The Scotsman (21 page)

But then, hard on the heels of that realization was the scorching memory of before, and how he had made her feel with his hands and his mouth, and she wavered again. Did it really matter if she gave him all? It would be her own choice, not a choice made for her by men who
did not care, men whose only concern was power and wealth. Did she have the courage to make that choice for herself and accept the inevitable consequences?

In a strange way, it had been easier to have everything decided for her, for then she had little option but to do as she was bid … but this moment was hers alone, and she alone would bear the cost … it was too much. She was suddenly afraid, not of Alex Fraser, but of herself; of emotions too long denied and far too vulnerable to risk for transitory vengeance or to ease her loneliness. She should tell him that she was unwilling … she should look into his eyes and say that she could not do this.

But he was gazing down at her with molten silver eyes beneath winged brows, beautiful and scarred and oh so dangerous … terrifying and tempting beyond expectation.

She closed her eyes, and was suddenly weightless. There was a sweeping sensation, and then she felt the familiar cushion of heather mattress beneath her. It cradled her shoulders and hips in sweet scent and comfort, then dipped beneath his weight. He bent and kissed her again, tasting of spiced wine and heady excitement. His tongue licked at her lips, her chin, then laved her mouth in a slow, sensual exploration that left her shivering. She opened her mouth and he slipped inside it, heated wine, cinnamon, and cloves, all mingled with tumultuous desire.

A low moan vibrated in her throat. His hands were on the laces of her leather girdle, swift and sure with spare motion that divested her of the garment. Her breath came ragged and swift, almost painfully. There was a creaking groan of bed ropes as he shifted his weight to his knees and gathered her into him, his hands beneath her shoulders as he lifted her to press his mouth against
the base of her throat. Then he moved to loosen the tidy coils of hair over her ears, freeing them so that the unbound plaits waved over her shoulders and down to the bedding.

In a soft, hoarse mutter, he said, “You are very beautiful, catkin.”

Shyly, afraid of what she might see reflected in his gaze, she opened her eyes to look at him. Smoke and fire, a seductive curve of his mouth, heated promise and sensual assurance gazed back at her. She felt hot and cold at the same time, with the steady, surging insistence between her legs mortifying and exciting. What should she do? What should she say? Oh, if only she knew what she really wanted from him, if what she felt was only lust, as he had said, or love, as she had thought. Perhaps it was both, because the time she spent with him these past weeks was pure torment, watching him, his potent masculinity reminding her of how he had touched her that day, felt against her, his weight and power devastating and arousing. Yet she had also known that beneath his careless mockery, he was a man she could respect.

It was to that man that her mind and body answered as one.

“Alex,” she whispered softly, desperately, and reached for him. Plucking at the laces of his leather jerkin, she freed them and spread her hands against his bare chest under his sherte. His skin was hot under her palms. She stared in fascination at the contrast of her white fingers over the dark muscled skin. His chest rose and fell in labored breaths as she lightly explored the sleek contours. Flat, dark brown nipples were partially hidden by the folds of his white sherte, and she could not resist touching them. His muscles contracted, and his hands tightened against her back, fingers digging into the skin
of her shoulders. Emboldened by the effect she had upon him, she teased the hard nubs between thumbs and fingers with soft pinches.

“Christ….” His voice cracked. “You see … how easy it is … for you to torture me, catkin….” His breathing was swift and irregular. His lashes half-closed on the smoky glitter in his eyes, and his mouth curved into a seductive smile. “I know I shall regret this, but I can show you even more effective methods of torturing a man, sweet cat.”

“Can you?” Moving in slow, languid strokes, she slid her hands downward, amazed at her own daring but caught up in something beyond her control. She felt powerful, brazen, and completely wanton. “Does this torment you, sir?” She pressed her hand against the hard bulge outlining his trews and felt him throb beneath her palm. “And … this?” Curving her fingers around him, she measured his length with slow, careful massage, shaping her hand to him, marveling at the rapid change in his body. His hips moved forward into her palm as she stroked him through the wool in steady motions that drew a rough mutter from him.

