Bart grasped her hips and pressed her lower body to his own, suppressing a groan at the exquisite pleasure of their contact. He heard Marguerite’s breath catch, and he lowered his head, his mouth seeking hers. Her soft, cool lips ignited him.
The walls shook as the storm raged around them, but Bart took no notice. Marguerite responded to his kiss with an intensity that rivaled any storm. She opened her mouth to his sensual probing and moaned softly, sliding her hands up his chest.
Her touch made him wild for her. Her taste bewitched him. Her scent inflamed him.
Bart leaned into her, rocking against her in a pale imitation of the act he desperately craved. Marguerite moved shyly at first, but soon her body cradled his, meeting his every move as if she felt the same reckless need.
He tore his mouth from hers and groaned, then searched the dark corners of the hut for a place where he might lay her down.
’Twas a shambles. Most of it was wet; all of it was filthy. There was no intact surface anywhere, and the floor was running mud.
“Marguerite,” he whispered in agony.
She gave a soft cry as he spanned her waist and touched the undersides of her breasts with his thumbs.
“I would take you now,” he said hoarsely.
The soft, feminine sound that came from the back of her throat made him shudder. He forced himself to maintain control, to release his hold on her and put a few inches of space between them.
“Yet this hovel is no place for a man to bed a woman.”
Marguerite did not reply. She slipped out from the shelter of his cloak and covered her mouth with her fingertips. Bart turned away from her and looked out at the passing storm to keep himself from reaching for her again.
’Twas still raining, but the worst of the storm had passed them by. A murky, green-tinged light lit the forest outside, and Bart knew they would soon be able to leave.
“Tonight, my lady,” he said, turning to face Marguerite again. “You will sup in your tower room. And I will join you afterward.”
Chapter Twelve
The fire crackled and blazed in the tower room, and Rose had prepared a tub of very hot water. She left Marguerite alone to bathe.
With teeth still chattering from the cold, Marguerite lowered herself into the tub and slid down as far as the limited space would allow. In a few moments, the heated water began to warm her chilled bones. Her shivering stopped, only to be replaced by utter chaos in her heart.
She feared she was in love with Bartholomew Holton.
’Twas not just due to the effect of his kisses or the power of his touch upon her, though those were mighty persuasions. His honesty and integrity, and the compassion he did not even realize he possessed, were other factors. She admired his desire to do what was right for his siblings and for the people of Norwyck, while he still suffered the loss of his brother and the betrayal of his wife.
When he came to her chamber later—and she had no doubt that he would—she would not have the power to rebuff him. She was afraid she did not have the will to turn him away.
Whoever Alain might be, Marguerite was certain he was not her husband. It didn’t feel right. She could not imagine why he’d been on board the ship with her…unless her dreams of him drowning when their ship went down were only just that—dreams….
Rose had left her supper tray upon a nearby table, but Marguerite had no appetite for food. Her stomach was aflutter, but only because Bartholomew would soon arrive. He’d made clear his intentions, and she had no desire to thwart him.
If anything, she wanted him as badly as he wanted her.
She lay her head upon her knees and let the heat of the water surround her. The interlude in the decrepit hut had showed her how powerless she was against Bartholomew, against her growing feelings for him.
The air in the tower room shifted subtly, and Marguerite knew the door had opened. Without looking, she knew the footsteps she heard were Bartholomew’s.
She lifted her head as he crossed the room and came to her. He was dressed in a startlingly black tunic and hose. No ornamentation embellished his garb, and with his dark hair and eyes, he was as comely and alluring as ever.
“Have you eaten?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Nay, my lord.” Her voice sounded strange to her ears.
He went to the supper tray and lifted the cover from a crock, letting a fragrant steam escape. But Marguerite’s senses were entirely engaged by Bartholomew’s masculine form. She had no interest in food when ’twas he who occupied her full attention.
