…Suffice to say, I’ve been hard a steel for weeks.
I’ve “handled it” myself—over and over and over again, as thoughts of her tumble through my mind and the memory of the taste of her lips and the sound of her moans had my pulse roaring.
But that ends now.
She’s beguiling and deviling at the same time. She’s tempting and infuriating. And I watch her now standing by the bow, sulking against the railing, and I grin.
Pretending I’m not here is going to get tough, seeing as it’s not a very big boat and we’re the only two on it. But I just shake my head, watching her and occasionally where we’re going. Let her sulk. Let her try and tell herself she hasn’t been thinking of the kiss—either of them. Let her pretend that me taking her away from Lord Carlson isn’t exactly what she wanted.
…Let her pretend that the passion and fire and lust I see in her eyes when she turns and glares at me isn’t there.
We keep sailing. Gods it feels good to be out on the water. I was born on the waves, and it’s where I feel most comfortable. Just the same, I’m barely looking at anything but her, so much so that when I finally look up, I blink, surprised at the dark clouds suddenly moving across the horizon much quicker than they should.
I grimace.
Damn.
There’s a storm coming, and that’s not good. Not when we’re in Lord Carlson’s frail little pleasure yacht that’s barely built to do more than sit moored to a dock. Not when we’re about half a day’s sail to Carrick Castle, my home on Falmer Island off the coast.
“You are in so much trouble for this, you know!”
I turn my head from the ominous clouds to see that Ailith is back to my end of the boat, standing at the top of the steps up to the captain’s deck glaring at me with her arms folded over her chest.
I grin.
“I’ve been in worse.”
“Worse than kidnapping?” she snaps.
“Kidnapping, is it?” I chuckle. “I believe it’s called rescuing.”
She rolls her eyes. “Rescuing? Rescuing from what?”
“From the vile man you were to marry today,” I growl, my voice edged at the very idea of her and Carlson.
She opens her mouth like she wants to fight me on it, but her lips snap shut almost just as fast. I smirk. Right, let her try and tell me it was her preference to stay back there and marry that ass.
“And where are you rescuing me to?” she snaps, setting her jaw as her big green eyes blaze into mine.
“Home.”
She swallows. “Your home?”
“Our home,” I grin.
Heat flushes through her cheeks as she rakes her teeth over her plump bottom lip. She eyes me, something fierce burning in those eyes as the wind whips though her hair.
“I know what you were, you know,” she mutters.
I arch a brow, amused. It’s not a big secret that I was once, well, a pirate for lack of a better word. Sanctioned by the Crown of course—mostly going after French ships and the odd Viking craft if we could find one alone. I quit that life though to go fight in the Crusades alongside Hamish and Callum.
“And what was I, princess?”
Her eyes narrow.
“A pirate. A rogue.”
“Is that all?”
She glares at me. “Is that all?”
“Well, you forgot gentleman. Or rake. Or…” I frown, drumming my fingers on the wheel. “Perhaps handsome devil?”
She smiles thinly. “Well, Lord McAuley, perhaps those are all things you were.”
She stresses the past tense, and I grin, eying her.
…No woman has ever confounded me like this. No woman has ever moved me like her. Not one has ever captivated me and drawn me in like a moth to a flame. Not a one before her has had me losing my mind for her, wanting nothing more than to have her in my arms, and knowing without a doubt that that’s where she belongs.
Maybe it’s the roguish pirate in me, and a life of taking what I wanted, when I wanted. Or maybe it’s just that when it comes to Ailith Pembrose, there’ll be no compromise. No retreat. No going home empty handed.
Not since that kiss…
Two weeks ago:
Christ
I shake my head as I look around at the decorations—at the pageantry of it all.
