Kate Wingo - Highland Mist 01 (18 page)

In a word, it had been a perfect moment.

Can there be other perfect moments between us?
she wondered as she surreptitiously peered at Iain, her gaze drawn to his manly lips slightly pursed in concentration.

Dr
opping her eyes several inches, she peered at his broad shoulders, recalling the one time she’d seen him naked. Gloriously robust, flagrantly virile, he’d put her in mind of a fearsome pagan warrior. While she’d been terrified of him that night in the hovel, now when she looked upon his massive torso and thickly muscled arms, she felt only a desperate yearning, his nearness having a most unsettling effect upon her.

Suddenly f
eeling a telltale spurt of moisture between her legs, Yvette stifled a helpless whimper.

Mother of God
! What is happening to my body? My mind? My heart?

Worried that her arousal was plain
ly visible, Yvette gulped a deep breath of air. As she did, her breasts swelled against the thin fabric of her chemise, the linen stretching tight over her hardened nipples. Embarrassed, she reached for her wine goblet, only to discover that it was empty.

Her embarrassment deepened immeasurably when she suddenly caught Iain staring at her
breasts.

By all that
is holy, no man has ever gazed at me in so brazen a fashion
.

Unnerved
by the intensity of his blue-eyed gaze, Yvette crossed her arms over her chest.

“It’s too late for that, lass,” Iain wryly informed her
. Then, raising his gaze, he said, “More wine?”

She
mutely shook her head, unable to string together a single coherent thought.

A few moments later
, knowing that it would lead to checkmate, she intentionally moved her queen . . . and counted the seconds until Iain tipped the ivory piece.

“Another ga
me?” he conversationally inquired.

“Er, no. I think not.”

Nervously fingering her queen, Yvette furtively glanced at the linen-draped bed . . . just before she blurted the thought uppermost in her mind: “I think you should know that I’ve had a change of heart about sharing your bed.”

“Have ye now?”
Never taking his eyes from her, Iain drained his goblet. Then, lowering it to the table, he said, “And when did this ‘change of heart’ occur?”

“I cannot say for certain.”

Perhaps it happened when she earlier placed her hand in his and followed him down the hall to his bed chamber. Although Yvette suspected her ‘change of heart’ actually germinated soon after Iain kissed her in the pantry.

“Well are ye at least certai
n that ye want to lie with me? Once I’m buried to the hilt, I’ll no’ be able to pull out of ye.”

Yvette nodded her head, her cheeks
flushed with heated color. “Yes, I am quite certain, my lord.”

Hearing that, Iain smiled slightly and said,
“If we are to be intimate, can ye no’ at least call me by name?”

“Yes,
Iain, I am quite certain,” she duly iterated. Hoping her embarrassment wasn’t too evident, Yvette tucked a few loose strands of hair behind her ear. “But there is something that you should know. And that is that I . . . I am afraid.”

“
Of me?
”

Unable to
look Iain in the eye, Yvette said, “It is not you that I fear. I fear—” She clamped her mouth shut, unsure how to put her feelings into words. Daring a quick glance in Iain’s direction, she saw that he intently watched her; his intense gaze demanding no less than a full disclosure.

Squaring her shoulders,
Yvette forced herself to take the plunge into deep waters. “If you must know, I fear what will happen when we lie beside one another.”

“
’Tis naught to be afraid of,” Iain assured her. Then, gazing at her with a tender expression, he said, “I am a widower. Ye are a widow. Both of us have lost the comfort and joy of the marriage bed. But tonight we can partake together of that greatly missed pleasure. And mayhap in doing so, the night will not cast so long a shadow upon us.”

“You presume
wrongly that I found comfort and joy in my late husband’s bed,” Yvette baldly informed him, not wanting him to think otherwise.

With a nod, Iain said,
“Och, now I understand yer fear. But I swear to ye, Yvette, you
will
have yer woman’s pleasure.”

His
ardent vow caused an involuntary spasm to pulse between her legs. Followed by a burning heat that rippled up her spine.

“
Be my lady love this night,” Iain entreated as he extended a hand in her direction. “Let me be the one to shelter ye from the storm and to give ye sweet bliss.”

