The Rogue: A Highland Guard Novella (The Highland Guard) (15 page)

He probably should have let her go and given her time to think. She would come around on her own. No matter what she said now, he knew she wanted to marry him. She cared about him, and once she realized she could not force him to make declarations or promises, she would change her mind. Perhaps she would even apologize to him for all those unflattering things she’d said about him.

Aye, he definitely liked the thought of that!

But something about her expression stopped him from letting her go. She looked so final—so
resolved
—that he didn’t do the prudent thing. He did the very
im
prudent thing and reached for her. He would make her see the truth right now.

CHAPTER TEN

Izzie didn’t think Randolph believed her. But when he pulled her into his arms, she wondered if maybe part of him did. If maybe he understood that she was going to walk away, and he’d decided to do whatever it took to stop her.

She should have pushed him away. She would have, were she not desperate to do whatever it took as well. Was “wanting” enough? Was she asking for too much? Would making love make up for not being loved? Could she marry him knowing this would be all he would ever give her?

When his mouth covered hers, she knew she was going to find out. There was something different about his kiss this time. It was still incredible. His lips were still warm and soft and knew exactly how to move against hers to make her knees weak and her insides turn to mush, she could still taste the faint hint of cinnamon, and the body that was pressed against hers was still warm and solid with steely hard muscle, but the edge of control that she hadn’t even realized had been there was gone. There was nothing holding him back; the reins had snapped, and the full force of his passion for her had been unleashed.

It was a rather heady feeling, realizing that he was wild for her. And God help her, she was wild for him, too. She prayed it was enough as she was going to gamble her innocence to find out.

Their mouths clashed, their tongues sparred, their bodies pressed together as if they could melt into one, as if any sliver of air that dared to come between them had to be smothered. His hand slid through her hair to grip the back of her head, to bring her mouth more fully against him, and she moaned at the heated sensation of his tongue delving deep inside her. Stroking. Circling. Demanding more and more from her until she couldn’t stand another minute. Until she was desperate for his touch and the feel of his body moving against hers.

He seemed to understand her frantic moans and groans and gave her what she wanted. He cupped her bottom with one hand and lifted her hard against him—or rather
he
was hard. Very hard. The feel of his manhood wedged tightly between her legs sent a blast of sensation exploding inside her. She was hot and tingly, every inch of her skin alive and sensitive.

It was a relief when he started to pull off her cloak and push her back toward the bed. But it didn’t last long. As soon as she hit the straw of the mattress, it was as if she were fevered and tossing off the covers at night, trying to cool a body that could not be cooled.

The layers of clothing between them seemed so binding and confining that she wasn’t surprised when he started to pull them off. She was more surprised that he didn’t rip them off.

His cloak and surcoat were tossed to the ground. The sleeveless houppelande that she wore over her gown followed. The wide-necked fitted wool gown underneath was not as easy to remove, but proving his experience with divesting women of their clothing—
don’t think of that now
—he magically managed to untie and loosen the laces at her back to slide it down to her waist.

It was then, when her breasts were covered by only the thin linen of her shift, that modesty finally intervened. The protest, however, died in her throat when he straightened from his kneeling position leaning over her on the bed (good lord, how had that happened?) to remove his shirt.

Izzie gasped. It wasn’t exactly shock; it was more like admiration that penetrated to her bones—although the markings did surprise her.

She’d known from the solid feel of his body against her that he would be well-formed, but she hadn’t anticipated precisely
how
well-formed. Nor, frankly, had she thought that the size of his muscles or the power of his body would matter. In other words, she didn’t think herself that silly and superficial to have her head turned by an impressive display of masculinity. But her head was turned all right, and her eyes were fixed on his chest, absorbing every taut line, every sharp delineation, and every powerful bulge.

She might have thought he’d been chipped from stone, but there was no sculptor—even a divine one—who could have created such perfection. Those arms and chest had been forged by hours and hours of wielding a sword on the battlefield. For all his knightly charms, the man was a battle-hard warrior through and through. His shoulders were broad and square, his chest lean and powerful, his arms big and strong, and his stomach ribbed with thick bands of muscle that she had to fight the urge to reach out and run her fingers over.

He had quite a number of scars, which only seemed fitting for this finely honed weapon of war. His skin was smooth and golden, except for the dark, ancient-looking markings on one arm and shoulder that covered him almost like a sleeve. She’d heard of such marks before, but she’d never seen any—and she certainly hadn’t expected to see such a primitive design on such a refined knight. But somehow that only added to its base appeal. Beneath the knightly garb, the markings seemed to be telling her that he was
all
Highland warrior.

When she finally managed to lift her eyes from the jaw-dropping display, it was to meet his amused gaze. He must have read her surprise. “It’s a long story,” he said anticipating the question. “But suffice it to say, I did it to shut a few people up and remind them that I was just as much a Highlander as they were.”

“Did it hurt?” she asked, her fingers tracing the lines of the markings.

“Like the bloody Devil,” he answered with a grin.

“It’s perfect.” She looked up at him. “You’re perfect.”

“I’m glad you think so, lass, but this won’t be if you keep looking at me like that.”

Before she could ask him what he meant, he leaned down and started kissing her again. She quickly discovered that having her hands on that spectacular bare chest was even better than admiring it from afar—much better.

His skin was warm and smooth under her hands, his muscles even harder than she imagined. She loved the way they flexed instinctively under her palms when her palms squeezed or when fingers dug in every time his tongue licked deeper and deeper into her mouth.

She had that frantic, hot feeling again, and it was even worse this time with the solid weight of him on top of her. It made her forget to protest when he loosened the ties of her chemise and she felt the cool air wash over her bare skin.

