Torn Between Two Highlanders (7 page)

“A—a choice about it?” she asked, the full realization of what they’d nearly done coming to her more clearly than before.

“Aye, and we’ll abide by it. You have my word on that. Whether you decide upon me or Malcolm, or both, or neither.”

Arabella’s mouth fell open, stunned, as always, by the man’s brazen talk.

“
Both
?” she asked, breathlessly.

So breathlessly, in fact, that he laughed. “Oh, you like that idea, do you?” It was, of course, a wicked, idea. And when Arabella let her imagination run that way for only a moment, she found herself swaying on her feet. Gleefully, Davy caught her round the waist, and brought his mouth to her ear. “It’s an option, ye ken.”

Goosebumps prickled up her arms. “It’s a wicked, sinful—”

“T’wouldn’t be as much fun if it weren’t wicked and sinful,” Davy interrupted, nipping softly at the lobe of her ear in such a way as to make her gasp again.

This time with pleasure.

“Hush,” he said.

And she thought he meant to kiss her quiet.

But then she saw that his eyes were narrow, the flirtation fled in an instant. His body tensed against hers, alert. Vigilant. He’d heard something. And then she heard it too. The sound of horse hooves. And Arabella’s heart leapt to her throat in fear.

“You stay here,” Davy whispered, reaching for his sword. “Stay hidden, no matter what you hear.”

“You can’t go out there,” Arabella whispered. “They’ll kill you.”

“Likely,” he said, flashing her a grin. “But Malcolm and I will kill a few of them too before we die, and I’m sure you can handle the rest.”

It was bravado, but not false bravado. Bravery that made her heart swell. How could she let him go? She clung to his arm, but he kissed her quickly, then broke free with one last admonition. “Stay hidden.”

He crept from the hen house, quietly, leaving her to secret herself amongst the clucking and pecking birds. And because she wished to hear what was happening outside, she half-thought to wring their scrawny necks to keep them quiet.

She shouldn’t have let Davy go, she thought. Shouldn’t let these men fight and die for her. And at the thought she might never see either of them alive, her eyes flooded with terrified tears. Straining to hear, her fingers going numb in the cold, she thought a muffled shout ring out. But it was gone like a phantom, leaving her to wonder if she’d imagined it. And it seemed like she waited an eternity, crouched in the straw, waiting to hear something. Anything.

A half an hour passed, she thought, though it was hard to say. Until finally the door creaked open, and she wished she never heard it at all.
Stay hidden
, Davy had said, and so she did. But her freezing fingers felt in the straw for the ax used to butcher the chickens. It was a tiny weapon, but she was resolved to use it.

They would surely rape her this time, either before or after she was dead. She was sorry to know that it would be these villains who would make her bleed, but she was at least grateful—deeply grateful—that she had known the brief and fleeting pleasure of a kiss. Two kisses. Kisses that made her feel womanly without making her feel like a man’s conquest.

Then she heard Davy’s familiar voice. “You can come out now, lass.”

She exhaled sharply, still grasping the ax, and stood to face him—half-expecting to find him covered in blood and gore. Instead, she found his broad shoulders covered in flakes of snow.

“T’was a bloody tinker,” Davy said wryly at the sight of the ax in her hand. “I nearly took his head off, the fool. But I should’ve taken his tongue.”

“Why?” Arabella asked, rushing into his arms anyway. She held him tight. Very tight. Wanting to kiss his face. Wanting to kiss him everywhere.

Davy pulled her close, grinning a bit at her enthusiastic embrace. “Oh, he was looking for a place to lay his head for the night on account of the worsening weather and I had to refuse him and send him away. Had to tell a tall tale, too. And give him half the pots in the cottage to get him to go.”

“What tale did you tell him?”

“Said I was a newly married lad with a ripe young wife whose quim I was eager to taste. And whose virtue I didn’t want smeared by another man hearing her scream in pleasure, even from the barn.”

“Davy!” Arabella cried, embarrassed to hear such language. Embarrassed, too, at the way it made something inside her quiver with excitement.

Davy sighed. “Don’t think he believed me, though. And if he should come across another crofter from the village, they’re likely to know it for a lie. I might’ve done wrong, lass, to send him away. And in this weather, no less.”

