Christ Almighty, they both were.
He pulled his head away and stared down at her flushed face—her eyes closed, her lips parted as the breath blasted through her teeth in ragged gasps. His hand on her breast had pulled her arisaid to the side, and most of her soft flesh was exposed—high, pink, round. He swept his thumb across her areola to uncover her nipple, and his mouth watered as he stared at it.
He wanted it on his tongue, the hard nub red and tight. He wanted his tongue on her other nub too. Nuzzle it. Lick it.
He could pull her skirt up now and she’d let him, he was sure of it. He could push his fingers, his cock, into her wet center, and she’d explode all over him, her breasts bouncing, her screams of release matching his guttural groans as he pumped into her against the door.
He’d never felt this needy before, this desperate for a woman—even when he’d been young.
He looked at the bed. He could lay her down, kiss and lick his way down her body, push his tongue inside her. He wanted to taste her so badly, to feel her opening pulse on his lips.
But that other part of him, the part he couldn’t ignore, was yelling at him to slow down, to pull them both back from the edge. They’d burned up too hot, too fast for any rational thought to intervene, and she’d have naught but regrets afterward.
She might never forgive him for her own wanton feelings. May never allow it to happen again. And he knew one time would never be enough. He wanted more. Much more.
She had a different attitude toward men than most young women, and she knew herbs to stop his seed from taking root. Maybe she would want to be with him on a regular basis.
He’d never had a leman in his own clan before, but once things were safe for the MacPhersons, he would set up a strong leader here and only visit on occasion. Visit her. She hadn’t grown up with him, he didn’t know her father or mother, so it wouldn’t be the same as taking a leman in the MacKay clan.
And marriage, for him, was out of the question. Maybe he’d been scarred by his mother, but he never wanted to take a wife. He would pass the lairdship to a MacKay warrior he’d trained and trusted. Someone who could continue in his footsteps when the time came.
He shifted her dress back in place and raised his hands to cup her head, rested their foreheads together as he took a deep breath. She protested at first, rubbing against him, but he moved his aching body back just enough so they weren’t pressed so tightly together.
“Amber, breathe with me, sweetling. We need to…calm ourselves.” His voice sounded strangled and his heart still thundered in his chest. “Believe me, I want to continue, but we canna. Not yet. ’Tis verra tempting, lass, but I doona want you angry at me afterward.”
She stilled, and he knew he’d finally gotten though the haze of desire that likely clouded her mind the way it did his. She lifted her hands and pushed him back a step until his arms dropped. Keeping her head down, she stepped to the side and straightened her clothes.
Lachlan almost groaned at the loss of her warmth. Her heat. Had he made a mistake? Aye, by the set of her shoulders, most likely. An uneasiness settled in his stomach. But if he wanted her for his leman, even for a short time, he had to play the long game—which he knew how to do. He’d hunted Machar Murray for five years, and he’d keep going until he caught him.
Amber MacPherson wouldn’t be nearly as hard to catch.
“’Tis for both our sakes. It doesn’t mean I didn’t want to continue. I wanted naught more than to join with you, to feel your heat, believe me, but we can hold off till later.”
Her hands stopped moving and clenched over her stomach. “I give you my thanks, Laird MacKay. I doona know what came o’er me.”
She sounded stilted and stiff. And calling him Laird MacKay? He’d never heard her use his title before and didn’t like it. Well, she’d used it once, maybe, when she pretended to be a lad. “It’s Lachlan, Amber, not Laird MacKay.” He raised a hand to her cheek, wanting to reestablish their intimacy, but she turned her head away. “And doona thank me. Next time we just need to go slower. Be prepared… I’m sure you have herbs or something for…well…bairns.”
A low sound vibrated up her throat that almost sounded like a growl, and he drew his brows together. “Amber?” he prompted her.
She flattened her hands and smoothed them down her dress as if rubbing out any wrinkles. When her head raised, her eyes were ice. “Aye, I have herbs, but trust me, Laird MacKay, we willna be using them, and there willna be a next time.”
Seven
Lachlan stood with his arms crossed over his chest, frowning at the bumbling ineptitude of the MacPherson guards. One week had passed since the attack, and while he’d made good strides on repairing the wall and the portcullis, and seeing to different safety measures around the keep—setting up vigilant patrols, blocking off the secret escape routes, and burning the scrub from around the castle, so no one could hide in it—he’d made little progress with the MacPherson warriors.
And none with Amber.
God’s truth, what did the woman want? He’d done everything he could think of to get back in her good graces—just like all the other men—right down to bringing her flowers. Except she went through the other men’s bouquets and kept any part that had medicinal qualities, discarding the rest. His bouquet she’d tossed out in its entirety.
He should have tupped her when he had the chance, good and hard. Left her screaming her release and wanting more. Or been gentle and drawn out the loving, so when she finally released, it was like naught she’d ever experienced, and she’d want more.
But, nay. He’d stopped.
Idiot.
“You’re making them nervous with your scowls,” Callum said from beside him. “They did much better this morning when you weren’t here to intimidate them.”
