The Laird's Forbidden Lady (19 page)

A thumb grazed the underside of her breast, leaving a searing trail of heat, but his touch was still too light, too gentle. She made a sound in her throat, half growl, half purr, that he captured in his mouth. She wasn’t even sure if he heard it.
He must have. His hand moved higher, covering her breast, exploring and massaging.

She writhed beneath his touch and a sound of approval rumbled up from his chest.

His thumb teased her nipple through the fine lawn of her chemise. Another zing of shocking pleasure. She gasped. Shock had no place in this congress between them. They were now man and wife and she was melting and tingling all at the same time. Beneath her palms the vast plane of his back felt hot through his shirt. Her skimming fingers felt muscle and bone; the scent of him, soap and male, filled her nostrils and her heart felt full.

She was in the arms the man she’d always … loved? She closed the door on that thought. It made her feel far too vulnerable. They were marrying for expediency, accompanied by pleasurable benefits.

He wrenched away from her, breaking the seductive spell. Slowly her mind cleared as he gazed down at her, his eyes hot, his expression hungry.

All her life she’d been running from men who looked at her with heat. Putting up barriers. He was the only man she’d ever run towards. What was done could not be undone. The consequences would be in the future.

He knelt up, pulled his shirt free of his belt
and pulled it off over his head, tossing it to the floor.

She gazed at him with awe, just as she had the first time. He was glorious. Carved beauty. A god of war complete with battle scars and a bandage around his most recent brush with danger. Rather than mar, the silvery lines of old scars accentuated the purity of his form.

Not so the ruined flesh of her thigh. Would he find it as ugly as she did? Would he regret his offer to wed once he saw the damage her foolishness had caused?

With hesitant fingertips, she traced a scar slicing across two of his ribs. He caught her hand and brought it to his lips.

He slid off the bed and unbuckled his belt. ‘We’ll have no secrets between us.’ His voice was a low growl. And a challenge shone in his eyes. ‘No uneasy coupling in the dark.’ He let the kilt fall.

His phallus stood erect, dark and huge, aggressively jutting from its dark nest of curls. It was enormous. A pearl of moisture beaded on its tip.

She swallowed. Licked her lips, her mouth gone dry. Her face blazed with heat. She raised her gaze to meet his.

‘Dinna be afraid, lass,’ he murmured quietly. ‘Not of me. I would never do aught to hurt you.’

‘I’m not,’ she assured herself in a whisper.
Not of him physically, in truth. Mostly she feared what she might see on his face when he saw her body. Her scars. That she might see revulsion or, worse yet, pity.

‘What troubles you?’ he asked.

She must be wearing her fears on her face—something she never did as a rule. She took a deep breath. There was no going back. No changing the past, so she had best have it done with.

‘No secrets.’ She flung back the cloak, which had slipped below her waist along with the sheet. With a swift intake of breath, like the one taken before plunging into cold water, or before telling the truth when a lie would be easier, she hitched the chemise up to her waist and drew it off over her head.

Gooseflesh raced over her skin. Her nipples tightened with cold and with nerves. Determined not to flinch, she stared at his face, watching his reaction.

At first, he looked startled. He probably hadn’t expected her to be quite so bold. Then, as his gaze swept downwards to her bounteous bosom, a bosom which had been the subject of more than one rake’s ode, his expression softened to heavy-lidded appreciation.

He inhaled a long breath. ‘Lovely,’ he said.

She resisted the urge to cross her arms over her breasts. The males in London had, after all,
seen all but the deep-rose peaks rising from her skimpy muslins and silks. They’d ogled her figure from the moment of her come out and must have had a pretty good sense of what lay beneath.

What she really wanted to do was turn on her side, hide her right leg with her left, but it was too late. His gaze had already reached her navel and was travelling to the nest of curls below the curve of her belly.

She knew when he took in the scars. His brows drew together and he glanced up at her face. Despite being ready, she averted her face and reached for the sheet to hide the ugliness, but his hand was already smoothing first down one thigh, then the other.

She dared a peek at his expression. No pity, just raw sensuality. Perhaps he hadn’t noticed? She placed her hand over the ruined flesh, halting the soft swoop of his hand travelling upwards from her knee.

He glanced up as if surprised.