“Is it really snowing?” Arabella asked. “This early in the year?”

“
Och
, aye. Coming down in big flakes. Which could be good news or bad news, depending?”

“On what?”

“If the Donald war bands have already found shelter, they’ll stay where they are until the storm passes over. That would be good. Give Malcolm time to heal. Give us time to set out for the castle. But if our enemies are not sheltered, this cozy little cottage with smoke rising up from a warm fire will be as inviting as any house they ever laid eyes upon.”

So it was all luck, Arabella thought. If fate turned one way, they might all live to a ripe old age. If it turned another, they’d be dead by morning, all three of them. And as she walked back to the cottage beside Davy, seeking shelter in his warmth against the falling snow, she felt a dread to the marrow of her bones.

They found Malcolm asleep in his chair by the fire—blissfully unaware of the encounter with the tinker. But his breathing wasn’t rapid and labored as it had been before; she didn’t think he’d lost consciousness again. He seemed in genuine slumber, and Arabella marveled at the strength of his constitution. But she still felt the icy dread that night, when Davy was so worn down from keeping watch that he was all-but-dozing while standing up by the door.

Malcolm awakened only to insist that Arabella take the bed.

“And where will you and Davy rest?” she asked.

“On the floor,” Malcolm said, apparently determined to kill himself.

Fortunately, Davy wasn’t having it. “Leave me the chair and share the bed with her again, you bloody bastard. And know that I won’t make the offer again tomorrow night even if you’re still half-dead.”

“Tomorrow night?” Malcolm asked. “We can’t afford
three
days holed up here. If I’m not well enough to ride in the morning, you take the lass and go.”

Davy snorted. “Are you deaf? Listen to that howling wind. Have a peek out the door if you like. The snow is already up to my knees and if it doesn’t let up soon…”

They’d be stuck here
, Arabella thought. It wouldn’t be the first time, she thought. Davy had told her that story about being trapped with Malcolm in the snows once before. She hadn’t thought anything of it at the time, but now she found herself glad to be in the company of two men who were so resourceful.

Either the Donalds would come upon them tonight and slaughter them, or they would be stuck in place by the snows, too. There was nothing to do but wait. But she was not going to wait for men to
take
her virtue.

And she was not going to wait for death never knowing the pleasures of life.

Perhaps it was the time she had spent crouched down by the chickens, contemplating falling into the clutches of men who cared nothing for her. Or perhaps it was only the thrill of fear still thrumming in her blood. But in taking her hair down for bed, she asked, “How does it work?”

Both men eyed her curiously.

“How does what work?” Davy asked.

“When you’ve…when you’ve taken a woman…together.” She burned with embarrassment to ask the question, but she was rewarded by Davy’s keen smile and Malcolm’s intense interest.

“Do you mean what positions we take?” Malcolm asked.

Arabella’s stomach flipped, trying to imagine how many positions there were.

Fortunately, the men didn’t wait for her to answer.

“Sometimes we have a girl on her knees,” Davy explained, greatly warming to the subject. “Sucking one of us while the other takes her from behind. That’s Mal’s favorite way, but I like the ways that don’t involve my staring at his ugly mug.”

Ugly?
Her eyes cut to Malcolm, who didn’t seem insulted by the remark. But she was insulted on his behalf. Yes, his face was scarred and like granite. Hard, stony, and remote. But she still thought he was the most beautiful man she had ever laid eyes upon. And though he never seemed to smile, she could intuit pleasure or displeasure in his eyes. Right now, they burned into her in a most pleasurable way. A way that emboldened her to ask, “What other ways are there to share a woman?”

Davy nodded, as if he was pleased to be asked. “One of us in her arse and the other in her wet cunny. That’s a good one.”

Arabella’s breath hitched.
Oh, Lord
. She didn’t think she could ask another thing. And yet, she felt compelled to. “And do you…do you touch each other?”

“Not if we can help it,” Malcolm said.

Davy added, with a wicked flare in his blue eyes, “The fun is giving all our attentions to a lass and watching her come unraveled under our hands.”

Arabella wanted to come unravelled. She very much wanted that. A heat was building in her, and the source of it wasn’t her furiously blushing cheeks. No, it was somewhere in her belly, somewhere lower, between her legs. And it ached. It ached in such a way she didn’t think it could be eased unless one of these men touched her there.

