by Sara Bennett
“Do ye want me, Meg? Will I take ye now?” His voice was harsh, a command rather than a question.
She opened her eyes—she had not realized she had closed them—and found him above her. His body was resting over hers, not quite touching, for he held himself away, but near enough to feel the waves of heat pouring off him. Meg shivered, and her gaze slid over his broad chest with its covering of dark hair, down to his hard belly and narrow hips. To the part of him that seemed to have a life of its own. As she looked, he pressed a knee between her thighs, opening them, and lowered himself between them, where she still throbbed from his mouth.
It felt a little strange, but pleasant enough. Still, she could not expect him to lie like this all night. He would want to do other things.
“I am still uncertain,” she told him.
“Och, Meg, you’re never uncertain about anything,” he retorted, kissing her cheek, tiny, hot kisses that ran down her jaw to her throat. Between her thighs, she felt his erection jutting against her soft, swollen flesh, rubbing against her very like his hand and tongue had done, only different.
She found herself concentrating on that friction, losing herself, even moving against him a little, enjoying the sensation. Until he groaned and took a ragged breath, his shoulders shaking slightly with laughter. “Oh God, Meg, ye’ll be the death of me,” he said. He lifted his head and looked down at her, his amber eyes aglitter with passion and heat, and something very like pleading.
“I’m only a man,” he reminded her. “Let me take ye, Meg. I am burning up.”
She eyed him uneasily, but then he moved against her, the head of his rod finding her moist cleft and sliding a little way in. The sensation was not…unpleasant, oh, not at all. And when he groaned again, moving on her, his big body sliding against hers so that all his hairy bits abraded her soft skin, it was rather nice.
“Just be careful,” she told him breathlessly.
He laughed as if he, too, was finding it difficult to catch his breath. His mouth came down on hers, tasting of her, and his kiss was as thorough and insistent as he was in all the things he did. His rod slid deeper, finding resistance, and out again. Her hips urged him forward, her mouth clung to his. She was so hot and damp and ready, it was easy when he gave one hard thrust and broke through the thin veil that kept her virginity intact.
Meg arched and gasped, feeling the tearing like a burn, a stinging inside her. And then he was kissing her face, gentle kisses, apologetic kisses, hushing her with Gaelic words that she didn’t understand and yet which soothed her to stillness again. His fingers were busy caressing her, and he sucked at her nipples, causing her breasts to ache all over again. But all the while, between her legs, he was still. Waiting. Patient. When at last he lifted his head again to look into her eyes, he must have seen that she was afire with need, for he smiled, slowly and with a certain male smugness.
“Ye want me now, Meg Mackintosh.” It wasn’t a question.
Still watching her, still reading her eyes, he thrust his hips and slid deep inside her. It didn’t hurt now, only that he was so big and she felt stretched, but even that wasn’t unpleasant. Straightaway he withdrew, only to sink into her again, filling her, stretching her, causing little tingles and quivers throughout every inch of her body. She slid her arms about him, holding him close, her hips lifting against him so that he slid deeper inside her still. That felt nice. That made him groan. He reached down to cup her hips in his big hands, adjusting her, tilting her, so that when next he thrust into her he was brushing against that spot. That special, achy spot.
Now it was Meg who groaned. She felt the wave catch her, suddenly, unawares. It rolled her, out of control, while her body clenched and grasped upon his, and she tossed her head from side to side upon the mattress. And then he had opened her legs wider, moving hard against her, driving himself deeper and deeper as her body welcomed him in. Into her very core, and there he spilled his seed.
Tremors ran through her, lessening as the pleasure wave receded. Her breath gradually slowed, and her heartbeat returned to normal. Lazily, Meg opened her eyes, becoming aware that she was lying on her side, pressed along the length of him. Both of them were quite bare, without even a quilt to cover them, but it didn’t seem to matter.
