Somehow she was clinging to him now, her fingers clutching the voluminous folds of his cloak, her body bent backward and supported by his arm behind her waist. His dark hair tickled the bare skin of her throat, smelling of wind and fresh air, a masculine fragrance that filled her nostrils. He pulled her hips against him; his belt buckle pressed into the soft swell of her belly, sharp and hard through the thin wool. The muscles in his arm flexed behind her, and his hand spread over her buttocks, fingers digging into her soft skin. He was bent over her like a dark hawk, the winged folds of his cloak enclosing them, his body a lean pressure against her willing softness.
A trembling moan filled the air, vibrating between them, a wordless plea and surrender suspended in time and mind and memory. Catherine felt herself falling, her body being cradled in strong arms and a great dark veil being pulled down, blotting out everything but the beautiful, scarred face above her, the fierce gray eyes and hard intensity that seared her to the soul. She was lost, and she felt a liberating, swooping joy in it.…
9
He burned for her. Agony, to cradle her supple body in his arms and not take her; torture, to deny himself the release he craved by plumbing her depths until they were both satiated with it.
But he had given his oath.
Ah, Christ have mercy, he had sworn to deliver her to the earl unspoiled, and by all that was holy, he could not risk Jamie’s life by yielding to the clamoring demands of his body. Not now. Not when success was yet a possibility.
He throbbed with urgency, his body tight with arousal to the point of pain. And she was willing … he had seen it in her eyes when she looked up at him from before the hearth, had seen her trembling lips and tightened nipples against the thin wool gown, seen surrender and confusion and need, and he had known before she did that she would yield. It had undone him.
From the beginning, he had recognized his desire for her but rejected it because he had no other option. To yield to it would make him no better than the earl, promising one thing while doing another. What he had not expected was this sudden, complete capitulation from her. It had been much easier when she feared and hated him, made it simple to keep his own hunger at bay.
Now the barriers were gone, her defenses giving way to this heated surrender that left him dangerously susceptible.
The muscles in his belly tightened. So beautiful, this fair English flower, tousled and still damp from her bath, gleaming skin rosy in the firelight, her small, perfect breasts impudent and teasing.
If he had any control, he would leave now, before his body outvoted his mind. But he knew, even before the thought faded, that he was going to stay, to hold her, to touch her and ease the need that thundered through him like a storm.
Lifting her, he carried her the short distance to the narrow cot against the wall and lowered her gently to the mattress. The fresh fragrance of heather surrounded them as he knelt beside her. She was staring up at him now, her eyes hazy beneath half-lowered lashes.
“Close your eyes, catkin,” he murmured, and smiled a little when she wordlessly obeyed. Fine time for her to become pliant. Now, when she was in danger of being deflowered by the enemy, she should be fighting him tooth and claw.
And, oddly, he found himself curiously at a loss. Kissing her had been impulsive, a temporary yielding to the need she’d provoked in him. Now that she was acquiescent, he felt strangely reluctant. Insanity, to continue, and torture to stop. But he had gone too far.…
He unfastened the clasp at his throat and shed his cloak, letting it fall to the floor beside the bed. Raking a hand through his hair, he gazed down at her, at the gentle rise and fall of her breasts with each breath she took, her flushed skin and parted lips … bending, he kissed her on the mouth, teasing her lower lip with his teeth until he heard her breath quicken.
When his own breath came in harsh pants, he sat back to regain control, a little rueful at how easily his restraint weakened with this fair maid. Her eyes were still closed, dark brown lashes shadowing her cheeks. Delicate eyebrows like graceful wings puckered slightly as he traced the sculptured line of her mouth with his fingers, the elegant curve of her cheek and jaw, and the arch of her throat. His hand moved lower, fingers dipping into the hollow of her collarbone. A small pulse beat there, rapid as the flutter of a frightened bird.
His body throbbed. He knew he was going to regret this, knew that he would suffer for it, yet he wanted her with a ferocity that shocked him. Nothing would ease the hard ache in him but the feel of her closing around him, the deliriously tight bliss of plunging his body into hers and hearing her soft moans in his ear.
