The Scotsman

by Juliana Garnett

  It was to that man that her mind and body answered as one.

  “Alex,” she whispered softly, desperately, and reached for him. Plucking at the laces of his leather jerkin, she freed them and spread her hands against his bare chest under his sherte. His skin was hot under her palms. She stared in fascination at the contrast of her white fingers over the dark muscled skin. His chest rose and fell in labored breaths as she lightly explored the sleek contours. Flat, dark brown nipples were partially hidden by the folds of his white sherte, and she could not resist touching them. His muscles contracted, and his hands tightened against her back, fingers digging into the skin of her shoulders. Emboldened by the effect she had upon him, she teased the hard nubs between thumbs and fingers with soft pinches.

  “Christ….” His voice cracked. “You see … how easy it is … for you to torture me, catkin….” His breathing was swift and irregular. His lashes half-closed on the smoky glitter in his eyes, and his mouth curved into a seductive smile. “I know I shall regret this, but I can show you even more effective methods of torturing a man, sweet cat.”

  “Can you?” Moving in slow, languid strokes, she slid her hands downward, amazed at her own daring but caught up in something beyond her control. She felt powerful, brazen, and completely wanton. “Does this torment you, sir?” She pressed her hand against the hard bulge outlining his trews and felt him throb beneath her palm. “And … this?” Curving her fingers around him, she measured his length with slow, careful massage, shaping her hand to him, marveling at the rapid change in his body. His hips moved forward into her palm as she stroked him through the wool in steady motions that drew a rough mutter from him.

  “Jesus….” It was a groan and a prayer, slipping into the heated air with soft emphasis. His hands fell away from her back and shifted to her shoulders, fingers cupping them in a tight clasp as she continued her rhythmic strokes.

  A flush warmed her face. She felt wicked and daring and on the verge of a great discovery. Alex had swelled beneath her attentive ministrations to a steely length that pressed hard against the fabric of his trews. He was breathing harshly now, looking down at her from beneath lowered black lashes as he watched what she was doing. His sherte gaped open where she had pushed it aside, and his sculpted chest rose and fell with each deep breath he took.

  It was exciting, knowing she could arouse him like this, and a queer agitation filled her as he pressed into her strokes, his hips bucking forward in a smooth, rolling motion. His hands fell away from her shoulders and to his sides, clenching into fists as his head tilted back and he groaned again. Light from the fire left half his face in shadow, lending his expression a mysterious cast.

  Her own breath came more swiftly now, and a little raggedly. Sitting back on her heels, she put her hands to her face, a bit appalled at her audacity. Her entire body felt afire with excitement and embarrassment. As his hands went to the cords binding his trews around his waist, she knew she should look away, but did not. It was as if some invisible force held her, and she watched silently as he untied the cords and the fabric slipped away.

  When he took her hand and brought it back to him, she resisted but he held her with gentle insistence. “’Tis no’ so very different from before, lass,” he muttered in a thick burr, and placed her palm over him.

  He held it there, and the throbbing pulse in his length matched the cadence of her heartbeat—rapid and strong.

  “You are wrong,” she whispered, “it is very different from before … so soft and yet so hard … and hot.”

  His laugh was slightly strangled. “Aye, ’tis hot enough to burn, I vow. And I am burning, catkin.”

  Flustered, she did not move her hand when his lifted away, but shaped him in light caresses that drew another moan from him. Shy curiosity became bold exploration, brushes of her fingers over his turgid length becoming an arrant discovery of texture and dimensions, of her newfound sensuality. It was frightening and exhilarating and wondrous.

  Then he put his hand over hers again, and his voice was choked. “Enough. Ah, Christ above … enough, or I shall rush what should be slow.” He drew in a deep breath. “Now ’tis my turn to enjoy you, catkin … here. Let me help you with this gown….”

  His hands removed any protest she may have made as he tugged at the wool, gathering it in his fists and up over her head to toss to the floor beside the bed. Still on their knees facing each other, he sat back for a moment to gaze at her. She flushed and looked down, wishing she could see herself as he saw her, wishing she knew if he found her as pleasing as she did him.…

  “Beautiful,” he murmured, “beautiful catkin … did you know your breasts are near perfect? Small and rounded—why do you blush? You should be proud. Poor catkin—has no one ever told you how lovely you are?”

  “You know you are the first man to see me thus,” she replied in a soft, quivering voice.

  “Yea, I do not doubt that.” His words and smile were tender. “But I cannot be your first admirer. What? No long poems of undying love and unrequited passion written to you in praise of your eyes, your lips, your hair … your breasts? What must the men in Warfield’s hall be thinking….”

  It would do no good to tell him that none had dared even glance at her for fear of the earl, and she closed her eyes and shivered when he traced the tiny blue veins visible beneath the pale skin of her breasts with his finger. His touch was light and arousing as he skimmed over her flesh, lingering idly.

  “Sweet catkin … so beautiful, with soft white skin the color of new milk … and your nipples remind me of rosebuds, all pink and shy and ready to flower … like that. Yea, like that, sweet girl….” His thumb caressed the tightening bud into a hard knot, making the steady throb between her thighs beat faster. Cupping her other breast in his palm, he slowly rotated his thumb on that nipple as well, until she became breathless and agitated.