He was tracing her smooth skin, running his callused fingers down into the slender dip of her waist, before climbing the curve of her hip. Then back again, over and over, as if he could never get enough of the feel of her. She liked the sensation of his hand on her, the sense of being his. Not owned by him—never that, for Meg was not the sort of woman who could be owned by any man. But being by his side, a part of him, his other half.
As Meg ran a proprietary gaze over him, she noticed that his rod was standing to attention again. Did she dare? Could she be so bold with a man who was near enough to a stranger? But this was Gregor Grant, and just now she dared anything.
With a little smile, Meg sat up, her bright, curling hair cascading about her. Surprised, Gregor leaned on his elbow, his movements fluid and easy.
“I thought you were asleep,” he said, eyeing her carefully.
Did he think she might run screaming? Meg had no intention of going anywhere.
“I am awake, Gregor,” she said, “and now it is my turn.”
His eyes narrowed as if he doubted his hearing. “Your turn?”
“That’s right. The wife is allowed to take a turn, isn’t she?”
He understood, and he wasn’t laughing at her. In fact he looked as if he was about to swoon. “Aye, Meg,” he said in a husky, breathless voice, “the wife is allowed to take a turn.”
Taking her time, Meg leaned over him, and began to taste his skin, swirling her tongue over his chest and the rough hairs that covered it. She decided he tasted of man, and of her, and she liked it very well. By the time she had worked her way down over his belly, exploring him with her fingers and her mouth, he was shaking beneath her like a tree in a gale.
That was good, and it served him right after what he had done to her, but she had yet to reach the most important part. The most interesting and fascinating part.
“Now,” she said, eyeing his rod. “I wonder. Maybe if I were to…” Her tongue licked delicately along the length of him. He cursed and bucked beneath her. “Interesting,” she murmured. “What if I were to put my mouth over—”
He caught her up and tossed her ungently onto her back. With a gasp, Meg found herself pinned beneath a savage Highlander, his glittering amber eyes fixed on hers.
“You are tormenting me, Meg.”
“No,” she laughed, “truly I am not. I am…I am curious, I suppose. I have never had a man in my bed before, Gregor. There is much for me to learn about you. I don’t want to waste a moment.”
“We have all our lives to learn about each other,” he reminded her quietly.
Meg wished she could believe him, but she feared that, even if Abercauldy did not destroy them, Gregor would eventually tire of her and find someone else. Someone prettier and more interesting. No, much as she wanted to trust him, she knew he was wrong. Their time together was short and precious, and therefore she meant to make the most of it.
“Gregor, let me just—”
“Och, Meg,” he groaned, and bent to ply his mouth on hers, kissing her until she’d forgotten what it was she had meant to do. Then he slid gently inside her, carefully, making sure she was not hurting from the last time. But Meg was not hurting, apart from a desperate ache to have him back inside her. She arched beneath him, seeking to have more of him, but he held back, smiling at her frustration.
“You are cruel,” she gasped, as he stooped to suckle on her breasts.
“Aye, verra, verra cruel.”
He moved suddenly, pushing inside her deeply, then further again, resting there. Meg’s lips parted as she gasped, and with trembling fingers she stroked his cheek. “You were right, Gregor. You’ve made me want you. Is it always so?”
“Like this, do ye mean? No, lassie. Yo
u and I have something rare; our bodies fit together verra well. Never take it for granted.” He turned his head to capture her fingers, kissing them, sucking them.
Meg watched his mouth avidly, knowing that the reason she felt like this was simple. She wanted Gregor Grant. It was Gregor Grant who made her feel as if she was on fire, as if she never wanted him to stop.
Pleasure swept through her as he drove deep again, and she cried out and clutched at him. He thrust with a measured, controlled motion, building her pleasure, and in such a way, he brought her to another shuddering, breathless release. And then his control slipped and his breathing grew ragged, and Gregor found his own wave.
Glen Dhui Castle was still at last. Gregor felt it close about him like a mother’s arms—though not his mother, it had to be said—sheltering him, holding him safe, just as it always had when he was a wee lad. Such things were an illusion, he knew that now. A house could not keep him safe. He was not safe. But despite his loss of innocence, the sensation was worth savoring.
