My Wild Highlander (21 page)

"You are not deaf."

"Nay, but I like the way you say my
name."

"Why?"

"You have a pleasurable French way of saying
it, almost purring, with that
C
sound deep in your throat.
Please, indulge me." He tucked his hair behind his ear and
waited.

"You are full of nonsense."

"Och! My name isn't nonsense."

She shook her head and leaned toward his ear.
"Lachlan," she whispered, her warm breath fanning his skin.

Mmm.
Shivers of arousal coursed
through his body, making his rigid tarse even harder.

"Very nice."

She pulled away slightly and his chest ached
at her desertion. He wanted her to lie on him and whisper in his
ear all night.

"Remember how your hair was the first time we
wed?"

"A disaster."

"Nay, your fiery curls were loose about your
shoulders, hanging near to your waist. 'Twas beautiful beyond
measure." He was dying to see her that way again, but without a
stitch of clothing hiding her creamy skin from him. But he must be
patient.

Her only response was a distrustful glance,
her blush still in evidence.

"In truth. Would you allow me to take down
your hair now?"

Angelique knew what the seducer was
about—leading her toward undress and the bedding, one tiny step at
a time. Indeed, Lachlan was clever, but so was she. One thing he
possessed, which no other man did in such abundance, was that
damnable, disarming magnetism and charm. His relaxed, playful
attitude conspired to make her the same, to melt away her
defenses.

He wrapped one of her escaped curls around
his finger. The gentle tug on her scalp sent a frisson of longing
down her neck. Longing for what, she did not know, not the bedding.
Perhaps another kiss, but that was all. What drew her attention
more was his stone hard shaft beneath her thigh and thin layers of
clothing. Heavens! She did not know whether it intrigued her or
terrified her. She only knew that part of his body was designed to
hurt her, whether he intended it or not.

"Would you let me take the pins from your
hair and unbraid it?" he murmured.

That was a question Girard would've never
asked. He would simply have yanked the pins out, no matter her
wishes.

"Oui." Parbleu
. What was she saying?
What was she allowing to happen?

"I thank you." Lachlan set about removing the
pins with gentle fingers and dropping them to the floor. He
appeared patient and didn't pull her hair overmuch, not enough to
hurt. All the stimulation on her scalp showered down her body with
an equal amount of yearnings and anxiety. He then unbraided the
thick rope of hair and spread it in his big hands. Once her hair
was loose, he combed his fingers through, and buried his nose in it
for a deep inhale. "Mmm."

Mère de Dieu.
He was far too sensual.
Yet, strangely, she wanted to do the same to his neck perhaps even
his hair, and breathe in his scent.

"Aye, 'tis the most bonny sight I have ever
seen." He trailed his fingers from her hair to her neck and his
attention shifted to her face. His eyes were the color of whisky in
firelight and thrice as potent.

He moved his face closer to hers, his gaze
dipping to her lips right before contact with his. She didn't know
why she didn't jump up and run. His kiss was gentle, easy and
tentative. Highly tantalizing. His tongue grazed her upper lip
lightly. It was a dreamy kiss that snatched her rationale, like
indulging in the most sinfully sweet dessert—honey and clove
flavored. His tongue stole into her mouth, driving deep with
sudden, compelling possession. Her nipples ached.

He slid his hand up the outside of her thigh,
beneath the smock, higher and higher. His other hand rested upon
her hip, holding her tight to his iron-hard shaft.

His kisses grew more passionate, his muscles
harder, his embrace more tense.

Panic gripped her throat. She turned her face
away, straining for breath, trembling with the realization of how
far this had gone.

"Dear God, Angelique," he rasped. But he
halted, his forehead resting against the side of hers, his breath
harsh in her ear. "Mmm, you are delicious and…saints! I want you so
bad I hurt with it." His voice was a fierce whisper.

Tears burned her eyes. She ached, too, her
whole weakened body, the very core of her where he wanted to claim
and possess her. But that ache would increase a hundredfold when he
did take what he wanted.

She pushed at his shoulders but found them
immovable, his arms locked around her, not painful but
imprisoning.

