The Pleasure Master (27 page)

“Ye grow hard thinking of what we'll do together, Ian,” Fiona said. “I ken why women have whispered of ye. Ne'er have I seen a man so . . .” She seemed unable to think of a word worthy of his erection.

Ian's pitiful attempt to think of all things disgusting had no effect on his arousal, which seemed determined to live its own life. And it was responding to the warm flush in Kathy's cheeks, the growing heat of her gaze.

“I must have ye, Ian.” Fiona's eagerness was like rolling naked in honey. No matter how sweet some might say the honey tasted, ‘twas not comfortable when it was sticking to every part of one's body.

“But I want ye in the comfort of my own bed. I'll call my men, and we'll leave immediately. We should reach home by night.”

Thank God for Fiona's unwillingness to mount him amid the dirt and dust of the cottage floor. And mount him she would. Fiona would always need to be most powerful. She would ride him as she rode
the stallion she had tethered outside, and he had no doubt she'd use her whip if he didn't move strongly enough.

I'll call my men, and we'll leave immediately
. No! He couldn't let Fiona turn around and see Kathy. Her men would capture Kathy, and Ian knew what her fate would be once Fiona realized who she was.

“Dinna be so quick to call yer men.”
Think
. What should he say? He'd used words to weave sexual fantasies for so many, and the words had come easily. But knowing that Kathy's safety depended on his words somehow robbed him of his wits. “Let me give ye a taste of the pleasure ye'll have wi' me.”

Fiona's smile was all things savage. “Show me yer power, Pleasure Master.” She tapped her whip lightly against her thigh. “Dinna disappoint me.”

A quick glance at Kathy assured Ian of her outrage, her readiness to hurry to his rescue. He rushed into speech. “Close yer eyes, Fiona, and listen to me well.

“Ye enjoy power. The power to bend people's bodies to yer will, even though their hearts, their minds deny ye. ‘Twould ne'er please ye to have a man who didna fight ye. 'Tis the power to take yer pleasure from a man's body even as ye see the hate in his eyes that has always been yer desire. Ye've hidden it well from yer father, for it isna seemly for a maiden to have such dark wishes.” He watched Fiona carefully, as he'd watched so many women, looking into their souls and sensing their most hidden desires. Desires they often feared admitting
even to themselves.
Why havena ye looked into Kathy's soul? What do ye fear?

“Aye. 'Tis what I wish.” Her eyes remained closed.

Ian watched Fiona swallow hard. He wouldn't look at Kathy, didn't want to see the revulsion in her eyes as he did what he'd always done so well.

“Imagine, Fiona.” His voice lowered, roughened with no conscious thought. “Yer father has died, and there are no others to lead yer clan.
Ye're
the new laird of Clan Mackay. Ye may have anything ye want and none may say nay.”

He couldn't stop himself. He glanced at Kathy. And wished he hadn't. Her face was wiped clean of all expression, but he saw the confusion, the dawning horror in her eyes. He looked away. He would do what he must to keep her safe.

“Ye're in the keep's dungeon, Fiona. Yer men have captured yer greatest enemy, one who has fought many battles wi' ye, one who hates ye above all others. Ye've ordered that he be stripped naked and chained spread wide for ye. Now ye will have yer revenge.” He watched Fiona's breath quicken, her fingers clench around the butt of her whip. “Open yer eyes, Fiona. See yer enemy. Look into his eyes and see the hate.”

Fiona opened her eyes and stared at him with a gaze already glazed with the picture he'd drawn in her mind.

“Know him, Fiona. Ye canna break him wi' torture. He'll die defying ye. But there is another way.”

“Tell me.” Her voice was choked with her need.

“Humble him wi' yer body, Fiona. Touch him, stroke him, until he moans wi' his lust for ye, knows that not even this part of himself can he keep from ye.” Curiosity pulled at Ian. “And before ye begin, tell him what fate awaits him if he fails ye.” He'd like to know whether he would suffer her whip if his fantasy didn't please her. Thoughts of her whip would spur him to greater effort.

“I would give his body to all the women to use until he died from the using.” Her satisfied smile anticipated such an event. “And I'd watch.”

“'Tis a horrible end.”
Ah, Fiona. Most men would storm yer keep to experience such a fearful fate
. He made sure he didn't show his amusement.

