“Good.” He rested his palms on her rounded cheeks. She nearly cried out again, just from that simple touch.
“Spread your legs wide, mo chridhe.”
Pressing her cheek into the bed, she did, propping her bottom up high, exposing the cleft between her cheeks. He pulled her cheeks wider apart, giving him a clearer view of her most private parts. She gasped.
“Dinna be shy.”
If Aileen could remember how to laugh, she might have at that moment. She was far, far beyond shyness.
He trailed his fingers down her cleft. Using her juices, he painted small circles over the tender flesh of her inner lips until she angled her pelvis toward him in silent demand.
He hovered over her, and she finally felt the rock-hard ridge of his shaft against her bottom.
“Don’t hold back. Please don’t.” She twisted below him, trying to line herself up with him, trying to coax him inside. “Please.”
“I need this,” he said in a harsh whisper in her ear. “I need you. All of you.”
“Then take me.”
His cock found the notch of her sex, and in one smooth motion, he drove all the way in.
Every muscle in Aileen’s body went rigid. Bolts of energy streaked under her skin, starting at the clenching walls of her channel and fanning outward, igniting every nerve into a roaring flame. She let out a gasping, heaving breath as the flames consumed her, devouring all rational thought.
When awareness returned, she was shaking from her crown to the tips of her toes. The white-hot flames had dwindled to a tingling smolder in her blood, and Niall’s cock stroked her slick passage. His chest was pressed to her back, their sweat making their bodies slide together.
I love you. I love you. I love you.
Was he saying it aloud or thinking it? Or had she imagined it? The words reverberated in her mind as his cock seemed to grow impossibly big within her and his body closed in around her, sheltering her ever more tightly.
“Mo chridhe,” he whispered, and she heard a desperate edge in his voice. “Mine.”
“Aye.” She pushed her arse into his belly, gasping at the resulting depth of his next thrust. “Yours.”
He pushed her legs together and straddled her from behind. Impossibly, his cock seemed to reach farther than it ever had, its length caressing her womb so deeply she could feel him inside beyond her navel, and then every inch as he stroked to her outer lips. It was the most beautiful, stimulating, delicious sensation she’d ever experienced.
She pushed her arm beneath her, squeezing the flat of her hand between her body and the bed, and felt her stomach undulate as Niall filled her with each long thrust.
He trembled all over, and inside her body, Aileen felt him grow even larger. She met each drive, and they became deeper, richer, more poignant and meaningful. She was brimming with him. He touched her everywhere. He would fill her. He would never let her go.
His cock stroked deep within her, and suddenly all was still and silent, suspended in time. All of her senses focused on the feel of him inside her, over her, between her legs. Then, with a harsh groan, he released himself inside her, flooding her with his seed. Hot and musky, it washed into her womb as he shuddered all around her.
He lay over her afterward, half on the bed, half on top of her, his naked skin pressed against her body from top to bottom.
There was no longer any need for words, for pleas, for explanations or plans. Aileen knew that nothing mattered now beyond the two of them. Their love, their need for each other, would overcome all obstacles. With him still inside her, she fell asleep, finally at peace.
She awoke much later. Night had descended, and her chamber was dark. She reached out for Niall, but her arms found only emptiness.
He had gone.
Chapter Eleven
Niall had left her.
Days passed. The snow melted, a thick, wintery fog descended over Ellandonan castle, and Aileen saw everything through dulled eyes. During their last encounter and before she fell asleep, she’d been so certain that Niall would stay, that he would fight for her. But no, he valued his oath of fealty to the laird over her love.
She couldn’t hate him for that as much as she would have liked. She understood his sense of duty, and she respected the value he placed on his honor. If he didn’t possess those traits, she wouldn’t have given her heart to him to begin with.
But as much as she prized her own honor and virtue, she despised playing the martyr. And she hated that her and Niall’s mutual regard to their duty had forced her into this position. From the day he’d left, feelings of betrayal and loss flavored every minute.
Surely Niall had never been acquainted with Gilbert Dunbar. If he had, would he have left her? He’d promised never to allow anyone to harm her again, and yet, here she was, soon to be at this man’s mercy.