Who would have ever thought we’d get here? Hamish Ballentyne, married. In finery, with white linens on the walls of his castle. I snort. The Hamish I know wasn’t always this… cultured. He wasn’t always this much of a gentleman. Not when we were fighting for our lives covered in blood and mud over in the Holy Land for the Crusades. Over there, it was finding a tree to take a piss on that didn’t have a Turk hiding behind it ready to slit your throat.
And now? I grin, shaking my head as I poke my head into one of Hamish’s many “guest commodes.”
…Flowers on the windowsill, a sweet-smelling tallow candle with the essence of cinnamon. Fresh linen towels.
I grin. Who the hell would have thought? But here we are—no longer men at war, but men meant to be gentleman. Lords of Scotland, with titles, and land, and castles. We’ve done our time and our tours of that hell in the desert. And the truth is, amusing or not, I’m glad that Hamish has become more of a man and less the beast we all were over there. If he can find a woman to settle down with, there’s hope for me and Callum, that’s for sure.
I need a drink.
I growl to myself as I prowl the castle. Hamish has mysteriously been missing since his bride-to-be arrived at Dungow Castle. Callum’s brushed it off, but I’m more skeptical. Or maybe just more curious. One nervous lady in waiting mentioned with a blushing face seeing Hamish heading towards the baths he has in the lower levels of the castle. “The ladies’ baths” the maid had whispered in hushed, scandalized tones.
And knowing Hamish like I do, I know full well it’s not some pretty little chambermaid he’s chasing. Not ever, but certainly not on his wedding day. And certainly not when I’m aware of his… well, obsession with the girl he’s to wed today.
Una MacKay.
I was there the day he saw her, and I swear I could watch the desire sweep over his face. I watched him see her and I watched him fall right into her.
I’m proud of him for that.
But her being newly arrived at the castle? Him being strangely seen disappearing into the women’s baths? I snort. It can only mean one thing. And while I’m sorely tempted to go down there and remind him of the rules about seeing his bride before they wed—if anything just because I enjoy taunting him like a brother—I hold back.
Let him have his day with the girl he’ll be marrying. Who am I to give a shit about that?
But while I’m truly happy for him, there’s this idea of this instant attraction that has me shaking my head. Again, I’m happy for Hamish, but “love at first sight” is not something I can wrap my own head around. There’ve been women in my life, though none for quite a while. Not since before the Crusades. But none of them in the past ever stuck though. None captivated me, or “stole my heart” as the bards and poets would say. That or they were merely after my titles and lands. And since the wars? Well, the idea of opening up to a woman, even if it’s merely opening my bed, just hasn’t appealed to me. Not in the slightest.
And besides, this instant love thing? Maybe it’s for Hamish. Perhaps even Callum someday. But it’s not for me, that I know.
I prowl down an empty hallway, my eyes locking on a door. I’ve been to Dungow a number of times. And I distinctly remember this area of the castle. Enough so that I’m confidence that I’m standing in front of the door to Hamish’s private cellars.
My smile widens.
Hamish and I are friends for many reasons. But a mutual love for good drink is certainly high on the list. French vintages, the finest oak-barrel whiskey from the lowlands. Rice liquor and spiced rum from the east that we brought home with us. My mouth waters as I chuckle. Let Hamish go have his illicit pre-wedding fun. I’ll just be here ra
iding his liquor cellar.
I swing the door open, storm inside…
…And come face-to-face with a scream.
And it’s not just any scream. It’s a scream attached to the most perfect, tempting, sweet looking pair of pouty red lips I’ve ever laid eyes on. Lips that are part of the prettiest face I’ve ever seen, framed by gorgeous dark hair. But it’s the eyes that take the breath from my chest. It’s the eyes that I lock onto, my pulse faltering as I just stare, losing myself in them.
Green like morning field. Green like a thistle leaf. Green like the rolling highland hills.
Green that stuns me to my core.
I blink, my mouth opening and closing as I slowly take her in, and just like that, I know it’s over. Just like that, I know I’m lost.
The girl is young, maybe eighteen or twenty years. Beautiful, captivating…
…And naked. That would explain the screaming.