He grunted, about the most vocal he’d been in the last week. Unless he’d been trying to talk to Amber, that was. Then his words had come tripping over his tongue as he tried to corner her, tried to reason with her.
Callum sighed, an exasperated sound that Lachlan was sure had been accompanied by an eye roll. He refused to look over to find out.
“Quit mooning o’er some lass and help rebuild your new clan. The warriors deserve your support and full attention.”
“I’m watching them,” he said.
“Nay, you’re not. You’re thinking about the next thing you can do to get Amber’s attention. You have to let her go, Lachlan. You tried and you failed. Besides, you should be thinking about ways to use her as bait for Murray, not how to get under her skirts.”
“You doona understand. I was this close.” He held out his thumb and index finger a wee bit apart, then felt guilty for having admitted even that to Callum, which again made no sense—the brothers had always talked to each other about their lovers.
But nothing about his feelings for Amber made sense.
He blew out a frustrated breath. “I chose to take the high road. I thought she would thank me for stopping and want to continue with me later when it was safe. She thanked me, all right, and she’s barely spoken two words to me since. Even when I question her about Adaira’s recovery, all she’ll give are minimal answers, even if she’s been teasing Adaira just minutes before.”
“You sound like you’re in love with her.”
Lachlan rounded on him, shock lifting his brow. “Nay! ’Tis naught like that. I just…”
“You just want to be with her all the time, make love to her all the time. You said Darach was the same when he met Caitlin. If it’s not love, then it’s obsession—like Machar Murray.”
The heat of anger rose on his chest. “Doona compare me to Machar Murray.”
“Then doona act like him. Catch the bastard so the MacPhersons and Amber are safe, then let’s go home. Use Amber as bait.” He tapped his finger on his upper lip, thinking. “If you were Machar Murray—”
“Just pretend. Murray stayed here for Amber, knowing the risk. He tried to kill her, aye, but hate and love are two sides of the same coin—”
“I am not in love wi—”
“Good. Then this should be easy for you. What one thing would bother you more than anything about Amber? Something she could do—if you were in love with her. Which you’re not, of course.”
He knew what it was immediately, but he didn’t want to say it. When Callum raised his brow, Lachlan grumbled, “Take another lover.”
“Aye, and if that lover is you—the man Murray hates more than any other—he would try to kill both of you. Or maybe just kill you and abduct Amber, so he could hurt her afterward. Or abduct both of you so he could hurt her in front of you before killing—”
“Stop! I understand your meaning.”
It was a good plan, but he was torn. How could he knowingly put Amber in that kind of danger? And how could he not, when ’twas the best plan they had to capture or kill Murray, leaving everyone else safe? And getting justice for his brother, of course.
And if he spent his nights with her, alone with her, he’d have her right where he wanted. An intimate setting in close proximity to a bed. He could talk to her, reason with her.
Seduce her.
“It couldnae be at the castle. He’d need access to us in order to try anything,” Lachlan said.
“Aye. We could find an isolated place, let it slip—maybe through Father Odhran—that it’s your wee love nest.”
“Doona use those words with her when you suggest it.”
“Me? Why canna you tell her? You’re her laird.”
He scowled again. Not liking the reminder that Amber refused to call him Lachlan anymore. “She’ll take it better coming from you, but I’ll be there.” He rubbed his hand over his neck and blew out a worried breath. “I doona want any others with us in the cottage, but we’ll need watchers.”
“Aye.”
He drummed his fingers on his sword’s pommel. “Callum, we’re putting her life at risk. If he captures her, he’ll—”
“I know what he’ll do, Lachlan, and worse. We willna let that happen. We’ll protect her.”
Lachlan turned back to the MacPherson men, saw them sneaking worried glances at him, and knew what Callum had said about his demeanor was true. He’d brought down their morale, and they’d had enough of that with Machar Murray.
He forced a smile and reassuring nod. Many of the men returned the smile, their shoulders straightening, their grips tightening on their weapons. They renewed their training with vigor. Aye, he’d make warriors out of them yet.
“Let’s walk the wall then visit the barracks,” he said to Callum. If these men were feeling down because of his sour face and attitude, he’d bet the others were too.
He made sure to slap several guards on the back and say encouraging words as he and Callum made their way to the main gate. They inspected the new portcullis, declared the work excellent, then walked up the stairs to the walkway on top of the curtain wall. Repairs were underway on much of the stonework, and it was already significantly improved.
The gate faced north toward the village on the shores of the loch, a distant mountain range to the west. Lachlan and Callum had hidden in the brush to the east over a week ago, and to the south was more forest.
They’d made their way about a third of the way around the wall, stopping to talk to the guards and craftsmen they passed, when Lachlan spotted someone walking away from the castle to the northwest. Although he couldn’t be sure because of the distance, it looked like a woman with short, orangey-gold hair.
He squinted. Surely it wasn’t Amber? His stomach tightened and he swore. If it was her, where the hell were her guards?
Callum leaned on the wall beside him and peered out. “Is that Amber?”
“Exactly what I was wondering.”
A warrior next to them followed their gazes. “Aye, ’tis her.” He pointed toward the tree line in the distance. “Her cottage is over there. You can just see the thatched roof.”
