He bit down around her bud and she gasped, growing wet under him. Instinctively, her legs opened wider, inviting him deeper, tempting him like some lust-starved siren to have his way with her and damn the consequences. He rubbed his confined erection against her crux in a long, slow surge that boasted his size and made her body tremble and her muscles spasm.
She felt his fingers drawing the hem of her skirt up over her knees and then her thighs, and for an instant she feared he would take her. And she would let him. Oh, hell, yes, she would let him. But instead of releasing that glorious beast on her when he exposed her to the flickering light, he licked two of his fingers and rubbed them over her engorged nub. She cried out, arching her spine and finding his weight there above her. He stroked her and dipped inside her until his fingers glided easily from the moisture drenching them.
Her readiness seemed to stir him to madness and he rose up on his knees, lifting her ankle with him. She watched, breath held, heart drumming madly, as his eyes roved up her bare thigh and settled on her glistening center.
His intention dawned on her an instant after he bent his face to taste her there. “Colin,” she breathed on a ragged moan while his tongue flicked over her again and again, tightening her until it became almost painful. Pure, raw ecstasy set fire to her blood, and she pushed against his hungry mouth. He answered her plea for something more by closing his lips around her and sucking gently.
Wanton, wicked desires coursed through Gillian such as she’d never known before. Shamelessly, she clung to him, raking her hands through his hair, drawing him close to taste her more fully. She guided his head over her with long, languorous groans, lifting and undulating her hips to take his tongue deeper when he drove it inside her.
Her cries echoed off the jagged walls as she came in his mouth, panting with pleasure, rocking against him as wave after wave swept her away to a place she’d never been.
When it was over, Gillian could barely move. Spent and breathless, she watched him rise to his feet and make his way to the entrance. With his back to her, he worked the laces of his breeches and finally freed himself in the direction of the ocean. She knew what he was doing, but when he turned slightly to have a look at her lying weakly where he left her, he afforded her a view of his flat belly and his hand working the thick shaft of his cock. The sight and size of it silhouetted against the pale moon, and the way he looked at her while he pleasured himself, sent brand-new fissures of heat shooting through her. How could any man look so fit and strong even as he went down on one knee, spilling his seed all over the cave floor?
When he returned to her, tucking himself back into his breeches, she had to bite her lip and look away to keep from inviting him to tear off her gown and make love to her until the morning came. She had no doubt he could accomplish such a feat. But he wouldn’t do it. He’d kept his promise, as tremendously difficult as it had been for him. He hadn’t been careless with her. It made her want him even more.
But they had to return to the castle. For despite what Colin had done to the wine and the men, Edmund was still inside Dartmouth without her. She’d never been this far from him, for this long. Lord, how was she ever going to send him off to Skye?
She voiced her concerns to Colin as they walked back along the shoreline and he did all to comfort her, promising that she would not be separated from her son for too long. She nodded, praying to God that she was doing the right thing. What choice did she have? At least escaping to Skye would give her time to pen new missives to William. Perhaps, after he witnessed the ferocity of Colin’s blade and the dedication to see him on the throne, the Dutch prince might even agree to allow her to wed Colin and remain with him in Skye.
With that thought giving new hope to her heart, she turned and clung to Colin one last time before Dartmouth came into view.
“When, Colin? When will this all end?”
He kissed the top of her head and then released her as he entered the fortress. “We leave fer Essex within the se’nnight, lass. Hold fast.”
She promised she would and let him escort her back to her room. She didn’t remain inside after he left her, but grabbed her lute and raced up to the turrets. A new song filled her heart and as everyone around her slept, she filled the night with the sound of it.
Chapter Twenty-seven
The next several days were the best Gillian had ever spent at Dartmouth. The nights were even better. She met Colin on the turret stairs every night at midnight. He never disturbed her while she played her lute, preferring, he told her, to listen without distraction.
“It soothes the darker part of me,” he’d whispered across her cheek a few nights ago.
“I don’t fear that part of you, Colin.”
“Nor shall ye ever.”
“But I might”—she’d kissed him boldly on the mouth—“like to see that side of you from time to time.”
After that, she played a few less soothing tunes and found herself snatched out of the light and hauled against his hard body.