She’s clutching a dress to her bosom, but as I slowly drink in the bare shoulders, the flash of skin by her naked hip, her bare legs, and the slender, freckled arms wrapped tight around her ample chest, I groan.
I groan, and I know I am done for.
“Out!”
I blink, slowly focusing on what she’s saying.
“Get out!”
I frown, my eyes darting around the room before they lock back onto her.
“This isn’t the wine cellar.”
She stares at me, heat rising through her cheeks. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips, and the motion sends fire blazing through me.
“No, it is not!” she huffs, panting, her gorgeous green eyes blazing emerald fire at me.
I glance around. Yup, it’s most definitely a guest room now, though I swear it use to be the—
“My lord!” she hisses, blushing. “I’m—”
“Malcolm,” I growl quietly, my eyes burning into hers. “Malcolm—”
“McAuley,” she says quietly, her eyes wide and wild. “I know who you are.”
My jaw tightens. “Well that doesn’t seem fair. And you are?”
She swallows. “Engaged,” she says quietly.
Anger flames across my face, and I repress the growl. I resist the urge to rage at the fucker who’s manages to take her before I had the chance to.
“To?”
She wets her lips again.
“Lord Carson.”
I freeze, a weight sinking through me. “You’re Ailith Pembrose.”
And it all clicks. This is Hamish’s bride’s friend, and it’s no secret that she’s engaged to marry Lord Carlson in a few weeks’ time. It’s also no secret what a piece of shit her husband-to-be is—the beatings he’s given his staff. The bastards he’s fathered with chambermaids, cooks, and nurses. I drink in the gorgeous, stunning, innocent girl in front of me, and I know what this is. He’s done it before, too. She’ll be wife number three or four, if I’m on top of my gossip.
All of them young, all of them unworldly, and all of them meeting a very odd death before they get older than twenty-four. Rage burns through me at Lord Carlson getting his hands on any other girls. But at the thought of it being her?
I barely hold back the snarl.
My eyes burn fiercely into her, and quickly, it’s like the rest of the world fades away. Noting else matters. Not that she’s engaged. Not that me being in her damn dressing room, while she’s barely covered, would be a scandal and a half if anyone walked by.
Forget all of that. None of it matters.
I growl lowly, moving into her, and her eyes grow wide.
“My lord…”
“My lady,” I growl right back.
“You—” she blushes fiercely. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“You’re right, I shouldn’t,” I groan. “And yet, here we are.”
She opens her mouth, but then closes those soft red lips.
“Lord McAuley…”
“Lady Pembrose,” I grunt as I move closer, but she doesn’t move. She doesn’t back up, she doesn’t scream, she doesn’t slap me or call for guards. She just runs that soft pink tongue over those lips again, the flush creeping down her neck. And those emerald eyes blaze green fire into my eyes, scorching me, and searing her face across my soul.
“You should go,” she whispers.
“So tell me to go.”
She bites her lip, her teeth raking over her lip.
“Tell me to go, princess,” I growl.
“I’m not a princess.”
“You are, you just haven’t been told so enough.”
She blushes, biting her lip.
“Tell me to leave, princess,” I groan. ‘Tell me to leave before I do something I can’t and won’t take back.”
She gasps quietly her eyes gong wide.
“I—I’m engaged.”
I just step closer, our eyes locked.
“Lord McAuley, I’m engaged.”
It’s like she’s saying it to remind herself, not me. Because frankly, I don’t care. I step closer—so close I’m almost touching her. The dress that she’s clutching to her bare body brushes against my knuckles, and when she gasps quietly, I can feel the heat of her breath.
“Lord McAuley…”
“You’re engaged,” I growl. “So I’ve been told.”
I reach up, one hand touching her chin and raising it up. Those green eyes blaze into mine, and I grunt as I move right into her. My other hand moves to her waist, sliding over her bare skin as the beast in me hungers for more.
