Cathy Maxwell - [Chattan Curse 03] (14 page)

He couldn’t remember. He didn’t care. She was all he wanted.

She gripped his shirt with one hand as if to hold him in place. She kissed him like a woman possessed. He was surprised at her passion, but eminently grateful as well.

“Trust me,” she whispered. “Please trust me.”

“I do,” Heath murmured as she kissed the line of his jaw. Her hand strayed down his chest to the waist of his breeches. She began twisting the buttons, first one, then another. His erection against the stiff material begged her for freedom.

Still, he was a gentleman—

Heath brought his hand down over hers. “Wait, Margaret, you may want to think on this.”

Her response was to trace his ear with her tongue.

“I was mistaken,” he murmured. “Don’t think on it.” He helped her finish the unbuttoning.

She wanted what she wanted and whom was he to argue? She rubbed his thigh with the inside of her knee. He had not expected her to be so aggressive, wanton even. Her skirt was almost up to her waist and she reminded him of a dockside whore, coaxing a man to dick her—

This was not Margaret Chattan.

The thought startled Heath. He grabbed her wrists and sat up, holding her away from him.

She lunged at him as if wanting to wrap her arms around him, to claim him. The fire beside them seemed to have come alive with a will of its own. The flames rose higher, burning brighter, their light spreading until he could see her face was no longer her own.

The evil of a thousand devils lit her eyes.

And her tongue had turned to that of a serpent. It reached out to lick at him, even as her fingers curled into claws intent on attacking him.

“Come here,” she ordered, her voice soft, coaxing.
“
Come to me
.”

M
argaret had dozed off. She was cold in spite of the fire but bone weary and comforted by the laird’s presence.

And then she felt herself being shaken awake.

She opened her eyes to find Heath over her. He held her by the wrists and the expression on his face was one of horror, except he wasn’t really seeing her. He was dreaming—and he was afraid of her.

“Laird Macnachtan, wake up.
Wake up
.
Heath
.”

For a second, she feared he would not hear her. His hold on her wrists tightened. He twisted her around, pressing her into the ground.

Panic gripped her, until she reminded herself this man was good. He was the best she’d ever met. He’d always been everything that a gentleman should be and more. He would not harm her.

His face came down to hers, his teeth clenched as if in a battle and Margaret knew she had to do something to wake him. Something drastic.

So she kissed him.

Her lips were numb from the cold. The contact warmed them.

He frowned, started to pull back. She reached up and kissed him again, pressing her lips to his, and she felt him relax.

His grip on her wrists loosened.

She pulled her hands from his hold and threw them around his shoulders, holding him, feeling the racing beat of his heart against her chest. His growth of beard was scratchy on her skin. She kissed him all the harder.

His manner changed. He brought his hand to her waist, pulling her to him. His kiss became more intent, more purposeful.

Margaret believed she’d known what a kiss was.

She now realized she hadn’t.

Heath Macnachtan’s kiss robbed her of all reason.

His lips opened and instinctively she followed his lead, finding she liked the taste and feel of him. She liked it very much.

There had been a time when she’d stolen kisses. A time when she had indulged in passion. She’d paid a terrible price for her foolishness and had vowed she would be chaste, and had been. She’d become to believe herself immune to the luxuries of the flesh.

But now she couldn’t keep from kissing him. It felt good to be this close to him. It felt safe.

He broke the kiss with a huge, gasping cry as if just coming to his senses. His breathing was shallow, his face flushed.

His hands had returned to her wrists but he didn’t take hold.

Instead, he stared glassy-eyed. “Margaret?” he whispered. He seemed uncertain, and she realized he’d been dreaming.

“Yes, it is me,” she said. “It
is
me.”

“I was dreaming.”

She nodded. “You were.”

“It seemed real.”

“They can be that way.”

His brows came together, and then his response was to kiss her again.

Chapter Twelve

H
eath had rarely credited kissing as anything other than a prelude to what he really wanted. Men kissed because women liked being all sloppy. What men truly wanted was much lower on the body.

However, now Margaret taught him that a kiss was a desire in and of itself. It was communication and communion.

Had the poets, whom he’d so often mocked, claimed kisses were better than wine? He’d not thought so . . . until this moment.

Memories of the dream evaporated. Responsibilities, doubts and worries disappeared.

There was nothing of more importance in this world than this woman in his arms.

She opened so sweetly to him that he knew theirs was not one-sided desire.

Of course, the kiss grew more heated. He wanted her in a way he’d never yearned for a woman before.

He began undressing her, tentatively at first, and, when she didn’t object, with more purpose. The storm raged around them, but here in front of the fire, protected by the crumbling walls of Macnachtan Keep, they were safe.

Had his buttons been hard to unfasten in his dream? They were doubly difficult now. His fingers were clumsy in his excitement and he would not let his lips leave hers. She was so soft and yielding. He’d rather struggle with wet clothing than part from her.

Her hand came down to help him. He reached for her waist, searching for the lacing of her skirt. That same skirt served as their covering. His jacket and breeches became their mattress.

Undoing her jacket was a challenge. The silver buttons were slippery.

