A Highlander Never Surrenders (35 page)

The crackling flames in the hearth bathed the room in a rosy hue that matched the soft blush of Claire’s cheeks. Graham watched her as she stepped around the bed, tracing her fingertips over the fur blanket. He stood at the door, hesitant, mystified by the sultry invitation in her smoky blue gaze. He’d intended to court her properly, not making love to her again until he claimed her heart and she agreed to wed him. It was the right thing to do. When she had called him friend, his hopes of ever winning her shattered. But even then he was not willing to lose her. If he could never be anything more than a friend to her, then a friend he would be.

Hell, she confused him. Was she up to something? he thought, while she pushed her earasaid off her shoulders. She had not kissed him like a friend, but like a lover, making his loins ache for what she wanted to give him. It felt as if a century had passed since he last touched her with any intimacy. Both his body and his heart ached for her.

His gaze devoured her as she pulled her braid free and set loose her glorious mantle of pale flaxen. He rethought his first decision as he stalked around the bed after her. If she wanted a friend, there were plenty in Skye. He was going to take her . . . in every possible way.

She turned in his arms when he reached her and the spark of warmth, of excitement in her eyes made him as stiff as an iron rod against her.

She rose up on the tips of her toes, stretching her luscious curves over the length of him to whisper along his prickly jaw, “Would you like to undress me, warrior?”

The sensual hook of his mouth gave her the answer she sought. His muscles knotted with the restraint it took not to tear her garments away, butt her up against the wall, and fuck her until she could no longer stand. He reached for her belt with his hands and seized her lower lip with his teeth, pulling her closer. But she broke free, teasing him with a daring smirk as she backed away. Her gaze dipped to the long hump stretching his plaid taut between his legs, and she licked her lips.

His cock throbbed when he thought of that tongue licking him, that mouth sucking him until he . . .

“Though you have claimed me, I have not yet decided if I want you.”

He laughed at her coy game. She liked the chase as much as he did.

Kicking off his boots, he shed his plaid and took his huge erection in his hand. “Whether ye want me or not, ye’re going to have me.”

She arched her brow at him. “Am I?”

“Aye,” he promised in a rich, throaty baritone and moved toward her. He slid his hand up his shaft, to his engorged head, and then down again. “I’ve been patient long enough.” Every muscle in his body tensed, and he grew harder, more defined in the firelight.

He reached for her belt again, and this time, she did not resist. “But first, I want to taste these ripe breasts.” Bending his head, he sucked her nipple through the fabric of her tunic. When she gasped his name, clutching his shoulders, he pulled the tunic over her head, capturing her wrists in her sleeves and holding her still while he caught her nipple between his teeth and flicked his tongue over the sensitive tip.

When she strained toward him and bit his neck in response, he let out a low growl, released her, and tunneled his fingers deep into her hair. With one hand and a little pressure he guided her hungry kisses over his abdomen while he closed his other hand around his lance and guided it into her mouth.

The feel of her soft, wet lips around his head was pure ecstasy. But when she began to suck, he almost came in her mouth. He pulled her up, tugged off her trews, and spread her beneath him on the bed. With a curl of his mouth that promised utter surrender and complete domination, he impaled her to the hilt.

Later, Claire lay in his arms beneath the thick fur bed covering. Their lovemaking was perfect, raw passion blended exquisitely with tenderness. It was everything she had wanted to give him, and more.

And yet, she felt like weeping. Satan’s arse, she had thought she was stronger than this. She had thought she could live with the memory of him alone. But now, in the dreamy aftermath of their intimacy, she knew it was not enough. The future was too uncertain. She could deal with Charles and Connor. It was Graham’s decisions that frightened her, his lifestyle that plagued her notions of love, and family, and a life with him. Could he surrender his heart to one woman? Could he ever love her enough to stand before the king and proclaim it?

She closed her eyes against the hard angles of his chest and listened to him breathing, memorizing the sound of his strong heartbeat, the scent of him, the feel of him. It might be all she had left.