Assaulted by a veritable maelstrom of
swirling emotions, Yvette timidly placed her hand in his. At feeling his callused skin beneath her palm, the fire that radiated along her spine pooled in that most secret of places. Shyly glancing at Iain, she saw a naked hunger spark in his eyes.

In
that tremulous moment, Yvette realized, with no small measure of surprise, that the mere touch of her hand could powerfully move him.

The very instant
that Yvette placed her hand in his, Iain’s heart slammed against his chest. A battering ram crashing into the castle gate.

In the flickering candlelight
, he could see that her eyes were passion-clouded, and that her nipples were drawn into small, tight buds.

Sweet Jesu, but
I want her.
And had wanted her since the moment he first set eyes upon her.

Rising to his feet,
Iain stepped toward Yvette’s side of the table, urging her to stand beside him. When he saw how she trembled, he slowly brought her hand to his lips and kissed each knuckle in turn.

“Dinna worry, sweet Yvette
. I will make ye forget all the cold nights that came before,” he assured her, silently damning the selfish English bastard who’d taken his ease between her thighs, giving naught in return.

Staring at him with luminous eyes,
Yvette whispered, “Then it shall be a night of firsts.”

“Aye, a night of firsts,” he repeated, still caressing the
back of her hand with his lips.

Somewhat guiltily, Iain
briefly thought of another first night, taken aback to realize that he could no longer call Fiona’s image to mind. For weeks now the fading memory had been usurped by Yvette’s dark-haired visage. As if the one woman was leaving his life, and the other taking her place. A thought that saddened him even as it induced a discernible joy.

Although his only thought at that moment was for the
woman who stood before him.

God’s heart! She is
as beautiful as a midsummer blossom, her cheeks like Scottish heather, her lips like a wild English rose.

That
was Iain’s last coherent thought before he bent his head and kissed Yvette, leisurely tasting and nibbling her spiced-flavored lips.

When, a few moments into the kiss, he hea
rd a soft feminine moan, a geyser of blood pulsed through his veins, quickly lengthening and thickening his cock.

Suddenly needing more from the kiss,
Iain possessively slid both hands down Yvette’s back and palmed the rounded globes of her buttocks before hoisting her upward, firmly securely her against his rigid length. Using one hand to hold her pinned to his body, he used the other to cup her breast, dragging his thumb over her nipple.

Hit with an almost savage lust,
Iain urgently moved his lips along Yvette’s jawbone before he burned a path down the length of her neck, his mouth finally settling over the rigid bud of her nipple. Then, through the thin layer of linen, he proceeded to suckle her.

Her movements as shy and awkward as an untried maid, Yvette hesitantly rocked
her hips against his erection. Afraid that he might rip the garment off her back, Iain tore his lips away from her breast.

“I must have ye now . . . I canna wait,” he rasped as he slung
Yvette into his arms and carried her to the bed.

Ignoring the stricken
expression that momentarily flashed in Yvette’s eyes, Iain laid her upon the sheepskin coverlet.

’Ti
s only natural that she’s be a wee bit nervous
, he told himself as he stood by the side of the bed and yanked his tunic over his head, carelessly tossing it onto the floor. But soon enough she would writhe beneath him, clawing at his back when he buried his manroot in her.

Ach, woman, this night ye shall be mine i
n truth and no’ in fevered dreams.

As he tugged off his boots, Iain gazed at the exotically beaut
iful woman who graced his bed. With her pale, creamy skin, sable tresses and soulful brown eyes, she resembled no other woman he’d ever known.

Still wearing his kilt, he reached down and palmed his aching cullions.
Soon
. Soon he’d find relief. As would Yvette.

I
gave ye my word, sweet Yvette. Ye’ll have yer woman’s pleasure and we’ll usher in the dawn with my cock nestled against yer womb.

Smiling in anticipation,
Iain approached the foot of the bed and purposefully placed one knee, then the other, upon the mattress. Straddling either side of her legs, he slowly crawled along the length of Yvette’s prone body. Along the way, he grabbed the hem of her chemise and pulled it upward.