Meg lay pliant, asleep in his arms, her soft curves pressed to his hard lines. She had turned over, so that her back was spooned into his chest, and his arm was wrapped tight about her, beneath her full breasts. Her hair tickled his nose, the sweet scent of it filling his head. Her soft bottom was pressed enticingly against his groin, her long thighs resting against his more muscular ones.
He could not get enough of her.
It was a fact.
He had taken her twice now, and still he wanted her. Despite the fact that she had been a virgin and he must have hurt her. Gregor was not a man who hurt women—but he knew he’d have to have her again, soon. It was like a force of nature, a storm or a drought. There was no stopping it.
This insatiable need was not something he was used to. A woman was a woman, or so he had always thought. When Gregor was lucky enough to have one in his bed, they made love, they sated themselves with each other, and then they parted. He did not hunger after his partners like this, as if he were starving and without any hope of a meal!
He remembered now the way in which she had licked her delicate tongue over his skin, down over his belly to his cock. He hadn’t believed she would do it; he’d hoped she would, but he hadn’t really believed…but she had. Oh God, the feel of her tongue on him—he almost groaned aloud at the memory.
Who would have thought his bossy wife would use her sharp tongue to such effect? Or those luscious pink lips?
Gregor nuzzled against her, breathing in the scent of her, trying not to sneeze when her hair made his nose twitch. She stirred a little, wriggling closer against him, causing his cock to harden even more, nudging against her bottom.
How long before Abercauldy came? As soon as that creature Lorenzo was released, he would ride for home and spill his poison into the duke’s ear. Unless Lorenzo doesn’t go home. Gregor mentally shook his head. That would be murder, and Gregor was not a man who would stick a knife in another’s back. He preferred to face his enemies and look into their eyes. And then if he had to kill them, the fight was fair and equal.
Meg murmured in her dreams, as if his grim thoughts had disturbed her sweet slumber. He drew her closer still, delicately circling one nipple with his thumb. It perked up instantly, the dark rose flesh begging for the attention of his mouth. Gregor had known his bride was sensual—he had known it since the morning at Shona’s cottage—but he had not imagined she would be so quick to find pleasure in their marriage bed. Apart from her initial, natural caution, she had been eager to learn, and partake in what he could give her.
He would like to draw her.
The urge to draw came upon him at times—a tingling sense of anticipation when he discovered something that inspired him. It had been rare enough these days, and when did he have time to sketch the scenery or the faces about him? But now Gregor longed to capture the tilt of Meg’s chin, the fall of her hair, the sweep of her lashes over those brilliant eyes. And her lips, lush and full, their sensuality disguised by that straight line she ordered them into.
Aye, he must capture all that.
“You are not asleep, Gregor Grant.”
Her accusing tone surprised him from his thoughts, and he raised himself a little to look down on her. She was smiling, her mouth reddened from his kisses, a flush along her cheekbones, her eyes dark beneath their shielding lashes, and with violet shadows beneath from weariness.
He should let her be—Gregor knew it, but he also knew that he could not.
He wanted her. And once Lorenzo was freed, who knew how much longer they would have to enjoy such delights?
Meg cuddled closer to him. “I am so glad I decided not to be a wife in name only,” she sighed.
Gregor stared at her, and then he began to laugh. “Och, Meg, so am I!”
Chapter 20
“My lady?”
Meg opened her eyes. It was morning and the room was still and quiet, as it should have been. Except that someone else was in it with her; someone else’s breathing sounded by her side. She knew if she were to turn her head, then she would see Gregor Grant, his hair unbound, his strong, handsome face relaxed in sleep.
Her husband, her man, her lover, her love…
“My lady?” Alison was standing by the bed, peering anxiously into her face.
Her love?
