The Highlander (15 page)

"I want to make love to you, more each time I see you, but I want it only if you want me in return. I dinna want ye to look back on it and think it was against your will. I want you to know what is happening here. I want you to want me as much as I want you."

She studied the way candlelight tinted his dark hair with the sun's color and made his flesh gleam as if dusted with the finest gold. His hair carried the scent of pine and fresh air. His arms offered her comfort and protection, and she needed that so.

He held her close and her body pricked with awareness. Nothing seemed to exist beyond her need to have this time with him, to feel his body close to her, to know the touch of his hands upon her secret places.

She felt the change in his body, the tautness of skin and muscle born of hunger and desire.

"I need you," he whispered. "Now, Sophie. Now."

She quivered at the potency of his words of desire, whispered against her naked flesh, and realized he had removed the rest of her clothes, and she had helped him. Now she could feel the heat of his skin against hers, and knew he was as naked as she.

His warm tongue came calling and she melted against him and opened her mouth to his. She might have many nights such as this with him, or she might have only this one, so she decided she would hold nothing back.

She would have this one night to remember for the rest of her life.. .one night when she was young and impassioned, one night when she threw caution to the wind, one night when she let him take her to a mythical place where she would make love to a man she desired above all else.

It felt so perfect, so right. She had no shame of lying naked with him, or allowing him to do the things to her body that he was doing. She opened herself to him, softly whimpered, and clung to him because she knew it could not last.

"I could spend all night just kissing you... everywhere. I want to make love to you and cannot maintain my sanity if I do not. I have thought of little else since my brother carried you into my life. No matter how many times I take you, each time will be like the first."

He kissed her breasts, first one and then the other, and she felt the soft, breathing wetness that hardened them, and the muscles in her stomach grew taut in response.

"Your skin is like polished ivory, smooth, refined and cool against the fever I feel within."

He turned and shifted the angle of his -body until he was lying full upon her and she knew the feel of the hard length of him, hot as a brand against her flesh. It felt so right to be with him like this, and yet, she fought against the temptation to boldly reach out and take him in her hand. Not because she was too shy to do so around him, but because she was a novice about such things and uncertainty manipulated her as if she were a marionette.

She did allow herself the liberty of letting her hands travel over the smooth musculature of his chest, where she could feel the power of tightly coiled muscles beneath the thin layer of skin.

He claimed her mouth with another kiss—this one longer and more intense—and she felt the rigid probe of him against her like a question.

"Yes," she whispered. "Please...yes."

He paused long enough to ask, "Are you sure, Sophie?"

She moved her legs farther apart and heard his responding groan.

There could have been no greater surprise in his estimation if she had pulled out a claymore and cleaved him in two. He knew this was new to her, and yet there was a wantonness about her that was arousing and it intensified his desire for her.

He could feel the soft pliancy of her breasts pressing against the bare flesh of his chest with each breath she took. His hands wandered at will over the gloriously undefiled beauty of her exquisite body, and the response from her—a soft rapture that washed over him because of the magnificent throb of her intense passion.

His mouth came to hers repeatedly before he dropped lower to kiss her breasts and take the hard points into his mouth. He wanted to touch her in all the places he knew would drive her wild, and at the same time he feared he was too raw with wanting her, too hungry for her, and needing her so much that he feared he could hurt her.

She was a strong wind that blew over the heated coals of his desire, and when her hand closed around him, he burst into flames.

Sophie...

He whispered her name as if it were a sonnet, then touched her as she had touched him, and her gasp was a mixture of pleasure and surprise that nearly sent him spiraling out of control.

"My lass," he said, and came into her, his hands gripping her bare bottom, holding her against him. He heard her moan and asked if he hurt her.

"Only when you stop to ask questions."

Flesh against flesh, warm, moist, fitting together in perfect union as if they had been missing, one from the other for all eternity, and now, after eons of searching, he had found that part of him that had been absent for so long.

He ground his hips against hers, and could hold back no longer. With a groan, he felt the surging release as his body tensed, and then enjoyed the luxury of moving slow, and relaxed inside her.

The sound of her passion went over him like a whisper of silk and he thought there was nothing to match the joy of lying tangled in Sophie's fragrant hair.

They fell asleep for a time with that drowsy, sated feeling, and the joy that comes with lying together after passion is spent, and he thought this was the most perfect peace of all.

When he stirred and felt Sophie in his arms, he kissed her and nuzzled her neck as he scattered soft, breathy kisses where the delicate wisps of hair curled behind her ear.

Too strong...

His feeling for her was too strong, as if he had drunk a magic potion. Already he was hard again and yearning to take her once more.

Sophie must have known, for she turned toward him and whispered, "Make love to me again."

Later, when she lay nestled against him, her breathing even and steady, he held her close, afraid almost to let her go. Yet, in his moment of triumph, when he had accomplished what he wanted to do since the first, he could not put behind him the feeling that he had seduced an angel.

