Claimed by a Scottish Lord (21 page)

Only one small step brought his body against hers. His skin smelt of rain and sweet-scented soap, his hair smelt of cloves. The fire blazed hot on her back and on his arms where she raised her palms to the powerful cord and muscle that delineated his shoulders. Rivulets of water trickled from his hair to his chest.

He lowered his head. He traced the shape of her mouth with his tongue, parting her lips.

―Lord, Rose . ‖ His breath pushed hot against hers. ―I am not myself around you. I need to slow down. Or I will hurt you.‖

She clung to his arms, her fingers digging into the rigid flesh. He was thick and hard against her stomach, and as the storm outside raged, another more powerful one churned inside her.

He tangled his fingers in her hair and dragged her head back, and still she had not breathed. The silver earring caught some of the firelight and it shimmered like a star. ―What is it you want, Rose?‖

She wanted never to be responsible for another person‘s pain again. She wanted this night with him. She wanted someone to want
her
!

―Open your eyes to me, Rose. Look at me.‖

She played no coy game of seduction and, with a blinding honesty she was not used to feeling, she knew that neither did he. He wanted her.

The pads of his thumbs stroked her lower lip, his touch feathered across her face. His warm mouth moved downward until it closed over the turgid hardness of her nipple. A shiver passed over her.

She melted against him and her head tilted back as his lips suckled the pulse beating wildly at her throat.

She felt something primal claw at him. Something that made him seek to narrow the space between them and do more than simply possess her body as he grasped the backs of her thighs and lifted her to the table, stepping between her legs.

She caught herself against her palms. The wine chalice on the table tipped, spilling wine over her fingers. He bent his head and kissed her nipple, rolling it between his lips, swirling the fiery lash of his tongue around the sensitive ruched flesh. Her breath caught and held.

―Ruark . ‖

His voice touched her senses. ―Shh.‖ His strength surrounded her, consumed her, sweeping her into a sea of desire. He kissed the underside of each breast.

His want explicit, he reached between her legs with his hand and parted her, the melting friction of his finger sliding inside her turning her to jelly. On a gasp, she broke from the kiss.

His hair askew and half falling from the thong that held it, a lock brushed his cheek. Her breath came in little pants. And she seemed to hang suspended with him.

He stepped back, his hooded eyes surveying her nakedness while he worked to free his shirt from his breeches. She half sat motionless, unable to take her eyes off his hands. As he pulled his shirt over his head, she smoothed her hand over the hardened planes of his stomach, the intense pleasure of watching him undress heating her.

He tossed the shirt behind him, his expression remaining impassive, and she watched him remove the rest of his clothing and carelessly drop all aside. She remembered the way he had looked by the pond, taut of waist and narrow of hip, his thighs exuding strength.

But now she could see all of him. His member extended thick and long from a nest of black curls. The pattern of his man‘s hair tapered upward in a narrow line that arrowed up his abdomen and sprinkled his chest.

His fingers closed on her shoulders as he eased her back never breaking the intimacy of his touch. He moved his palms between her thighs and with the gentlest of pressure nudged her legs apart.

―Bend your knees,‖ he whispered.

She did as he bid. Then his lips took hers again. His kiss was thorough. Sliding one hand around her bottom, he lifted her, spreading her legs wider. And somewhere in that touch, he pushed inside her heated body.

He used both hands on her waist to hold her. A gasp of pleasure punctuated her groan. He was large, and she was tight, despite how aroused she was. He leaned his cheek against her hair, then kissed a warm trail down her temple to her throat. Dark, silky hair brushed her cheek.

―Better?‖ His voice broke on a gasp.

She adjusted her bottom, and closing her eyes, felt him more deeply inside her. The burning had passed. The pressure intense. She felt . ―Much better.‖

He steadied her body with one hand on her nape, intensifying the pleasure with his fingers. ―Brace on the table. Lift higher,‖ he said between his teeth.

