by Amy Quinton
“Well, it certainly made me question your reputed capabilities, if not your loyalty.”
“The tart got lucky.”
The man sneered. “Tart? That’s an interesting descriptor. Did you seduce her? Or perhaps she seduced you?”
“Neither. She’s not my type.”
“Too much like you, then?”
“Ha. Perhaps.” Tired of the direction of this conversation, Kelly crossed the ridiculous carpet and relaxed against the wall beside the fire. There were no other chairs in the room save for the bench at the table, else Kelly would have sat, invitation or not, putting them both on an even level. He put his hands in his pockets, sending an unmistakable message of confidence and untroubled calm. “But enough with this line of questioning. Despite the unfavorable outcome, my actions have met with some success. Dansbury has certainly taken note.”
“I don’t see how you can see this as anything but a failure! Absolutely, Dansbury has taken note and is now on guard and out for vengeance.”
“Ah, but that can work to our advantage, don’t you see? He’ll be after me now with nothing but retaliation in mind, which means we can lead him where we want him to go.”
The man smiled a cold, calculating smile. “Indeed, we can, which is precisely why you’re here.”
Chapter Thirty
Late the Next Day
Mel followed a well-worn path with an eye out for an older barn further afield from the stables. Or in Cook’s words, ‘that wretched, well-loved ancient pile of scrap wood what’s known as the Hospital.’
Yes, she was on the hunt for MacLeod. At the ‘Hospital’. She supposed she would find out what that meant, precisely, when she found it. Also, per Cook, she would know it when she saw ‘that woefully misbegotten but favorite of all places’ place…er…it.
Amelia hadn’t seen MacLeod since yesterday’s assignation in his art studio. She suspected he was avoiding her while waging an inner battle between his honor, misguided though it was, and his attraction. Well, she was prepared to settle his dilemma once and for all.
But, obviously, she needed to find him first.
After speaking with Cook for half an hour this morning, Amelia had finally worn the woman down and gotten her to confess where she might find MacLeod and the general location of the afore-described ‘Hospital’, which Amelia, if she were as ‘fortunate as a pack of hounds in an untended kitchen’ might find some distance away from the main stables. Then, Cook had sent Amelia on her way with a basket of bread and cheese, a full bottle of wine, and a promise to keep any ‘good-for-nothing, nosy visitors’ at bay.
Had she mentioned she really liked MacLeod’s cook?
Now, after walking for at least twenty minutes—minimum—after passing the stables, Amelia finally found what she was thought was the ‘Hospital’, or what remained of it, at the base of a small hill on the far side of a field of wildflowers.
It was definitely an old barn, or used to be. It appeared as if it had been built sometime in the last century, or earlier, and had clearly seen better days. At the very least, it qualified as ancient. The wood was rotting and colored a weathered gray. By contrast, the roof appeared to be wholly intact. At least it looked as if the building would keep the rain off one’s head.
Though perhaps not the wind.
Numerous pieces of siding hung at odd angles and the path leading up to the front door was…well, well-worn was apt and a touch of an understatement. Needless to say, Mel took her time to pick her way down the uneven path leading to the front door.
Mel stopped before the barn’s faded, red door and blew out her breath. A mere moment to gather her wits was unquestionably warranted. Amelia had never backed away from a challenge in her life, and Alaistair MacLeod constituted a challenge. There was nothing for it. Amelia rolled up her sleeves (figuratively), lifted her chin (literally), shifted her basket of goods to her left arm (she was right-handed), and reached for the rusty circular door pull, grabbing it securely with both hands.
Suspecting a door this large would as be stubbornly difficult to open as its owner, she pulled at it with all her might, her basket bumping her leg awkwardly.
All too quickly, the door gave way quite soundlessly and worse, unexpectedly, and…
…She fell on her backside for all her efforts.
It seemed the large faux-derelict door opened quite easily after all.
Well.
Amelia blew her hair out of her eyes and glared at the offending door. It hung open on smooth, sturdy, probably well-oiled, hinges. Of course.