“Lift yer hips for me,” he cajoled, bending his head to plant a warm
, wet kiss on her inner thigh.

Although her eyes widened,
Yvette wordlessly complied, lifting her arse off the mattress so that he could shove the garment up to her waist.

Like a man transfixed, Iain stared at the dark thatch of hair t
hat covered her woman’s mound.

“
Ye’re verra beautiful,” he husked, his hoarsely muttered compliment putting a crimson blush on Yvette’s cheeks. “I’ve waited so long for this night. Longer than I’ve waited for any other woman,” he confessed as he slid a hand between her legs.

In the next instant
, Yvette frantically bucked.

“No, Iain!
You mustn’t!”

“Shh,” he murmured, hopi
ng to calm her with his voice. “I promise that I’ll be gentle wi’ ye.”

Hearing that, some of the
tension seeped from her body. Iain, continuing his exploration, moved his middle finger along her fleshy outer folds before easing the digit into her surprisingly narrow passage.

Again, her hips bucked.

“Ye’re like living fire,” he whispered, slowly pushing his finger into her warm, moist channel.

When he suddenly encountered an unexpected barrier, Iain immediately yanked
out his finger. Stunned, he sat back on his haunches as he shot Yvette an accusing stare.

“Christ’s blood!
How is that you are still a virgin?”

Humiliated, Yvette shoved her
chemise over her hips before frantically lurching off the side of the bed.

Ignoring
Iain’s heated command to return, she charged across the room toward the door. Determined to make a hasty retreat, she yanked open the massive wooden door, the leather hinges loudly creaking.

Without warning, a bronzed hand suddenly snaked around her head, slamming the door
shut before she could escape. An instant later, grabbing her upper arm in a vise-like grip, Iain forcefully swung her around to face him.

“Let me go, you brute!”

Using both hands, Yvette pushed against his bare chest, attempting to shove him away from her; a futile effort.

At s
eeing the incredulous expression stamped onto his face, Yvette turned her head in the other direction, utterly ashamed.

Grasping her by the chin, Iain forced her to look at him.
“I thought ye were a widow no’ a virgin,” he rasped.

“I am a widow.
And when Roland Beauchamp was killed at Stirling Castle, ’twas a blessed relief!”

In the wake of her
impassioned retort, Iain intently stared at her.

Discomfited by his searing gaze, she once again shoved
at his chest, relieved when he wordlessly stepped aside. Walking on shaky legs, she went over to the table and poured herself a cup of wine, her hand noticeably trembling as she raised the goblet to her lips.

Giving her no quarter, Iain stormed over to the table and grabbed the flagon, wine sloshing over the ri
m as he filled his goblet. After draining the cup in three swallows, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Ye must excuse me for being so baffled
. But here in Scotland when a man takes a woman to wife, he takes her maidenhead as well,” he said sarcastically, staring at Yvette as though she’d just committed some grave mortal sin.

And mayhap
I did.

For seven long years she’d kept the private details of her marriag
e to Roland Beauchamp a secret. Which is why she was now so reluctant to make a full confession, some things best left unsaid.

Uncertain
how much to divulge, she furtively glanced at Iain. Although still attired in his kilt, he was bare-chested, the muscled expanse of his torso gleaming in the firelight, his skin covered by a light sheen.

H
ow could so virile a man ever comprehend Roland’s deviant predilections?

“My marriage was no
t like most,” Yvette reluctantly began, the words sticking in her throat.

“’Twas no marriage at all if yer husband didna mount ye.”

Shamefully aware that he spoke the truth, Yvette bowed her head and closed her eyes, assaulted with painful memories of Roland, intoxicated, attempting to ‘get an heir’ on her, the shameful episodes inevitably ending in violence. In public, no one knew of the marital discord between them, for they were like two mummers performing in a well-crafted play.

“On several occasions Roland attempted to . . . to perform his husbandly duty, however he . . . he
could not,” she said at last.

“
For the love of God, why not?” Iain demanded to know, clearly taken aback by her confession. “Ye’re so beautiful, I canna so much as look in yer direction without wanting to rut on ye.”

