Seducing a Scottish Bride (36 page)

“Sweet lass — forgive me, but I canna resist you.” He tightened his grip on her, grinding his face against her heat. “I tried,
I swear, but —”

“ No-o-o!” Gelis twined her fingers in his hair, pressing him to her. “ ’Tis right and good, I say you! Everything between
us.”

“Then dinna deny me . . .” He ran his hands up and down her legs, kissed and nipped the inside of her thighs, circling ever
higher until his tongue teased round her most sensitive spot, that one heated swirl splitting her.

“Ach, gods!” she cried, her back arching when he continued to flick his tongue there. “What are you doing?”

“Naught that I willna be enjoying the whole night through!” He licked her then, a long-broad-tongued sweep the full tingling
length of her.

Looking up at her, he held her gaze, his own smoldering. “All that I’d heard of you did you no justice,” he breathed, the
words warm silk against her flesh. “I dinna think I’ll e’er be able to sate myself on you.”

“Then . . .” Gelis couldn’t speak. Just seeing his face poised so close to her feminine ache sent threads of delicious golden
warmth spinning through her.

Desire thrummed the air and he leaned closer again, his mouth less than a whisper away, but she could feel his tongue on her
even without touching, the sensation making her heart beat faster.

“You taste like molten honey.” He eased her thighs wider apart, licked her more fully. “I canna breathe for wanting you, need
your taste on the back of my tongue, your scent branded into my skin.”

“ Then — ach
dia
!” She jumped when his tongue parted her, its hot velvety tip slipping inside her.

He swept his hands up her sides to knead and plump her breasts, his thumbs sliding back and forth over her nipples as he licked
her center again, once more swirling his tongue over and around that sweet wee place that made such intense pleasure pulse
between her legs.

“Then what, lass?”

His voice a deep, sensual growl, he pulled back to peer up at her, his hand replacing his tongue, caressing and rubbing her
intimately. “I’ve told you — I am lost. Tell me your desire, and it is yours, I swear it.”

“Then make me yours.” She rushed the words, blurting them before his stroking fingers made her burst and shatter into thousands
of tiny, mind-numbing pieces.

Already she was spinning, the whole of her world whirling tighter and tighter until nothing remained but that bright, hot-throbbing
pulse at her core.

But her heart beat just as fiercely, and even through such blinding pleasure, she wanted more.

“Take me now, this night.” She pushed to her feet while she still could. “Unless” — she reached for his hand, the gesture
pleading — “unless you fear sealing our handfast?”

“I fear naught but losing you!” He grabbed her hand and upturned it, kissing the soft warmth of her palm. “That, and . . .
hurting you.”

“I know there will be discomfort.” She reached for him, curling her fingers around his need. “The greater pain would be missing
it,” she said, squeezing.

It was more than he could bear.

“Then so be it!”

He made to gather her in his arms, meaning to carry her to the bed, but she dropped onto the spread plaid, lying back and
opening her arms to him.

“Here, on your plaid.” She looked up at him, her eyes glittering in the candlelight. “I’d have you love me in the old way
— in honor of our hills and the ancients so that they might bless our union.”

“You bless us, sweetness.” Ronan bent to tug off his boots, then shoved down his hose, kicking them aside. He stretched out
alongside her, certain she was indeed his blessing.

He only hoped he could be hers as well.

But then she circled her arms around his neck and pulled him down to her and all thought fled. Only his need to bury himself
deep inside her remained. Burning with it, he shifted, covering her body with his. He kissed her long and hard, almost spilling
when she lifted her knees and clamped her legs tightly around him.

She rocked her hips, moving so that his hardness slid across her, the length of him pressing hotly against her slick, wet
heat.

He reached down between them, seeking that place again, rubbing and circling until she began to tremble and gasp with pleasure.
And always, he kissed her, slanting his mouth over hers and kissing her deeply, sharing breath and letting his tongue tangle
with hers until he could wait no more and a great shudder rolled through him, driving him dangerously close to losing control.

“Now, Ronan!” she gasped as if she knew.