She felt her face heat. ‘It is not a very pretty picture, I’m afraid. I was such an idiot and lucky I didn’t injure anyone else. Hawkhurst saw the whole thing and managed to free the horses before they came to any harm.’

‘Your friend’s husband?’

His matter-of-fact tone made her feel a little less unsure. At least he wasn’t reacting with horror.
‘Yes. His quick thinking saved my leg. The doctors didn’t think I would walk again.’ She gave a casual flick of her fingers across the ruined flesh, hoping her voice did not reveal her embarrassment. ‘If it disgusts you, we can blow out the candle. Or we can forget all about this.’

‘Oh,
leannan
, sweetheart, is that what you think?’

He picked up her hand and kissed her palm. Heat shivered through her veins. He placed it on the scar on his chest. ‘Do you find this unpleasant to look at?’

She swallowed. ‘It makes you look like a warrior.’

A low chuckle vibrated beneath her palm. ‘I thought so, too. I caught myself with a scythe when I was fifteen, but I told all the ladies it was a sabre cut.’

‘Men are supposed to have scars. Women are supposed to be perfect.’

He shook his head. ‘It is a part of you now. And just as perfectly lovely as all the rest.’ His hot gaze swept up her body to her face.

He must have seen the doubt because he continued talking, his tone low and seductive. ‘There is far more to a woman than mere physical beauty. There is the spirit too, you know. But you are just as beautiful to me here …’ his fingers traced the jagged criss-cross of pink lines and the misshapen muscle, his touch gentle, almost
reverent in its lightness ‘… as you are here.’ He tickled the back of her knee.

Tears welled in her eyes, even as she smiled. Too much emotion. Too much gladness.

‘Don’t cry, darling,’ he murmured. ‘I promise to be careful.’ He leant down to press soft kisses along the length of the wound.

Spun glass again. ‘No,’ she said, grabbing his shoulders, forcing him to look into her face. ‘Don’t treat me like an invalid. Or a doll. I am a woman. I won’t break.’

A slow smile dawned. Blue heat flared in his eyes. ‘Aye.’ He nodded. ‘A woman you are. All spit and claws.’

He took her mouth in a punishing kiss. Hard. Demanding.

Clenching her hands on his muscular shoulders, she made demands of her own. Pulled him closer, until he tumbled down on the bed beside her, parting her thighs to accommodate his weight in the cradle of her hips.

He broke free on a muttered curse, sliding down her body, trailing searing kisses and hot caresses with his hand. He stopped at the valley between her breasts, cupping them in his hands, drawing first one nipple into his mouth, then the other.

No gentleness. No featherlight brushes. His touch ravaged, as did his mouth. The touch of a man who loved the feel of her flesh in his hands.

He laved her nipple with his tongue, swirling heat, followed by sudden chill when he paid similar attention to her other breast.

His lips and tongue teased her breast as she watched from beneath lowered lids and clutched convulsively at his hair at each liquid tug on her insides.

While his mouth brought her exquisite pain, his hands stroked and kneaded her ribs, her hip, her belly, a slow downward slide of hot rough skin on skin so alive her mind seemed ready to splinter.

Chapter Thirteen

P
ermission to lose control? Encouragement to let the primitive beast out of its cage? Lust gripped Ian hard.

The urge to mark her as his, to brand her with lips and teeth, to let the force of his desire take him to mindless bliss, tempted him sorely.

Beyond reason.

The bite of her nails in his back and buttocks, the way she tasted his shoulder with tongue and lips and teeth, drove him mad.

Muffling a groan, he took one deep breath after the other. She had to be ready for him. He had no choice but to hurt her, but he would give her pleasure ahead of the pain.

Arching his back, resisting her pull, he took her mouth, the faint taste of peat-smoky whisky lingering on her tongue. And as their mouths
melded and toyed with darting licks and sucking, his right hand palmed her mons, the curls damp, the flesh hot.

He pressed down with the heel of his hand and she whimpered her pleasure into his mouth. Her body arched into his hand, not knowing what it needed. Not yet.

Slow and easy he parted her delicate folds by touch, exploring her entrance, longing to see. Not this time. This was not his time. He slipped his little finger inside her, overawed at the tightness. At the barrier he could feel at her entrance.