Remembering his own personal watcher, he glanced at the window. Kathy's gaze locked with his, and she offered him a tentative smile that didn't quite reach her worried eyes. He shared her smile in his mind and realized how much comfort the sharing gave him.

“Touch him wi' yer hands, yer mouth, until he grows so hard for ye he fears he'll die from the wanting.” He stared into Fiona's eyes, allowing her to see all the hate and contempt he knew she'd expect from her greatest enemy. He didn't have to pretend overmuch.

Ian despised what he must do next. He lifted his gaze to Kathy once more, kept it fixed on her eyes, her mouth. Fiona would not accept his fantasy if he had no arousal, and to keep his erection he must create his own fantasy.

His own fantasy would be of Kathy, and in weaving
it he must involve her, whether he wanted to or not. Once before, she'd almost yielded to him because of his power to create a make-believe world. That was not how he wanted it to be between them.

But he knew if he involved Kathy, she wouldn't rush into the cottage to face Fiona. She would be safer outside, and Kathy Bartlett's safety meant more to him than anything else.

“Tell me what ye feel, my enemy.” Fiona moved close, then slid her fingers over his chest, his stomach, between his legs. Cupping him, she squeezed gently.

Ian shuddered.

He closed Fiona from his mind, looked only into Kathy's eyes, thought only of Kathy touching him.

“The scent of ye fills me—warm woman's flesh and cool morning mist. I want to hate it, but I canna. I can only think of my need to hold yer breasts bare in my palms, to bury my face between them, to be close to yer scent. But I canna reach ye. I can only accept what ye give me.”
Heed me, Kathy
. He sensed Kathy's desire to look away, to break the web he wove, but he wouldn't let her, would make her understand that he spoke to
her.

Fiona's lips touched the pulse in his neck, then seared a path to his nipple. But it wasn't Fiona's tongue that flicked the sensitive nub, then touched his chest, his stomach with light kisses that made him moan within his fantasy. It was Kathy's lips, trailing a heated line of erotic torture.

“Tell me what ye feel.”

The whisper was every woman he'd ever
touched, every woman who'd ever touched him. No, that was wrong. It was
Kathy
.

“Yer lips touching my body excite me.” His hips began the slow thrusting motion of mating as he sank deeper into his fantasy. With each thrust his erection scraped the cloth covering the breasts of the woman who now knelt in front of him. He was so hard, his flesh so sensitive, that he thought he would die if he couldn't soon slide his arousal over warm bare skin. Over
Kathy's
flesh. “Would that I could taste ye as ye taste me. I would kiss the soft skin low on yer stomach, listen to yer soft gasp, feel yer muscles clench wi' yer need, see yer legs part in readiness. I would move between yer thighs and kiss a path along the inner sides—slowly, gently.” He stared into Kathy's eyes, saw his own hot intensity reflected back. “Then I would put my mouth on ye, slide my tongue over yer most sensitive part, hold ye as ye writhed.”

“What do I taste of?” The voice was harsh, barely in control. He didn't recognize it, didn't care. His whole world was centered on Kathy.

“Yer skin is the taste of the sea on a warm summer's day.”
Know that I speak of ye, Kathy
. “The warmth between yer thighs is the sweetness of . . . rich chocolate.”

He watched the awareness grow in Kathy's gaze. The deep glow added to the heat and desire he already saw. Never before had he wanted a woman with such hunger. But he sensed with a detached despair that her desire was for the Pleasure Master, not for
him
.

“I dinna know what chocolate is. Tell me what ye would do next.”

The harsh demand was accompanied by the slide of the whip handle between his legs. Back and forth, back and forth.

It was Kathy's fingers sliding between his legs, fondling him, clasping him. He could hear the rasp of his own breathing, felt as though his chest could no longer hold his pounding heart. “I'd bury myself deep inside ye, feel ye tighten around me, thrust again and again until I could hold back no longer, then I would spill my hot seed into . . .”

He could stand no more. “Free me, Kathy, so I may pleasure ye in all these ways.”

The sudden stillness seeped into him. He blinked, suddenly aware of small sounds—ducks quacking, men shouting in the distance, Fiona's quiet hiss of anger.

“This was not for my pleasure, was it, Ian Ross? Ye werena thinking of me. Ye were thinking only of this Kathy. Ye bastard!”