“I must, lass.” He lifted up to look into her eyes. “I can stop no more.”

And then he plunged into her, her sharp cry muffled by his kisses. He froze, holding still for a few tight, agonizingly beautiful
moments, then began moving slowly, filling her inch by inch until he’d buried himself so deeply inside her he was sure he’d
brushed her soul.

“My Raven . . .” She raised her hips, intensifying their joining, then cried out when he lowered his head and began suckling
her nipples as he started moving in and out of her.

Slow smooth glides, long and deep.

And still he kept a hand just there, his finger circling faster now, in sweet hot rhythm with his pumping hips. His strokes
came harder and faster now, plunging deep, while the exquisite tingles streaming out from that other place dampened the dull
pain inside her, spinning her closer and closer to a brilliant edge looming ever nearer each time his finger swirled over
her.

Then his finger stopped circling and he cried out, a great stinging heat flooding her even as she sped over that glittering
edge, shattering and spinning, her own cry blending with his as she slowly drifted back down onto his plaid and the night-darkened
room once again took shape and form around them.

“Oh, dear saints,” she gasped when she could speak.

“Sweet lass . . . you are magnificent.” He’d stilled on top of her, but he rolled off her now, gently drawing her into his
arms to cradle her against him. “But I am sorry for the hurt —”

“The wonder of it more than made up for the pain.” She twisted around to kiss him. “And I . . . I knew what to expect,” she
added, sighing when he smoothed a hand down over her hip to toy softly with her damp maiden curls.

But then his fingers stilled and the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing let her know he’d fallen asleep. Unfortunately,
her arm had, too.

She frowned.

The sharp prickles jabbing up and down from her shoulder to her fingertips made it impossible for her to join him in his slumber.

Nor could she move, for her arm had somehow slipped beneath him and he looked so dear in his sleep, she couldn’t bear the
thought of disturbing him.

So she lay as still and quiet as she could, her gaze on the moon-silvered window arch not far from where they lay on his plaid
on the floor.

The only open window in the room, it let in a draught of icy air, the night cold chilling her and raising gooseflesh on her
skin. But if she craned her neck just a tiny bit, she could see the moon through the arch.

Mostly hidden by wispy, wind-torn clouds, it sailed into view every once in a while and some strange something made her watch
it.

The same something — she suddenly knew with surety — that was lifting the fine hairs on her nape and causing her gooseflesh.

It wasn’t the night cold at all.

Her Raven’s naked body warmed her through and through, and the heat of her pleasure in him still pulsed and throbbed inside
her.

The chill came from within.

And — she also knew — from whoever or whatever was out in that moonlight and wanting her attention.

She shivered.

The moon slid behind another cloud, its sudden disappearance plunging the bedchamber into darkness save for the faintly glowing
embers of the hearth fire.

Looking that way, her heart plummeted, for there could be no denying that Buckie had noticed the someone or something out
there, too.

The old dog’s head was raised, his alert stare fixed on the open window.

Until he realized he’d been seen.

At once, he dropped his head back down on his paws and, she suspected, feigned sleep. Just as she, too, meant to do, not wishing
to alarm Ronan if he happened to waken and sense her ill ease.

And she was concerned.

More worried than she’d ever been since coming to Dare.

Now she had far too much to lose.

So she closed her eyes and summoned all her willpower to keep from glancing at the window arch again. Whoever or whatever
wanted something from her would just have to wait.

She’d deal with them on the morrow.

She just hoped she could.

She could do it.

Standing on a high promontory on the distant Isle of Doon, Devorgilla tightened her knotty fists and scrunched her eyes to
better peer down at the long line of breakers rolling toward the cliffs.

But the night winds were fresh and the seas too choppy for her to see more than the white-crested swells and the little bay
of rocks and sand far below her.

“Ill limmer!” She resisted the urge to hobble back the way she’d come and then rummage through her spelling goods until she’d
gathered enough of her more potent treasures to blast the long-nosed, white-bearded he-goat responsible for her present plight.