When her tongue came out to wet her mouth in a quick slide over the exquisite tumble of her lower lip, heat exploded in his belly. His fingers paused on her damp skin, his large, brown hand a vivid contrast against her white softness.
He unlaced his leather jerkin and unbuckled his belt, tossing them atop his cloak. His white linen sherte followed, and cool air filtered over his heated skin as he leaned over her. He took her hand and pressed her palm against the bare muscles on his chest, watching her lashes flutter at the contact. Slowly, he dragged her splayed fingers down the length of his torso in a light, erotic glide. The fire in his belly burned higher and hotter when he reached his waist and the band of his trews. Her hand was cool and quivering against him. He tightened his grip, and with his other hand, untied the cord that held his trews closed. Her long lashes flickered again, and he watched, fascinated, as the tip of her tongue swept over her lips.
“Open your eyes now, catkin.”
His hoarse murmur pried open her eyes, and she peered at him from beneath her lashes. Color mounted in her cheeks and her hand jerked as if to pull away. He held it tight.
“I will not hurt you, pretty kitten. Lie still for me.” On his knees with his legs spread over hers, he held her gaze as he tugged at his trews. The fabric fell silently away, and he released his clasp on her wrist when she snatched her hand back. He did not move, but waited. His chest hurt. His breath was constricted and tight. And he throbbed with a fierce need.
She was so small, so delicate and fragile, as innocent and naive as a newborn lamb when all around her was so harsh. It was amazing that such a creature had been produced by a man like Warfield. He would have expected someone more like Devlin, bristling with hard edges and words, hatred and animosity running unrelentingly deep.
A shudder ran through him when she reached out again, her touch tentative and light, a butterfly brush of her fingertips against his taut belly. Virginal curiosity glittered in her eyes, untutored passion making them shine. She had no idea what she did, or what to do. He tensed, but did not move as she began to lightly explore him, stroking over the tight bands of muscle on his belly with fluttering caresses that made the blood converge between his thighs. He swallowed a groan each time the back of her hand grazed the rough, bulging fabric that barely covered his rampant sex.
When he could stand it no longer, he caught her hand and held it tightly, pressing it against his stomach.
“’Tis my turn again, catkin.”
His voice sounded all wrong, hoarse and agitated instead of calm. He took another deep breath.
“I want to look at you, sweet maid.”
She did not answer, but lay still as he began to untie the laces binding her leather girdle. He felt clumsy instead of certain, silently cursing his awkwardness as he tugged the stubborn laces free. The wool gown was easier, slipping over her head in a single twist. He sat back on his heels and sucked in his breath at the sight of her lying in the nest of her unbound hair, the red-gold mass spread beneath her naked body in a silken cape.
A feast for the eyes, a veritable banquet for his senses, the sight and smell and feel of her, the delicious hunger that was exquisitely painful and magnificent at the same time, it was all he could do not to spread her legs and plunge inside her, bury himself hilt deep in her body and ease his hunger. He felt his control slipping, and reined it in tightly.
&nbs
p; Bending, he spread his fingers and cradled her jaw in his palm, holding her gently as he kissed the ivory skin above the edge of his open hand. Her warm breath fluttered against his cheek. He moved to her mouth, coaxing open her lips with his tongue to explore lightly at first, then with deepening thrusts that mimicked the sex act, the friction of his tongue against hers an erotic torment. A low moan vibrated in her throat, and he left off kissing her to catch his breath.
He stretched out beside her, one leg bent half over her thighs in a fight weight. Resting on his angled elbow, he watched her as his fingers began to ply her flesh in soft, teasing strokes. She shivered when he caught her nipple between his thumb and finger, and he smiled wickedly and leaned to kiss her again. Still kissing her, he moved his hand to her other breast, tugging with light fingers at the beaded rosette. She moved restlessly, her body shuddering and her hips arching a little in awkward entreaty. Untried, unlearned in passion, yet her body was eager, trembling and striving against him.
