Bride of Dunloch (Highland Loyalties) (14 page)

“Nay, I am alright. I’ve been lying for too long; I must sit up. So ... how is Margaret bearing up?”

“She is grieving,” Jane admitted. “And I’d venture to say she does not have long before her babe joins us in this world.”

“Does she hate me? Does she curse my name to hell?”

“She does not,” she assured him. “She seems to think that Connall would have followed you to the ends of the earth if there was a reason for it.”

“I tried to keep him out of it; I tried to keep them all out of it, but they werena having any of it. They wanted Dunloch, and they wanted D’Aubrey’s blood.” When Jane grimaced at the mention of Lord Reginald, Robbie softened. “I am sorry if that offends ye, but that’s the way of it.”

“It does not offend me,” she answered. “I just find it difficult to reconcile the picture of the beast you paint for me with the one of the man I know myself.”

“And what kind of a man is he behind closed doors?” Robbie enquired, his voice carefully guarded.

“He is not cruel, not to me. He is kind—if a little distant. I have been made aware that I was a practical choice for a wife; my dowry and connections were favourable and I am in a position to bear him an heir. It is not the love of which every young girl dreams, but I find I cannot complain. He allows me my freedom to do what I will. Many women end up in worse situations that mine.”

“And was it
kind
of him to use ye so roughly like he did? Jane, ye could barely sit down.”

“It wasn’t that bad,” she said, reddening.

“I dinna believe ye.”

“Well, it is what it is, and this is an inappropriate discussion.”

“Ye deserve better,” Robbie persisted. “Why canna ye admit that?”

Jane exhaled sharply, frustrated. “Deserve? Robbie, do not speak to me of what I do or do not
deserve
. There are scores of men rotting at the bottom of that ridge who did not
deserve
to die, and there are wives and children left behind who did not
deserve
to lose their men. I see a clan chieftain before me who did not deserve to lose his lands, his home, or his clansmen, and there is a small boy in the village yonder that does not deserve to grow up without his father. What I deserve is
irrelevant
in comparison.”

Robbie listened through her outburst in rapt silence. When the force of her unexpected passion died away, he reached for her hand, and pressed gently with his fingers.

“D’ye mean that Jane? Or are ye just saying it to appease me?”

“I mean it,” she answered. “You know, you have more sympathy at Dunloch than you realize—not much, mind, but at least a small measure.”

“That so?” Robbie scoffed. “No one English, I’d wager.”

“The dowager baroness, actually. It was she who first urged me to open my eyes to the plight of the Scots. When Lord Reginald informed me that he did not trust Tearlach a whit, it was Lady D’Aubrey who came to his defence. You see—not all English are bad.”

“No,” Robbie said, squeezing her fingers again. “No, they are not.”

The heat of his hand on hers spread up her arm and set her stomach fluttering again. Ruth’s words echoed in her ears as she met his eyes:
take your pleasures where you can
. She wanted to move closer to him, wanted to take his face in her hands and press her lips to his. She wanted to feel the heat of his
body
, not just his hand, pressed to her own. And by the soft way he held her gaze, she thought he might want all these things, too. Perhaps more ...

Then why was her mouth as dry as parchment? Why could she not seem to unlock her muscles and force herself to move? To
breathe
?

“You should have something to drink,” she said instead, pulling her hand from his and sliding over to the fire.

“Ye’re not thinking more of that awful thyme, are ye? Ye said I were done wi’ that.”

“No, not thyme,” she said, fishing a hot stone from the fire and submerging it in the cooking pot. “But you could do with some willow bark to help you sleep through the night.”

“What about ale? Give me enough ale and I’ll no’ only sleep through the night but into part of the next day as well.”

Jane laughed at his quip. “No ale. And eat something more. I see you’ve hardly touched what I’ve brought you.”

She busied herself with tending the fire and preparing a dose of willow bark tea. All the while, she could feel his eyes on her—she could not decipher whether it was a disconcerting sensation ... or a pleasing one.

By the time he dropped off, Jane was tired too. Her blanket, which she’d first spread out on the ground an appropriate distance from his, seemed now to be much too far away. She knew it was entirely improper, but she wanted desperately to be close to him, even if it was in slumber. Furtively, she dragged her blanket to his side and smoothed it out. Lying next to him, she closed her eyes and fell easily asleep.

But her dreams were not restful. Quite the opposite, in fact. They were fraught with memories of Lord Reginald in her bedchamber, taking what lawfully belonged to him, of Robbie’s voice echoing a sentiment she knew to be true but unalterable:
ye deserve better.
Of Robbie’s naked hip, his chest, his stomach, his hand holding hers ... of Ruth’s words:
take your pleasures where you can
.

She awoke with a start, her heart hammering away behind her ribs. Beside her, Robbie slept on. The low light from the dying fire played at his features, lending an air of innocence to his peaceful face. His finely shaped lips were slightly parted, his jaw relaxed. The pain and misery that seemed permanently etched into his brow were erased for a few blissful hours.

She studied his lips—that curious longing she’d never known before, but which seemed to be a constant since she’d first encountered him, flared once more. What would it be like to kiss those lips? To feel their softness crushed beneath hers?

“Robbie?” she whispered. “Robbie, are you awake?”

Robbie slumbered on. His chest rose and fell evenly as he breathed, and his lips remained slightly parted.

Silently, she slid closer to him on her stomach until her face was mere inches away from his—so close that his warm breath caressed her skin as he exhaled gently. Eyeing him one last time to ensure that he truly was asleep, she leaned forward, propped on her elbows, and tenderly placed her lips atop his.

A thrill ran through her at his touch. His lips were as soft as she imagined they would be, and the warm blush which always bloomed when she thought about kissing him spread in her stomach, intense and heady.