Drat it!
She awkwardly scrambled to her feet.
After brushing her hands together and smoothing her skirts, Amelia patted at her hopelessly failing coiffure all the while looking about to see if anyone had noticed her decent. It was never too late to ascertain if there were any witnesses to one’s mishaps.
Nearby, a mare with a mouthful of hay watched and chewed, showing as much interest as a person seeking wonder in drying paint.
She patted her hair once more and called out, “A fine day we’re having.”
In response, the mare bent down in search of more food.
Pppth.
Turning her back on the mare, Amelia looked about for her lunch and found it nearby, upright and entirely intact. Thank God. She retrieved it, then strode purposely for the now open doorway and stepped inside.
The interior was remarkably bright due to the presence of what seemed like a hundred or more candles lit along the central corridor. Fortunately, there was no obvious signs of hay to make such illumination a potential fire hazard.
As she pulled the door closed once again, Mel heard a distinctive Scottish brogue shout out in the distance, “Doona you even dare—” This was followed by a strange chirping noise.
Well, it seemed Cook was right; MacLeod was there after all.
Amelia took care to step quietly down the main corridor, determined not to alert him to her presence until she was ready. She wasn’t afraid, not really. She was feeling quite feisty, truth be told. Feisty, but cautious. She just wanted a moment or two to see him utterly at ease before alerting him to her presence. That was all.
She could see his shadow moving about in the distance. He was in a little alcove off to the left of the main aisle.
When she reached the niche, she carefully peered around the corner, only to witness something she never would have believed possible: MacLeod, shirtless, tending to and comforting, with profoundly gentle hands, no less, a fox.
As she approached the table, he spared her a quick glance and an almost shy smile, then carried on attempting to bandage the fox’s leg.
She stopped across from him and set her hands gently upon the table. “Is that my fox?”
He peeked up at her once again. “Aye,” came his gruff reply. He looked down once more; one hand now cupped the fox’s head and the other held the new binding in place. “Will you…?”
Amelia reached for the excess bandaging and began tying off the makeshift dressing. “Why? I mean, How?” She didn’t quite know where to start.
“I sent my man for him when we arrived.”
He ignored the why. She suspected she knew why, though he would never admit it. Not yet, at any rate. But the very idea made her heart leap.
When she finished tying of the cotton strip, Amelia looked up to find him staring at her. His eyes spoke a thousand words he might never say. Best of all, he didn’t need to speak. Somehow, someway, they’d reached a point where words were unnecessary.
And suddenly, everything fell into place. Him. Her. Them. Oh, yes, them. She—oh, tarnation—she loved this man. She loved the way he was reserved in speech. The way he protected his friends, his family. The way he loved his brother fiercely. The way he was closed to most people but burned hot beneath the surface with physical, raw strength, oh-so-tightly leashed. He was everything.
And altogether impossible.
Tears threatened, but she willed them away. Impossible was
for another day.
The fox chirped then, an adorable sound like a child at play, and they both burst out laughing. MacLeod lifted the fox and carried him over to an empty stall, placing him on a tiny pallet of blankets in the corner. Amelia followed and watched, mesmerized by his gentle handling of the injured creature. The fox licked MacLeod’s hand and once more Amelia had to fight back tears.
When had she turned into such a watering pot? Was this what love did to a woman?
MacLeod stood then and turned to her. “Mel…” his voice was so soft when he spoke. It compelled her to look him in the eye and right then and there, she tumbled over the edge in love with him all over again. For what she read there, vulnerability over being found to be so tenderhearted towards this fox coupled with a flash of defensiveness, possibly in the event she chided him for it (knowing how many men were sensitive to that sort of thing), was too compelling, too lovely, too endearing to ignore; it made her heart surge with love.
She leaned up at the same moment he looked down, and their lips met, the kiss instantly pulling her out of reality and into a world where only the two of them existed. An Eden of such beauty and volume that it could never be contained in this earthly realm. She ached for it all to be real, for them to be able to forget reality—with its unsure future of spies and brothers and traitorous friends—and simply be with each other.