“Jesus….” It was a groan and a prayer, slipping into the heated air with soft emphasis. His hands fell away from her back and shifted to her shoulders, fingers cupping them in a tight clasp as she continued her rhythmic strokes.

A flush warmed her face. She felt wicked and daring and on the verge of a great discovery. Alex had swelled beneath her attentive ministrations to a steely length that pressed hard against the fabric of his trews. He was breathing harshly now, looking down at her from beneath lowered black lashes as he watched what she was doing. His sherte gaped open where she had pushed it aside,
and his sculpted chest rose and fell with each deep breath he took.

It was exciting, knowing she could arouse him like this, and a queer agitation filled her as he pressed into her strokes, his hips bucking forward in a smooth, rolling motion. His hands fell away from her shoulders and to his sides, clenching into fists as his head tilted back and he groaned again. Light from the fire left half his face in shadow, lending his expression a mysterious cast.

Her own breath came more swiftly now, and a little raggedly. Sitting back on her heels, she put her hands to her face, a bit appalled at her audacity. Her entire body felt afire with excitement and embarrassment. As his hands went to the cords binding his trews around his waist, she knew she should look away, but did not. It was as if some invisible force held her, and she watched silently as he untied the cords and the fabric slipped away.

When he took her hand and brought it back to him, she resisted but he held her with gentle insistence. “’Tis no’ so very different from before, lass,” he muttered in a thick burr, and placed her palm over him.

He held it there, and the throbbing pulse in his length matched the cadence of her heartbeat—rapid and strong.

“You are wrong,” she whispered, “it is very different from before … so soft and yet so hard … and hot.”

His laugh was slightly strangled. “Aye, ’tis hot enough to burn, I vow. And I am burning, catkin.”

Flustered, she did not move her hand when his lifted away, but shaped him in light caresses that drew another moan from him. Shy curiosity became bold exploration, brushes of her fingers over his turgid length becoming an arrant discovery of texture and dimensions, of her newfound sensuality. It was frightening and exhilarating and wondrous.

Then he put his hand over hers again, and his voice was choked. “Enough. Ah, Christ above … enough, or I shall rush what should be slow.” He drew in a deep breath. “Now ’tis my turn to enjoy you, catkin … here. Let me help you with this gown….”

His hands removed any protest she may have made as he tugged at the wool, gathering it in his fists and up over her head to toss to the floor beside the bed. Still on their knees facing each other, he sat back for a moment to gaze at her. She flushed and looked down, wishing she could see herself as he saw her, wishing she knew if he found her as pleasing as she did him.…

“Beautiful,” he murmured, “beautiful catkin … did you know your breasts are near perfect? Small and rounded—why do you blush? You should be proud. Poor catkin—has no one ever told you how lovely you are?”

“You know you are the first man to see me thus,” she replied in a soft, quivering voice.

“Yea, I do not doubt that.” His words and smile were tender. “But I cannot be your first admirer. What? No long poems of undying love and unrequited passion written to you in praise of your eyes, your lips, your hair … your breasts? What must the men in Warfield’s hall be thinking….”

It would do no good to tell him that none had dared even glance at her for fear of the earl, and she closed her eyes and shivered when he traced the tiny blue veins visible beneath the pale skin of her breasts with his finger. His touch was light and arousing as he skimmed over her flesh, lingering idly.

“Sweet catkin … so beautiful, with soft white skin the color of new milk … and your nipples remind me of rosebuds, all pink and shy and ready to flower … like that. Yea, like that, sweet girl….” His thumb caressed the tightening bud into a hard knot, making the
steady throb between her thighs beat faster. Cupping her other breast in his palm, he slowly rotated his thumb on that nipple as well, until she became breathless and agitated.

She looked up at him, and a faint, crooked smile curved his mouth. “You like that, I think, catkin. Good. I like seeing you blossom for me … beautiful English flower.”

His head bent and he kissed each breast, then her throat, then up to her ear. His breath was heated, tickling her cheek and making her shiver, then he pressed his lips against her brow. It was a tender gesture that brought unexpected tears to her eyes, and she closed them so he would not see. But he must have, for he brushed a fingertip against her lashes.

