by Arnette Lamb
"To make you mine, lassie, I'd gladly brave the fires of hell."
His seduction called to mind a classic conquest of the heart and everlasting love. In her fantasies he'd been cast as a fair-haired and honor-bound knight fettered to goodness by virtuous deeds. But what was a little tarnish, she reasoned. With her help, this errant knight could turn his back on subterfuge and race back into the fold of the righteous.
Inspired by so noble a challenge, she said, "Where are you taking me?"
"To the first soft spot I find."
"Where?" she insisted.
"To a storage room in the tower."
He stopped, but she knew they hadn't traveled far enough to reach the top. Dipping his shoulder, he leaned into the stone wall. As if by magic, the wall moved.
Her heightened senses were filled with the sweet aromas of basil, sage, and rosemary. She had a moment to wonder if they had come full circle on their journey, for the herbs were the same that grew in the giant urns in the garden.
But when he relaxed his hold and let her slide down the length of his body, thoughts of fragrant plants fled like morals at court. Just as her feet touched the floor, he pulled her against his chest and kissed her again, murmuring Scottish love words. The satiny feel of his lips on her neck rekindled the desire she'd thought he'd extinguished. The tender phrases enticed her into blissful surrender.
Before she'd felt anxious. Now she felt empty, wanton. And in love.
Love. Her logical mind stumbled on the word. Did she love him? Yes, her heart answered. He was the man of her dreams.
"Take off your cloak," he whispered, "and give it to me."
Languishing in her newfound passion, she did as he bade and heard the rustle of wool as he removed his cape. Missing his solid strength and warmth, she said, "What are you doing?"
"Making a soft place so I can love you properly."
The burr in his voice drew her like an entrancing melody. She stepped deeper into the inky darkness and reached for him. As he whirled toward her, his movement stirred the perfumed air. Never, she thought, had any bride enjoyed a sweeter bower of love.
Her eager fingers touched the coarse homespun of his shirt and pulled him closer. His hands roamed her back, tracing her spine, cupping her bottom and lifting, introducing her once more to his blatant and erotic male need. The rasp of his breath close to her ear sent tendrils of desire cascading over breasts that begged for his touch and to legs that seemed too weak to hold her.
Emboldened, she unbuttoned his shirt and splayed her hands on his chest. The springy, silky hair curled around her fingers as if to caress her in return. She pictured them lying naked and imagined the feel of his crisp chest hair against her taut nipples. Her belly grew tight at the thought. "I want you now," she heard herself say.
"All in good time. 'Tis too soon, love." He nipped her shoulder. "Think of something else while I take off your clothes. According to legend, I've waited for you one hundred years. I'll not be rushed."
Oddly, she considered the pelt of curly hair that covered the earl's groin, and as her fingers explored the Border Lord's chest, she thought of his easy sensuality and the differences between the two men. The fair, bashful earl and the dark, alluring lover.
But when he freed the laces of her gown and eased it off her shoulders, she forgot about the gentle nobleman. When he stripped her of chemise and petticoats, she remembered that her lover was still dressed.
She pulled his shirt from the breeches and unbuckled his belt. The leather felt soft and warm, a contrast to the hot, hard length of him that lay beneath.
He groaned. "I should've worn a kilt."
Confidence filled her. "You'd be loving me now if you had. Because you wear nothing under it."
He froze. "How do you know what the Border Lord wears or doesna wear beneath his kilt?"
The sharp words surprised her. " 'Tis common knowledge that Scotsmen wear nothing under their plaids. Are you jealous that I might have seen another man's nakedness?"
His hands started roaming again. "Aye, lassie. I canna bear to think of you with another man."
A hint of humor flavored the agreement. Miriam's inability to understand innuendo kept her from grasping why.
He tore at the buttons on his breeches, then began working them down. She rested her hands on his slim waist and the rippling muscles there. Like a path, a trail of hair led to the niche of his navel and lower, to the swollen maleness that strained and pulsed with life.
Her fingers closed over skin smoother than silk velvet. He sucked in his breath and surged forward, his rock hard manhood jutting through the circle she'd made of her hand, the crown of him nudging her belly.