He took the crock and a spoon and returned to her, crouching next to the tub. He ladled a spoonful and held it to her lips. She took the bite, puzzled by his unusual demeanor.
Again he ladled a bite of the soup and held it to her mouth. Marguerite sipped the savory liquid, watching as his dark eyes became ever more shadowed. A bit of the soup dribbled, and Bartholomew leaned forward and licked it from the corner of her mouth.
A shiver ran through her and she watched the powerful muscles of his neck convulse as he swallowed hard.
Without a word, he served her another spoonful, keeping his eyes on her lips, while Marguerite watched the muscles in his jaw flex and relax. She placed her hand over his and led it to her mouth, closing her eyes and sighing with the sheer pleasure of touching him.
She heard a rasping breath escape him.
“Marguerite, you cannot know what you do to me,” he said huskily.
She looked up at him. “But I can, my lord,” she said. “For you have the same effect on me.”
He set the crock on the table and unfolded a linen drying cloth. “Stand,” he said.
Marguerite hesitated. To be fully naked with him was forbidden, yet exciting. She looked up at him, as he held the cloth before him. The chamber was in shadows but for the fire on the hearth, and was now comfortably warm.
She stood.
“God’s breath,” he muttered, and Marguerite saw him shudder.
She stepped out of the tub and into his waiting arms. He wrapped her in the cloth, and when she tipped her head to one side, he kissed her neck, sending rivers of pleasure through her body.
Her arms were trapped at her sides by the cloth, and Bartholomew did naught to release her. Instead he touched his tongue to her skin where he had just kissed her. He moved his lips toward her ear, touching, tasting, caressing her sensitive skin. She felt his hot breath, heard his heated groan.
His hands began to move, stroking her bare shoulders and the sensitive skin at her nape. Slowly sliding downward, his fingers touched her through the cloth. Her nipples beaded and her head fell against his chest, and she wished her hands were free so that she could touch him, too.
“You are so soft,” he whispered. “So enticing.”
He rubbed her skin now, drying her with the cloth, then baring her body an inch at a time. Soon her arms were free, and the cloth was loosely draped about her hips. She ran her hands up the lush velvet of his tunic and untied the laces that held it together.
Marguerite did not know if she had ever seen a man’s naked chest before, but she was certain that none could rival Bartholomew’s. A dark mat of silky hair swirled across it, nearly hiding the brown disks that pebbled with her touch. Marguerite pressed her lips to his breastbone, then moved across the broad expanse to touch her tongue to each of his nipples.
He groaned and grabbed the hem of the tunic, yanking it over his head. His body seemed even larger now, unclothed. The planes of his chest were well defined, sculpted from solid muscle. His shoulders were broad and his arms brawny. Marguerite could not deny herself the pleasure of touching him as intimately as he had touched her.
She traced the firm contours of his arms, then ran her fingers down the rippled surface of his abdomen, aware that he held his breath as she did so. ’Twas a heady thing to have such a powerful effect on him, and Marguerite intended to take full advantage.
She lowered her mouth to him again, pressing hot kisses along a line f
rom the center of his chest to his navel.
“Sweet heaven,” he rasped. He took hold of her arms and pulled her up. His mouth came down hard upon hers and his tongue forced its way between her lips.
Entirely compliant, Marguerite raised herself onto her toes and met his kiss, welcoming the invasion of his tongue and pressing her breasts into his chest. Her senses could not have been more filled with him.
Moving quickly, he surprised her by lifting her into his arms. He carried her to the bed and set her on her feet beside it, letting the drying cloth fall to the floor. Removing the combs from her hair, he pressed kisses to her jaw below her ear. “You were made for a man’s pleasure, Marguerite.”
She was fully naked now, but the heat from his body warmed her. She pressed her fingertips into his lower back, tugging him closer, not for warmth, but for the exquisite sensations caused by his hard flesh against her breasts.
If she were made for a man’s pleasure, then certainly he had been made for a woman’s, though she would never say such a thing aloud.