Aileen scarcely saw her brother except at meals, and whenever she was in his proximity, he refused to meet her eyes. She wondered whether he ignored her out of guilt or whether her own weak behavior at their last meeting had disgusted him.
Ultimately, from the moment Walter had died, she had known this would happen—had known in her heart that Gilbert would be the one to win her. Niall had been the fleeting joy in the midst of the raw truth of her existence. She had been rash and presumptuous to ever imagine it could have lasted.
She walked across her chamber, which, like the rest of Ellandonan, was plain and free of holiday decoration. John wasn’t willing to risk making an enemy of the church by flouting its rules.
Aileen opened the window and leaned out into the cool morning air. The smell of damp Highland soil wafted up from below. Normally the smell was pleasant and familiar to Aileen, but today it was cloying. The odor wafted into her nostrils, down to her stomach, where it wrapped around her belly and squeezed.
She ran to the chamber pot and heaved up the bitter contents of her stomach. Jannet rushed to her side. “Milady! Oh, milady, are you all right?”
Aileen bent over the pot, gulping giant breaths to recover.
Oh. Good Lord. It couldn’t be. Could it?
She grasped her maid’s wrist. “What day is it, Jannet?”
“’Tis the ides of December, but why—”
Aileen didn’t hear the rest of the lass’s sentence. It wasn’t even necessary to calculate. In her anxiety-ridden state, she hadn’t been paying attention. Her monthly courses were always regular, always exactly twenty-eight days apart. They hadn’t come since the first of November—just before Niall had arrived at Dornoch. Over six weeks ago.
She was with child.
Niall’s child.
Emotions slammed into her, and she sat back hard on the planked floor. First came joy. She had always wanted a son or daughter of her own—had prayed for it every time Walter had come to her bed. But this wasn’t Walter’s babe—it was Niall’s. A true child of her heart. She couldn’t have asked for a greater blessing.
All this time, Walter had punished her for being barren—the stripes on her back were the result of his frustration at her inability to conceive. But it was he who was infertile, not her.
Despite herself, Aileen smiled.
But what did this mean for her and Niall? Her brother would punish Niall for compromising her. She would be mocked as a wanton. They would both be marked as sinners, guilty against the laws of God and of their laird. The bairn himself would be marked as a bastard—shunned for the immoral nature of his conception.
The smile slipped from her face.
Aileen pressed a hand against her belly. Now her future mattered. She couldn’t let the laird, Gilbert Dunbar, or anyone else hurt her or her babe.
She dropped her hands to her sides and clenched them fiercely. Determination flooded her. She was a strong woman, a powerful woman. A woman of action.
She should not depend on a man to care for her. After all, she had survived ten years without true protection from a man—certainly she could continue to do so now.
And why
did anyone have to know this child was Niall’s?
Slowly, like the pieces of a puzzle falling into place, a plan formed in her mind.
***
“The laird has summoned you, sir.” Rufus turned from the page at the door and thrust aside the bed curtain. “He says you must come at once.”
Gilbert stretched his limbs and groaned, sore from fucking the whole night through. He wondered idly how many times he had come. Four, five, six? He couldn’t help it—he had been randy as hell ever since the ink had dried on the contract that legally made Aileen Munro his.
The whores on either side of him tittered. He had no idea why—a summons from the laird wasn’t humorous, after all.
“Out of my way.” He shoved the wench closest to Rufus off the bed so that he could get past her. That shut her up nicely.
He’d gone too deep into his cups last night. Devil’s breath, his head was splitting in two.
Clasping his skull between two hands to hold it together, he growled at Rufus, “Clean me up, then. Wouldn’t want to make the laird wait, now, would we?”
Wisely keeping his mouth shut, Rufus bathed the sex from him, shaved him, dressed him, and refreshed his breath with mint leaves, then led him down to the great hall, where Mackenzie was holding court this morning.
Gilbert straightened when he saw his bride-to-be, looking as tempting as ever with a little flush spread over her cheeks. His prick grew half hard all over again, just thinking of that sweet peach of a mouth encompassing him as he thrust himself deep down into her throat.