She thought of Davy and Malcolm kissing her at the same time. More than kissing her. And it was so arousing, she couldn’t quite catch her breath.

“Would you like us to do that to you, lass?” Davy asked, seducing her with a sweet smile and words so velvety that the smoothness disguised the sin of them. He moved to her side, and she caught the scent of him. Clean, as if he’d bathed in the stream before the snows had come. And the heat of his body so near filled her senses.

“I don’t know,” she confessed.

It was enough encouragement for Davy to clasp her against him, and let his fingers slide up beneath the man’s shirt she’d donned. He lifted it up, his hands sliding gently to cup her breast, to flick a thumb over her sensitive nipple. It made her close her eyes. It made her moan. “But the thought arouses you, yes?”

“Yes,” she whispered, not caring in this moment if it damned her.

She was aroused, that much she knew. And it was a strange feeling, swirling about in her head and heart and body, like smoke swirling from a spark before a fire blazed in full glory. How was she to know what she wanted with the snow falling heavily outside and Davy’s warm hands on her, and Malcolm’s intense gaze sweeping over her with certain lust?

“Because the thought of it arouses me too, lass,” Davy said. “Enough that I could come right now, should I put my hand to myself.”

A glance at Malcolm and the dark lust in his eyes showed a desire to have her completely. But she had to be sure. “And it would excite you, too, to take me together?”

“Aye,” Malcolm said, resolutely.

“Is that your choice, Arabella?” Davy asked.

She swallowed. “I—I think it is. But I’m not sure. Not sure of anything…”

Davy nodded, not discouraged in the least. “Well then, you must help me get Malcolm to bed so we can help you decide.”

They kissed her that night. Both of them. Malcolm on the pillow to the left of her in the bed, pulling back the curtain of her hair to fasten his lips upon her neck. Davy, kneeling upon the floor to her right, closing his mouth over hers to leave her breathless.

They stroked her, too. Davy’s hands gently roving over her body but never stroking one place to satisfaction. Malcom’s fingers going straight between her thighs, dextrous fingers circling a spot between her slippery nether lips that forced her to cry out. “So wet,” Malcolm said with approval, and a bit of smugness at her reaction.

And Davy readily agreed.

But she wondered when one or the other of them would be overcome with jealousy, when their playful banter might become real anger, with her in the middle of it. She had never known men to willingly share anything.

“Are you sure you both want this?” she asked, because she had never wanted anything so much in her life.

“We all want it,” Malcolm said to calm her.

Davy nodded, “The only question is which one of us you will give the honor of taking your maidenhead.”

Malcolm’s grim face twitched at that—the semblance of a smirk—as if he were certain that he would be the one to have the honor. And Davy smirked back, making her realize that these two spoke to one another without words, each of them cooperating to execute a battle plan upon the map of her body.

And she was happy to give them the victory, because she was overcome with a lust that made her quake. They were erasing her terrorized memories of men crowding around her, brutalizing her. Replacing them with new memories and sensations of delight. In truth, she flowered under their attentions into an utter wanton—the kind of woman she’d been taught to think poorly of. But she couldn’t stop to care. No, she
wouldn’t
have stopped. Not for anything but Malcolm, who shifted his hips against her side so that she could feel the glorious length of his hardness.

But in doing so, he grimaced against the pain.

He wasn’t healed enough, yet. And though it gratified her that he so obviously wanted her—that both men breathed hard in her ears with desire—she could not live with herself if she ever did Malcolm harm.

He wasn’t healed enough yet for riding a horse, much less riding a woman.

He needed his strength, and she would not take it from him.

“Enough,” she whispered, regretfully. “Enough.”

They stopped. Both of them. As if she’d uttered a magic spell. And the power they had given her over them, and over herself, was so heady she wondered a moment if she truly was a witch.

“Is something wrong?” Davy asked, panting near her ear.

“Nothing whatsoever,” she said, her voice dreamy and far away. “It is only that I’m frightened.” Frightened that the injured man would open his sutures and start to bleed again, she meant. Frightened that he would endure pain for her part. But she could see the two men didn’t take it that way.