Amanda Scott (33 page)

He got to his feet as he spoke and extended a hand to her.

Cristina took it willingly and let him draw her to her feet, but she could still see the imprint of her hand from the slap, and she watched him warily. It seemed a lifetime ago that she had vented her anger, but it had been only a few minutes.

He reached toward her, and she stiffened, but he just brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. His touch sent a jolt through her, as if the very blood coursing through her, making her heart pound again, were liquid fire. She could not seem to move, only to watch him and wonder how he would punish her for striking him. That he would let such an insolence pass was impossible to believe.

Her mouth was dry. She licked her lips.

A little hoarsely, he said, “Come, lass. Stop gaping at me as if I were going to murder you, and let’s find that croft.”

“You looked as if you wanted to murder me,” she said as he put an arm around her shoulders and urged her farther into the woods. “I’m sorry I hit you.”

“Not as sorry as you were about to be when Nature intervened,” he said.

She swallowed hard, but his arm was warm across her shoulders and he was urging her to a faster pace. She had taken off her caul when she sat down on the rock, and had left it behind when Hector grabbed her, so her hair was wet and untidy. She must, she thought, look a sight. Doubtless, he would have more to say to her, too. She was not looking forward to finding that croft.

Hector tried to imagine what she was thinking. Could she really have meant it when she said he should not think himself a coward despite his fear of lightning? For that one dreadful moment when the lightning flash had turned the woods to white light, he had thought her lost to him, had thought them both lost. At least one tree had suffered from the blast, for he had heard its branches shatter and smelled charred wood, but the odor had dispersed quickly, and now he could detect only the herbal scents of damp woodland.

The croft lay in a clearing just ahead, and although ominous rumbles still sounded from time to time, the worst of the storm had passed, and they grew distant. Only the rain remained, pelting down heavily. They would have to make a dash across the clearing to the croft, or they would be soaked to the skin.

Cristina had not spoken and kept nibbling her lower lip. He knew what she was thinking as well as if she had told him, but it was good that she worried. A wife should never strike her husband and should certainly never think she could do so with impunity. His anger had vanished, but he would exact a penance for her insolence. He expected to enjoy it, and mayhap she would, too.

Inside the croft, the dirt floor lay a foot or two below the level of the ground outside, down stone steps from the doorway. The air inside was as chilly and damp as it was outside, but Cristina helped Hector gather nearly dry kindling and logs, and, with the tinderbox he carried, he started a small fire on the stone hearth.

Rain came through the single small window, but he found a broken shutter outside and managed to block most of it by jamming a branch between it and the wooden frame and tucking leaves and small branches into the remaining cracks. By the time the fire began crackling, the croft was as cozy as they could make it.

The floor was dry enough for him to spread his cloak, and he drew her down on it beside him. “Your cloak is wet,” he said as he lifted it from her shoulders and spread it over a broken settle near the hearth to dry. “Snuggle close to me, lass. The heat of our bodies will keep us warm until the fire burns off the chill in here.”

Her skin prickled at the thought that he would soon say all he wanted to say to her, but she obeyed without comment. After they had sat quietly staring into the fire for a few moments, she said, “I have been thinking about what you said.”

“About the annulment?”

“Nay, about the lightning.”

“Oh.”

“You are like your ships in that you just fear fire more than water; that’s all.”

“Aye, perhaps, but about the annulment, lass. Do you believe me?”

“I do,” she said, looking directly at him. “You don’t tell me lies, sir.”

“You’re a sweet lassie,” he said, bending nearer to kiss her.

She leaned away. “You barely heeded what I said about the lightning.”

“It was enough before when you said you don’t think me a coward.”

“Well, don’t kiss me just because you think I’m sweet.”

“Faith, lass, I don’t just want to kiss you,” he said, pressing her back onto his cloak and leaning over her to look into her eyes. “I want to make love to you, but if you’re still going to insist that I have no right to do so, I can just take a nap until the rain stops.” He leaned closer, his lips less than an inch from hers, his breath warm, his body tensely appealing beside hers. “What do you say, sweetheart?”