He closed his eyes and thought of his first time, so long ago now, yet vivid in his memory. Sweet patience and gentle instruction had eased him from novice to skillful lover in time, and he had been ever grateful to the pretty kitchen maid who had ushered him into manhood. Her generosity had elevated the act from mindless coupling to a sharing of more than bodies, an introduction to sex most men did not get.
Catherine twisted beneath his ministering hand, then gasped softly when he moved his fingers lower, walking them lightly over the flat expanse of her stomach to the pale red and gold curls at the juncture of her thighs. He raised his head, watching her through narrowed eyes as he plucked softly at the silken threads on her mound. She quivered, and a crimson color rose in her cheeks.
“I do not think I—”
“Shh, catkin.” He bent to kiss her again, pressing tiny kisses around her lips until she quieted. Her body was moving under the relentless caress of his fingers, her hips twisting in an enticing blend of invitation and denial that was all the more arousing. He slid his hand lower and smothered a groan at the deliciously soft, slick skin in the cleft between her thighs. Moving his hand in circular strokes, he gently pushed her legs slightly apart. Her muffled cry was swallowed by his mouth over hers, and he kissed her fiercely now, an unrelenting pressure and piercing sweetness that drove him closer to the edge.
Madness to touch her like this, the temptation to default on his sworn oath an ever-present lure. But he was no green youth unable to marshal his lust, and he could keep to the letter of his pledge while yet satisfying them both. It was a fine line between honor and disgrace, and a true test of his resolve.
He broke off the kiss, breathing in short, harsh pants. Curse her, why must she have yielded … why had she stood as she had, with the firelight behind her silhouetting her supple curves, the tight knot of her nipples an open invitation, and her eyes wide and hungry … inevitable, this driving need to take her, to fill the aching desire in her eyes and body. And inevitable, too, the disastrous results if he should lose the shaky vestige of control he still claimed.
He might have stopped then as reason intruded into the haze of lust that drove him, but with a little female whimper that was so lovely and so erotic, she arched her hips upward into the pressure of his hand between her legs. The white skin of her breasts and throat was flushed with abandon, her thighs quivering with strain as her heels dug into the wool blankets spread over the mattress.
Slipping his hand lower, he delved into the tight, hot recess, his fingers sliding on feminine moisture as he explored innocent flesh. Ah, God, she was so tight, so alluring, her movements so artless and utterly female, and he forgot for the moment everything but the compelling need that drove them both.
Covering her breast with his mouth, he tugged at the nipple with fierce suction, rolling it with his tongue as she clutched at him with both hands, her fingers tangling in his hair to hold his head, her slim hips driving upward against the stroking pressure of his hand. His fingers slid deeper inside her, until he encountered the intact feminine barrier against intrusion. The proof of her virginity ignited a ferocious desire to possess her completely, to go where none had gone before and make her his.
He sat up, kneeling between her parted legs. His free hand moved downward to his trews and pushed aside the woolen restriction that held him. Freed, he arched his hips, replacing his fingers with hard male flesh and sliding over her with slow, sizzling strokes. Grasping her thigh, he pulled her closer as he angled his body into the vee of her legs. With her thighs pressed against his folded legs, he shifted to clasp her around the waist and lean forward, pressing the first tiny bit into her. Deliciously hot, insanely inviting, she opened her legs for him, rocking her hips to take him.
Alex paused. His fingers dug into her hips as he held her still, and he closed his eyes and clenched his teeth. It was so tempting to push harder into her, to sheathe his turgid length inside her … but he was bound by an oath to leave her virgin, a technical point that he chose to interpret in his own way. He would leave her an un-broached maiden, but not a virgin in the strictest sense.
It was vengeance and justification, but more than that, alleviation of his need for her.