She laughed at his inept attempts, breaking the kiss. She sat up and saw to the task herself.

Heath used the moment to throw more wood on the fire. He was naked and not ashamed of the hard desire he showed for her.

Margaret blushed, but then she rose up on her knees and opened her jacket. Thin, white lawn material covered her breasts, and he was reminded of that day by the great oak when her petticoat had drifted through the air.

Her black-as-a-raven’s-wing hair curled around her shoulders. He reached for the white lawn and pulled, bringing her toward him, even as the material ripped. The back of his fingers touched her skin as he kissed her.

This kiss was demanding. He wanted her and he wanted her now. Her breasts were full and tight, the nipples hard. She wanted him as well.

Her arms came around his shoulders as he leaned her back onto their makeshift bed. He pulled her skirt over them, forming a haven just for the two of them.

Their kiss deepened. He could feel her heat.

The scent of her was sweeter to his senses than any perfume. He tasted her flesh, kissing his way to her breast.

She gasped in surprise at the tricks his mouth could play, a gasp that quickly turned into small encouragements of delight.

As he moved to tease her other breast, he settled himself between her legs. She opened and arched to accommodate him. Her thighs were silky smooth against his hips.

There is a point when a man cannot turn back. Heath had reached that point.

His mind was insane with wanting her. She filled his senses. He raised himself to hungrily kiss her again—

She held her hand up to his lips. Her eyes were dark with desire. He kissed her fingers, and she sighed and took her hand away, giving him full access to her mouth.

Their tongues met, caressed, stroked—and he thrust himself deeply inside her, all the way to the hilt.

Margaret stiffened. She was blessedly tight. Too late he thought of her innocence. He called himself every worst sort of bastard, and then he could think no more as he gave himself over to the bliss of being inside her.

No woman had ever felt as good as Margaret Chattan did in his arms.

After her initial shock at accepting him, she became a full and eager participant in their lovemaking. Her movements matched his and heightened his pleasure while letting him know what she needed.

Heath was delighted. He liked a partner who didn’t stint in her own desires.

Too soon he felt his concentration weakening. She overpowered him.

And then her breath quickened. She moved faster. He wrapped his arms around her and gathered her up. Deep muscles tightened and he was lost.

Heath couldn’t think. He couldn’t breathe.

No release had ever been this forceful. She drained the life of him and yet at the same time, he was more alive, more aware than he’d ever been before.

She cried his name and held fast to him. The strength of her completion radiated through him.

This was no ordinary coupling.

She was no ordinary woman.

In that moment, their bodies sharing the perfect summit of completion, Heath fell in love.

It startled him.

Yes, he was attracted to her. Margaret Chattan was a lovely, intelligent woman. There had been moments when he’d questioned her sanity, but he had no questions now.

The dissatisfaction that had nagged at him from the time he’d heard of his brother’s death, to the daily struggle to see to the estate’s debts, evaporated. The niggling doubt that life held anything of importance to him vanished.

In their place was a sense of wonder.

Margaret released her pleasure in a sigh of contentment. The ringing of church bells or the music of birdsong could not have been more pleasing to his ear.

He held her, studying her face as if with new eyes. He now saw beyond her looks. He knew her soul.

And he realized that all the events that had taken place in his life had happened to bring him to this one moment.

This one woman.

A dreamy look crossed her face. She raised her lashes and smiled, satisfied.

Only then did he realize he’d been holding her, bracing her in his arms. Gently he let her rest upon their makeshift mattress. She raised a hand to rest against his jaw. He knew his whiskers were rough but she smiled as if their prickly growth pleased her.

“I did not know it could be like that,” she whispered.

He hadn’t, either
.

Heath brushed her curls away from her face. He adored looking at her. He knew he would feel the same even when her beauty faded with age—no, her beauty would never change for him . . . because it was her spirit he loved.

He loved
. Heath Graham Davis Macnachtan had fallen in love, and it was the most precious, exciting, thrilling emotion of his life.

And then a coldness stole through him. She was easy to love; he not so much. She was the Unattainable, the glorious toast of London, and he was a penniless Scottish chieftain. Margaret Chattan had more sense than to love a man like him.

She drew a shaky breath and he realized he was on top of her. He edged over so they lay side by side.

“Why are you looking at me that way?” she said, but didn’t seem to need an answer because she smiled and brought her palm down to press upon her belly. “I’m still tingling,” she admitted. “I never want this feeling to leave.”

It wouldn’t
, he wanted to say,
if she loved him
. He’d make her feel this way every night.

But his usual smooth manner had disappeared. The confidence he’d always had with other women was gone. And he knew that was because he wanted her so much. They had done more than just make love. She had changed him forever.

She pressed a kiss to the underside of his chin. “It’s good to be here with you. I’m not afraid. For so long, I’ve been afraid.”

He found his voice. “You need never fear anything while I am here to protect you.”

Margaret shook her head as if denying his words. He captured her face in his hands. She was so finely made. So delicate and soft, while he was hard and rough.

“This was
meant
to happen,” he said almost fiercely, wanting to impress the fact on her. He had her now, and he was never going to let her go.