Meg blinked, feeling disorientated and different. Not just in her body, which was stiff and sore in places she hadn’t known she had—as she realized when she tried to sit up—[ ]but different, too, in her mind and her heart. She felt a sense of foreboding. Something fundamental had changed within her, as if her eyes had gone brown overnight, but she did not as yet understand quite what it was.
“Alison?”
“’Tis Major Litchfield, my lady. He is to leave this morning and he has expressed a wish to say good-bye to ye. He says he is going to Ireland with his regiment, and he willna be back, mabbe ever.” Alison’s dark eyes were big at the thought of such a journey.
Major Litchfield was leaving, and saying good-bye was the least she could do, and yet…Almost reluctantly, but without the will to stop herself, Meg turned her head, and looked down at the man by her side.
He lay on his back, one arm flung above his head, the other curled over his stomach. The beard shadow on his cheek was dark, as dark as his eyebrows and his lashes. His lips were slightly apart, relaxed, the lines on his face smoothed out by sleep. He looked young, but innocent? There was nothing innocent in the breadth of his chest and shoulders, the swell of muscle in his upper arms, and the dark hair that furred his golden skin.
Meg felt her breath grow faster, shallower, as she remembered the night that had been. Her wedding night. He had done things, they had done things she had never imagined enjoying with any man. He had made her feel desire and passion; she could taste them still. Her fingers twitched to stroke him, her lips burned to kiss him, and to her amazed consternation she felt her body already preparing itself for his.
The sheer strength of her feelings frightened her.
When before had she ever contemplated, even for a moment, putting her own pleasure before her duty?
That was when Meg realized just how changed she was. And he had changed her. When he had taken her body with his, he had done much more than mark her flesh with his own. While he kissed her and touched her, he had reached into her chest. And taken her heart into his keeping.
Meg closed her eyes briefly, holding her breath, and clutched the knowledge to herself. Perhaps if she kept it secret, inside herself, then she could prevent it from affecting her.
He had taken her heart. He had turned lust into love. Meg loved a man who did not love her, a man she was not even sure she completely trusted. All her life she had been fighting against loving any man who would not feel the same for her. And she had lost.
From somewhere she found her voice, surprised that despite the turmoil inside her, it sounded quite normal.
“Very well, Alison, thank you. I will be down in a little while. Be
sure the major breaks his fast—he has a long ride ahead of him.”
“I’ll leave your robe here, my lady.” Alison gave Meg a knowing little smile, and closed the door softly behind her.
Reluctantly, stiffly, Meg climbed out of bed. There were marks on her body to go with the aches, and finding her robe, she covered herself so that she would not have to think about them. It was not safe here, in this room, with him. Her love swelled in her chest, wanting to escape: She felt as if she might blurt out her feelings to him. The thought made her cringe. What if she told him she loved him, and he looked at her in puzzlement, or amusement, or worst of all, with pity? She would curl up and die. No, it was better if she got dressed immediately and escaped this room of sweet, hot memories. After last night, she just didn’t trust herself to be sensible….
His strong arms came around her, squeezing just hard enough to make her catch her breath, and bringing her inexorably back against his chest. Meg thought she would actually melt as his warm breath stirred her hair.
“Where are you going, lady wife?” his teasing voice was deep and husky with sleep. He sounded nothing like the taciturn Captain Grant, or the self-contained man she had come to know on their journey from Clashennic.
“Major Litchfield is leaving and I must say farewell—”
“Och, why canna the man sleep late this once?”
His grumble made Meg smile despite herself. Now that was more like Captain Grant! She turned her head so that she could look up at him, and lifted a slim eyebrow. “Major Litchfield has work to do, as I do. And you, Captain Grant.”
“They’ll not expect us down till noon.”
“I never sleep until noon,” she said flatly.
“Sleep? Who spoke of sleep?”
He kissed her cheek, nuzzling against her, and then he turned her to face him. Meg’s breasts were pressed to his chest, her nipples already tightening in anticipation. He knew it, too, because his mouth curved against her lips. He was arrogant, but she conceded that he had a right to be.
