A Perfect Knight For Love (9 page)

Amalie went hot with the all-over blush, filled with instant embarrassment and dismay. “They know what . . . we’re doing right now?”

He gave a heavy sigh. Swore beneath his breath, and then answered. “They ken I was na’ wed two days hence. And that I’m now consummating it. Keep speaking, I’ll find you.”

“B-but, Thayne, I—”

“You said you’d na’ give me a fight!”

“It’s just—”

Hard arms grabbed her, pulled her to a like hardness of chest and held her there. Everywhere she touched was bare skin, slick with a sheen of moisture and heated with the extent and duration of his run.

“Ah . . . there you are . . . mmm. Nice.”

His voice turned low, to a croon of sound, as he ran his hands along her shoulders and then her arms, pushing the blanket thing with it. Amalie felt instant chill once the blanket fell but it got replaced by immense heat as his hands clenched about her and lifted, pressing her to the mass of him in order to just hold her there. For countless moments of time. And then his mouth found hers, prying her lips apart to lap at her tongue with his, and giving a full-body groan as accompaniment. Amalie’s entire being flexed in readiness, startled and alert and entirely excited. She’d barely caught at the sensation before he moved his lips, trailing fire-spiked ice along her chin and to an ear. And once he reached there, he whispered words at her that started a riot of shivers. Amalie’s shoulder lifted in defense.

“Sweet—! Ah . . . lass! You’ve been over-blessed with woman skills. Makes it nice—and sweet! Powerful sweet!”

He shifted, going to his knees and taking her with him, in a slant of provocation and something else. The sense of nakedness. Him. All of him. Wherever she touched, and wherever she tried not to touch. Her hands kept contacting, sparking before she lifted them, while Thayne’s fingers climbed rapidly up her spine, sliding each button from its hole, opening the material to flesh that quivered at the touch. And everywhere she experienced shivers. Rivulets of them went over her shoulders to center in each breast tip, making darts of painful intensity and throbbing. Amalie felt the scratch of wool at her back, the rush of air at her bosom, and then the absolute shock as lips found her pointed nipple flesh. And started suckling.

Hammers hit at her, filling her frame with a pounding akin to drums. Those were chased by a torrent of shaking and a flood of feeling outside every realm of her experience and imagination. Her mouth went wide to allow a cry of pure reaction and that wasn’t enough. She couldn’t have dreamt passion and intensity such as those filling her veins. And then more of both until it all became a throb of thrill and anticipation and absolute want. Then that got chased by growing excitement and agitation that had her arching and bucking against him while her fingers clenched his hair.

“Ah . . . lass. I can barely keep from taking—! Na’ yet! I’ve na’ prepared . . .”

Whispered words unfastened him from her breast, touching on the trail of wet he tongued into existence as he slid back up, licking at her lips before taking the kiss. Amalie’s hands found his, slid up his arms . . . reaching his shoulders before sliding the same way back, kneading and pushing against sinew and strength. She felt his arms harden as he lifted his upper body from her, his lips never leaving hers, sucking and playing and absorbing, and causing such a myriad of stimulation she was close to sobbing with the combination. She grazed her palms along his arms . . . reached his shoulders again, and dug her nails into him with the grip, seeking to bring him back. Closer. Again. More.

She barely felt him balancing, moving a hand to hers and sliding it to a hold against his chest. Until she understood. Amalie moved her hands then, spreading her fingers wide, pressing to his chest, where a heavy thump of heart tickled her palm, sending heat, moisture, and intensity. And then she slid her hand farther down him, exploring a roping of bumps and valleys all along him, learning the musculature of his lower chest, his belly . . . around to his back.

Amalie arched up from the wool-covered support, seeking to reach and match against skin he was denying her, her mouth open and keening a cry of frustration that hurt her throat.

“Easy, lass . . .”

She didn’t want to go easy! She didn’t know what it was she wanted, but slow and easy wasn’t it. But then fingers reached the bare skin of her leg, making her lurch against him in a harsh and heavy fashion. He shoved a handful of skirt up, gaining chilled air on exposed skin, and then fingers replaced that, sending sparks. Amalie gulped for air as he slid his hand higher . . . grazing flesh. And when she exhaled, it carried a moan of anticipation and stimulation and pure need. She was afire with it. His fingers slid higher, wrapping about her to cup one side of her buttocks. Then Thayne tightened to lift her, yanking her against something so hard and foreign and large that she stiffened. Everywhere.