  She looked up at him, and a faint, crooked smile curved his mouth. “You like that, I think, catkin. Good. I like seeing you blossom for me … beautiful English flower.”

  His head bent and he kissed each breast, then her throat, then up to her ear. His breath was heated, tickling her cheek and making her shiver, then he pressed his lips against her brow. It was a tender gesture that brought unexpected tears to her eyes, and she closed them so he would not see. But he must have, for he brushed a fingertip against her lashes.

  “Tears? Open your eyes, catkin. Look at me.”

  She obeyed, but stared at his chin until he nudged up her chin with a bent finger so that she had to look into his eyes. “Why do you weep? Are you afraid?”

  “Yes. Of you. Of me. Of … this….” Her hand swept down to encompass her body. “I do not know what to do with all these feelings I have of late, and am afraid of what they mean.”

  Her soft whisper faded before he drew in a deep breath and shook his head. “You need not fear my touch. I will not hurt you.”

  Tears blurred her vision as she stared at him. “Yes. You will. You cannot help but hurt me….”

  An odd expression crossed his face. “Not willingly, little catkin. Never that.”

  It should matter that he did not deny it, did not swear never to do her harm, but strangely, she understood. Life was so uncertain, full of surprising twists and turns, that promises were too often made in vain.

  And so she did not protest when he bent his head, his mouth covering hers in a kiss that was salty with her own tears. He slid one hand into her waving hair, his fingers circling the whorls of her ear. She shivered at the soft contact.

  “Beautiful catkin,” he whispered against her ear, his breath a heated caress. His knees squeezed her thighs, wool rough against her bare skin. “Too lovely to resist … too sweet to deny….”

  His words trailed into silence as he slid a hand down the curve of her spine to her buttocks and held her. He made a small noise low in the back of his throat. Catherine could not move; her breathing was labored. He leaned over her, pushing her down against the mattres
s, a solid weight and steady pressure. Hooking his hands beneath her knees, he pulled her legs from under her to straddle his waist. It left her open to him, vulnerable and exposed, and with an inarticulate cry she moved her hands to cover herself.

  He caught them, his smile lazy and heated. “No need for that, catkin. Not now. Is there? Nay, I did not think there was … be still a moment, my sweet….”

  The soft words and sensual tone penetrated her sudden shyness, and she allowed him to move her hands to her sides. He was still dressed, his wool trews open to reveal his rampant desire for her. It was so shocking and somehow arousing that he was clothed and she was not. He caressed her, his thumbs sliding over the center of her in a searing stroke that took away her breath and ignited a new heat. Pressing upward under his touch, she moaned softly.

  Oh, mercy … sweet mother of mercy … it was so sinfully wanton, so exquisitely seductive, kindling an aching need in her that she knew he could quench. She parted for him when he pushed gently at her thighs. He leaned over her, and his weight spread her legs as he kissed her mouth, deep drugging kisses that left her breathless and yearning, her body arching into his with rising urgency. Still kissing her, he reached between their bodies to slide a finger inside her, a scorching intrusion that was exciting and frightening at the same time. Gently, he slid his tongue between her lips in light, teasing strokes as his hand moved between her thighs in parallel rhythm.

  Tension rose in her, and she met his thrusts with her own, her tongue dueling his and her hips rising to accept his invasion. Then he paused and lifted himself off the bed. When she reached for him, blindly seeking, he returned to kiss her fiercely and caress that damp, throbbing ache between her legs. Then his hand moved, and in its place was a new intrusion, the heated length she had caressed before. It was hot and rigid against her softness, slipping on the moisture there, erotic strokes that brought another moan from her. He moved against her, his arms braced on each side of her on the mattress, his length driving forward to slide over that aching center of fire and need … she caught at his hips and was surprised that the wool trews were gone.

  Then that thought slipped into the newer realization that something had changed as his body shifted to slide inside her, a hard, stinging pressure that made her catch her breath. He did not withdraw but pressed closer, heated flesh thrusting deeper inside, filling and stretching her to the point of pain—but not beyond. It was exquisitely erotic and dangerous.

  Holding her breath, she looked up at him. She could see the tangled spill of his black hair and the taut curve of his splendid shoulders, but not his face. He had paused with his full width heavy inside her. Yet it did not assuage the ache, the throbbing urgency that drew her body taut as a bow string and left her quivering with agitated expectation. Restless at his delay, she squirmed beneath him, wanting more, wanting what he had given her before, that delicious ecstasy that was so elusive and so intense it left her shattered.

  He lifted his face to look at her, his silver-gray eyes searing into her with fierce intensity. “Be still….” It was said in a groaning mutter, and she could not help another small wiggle of her hips that made him close his eyes, his lashes darkening his cheeks. “For pity’s sake, catkin….”

  “Alex … Alex, please … help me….” She wasn’t quite certain what she asked, but he knew. He had known before and he would know now.…

  A shudder ran through him and his head lowered again. Then he glanced up at her as he slid forward, his male hardness stretching and filling her again until the pleasure turned to pain and she gasped. He paused at once and looked away. His body throbbed inside her with heated pressure that seemed all encompassing, filling her world as well as her body. She arched her hips upward, seeking release and the same euphoria she had experienced with him before.