She stilled. Her breathing hitched. He grabbed a deep but ragged breath through his nose and held still while she became accustomed to his intrusion.

He broke their kiss to look down at her face. Her eyes were hazy with passion, her lips red from his kisses, her cheeks, too, from the abrasive touch of his beard. It was a mark of sorts.

With his thumb he stroked in circles until he found that little nub that offered a pleasure all of its own. Her eyelids drooped. She looked wanton. Abandoned. His shaft pulsed its demand, dragging all thought from his head in the quest for completion.

He circled harder and faster. She gasped, her hips bucking wildly.

Her gaze flew to his face, her eyes wide with
shock and hazy with pleasure. Her breathing halted. Rigid, she hung on the crest.

And tumbled over in a climax of quivers.

Now. He plunged into her. Losing himself inside her depths, still feeling her wince of pain, even as the bliss roared through her blood and claimed her.

His own climax came on him fast. Out of control, not careful as he’d intended. His hips pounded into her and she clung to him with knees and heels and hands on his shoulders. And he rode her to completion as the clenches of pleasure of her core milked him dry.

Spent, and trembling like an exhausted stallion, he kissed her shoulder. He stared at that small bone with the silken flesh stretched over its delicate contour and was horrified to see the marks of his teeth.

So much for being in control.

He stroked her glorious mane of black curls back from her sweat-damp temples and kissed the pulse beat where the skin was traced with blue, then her lips.

‘You are wonderful,’ he breathed. ‘My wife.’

‘My husband,’ she whispered in return, claiming him as he had claimed her. No one could separate them now.

He rolled on his side and held her tight to his body, reaching down to cover them with the
sheet and her cloak. In a moment he’d get up and get that blanket. In a moment.

He closed his eyes and savoured the warmth flowing through his body.

Fists pounded on a door.

Someone yelling. ‘Open up!’

McKinly’s sleepy voice cursed.

They were found. Ian sat up, his mind racing. Had McKinly’s lad inadvertently given them away? He leaped from the bed and hurriedly belted on his kilt, not bothering with a shirt.

‘Who is it?’ Selina asked.

In the pitch black of the early-morning hours, he could hear the worry in her voice, even if he could not see her face. ‘I don’t know. Get dressed and wait here.’

He opened the latch on the window and pushed it slightly ajar. ‘In case we need to leave in a hurry,’ he explained in a whisper.

She was already fumbling around for her clothes. No words, no panic, just getting on with what needed to be done.

He slipped out of the door and closed it behind him.

‘Open up,’ the voice yelled again.

Niall’s voice. The tension in his shoulders eased. He nodded at McKinly to open the door and the man raised the wooden bar. The door flew back.

‘Ian!’ Niall said, striding into the room with Logan close on his heels. He punched Ian’s shoulder. ‘Thank God we heard from you in time.’

‘What is it, man?’

Logan went to the fire to warm his hands, his young face troubled.

For once, Niall’s expression was sharp. And worried. ‘Albright has the militia crawling the countryside looking for you. For smuggling and abduction. Finally the bastard has found a way to hang you. You’ll have to leave. Go to France. America.’

Like hell.

McKinly’s mouth was hanging open.

‘Who am I supposed to have abducted?’ Ian asked.

‘His daughter. Logan said she was there on the headland. Now she’s missing.’

Logan’s eyes widened, staring over his shoulder.

Ian spun around. The door behind him had opened and Selina stepped out. Her black hair loose about her shoulders, the bright red of her skirts swirling around her ankles, with her flushed face and rosy lips, she looked like a woman well bedded.

Niall’s jaw dropped. ‘God, Ian, what have you done? We’ll all hang.’

McKinly looked startled.

Ian pulled her close to his side, felt the stiffness in her shoulders. Fear, when up to now she’d been fearless. He gave her an encouraging smile.

‘Lady Selina has done me the honour of becoming my wife.’

‘Your—’ Reading Ian’s glare, Niall spluttered into silence.

Logan’s eyes narrowed. ‘You are a disgrace to the clan, Ian Gilvry. How could you? After her family stole our birthright?’ His gaze ran over her, a bitter twist to his lips. ‘I can understand you wanting to bed her. But marriage? Our mother will never forgive you.’