“Doona’ fear. I’ll be gentle. It’s just—!”

He’d moved his kiss to her ear, whispering words that sent shivers racing to curse the rest of her. They sprang from his breath in a flood before pooling at her center, where he was sliding his hard shaft along her belly flesh and then back to the juncture of her thighs, moving closer to her core with each move. And trembling the entire time.

“Thayne! I—!”

Amalie’s voice choked off as he angled his head into the space beside her shoulder, planting it on the wool in order to release his other arm. Fingers slid down her side, reaching her buttocks, and using full handfuls to lift her, holding her in position, creating an opening for him. And she was going wild. Her own lunges were trying to match against the heat and bulk filling the space he’d created. Then he stopped and a shudder ran him, strong enough to shift her along the fabric beneath them.

“Thayne?” Her whisper carried her tension. Desire. Inflamed craving.

But he stayed unmoving for the longest moment, save for where he pulsed in place, touching her innermost flesh and driving her into an arch of reaction that reached where he hovered.

“Ah . . .
lass
!”

The words were grunted as he moved finally, sliding along where everything was quivering and grasping and needy. Amalie was near bursting with the combination. He pushed his upper body against her, forcing her prone with the weight of him. Amalie was in a torture of inhaled breath, her hands gripped to his upper arms while her entire being felt poised in time, held alert, expectant, frustrated . . . and completely and totally ready.

“You’re wet. But so . . . tight! I’ve but—
Christ
!”

He’d been huffing heated air all over her with the words, and then with the curse he’d stopped. Everything on him stilled. He wasn’t even breathing while Amalie had her eyes scrunched so tightly, it hurt. Her throat felt raw with a denied scream. Her entire body was in a torment of expectancy, fueled by excitement and whirling with passion and fervor . . . and he stopped?

Light speared the darkness as the door flew wide, sending cold everywhere. It was accompanied by a slap of wood against an obstruction of wall. Within a blink, Thayne was on his feet and backed to a wall with her shoved between bare skin and peat insulation that crumbled onto her back. The boom of the door startled the babe into a cry from where she was suspended from a jut of log to the side of them. Amalie glanced at the make-shift cradle before looking at the mass of shadows in the aperture, highlighted by the torches they carried.

“Thayne?” The largest of the intruders bellowed the name.

“Jamie?” Thayne replied, the name rumbling through the back she leaned against.

The speaker stepped in, bringing a torch with him and lighting just about everything; Thayne’s nakedness; the discarded plaid on the floor dented with the shape of her body; the squalor of the hut. Amalie glimpsed a large bloodied bandage on the other man’s shoulder and bluish bruising about his eyes before closing hers and hiding as if that muted or changed any of it.

She didn’t have to even ask. She knew the MacGowan chieftain instantly. He’d looked the same size and coloring as Thayne. And close to the same handsome features. But something was different. She’d have looked again if she could vanquish the weakness of a full-body flush and a space filled with embarrassment. Her ears got bombarded with the sound of clanking weaponry amid rumbling sounds of speech. That started the babe to kicking and fussing. Amalie wasn’t capable of moving. Her knees wavered. She’d have fallen if the pressure of Thayne’s body wasn’t preventing it.

“Well. Well. Well. ’Tis my bairn brother, Thayne. Tupping a woman.” The man had a huge voice with a deep brogue and a slurred way of speaking. He also laughed through the words, making him harder to understand.

“Jamie.” Thayne’s voice carried what sounded like threat. It vibrated through his back into where she’d pressed her cheek. It didn’t affect his brother in the slightest.

“And doing it poorly, I see.”

Embarrassment was an understatement. It was absolute horror. Unpleasant goose bumps ran her, feeling immeasurably worse where the back of her dress still gapped.

“You brought clan?” Thayne asked.

His brother was still amused, if his voice was an indicator. “More than enough for rescue from one small lass. Do you have whiskey?”

“Sporran,” Thayne replied.

Amalie heard shuffling noises, the sounds of gulping, and the smack of lips. She peeked on the view of shadowed earth floor behind Thayne’s boot heels and her feet. Nobody said anything until Thayne broke the silence.

“You could turn about, Jamie. Give us a moment.”