The shock of Fiona's whip slashing across his lower stomach brought a shocked gasp from him. God's teeth! She'd barely missed his—

The crash as the door was flung open shook the cottage. Vengeance stood in the opening wielding a sword that glowed and hummed, along with the dreaded curling iron. Vengeance was
not
soft spoken.

“Bitch! You hurt him.”

Ian could feel a trickle of blood sliding down his stomach, but he was as stunned as Fiona, unable
to take his gaze from his small, fierce-eyed rescuer.

“I'm going to curl your toes and everything north, then I'll kick your behind all the way back to your sorry castle. You don't mess with a New York woman or her man.” Kathy's eyes narrowed to vicious slits of righteous wrath. “If you start running now, you might work off some of that fat and maybe some man'll want you, but I don't think so.”

Her gaze fixed on the glowing sword, Fiona shook with fear as she edged toward the door. But obviously one of Kathy's barbs called for a response. “I'm
not
fat.”

“Hah!” Kathy continued to stalk her.

With a shriek of mingled fear and fury, Fiona stumbled from the cottage.

Behind her, Kathy could hear the terrified shouts of the Mackays mingled with the cheery sounds of her toy defenders. The Village Gorilla was in great voice as he belted out “Macho Man,” and she hoped the Mackays appreciated his enthusiastic dancing. A terrified shriek sounded behind her. Well, maybe not.

“Are ye mad, woman? Save yerself before the Mackays find ye.”

“Gee thanks, Kathy, for saving my bare buns from Ditsy-the-Dominatrix.” But Kathy couldn't maintain her sarcasm for long as she gazed at the bleeding welt on his stomach. “God, Ian, I can't believe she hurt you.” Sinking to her knees, Kathy ran her fingers tenderly over the wound. “I wish she hadn't run so I could pull every hair from her head.”

“Ye're a wee gentle lass.”

Kathy glanced up to catch his wry grin, but his grin faded as her gaze locked with his. The memory of his fantasy moved between them, left Kathy with questions she feared to ask. She drew in a deep calming breath. They'd talk about it later.

“We've got to get you out of here.” A sudden rise in the noise level made Kathy turn to glance outside.

“The Rosses are here.” His harsh exhalation said all that needed saying about his relief. “My clothing is in the corner. Find my knife and free me.”

Kathy grabbed his clothes and knife; then quickly cut him loose. She stood in the doorway checking the progress of the battle while he dressed.

When Ian joined her, she looked up and grinned. “I think the Mackays are getting more than they bargained for.”

Peter was busily patrolling the line of toys, urging them on with quotes from every military movie ever shot, while Malin clung to Fiona's skirt with tenacious claws.

Fiona's shrieks joined the din. “Someone get the bloody beastie off me. Look, I have scratches all over my hands.”

No one seemed particularly interested in looking at her scratches or stopping the battle to pull Malin off her skirt. Hiking up her skirt, she did a clumsy jig, trying to shake the cat loose.

Kathy couldn't help it, she laughed. Loudly.

Fiona turned to glare at her. “Someone kill that
woman. Don't kill Ian Ross. I'll do that.” Her shrieked orders got the attention of a few of her men, who moved to obey her.

Ian crouched with his knife in his hand, ready to defend Kathy. Frantically, Kathy reached into her backpack and pulled out her last weapon, her final line of defense—a remote-controlled model Apache attack helicopter. She'd done a little of this with her dad when she was young, and she hoped to heaven she remembered how to work the thing.

Taking a deep breath, she flipped the switch. “Showtime, baby.”

The helicopter rose into the air with a satisfying whirr, then flew toward the advancing Mackays.

The helicopter was the final straw . . . for both sides. With bellows of terror, both Rosses and Mackays scattered in all directions. Fiona, who'd finally managed to shake Malin loose, followed her terrified clansmen into the forest.

Kathy glanced up at Ian, who was staring at the hovering helicopter with disbelieving eyes. “Hmm. I guess they're not quite ready for the helicopter concept.”

He gazed down at her with confusion, but no fear. Once again, Kathy marveled at how different he was from everyone else she'd met in this time. He might not understand, but he didn't immediately think everything strange was the product of demons and devils. A man ahead of his time.
But not far enough ahead.