"Do not," she said in a ragged whisper. She
hated the tears dripping from her eyes.

"Angelique." He swallowed hard. "Don't do
this. Please."

"No."

"You want me, too. I feel your desire. In
your kisses, in your hands. You pulled me tight against you."

Her throat closed. She could do naught now
but shake her head. She was caught, captured in his trap.

"Angelique." Her name was a pleading rasp.
"Don't fear me. I won't hurt you. I swear it."

"You cannot help but hurt me…whether you mean
it or not." He was not a woman; he did not know the pain of it.

He breathed deeply for a few moments. "You
said you were not a virgin. Are you?"

She shook her head.

"Losing your virginity is what hurt, lass.
After that, the pain is gone. There is only pleasure."

Maybe that was true for most women but… "No."
She could not imagine pleasure, only the opposite.

"You think I'm lying?"

Perhaps not lying, but he simply did not
understand her side. "You are a man like all others. I do not like
coupling."

"Why?"

"It is painful…and demeaning." Heat and cold
rushed through her.

"Who did you lie with before?" he asked, his
voice harsher.

She could not tell him that. She could not
say the name
Girard
.

"Or was that a made up story?" he asked in
challenge. "Were you lying?"

She shook her head. "With a man I had planned
to marry in France."

"Was he a bastard and didn't make it
pleasurable for you?" Lachlan's breath fanned against the hair by
her ear.

She shook her head.

"I'm not like him."

"Can you not understand? You have a very
large…member. It could only hurt." Surely, rend her in two.

He let out a long breath. "Very well. We
won't couple right now. I won't use my 'member' until you tell me
to."

A bit of relief seeped into her tense
muscles. "What will you do?"

"Give you pleasure," he murmured.

"How?" Her stomach knotted. How she wanted to
relax and trust that he was telling her the truth. But in her
experience, what a man saw as pleasure, she knew as pain.

"I'll touch your body with my hands and my
mouth. Stroking you, kissing you all over."
All over?
Goodness! His voice was exceptionally heated, enticing.

"You will not receive any…satisfaction from
that," she said.

"You don't know me at all, do you?"

She feared she did not. But she knew how men
were; their desires sometimes overcame them. He might lose control.
"When I least expect it, you will drive your shaft into me."

"Not until you tell me to, Angelique. Saints,
at least trust me one time."

No. She could not let go. Already he was
losing patience. She could not trust him enough for that. If he was
lying, he would shatter her inside.

He stood, lifting her, and carried her toward
the bed. Panic closed off her throat and the need to flee seized
her.

"Non!"
She struggled to escape
him.

"Damnation, Angelique, I am at my wit's end.
If you won't trust me, I'll have to prove it to you." He laid her
on the bed, his big, hard body holding her down.

"Non! Arrêtez, bâtard!"
She was
trapped, suffocating beneath his weight. Her struggles against his
strength were futile.

Camille pounded on the door. "Angelique?"

"Camille!"

"Be quiet," Lachlan said. "I won't hurt you."
He shoved her arms above her head, quickly wrapping something
around her wrists.

"Non!"
She yanked at the bonds, but he
had already tied the material, the belt of her wrap, around the
headboard post. Stark terror paralyzed her.

"Don't look at me like that. I said I won't
hurt you."

Scalding tears leaked from her eyes. Her
throat constricted. Dear God, he was going to rape her.

He moved away for a moment, then came back
with a wide ribbon. He wrapped it around her ankle.

Her senses returned and she kicked at him
with all her might. But it was not enough; he secured her ankle to
the footboard. "Untie me at once, you brute! You are nothing but a
vile animal," she said in French.

"I ken it well, m'lady." He sat beside her.
She kicked at him with her one free foot but he caught it and
removed her slipper. His lustful gaze lingered on her legs where
her smock had ridden up. "Now what are you going to do,
hell-cat?"

Any affectionate feelings she'd had toward
him were now dead. She had known she could not trust the knave.
"You will have to rape me, you bastard! Because I will never
willingly let you touch me."

