The Pride of Lions

by Marsha Canham

  “And?” she demanded, her own voice shrill. “Did you manage to come up with an answer?”

  He took a deep breath. “No. No answer.”

  “No answer,” she repeated in a whisper. “You just took it upon yourself to play God. You ruin my life, ruin any chance I might have had for happiness in this miserable world, and then … and then you have the arrogance to sit there and …”

  She backed slowly toward the door, her eyes blinded behind a rush of tears. “Oh, you are cruel and heartless. You bully people and use them thoughtlessly. You prey upon their weaknesses, then throw it in their faces time and again for the pleasure of your own amusement. You ridicule my feelings for Hamilton Garner because you know you are incapable of experiencing or even understanding the purity of such devotion. You are cold and empty, and I pity you, sir. You would not understand any emotion, least of all love, regardless if it stood up and slapped you in the face! Loving you would be a curse, and I would wish it on no other living soul, friend or enemy, for it would indeed be a desperate and fruitless undertaking with only heartbreak, pain, and betrayal as a reward for their effort.”

  Cameron moved. Through a film of startled tears, she saw him rise up out of the water, saw him step out of the bath and stride toward her, his body shedding moisture in sparkling sheets. She whirled and ran for the door, but he was right behind her. His hand shot out and slammed it shut, his big body crowding hers against the wall so that she had nowhere to turn, nowhere to run. She cringed against the cold stone blocks, her face buried in her hands, her entire body cowering in anticipation of his brutality.

  He stood behind her, his feet braced wide apart, his arms held rigid by his sides. She could feel the heat of his body against her back, smell the steam rising off his skin. The impact of hard male flesh was boldly impressed on her body and her mind, shocking her to the very core. And when she felt his hands close firmly around her upper arms, it was like a fork of lightning jolting along her spine. Her limbs were useless, too numb to offer any resistance as he slowly, inexorably turned her around to face him. Her belly flooded with liquid fear as she glimpsed the rage in the narrowed eyes, the unfeeling coldness in the mirthless smile.

  “So. You find me cruel and heartless, do you? Lacking any and all emotions?” His voice chilled the nape of her neck and sprayed her arms with gooseflesh. “Well, madam, it might interest you to know how absolutely correct you are in your analysis. And more, that it has taken a considerable effort over the years to achieve such a high level of impunity—impunity that does not come without its faults, I freely admit. You, on the other hand—”

  “Let me go,” she gasped, twisting her head in a wild, frantic motion that was immediately impaired by the rough pressure of his steely fingers beneath her chin.

  “You, on the other hand, admit to nothing,” he continued. “You have the body and passions of a woman, yet you flaunt them like a child. You have spirit and courage and a streak of independence as wide as the ocean, yet you persist in playing the role of a spoiled, petulant debutante without the wit to realize your every action has a consequence. I told you this afternoon, madam. I warned you in the plainest terms possible that I was tired of playing these games. I also warned you of the consequences should you choose to test me any further.”

  “Let … go of me. At once.” The shallow whisper was barely audible. Not so the deep and animal-like groan that broke from her lips when she felt him shift forward and press the threat of his body against her thighs. “No,” she gasped. “Don’t—”

  His hands cradled either side of her neck and angled her mouth up to his.

  “Y-you gave your word not to h-hurt me!”

  “I have no intention of hurting you,” he murmured. “And my promise was not to force you to do anything you did not want to do.”

  “I … I don’t want you to do this.…”

  “I don’t believe you,” he said evenly, and his lips brushed her temple. They moved slowly, willfully along the verge of her hairline, sliding down to capture the delicate pink curve of her earlobe, remaining there long enough to feel her pulse quicken beneath his hands.

  “Oh … no … please …”

  She tried to use her fists to push him away, but her hands were pinned against his chest, trapped against the powerful wall of muscle. The overwhelming presence of all that hot, sleek flesh prompted another cry, so that when his mouth began to rove again, her lips were parted and vulnerable to his assault. His hands kept her face upturned to his while his mouth held her hostage. His tongue lashed and probed with a single-minded possessiveness that produced yet another ragged cry—more of a whimper this time as she realized her fists had ceased pushing and her fingers had spread into the damp black hairs on his chest. Aware of the subtle change, Alex drew her even closer, molding his body, his mouth, to hers so that each bold thrust of his tongue evoked stunningly sharp reverberations deep in her womb. The kiss became the center of her consciousness, all she knew or felt, even as she fought the rising heat of passion—fought it, cursed it, craved it.

