by Sara Bennett
He sensed her before he turned—a warm, wary presence at his back. And then he was looking into Alison Forbes’s dark eyes.
For a moment time retraced its steps. It was twelve years ago, and Alison was his woman, his future. And then the Rebellion had happened and he had gone off with Gregor and his father, and everything had changed. Changed so completely that when Gregor had lost his lands and ridden away, Malcolm Bain had gone with him as easily as if there was nothing to keep him.
How could that have happened? Why had it happened? What had changed him into a man who no longer believed he had a future at Glen Dhui with Alison? That he must flee and suffer among strangers, for the sake of his young laird? Had he done the right thing, all those years ago?
How could he know?
If he had not gone with Gregor, the lad might now be dead. If he had stayed…he and Alison might have ended up fighting like cat and dog. How could anyone truly read the future, although Alison tried? Malcolm Bain had never paid much heed to her gift—he believed a man made his own future.
The words came from his mouth without conscious thought, his pain turned into sound. “Why didn’t ye tell me I had a son?”
Alison’s dark eyes flashed, and the famous Forbes temper shone in their depths. “Because ye left me.”
“I had no choice!”
“Ye did have a choice, Malcolm. But it wasna even that…. It was the way ye left me, without a backward glance. Why should I have told ye, after that? I was on my own and ye made certain I knew it.”
“If ye had told me—”
“What? Ye never would have gone? I dinna want ye to stay because ye thought ye should!”
“I have a son!”
“Alison!” Duncan stepped warily between them. It was only then that Alison realized, from the silence about them, that they were now the center of attention for some twenty or so guests. Luckily, outside that circle, the noise and joviality went on. She had meant to stay away from Malcolm Bain tonight, not to spoil Lady Meg’s wedding day with her own problems.
“I am sorry,” she said, to no one in particular, and walked away.
Duncan glared at Malcolm Bain. “See what ye’ve done,” he hissed. “Stay away from her, ye bastard.”
“I’ll do what I think is right, Duncan, now will ye leave me alone!”
And he too turned, and walked away.
The fiddler struck up, the drummer close behind. Their lively music thrummed through the room, until all feet were tapping and all hands clapping. Gregor led his bride into a dance, her hands in his, her silken skirts brushing his kilt. Her eyes were sparkling and her cheeks were pink, for she had already danced many times, with many men.
Major Litchfield had taken a turn, smiling like a besotted fool, while Gregor had watched. He had been conversing with another of the guests, trying not to let the sight of his wife and the major concern him, but the jealousy had simmered inside. Gregor had imagined he was hiding it well, until the guest he was conversing with suddenly stopped talking and gave him a very uneasy glance.
Had there really been murder in his eyes? Gregor hoped not. He was not a jealous man—not normally—but something about Meg made him want to grab hold of her and never let her go.
Now the fiddler quickened his pace, his fingers flying, and Gregor spun Meg around and around. Her head fell back and she laughed. He spun her again and she laughed again, her eyes shining, her hair bouncing about her in a cascade of flame curls. Suddenly it didn’t matter what had been before this moment. The music, the dance was to be enjoyed for its own sake. And Gregor meant to enjoy it.
He pulled her forward into his arms, feeling the sway of her slender but curvaceous body, the scent of her skin in his nostrils, the soft brush of her hair as she turned her head.
The moment was as heady as Cragan Dhui whiskey. He was home, back in the place he loved above all others. He was home, and Meg had made that possible.
Now he wanted to move on to the next part of this special night. He wanted to make Meg his wife in truth.
“It grows late,” Gregor said softly, and knew by the sudden tension in her that she understood exactly what he meant.
Meg couldn’t stop her eyes from flying to his. She wondered if he saw the anxiety in them, and the doubt. He must have, for his mouth curved into what was meant to be a comforting smile.
“They are expecting us to leave very soon,” he went on. “They are waiting, Meg.”