She stood beside the laird’s chair and didn’t meet his gaze, instead casting her eyes to the stone floor, as humble and chaste as any virtuous widow.
Except he didn’t believe she was virtuous. The way she had championed that lowly minion—there was something beyond mere admiration between them. Gilbert knew it, and it made him furious. She belonged to him.
He bowed low to Mackenzie and gave the man all the tedious expected flattery. Then, cognizant of the many eyes on him, he bowed to his betrothed and wished her good health.
After the pleasantries were finally exchanged, the laird got straight to the point. “There’s been a revelation concerning your betrothal, Dunbar. Should you wish to annul our contract upon hearing this news, I’d find some other recompense for your assistance with the arrangement I made with the Earl of Dolphinton.”
Gilbert hardly suppressed a snort. The laird must truly be a fool to believe there was any revelation on earth that would make him change his mind about possessing Aileen. He managed to control his derision, instead raising an inquiring eyebrow. “Indeed?”
“Indeed.” The laird nodded gravely. “It has come to light that my sister is with child by the late Walter Munro.”
Gilbert flicked a glance at Aileen, whose gaze remained firmly fixed on the flagstones. Her stomach was as flat as ever. Obviously she wasn’t too far along. He looked back at the laird and shrugged. “It is of no import.”
Mackenzie leaned back in his chair. “Oh, but it is, Dunbar. You made it clear to me that your heart’s desire was to possess Dornoch. But now this canna be the case. Dornoch belongs to Walter Munro’s heir.”
Gilbert swallowed a bark of laughter. “If the babe survives.”
“He’ll live,” Aileen snapped. Gilbert’s attention swung to her. Her eyes blazed at him like two glimmering purple gems.
“Is that so, Lady Aileen?”
“Aye,” she growled.
He turned back to the laird, and the words came out before he could censor them. “Are you certain this is Walter Munro’s child and not some bastard? The man died two months ago. Surely she has had time to fuck anyone she pleases. Perhaps you should question that sniveling guard she pines for.”
Silence.
Oh, bloody hell. That was quite a slip. Silence continued to reign in the room for a long-drawn-out moment. Gilbert waited for the explosion. When it came, he was ready.
He stood stone still as the laird leapt from his chair and pressed his dirk against Gilbert’s throat.
“Do you question my sister’s virtue?” Mackenzie spat.
Gilbert would have laughed if the laird weren’t crushing his windpipe. Virtue? How hypocritical. Mackenzie himself had extensive carnal tastes. He thought of the laird’s favorite mistress, a slut named Agnes, with big, floppy titties Gilbert had imagined burying his cock between on more than one occasion.
Exaggerating a choking effect, Gilbert glanced at Aileen. Hatred burned in her violet eyes.
“No,” he gasped. “No, my lord…”—gasp—“No”—gasp—“question of the lady’s virtue.”
The pressure on his throat released so quickly, he stumbled forward.
“Apologize to Lady Aileen,” Mackenzie said, his voice steel. “Now.”
Clutching his neck, Gilbert bowed toward Aileen. “I was…” He bent over coughing, embellishing the effects of the laird’s attack. “Wrong. Utterly wrong.”
Another cough.
She didn’t say a word, only stared daggers at him. He imagined she’d try to claw him apart the first time he fucked her. What fun.
He went down on one knee and bowed his head, all the while laughing inside at the perverse hilarity of this entire scenario. “I humble myself before you, my lady. I was wrong to disparage your virtue. Of course, you are in mourning and would never disgrace your late husband in such an ungodly, sinful fashion. Forgive me.”
She fumed. He imagined tendrils of smoke curling from her ears. Oh, how she despised him.
He rose and turned to the laird. “Forgive me, laird. My words were rash.”
Keeping his head bowed, Gilbert raised his eyes. Mackenzie cocked his head in acknowledgment, but Gilbert saw a new glint in those blue eyes—a glint of distrust he didn’t like. He released what he hoped sounded like a long-suffering sigh.