He used both hands on her waist to adjust her as he thrust. Slowly at first, his face fiercely beautiful in the firelight. His lashes, thick and dark, framed his eyes. ―Open to me, Rose. Let me feel you.‖ Sliding the tip of his tongue from the pulse at her throat in a seductive path across her shoulder, he kissed her flesh. ―Let me be deep inside. Deep.‖

His mouth moved on down until it closed over the turgid hardness of her nipple. A shiver passed over her. When his hand parted her thighs and pushed her wider, she drew a sharp breath.

She savored the rasp of his flesh against hers. Where he led, she wanted to follow. In this, she trusted him.

Her hips moved with his. Against him. Like the melody and harmony that combined to make perfect music. ―Come with me, Rose.‖

He pulled back to look down on her, her hair spread against the table.

Their gazes touched and locked briefly, his dark and searing. The pads of his thumbs stroked her lower lip, his touch feathered across her face. He watched her from behind a thick fringe of his lashes. Then his gaze was following the slide of his hands along the pale smooth curve of her waist to the place where his body was joined to her.

She was aware of the fullness of his sex within her as he thrust against her. Instinctively, she sought more of him.

Instinctively, she arched her back.

Her breaths became shorter. Then he was moving hard between her legs and she found herself absorbed with sensation. The friction of his movements. His scent as he leaned over her, slightly salty and definitely male. She could smell herself on him as well, the soap she‘d used to bathe. All with every stroke as he rode between her thighs.

With a cry, she wrapped her legs around his hips, holding him close. Her head fell to the side. She felt liquid beneath him. Unbearable. Breathless. She cried out softly as he continued carrying her. Higher.

He pressed his lips against her throat. Yet each time his lips parted from hers, they returned for more, slanting across hers in an openmouthed kiss, swallowing the cry that rose at the back of her throat, and she drowned in his kiss. Drowned still clinging to him. Their breaths ragged as he found his release inside her. She refused to let him go until her heart‘s tempo began to slow.

Then, moaning something earthy and profane, he buried his face in the moist curve of her neck, and they began to breathe with more measure. She lay flat on her back, staring at the timber crossbeams in the ceiling.

He brushed the dampened hair from her face and kissed her brow. He stared at her with an expression she couldn‘t read. Then he lifted her into his arms and carried her to the blankets in front of the hearth.

R
ose roused to half sleep when she felt Ruark rise some time later. Turning her head, she caught a glimpse of his taut buttocks as he padded naked across the room to where he had set his canvas saddlebag. She thought him beautiful, bronzed by firelight.

He stopped at the breakfront and poured water from a skin into a blue pottery bowl. She heard splashing. He must have found a rag among his things for he returned with both. He had not spoken more than a few words since he had settled her against him, and she had been too absorbed by what had just transpired to worry that something may be wrong.

He knelt beside her. His eyes dipped to where the blanket had fallen to her waist, making her conscious of the intimacies they had shared. Suddenly shy, she wanted to pull the blanket up to her shoulders.

―Open your legs, Rose.‖

She hesitated, then did as he told her.

―This will be cold.‖

The water
was
cold, but it was also cooling. His touch was gentle as he removed traces of semen on her thighs. ―I was too rough,‖ he said.

― ‘Twas different this time,‖ she said. ―Better even than before.‖

He raised his eyes, amusement touching her. She wanted to ask if what had just happened between them was always so special between a man and a woman.

He lay down beside her and, settling her into the crook of his arm, pulled the blanket over them. She lay with her cheek against his shoulder.

Splaying her fingers across his chest muscles and dark springy hair, she considered the strength of him beneath her palm as she collected such random observations about him. She could not help admiring his dark nakedness against her pale skin. She traced a fingertip down the thin line of hair over his abdomen, pushing the blanket ever lower.

His fingers grazed her cheek, drawing her gaze upward. As if sensing her mood, he pushed his fingers farther into her hair. ―You will find more to explore if you keep touching me like that.‖

―I like touching you.‖

She traced her fingertip across a round indented scar just above his hip. ―You‘ve been wounded . ‖

―Grapeshot,‖ he answered.

Remembering what McBain had said about the measure of a man facing a broadside, she touched another jagged scar beneath his ribs. ―Rapier,‖ he answered before she could ask.

