The Highlander (10 page)

She gasped when she felt the bed sag. Dear God, she thought, he hadn't sat down on her bed with her in it, had he? Perhaps he'd only propped his feet on the bed. She turned her head and saw him lying next to her.

"You take liberties you have no right to take."

"It's worth it, whatever the risk," he said, placing his hands on each side of her head and leaning over her.

"What do you think you are doing?"

"I'm looking at your lovely face."

She snorted her disbelief and almost laughed. "Flattery is an overused tool to seduce a woman."

"Perhaps you are right. The straightforward approach is always best. I want to kiss you until you beg me for what we both want." He leaned forward and she knew he was going to kiss her, but he stopped mere inches away. Sophie could not move even if she wanted to, for everything within her seemed to fold in on top of her.

It occurred to her that this was the situation every girl in the convent dreamed about, and prayed would one day happen.

Would she be a fool to end it now?

She felt no shame in staring directly into eyes as green as the grass at Versailles. And she thought it utterly sinful for a man to have such eyelashes—when most women would die for half of what he had.

His mouth was so close to hers, all she had to do was pucker and they would smack together. She could feel the warm sweep of his breath dancing over her cheek. She wanted him to kiss her, wanted to feel the hard press of his chest against hers. She wanted him so much that merely thinking about it made her lips burn for his kiss and her breasts harden, while farther down, everything seemed to melt.

She sighed with relief when he claimed her mouth, and she dug her fingers into his hair and pulled him closer and kissed him back with all the passion and feeling she possessed.

His hands were beneath her now, holding her firmly against him as he stroked and caressed her until she could feel his arousal was as great as hers, and the proof of it pressed hard and hot against her.

She wanted to mate with him, and his body's reaction told her he wanted to make love to her. She arched against him, feeling a sense of frustration. She wanted...she wanted...

Only he knew what it was that she wanted. Only he knew how to ease the pain of desiring someone to the point of desperation. She tried to hide her discomfort, but it was obvious she was too unsophisticated when it came to love-making, or concealing anything from him.

As if reading her thoughts, his hands began to caress her with a slow, escalating tempo, dropping lower with each rotating move. Warm, firm hands cupped her buttocks and lifted her upward and inward until their bodies were aligned perfectly. Through layers of dress and bedding she could feel him, harder now than before.

The pressure of his kiss increased, and all her defenses melted at the onslaught. Where did he learn to do all the things he did with his hands and his hps? She felt like a rag doll without the stuffing. Her body was limp now, and she relaxed beneath him.

He seemed more intensely aware of her now, in the physical sense at least, and his reaction to her sent secretive little cries pulsing from her throat. Bathed in a sense of warmth and faint excitement, she felt a deep, throbbing sensation of desire begin to swell and expand, until she felt the slow, steady build of inexplicable pressure.

For a brief moment she had an inkling that Jamie knew exactly what was happening to her and knew, as well, what to do to stop this maddening spiral of acute desire that seized her.

Never had she known a man could be so gifted with the touch of his hands. The indolent movement of his palm traced heated circles against her sensitive skin. Their bodies might not be joined, but she knew that somehow they had reached a point of fervent mating of mind and passion.

He wanted it.

And she wanted him to take it.

It was somewhere between the mating of mind and passion that a cooling draft of air washed over her and she realized he had smoothly exposed one breast. Now she was torn between showing him her horror at what he had done, and praying he would go on and make it a matched pair.

He took the decision away from her when he caught both of her hands in his and drew them over her head, holding them captive, while he lowered his head to slowly cover her breast with his mouth.

And then, as quickly as he had made the move he pulled back, as if something had cautioned him against going any farther. She was about to ask him what had happened when he said, "Get some rest, lass. I will be below stairs if you have need of me."

She was too stunned to speak and could only watch, openmouthed, as he quit the room.

She pounded the bed in frustration.
"I will be below stairs if you have need of me."

Did he not he understand she had need of him now?

_Seven

Licence my roving hands, and let them go, Before, behind, between, above, below... —John Donne (1572-1631), English metaphysical poet and divine. Elegies. "To His Mistress Going to Bed" (1633)

Jamie wondered if Sophie had any inkling as to the battle that was going on inside him. Was she even the least bit cognizant of the fact that she had managed to take complete command of his thoughts in an unbelievably short period of time?

If anyone had ever suggested him capable of such, he would have labeled them daft. Him, the Earl of Monleigh, a man who heretofore took pride in the fact that he was always in control.

And look at him now....

Obsessed, he was, with a water sprite from France, who had no belongings, no past and no memory—or so she claimed.

There was still something not right about all of this. It was too easy, and she was too permissive.

Women were either easy or impossible.

The easy ones were harlots or mistresses, and the impossible ones were not. Yet, he would swear she was a woman of fine breeding and a maiden.

Damn him for a fool, but he had not been able to decide on precisely which she was. The maiden bit was easy to prove, of course, but the other? One minute he believed her, and the next he was convinced she was lying in order to conceal the truth.