She smiled now on her way to Essex… on a horse. She hadn’t ridden one in years and her backside was killing her. But what was a sore arse compared with leaving Dartmouth? Colin had done it. He’d played Geoffrey like a master of s
trings, tactically outwitted him like a general of an elite force. She had also played her part well, refusing to let Edmund leave Dartmouth without her—even if it was just to visit with Captain Gates and his wife for a short time. It wasn’t difficult to let her anger spill forth in a convincing display, especially since she knew that Geoffrey fully expected her son to be kidnapped during the visit. She’d finally relented, letting him go on the condition that she be allowed to escort Edmund to Essex. She understood that if she went, Mr. Campbell would have to escort her back alone, but he was going along anyway, so she wasn’t inconveniencing anyone.
Geoffrey hadn’t agreed to it right away, but after a few words with Colin, he’d had a change of heart.
How had Colin managed it all? A better question, and one that had begun to gnaw at her until she couldn’t sleep at night, was why? She remembered the day she met him, when he tried to help her leave Geoffrey’s solar. And later, when he kept Lieutenant de Atre from her in the courtyard. How many times after that had he stepped up for her? Whether with guile or the skill of his arm, he’d been protecting her from the beginning. Who was she that such a man would consider her?
She thought it would be difficult to trust again, but Colin had proven his loyalty to her over and over again. It felt good to hope again, to love again.
Edmund surely loved him. But they were sending him off with strangers. What would her son’s life be like with people he didn’t know and without her there to see to him? Lord, she was going to miss him. What would she do without him to take care of? Colin had promised to reunite them, but how long would it be before she saw Edmund again? She’d spoken briefly to Colin about her escape. She had no idea how he meant to get her away from Geoffrey without her cousin sending both Dartmouth’s and Kingswear’s garrisons after her. He’d asked her yet again to trust that he would, and she did.
“What troubles ye, lass?”
She loved the way he called her lass. She loved the way he looked at her, as if each time he set his eyes on her was the first time. Like nothing else in the world could ever touch him, but her. And he knew it, and had accepted it.
“Silly things,” she assured him, looking away so he wouldn’t see in her eyes how desperately she wanted her and Edmund to stay with him forever.
“He’ll get along fine,” he promised patiently, although it was the hundredth time he’d done so.
“I know.”
“Do you think your father will be among those making the journey?” George asked Colin on the other side of her.
“ ’Tis likely. The moment he knows someone needs protection, he sets himself to the task.”
“You are much like him then,” Gillian said, meeting Colin’s gaze and letting herself smile openly at him. She couldn’t help it. She didn’t want to.
“In many ways, aye, I am.”
“I would like to meet him.” George yawned, shockingly uninterested in their inability to keep their eyes off each other.
“As I look forward to meeting yer wife,” Colin replied, finally looking over her to their companion.
Gillian listened while they shared friendly words and laughter. Imagine, George giving himself over to laughter! Astounding. How was it possible that a mercenary from an outlawed clan could change their lives so quickly? There were things about him… contradictory things… that tugged at her logic… like the fact that he claimed to fight for a Campbell cause even though his family on Skye clearly meant more to him than any in Glen Orchy. The way he practiced compared to the way he fought. The amiable smiles he cast on Geoffrey while those brimstone eyes remained cool and untouched by anything given to him in return. His battle-scarred hands resting gently over Edmund’s tiny ones, holding the reins, and her heart along with them.
What did logic matter when her son was safe for the first time in his life?
They made camp that first night of Edmund Dearly’s freedom deep in the woods. The small fire did little to illuminate their surroundings, or to provide Edmund with a feeling of security while small creatures scurried around in the darkness or hooted from the treetops.
When, after two stories, his eyes were still as wide as saucers, Colin plucked him from Gillian’s lap and set him down against the tree under which he was sitting.
Gillian listened while he told her son of a legend who lived long ago. She watched him, moved by the rich, lilting tone of his voice, and the story he chose to tell.
“Then King Arthur came out of his tower, and had under his gown a jesseraunt of double mail, and there went with him the Archbishop of Canterbury, and Sir Baudwin of Britain, and Sir Kay, and Sir Brastias: these were the men of most worship that were with him. And when they were met there was no meekness, but stout words on both sides; but always King Arthur answered them, and said he would make them to bow.”