She did moan, however, when his mouth found the turgid tip of her nipple. She did more than moan when he sucked. The sensation of his warm, wet mouth on her fiery, sensitive skin was too much to contain. Her entire body seemed to come off the bed as she arched and made a deep sound of pleasure. Pleasure that only intensified as she felt his tongue circling and his teeth gently tugging before the sweet suction that sent needles of pleasure to the warm, melty place between her legs.

She wanted him to touch her there again. And he did. Softly at first, with gentle, deft sweeps of his finger against her damp, tender flesh, and then when her hips started to lift and beg, with the friction and stroking her body had already learned to desire.

She could feel his own urgency racing along with hers as the soft gasps of her increasing pleasure mingled with the tight, contained groans of his.

He was holding himself back. He wanted something from her first.

Izzie knew what it was. She wanted to say she let go and allowed the sensations to break over her, but she knew who was in control. She’d given him her body, and she only hoped in doing so that he would want her heart along with it.

Randolph’s chest squeezed as he heard the soft cries of her release as the flush of pleasure swept over her angelic face. He was concentrating so intently on not joining her that it took him a moment to realize the stab—of conscience. This was wrong. She was a maid, and he’d never divested a lass of her maidenhead before. For good reason. It was dishonorable. A sin. She deserved a ring and a marriage bed.
His
ring and marriage bed.

But she’d refused him.

Of course she hadn’t really meant it, he told himself. This would only hasten the inevitable.

Besides, it was too late. He didn’t think he could stop now if he wanted to. And he sure as hell didn’t want to. Just looking at her made his chest squeeze with a longing so intense it crushed the momentary flicker of doubt. He wanted this woman more than he’d ever wanted a woman before—which might have concerned him if he’d thought about it. But he wasn’t going to think about it. Something about this simply felt right, and despite the lust pounding at the base of his spine, an odd calmness came over him as he untied his breeches and wrapped his hand around his cock to guide himself inside her.

He didn’t need to give himself the usual perfunctory stroke to make sure he was ready; he was as hard as a rock and too close to release as it was.

Which also surprised him. Of late, he’d felt a sense of boredom—of sameness—in his interludes with women that had led to increasingly adventuresome bed sport to make it a little more interesting and exciting.

But right now he wasn’t even sure he’d be able to last long in the most basic and conventional position. He couldn’t imagine taking her from behind, having her on top of him, or having her mouth on him while he had his tongue…

Ah hell, not the thing to think about right now. Later. But maybe that wasn’t a good idea. The lass was driving him mad with lust as it was—heaven knew the kind of havoc she could wreak if she learned of the intimate power she could wield over him.

He might never want to leave her bed.

He frowned at the thought, but it fell away the moment he looked down at her. His chest tightened again. She was so beautiful like this. Warm and soft and achingly ready for him, her cheeks still flushed and her eyes still half-lidded from her release. He didn’t think he’d ever seen anything more beautiful.

Unable to hold back another minute, he nudged the head of his cock against the slick folds of her opening and groaned.

God, that felt good. He couldn’t wait to be inside her.

Her eyes flew open at contact. Reading the maidenly shock and sudden uncertainty in her big blue eyes, he knew she needed reassurance. “It will be all right,
mo ghrá
. I will make it good for you—trust me.”

But as soon as he uttered the words, he felt a powerful urge to take them back.
Could
he make it good for her? He’d never had a problem before, but Izzie was different.

Different.
The word resonated, but he didn’t want to listen. It was that she was a virgin—that was all—and from everything he’d heard, it was painful for women the first time. His first time he’d thought he’d died and gone to heaven.

But what if she didn’t feel the same? He wanted her to feel the same. It was imperative that she felt the same. She
had
to feel the same, damn it.

Suddenly the size of the erection in his hand that always elicited widened eyes and gasps of excited surprise from his experienced bed-partners felt like a detriment. Was he too big? Would he hurt her more than necessary? For the first time in his life, Randolph wished he was more modestly proportioned. For a man who didn’t have a modest bone in his body, it was a jarring thought.

Bloody hell, this was not the time for self-doubt. The fact that he had it was bad enough. He was experienced. He’d done practically everything (everything that interested him anyway). But it only grew worse when she nodded, her lovely heavily lashed eyes wide with trust. Randolph gritted his teeth, vowing to do whatever it took to deserve that trust.

Even if it killed him.

Slowly, with a gentle little circle of his hips, he started to push inside. Instinctively, she tightened, her body fighting the intrusion, while at the same time, the soft dampness of her body tempted him to go deeper and faster—God, it tempted—but he forced himself to go slow.

He was rewarded when he felt her relax, and the muscles fighting him start to open. His arms were taut as he held himself rigidly over her. Actually most of the muscles in his body were taut as he fought to contain the desire—the need—to thrust.

Blood pumped through his veins, and his heart pounded in his ears with the primitive urge to sink in deep and hard. To end the torture.

But he held tight. His teeth clenched and his body slickening with heat as he concentrated all his effort on making her feel good. Because God knew he felt bloody incredible.

She must be feeling pretty good, too, because with each little stroke, her cheeks were turning a little more pink and her gasps were getting a little louder—and more insistent.

She was so tight… gripping him… Sweat from the effort to hold back started to bead on his forehead.

There was only so much gentling he could do before reaching the point of no return, the final nudge that would breach the divide between maid and woman.
His
woman.

She seemed to know it was time, too. Her gaze locked on his, looking for something. Assurance? Answers? Meaning? Promises?

He was surprised at that moment how much he wanted to give them to her. But as always with her, he couldn’t find the words—even when he might want them.

Instead, he shifted his weight to one arm to bring her hand to his mouth. His chest filled with a strange heat. A warmth. A feeling of contentment that seemed to brim over.

She seemed just as surprised as he by the courtly gesture in the midst of what otherwise might seem illicit. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he said softly, “but it will—for a moment.”