  “You’re a woman, Catherine. Act like one. Tell me what you want.”

  “Not this. Not like this.”

  “Exactly this,” he insisted, skimming his hands downward. “Exactly like this.”

  His fingers brushed over her breasts, his palms engulfed the tender fullness and found the nipples already peaked and straining, quivering with a need that etched itself plainly on his skin. With his mouth firmly over hers again, he began to unfasten the chaste row of ribbons over the bodice, and Catherine tried one last time to push him away. But the effort was halfhearted; there was not enough strength in her arms to deter him, not enough conviction in her hands to keep them from exploring the vast, naked planes of brawn and muscle. She had fought his power in the garden at Rosewood Hall and lost. She had fought it in Wakefield and resisted it through ten interminable days and nights of travel. It was wrong and sinful, wicked and shameless, but she could fight it no more. She wanted to feel his mouth on her flesh again. She wanted his heat. She wanted his strength.

  He pushed the cambric off her shoulders and Catherine tore her mouth free on a gasp of unholy pleasure. The blood in her veins turned to quicksilver, hot and molten; her legs were useless beneath her, and if not for the arm that knowingly curved around her waist to support her, she would surely have melted to the floor.

  Alex heard a second, shivered cry, and his black eyes flickered up to hers, but what he saw there was not enough to stop him from lowering his head and capturing the taunting sweetness of her breast. The taste had haunted him all afternoon long, the memory had prickled his tongue every time he looked at her along the dinner table, and he took her into his mouth, as much as he could hold, groaning when he felt her rake her hands into his hair and pull him even closer. Her back arched as she thrust her breasts forward for his pleasure; her fingers twisted around handfuls of his hair, bracing herself against the heat and suckling wetness.

  Reeling with the effects of this new intoxication, Catherine was barely aware of him stripping away the rest of her nightdress, chasing it down past the rounded softness of her hips. He followed it down, sinking onto his knees before her, his hands on her thighs, his thumbs stroking the golden thatch of downy curls, parting them, probing the tender pink flesh between. Catherine’s body stiffened and her lips formed a moist, rigid O, but she dared not look down, dared not conceive of the dark head bending to her again, of his mouth pressing into the juncture of her thighs, his tongue lashing and probing with the same determined boldness he had used to conquer her senses elsewhere. She wanted to cry out for him to stop, for it was an unheard-of violation, lewd and sinful … but when the pleasure gripped her, then gripped her again, she shamelessly cast all thoughts of modesty aside and pushed eagerly into each new volley of pleasure. This time, when the weakness in her knees became too much to bear alone, she slipped down beside him, her mouth searching feverishly for his, her tongue as bold and greedy to know the taste and feel
of him.

  Their bodies came together, their movements hauntingly reproduced in the shadows that danced and flickered across the walls. Catherine reveled in the heat of his limbs twining with hers, she marveled at the iron strength of his flesh, the devouring hunger of his lips as they roved everywhere, explored every sweet hollow and curve. A thousand bright shivers of expectation welcomed his hands as they spread her thighs and she felt him settle purposefully between.

  Her hands clutched the bulging muscles of his upper arms and her eyes opened wide … wider as the incredibly hard slide of flesh began to furrow inside her, stretching, pushing, impaling her as if he meant to split her in two. Her limbs tensed involuntarily, and for a long moment her passion was overshadowed with the anguish of doubt.

  Sensing her fear and suspecting the cause, Alex raked his fingers into the golden spill of her hair. He forced her to look up into his face, into eyes that no longer burned with rage or arrogance, but with an entirely new emotion, naked and raw, more utterly devastating than the awesome, desperate hunger in his body. Catherine saw it and her heart soared. She tasted it on his lips, through a kiss that was tender and honest and admitted more than any false whispers or promises. Her hands moved, smoothing down the corded muscles of his back until they settled over the poised hardness of his flanks. Her fingertips were cool and trembling, their invitation as tentative as the sob of assent on her lips as she thrust her hips upward, her eyes squeezed shut through the stab of white-hot pain.