“Isn’t Malory’s King Arthur the same man believed to be Gildas’s Aurelius Ambrosius?” Gillian asked him a little while later. Somehow, it didn’t surprise her that Colin knew about the war leader who saw victory over the Anglo Saxons. Or that the part of Malory’s Le Morte d’Arthur he chose to recite was when King Arthur was preparing for war. What she did find utterly mesmerizing was the way his arm curled around Edmund’s shoulder and ended with their hands intertwined above her son’s lap. It was an image Gillian had tossed aside years ago. The sight of it now moistened her eyes.
She blushed, mortified by her tears when Colin turned his smile on her. “Ye know of Arthur then?”
“Of course,” she told him. “He is Edmund’s favorite hero.”
“He is my mother’s, as well.”
“She taught you well then, Mr. MacGregor.”
He laughed, a deep, alluringly husky sound she would put music to later. “I’m afraid I paid little attention to her lessons in chivalry.”
“I disagree,” she said. “You remind me of him.”
He turned away from her worshipful gaze, granting her a view of his beguiling profile against the firelight. “I’m not a hero, lass.”
“But that…,” she whispered softly, careful not to wake George when he shifted on the other side of her, “… is exactly how a hero would reply.”
They entered the rural borough of Thurrock several days later, just before dawn. Gillian had grown up a few leagues away and she recognized the shadow of the old blockhouse, built by Henry VIII, and rebuilt two years before she left Essex. It stood firm and solid in the midst of farms and marshland along the Thames.
But for the bark of a dog somewhere in the distance, the world slept and tempted Gillian to join it on her horse. She yawned and took comfort that soon they would reach George’s manor house and she could rest her head on a pillow and not sleep with her ears alert to every unfamiliar sound.
She didn’t hear the click of the pistol ahead of her, but Colin did. The golden splash of morning fell upon him as he reached down and plucked a dagger from his boot. He flipped it over in the air, caught it by the tip of the blade, and prepared to fling it.
George’s command stopped him. “Harry Thompson,” her captain said, turning to their assailant next, “what the hell are you doing aiming a pistol at me?”
“And who might you be that I shouldn’t?” The old man squinted, the growing light doing nothing to aid his vision.
“I’m George Gates, Harry. Now put down that damned weapon before I have my friend remove it from you himself.”
“Captain Gates!” Harry shoved his pistol into his belt and bid him off his mount. “We weren’t expecting to see you for another few months.”
“I know,” George said, dismounting and taking hold of his reins. “I thought my wife might enjoy seeing me a little early.”
“Indeed she would,” old Harry Thompson agreed. “But perhaps she wouldn’t mind waiting a little longer while you and your companions share a cup of mead with me. I haven’t enjoyed any company since my Liz passed last summer.”
George began to decline, but Gillian stopped him. Of course they would give the poo
r man some of their time. She knew George would be angry, but perhaps less so if he thought she did this for Edmund’s sake. Her captain might not display his affection for her son openly, as Colin did, but George loved him nonetheless. “Mr. Thompson, if you have a goat, I would be most grateful for a cup of milk for my son.”
They followed the farmer to his home, with George muttering something unintelligible under his breath, and Colin smiling. Gillian took a seat at a small, carved wooden table just off the kitchen and hefted Edmund into her lap. She listened to their host while he told them about losing his wife and offered her aid in anything he needed while she was here. She knew she’d made the correct decision to visit with old Harry when Edmund tasted what was in his cup and then downed the rest and asked politely for more. With little to graze but shrubs around gravestones, no goat survived at Dartmouth. George tried to keep one after Edmund’s second year, when she ceased suckling him, but the beast died and her breasts went dry.
She turned her smile on her captain and he nodded, agreeing that the visit was worth it.
Only one thing could make Edmund discard his cup and leap from her lap. Somewhere outside a dog was barking.
“It’s Mary Tanner’s bitch calling for my Brutus,” Harry said when Colin left his seat next. “She hasn’t let him be since she delivered his whelps. Just like a woman, eh?”
“This Mary Tanner,” Colin asked him at the door, “she is yer neighbor?”
“Aye, she lives just down the road a ways.”
Colin glanced at Edmund first, and then moved his gaze to Gillian. “I’ll return shortly.”
He was gone before any could protest. Edmund raced away to the window and Harry Thompson picked up his previous tale where he’d left off.
Just when Gillian had decided that there was no hope in getting away from their lonely host before nightfall, Edmund shouted Colin’s name and sprinted for the door. Gillian followed, helping her son open it. What they saw before them stopped them both in their tracks.