"Nay. I have never raped a woman, nor will I
ever," he said in a calm tone. "You, on the other hand, will be
begging me to make love to you afore 'tis over."

"Never! I'll kill you while you sleep," she
said through clenched teeth.

"You're a bloodthirsty lass. I like that." He
glanced aside. "You ken about the torture, do you not?"

"Torture?"
Mère de Dieu.
What was he
going to do to her? Torture, then rape.

He moved to the dressing table, then returned
to the bed. "Aye." Something stroked over her bare foot. A
feather.

The tickle was a shock. She squealed and
jerked away. "Do not!"

Holding her free foot in place, he slowly
trailed the feather up the inside of her calf. He paused at her
knee, caressed in a circle, then went higher, up the inside of her
thigh. She squirmed and yanked at her bonds, wishing to escape the
stimulation but could not.

She tried to make herself numb for indeed it
was a twisted torture. Not painful, but she could not tolerate
tickling. "I hate you!" She kicked.

He drew the feather down the length of her
leg again to her foot, tingles scattering outward, then, feather
forgotten, lightly traced his fingers along her calf. That did not
tickle half as much. Some part of her liked his hands, while
another part hated them.

She turned her face away, wishing to hide.
Slowly, he ran his palms up the outside of her legs.
Bastard.
She clamped her thighs together and twisted her
lower body sideways. No, she would not let him touch…

He slipped his hand up the back of her thigh,
pushing the smock upward. Continuing, he ran his palm over her
derriere. Shocked, she sucked in a sharp breath, turned onto her
back again and kicked at him.

He crawled over her, holding himself above
her in dominating mastery. Breathing hard, she turned her face
aside. "Get off, you beast!"

"Am I hurting you?" he whispered, lightly
stroking his lips over her ear. Some sensation she hated spiraled
through her. Not fear, but arousal. He lifted himself and waited
for her to look at him. When she did, he drew close to her mouth.
She thought he would kiss her, but he didn't; he merely breathed
upon her. Hungry for his mouth, she parted her lips, perversely
craving his tongue invading and possessing, the sinful, addictive
taste of him.
No, I do not!

He brushed his cheek against hers gently, his
beard stubble rasping. Again, his lips hovered less than an inch
above hers.
Mère de Dieu, kiss me!

No, do not!

Her breath caught and her eyes closed. Her
body felt as if a trembling fever had taken it over. Surely, this
was some horrid illness that caused delirium and lunacy.

He drew away, climbing off the bed. Where was
he going? She glared after him through the mist of tears. Oh dear
heaven, he was undressing, unpinning the brooch at the top of his
kilt.

"Je te déteste,"
she muttered.

He unfastened his belt, removing his plaid.
"
Non, mon ange.
You hate yourself for liking me."

"T'es goujat!"
She yanked against the
belt that bound her. "You could never be faithful to one
woman."

"Do you wish me to be?"

"Wishing for that would be a waste of time.
You could never do it."

"I've done many things others have said were
impossible. Don't be underestimating me."

"Untie me!"

"Not until you trust me."

"Never! You think this will earn my trust?
You are beyond insane."

He slipped the shirt over his head, leaving
those burnished muscles bare, and climbed back onto the bed. His
erection was massive, protruding like a weapon.
Mère de Dieu,
non.

While she held her breath, he pushed her
smock up her thighs, clamped tightly together, his sword-calloused
palms rasping over her, producing a shower of tingles. He exposed
her mound completely.

How indecent! Humiliating. She closed her
eyes, trying to hide from him…and herself.

Lightly, he touched the hair that hid her
sex, combed his fingers through it. He paused at that most intimate
spot. "Angelique, you're wet…extremely wet." His heated voice held
a bit of awe. "Do you ken what that means?"

Squeezing her eyes tight, she turned away.
I do not want to know.

"It means you want me. You desire me."

No, I do not!
Yet she was paralyzed in
this burning heat, unable to fight back anymore. Her body would not
cooperate.

He kissed the top of her thighs, her hip
bones. He pushed the smock further up, kissed her lower belly. He
flicked his tongue into her navel.