A Promise of Love (30 page)

“I do not see it as a duty.” Her words were muffled by the pillow. His smile was pure devilment.

“Do you not?”

She raised up and frowned at him. When she didn’t speak, he wondered at her stubbornness and her fear. One day, the fear would be banished. He traced a line from her chin, down her throat to her shoulder and around to the sweet curve of armpit. She shivered and he chuckled.

His fingers stroked her breast, following the edge of the curve to where it began and then finally to the straining nipple. Judith felt a tug in her middle when he licked his lips. She could feel his tongue on her flesh even before she bent forward. An arc of pure fire raced from her breast to her womb, spreading molten tongues of flame in its path.

He relinquished her breast only to cover the other one with raining kisses, unconsciously lifting himself up to meet her softness.

“‘I’ve never given you pleasure, Judith. I’m sorry for that.”

Her look of incredulity was gratifying, he thought, but too innocent for a woman married three times. He wondered if tonight would be the night in which her last innocence was banished. Would she look at him the same way tomorrow, and a thousand tomorrows, with curiosity and something else shining in those deeply blue eyes? Or would her smile be more worldly, teasing, daring? Would she ever feel that safe with him?

“Only with my mouth and my hands, wife.”

“You have not taken me since the cove.”

“I will never take, Judith. Only give.”

“I do not know what you want, Alisdair."

"I want what you want, Judith. Do what you feel like doing."

She felt like kissing him, and she did. Not the childish peck he half expected, but a full throated heady kiss as pungent as burgundy wine, as addictive as lust itself. Her tongue sought his, darted across the seam of his lips, demanded surrender a millisecond before he would have willingly laid down his arms. When she raised up and looked at him, her own lips were swollen and pinkish red as if she'd savored the same rich Bordeaux.

"Enjoy me, Judith. Enjoy your own power."

The idea was so ludicrous that she nearly laughed. When had she any power? Her knees brushed the edge of the mattress, and she shifted on her strange perch. At the feel of him, she frowned. He was aroused, erect, but he was doing nothing about it. Once again she met his eyes, and once again, she was the one to look away. An experimental motion on her part brought a groan to his lips.

"Do not unman me, love," he said, with a half-laugh. "Use me, but do not I pray you, abuse me. At least not for too long a period of time."

Again that lopsided grin which made her heart beat faster.

It was an odd feeling, this. And in that moment, she realized what a gift he gave to her. Secure in his masculinity, he was ensuring she felt safe in his arms. He did not loom over her, but allowed her to set the pace. She did not take from him, he gave of his own free will. She was overcome not by his strength but in his relinquishing of it.

His hands, however, refused to stay limply upon the curve of her waist. His fingers were particularly intrusive, dedicated and talented. They teased her at the juncture of her thighs, timid little darts of touch, fleeting and so quick she might have imagined them. They seemed to come in waves, those touches, each one successively longer, so that she grew to anticipate them and half rose from her perch upon him that they might have greater access to her heat He smiled at the pooling wetness, the unconscious seduction of her movements, the undulation of her body upon his, an arching rhythm to which she responded without conscious will, as if it were induced by a siren’s call.

He raised his knees, creating a natural cradle for her, a saddle of flesh for her to ride. He half rose, encouraging her movement, a rhythm she grasped, established, made her own.

She was swollen and wet, an inner rain urging passion, daring release. He held her by a grip on her thighs, watched her, head back, eyes closed, swaying to some internal beat he couldn’t hear, realizing that the sound of it was female and mysterious and as inviting as sin itself. His fingers gripped her thighs, his thumbs parted her, stroked her, worked in rhythm to that music she obeyed, hoping in some purely masculine and needful way that she would not crest without him, but carry him along with her.

The passion beat was transferred effortlessly, the urge of it echoed by blood alone. He hurt with the need to be buried in her swollen depths, the head of him, arrow shaped, flanged, scraping her internal walls. He wanted to plunge and rear like a maddened stallion. Gone was the thought of beguilement, of gentle seduction, of play. She had unleashed the monster of his lust, shocking him, and yet pleasing him in a visceral, pagan way.

"Now, Judith. Please." His mouth was wet and an answering wetness was echoed on her nipples, their petulant crowns deeply red. Again, she felt that sharp tug in her belly. His voice was unsteady, his plea reinforced in the uncontrollable thrusts of his hips against her.

Judith did not remember parting herself for him. Did not recall his entry, slick and sleek, made welcome by desire. Nor did she know that her downward plunge onto him almost made him cry aloud, so ravenous was her demand from him. She was not aware that her voice was shunted into a high pitched punctuation of their movements, that each downward thrust elicited a moan, that each upward pull a cry of need. All she was aware of was the feel of him, and a yearning, almost pain, to end the friction between them. She wanted it, and she did not want it to end.

She slid her hands up his muscled torso, thumbs pressed upon male nipples, fingers curved into the hollows beneath his arms, gripping, branding with their nails. Her head arched back as Alisdair let her ride him. He was trapped in a web of longing. Not to simply end this maddening need, but to watch her as she peaked, to let her soar, to ride with her to whichever place she sought as destination.

He was too big, too intrusive, he filled her, invaded. A grimace pulled her lips back from her teeth even as she pressed down on him to take more. She moaned, a sound of feral need, demanding, thrusting, complete in its abandon.

Judith’s hands clung to his shoulders, nails raked against his flesh as if to scar him. She fought the duality of her own emotions as she struggled against the fierceness of this new and staggering need. Men had brought her pain. Men with their strength and their threats. But not this man. Never this man. Alisdair had taught her that her body could scream with release, not just terror, that her eyes could glisten with tears of joy and not just pain.

She leaned down, nipped his shoulder with her teeth, an act of possession and one of anger at the same time.