“
My late husband did not find me beautiful or alluring or—”

“Christ’s blood!
Was he blind?”

“If you must know, Roland considered
me ‘a vile, unclean creature,’” Yvette informed him, her late husband’s denigrating accusation still hurtful.

“Unclean!
Clearly, the man was daft
and
blind!” Iain exclaimed. “I would be only too happy to swear before the king’s court that yer body, as well as yer breath, are always sweet smelling.”

Yvette’s
lips twisted into a bitter smile. “While that may be true, I still bleed seven days out of every month.”

“And what in God’s name does
that
have to do with yer husband failing to consummate yer marriage?” Iain asked, a puzzled frown on his brow.

Unable to meet his gaze, she turned
and walked over to the fireplace.

“On our wedding night, Roland was horrified to discover that I was having my menses,”
Yvette quietly recounted as she slowly paced back and forth in front of the hearth. “He blamed my ‘vile woman’s blood’ on his subsequent impotence, claiming it was the reason why he so frequently raised his hand against me. Although I do not think Roland was truly impotent as he—” Her voice lowered to a pain-wracked whisper, the confession a difficult one. “As he spent much time in the company of a particular squire.”

“
Jesu!”

Yvette, still paci
ng, glanced over her shoulder. For such a hale man, there was a decidedly ashen look on Iain’s face. Clearly, he was appalled by the details of her sordid marriage. And though he was shocked, she was the one who’d had to live amidst that cruel depravity. For six long years, she suffered Roland’s abuse, her husband having taken a particular delight in privately humiliating her.

“I did all within my power to be a good and obedient wife
. However, nothing I did found favor with my husband,” she confessed. Then, smiling sadly, she said, “No doubt, your opinion of me has suffered now that you know the truth.”

Extending a hand in her direction,
Iain grabbed hold of her wrist.

“Ye didna do
anything
wrong, Yvette. I know ye were a good wife. ’Tisn’t yer fault that you were forced to wed a wicked man. And for his wicked degeneracy, I hope the bastard rots in hell,” he snarled. “By all that is holy, I’m wondering how ye can bring yerself to wed again.”

“After Roland died, I
intended to go into a nunnery, but my father forbade it because . . .” Yvette’s voice trailed into silence.

Still holding her
by the wrist, Iain reached over and gently cupped her cheek with his free hand. “And why would such a beautiful woman want to cloister herself away from the world?”

“A nunnery is the only place where I could
be free of my father and his endless machinations,” she told him.

“I didna know, lass . . . about ye being caught in
Lyndhurst’s snare.”

Acting purely on impulse, Yvette took Iain’s hand and purposefully placed it over her left breast.
“Let us not dwell on ill tidings. Instead, let us finish what we earlier began.”

Her
ardent proposal met with a long, drawn-out silence.

“I canna,”
Iain said after a lengthy pause. “God’s mercy, but I canna.”

“Because I am a virgin?”

Pulling his hand away from her bosom, Iain nodded his head and said, “Aye . . . because ye are a virgin.”

“But I
give my chastity to you freely. As a gift,” Yvette added with a warm smile.

Iain slowly brushed his thumb over her kiss-swollen bottom lip.
“And I can think of no sweeter, more precious gift. But, alas, I canna accept it.”

Stunned by the rejection,
Yvette jerked her head away from his hand. “That is utterly absurd. Only a few minutes ago you were more than willing to couple with me. Why the abrupt change of heart? Have I suddenly grown unappealing to you?”

“I canna imagine
that
ever happening,” Iain retorted. “But the fact of the matter is that I am no’ yer husband. You are foresworn to another and I canna take that which rightfully belongs to another man.”

“
Given my widowed state, Angus is not expecting to wed a virgin,” she countered, an exasperated edge to her voice.

“Because the man has no expectation of such, that doesna give me free rein to rob the Earl of Angus of his husbandly right.”

“That is for me to—”

“I
willna do it!” Iain said forcefully. “’Tis a matter of honor, pure and simple.”