“Tears? Open your eyes, catkin. Look at me.”

She obeyed, but stared at his chin until he nudged up her chin with a bent finger so that she had to look into his eyes. “Why do you weep? Are you afraid?”

“Yes. Of you. Of me. Of … this….” Her hand swept down to encompass her body. “I do not know what to do with all these feelings I have of late, and am afraid of what they mean.”

Her soft whisper faded before he drew in a deep breath and shook his head. “You need not fear my touch. I will not hurt you.”

Tears blurred her vision as she stared at him. “Yes. You will. You cannot help but hurt me….”

An odd expression crossed his face. “Not willingly, little catkin. Never that.”

It should matter that he did not deny it, did not swear never to do her harm, but strangely, she understood. Life was so uncertain, full of surprising twists and turns, that promises were too often made in vain.

And so she did not protest when he bent his head, his
mouth covering hers in a kiss that was salty with her own tears. He slid one hand into her waving hair, his fingers circling the whorls of her ear. She shivered at the soft contact.

“Beautiful catkin,” he whispered against her ear, his breath a heated caress. His knees squeezed her thighs, wool rough against her bare skin. “Too lovely to resist … too sweet to deny….”

His words trailed into silence as he slid a hand down the curve of her spine to her buttocks and held her. He made a small noise low in the back of his throat. Catherine could not move; her breathing was labored. He leaned over her, pushing her down against the mattress, a solid weight and steady pressure. Hooking his hands beneath her knees, he pulled her legs from under her to straddle his waist. It left her open to him, vulnerable and exposed, and with an inarticulate cry she moved her hands to cover herself.

He caught them, his smile lazy and heated. “No need for that, catkin. Not now. Is there? Nay, I did not think there was … be still a moment, my sweet….”

The soft words and sensual tone penetrated her sudden shyness, and she allowed him to move her hands to her sides. He was still dressed, his wool trews open to reveal his rampant desire for her. It was so shocking and somehow arousing that he was clothed and she was not. He caressed her, his thumbs sliding over the center of her in a searing stroke that took away her breath and ignited a new heat. Pressing upward under his touch, she moaned softly.

Oh, mercy … sweet mother of mercy … it was so sinfully wanton, so exquisitely seductive, kindling an aching need in her that she knew he could quench. She parted for him when he pushed gently at her thighs. He leaned over her, and his weight spread her legs as he
kissed her mouth, deep drugging kisses that left her breathless and yearning, her body arching into his with rising urgency. Still kissing her, he reached between their bodies to slide a finger inside her, a scorching intrusion that was exciting and frightening at the same time. Gently, he slid his tongue between her lips in light, teasing strokes as his hand moved between her thighs in parallel rhythm.

Tension rose in her, and she met his thrusts with her own, her tongue dueling his and her hips rising to accept his invasion. Then he paused and lifted himself off the bed. When she reached for him, blindly seeking, he returned to kiss her fiercely and caress that damp, throbbing ache between her legs. Then his hand moved, and in its place was a new intrusion, the heated length she had caressed before. It was hot and rigid against her softness, slipping on the moisture there, erotic strokes that brought another moan from her. He moved against her, his arms braced on each side of her on the mattress, his length driving forward to slide over that aching center of fire and need … she caught at his hips and was surprised that the wool trews were gone.

Then that thought slipped into the newer realization that something had changed as his body shifted to slide inside her, a hard, stinging pressure that made her catch her breath. He did not withdraw but pressed closer, heated flesh thrusting deeper inside, filling and stretching her to the point of pain—but not beyond. It was exquisitely erotic and dangerous.

Holding her breath, she looked up at him. She could see the tangled spill of his black hair and the taut curve of his splendid shoulders, but not his face. He had paused with his full width heavy inside her. Yet it did not assuage the ache, the throbbing urgency that drew her body taut as a bow string and left her quivering with
agitated expectation. Restless at his delay, she squirmed beneath him, wanting more, wanting what he had given her before, that delicious ecstasy that was so elusive and so intense it left her shattered.