His brother snorted. “A moment? You’re selfish-fast, mon. Nae wonder the lasses prefer me.”

Amalie went crimson-colored and then pale. She could feel it as heat followed by immense chill. It was easier to hide behind Thayne and put a hand over each ear. It didn’t work. She could still hear.

“A moment to dress. See to the bairn. And the wife.”

Thayne was talking through clenched teeth, if the sound was any indication. One of the men must have tossed a hank of plaid material at him. She saw the flick of cloth at his shin while his back undulated to catch it.

“Wife? Did I hear that right?
Wife?
”

“You heard,” Thayne replied without inflection.

“You went and wed? Without word or approval?”

“Aye,” Thayne replied.

There was a hushed reaction during which the baby hiccoughed. Amalie blinked rapidly and worked at controlling the shaking in her legs as Thayne pulled away to toss his plaid over his shoulder, brushing her head with it. She moved her hands to the front of her dress, checked for coverage, and then clasped them between her breasts. She’d rarely felt as open and unprotected and vulnerable.

“Did . . . you also say . . . bairn?” Jamie’s shadow took a step toward the baby and she knew he peered into the plaid.

“You heard me,” Thayne replied.

“So we did. True, lads?”

No one answered him. Amalie began to wonder how much whiskey he’d drunk to sound so unsteady and slurred. She watched the shadow turn fully toward them, making him look gigantic and misshapen.

“That the wife, then? The lass behind you?”

“Aye,” Thayne replied.

“Stand aside. Let me get a look at her.”

Amalie’s heart moved. Or something. It felt lodged at the base of her throat, bumping against her clenched hands with the force of each beat, squeezing at her air passage. She could sense the room swaying and hoped it wasn’t a swoon.

“Nae,” Thayne answered finally; clearly, and with the same lack of emotion. She’d have gasped if she had breath.

“You should na’ tell your laird nae,” Jamie replied.

“Cease this and assist me.”

“Gladly. Although I doona’ usually share women.”

Amalie really was going to faint. Little black dots hampered her vision and her legs refused to hold her. Thayne must’ve felt it, for he backed into her, pushing her against the wall and forcing her to stay upright.

“Cease frightening my wife.”

“She’s already seen your ugly arse. How can I frighten more than that?” Jamie asked.

“Enough.”

Thayne said it in a low throb of sound. She’d never heard such a tone. Amalie knew a threat when she heard it. His brother must be immune, for all he did was sigh. Loudly.

“Come along, then. You’re done rescued.”

“’Tis na’ just me. Dunn-Fyne has three MacGowan men and the bairn’s wet-nurse. And my horse. I’ll na’ leave without them.”

Jamie gave another sigh. “I can. And will.”

“Assist me!” Thayne got larger somehow. Amalie could feel it.

“With what? Nine men? And me with a broke shoulder?”

“Loan me your honor guard, then. Nine MacGowan clan are enough.”

“Eight. I’ll need one.”

“For what?”

“Setting up a pallet. Look at me. I’m useless. But I can guard your wife and bairn well enough.”

“Jamie, I swear—!”

“Oh cease that and go,” Jamie interrupted Thayne’s outburst. “And try na’ to start another feud. But if you must, fetch some whiskey. Yours will na’ keep me long.”

“The wife stays untouched, Jamie.”

“’Tis but a few hours. Fraught with little save boredom.”

“I’ll ken if you touch her,” Thayne continued.

Jamie waved his good hand. “Go. This tires me worse than a clan meet. I’ll do little save sleep. You’ve my word.”

“Lass?”

It took a moment to realize Thayne was addressing her. He’d swiveled his head over his shoulder to look back and down at her. It took a bit before she raised her eyes to his, and the moment their gazes touched, her heart did another unbidden move, swooping to a large strong beat in her lower belly, warming and yet frost-filled at the same time. The sensation spread, making everything tingle. It was huge. Endless. Irrevocable. Untenable. And beautiful enough to cause tears.

Oh no. No. This couldn’t possibly be . . . love? No.
Please, no
.

Amalie dropped her eyes and blinked, focusing on the dirty floor below her. It wasn’t possible. If this was a feeling, she was ending it—immediately and totally. She couldn’t feel anything for this rude, ill-mannered, uncivilized Highlander. She refused. She couldn’t. She wouldn’t. She didn’t. Not him. No.