Since she couldn't actually see him, she envisioned the earl's exposed manly parts. In comparison, the Border Lord had been overly blessed by nature.
As she plied her newfound knowledge, her mind wandered to the reason behind the differences in men; perhaps a bold man required a greater organ than a timid one. Could courage have a bearing on a man's sexual prowess?
"Enough," he growled and grasping her waist, he lifted her, snatching her thoughts from the earl and planting them firmly on the Border Lord.
Weightless and supported only by his strength, she clutched his shoulders for balance. But when his mouth touched her breast, she went limp, all of her perception focused on his lips and tongue and the wildly erotic sensations he aroused. A connection was born between her breasts and her woman's core, and like a silken cord, twisted and strung tight, the bond weaved its magic.
He laved and suckled, opening his mouth so wide she feared he might, then prayed he would, devour her. A new wetness flourished between her legs, and deeper, an aching hollow begged for fulfillment. She bit her lip to stifle a keening cry.
Drawing back, he blew gently on the pebbled peak of her breast, sending a shiver to the soles of her dangling feet.
"Speak your mind, Miriam," he whispered. "Doona grow shy on me now."
Unable to comply with his reckless request, she shook her head. Her hair swished around them.
Using delicate bites, he plucked at her nipple. "I canna be certain what you like if you doona tell me."
A sound, half laughter, half frustration, passed her lips. "I too much like what you're doing. I want more."
He chuckled and lifted her higher. "I would gladly give all, but I canna stop kissing your breasts."
The long, heavy heat of him throbbed against her thigh, yet he continued to lavish his attention on her nipples. In pleasurable agony, she grasped his head to pull him away, and was surprised when her palms met soft fabric. She raked off the scarf and threaded her hands through the thick mass of his shoulder-length hair. Even without light, she knew it was black, same as his brows and side-whiskers.
"Unless you'd care to…" he began.
"To what?" she said.
Against her breast he answered, "Unless you'd care to whisper your secret desires in my ear."
Needing no further coaxing, she leaned close and in Scottish said, "Make me yours."
He shivered so hard she thought he might drop her.
"Please," she added.
"My pleasure." He lowered her to the makeshift pallet.
As she lay back on a bed of soft wool over bundles of dried herbs, she became aware of his every movement. Even though she couldn't see him, she could hear him kick off his boots and peel the breeches from his legs. His belt buckle rattled loudly on the stone floor.
Then he was beside her, enveloping her, devouring her with hungry kisses that fed her desire and filled her with longing. The enticing drag of his crisp body hair rubbing against her skin heightened her impatience. "So this is how the Border Lord makes love," she said, thinking of the wild disparity between reality and her girlish dreams. "You don't feel like a ghost."
"How do you know how a ghost feels?" His legs slid between hers, spreading her and saturating her imagination with visions of the joining to come. When he had settled himself to his satisfaction, he tunneled his
arms beneath her shoulders, taking his own weight and hugging her to his chest. His manhood brushed her.
"Are you truly experienced, lass? Doona lie to me."
An awful possibility occurred to her. "Do you promise not to stop?"
"Miriam," he said on a pained sigh, "I couldna stop, even if the dragoons were scaling the walls."
Relieved, she said, "I'm not ignorant of the workings of men and women." To accentuate the point, she lifted her hips, eliciting a gasp from him. "But to be exactly truthful, I haven't been… Oh, bother it. I'm still a virgin."
"In truth, lassie, I'm very happy. I'll go slow." His lips brushed her cheek. "You'll find pleasure in our loving. I give you my solemn word as a Scotsman."
Her dream knight had always spoken similar declarations. Through her fantasies, she knew about honor among men. She turned so their mouths touched. "But I want you now."
Her words so excited Duncan that he almost threw caution to the wind. He burned with the need to claim her, but the idea of deceiving her pricked his conscience. Deceiving her? Christ, from the moment he'd seen her huddled in the garden, he'd begun to play the role of cavalier. He'd even climbed the castle wall.