He alone was the reason she stood shivering in the night wind.

If he — whoever he’d been — hadn’t made it prudent for her to avoid using her cauldron steam to do her scrying, she’d be sleeping
soundly on her pallet about now.

Instead, she shuffled as close to the cliff edge as she dared and tried again to see what she needed on the surface of the
dark, tossing waters.

Somewhere on the moorland behind her, a night-bird called, breaking her concentration even as the moon suddenly rode high
above the clouds. At once, a wide band of glittering silver stars lit the water, stretching toward her from the horizon, the
moon’s bright light joining the white-foaming waves to ruin all chance of success.

She needed a shining black surface, smooth and unrippled.

Seeing no choice but to reach for deeper magic, she lifted her somewhat bristly chin and held out her arms, palms downward
toward the sea.

Then she started to chant, lifting her voice until bit by bit the twinkling silver swath of moonlight began to draw back toward
the horizon.

Encouraged, she splayed her fingers, curling just the tips so that all her power poured down the steep cliffside and into
the water, her entire strength then flowing out over reef and rock to quiet the churning waves.

Her arms began to tremble and she couldn’t stand very straight in the racing wind, but she remained where she was, mumbling
her spelling words more softly now that the black water was stilling.

And then she saw them.

The crone hooted and hopped with glee, her incantations forgotten.

Naked but for the plaid wrapped round them, her charges lay tightly entwined in intimate embrace. The maid’s tresses spilled
bright across the man’s broad chest, and although she couldn’t tell for sure because of the tartan covering them, it appeared
the girl had flung one leg across her slumbering lover.

The man’s arms cradled her, holding her close, and the expression on his sleeping face left no doubt that the girl had finally
claimed his heart.

Her own heart tripping wildly, Devorgilla rubbed her hands together. She leaned a bit forward, peering even deeper now, trying
to see past them.

She needed to know the rest.

She started chanting again, just a few special words this time, and — lo, her powers still humming — the sleeping couple and
their plaid faded away, slowly replaced by tall stone walls, dark and forbidding.

Her little friend sat on a tree stump not far away, his deep russet coat gleaming in a patch of moonlight, his bright yellow
eyes fixed on a certain window arch.

The crone’s heart swelled and she cackled her relief, more pleased than was good for her that the little dog fox had found
his way safely to the blighted glen.

And she could tell from the direction of his stare that his task would soon be completed.

As if he sensed her, the fox blinked and lifted a paw in greeting. But before she could nod benevolently back at him, a great
swirl of dark mist whirled across the water, blotting her view.

“
Did I not warn you not to meddle, woman?
”

“Gah!” Devorgilla jumped, nearly toppling over the cliff edge.

“Shall I take your fool wits if you do not make use of them?” The familiar voice roared in her ears, deep, rumbling, and thunderous.

And then he was there, glaring at her from the mist-cloud hovering somewhere between her and the sea. He raised an arm to
point a bony finger at her, his long white hair and beard lifting on the wind.

“Go back to your pallet!” he scolded, the mist-cloud tingeing darker with his fury. “Seek your sleep before you vex me beyond
my patience.”

He wagged his finger, suddenly looking so grudging beneath his angry, down-drawn brows that Devorgilla threw back her own
whitened head and cackled.

Then she caught herself and braced her hands on her hips, eyeing him with all the dignity of her kind.

He glowered back at her, his jaw set with equal stubbornness.

“Their trials are nigh at an end.” He put back his shoulders, his chest seeming to swell on the words. “Soon they will know
only gladness. Your interfering mischief is not needed.”

Devorgilla hooted again. “Can it be that you cannot suffer a crone casting stronger magic than your own?”

Silence answered her.

The ill limmer and his mist cloud were gone.

But his annoyance lingered, crackling in the air around her, and she pulled her cloak tight and turned to begin the slow trek
back across the moors to her bed.

And as she trudged along, she hummed a merry tune she hadn’t recalled in ages.

This e’en, she’d enjoyed her encounter with the he-goat.