  An instant, no more, and the pain subsided.

  An instant more and she felt him slide forward, her smothered gasp acknowledging the warm, throbbing presence that marked the end of one identity and the beginning of another.

  It was with a sense of wonder that she felt him start to move within her, for she had truly not expected more. Her hands were still molded to the iron sinews of his hips and she left them there, lightly riding the slow and deliberate thrusts that were her introduction to the moist, sensual friction of flesh on flesh. He coaxed her limbs wider and lifted them higher, and she gasped to feel him stroke even deeper. She tried to choke back the unbidden cries of pleasure each measured thrust produced, but it was impossible, and when he lowered his mouth to her breast again, the combined sensations made her arch up beneath him, again and again, meeting each plunge of his hips with an eagerness that took her breath away. A groan lifted him up on outstretched arms, and she knew she had never seen anything so beautiful as the gleaming, sculpted perfection of his body; her gaze moved lower and she saw how her hands grasped him, how her own body arched and strained to pull him closer with each bold thrust.

  Now not even the commanding power of his obsidian eyes could hold her. Her head thrashed side to side, fanning her hair in a fine-spun web beneath them. Her nails ribboned his flesh with tiny white scratches and she began to shiver, to quake uncontrollably as a mindless urgency overtook her, an urgency born of blood and fire and consuming desire. His hands were there to lift her and support her as his thrusts came harder, deeper, faster. She sobbed disbelievingly as she neared the edge of some incredible precipice, and her long slender legs twined frantically around his, fusing their bodies together as she rushed headlong over the brink of erupting passion.

  She was not aware of crying out his name, but Alex heard it. He heard it through a flood of pleasure that surged through every cord and sinew in his body, that clouded his senses to everything but the lithe, supple body shuddering violently beneath him. Each muscle, each nerve, each pulsing vein screamed for release, yet he forced himself to wait, to resist the lure of the clenching velvet sheath until the spasms grew so intense they robbed him of both reason and sanity. He plunged his hands beneath her hips and thrust himself as deep as life and breath would take him, and as one they soared beyond rapture into the stunning brilliance of ecstasy.

  Lauren Cameron pressed herself against the rough stone wall, her eyes closed, her cheeks flushed, her fists curling and uncurling as hatred seethed green and evil within her. Her feet had become rooted to the floor, her nerves singed raw as she listened to the choked cries of unimaginable joy coming from the other side of the fireroom door.

  How dare he humiliate her this way! How dare he scorn and dismiss her, then run straight into the arms of his Sassenach wife!

  Lauren had not mistaken the glances and half-smiles he had cast sidelong at her throughout dinner. She had not imagined the pressure of his thigh leaning against hers or the riveting suggestiveness in the long, tapered fingers as they stroked and caressed the curved sides of his wine goblet. These actions had been as deliberate and seductive as the knowing glimmer in his eyes each time they sought her reaction. Her reaction? She had felt naked and weak with anticipation through the better part of the meal.

  Not invite her? He had practically ravaged her right there at the dinner table. What game was he playing? What game were they both playing—he, the stalwart and untarnished husband, she, the prim and virginal bride so quick with her blushes of modesty. Yet at a moment’s notice they were sprawled on the floor, naked and grappling together like dogs in heat.

  Lauren had heard them arguing as she had been leaving Alasdair’s room. Perhaps he had been boasting about her visit, using it to rouse the yellow-haired bitch into a jealous rage. Perhaps the whole thing—the glances, the touches, the subtle innuendos throughout the evening—had been staged for that very reason.

  Lauren backed slowly away from the door, the fury darkening her eyes. No man used her like that. She was no man’s vehicle for winning the attentions of another woman … not unless she willed it to be so!