Question was, which was the truth, and what exactly was she hiding?

The most likely answer was simply that she was a spy. That would explain her opening to him like a flower in warm water, for what better way to gain privy to a man's thoughts than by warming his bed?

If that were true, the setup was brilliant, for who would suspect a shipwrecked French lass who was a maiden of being a spy for the English?

He wanted to believe her, and probably would have if it were not for her story about being a lady's maid. Nothing about her validated this claim. Her soft hands were not the hands of a servant. Her language was too refined. She was too educated and well mannered to be as she claimed, and yet, he was reluctant to condemn her on the sole basis of his own convictions.

He tried to believe she was a governess.

What he needed was proof.

Further complicating things was the fact that it was becoming increasingly difficult for him to remain detached. He desired her, wanted her in his bed, and that added another dimension. So far, he had been the honorable man, at least in part. He had not given in to temptation completely.
           

But that did not mean he did not harbor desires and secret thoughts, or that he would be able to withstand indefinitely the power of attraction.

For the past two hours, he concentrated on doing his best to drink enough to forget the temptress in the bed above stairs.

It did not help.

Over and over, he tried to lay everything out in his mind, but always the same problematic set of circumstances emerged. And being a man, he tried to organize
his
life much in the same way he bred his cattle.

It was like trying to add two and two, and then being angry when it came out to be four, simply because he wanted it to add up to five.

As it always happened, his thoughts soon wound their way back to Sophie, and the tempting serpent of desire began to coil itself around him until he could think of little else, save her. He was drawn to her, yea, captivated by her, but he could not let desire rule his head. He could not toy with the idea of marrying an unknown waif, no matter how beautiful she was, or how much he desired her.

Gillian was the sensible choice. Sophie was pure fantasy, something to be indulged but never taken seriously. She was a commoner, and without title, and therefore not the perfect wife for an earl.

But, she would be the perfect mistress.

He must stick to his original plan to marry for the sake of his title, and never allow his feelings, or his desire for Sophie to stand in the way. He would marry Gillian and give her the title she wanted. Once she was his countess and had given him heirs, she would not care if he had a dozen mistresses. He did not feel bad in the least about such a cold, calculating reason to marry, for Gillian's reasons were just as cold and calculating as his. She wanted all the things his title and wealth would give her. Once she had that, she would ignore any indiscretions on his part. No, there was no love between them, just as there would be no guilt felt by either of them. It was an arrangement, nothing more.

It all seemed so simple. All he had to do was convince Sophie.

A vision of her came into his mind and he went along with it to see where it would lead him. Imagination is a strange thing and, before long, he saw himself going up the stairs and down the hallway to the room where she was sleeping.

Without waking her, he began to unlace the golden dress of Arabella's that she wore, and then he slipped it down over her shoulders until the soft mounds of her breasts were completely exposed and she was, as he wanted her to be, bared to the waist.

Her skin was soft and warm, the velvety drag of his tongue over her breasts brought the desired reaction, and he felt them harden to tight crowns. He groaned with a drugged feeling, heavy and filled with desire.

He pushed the dress down farther, past the smooth planes of her flat stomach over the juncture of her thighs and down the firm legs that parted slightly when he stroked them with his palms. Taking his fingers and placing them on each side of her, he parted her gently until she was open to him completely. He covered her with his mouth, finding the point of her desire and touching it until she moaned in her sleep and spread her legs wider, allowing him to thrust into her deeply.

He replaced his tongue with his fingers, found the barrier of her virginity, and felt a surge of pride that he was at the portal of her awareness, where no man had ever been.

After some time, he withdrew his hands and kissed her again, touching her until she began to writhe beneath him as he found the rhythm and she began to move with it, faster and faster, until she began to convulse and cry out, her body jerking with spasm after spasm that washed over her.

He released himself from his pants, covered her with his body, and began to stroke himself against her until she was writhing beneath him again, continuing until he was dangerously close to losing control completely, then at the critical moment, he pulled back and spilled himself in the soft cove of her belly.

Knowing she was aroused and wanting him, he lowered his hand and touched her, until she opened her legs wide, enabling him to stroke her until she was unbelievably ready. Still, he did not stop, but kept stroking her until she began to pant and press against him, thrusting her hips wildly until she went over the edge, shattered and crying out his name.

He lost count of how many times he brought her to this point, for his mind was saturated with the knowledge that he was right.

She would make the perfect mistress.

There was a sort of truce between them for the next two days, while Jamie made a valiant effort to busy himself with hunting and a few meetings with the clansmen who cared for the grounds.
   

Sophie spent her days reading and resting as she began to regain her strength and to feel like her normal self.

On the third day, Jamie returned from his morning hunt with two fat rabbits, which he cleaned and dressed down at the river. One he placed on the spit over the fire. The other he cut up and cooked in the kettle with a few vegetables.