With great restraint, he rocked forward again, withdrawing from her to slide his hard body across the sweet, damp center of her. She moaned, arching upward, and he began to move his hips in a rhythmic pressure that sent tremors through him. His hands shifted to her legs, and he lifted them and pushed her thighs together in a vise around his length, his movements growing faster as he felt the culmination gather. She was gasping beneath him, muttering his name in throaty moans, her hips meeting his every thrust as he slid across her wet cleft in erotic, seething strokes.
A strangling sob caught in her throat, and her head moved from side to side, her lower lip caught between her teeth as she clutched at him frantically. He watched her through narrowed eyes, holding tight to his control until he felt her buck beneath him with growing frenzy. With gritted teeth, he waited until he recognized the signs inherent in female ecstasy, then surrendered to the driving need to seek his own release. As she sobbed incoherently in his ear he leaned over her, raking his sensitive length over her tight crevice with rough motions that brought him quickly to release. A shudder racked him, then another, and he held her tightly in his embrace, burying his face into the curve of her cheek and shoulder, dragging in deep breaths that smelled of freshly soaped hair. It tickled his jaw, and after a moment he lifted his head.
Her eyes were shut, tear tracks on her cheeks. Her lips looked bruised and swollen, and he rested his weight on one elbow to trace them with his fingertip. “Are you all right, catkin?”
Another shudder rippled through her body. He was still trapped between her clenched thighs, a torment and pleasure. “Yea,” she answered, but it was a soft, unconvinced whisper.
Sighing, he held her without speaking until her trembling ceased. Then he brushed the damp hair back from her forehead and gently kissed her brow, her closed eyes, the tip of her nose, and her mouth.
“Are you sorry?” he asked when she finally opened her eyes to look up at him, and wondered even as he asked why he bothered. Being female, she would blame him for her yielding, and truthfully, he deserved blame for taking advantage of her innocence. If she had not known the consequences of her actions, he certainly did.
But she surprised him.
“No,” she answered after a moment of thoughtful silence. “Not sorry. Overwhelmed, perhaps. Embarrassed.”
“Embarrassed?” He shook his head. “You have no reason to be embarrassed, catkin. You are lovely, and far sweeter than any man deserves.”
He was faintly surprised to realize he meant it. In spite of her initial contempt and rebellion, she had since acted with honest dignity. If anything, she had shamed him with her example.
Her laugh was soft and quavering. “And now I am ruined for any other man. I do not complain. ’Tis what I sought, after all.”
Shifting to one
side, he reached down to work the wool blanket free and up over her flushed, misty body. She gripped it tightly with both hands and covered her bare breasts.
“You are not ruined unless you wish to be,” he said flatly. “I did not pierce your maidenhead.”
She went still. Another tremor shook her. Then her head turned to look him full in the face. Her eyes were wide and searching, points of uncertain light flickering in the dark pupils. “I am not unaware of the details of what passes between a man and a woman.”
“If you think I broke your maidenhead, you are.” He could not help a small, amused smile at her stare of disbelief. “We were intimate, my sweet, but not fully so. You are still a virgin.”
“Damn you!” she whispered, then burst into tears.
Alex stared at her in astonishment. It was not at all the reaction he had expected. Suddenly he knew with a swift certainty what she wanted—to avenge her father’s insult of refusing to ransom her, and in the way she knew would prick him most. He should be offended, but strangely, he was not. It was just the sort of thing he might have done were he in her position, and he began to laugh.
She glanced up at him crossly, her brows drawing down over her teary eyes. “Do not dare to laugh at me, sir!”
“Forgive me, catkin, but you are the most winsome maid to ever insult my manhood by using me thusly. I admire your tactics, if not your deceit.”
“Deceit? I never pretended I wanted you for yourself.”
“No?” He smiled as he drew a hand lightly over the wool-covered mound of her breasts. She shivered, and his smile deepened. “I think you deceive yourself with that he, catkin.”
She looked away, and he gazed at her profile with growing respect. This maid with the haunted eyes and luscious body was more than he had bargained for when he’d scooped her off that rock. And he wondered who would be bested in this game of wits, for ’twas certain she did not observe the customary rules.
The Scotsman Page 11