He spread her hair out over her shoulders and touched his lips to hers once again. “Kiss me,” he said.
Marguerite took the lead this time, teasing him with her tongue, nipping his lips, feathering her fingers across the bare skin of his back. She felt him work at his belt, loosening his hose and braes, pushing them down his legs.
He eased her onto the bed, lowering himself over her, twining his legs with hers.
“Open for me,” he whispered, pressing kisses to her throat, then to each breast, and on the wildly sensitive skin of her belly. He grasped her hands, raised his head and looked at her then, spearing her with the sensual promise of his gaze.
Marguerite could not imagine sharing this intimacy with any other man. Not with Alain, or anyone but Bartholomew. He alone had the power to entice her, tantalize her.
He dipped his head again and Marguerite’s breath caught in her throat. If she’d been warm before, she was burning now. Pleasure flared with his touch, and every muscle fiber in her body tightened exquisitely. She rocked against him, desperate to ease the savage hunger that drove every move.
Intense waves of pleasure shuddered through her, shattering the tension, making her cry out with abandon.
Bartholomew moved quickly, and before Marguerite’s cries turned to whimpers, he covered her with his body and positioned himself at the most intimate part of her. He took possession of her mouth, and in one beguiling stroke, sheathed himself within her.
Holding himself still for a moment, he searched her eyes, clearly astonished by the barrier he’d breached.
Marguerite was stunned by the force of emotions that struck her. She could not speak, but tipped her hips slightly, increasing the strangely pleasurable pressure within. Bartholomew made a low sound in his throat and began to move again, withdrawing only to plunge again.
Tension built as he quickened the rhythm, and Marguerite felt close to shattering again. She could not tear her eyes from his as she wrapped her legs around his hips and forced an even greater contact between them.
Suddenly, she squeezed her eyes closed as the powerful sensations overtook her again. Bartholomew’s body contracted once, then again, and he gave a guttural cry of release.
For several long moments, they remained still, as their breathing returned to normal, their hearts slowed. Then Bartholomew raised himself up on his arms and hovered over her.
Marguerite’s heart swelled with love. Their physical joining could not have touched her more deeply. Somehow, he’d slipped as easily into her soul as he had her body. She touched his face with her fingers, tentatively drawing a line from his cheek to his mouth.
Bartholomew kissed her palm and Marguerite thought her heart would stop.
She could not imagine loving anyone more. No matter what she eventually remembered of her past, she would never leave Norwyck. She could not bear to be separated from Bartholomew.
She gave a last shudder of delight as he withdrew from her and lay by her side, pulling her with him. He said naught, but his eyes held an expression that Marguerite had never seen before. It was intense, luminous.
Savoring the moment in silence, she tucked her head under his chin and slid her foot along his leg. His body jerked with the stimulation, and he drew her close so that she could not repeat the action.
Her heart swelled with the knowledge that he would have no reason to mistrust her now. No two people could share such passion and still lie to one another. He would surely know if she tried to deceive him.
“You might have mentioned your virginal state.”
Marguerite’s heart lodged in her throat and her breath left her. He still believed she knew more than she’d told him. His opinion of her had not changed in the least.
Bart felt her go still. He knew his mean remark demonstrated a continued lack of trust, but he was not about to believe in Marguerite’s honesty merely because she’d sacrificed her virginity to him. His own wife had done the very same thing with the consummation of their marriage—and all the while, her heart had been engaged by Dùghlas Armstrong.
Yet Marguerite had been truly innocent in her lovemaking. Her response to his touch bore no resemblance to the way Felicia had reacted.
Marguerite pushed herself out of his embrace and sat up, holding the linen sheeting over her nakedness. She reached down to the floor, picked up the drying cloth and pulled it around herself as she left the bed.
“You…” Her voice trembled, and he watched as the muscles in her throat contorted in a hard swallow. “I…realize that you were most grievously betrayed, my lord,” she said, staring with moist eyes at a place somewhere beyond Bart’s shoulder.