“She doesn’t live in the village?” Lachlan’s voice had risen, and his heart began to race.
“Nay, her family has been on their farm for as long as I can remember. I think her grandfather built it for her grandmother when they first married. ’Twas even more isolated then.”
The pulse pounded in Lachlan’s temple now, and he clenched his jaw to keep from yelling. “Would Machar Murray know this?”
The man looked nervously between the two lairds, sensing the tension even through their outward calm. “Aye, everyone does.”
Lachlan leaned out over the parapet to look at the outside wall. It was too far a drop to make without injury or death, and all the wee crevices he could have used as handholds to climb down had been filled in.
“I need rope,” he said, barely able to get the words past his tight jaw.
“You’re not going that way,” Callum said. “You’ll be exposed. And horses will be quicker.”
He was right, but Lachlan didn’t want Amber out of his sight for even a second. He turned to the guard. “Where are the nearest stairs?” He couldn’t stop himself from yelling this time, fear for Amber a lead ball in his gut.
“Just around that corner.” The man pointed to where the wall curved around an outpost.
Lachlan and Callum took off at a run toward it. Lachlan whistled sharply as he hit the stairs, alerting his men to be prepared and have his horse ready.
God’s blood! She could be heading straight to her death. Where the hell were her guards?
“What’s the matter?” the warrior called after them. “Is Amber in danger? Is Machar Murray still out there?”
Aye. And maybe waiting for her in her cottage.
* * *
Amber pushed open the door to her home. The worn wood, warm from the summer sun, felt familiar against her hands, the squeak of the hinges just right to her ears, and the smell, a cacophony of scents from her herb and vegetable gardens inside and outside the cottage, just like her grandmother. She stepped over the threshold and looked around with a smile.
’Twas good to be home, especially as she thought for a while that she’d never see it again.
Ian and his younger sister, Breanna, had checked on the place and tended the gardens and animals while she’d been at the castle, so it didn’t smell stale, and the herbs weren’t overgrown. They’d done a good job with everything.
She would have come back sooner, but Earc had ended up sicker than she’d anticipated and needed round-the-clock care, as did Adaira, who had developed an infection in her wound, which wasn’t unexpected but still worrisome.
The lass was awake now and talking up a storm, still trying to decide whether to forgive Amber for tricking her.
The worst had been trying to avoid Lachlan, who kept wanting to talk to her about…about… Gah! She didn’t even know what to call it. A kiss, aye, but so much more than that. Until him, her experience of kisses—of any kind of physical intimacy—had always been her trying to avoid it. Sometimes with force.
Her carnal pleasure had only ever come from her own fingers—which some might call a sin, but she called the perfect way to fall asleep after a stressful day.
Not that she’d wanted to fall asleep since their…kiss. She spent all day trying not to think about Lachlan, only to spend all night dreaming about him, leaving her wet and wanting—and she refused to touch herself while thinking about him again. Which left her a mass of repressed urges.
To make it worse, she felt his eyes on her wherever she went, reminding her of what they’d done. Not that she felt they’d done anything sinful, as Father Odhran would say, but the notion that Lachlan wanted to tup her and not marry her had hurt. Which was confusing, because the last thing she wanted
was to get married.
Still, she didn’t like that he considered her good enough to tup on a regular basis, using her knowledge of herbs to avoid having bairns, but not good enough to marry.
Idiot man.
Nay, laird. He was her laird, and she’d best remember that…idiot laird.
She moved across the freshly swept, hard-packed dirt floor toward the shutters latched over the kitchen window, and opened them wide. Bright, midmorning sunlight poured in over her potted herbs on the sill as well as the counters and cupboards stacked full of pottery, medicinal tools, and ingredients. In the center of the kitchen sat a large table with several high-backed chairs around it. Her favorite had been her father’s chair and her grandfather’s before that. A cushion her mother had made still sat on the seat, worn from use but patched and restuffed on a regular basis.
A hearth took up one wall, and several pots hung above it: one for cooking food, a few others for brewing her medicinal teas and broths.
Three comfortable chairs sat around the hearth, not used as much since her father and then her grandmother died, although she often had visitors in the evening—friends as well as those in need of healing. Sometimes they stayed over, and she had a bed in a nook off the kitchen for them that had been hers when she was a child.
She slept there some nights, instead of the bigger bed in the corner, when she was feeling particularly scared or lonely. And she’d been scared often since her father had been killed. Scared even more when her grandmother had died, but she’d lifted her chin and continued in her grandmother’s fashion, pretending to be a witch to keep Murray away from her. But she’d known it was only a matter of time, and if he were to come for her, she’d feared it would be at night.
But then Lachlan came. And Callum and the rest of the MacKays and MacLeans. And she knew she’d survive, even if Lachlan drove her a wee bit daft.
She sighed and moved past the foot of the bed, her grandmother’s colorful quilt laying on top. She pushed open the shutters on another window, and a black, feathered missile darted through the window at her face. She shrieked and threw her arms up around her head as it cawed at her. It beat its wings before flying across the room to settle on the back of her father’s chair.
Highland Conquest Page 10