Meg glanced about her. Half of their guests had nodded off, the priest among them, but the other half were watching them closely, alert, and waiting for the happy couple to retire. The general was slumped in his chair, while beside him Major Litchfield’s eyes were rather glazed from claret and good food. Gregor was right, it was time to face the ribald remarks, along with the laughter and good wishes.
With a quick nod, Meg assented.
Gregor slipped his arm about her waist, his hand resting naturally on her hip. “Are you ready then?” he asked her, as if he wanted to be absolutely sure.
Was she ready? Meg shivered with apprehension, and something else that curled in her belly and quickened her breath. His hand on her hip burned; no man had ever touched her there, so familiarly, so possessively. Meg had never lain with a man before, and yet she wanted to, if it was Gregor. She wanted Gregor. It was the truth, and she had told herself that day at Loch Dhui that she would admit the truth to herself, even if she told no one else.
“I’m ready,” she whispered.
With a brisk nod of his head, Gregor took her at her word. But for a moment longer, his golden eyes looked into hers. Meg was surprised to see, deep within them, a flicker of doubt. Was Gregor Grant uncertain, perhaps a little afraid, for all that he was a ladies’ man and a hardened soldier? And as he reached to hold her hand, Meg was surprised to feel his fingers tremble.
Just as her fingers were trembling.
Chapter 19
Candles, their flames dipping gently in the sweet breeze from the open windows, softly lit the room. It was Gregor’s room he had led her to, the big room that she supposed had once belonged to his parents. Rather ornate and formal, it had never appealed to Meg. She had always preferred the smaller bedroom, with its faded walls and larger windows and the view of Cragan Dhui.
Meg paused now on the threshold, suddenly doubtful. Perhaps, after all, she had been too quick to agree to a proper marriage to him. Perhaps she needed time to reconsider. She turned her face to his, meaning to tell him she wasn’t certain this was the right thing to do. Just as Gregor bent down and closed his mouth on hers.
Startled, Meg froze and her eyes grew big. His, she couldn’t help but notice, were closed. And he made a sound like a groan, as though the feel of her lips on his was more than he could bear. His mouth moved, sliding over hers, tasting her, enjoying her. Meg wondered whether she should pull away, or lean in closer. What was it he was feeling? What was it that had him in its hot grip?
And then the sensation reached her, too.
Heat, trickling down her spine, into her belly and in the secret place between her thighs. Abruptly she realized the bodice of her gown was too tight across her breasts, abrading her nipples. Her skin was hot, wanting to be stroked. She felt dizzy, lightheaded, and wonderfully pliant.
Naturally cautious, Meg felt the need to pull back, to take a breath. But Gregor’s mouth was warm, so warm, his lips softer than she could have imagined, and they were teasing hers. She was drowning, drowning in desire.
Lost in lust?
Meg smiled, and felt his mouth curve in response. And she knew then that she couldn’t pull back now. She was an explorer in a foreign land. A Sir Francis Drake or a Sir Walter Raleigh, setting out for unknown seas and a distant horizon. Only this exploration was one that would involve much touching and stroking, and such disturbing actions as kissing Gregor Grant’s hard, golden body and having him kiss hers….
His fingers were on the fastenings at the back of her green gown. He had turned her about, so
he stood behind her, his warm breath on her nape. He bent and kissed the soft, tender skin there, his mouth trailing down so that she shivered in delight and expectation.
“Should I call Alison to help me?” she asked, her voice husky and unfamiliar.
“I can manage,” he said, and true to his word he had soon unfastened her gown enough so that he could slip it from her shoulders and halfway down her arms.
The décolletage slid down, and he eased the sleeves further, dragging the front of the gown with them. Slowly, slowly he lowered it. Discovering, inch by inch, her rounded, ivory flesh, not quite disclosing her naked breasts to his eager gaze. His breath was uneven—she could feel his chest rising and falling—and his body hot and close against her back. Meg swallowed, and looking down, watched her own body be revealed. But instead of being embarrassed or apprehensive, she tried to see herself through his eyes.
It was difficult, for all she saw was Meg Mackintosh. Her breasts were largish, it was true, and an annoyance to her whenever she wished to ride like a man. Did he see something else in them entirely that she had been missing all these years? He seemed…spellbound.
