The Scotsman (22 page)

He lifted his face to look at her, his silver-gray eyes searing into her with fierce intensity. “Be still….” It was said in a groaning mutter, and she could not help another small wiggle of her hips that made him close his eyes, his lashes darkening his cheeks. “For pity’s sake, catkin….”

“Alex … Alex, please … help me….” She wasn’t quite certain what she asked, but he knew. He had known before and he would know now.…

A shudder ran through him and his head lowered again. Then he glanced up at her as he slid forward, his male hardness stretching and filling her again until the pleasure turned to pain and she gasped. He paused at once and looked away. His body throbbed inside her with heated pressure that seemed all encompassing, filling her world as well as her body. She arched her hips upward, seeking release and the same euphoria she had experienced with him before.

He put his head down again and drew in a ragged breath. “Jesus….”

She did not know if it was a prayer or exclamation this time, but then he shifted, and now he lunged forward in an unyielding invasion that was as shocking as it was complete. A startled cry burst from her and he swiftly covered her mouth with his own. But as swiftly as the pain had pierced her, it ended, leaving only an unfamiliar fullness in her, and the steady throbbing of his body. Welcome invasion, delightful sin … and this time, she knew she was no longer a virgin.

But then there was no time to think about that, only the slow, luxurious thrust and drag of his body inside
her, the clamor of sensations that overrode one another and came together in a seamless tide. Caught up in the wash of desire that flowed over her, she was aware of him surging against her and into her, withdrawing only to drive forward with shuddering force. The faint scent of musky soap filled her nose, throaty mutters filled her ears, and his fiercely intent face hovered over her to blot out the rest of the world. He was her world … he filled it completely at this moment, his aggressive power and potent sensuality eclipsing everything else.

Driving all coherent thought from her mind once more, Alex thrust into her with a ruthless, burning friction. She ached for him, ached with the searing reality of his body’s intrusion, and moved beyond it into that nebulous realm where release hovered just out of her reach. His breath was harsh against her cheek as he slipped his hand between them, scraping his thumb over the sweet nucleus of pleasure that made her shiver, his body a relentless force as he swept her with him up and up and past the pain into sweeping pleasure.

The first tremor rocked her and she clutched at him, crying out. His movement quickened and a fevered groan mingled with her soft cries, keening sounds like the sob of the wind at the shutters echoing in the chamber. It came in shattering clarity, an explosion of light and heated release. Wave after wave washed through her, intense and annihilating, draining her of tension and strength. And then he was thrusting deep in a quivering stroke that burst within her in harsh tremors, and he went still.

Shivering with reaction, Catherine held him as he relaxed atop her, his weight resting half on her, half on the mattress. One hand stroked back his hair in gentle movements as his head rested in the curve of her neck and
shoulder. His breathing was ragged, but gradually began to slow. When he finally moved, he withdrew slowly and she could not stop a surprised gasp at the raw friction.

He lay next to her and propped himself on one elbow to gaze down at her. “Now you know the difference, catkin.”

She smiled. “Yea, now I know the difference.”

It was true. What had happened between them before was nothing compared to this … and she was suddenly, fiercely, glad. The little membrane that was so coveted was gone forever, and never again could she be made hostage of it. Her father could not use her as a prize to dangle before eager suitors more anxious for her dowry than they were her … no, she was free now to choose for herself.

She drew a finger over the light bristle of beard on Alex’s jaw. “You are a braw callant, sir.”

His brow rose at her Gaelic phrase, and a smile curved his mouth. He clasped her hand in his to kiss her fingertips. “Yea, milady, so I am. ’Tis kind of you to notice.”

“I notice everything about you.”

He grimaced. “I find that frightening. Here. You are chilled.”

As he reached down to draw up the wool blanket over her shivering form, she took note of his naked body, magnificent and powerful. His dark skin was smooth, with only small scars from years of battle, and lean muscle banded his chest and belly. She flushed and looked away when he glanced back at her, grinning.

“Sly minx … if you continue to look at me like that, I shall begin to think you far too precocious for a virgin.”

As the blanket settle around her in warm folds, she glimpsed a red stain on the wool. She pointed to it. “Your proof, sir—”

“Catkin, I was teasing you. God knows, you were virgin indeed.” Leaning forward, he took her chin in his palm and kissed her mouth gently. Then he drew back a little and gazed at her as he held her face. He stared at her for a long moment, intense and enigmatic, until she began to frown with concern. Then he muttered awkwardly, “I hope that one day you will forgive me for this.”

“Forgive you?” She lifted her shoulders in a gentle shrug. “You have saved me. My father wouldst barter my maidenhead to the highest bidder. This was done of my own free will. I shall never have to return now, for he will not have me back once I tell him that my worth as marriageable pawn is gone.”

His mouth tightened. He raked a hand through his hair and looked away, then looked back at her with a strange light in his eyes. “Do you not want to return to Warfield?”

“Nay, not now.” A little shyly, she reached for his hand, still too full of these new, scalding emotions to feel comfortable with them. Then he curled his fingers around her palm and held her, and she smiled. “But ’tis a moot point, as my father does not intend to meet your demands.”

“So I have realized.” He rubbed his thumb over the heel of her palm, frowning. Then he looked up at her through his tangled lashes. “Catherine, these are times that oft breed confusion in loyalties, and lead men to acts they would not consider in a sane and orderly world. I am as guilty as the next man of acting without reason at times.”

Her hand clenched. “Have you heard from my father?”

“Nay, I told you earlier that I have not.”

“But you know something.” There was a somber intensity to him that alarmed her, and she studied his face for a long moment in the scant light afforded by fire and candle glow. “What is it?”