“And yet?”
I lean close, her breath catches, and my heart stops for one second.
“And yet, I don’t care.”
Kissing her is like the world finally spinning the right way after an eon of going backwards. My lips sear to hers, and all the fire and heat and lust that’s been barely held back comes shattering free like a dam giving way. She trembles, freezing against my touch, but as I hold her close and let my lips crush against hers, slowly, I feel her melt into me. And when she moans—so softly, so quietly but I still hear it—I know.
I know she’s mine.
I kiss her hungrily, tasting her lips as my tongue pushes past them. She whimpers, opening her mouth to me, willingly letting me stroke her tongue with mine as she melts into me. I growl, my hand tightening on her bare skin as the beast in me roars. My cock lurches, throbbing rock hard and tenting my kilt as I pull her against me. Time stops, our breaths mingle, and our tongues tease each other’s, until suddenly, like lighting striking, she’s gasping and jumping away.
She pushes me away from her, her face bright red, and her lips so swollen from my kiss.
“My lord…”
But, those lips, so plump and tempting. Those eyes blazing fire into mine. That flush on her cheeks.
…That glimpse of bare hip, the swell of her breast under the clutched fabric, with the twin points of nipples straining against the thin material.
No, I’m not even close to being done with her.
I growl, walking right into her, and when she gasps and falls into my arms again, her lips open willingly for me. I kiss her deeply, and softly, claiming her mouth for my own as time stops around us.
That is, until she jumps away, again. And this time, there’s no tempting look. There’s no tremblingly lower lip beckoning me for more. There’s just a heated scowl on her face and a finger jabbed right at me.
“You need to leave, Lord McAuley,” she hisses breathlessly, her face bright red.
I stand my ground, eyeing her.
“Please,” she whispers pleadingly.
“And if I say no?”
She trembles.
“If I stayed and took what I wanted?”
I swear, even though she tries to cover it, I hear the whimper in her throat. Her eyes blaze even hotter, and for a moment, I think she’s about to walk right over and kiss me right back. But she doesn’t.
She just shakes her head, stepping back and snatching up the bedcovers from the bed. She hauls them around h
er shoulders, wrapping them tight and covering her nakedness from me.
“Please leave or I’ll be forced to call the guards,” she says primly.
I stand there another moment, eye to eye, our hearts racing.
“I’m engaged, Lord McAuley,” she breathes.
“And I still don’t care, Lady Pembrose,” I growl, my eyes locking onto hers.
“Until next time, princess.”
“There won’t be a—”
“Yes, there will.”
And then I’m out the door, my pulse racing, my head spinning, and my cock so hard it threatens to tip me over.
Now I very much need that drink.
Chapter 4
Ailith
Our family priest says that lust is a deadly sin. He says that temptations of the flesh lead to Hell. And adultery… well, adultery is a sure-fire way to burn in Hell. I’m not with Lord Carlson, but then, I sort of am. I may not like the idea of an arranged marriage, or that my father is swayed by his private business with Lord Carlson into letting him take me as his fourth wife. But sin is still sin. And I still kissed Lord McAuley two weeks ago, at Una’s wedding.
No, he kissed you.
I set my jaw. That’s a better story. I like that version—the one that leaves me blameless and rests it solely on Lord McAuley taking advantage of me.
…Even though I know that’s a bold lie. Not true in the slightest.
Him taking advantage of me for real would never have happened, because I’d have called for guards. But him moving against me, and touching me, and kissing me?
I let it happen, because I wanted it. Because I’ve never felt anything like that—that sort of heat and total loss of control. That raw need for something—the feeling of desire so deep and so hot inside of me that I can barely think or breathe.
Kissing Malcolm McAuley might have been a sin. And wrong. And scandalous, and wicked. But deep down, I know I wanted it.
Stolen By The Scottish Rogue: Kilts & Kisses, Book 2 Page 2