“Well, then. I shall raise Munro’s son as if he shared my own blood. I shall raise him to be the worthiest of masters of Dornoch. If it is a daughter, I shall raise her to be virtuous and honorable, and I shall join with you, John Mackenzie, to one day seek the worthiest man to be the husband of the heiress of Dornoch.”
The laird’s eyes widened a fraction. “Does this mean you still wish to honor our contract?”
“Of course.” Gilbert sighed again. “Dornoch is a great loss to me, certainly. But I shall take consolation in the soft, lovely flesh of my beautiful new bride.”
Aileen shuddered, and he hid his smile behind his hand as he feigned a cough. Oh, this was going to be fun.
Actually, it was better news than he could have hoped for. Aileen Munro wasn’t barren, as was widely believed. He couldn’t wait to impregnate her himself, to have a bevy of legitimate sons join his household of bastards.
And as for the babe she allegedly carried, well, it wouldn’t be a problem. Infants were so very fragile.
***
Niall rode alone. A light snow fell over his shoulders in the waning afternoon light. The reins guided his horse in a southeasterly direction, but he scarcely noticed.
He had done the right thing, the strong thing. For honor and integrity, he had sacrificed a forbidden love and walked away from their sin.
Why, then, did it feel so wrong?
In his heart, Niall knew that despite his loyalty to the laird, despite standing beside the Mackenzie through every battle of the Four Years’ War, he had done nothing for the laird compared to the feat Gilbert Dunbar had accomplished. Dunbar had bound the laird to a powerful Lowland earl. That action surely earned Dunbar the prize of Aileen and Dornoch.
That was what it boiled down to in the end. Niall didn’t deserve her.
He pulled his plaid more tightly about him. Since he had left Aileen, warmth had escaped him. From his experience traveling on this road, he knew that the next town was no more than five miles away, but at the pace he was traveling it would be well after dark by the time he reached it.
It didn’t matter.
He had sacrifice
d Aileen’s happiness for his honor. But what was honor if it emptied his soul?
Suddenly, the silvery ears of his battle-seasoned mount pricked forward. Listening intently, Niall heard it too. Faint, far off in the distance, men shouted, and then came the unmistakable sound of clanking weapons. Swords clashing.
Battle.
Niall spurred his horse. The animal was more than willing to comply, eager to join the fray.
As the sounds of battle grew louder, Niall wondered who was attacking whom, and why? Most likely it was highwaymen, assaulting some unsuspecting group of travelers.
The scene came into focus like the fog-tinged vision of a dream. It was late in the battle—only a few men still stood. A rich caravan with what appeared to be a black-lacquered covered wagon in the center stood under the steadily falling snow. A crest on its side shone gold. Fallen men, their bodies speckled with mud and blood, littered the scene. They’d fought to the death for whatever that wagon held.
Panicked horses reared against their harnesses. Screams of pain from men and animals. Bedraggled, unarmored men fighting from hacks rather than trained warhorses like his own. They would not have been accompanying such a fine conveyance. They were the enemy.
As with anyone hardened by a lifetime of violence, the transition from man to warrior happened seamlessly. With a hiss, his claymore slid from its sheath. As one, Niall and his mount threw themselves into the fight.
Mud dribbled down a fallen man’s mail shirt. Though half-hidden in the slush, the shape of the man’s jaw was familiar.
There was no time to think of that now. Gritting his teeth, Niall spurred his horse and took the first robber by surprise, slicing off his arm before the man knew what hit him. The thief fell from his horse, screaming.
Men came at him from all sides. Niall’s senses flared, perceiving everything around him—smells of blood and mud and rain, screams and shouts, the sound of the horses’ hooves, the clash of weapons. Though not as well-equipped as their prey, these thieves were competent. A club smacked his rib. Red edged his vision, but his finely tuned senses didn’t fail him. As smooth and fluid as water streaming from a bottomless goblet, Niall stabbed and sliced, dodged and parried.
A Naughty Little Christmas (Cowboys, Cops, and Kilts: 8 Seasonally Seductive Romances from Bestselling Authors) Page 38