M
argaret rested in the haven of his arms, her body still humming the joy of their coupling, and she wanted to believe him.

But she knew better.

“Tomorrow it may all be different.”

“Tomorrow will be no different than this moment,” he vowed. “Margaret, I mean what I say. I’ll not let harm come to you.”

She adored the sound of her name on his lips. She liked the way his accent drew out the first syllable, the way he lingered on the last.

He then sealed his pledge with a kiss, a kiss that again quickly became heated, and she was surprised that he was already hard for her.

Years ago, out of love, she’d given herself to a man she had wanted to believe was worthy of her. He had not been. But he had revealed her passionate nature to her. She’d tried to deny this aspect of her character. She’d kept her desires carefully under control. She’d allowed no man near her.

Was it the storm that had broken down her defenses?

No, she knew better than that.

Heath was cut of the same cloth as her brothers. He was an honorable man, a good one, and nothing like Mark, who taken advantage of her youth and innocent need to be loved.

Heath didn’t speak idle words. He would defend her with his life if need be.

She pressed her naked breasts against his chest, basking in the feel of the hard, unyielding planes of his body. She could relax her guard with him.

And Margaret wanted to make love to him again.

She leaned against his shoulder, pushing him onto his back. She surprised him when she rolled on top of him. He laughed, the sound deep and masculine.

His lips brushed her hair and she searched them out, letting her kiss say to him what she dared not speak aloud.

Of course, the kiss became heated.

Margaret straddled him, pushing up and breaking the kiss. He tried to follow as if he could not bear to release the contact of their kiss. She appeased him by settling herself upon him.

He leaned back to the ground now that he knew her intent. He thrust up, reaching the very core of her, inciting new, stronger yearnings within her.

She threw the skirt that served as their blanket off her so that she could sit upon him boldly. There was no more storm, or at least she couldn’t register its existence. She was too taken with the tempest of her own emotions.

Her lover was a handsome man. His hands cupped her breasts. She held him inside, feeling wildly pagan.

And then she could take it no more. A sharp pinpoint of sensation grew inside her. She had to find release. She moved with greater purpose, reveling in the intensity that built with each thrust.

He was smiling, the glint in his eyes one of wicked enjoyment. She was doing this to him. He was as overpowered by her as she was by him.

She could feel the tension building in his loins. His hands came to her waist and he urged her to move faster, deeper. She didn’t believe she could. The heat between them was hotter than the fire.

Heath’s hold tightened. He pushed her hard against him, once, twice, and in the third, she felt the tension break.

For one sweet moment, she seemed to hover between earth and sky, life and death.

Once again, he had shown her that what she’d thought she’d known of what happened between a man and a woman was only a meager portion of the whole.

She experienced it all now. She could feel the force of his very being melding with her. She would never let him go. She held him as long as she could . . . and then slowly, she released her hold and fell down upon him.

His strong arms came around her.

He held her tightly. “You are a jewel,” he praised her, bring the heavy skirt of her riding habit around them. “A gift from the gods.”

Margaret knew differently. However, she did not correct him. Instead, she fell asleep, her cheek against his chest, the beat of his heart in her ears.

She knew these moments would not last.

They could not.

H
eath had never slept so well in his life. He wasn’t certain what woke him, but it was morning when he opened his eyes. He stretched his body as he came awake, and then remembered he was not alone.

Margaret, his Maggie, was curled up beside him, her back to his chest. She appeared completely at peace, without any of her former anxiousness. He liked seeing her this way.

Her hair was a tangled mess. He stroked it lightly and felt himself harden. It was only an hour after dawn. They had been up most of the night. If he was kind, he would let her sleep.

Then again, her passion was as demanding as his own. He was certain she would want him to wake her—

A movement of white at the edge of his vision caught his attention. Something sat on the edge of the low wall not far from the fire. He frowned and came up on one arm, the better to see what the white was . . . and found himself staring into the large, wise eyes of a small cat. Her ears were folded over, giving her face the unusual impression of—

“Owl?”

The cat’s response was a low-throated purr before she jumped off the other side of the wall, disappearing from his view.

Here was Margaret’s cat, the one she had been willing to drown for.

The one he had not been able to see.

Heath climbed out from beneath the skirt that served as a blanket and came to his feet.

Now he felt the aches of sleeping on hard ground. He walked over to the wall, uncertain if he truly saw the cat or if his mind was playing tricks. Perhaps he wasn’t awake. Perhaps he was dreaming.

The cold air of a winter morning assured him he wasn’t. And when he walked to the wall and looked over it, the cat was still there, sitting on her haunches close to the woods.

For a long moment, they held each other’s attention, and then Owl came to her feet and with a swish of her tail went into the forest.

Heath reached for his breeches and began dressing. His clothes were dry. He thought little of that considering the heat from the fire he’d built. Even now the embers still burned.

Seeing that Margaret was snuggled under the covers, he added more wood to keep the fire going until he returned. He was going to catch that cat. He had a plan to bring her to Margaret and show her that the animal was not some ghostie that could disappear, but real and very earthly.