“Christ … there has been no word from your father or your brother. The terms of my offer were simple—you in exchange for my brother and de Brus. No effort has been made to satisfy these terms, or even alter them….”

His voice trailed into silence, and she shook her head in confusion. “I know all this … why are you now disturbed?”

Coiling his lean body, he surged up from the bed, standing over it to stare down at her darkly. Conflicting emotions were evident on his face, chasing across features drawn tight with unspoken words. He raked a hand through his hair, and his tone was taut with frustration.

“Catkin, there are some things you do not know, that you might take amiss were you to—”

A sudden pounding on the door rattled it on the hinges, and the latch clanked as it swung slowly open. Before it had moved inward more than a small bit, Alex moved with swift agility to grab a wicked dagger from his boot on the floor. It was long and gleaming and sharp, reflecting light from the fire in glittering sparks as he stood poised in aggressive menace.

But it was no intruder who stood in the doorway. Mairi paused as if frozen, staring at Alex and then Catherine as color flooded her face. There was an awkward silence, then she began to speak in harsh Gaelic, gesturing toward the bed with wild motions that Alex curbed with a few sharp words. Tension and resentment
vibrated in the air with chilling transparency. After a moment, the elderly maidservant snapped a few more words, then swung about and shut the door behind her with an echoing slam.

Alex turned to Catherine, and there was a grim set to his mouth. “It seems that your brother has arrived with an offer for your release, milady. Clothe yourself, and I will send you an escort to the hall so you may greet him.”

Nicholas waited impatiently by the fire, slapping his leather gloves against his bare palm loudly. It was a devilish night, with cold rain and a wind strong enough to peel hair off a dog, and now that he was here, he did not want to be kept waiting. Where the devil was Fraser? He wanted to see him, not this glowering Scot with the face like a crumpled rag who had obviously been sent to guard him.

“Where is Fraser?” he demanded when the silence stretched too long.

The Scot’s light brows lifted, and his shoulders moved in a careless shrug. “When he is no’ busy, he will be doon tae see ye.”

“If he values his brother as he says, he will make time to see me quick enough.”

The Scot pushed away from the wall where he had been leaning and stepped forward, bristling with ill-concealed hatred. “Ye hae taken yer own sweet time aboot comin’, so I wa’d no’ be so quick tae make demands, Lord Devlin.”

Nicholas eyed him with growing irritation. “I came as quickly as I could wrest an agreement from the earl, and I will not listen to censure from a Scots rogue about it.”

It certainly did not help to know, that the Scot had a valid point. The deadline was long past for an agreement, and even now, the offer he brought fell far short of what Alex Fraser demanded. Desperation alone bade him make the offer, but he knew with a sickening feeling of doom that he would be refused. Yet ’twas all he had, and he did not dare delay any longer before meeting with Fraser again. Already, he feared he was too late.

Laughing softly, the Scot let one hand fall to rest upon the hilt of a sword dangling from his belt. “Ye hae no’ much choice aboot wha’ ye will listen tae, milord. Ye are in Scotland now, and ’tis no’ yer place tae be giving orders.”

Because he was right, and because it was galling to admit it even to himself, Nicholas clenched his teeth tight to keep from spitting out the harsh words on the tip of his tongue. Curse them all, these ragtag Scots with cheerless stone fortresses and mighty swords—he would like to see them all slain upon the battlefield, ending the blight that scoured England from east to west and left her vulnerable to foreign enemies. But he had not come here to engage in verbal battle with this man. He wanted Alex Fraser, and more than that—Catherine.

Silence fell in the antechamber off the great hall where they stood, only the popping of logs in the fire breaking the tense stillness. Nicholas stared at the insolent Scot with mute fury.

Finally he heard someone approaching the open door, and flicked his gaze from his guard to the opening. Fraser strode into the antechamber and said something to the Scot in Gaelic. The rough-looking guard grinned and nodded, then gave Nicholas a last glance before he left.

“Charming company,” Nicholas drawled, watching Fraser closely as he came toward him. “We had a lovely chat while I waited on you.”

Fraser’s dark brow rose, and a faint smile curved his mouth as he moved to a table bearing a pitcher and cups. “Robbie is loyal and fierce. A true Scots patriot.”

“I gathered that. He looks capable enough of slitting throats in the night.”

“He is quite adept at that, as long as they are English throats bared to his blade. Wine?” Fraser held out a brimming cup, and though he wanted to refuse, Nicholas took it to give himself time to assess the man’s temper. Fraser lifted a cup to his lips, staring at him over the rim. “It is safe enough to drink, my lord Devlin, should you fear poison.”

Nicholas shrugged. “I do not fear such treachery from you as long as we still hold your brother.”

“Ah. So we dispense with the formalities and courtesies already. I approve, for I am a man who likes to come quickly to the point … what of my brother?”

“He is well. I bring you word from him.”

“It is not words that I require, Lord Devlin.”

Damn this insolent Scot, who stared at him as if he were the lowest churl … it made him suddenly aware of the mud streaking his boots and mantle and ruining the white surcoat he wore beneath. Fraser looked as immaculate as if he had just risen from a bath, garbed in a gilt-trimmed soutane with a long-sleeved sherte of fine linen beneath, and an intricately wrought gold girdle circling his hips, bearing a dagger sheath studded with jewels. His eyes narrowed slightly. The Frasers had held a title once, until King Edward I revoked it for treason—but this presumptuous Scot behaved as if he still had more than the lower rank of landed knight.

Stiffly, Nicholas said, “I have not yet seen for myself that my sister is alive and well. Do you expect more?”

“Yea, but ’tis plain that I am not dealing with men of honor, or my demands would have been answered in the time I allotted to you.”

A chagrined flush heated his face as Nicholas returned the Scot’s stare. “You were sent word of the reason for the delay.”