Chapter
17

H
er face was flushed, Hector noted, either from reaction to his question or from the heat of the fire, and she had lost her caul somewhere, because her hair was loose and tangled, clinging in damp, honey-colored strands to her temples and cheeks. Her bodice ties had come loose so that it gaped, revealing her slim throat and the lacy edge of her shift, as well as an enticing reminder of the rounded curves below.

Her lips were but an inch away, and she looked up at him with wide eyes. When he put his hand on her breast, she gasped, and her breathing quickened. His body stirred strongly, and he said, “Well, sweetheart?”

“Are you still angry?” she asked.

“Nay, but you do deserve to pay a penance.”

“What sort of penance?”

“Kiss me.”

She licked her lips, and he waited no longer, claiming them with a groan and tasting them thoroughly. Her response was all that he had hoped it would be. When her lips parted, he thrust his tongue into her mouth, savoring its velvety warmth.

Pulling her laces free, he opened her bodice, nearly groaning again when his hand met the lacy cambric of her shift.

“You have too many clothes on,” he said, sitting up and pulling her with him. He dealt swiftly with her skirts and shift, tossing them aside and moving to embrace her again.

“Wait,” she said. “I’ll freeze.”

“You won’t, for I’ll put another log on the fire.”

“But what of your clothing?”

“Sakes, but you’re an impatient wench,” he said, smiling. But he stood, built the fire up, and then stripped off his clothing without more ado, tossing doublet, shirt, trunk hose, shoes, and netherstocks wherever they might fall, his awareness that she was watching stimulating him considerably.

He turned to face her, naked, and saw her blush again. Lying next to her on his side, elbow crooked, his head on one hand, he said, “Now, where was I?”

Taking his free hand, she placed it on her breast. “Here,” she said.

Needing no further encouragement, he bent nearer and kissed her, tasting her mouth again briefly before moving to taste first her right breast, then the left one. Her soft skin tasted salty, and when he took a nipple in his mouth to suckle it, she moaned and began to press her body against his. His hand lay on her belly, but when she moved, he eased it lower, to the soft curls at juncture between her legs.

She moaned again. “I want to hold you,” she said.

“Touch me first,” he said. “Touch me as intimately as I touch you.”

He heard her quick indrawn breath, but she did not protest. Nor did she obey him at once, touching only his chest and caressing his sides. Then, lightly, she put a finger to one of his nipples, rubbing it gently before she gripped it between forefinger and thumb.

Although she seemed barely to be touching him, the blood roared in his ears, and he was throbbing below. His body was urgent for hers. He slipped two fingers into the opening between her legs and delighted in her sharp gasp.

“Grip me harder, sweetheart, and caress me lower, as I hold you.”

Obediently, she shifted her free hand and gripped his throbbing penis hard enough to make him cry out, “Nay then, harder above, but gently there, lass, lest you would unman me!”

A sudden twinkle leaped to her eyes, and she said, “Have I discovered a means by which to make you obey me, Hector Reaganach?”

In response, he rolled atop her, his right knee between her legs. Having already ascertained that she was ready to receive him, he eased her hand away and entered her, plunging deep. When her body leaped to meet his, he moaned in his pleasure and captured her mouth with his.

For the next several minutes, both of them lost themselves in passion until his claimed him and he pounded into her and gained his release. When he stopped moving, she moaned, and he knew that she had not reached hers.

Relaxing, he lay for some moments beside her, listening as her quick breathing eased itself. The rain outside had eased, too, but it still beat a steady patter on the croft’s thatched roof. After some moments, he leaned up on his elbow again and looked into her eyes. She stared straight up at the ceiling.

“Smile at me, sweetheart,” he said.

Her smile was soft, but her body moved impatiently, squirming in her frustration. He let her squirm for a moment or two, and then moved his hand to tease her a little more.

She gasped.

“Now, who is in control?” he said, grinning at her.

“You are,” she said, gasping again.