Would there be hell to pay?

_Eleven

But I will wear my heart upon my sleeve For daws to peck at: I am not what I am. —William Shakespeare (1564-1616), English poet and playwright.
Othello
(1602-1604), Act 1, Scene 1

The Duke of Rockingham was in a fit of temper, and the sound of his angry tirade carried throughout the long, winding corridors of his castle in Yorkshire.

"I am sorry, Your Grace, but we have not been able to find any trace of her. We have spies and soldiers searching for her. Rewards have been offered, but there has been no response. We cannot find anything. There is absolutely no trace anywhere. Perhaps it would be best if you simply gave her up for dead."

Rockingham gripped the back of the ornately carved chair until his knuckles turned white. "Do not take it upon yourself to advise me, you vain, onion-eyed minnow. I alone will decide what would be best. I will not give her up for dead simply because
she is not dead,
do I make myself clear?"

"Perfectly clear, Your Grace."

"Her body was the only one that was not found," Rockingham said. "Do you not find that indicative of something?"

"It could have been borne out to sea with the current," Sir Giles Newland replied.

"You fool! It would be a bit ironic, wouldn't you say, that
hers
should be the only one not accounted for?"

Sir Giles started to speak, but the duke dismissed him with a wave of his hand. "It is time I changed my strategy, therefore I will have no further need of you. Tell my factor to pay you what you are owed, and then tell him I want to see him. Immediately."

Sir Giles bowed and backed toward the door. "As you wish, Your Grace."

Five minutes later, the duke was interrupted when his factor, Jeremy Ashford, entered the room, bowing as he always did whenever he came into the duke's presence.

"You sent for me, Your Grace?"

Rockingham finished writing his signature to a bill of sale, and returned the pen to the inkstand. He sat back in the chair, made a tent of his fingers, and said calmly, "Yes, I did. I find I have need of a Scot."

"A Scot, Your Grace?"

"Yes, but not just any Scot. This one must be a Highlander."

"You want me to find a Scottish Highlander? Any Highlander?"

"Yes, any Highlander will do, only he must be a traitor."

Jeremy smiled, and then nodded. "Aah, a traitor, you say? Very well, I will see what I can do, Your Grace."

"And quickly, Jeremy. Time is of the essence, as they say."

"Very well, Your Grace. I shall do all I can to expedite matters."

The wind descended upon Danegaeld with fierce determination, driving snow and piling it against the windows. Outside the windows were iced with frost, but inside, the massive fireplaces seemed to hold back the best Mother Nature had at her disposal.

Sophie stood at the window, watching for Jamie. He had gone to feed the horses, but it seemed to be taking longer than usual, and she wondered how long she should wait, before taking her cloak and going in search of him.

Her knowledge of this sort of thing was a collage of hearsay, vague book learning and what tidbits Jamie had provided her, for life here was so different from her life in France.

She did not see him come out of the storm, and did not hear him enter the house, until she heard the stomp of his boots on the stone floors. She tensed, waiting for the sound of his arrival.

Jamie dusted the snow off his plaid and came into the library to thaw his extremities before the fire.

When he saw her standing in front of the window, observing the inclement weather, he said, "This one is a true snowstorm. It could last for days." He rubbed his arms to get the blood flowing. "It is bitterly cold out there."

He went to where she stood, put his arms around her and drew her back against him. He scattered kisses over her neck. "I am as incapable of resisting you as I was the first time we made love. No, I think it is worse now. I think of little else."

He lifted her hair and kissed her neck again, beneath her ear, where he knew she was most sensitive. She moaned and rolled her head back to rest against his shoulder.

He unbuttoned a few of the top buttons on her dress and slipped his hand inside, where her full breasts lay warm and firm.

It was difficult to believe it had only been two weeks since their first lovemaking, and that the times he had warmed her bed since then were too numerous to count. "I could stay right here, holding ye thus for eternity."

She smiled. "Or until your feet begin to get cold."

"Are your feet cold, lass?"

"You still need to ask, when you know they have been cold since the day I came here? Sometimes I try to remember what it feels like to lie in the warm sun of summer, and to feel the kiss of the sun on my face.
Sacre bleu.
It is enough to have such bitterly cold weather, but why are we always denied the pleasure of seeing the sun? Is it always so dreary and so cold?"

"Aye, Scotland can be a dreary place, lass. The stones hold moisture, and that is what causes the chilling dampness." He took her hand. "Come...stand in front of the fire, on the hearth rug. It is much warmer there."

She let him lead her to the great fireplace, and she held out her hands to warm them while she watched him remove his boots, and stand them before the fire to dry. The warmth from the fire began to dry his trews also, and soon they were giving off steam.

"When do you plan to return to Monleigh Castle?"

He was busy kissing her and did not answer right away. "Are ye anxious for us to go?"

"You know my anxiety, or lack of it, has nothing to do with it. You must return home sooner or later, or they will come in search of you."

"And you?"