If she ever learned his true identity, she'd be angry, but worse, she'd be hurt. Wounding the bright diplomat didn't bother him. Harming the untried woman did. He told a small truth. "In a moment you may regret your eagerness, but 'tis said the pain goes quickly."
Her hands traced his nose, his brow, and his cheeks. Her palms would be stained with lampblack. With her loving gestures she had inadvertently stripped him of every vestige of his disguise. Later he would wipe her hands with his shirt and hope for the best.
"I trust you," she said.
Her honesty stopped him. He'd never bargained for her trust. Or had he? As Duncan, he needed her to believe in him, but the Border Lord required no such allegiance. Or did he? One identity bled into the other. Confusion and passion warred within him.
The movement of her breasts against his chest and her softly spoken, "Please… I want you," ended his emotional battle.
With a shaking hand, he guided himself into her and felt a moment's regret. But then his thoughts scattered and her maidenhead beckoned. Lust caught him in its grasp. Exerting gentle and constant pressure, he broke through her veil of innocence.
She didn't cry out, but spoke the name Ian in a heavenly soft whisper. Still, the quick heaving of her breasts and the feel of her teeth gently scoring his shoulder told him he'd hurt her. Bridling his own raging passion, he reverted to Scottish, and murmured every lovers' phrase he knew. Between promises and pledges and the quelling of his own need, he managed to soothe her. To keep his own lust in check, he let his mind wander.
The mantle of the Border Lord had never been heavier, and of late, Duncan found himself wondering which man he was. Now more than ever, he simply wanted to be a man ruling his kingdom and raising his son.
She felt small beneath him, her narrow hips a perfect cradle, her slender legs a soft frame for his larger form. But he couldn't forget her other admirable qualities—her intelligence, her independence, and her loyalty to a country that, more often than not, relegated women to the kitchen or the marriage bed.
Suddenly he was proud to be the first lover of a woman who had risen to glory in a profession reserved for men.
The man who captured Miriam MacDonald's heart would be a lucky bastard indeed. She'd bear sons to stand at the right hand of kings. She'd bear daughters to stand at the left hand of kings. Sadly, Duncan Armstrong Kerr would not be that man.
"What are you thinking?"
He almost laughed at the irony of her question, but she wouldn't understand his response, and the last thing he wanted right now was to alienate Miriam MacDonald. "I was thinking that being inside you is so pleasurable a thing 'twould drive a sane man to madness."
He felt the curve of her lips against his cheek. With a smile in her voice, she said, "I thought you wanted an experienced woman."
"You're different," he said, and realized it was true. Never before had God made a woman like Miriam MacDonald. "And you doona qualify anymore."
She moved against him. "You kept your word, my gallant knight. You didn't hurt me."
"Good. For now I intend to pleasure you royally."
"Tell me what to do."
Primed and eager, he surged forward, burying himself completely. His breath caught. Her sweetness surrounded him, clutching him in a velvet vise of excruciating pleasure. So great was the urge to give himself up to the passion, he had to squeeze his eyes shut and grind his teeth.
Long moments later, when he'd mastered his control, he said, "Bend your knees, and do what your body tells you."
She proved an apt and inventive pupil, and when the strain of near completion again threatened to overpower him, he felt her stiffen. Hidden feminine muscles contracted, squeezing him, enticing him to spill his seed. He did, and as the heavenly spasms began, he wondered how he'd ever let her go.
He awoke to the news that she was gone.
Shaking off the cobwebs of sleep, Duncan bounded from his own bed. "If this is your idea of a jest, Angus, 'tis not funny."
Wearing a breastplate, leather breeches and boots, his gauntlets tucked under an arm, Angus stepped back. "I'd love to claim I had a part in her leaving, but 'twas none of my doing. When the news reached me, I was in the old tilt yard testing that new lad from Lanarkshire. Here." He tossed Duncan a sealed parchment. "She left you a note."
Miriam was gone. The morning after he'd made love to her. Duncan didn't know whether to charge after her, drag her back by her hair, or rejoice and bid her fare-thee-well. But she'd said her good-byes hours ago to the Border Lord. He'd led her down the tower stairs and to the door outside the lesser hall. Drunk on passion and physically exhausted, he'd made his way to his chamber, stripped off his clothes, and slept the sleep of the dead.