Infuriated by his recalcitrance, Yvette refused to call retreat.
“And what of your vow to me?” she demanded to know. “If you’ll recall, you told me that I would find joy and comfort in your bed. Moreover, you
swore
to me that if I but took your hand, you would give me sweet pleasure. What honor in
that
broken promise?”

“Dinna do this to me, woman,”
Iain implored, a wild, almost feral look in his eyes. “I want ye so desperately, it’s like a falchion ripping through my belly.”

“
Then pull it free,” she whispered, extending her hand to Iain just as he had earlier extended his hand to her. “I pray thee, Iain, do not squander this night . . . we may not have another.”

For several long seconds
, Iain stared at Yvette’s extended hand. Then, with a savage moan, he grabbed hold of it, yanking her toward his chest. “I will give to ye the pleasure I promised. But I willna take yer maidenhead. And I’ll throw ye into the bloody dungeon if ye contrive otherwise.”

“But I don’t understand why we can’t
—”

“We do it
my
way or no’ at all.” Iain punctuated the avowal with a stern expression.

Admittedly baffled, Yvette said,
“If we do not mate, how can we experience pleasure?”

Iain’s fierce expression softened
. Smiling at her, he said, “We both have two hands and a mouth, do we no’?”

“
Mouths?
” she repeated, still very much in the dark.

“Aye, we can use our mouths . . . ’tis most pleasurable,”
he added, his smile widening.

“But I am still perplexed as to how
we would use our—”

“All in good time.”

That said, Iain placed his hands on either side of Yvette’s head, silencing any further objections with a kiss.

Almost immediately,
she was hit with a charged burst of desire. As though she’d just been struck by a jagged bolt of lightning.

Moaning softly, she opened her mouth,
desperate to know the taste and feel of Iain’s lips.

As the kiss deepened,
Yvette wrapped her hands around his biceps, digging her nails into the well-honed muscles. When Iain chastened her by lightly nipping her lower lip between his teeth, her desire only intensified.

Seized with a wild, almost primitive urge,
Yvette slid her hands across Iain’s chest and shoulders before entangling them in his thick mane of hair. Then, acting purely on instinct, she raised herself on her tiptoes and rubbed her pelvis against the swollen protrusion between his legs.

“I dinna know how much more of this amorous torture I can take,” Iain muttered against her
mouth, his chest heaving with each ragged breath.

Yvette cast her glance downward,
thrilled by the sight of Iain’s blatant arousal, his kilt noticeably puckered between his hips.

T
aking notice of the direction of her gaze, Iain smiled roguishly as he bunched her chemise in his hands. With an upward tug, he divested her of the garment. As she stood before him, her only pretense to modesty was her unbound hair.

But even that small measure of modesty was short-lived
. Raising her arms, Iain held them aloft as he appraised her naked body. In an almost leisurely fashion, he inspected her collarbone, breasts, the dip of her waist, the curve of her hip, his gaze finally dropping to the dark brown ringlets that covered her woman’s mound.

Releasing her wrists,
Iain cupped a hand between her legs. “Like the softest fleece,” he murmured.

At feeling that warm palm
pressed so intimately against her flesh, a wanton shiver coursed the length of Yvette’s naked body; a shiver that turned into a quivering tremble when Iain picked her up and carried her to the bed.

After placing her on top
of the soft wool coverlet, Iain stepped back to remove his kilt.

When
his fingers fumbled with the metal belt buckle, he looked at her and said, “I am like an untried lad, unable to get my plaid off quick enough.”

Once the length of plaid joined
the other discarded garments that littered the floor, Yvette brazenly stared at Iain’s unclothed body. Awed by his manly beauty, she took note of how the firelight burnished each muscle on his chest, each ridge on his stomach.

He is
a marvel of sinew, skin and muscle
, she thought admiringly.

Bedazzled, her gaze
lowered to the thicket of tangled curls that surrounded his phallus. At which point, her jaw slackened as her mouth fell open.

God’s heart! He is
immense!

G
iven the way that Iain’s organ proudly jutted before him, she was almost relieved that he’d refused to couple with her; for surely he would have rent her in two.