He was still a man, and she couldn't forgive him for it.

If he hadn't felt her anger, Alisdair would have soothed her with a touch. But her rage surprised him at the same time it freed him. He led her lead the pace, not demurring when she demanded, nor flinching when her nails cut into his skin or her teeth bit too sharply.

She disappeared into some nameless void, concentrating only on sensation, enamored of it, welcoming it. Secure in it, because she knew, as she knew that each moment led her deeper and deeper inside herself, that somehow he was with her. When the darkness eased, and her panting led to shouts, and her frustration culminated in blinding sensation, Alisdair was there, holding on and protecting her from herself, him, and always the world.

Her face was damp with tears, her cheek sticky as she lay it upon the pillow near his face. His hand stroked her from her buttocks to her shoulders. Tears wet the side of his face and he clenched his teeth against improvident, silly words.

Long moments later, Judith surfaced long enough to become conscious of his breathing. It was deep and regular. Not that of a man relaxed, but that of a man struggling to appear so.

Judith levered herself up and it was only then that she became conscious that he was still solid and aroused within her. His lips smiled, but the look in his eyes was not contented nor was it amiable. It was predatory, needing, as she sat upright and welcomed his gaze upon her flushed chest, upon her nipples, rock hard points, upon the spot where they joined.

His smile was self mockery at its finest. Hers was pure distilled amazement.

She moved down on him suddenly, a gesture as subtle as a brick falling upon his head, and as daring as the most sophisticated courtesan. Only after the spiral of pure pleasure washed through him did he feel calm enough to speak.

“Now, Judith?”

She nodded, smiling.

Their coupling was fierce, brilliant, and thoroughly exhausting, bathed with tears of release. Alisdair thought that his quick witted wife showed a penchant for delightfully wicked ways.

And Judith came to the conclusion that saints were overrated.

CHAPTER 29

Judith knocked softly on the door, and when the voice bade her enter, she walked in unsurprised. She'd already spoken to Lauren, one of the women from the village sent to take Meggie her meals when Judith was occupied in the weaving shed. It was Lauren who told her that Meggie had begun to speak, to turn away from the broth, and had, instead, begun to tease her about being intentionally starved.

"It's as if she's decided to join the living, sweet lass," Lauren said.

Now, Judith walked into the room at Meggie's summons, closed the door behind her, waiting for the other woman to speak. She was framed against the window, her back to Judith, her gaze focused on the undulating expanse of the sea, much the same way Judith had often stared. As if the ocean held the answer to so many questions in her life. Why me? What now?

So simple, so easy to voice, questions still unanswered.

Meggie was dressed in the simple dress she'd been wearing when attacked, although much mended and laundered - clothing was not such a simple thing to replace in the Highlands.

Meggie turned, glancing at the jar of heather ale in Judith's arms. A grin replaced the solemnity of her expression.

"Aye, an' it's a pure Scot's lass ye're now, Judith?"

Judith smiled tremulously in response. "Sophie sent it up, but I urge you to use it judiciously. I find it has quite a kick."

Meggie's smile lit up her face. "Aye, I remember."

Judith was grateful for the memory which sparked such a smile, even if the amusement was at her expense. She wondered if the entire clan had heard about her debacle with heather ale and supposed they had. There were few secrets in the glen, which would make the coming months so much more difficult for Meggie.

"Come in, then, an' we'll savor the brew."

"One tumbler only, Meggie," Judith cautioned, "I've no wish to lose my head again. Or find it twice as big tomorrow."

"Aye," she said, smiling softly, "my Robbie would say the same."

"Your husband," Judith said.

Meggie nodded, and turned back to the window, as if the view were somehow compelling. In a way, it was. Heaven and earth. Land and sea. Judith wondered if Meggie felt the way she'd often felt standing there. As if her own problems were infinitesimal compared to the sheer size of the world. That she was only a puny human being compared to the majesty of the rolling sea.

"It's a strange thing, life, isn't it?"

Judith didn't answer, any words she might speak being less important at this moment than silence.

"I ne'er would have thought my life to be so verra different from my mother's or her mother. I'd not thought to be so verra different from the rest of the women I know. I loved Robbie with a’ my heart. I hated the English for killin' him, an’ my da and my bruthers, too. An’ then ye came, Judith, an’ I thought maybe the English aren't so bad, after all. Tha’ it was just war.

“Ye tried to save me, an’ I realized it wasna because ye were English, it was because ye were Judith."

She turned and looked at Judith and held out one hand. Judith took it, set the heather ale down upon the floor and went to stand in front of the window beside Meggie. A small, sad smile appeared on Meggie's face.

"Ye musna blame yersel'," Meggie said, when she saw Judith's tears.

"I'm sorry, Meggie." Sorry. What a futile word. What a useless word.

"Aye, me too," Meggie said, and it wasn't her rape she meant. Judith looked down at the sill, at the sight of her hands clenched there.

So, she
had
heard.

It was one thing to speak to a lump in the bed, quite another to face that expression on Meggie's face. Horror, mixed with compassion. She might have looked the same had Meggie told that tale.

"I was layin' in that bed wonderin' how to go on, feelin' as I did the shame of it. As if something evil had been borne inside o' me, crept inside my womb. Yer words crept inside my heart, instead, Judith. I'll no tell anyone, ye can rest easy."

"I never thought you would, Meggie," she said, her gaze still intent upon her clenched hands. How did she tell the other woman that words were easy, it was the living that was difficult? That some days, she felt as ancient as the ocean itself, as though one more step was too much, one more breath beyond her capabilities.

"Next, we'll be greetin' like bairns, Judith," Meggie said, her smile a little shaky, but no less bright. "Wi' all this fine heather ale, seems such a pity." She reached out to the other woman and enveloped her in a swift, hard hug.