―Truly.‖ She rose up on her elbow as she found another thin line across his collarbone.

―And this one? Musket shot or ax blade?‖

―I fell out of a tree when I was ten.‖

Her mouth quirked. ―I see.‖

―I was spying on the milkmaids bathing in the stream. The branch broke. If not for the fact that I fell on half the Kerr cousins on my way down, I might have broken my neck.‖ She shook her head and fell back on the blanket laughing. He rose on his elbow above her. ―Duncan made sure the lot of us could not sit for a week after that. We did no more spying to be sure.‖

―You are close to Duncan?‖

He hesitated. ―In every way, he was more a father to be than my own.‖

He pushed her hair back. ―And what of you?‖ he asked when he had her attention. ―Other than your thigh, have you any scars ‘pon such lovely flesh?‖

―As a matter of fact, I do.‖

She lowered the blanket to her hip and pointed out a small scar the size of a shilling where she had burned herself.

―Tell me about it.‖

―I am what Sister Nessa claims ‗possessed of a curious nature.‘ I never understood if she was speaking about my mind or the fact that most who know me think me unusual. I believe now she meant both. She warned that curiosity would be the death of me. She was nearly right.‖

He twirled a strand of her hair around his finger. ―Was she?‖

―Aye, I blew up the watermill. ‘Twas an accident, of course,‖ she said in all seriousness, for at the time it had frightened her. ―I had sought to make a lightning arrester. I thought a rod would divert the electricity, but instead it invited a strike. I still do not know what I did wrong. I was so sure . You are laughing.‖

―Nay, love. But what possessed you to think of such a scheme?‖

She sat and settled the blanket about her hips, her long thick hair protecting the rest of her modesty. ― ‘Twas my intent to save the church tower in Castleton. Every year the tower is struck by lightning. Every year the villagers rebuild. Mrs. Simpson had given me a book about a phenomenon called electricity and some people were open to the idea, thinking they could better spend their time building other things. Others argued that I was attempting to circumvent divine will by placing such a rod on the tower in hopes of diverting destruction. They believed that if He chose to continuously throw lightning bolts at the church steeple, I should not interfere.

―So as an experiment, I took my rod and copper to the watermill, which sits at the highest point near the abbey. Lightning
did
strike. It caught the mill on fire. It burned it to the ground in a spectacular bonfire that could be seen for miles. Friar Tucker was beside himself.‖

Ruark was laughing so hard, Rose glared down at him. ― ‘Tis how I came to be in the vault and discovered the puzzle box that contained the ring.‖

He held up his hand. ―This ring?‖

She frowned as the memory of his theft intruded. He may not believe in its power, but she did, and she was not even the person who wore the ring.

Frowning, she held his hand, and traced her fingers over the ring, as if by touching it, she could know that much more about him. ― ‘Tis an Arthurian relic. When you are granted whatever you want most, only then will the ring release you.‖

He tilted her chin with his palm. ―Do you believe in magic, Rose?‖

―Everyone needs to believe in something,‖ she said.

He slid his fingers into her hair. He pulled her head down and, kissing her with unhurried ease, rolled her onto her back. ―At the moment, I can think of wanting nothing more than you.‖

He set his mouth to her breasts, drawing first one budded peak, then the other between his lips. He lowered his hand and gently palmed her sex. ―You are hot,‖ he whispered against her throat. ―How do you feel?‖

His erection registered in her half-drugged senses.

A soreness burned between her thighs and a throbbing heat still lingered in her womb, as if he had permanently branded her with his touch. Yet she wanted to feel him inside her again.

She splayed her fingers in his hair, watching from behind half-closed lids as he explored her body with his mouth and his hands. ―I feel as if I should ask if you are under some sort of mystical enchantment.‖

He smiled against her breast. ―Aye, I am enchanted. Or I would not want you as I do. That is the truth.‖

She half believed he
was
charmed.

Or
she
was. For she was in danger of falling in love with him. ―You could at least pretend you want me for something other than—‖

―Desire?‖

She had intended to say a political pawn, but stopped herself ‘ere she spoke the words.