“Gregor,” she whispered, uncertainly.
“You are so beautiful,” he breathed, astonishing her, and let go of one sleeve to rest his hand briefly on the fleshy curve of her upper breast, trailing his fingers into the shadowy niche between them. She found herself watching his hand, his fingers, on her skin. The darker color of his flesh, the scars and marks upon him that came from many years of fighting and living in the Highlands. The sight of his male skin against her white breasts was suddenly, marvelously, exciting.
Her heart beat faster.
Gregor lowered the décolletage a little more, slowly, so slowly. They were both breathing fast now. And then the green silk caught on the very tips of her breasts, giving a teasing glimpse of the darker circles around her nipples, now barely hidden from view.
“Ah, morvoren,” he said, his voice low and ragged. “Let me just…”
His fingers trembling, he freed her from the constraints of her bodice, and the cloth fell to her waist, catching on the swell of her hips. Now at last her breasts were bared to his gaze, and in wonder she let him take his fill. And watched, hardly daring to breath, as he brought his hands up beneath them and gently took them, one in each palm, until the bountiful, creamy flesh spilled over his fingers.
Meg’s head fell back against his shoulder and she gasped with a pleasure almost too much to bear. His fingers stroked, caressed, his thumbs finding her nipples and rubbing at them until Meg was squirming against him. Wanting, needing…When she could stand it no more, she turned about, facing him. Her lashes lifted on blue eyes that were dreamy and sensual.
Gregor smiled. He knew he had stirred passion in her, but there was a long way to go yet, until she was entirely his. Somehow he had to control his own passion, hold back, and let her gain the most pleasure. He bent his head and took the tip of one breast in his mouth.
Instantly the heat surrounded her aching nipple, the moist sweep of his tongue causing her to cry out. Meg reached up to find something to hold on to, just as her trembling legs gave way. She grasped his shoulders, and then his hair, her fingers tangling in the silky length, drawing him even closer.
He placed one last kiss upon her breast, and then turned to the other one, giving it the same treatment. Meg moaned deep in her throat. The heat was gathering in her belly and her chest, and between her legs. She didn’t know if she could take much more without her body shattering with pleasure. In desperation, she forced his head up, kissing his chin, his jaw, the corner of his mouth, before he reached to still her frantic movements, a hand either side of her face.
As if he understood completely how she was feeling, Gregor smiled down at her. But it wasn’t a gentle smile. His handsome face was hard, his eyes glittered. He looked as if he wanted to devour her whole. She might have been afraid of what she saw then, in his expression, if she had not wanted above all things to be devoured.
His mouth closed on hers, opening her lips with his, and she felt his tongue. The sensation was new and strange, but she bided her time, allowing him to guide her. Soon she was playing with his tongue, using her own to follow and explore. Her breasts were pressed to his chest, the buttons on his jacket slightly painful, and he had slid his hands over the bare flesh of her back and shoulders, down to the curve of her bottom. Cupping her through her gown, he pressed her urgently against his body. And she felt the hard length of his desire.
For the first time since he had drawn her into his room, Meg’s dreamy state threatened to unravel. She knew what that hard rod was, she knew what it meant, and she knew where it was made to go. Suddenly, she was less than keen that he use it on her.
As if sensing her change of heart, Gregor shifted her in his arms, bringing a hand up to her breasts, fondling them until she was once more gasping and pliant in his arms. She slid her own arms about his neck, once again using his strength to support her weakened legs. And then, before she could do more than squeak in protest, he was lifting her, holding her to his chest, and in two long strides had reached the bed and placed her upon it.
Meg found herself sinking into the feather ticking, her hair in her eyes, her gown still caught about her hips and hampering her movements. She struggled up onto her elbows, complaining, only to stop when she realized that Gregor was hastily disrobing. He had already removed his jacket and was now pulling the fine linen shirt over his head and tossing it aside.