“Recall that I am a musician, sweetheart. If I want to exact a penance, I can strum you like my lute.”

She moaned, and taking that for encouragement, he moved lower down to tease her with his tongue where his fingers played.

To his delight, she made no objection, clearly savoring his attention until he brought her to release. Afterward, she lay quietly, staring at him in wonder. “I didn’t know,” she said. “I never knew anyone could feel like this.”

Lying beside her again, holding her close with her head on his shoulder, he drew a deep breath and let himself relax, feeling much of the same wonder that she had expressed and wishing they could linger. But the rain had stopped.

“We should get back,” she said a few moments later. “People will worry.”

“Let them,” he said, thinking that even with her hair in a tangle, she looked beautiful. “Not that anyone
will
worry,” he added. “Those who might do so must know that I came in search of you, and they also know that had I not found you by now, I’d have roused the entire castle to look for you.”

“Would you?”

“Aye, lass, so remember that, because if you ever give me cause to do that, I’ll have something to say when I find you that you won’t want to hear.”

“Like this, today?”

He grinned. “I admit this turned out better than I’d expected. I think you can safely expect to see me at Lochbuie soon after your own arrival there. I’m greedy to taste your treasures again as soon as possible.”

“Faith, sir, you can savor them all you like right here at Ardtornish,” she said, giving him a wary look.

He met it soberly. “I still mean to send you home, sweetheart. I spoke in anger before, but the plain fact is that my duties here will consume my time until the Steward departs, and afterward for mayhap a sennight or so until things settle down again. You’ll find peace at Lochbuie, and I’ll worry about you less if I know you’re safe there, well away from the likes of Fergus Love and your sister Mariota’s mischief. I’ll send Isobel and your aunt along with you, if you like.”

“I won’t be sent back like a misbehaving wife,” she said, sitting up and pushing strands of hair off her cheeks. “I’ve done nothing to warrant that, sir, and well do you know it. Nor will Isobel or Aunt Euphemia jump to your command. You would have to gain my father’s permission first, I think.”

He frowned, knowing she was right, that he could not order Macleod’s sister or young daughter back to Lochbuie. But where Cristina was concerned, either he would be master of his household or he would not.

Sternly, he said, “You’ll go, my lass, if I have to sling you over my shoulder and carry you down to the longboat. And if you think my men will dance to your piping after I’ve given them their orders, you’ll find you are much mistaken.”

She got up, put on her clothes without asking for help, shook the dust from her skirt, and felt her cloak to see if it was dry. He watched, wondering why he had never noticed before how gracefully she moved, how each movement and gesture conveyed a serenity and elegance that made just watching her such a pleasure.

When she looked pointedly at him, then at his clothing scattered across the dirt floor, he took the hint and dressed quickly.

He wanted to say more, to be sure she understood that he would brook no defiance—even that he would miss her—but both instinct and logic told him he would do better to keep silent. He doubted that she would defy him now that he had issued a command, because she was obedient and tended to avoid confrontation. She would not like it, but she would pack her things and return on tomorrow’s afternoon tide.

Cristina was grateful for his silence. The passion he had shown during their coupling had given her sufficient confidence to tell him she would not go, because she had been nearly certain that, sexually sated as he was, he would not fly into a temper with her. But either she had not chosen her moment as well as she had hoped or his decision to send her home was stronger than she had realized.

She would not press the point now, but perhaps later, after supper and the reception for Robert the Steward, she would find a way to influence his decision, or at least to delay her departure for a day or so, until others would also be leaving. She had heard other women talk of using feminine wiles, in bed especially, to persuade their husbands to a certain course. She had a feeling that Hector would not be easily persuaded now that he had made his decision, but she could certainly try.

The silence between them lasted until they reached the clearing at the top of the cliffs and he whistled for his horse. When it did not respond, he whistled again, a louder, more piercing sound that made Cristina want to cover her ears, but still there was no sign of the horse.

“Spooked by the storm and already in the barn, I’ll warrant,” he muttered. “Sorry, lass, I should have tied him. I guess we’re walking.”