She released him, and he remained asleep. But having known the touch of his lips to hers, one kiss was not enough. She longed to nurture the odd thrill she’d experienced which still vibrated in her very soul. Leaning in once more, she pressed her lips to his again, longer this time, to savour the intense and wonderful fluttering in her belly.

From beneath her touch, Robbie gave a start and opened his eyes. Jane gasped and scuttled backwards. Her eyes were wide with shock and humiliation as she stared at him, mouth slightly agape. Her mind careened with possibilities of what she might say to explain herself—none of them plausible. But no words passed her frozen lips. So shocked and mortified was she at being caught that her muscles locked in place, defying her mental order to sit up, to look away. To
move
.

Before her mind could wrap itself around what she could say or do, Robbie reached across himself and propped himself up on his elbow. Twisting towards her he placed his hand behind her head at the nape of her neck.

She drew in a breath as he pressed his lips to hers, crushing them softly, but with an urgency and desperation that stilled her heart. Every fibre in her being tingled as his lips moved over hers, urging her to kiss him back.

This kiss was nothing like the one she’d suffered through with Lord Reginald. When Robbie’s tongue slipped inside her mouth to entwine with hers, she willingly accepted it, eager to feel and taste and experience him in a much deeper sense than she’d ever dreamed. When he rolled farther over, encouraging her to lie back, she welcomed his weight as he shifted on top of her, trapping her beneath him, safe and secure.

She was once more being claimed by a man ... but this time she desperately wanted to be claimed, to belong to him entirely. But when his hand trailed from the back of her neck, down her throat and to the laces of her shift, her proper, chaste upbringing reared itself to protest vehemently.
 

Improper. Sinful. Dirty.

“Wait—stop,” she pleaded, suddenly struck by a wave of panic. She put her hand to Robbie’s, pushing it away, and turned her face from his.

Robbie lifted himself off of her a fraction and looked into her bewildered face. His breath was hot and rapid with his evident desire, and his expression was tortured with lust.

“Jane, I am sorry. I didna mean to—”

“No, it’s not that, it’s—”

“Ye didna want this.”

“I—I didn’t say that,” she hedged nervously.

He held her gaze, searching her face as if to read her thoughts. “
Do
ye want this?”

“I don’t know—I ... do you?”

“Jane,” he breathed, exasperated. “Ye canna have any ken how badly I’ve wanted this almost since the first moment I met ye. Truly, lass, ye’ve bewitched every conscious thought I have, and ye’ve possessed my dreams every night. How could ye no’—a creature as beautiful as ye? Though I ken well enough ye dinna believe it. Jane, I want this terribly. But if
ye
dinna ...”

Robbie trailed off, waiting for her answer. The echo of Ruth’s words warred with the voice in her head:
Improper. Sinful ... Take your pleasures where you can
.

Her life was mapped out before her—years of submitting to Lord Reginald’s urges, duty to bear his children, decades of standing at his side, playing the silent role of the Lady of Dunloch. And little pleasure.

Take your pleasures where you can.

“I want this,” she said, her voice breathy and her lips trembling.

Robbie needed no further invitation. The moment she uttered the words, his lips were on hers again, sensual and demanding. His kiss lulled her under a spell, so much so that she only found her voice when his hand began roving down to the laces of her shift again.

“Robbie, wait—please,” she urged. When he raised himself up again and gazed at her quizzically, she didn’t seem to know what it was she was going to say.

Though he did—the set of her frightened features communicated more than her words could.

“I willna be like him,” he promised. “I swear, I willna. I couldna do that to ye.”

Jane nodded, and he lowered his head to hers once more. This time, though, he kissed her slowly so he would not further frighten her. His lips trailed lightly over hers, and brushed across her jaw from ear to ear. Gently, he slid down her throat, skimming her clavicle with the lightness of a butterfly’s wing. Then with a more deliberate firmness, he pressed his mouth into the crook of her neck, allowing his warm, moist breath to wash over her sensitive flesh.

His constant changes of position and pressure sent shivers up her spine and quickened her pulse. The delicious warmth that had started to blossom in the pit of her stomach intensified and crept downwards, stirring a longing for him. When his hand trailed down her shift this time, she did not stop him, and when his hand moved to her back to slide the fabric over her shoulders, she raised herself to assist him. Once the gown was off her shoulders, he pulled it lower, exposing her breasts.

The recollection of Lord Reginald’s assault on her naked breasts surfaced unpleasantly at the back of her mind, and she winced involuntarily at the expectation of another humiliating round of groping and nipping with teeth. Instead, Robbie cupped her in his palm, and traced his thumb lightly over her nipple.

“Whoever said ye were plain must have been gae blind,” he whispered.

Jane lay in a trancelike state as he lowered his mouth to her breast. Instead of devouring her young flesh as Lord Reginald had done, Robbie was slow and artful, tracing around the circumference of her breast and across her sternum. He covered every inch of her, from shoulders to ribs, with his lips until she was trembling with desire. Only then did he pull her dress down lower to expose her flat, smooth belly.

“Plain,” he scoffed again in a voice barely above a whisper.

She wanted so much to feel the warmth of his skin pressed against hers, wanted to claim Robbie’s flesh with her hands as he was doing to her, but she was unsure of how to proceed. Having never before experienced such intense pleasure from the closeness of a man, she was self-conscious, sorely lacking confidence in her ability to return those pleasures. Nervously, she twined her fingers at the hem of his shirt and debated whether she should pull it up, worried that it might be too forward.

Robbie noted her hesitation. Slowly, he clasped her hand so that the fabric was trapped between them. Then he lifted, guiding her hand to raise his shirt up and over his head. He let go of her hand then, and let her toss his shirt to the dirt floor under her own power.

“Touch me, Jane,” he whispered. It was both an urgent demand, and a desperate plea.