  He put his head down again and drew in a ragged breath. “Jesus….”

  She did not know if it was a prayer or exclamation this time, but then he shifted, and now he lunged forward in an unyielding invasion that was as shocking as it was complete. A startled cry burst from her and he swiftly covered her mouth with his own. But as swiftly as the pain had pierced her, it ended, leaving only an unfamiliar fullness in her, and the steady throbbing of his body. Welcome invasion, delightful sin … and this time, she knew she was no longer a virgin.

  But then there was no time to think about that, only the slow, luxurious thrust and drag of his body inside her, the clamor of sensations that overrode one another and came together in a seamless tide. Caught up in the wash of desire that flowed over her, she was aware of him surging against her and into her, withdrawing only to drive forward with shuddering force. The faint scent of musky soap filled her nose, throaty mutters filled her ears, and his fiercely intent face hovered over her to blot out the rest of the world. He was her world … he filled it completely at this moment, his aggressive power and potent sensuality eclipsing everything else.

  Driving all coherent thought from her mind once more, Alex thrust into her with a ruthless, burning friction. She ached for him, ached with the searing reality of his body’s intrusion, and moved beyond it into that nebulous realm where release hovered just out of her reach. His breath was harsh against her cheek as he slipped his hand between them, scraping his thumb over the sweet nucleus of pleasure that made her shiver, his body a relentless force as he swept her with him up and up and past the pain into sweeping pleasure.

  The first tremor rocked her and she clutched at him, crying out. His movement quickened and a fevered groan mingled with her soft cries, keening sounds like the sob of the wind at the shutters echoing in the chamber. It came in shattering clarity, an explosion of light and heated release. Wave after wave washed through her, intense and annihilating, draining her of tension and strength. And then he was thrusting deep in a quivering stroke that burst within her in harsh tremors, and he went still.

  Shivering with reaction, Catherine held him as he relaxed atop her, his weight resting half on her, half on the mattress. One hand stroked back his hair in gentle movements as his head rested in the curve of her neck and shoulder. His breathing was ragged, but gradually began to slow. When he finally moved, he withdrew slowly and she could not stop a surprised gasp at the raw friction.

  He lay next to her and propped himself on one elbow to gaze down at her. “Now you know the difference, catkin.”

  She smiled. “Yea, now I know the difference.”

  It was true. What had happened between them before was nothing compared to this … and she was suddenly, fiercely, glad. The little membrane that was so coveted was gone forever, and never again could she be made hostage of it. Her father could not use her as a prize to dangle before eager suitors more anxious for her dowry than they were her … no, she was free now to choose for herself.

  She drew a finger over the light bristle of beard on Alex’s jaw. “You are a braw callant, sir.”

  His brow rose at her Gaelic phrase, and a smile curved his mouth. He clasped her hand in his to kiss her fingertips. “Yea, milady, so I am. ’Tis kind of you to notice.”

  “I notice everything about you.”

  He grimaced. “I find that frightening. Here. You are chilled.”

  As he reached down to draw up the wool blanket over her shivering form, she took note of his naked body, magnificent and powerful. His dark skin was smooth, with only small scars from years of battle, and lean muscle banded his chest and belly. She flushed and looked away when he glanced back at her, grinning.

  “Sly minx … if you continue to look at me like that, I shall begin to think you far too precocious for a virgin.”

  As the blanket settle around her in warm folds, she glimpsed a red stain on the wool. She pointed to it. “Your proof, sir—”

  “Catkin, I was teasing you. God knows, you were virgin indeed.” Leaning forward, he took her chin in his palm and kissed her mouth gently. Then he drew back a little and gazed at her as he held her face. He stared at her for a long moment, intense and enigmat
ic, until she began to frown with concern. Then he muttered awkwardly, “I hope that one day you will forgive me for this.”

  “Forgive you?” She lifted her shoulders in a gentle shrug. “You have saved me. My father wouldst barter my maidenhead to the highest bidder. This was done of my own free will. I shall never have to return now, for he will not have me back once I tell him that my worth as marriageable pawn is gone.”

  His mouth tightened. He raked a hand through his hair and looked away, then looked back at her with a strange light in his eyes. “Do you not want to return to Warfield?”

  “Nay, not now.” A little shyly, she reached for his hand, still too full of these new, scalding emotions to feel comfortable with them. Then he curled his fingers around her palm and held her, and she smiled. “But ’tis a moot point, as my father does not intend to meet your demands.”

  “So I have realized.” He rubbed his thumb over the heel of her palm, frowning. Then he looked up at her through his tangled lashes. “Catherine, these are times that oft breed confusion in loyalties, and lead men to acts they would not consider in a sane and orderly world. I am as guilty as the next man of acting without reason at times.”

  Her hand clenched. “Have you heard from my father?”

  “Nay, I told you earlier that I have not.”

  “But you know something.” There was a somber intensity to him that alarmed her, and she studied his face for a long moment in the scant light afforded by fire and candle glow. “What is it?”