The kiss quickly turned passionate. Flames ignited her to the point where nothing with this man could ever possibly be wrong. Her hands slid up his chest while his slid down her back and cupped her arse. Oh, how glorious to feel the warmth of his hands through her dress, caressing and comforting her bottom.
He pulled her tightly against him and she could feel the strength of his erection as it pressed against her abdomen.
The fox yelped again, reminding Amelia of where they were. Certainly, no place for a rendezvous. She stepped out of his arms and glanced up, expecting him to be laughing with her at the untimely interruption.
Instead the air around them crackled. He took a step forward. She retreated one step back. His eyes flashed with raw heat and desire as he stalked her with predatory intent.
Her heart galloped, enjoying this new game of cat and mouse.
He stepped forward again. And again. Walking now. Closing the distance. Still she retreated until her back hit the wall of the stall across the way. He stopped inches before her, his breathing hard as if he’d run a marathon, not walked across an abandoned stable.
Slowly and with infinite care, he reached up and pulled out one of her remaining hairpins. Then another and another, until her hair fell loose and free. She watched him and stood utterly still while he saw to his task. He spoke not a word as he undressed her, focused in that intense way of his on his mission. As if this was his sole duty in life.
She could have left at any moment. Fled him and his passionate intensity. She knew that. But she wanted this. Wanted him.
Tomorrow was another day.
Macleod reached both his hands into her hair and massaged her scalp. It felt wonderful, still she kept watching him, reading the emotions he didn’t bother to hide as they flitted across his face. Desire. Awe. Respect. Love.
It all humbled her, yet made her heart soar.
Slowly, he leaned forward and whispered, “Turn around, a ghràidh.”
She did as he bade, bracing both hands against the wall as he began to undo the buttons at her back. As her dress loosened, she could feel her skin becoming more and more sensitized to his touch. She tried not to squirm as his fingers brushed her back once, twice, thrice. Too soon, she couldn’t bear it, and she began to squirm in earnest. And laugh. And scream.
She heard him chuckle behind her, then he leaned forward and held his hands firmly (thank God) on her shoulders as he whispered, “Ticklish, are we?”
Such a tease. “Y-y-yes. Very.”
She shivered once again.
“Good,” he said on a long exhale. Right in her ear. Intentionally so.
She squirmed away and spun around. “You did that on purpose.”
There was laughter in his eyes as he raised both hands and said, “Guilty as charged.”
She narrowed her eyes then and he responded as if he’d read her mind, “Just so ye ken…I’m not ticklish.”
Amelia arched one brow, “Oh, no?” letting the sarcasm in her tone say in no uncertain terms that she didn’t believe him for one single minute.
“Nae.”
She stepped forward, the aggressor now. He stepped back.
She wasn’t having that, so she launched herself at him. They fell onto a bed tucked on the far side of the wall. She didn’t even know it was there, yet she couldn’t complain for she found herself straddling his stomach on a bed of soft ticking.
His eyes widened and dropped to her chest. In her enthusiasm, she’d lost her dress down to her waist. Underneath she’d worn no corset, no chemise.
So she might have anticipated this moment beforehand. Amelia Chase: Seducer of recalcitrant men.
She took pure delight in watching his eyes widen at the sight of her bare breasts hanging before his face. He licked his lips.
It made her feel wanted. Powerful. She felt a resurgence of lust hum through her body, and her nipples puckered tight with her awareness.
MacLeod lifted his head, intent on a distended nipple. His fingers pressed into her back, gripping her, conveying the power of his desire, and she arched just as his lips made contact. He suckled sharply, and an answering spasm trailed by a surge of wetness followed between her legs. It felt like there was a direct link between her nipple and her core that he, and only he, could operate.
“Oh, God.” She couldn’t help it. Her breasts had never felt so sensitive before, so heavy.