She clutched the damp linen to her, unaware that it only covered her breasts. Her body remained mostly exposed, and she dabbed absently at a trickle of moisture that ran down her leg. The linen was stained red when she took it away, but she did not notice.
Bart felt as if he’d been kicked. Or worse, as if he’d kicked her.
“Upon my soul, I have not come here to betray you, or…” Her face seemed to crumple like a discarded piece of parchment, and one tear ran down her cheek. “Or bring any h-harm to Norwyck…”
Some foolish and naive part of him demanded he believe in her. His rational side refused to be deceived again. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood. “Marguerite,” he said. “What differences we have need not interfere with…this.”
A crease appeared between Marguerite’s brows.
Using two fingers, he lifted her chin and looked into her wary eyes. “You enjoy my touch,” he said, letting his hand drift down to her throat. “As I enjoy yours.” He lifted one of her hands and placed it upon his chest, suppressing a shudder when she whimpered.
He tipped his head down and brushed her mouth with his own. Hearing her sharp intake of breath, he gave her a soft kiss that became increasingly more demanding. He wanted her desperately. Even though he’d spent himself just moments ago, he needed her again. He pierced the seam of her lips with his tongue and felt her welcome him into the hot gloss of her mouth.
His arms went ’round her waist and he pulled her against his naked body, his arousal cradled by her feminine softness.
“I want you, Marguerite,” he murmured, guiding her back to the bed. “You are mine.”
Chapter Thirteen
A large, florid face with pale blue eyes scowled at her. The man’s pate was nearly bald, though a few strands of greasy red hair stood on end upon it. Tiny red veins tracked his bulbous nose. “Ye’ll hie yer arse to Scotland as yer da ordered ye—”
“Non!”
“Aye, Mairi Armstrong,” the man bellowed. He raised one beefy hand and slapped her. “Ye will. And ye’ll be wedded and bedded the day after ye arrive. To me!”
Marguerite cried out and sat up in her bed, confused and appalled.
She was fully nude and damp with perspiration. Her heart thudded within her chest and her breathing was labored. Sw
allowing a lump of dread, she turned and saw that she was alone in the bed. Bartholomew was gone.
She recognized the man in her dream. He was Carmag MacEwen. Her betrothed.
Marguerite—no, she was Mairi—buried her face in her hands as the memories returned. Carmag had come to her in France months before, to the home of Caitir and her husband, Alain. Carmag had intended to escort Mairi to Scotland for their wedding. At the time, Alain had managed to put him off, but only temporarily.
With dread and despair in her heart, she had eventually set out from the home she shared with her cousin, Caitir, and boarded a ship bound for Scotland, the land she had not seen in years. Alain had accompanied her.
Alain! Caitir’s beloved husband had drowned.
Mairi’s eyes filled with tears. Nausea assailed her. Alain was dead, Caitir widowed. And their children were fatherless now. All because he’d sailed to Scotland with her and been caught in a storm.
Regret raged through her. If only she’d gone with Carmag when he’d first come for her, then Alain would not have had to escort her to her father’s stronghold in Scotland. He would still be at home with his wife and children in their sunny little cottage, rather than lying at the bottom of the sea.
Mairi wiped the moisture from her eyes and dragged herself from the bed. She felt different—nay, not just different, but drastically changed—not only because of the memories that flooded her mind now, but by the intense lovemaking she’d shared with Bartholomew all through the night. What she felt for him was beyond description, though it could not have been clearer that he did not share her feelings.
To Bartholomew, Mairi was merely a receptacle for his lust.
She dropped down next to the trunk that held her borrowed clothes. She had no choice but to go to her father immediately—to his stronghold, Braemar Keep. She would have to face Lachann, and her brother, Dùghlas, knowing that her kin had used the lowest, vilest means possible to wage war against their enemy, Bartholomew Holton.
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