  She whirled around and descended the stone spiral with no thought or care for the sound her leather heels made on the steps. Flushed and wild-eyed, she paused at the bottom and glanced along the deserted corridor, hearing the distant strains of laughter and music. She had thrown her clothes on in haste and anger, not troubling herself with laces or bows, and she was in no mood to have to explain her dishevelment to anyone she might meet in the main wing of the house.

  Rape, she thought blackly. She could say he tried to rape her before he crossed the hall to ease his frustrations on his simpering wife.

  No. That story was only good one time. A second, similar incident would only cast further doubt on the mishap with the MacGregor boy, and if the first charge was questioned, Lochiel might begin to wonder if he had hanged an innocent man. The blame for the theft of his gold and jewels might then shift onto Lauren’s shoulders—where it rightfully belonged—and she would be lucky if she could escape with the clothes on her back!

  She felt like screaming. Her body was still throbbing, aching, burning with jealousy, and she hurried along the gloomy corridor until she came to a narrow stairwell used mainly by the servants. She fled silently down into the bowels of the castle, pausing now and then to listen for footsteps. She ran the length of the vaulted stone undercroft, and at the northernmost end of the vast storage rooms turned up a well-worn flight of steps that fed tributaries to the pantry, the kitchens, and of immediate interest to Lauren, the guardhouse.

  She went unerringly to the third door from the stairwell and tested the latch with a trembling hand. It was not locked, and taking a deep breath, she eased the door open and slipped inside. The room was small and dark, the only light coming from a high slitted window that overlooked the courtyard. It took a few moments for her eyes to adjust, and when they did she saw the shape of a cot emerge from the shadows, and on it, the outline of a male body. He was lying there, one arm folded beneath his head as a pillow, the other draped across his chest.

  “Ye should know better than tae creep up on a mon when he’s asleep. It’s that dark ye could have a dirk atween yer eyes afore they finished blinkin’.”

  Lauren’s pulse quickened, his voice evoking a rush of sweet-hot sensitivity between her thighs. “Ye werena at the party tonight, Struan MacSorley. Ye were missed.”

  “I’m pleased tae hear it. Did ye bring me ma supper, then?”

 
Her gaze was drawn to where a bold awakening was visibly and majestically reshaping the folds of the blanket. The blood flushed sluggishly into her belly, swirling there until the heat became almost unbearable.

  She lifted her hands slowly and pushed the already loosened halves of her bodice off her shoulders. “I’ve brung ye somethin’ tae suckle on, aye. If ye’re hungry.”

  The glint of his eyes followed the movement of her hands as she peeled away the layers of her outer clothing and left only the sheer wisp of silk clinging to her breasts. The dusky peaks were proudly defined, straining against the fabric with an impatience that caused the blanket to stir again. She moved to the side of the bed and reached down, casually lifting a corner of the wool, skinning it back inch by solemn inch. Her breath dried in her throat as she bared the hard, barrel-size chest, the coarse mat of red-gold hair that narrowed over the belly and exploded in a dark nest at his groin. Her eyes widened appreciatively, and she did not even notice the grin that welcomed her awed stare.

  “I’m that hungry, lass,” he growled softly, “ye’ll not know when one course ends an’ the next begins.”

  Lauren set her teeth against a fierce shiver as one of his huge, callused hands skimmed up beneath her petticoat and without preamble delved greedily into the moist nest of silky curls. She gasped and trembled against the pressure, which only invited the blunt-tipped fingers to seek a bolder intimacy. Sobbing with the instant, mind-shaking release, she crumpled slowly to her knees beside the cot, her mouth agape, her hands clutching his broad shoulders for support.

  With a deep chuckle of satisfaction, he tore the silken shield off her breasts and feasted on the voluptuous bounty, his hard body beginning to quiver with an intensity Lauren might have found amusing if not for the shattering distraction of his hands and lips. Her cries were real, her passion genuine. She gave herself willingly, eagerly to the pleasure, knowing that by morning she would be stronger for it, thinking more clearly, whereas Struan MacSorley would not be thinking at all. Not with his head, at any rate. And a man incapable of thinking clearly made mistakes, believed the unbelievable, questioned the most ingrained loyalties, abandoned the most steadfast convictions.