MacLeod released her nipple, blowing on the wetted tip, then found the other one and began to suckle once again.
For a moment, she allowed herself to bask in the glory of his attentions. It felt too good. Too delicious. Too much.
“No,” she said, and he looked up and into her eyes, though he kept his lips latched firmly on her nipple. She read the smile there as a twinkle in his eye. “I…mmmm…had a point…to make, damn you…”
It took all her effort, but she reached for his sides and put every bit of her will behind tickling the man beneath her.
Yes, tickling.
MacLeod released her on a startled laugh and bucked uncontrollably.
“Not ticklish, eh, MacLeod?” She knew it; she wanted to raise her fist in the air and celebrate her victory.
“Nooo…” he howled with laughter a moment more, then he growled and flipped them both over. He gripped both her hands in one of his and held them above her head. She was well and truly caught.
And she didn’t mind one bit.
His breathing was furious now, heavy, and his eyes, though still holding traces of mirth, were heavy lidded as he traced her every curve. His hips thrust subtly, suggestively, in small rhythmic surges. Slowly, mimicking the act that would soon follow.
His kilt had ridden up and she felt the hard ridge of his erection as it slid against her leg, so hot and heavy. It jumped when his gaze settled on her breasts once again.
“I love your breasts, mo chridhe.” He suckled her once. “I could feast on them, on you, for hours.” He took another taste.
He slid his hands down her arms and sat back, his kilt tented by his undeniable erection. They both glanced at it; it was impossible to miss. He glanced at her with a smile and a shrug before starting the process of slowly and painstakingly unwinding his woolen tartan.
Amelia couldn’t look away, mesmerized by this unveiling. Sure, she’d seen him before in all his glory, but this time—this time she would have it all, and thus everything was new once more.
She grew impatient as her arousal grew. She wanted to scream at him to hurry. She glared at him, telling him in no uncertain terms that he was taking too long. He noticed, for his gaze never left hers. With a smile, he slowed his speed
even more. Bastard.
So she knocked his hands away and tore at his kilt. He laughed and stood up on his knees, assisting her with her efforts.
She yanked the kilt away as fast as she could and tossed it to the ground. Out of sight out of mind.
But who cared? There was MacLeod, all six and a half feet of furred muscle, bared to her view in all his masculine glory. His erection jutted out before him, magnificent in size, and, without further thought, she reached for it, intent on wrapping her hands around his length. She wanted to taste him again, to watch as he was overcome by his own passion and desire.
Instead, he backed away, only a hairsbreadth out of reach, “Oh no, my love, not yet. First, we must finish ridding you of this dress. I want nothing between us when we finally make love.”
For a brief moment, Amelia closed her eyes committing his words, his actions to memory. Then she looked him square and said, “Do it.” There was nothing left to say.
He removed her dress and tossed it aside as carelessly as she’d thrown his kilt. He sat back on his heels and studied every inch of her body. She didn’t squirm, rather she reveled in his review, for she knew the sight of her was mesmerizing to him. Appreciated. Rather, she wanted to stretch and purr like a cat, thrilled and satisfied to see him drowning in their mutual desire.
Unexpectedly, he leaned forward and touched his forehead to hers. His breathing was erratic, his breath a hot brand on her neck and chest. “Mel…I need you. I-I have wanted this for so long. I’m no’ sure I can go slow. I…”
Amelia grabbed him behind the head, capturing his attention. “Then don’t.”
And just like they were of one mind, they were of one body; she spread her legs as he thrust unerringly into her core. She felt branded, so full. By his second thrust, she was coming. Her feet were on fire as she soared to the heavens.
He thrust again. And again. Harder. Faster. And with each glide of his hard cock, she spasmed once more. It was miraculous. It was ecstasy.
It was love.
Still he continued. Again. Again. Again. And Again. He stiffened and his cock hardened and lengthened inside her to unbelievable proportions. On a roar of “Mel!” he came, flooding her with his love, his essence.