"What time is it?"
"Almost nine o'clock, my lord."
Duncan pried off the seal and stared at the words she'd written.
I have gone to Baron Sinclair. Should the need arise, you may reach me and Lady Alexis there.
Need? Sweet Saint Ninian. He needed to strangle her. He needed to lock her in that tower room. He crumpled the paper and threw it in the hearth.
The chill of morning brought gooseflesh to Duncan's naked skin. Inside, however, he burned with rage, for the taste of her lingered on his lips, her essence lingered elsewhere. "How dare she leave today."
Lines of confusion scored Angus's forehead. "My lord, why are you angry? 'Tis what you wanted."
His pride in tatters, Duncan walked to the table by the hearth and snatched up a water pitcher. He drank deeply. "She canna go traipsing off without asking me."
"I think," Angus said ruefully, "she's a woman who comes and goes as she pleases."
Duncan slammed the pitcher against the mantel. With a dull crack, a spray of pottery shards rained on the hearth. "Well it doesna please me!"
"I see," Angus murmured, eyeing Duncan from head to toe. "Would you like your robe?"
Tom by conflicting emotions, Duncan started for the wardrobe and his clothes. A shard of pottery punctured his big toe. "Ouch!" Hopscotching through the debris, he hobbled to a chair.
The rumble of Angus's laughter broke the silence.
"Doona just stand there," Duncan said. "Do something."
His lips contorting to hide a smile, Angus opened the door and yelled for Mrs. Elliott to send up a bath and a maid to sweep.
Grasping the sliver with his fingernails, Duncan pulled it free. A drop of blood seeped from the wound and ran between his toes. "I doona need a bath."
"Aye, you do, my lord. You've lampblack smeared all over your face and hair, and—" He cleared his throat and stared at the beamed ceiling. "And… uh, dried blood on your lady crackers."
The memory of loving Miriam MacDonald diffused Duncan's anger. Staring at his manly parts, which indeed bore traces of her virgin blood, he w
as again reminded of the sweet feel of her beneath him, yielding. The sound of her soft cries, rejoicing. His body responded.
"I take it you didn't hurt yourself there," Angus said, his eyes squinted with worry.
Duncan leaned forward, not out of any need to shield himself from Angus, for he had nothing to hide from the man who'd been both a mentor and a friend, but suddenly he felt weary. He rolled the inch-long piece of pottery between his thumb and forefinger. "Not the kind of harm you're speaking of, but I doona think I advanced the cause any."
With the toe of his boot, Angus began nudging the broken pottery into a pile. "One thing's for sure. Being the Border Lord has given you a knack for the cavalier ways, eh?"
"'Twas the woman, Angus, not the disguise."
His eyebrows raised in surprise, Angus said, "She seduced you?"
"I canna recall for sure. It just happened." Three times, he vividly remembered. Had he driven her away with his lust? He'd been surprised himself at his ardor, but she hadn't protested or complained; she'd been as eager as he.
"What will you do now?"
"Clean my battle wounds and tend to business… until she comes back."
"She went to the baron's."
"Aye." Duncan tossed the shard into the hearth. "I expected as much, just not so soon."
"Look on the bright side," Angus said. "Sinclair'll fill her head with tales, offer her a fat bribe—"
"Twill be a mistake on his part. She wilna care to be bought."
"Then let's hope he does pull out his purse. Maybe she'll side with us."
Until now, Miriam's knowledge of the feud had involved outside events: reiving, burning, and general villainy. But now the dispute would become dangerously personal. "He'll tell her about Roxanne. He'll tell her I kidnapped Adrienne."
A look of loathing lent a feral quality to Angus's strong features. "Kidnapping," he spat. "You saved the lass from a life of shame and dishonor at the hands of the magistrate. 'Tis a pity your bonny diplomat will never learn that truth."
Exhaustion swept over Duncan. He threaded his hands through his hair. A trace of oily lampblack coated his palms. "I told her about the baron's plans for Adrienne. Miriam won't forget, and bless her memory for that."