Suddenly the memory of him, by the loch near Shona’s cottage, returned to her. His body, half naked, in the cold dawn. She had stood upon the shore, spellbound, her fingers itching to touch him, to tame him. And yet she had not dared; she had told herself it would not be proper. Well, now she could touch him as much as she wished.
If she were brave enough.
His kilt fell to the floor, and, naked, he came toward her. He was just the same as he had been, when he dragged himself wounded from his bed at the Clashennic Inn—not that she had dared more than a glance or two! But he was different, too, for then he had been weak and shaking with fever, barely able to stand. Now he was fit and strong, a man in his prime. And he was aroused. Oh, yes, he was very aroused indeed.
Meg swallowed nervously as she ran her eye over the great length of him. He was surely far too large for a normal man? How could he possibly put…how could she…
“It will not fit,” Meg told him with characteristic bluntness.
Gregor’s eyes narrowed and he gave her a slow, entirely wicked smile. “Would you place a wager on that, lass?” he asked her gently.
Meg chewed her lip, her eyes still fixed on that part of him. She seemed completely unable to drag her gaze away. “I don’t want to place a wager, and I certainly don’t want—”
“There will be pleasure in it,” he interrupted roughly. “For us both.”
“I have heard that it can be painful for the woman,” Meg blurted out. “I have heard stories.”
He was her husband; he could force her if he wished, and no one would dare question him. How could she have forgotten that small fact?
There was a silence, apart from the beating of Meg’s heart, as she held herself ready to flee. Or fight.
“Sweet Meg,” he whispered.
Now she did look at him, and saw such tenderness and understanding in his eyes that her own filled with tears.
He went on in that same enticing voice, and Meg felt her fear begin to ease. “I willna hurt you beyond a wee bit, morvoren. That I swear. I will be slow, so slow, and when it is time for us to join, you will want me to. You will beg me to, my Meg.”
She watched him approach her, not relaxing as he rested one knee upon the mattress right beside her. With an eye on that part of him that appeared to have grown even bigger—[ ]or maybe she was just closer to it—Meg shrank back as he leaned over her. But he ignored her fear, and began to remove the gown from her, tugging it carefully over the soft curve of her bel
ly, down to her thighs. He murmured something in Gaelic, as his eyes swept over the curls of auburn hair at the juncture of her thighs, and then he slipped the gown all the way off.
She wore her good silk stockings, that came to above her knees. With great care, he rolled them down, and as he did, he kissed her skin, from her knees right down to the curved arch of each foot.
Meg watched him, caught between wonder and suspicion, wriggling a little as his hair tickled her skin. She reached out her hand, smoothing it over the muscle of his shoulder, feeling it bunch as he moved. He didn’t stop her. Growing bolder, she ran her fingertips down his arm, testing the firm flesh there, seeing whether she could close her hand about his muscular upper arm. She could not. He was strong and hard, and just as fascinating as she had always thought him.
He was kissing her belly, now; hot open-mouthed kisses that made her squirm. His tongue trailed lazily through her damp curls, down to the cleft that seemed to open of its own accord at his touch. She should stop him, Meg supposed distractedly, for now he was tracing the fleshy folds between her thighs, as if he had all the time in the world.
“Gregor,” she said, “I feel silly like this.”
“Do you?” he asked, and began to suck at her, pulling and nibbling, and after that Meg couldn’t say any more. She couldn’t do anything much at all, because she had gone still.
Very still.
She felt as if something was pending, a great wave of pleasure building, driving at her. Meg gasped and shuddered as his wicked tongue found a particularly pleasurable spot, but before he could do any good, he had moved on again, lazily kissing her inner thighs, reaching up with his hand to tweak at her aching breasts.
Playing with her.
The great wave of pleasure smoothed out, almost went away. Was this all there was to it? Meg asked herself in frustration. And then Gregor found the spot again, sucking hotly now with his mouth, and suddenly she was bucking beneath him, keening and pleading. Meg heard her own voice, and even as she wondered at herself, she knew she could not help it. He had stripped her caution and control from her as easily as her green silk gown.