“What troubles ye, Claire?”

She opened her eyes but did not move, letting the deep melodious burr of his voice seep into her bones like warm mead. “Nothing troubles me,” she lied. How could she tell him the truth? She was fairly certain that if she told him she wanted to bear him a dozen bairns, he would leap for the door and she would never see him again.

“Then why are yer fingernails tearing holes in my arm?”

She loosened her grip on him and murmured a soft apology. A few moments later she wiped a tear from her eye and swore an oath under her breath.

He sat up immediately, pulling her with him. “Claire, are ye weeping?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she replied, sweeping away another tear and keeping her gaze averted from his. “We should get moving.”

“Aye, we should,” he agreed, stroking his hand down the length of her hair. “But first ye’ll tell me why ye weep.”

“I was thinking of my brother. He will be in your debt.” She moved to swing her legs off the bed, but Graham caught her, stopping her before she left him. “I will make certain that he grants you whatever you want.”

“I want ye.”

As much as it pained her to do so, she looked at him, feeling as if she needed to burn his image into her mind. God, he was beautiful sitting there wearing naught but a fur blanket and a tender smile. Firelight flickered around his features, kindling the ever-present sultry glitter in his eyes.

“You have had me,” she said with a note of defeat ringing in her voice that made his smile fade.

At first, alarm passed over his features, but it quickly changed into anger. “I see. So this meant naught to ye?”

If he didn’t look so dangerous sitting there about to pounce on her, Claire would have laughed right in his face, or burst into tears. “To me?” She raised her hand to her chest. “Do you jest?”

“Not about this,” he said, his voice an octave above a growl, his green eyes boring into her.

“Very well, then, I will tell you.” She tilted her chin, ready to have out with the whole pitiful truth once and for all. “It meant everything to me. What I gave you, I never gave to anyone else.”

His hard expression faltered. “I know.”

“Do you?” Her eyes searched his. She no longer cared that tears were spilling from them. “You have touched me in a way that no one else has and no one else ever will again, and I fear I have been naught but a victory for you.”

“A victory?” Now he sounded as pitiful as she had a moment ago. “Woman, I have thrown down my arsenal at yer feet and allowed ye to pierce my heart. Where is the victory in that? D’ye think I wanted to fall so deeply in love with ye that the thought of a day without ye is worse fer me than the thought of surrendering on the battlefield? I—”

“What did you say?” Claire sniffed, cutting him off.

He stared at her as if his heart might leap from his chest and he was powerless to stop it. “The thought of . . .”

“Nae, before that.” She inched closer to him, unsure of her own ears. “The part about falling deeply in love with me. Have you? Fallen in love with me?”

“Aye.” He raked his fingers through his hair and scowled at her. “Why else d’ye think I’ve turned into such a pansy?”

Instead of answering, Claire hurled herself into his arms, pushing him down onto the bed. She kissed him senseless within the veil of her thick pale locks. When she finally withdrew, just enough for them to share their breath, she looked into his eyes and smiled. “If you’ve gone soft—and let me assure you, you have not—I have been too busy falling in love with you to notice.”

His dimples flashed and Claire melted all over him. “Ye could have saved me a sennight’s worth of anguish by telling me that sooner.”

“And we could have been wed by your priest if you had told me.” Claire bit his lip gently and laughed when he rolled her onto her back.

“Then let me tell ye now,” he said tenderly, poised above her. “I love ye, Claire.” He kissed her, and then spent the rest of the night showing her how much.

Chapter Thirty-four

L
et a soldier’s resolution be never so great, and his courage invincible in the day of battle.

James Buchanan waited in an uncomfortable chair with a high, cushioned back that tilted him forward. The chair looked inviting from the door, but when he sat down the elaborate wood carved along the edges poked and pinched and made waiting for his audience with Charles Fleetwood slightly unbearable. He sat back and shifted restlessly. When he noticed his hands shaking slightly, he cursed himself. He had no reason to be afraid. He’d proven his value to Fleetwood, and to Lambert, as well. They would not dare lay a hand on the man who could end the Scottish resistance with but a word. They would be angry with him for coming here to London, but it was a risk he was willing to take. If Connor was alive when the king returned—if the king returned—James knew his death would be swift. Why the hell were they keeping the bastard alive?

He looked around the spacious study, hoping Elizabeth would come to him before her father did. She would help him, mayhap even sneak him into the Tower. He was thinking of the quickest way to kill Connor when the huge wooden door at the other end of the study creaked open.

Tall and middle-aged, General Fleetwood had piercing dark eyes that had seen their share of battle, though these days he preferred to act more as a politician than a warrior. “Ah, Buchanan, what brings you to Wallingford House?” He strode into the study, his long auburn curls bouncing spryly around his shoulders.

James rose from his chair to properly receive his host, then sank back into it when Fleetwood’s heels clicked past him. He heaved a silent sigh of relief when the general gave no indication of anger at his arrival. “I have been informed that the traitor Connor Stuart still lives,” he said, feeling a bit more at ease.

“And what has that to do with you?” Fleetwood looked up briefly as he poured himself a drink.

“I am curious as to why he was not killed as we discussed.”

“So you came here to question me.” The general cast James a cool sneer and sipped his wine.

“Nae, I—”

“Nae? Then why did you come? To kill Stuart yourself, perhaps?” He laughed, but the sound held no mirth as he took a seat behind a massive table of carved wood. “Fear often follows the vilest of men. It is what drives them. But I would know
why
you fear him so much that you would forfeit the safety of your anonymity and ride all the way to London to ensure his silence. Do you worry that he will escape and seek you out? Or is it someone else entirely that you fear?”

“My lord,” James eyed the cup in Fleetwood’s hand and swallowed, wishing for a swig of the spirit to calm his nerves. “I am sure I do not know who else you speak of.”

“Why, I speak of the king, of course. I believe you know more about what Monck is up to than you told us.” He smiled, ignoring James’s emphatic denial. “Our friend, the governor, has openly declared himself ready to uphold the Parliament’s authority. The Parliament we dissolved. For weeks now, his representatives have been engaged in negotiations with the Committee of Safety to resolve the matter without bloodshed. Yet, at this very moment, he has amassed an army of several thousand and marches toward England. Does he support the king as well? We had hoped to gain information from Stuart, but he has remained stalwart despite our many . . . creative attempts to draw the truth from him. You were the only other man who was present during Monck and Stuart’s clandestine meetings.”

“Nae, I told you I was not privy to their conversations,” James insisted, swiping his sleeve across his brow. Hell, something was wrong. Terribly wrong. “I only know what Connor told me in confidence. That General Monck had agreed with him about the civil unrest here in England and he planned on doing something about it.”

“Restoring the king to the throne, mayhap?”

“Mayhap,” James answered, starting in his seat when the door opened again. “I . . . I do not know for certain.” When he saw Elizabeth enter the study accompanied by two of her father’s guardsmen, his heart stalled in his chest.

“You know my daughter.” Fleetwood’s voice lowered to a chilling pitch. “She agreed to aid me in bringing you back in return for my forgiveness for sleeping with so loathsome a creature as you. I suspected the moment you learned that Stuart lived, you would show up at my door. Now tell me why you are so eager to see him dead, or you will be hanged along with him.”

“I know nothing!” James recoiled in his chair when the two guardsmen left Elizabeth and moved toward him. “Nae, you cannot kill me. You need me! I am the one who—”

“You are correct.” Fleetwood motioned with his hand for his men to seize James. “I need you to tell me everything you know about George Monck. You will have plenty of time to think on it in the Tower. My only regret,” he called out as James was led out of the study, “is that you will not be reunited with the man who dreams of killing you.” He smiled pleasantly when James paused and looked back at him over his shoulder. “Stuart is on his way back to Scotland with Major General Lambert.”