by Arnette Lamb
The circling motion of his hands, sliding the soft wool of her dress against the sheer silk of her chemise, turned her body to liquid need.
Pulling back, she opened her eyes and focused on his parted lips, now slick from their ardent kisses. Again, she wished for the light of day so she could learn his expressions, watch emotions play upon his features. Even as close as she was to him and as intimately as she felt she knew him, she would not be able to pick him out in a crowd.
He smiled, revealing straight white teeth. “How’s that for a ghost?”
“Well…”
“You want more, don’t you?”
“Tell me what to do,” she said.
His hands stilled. The smile faded. An agonized groan passed his lips. “Doona tell me you’re a virgin, lass. Not now.”
Hearty and strong, his manhood throbbed against her. She felt empty, desperate. A half-truth came to mind. “I’ve never been ravished in a garden ’neath the light of the moon.”
His eyes narrowed. “There isna enough moonlight for an owl to forage, but I doona need the sun to tell me the truth.”
Her confidence waned, but her body waxed. “Which is?”
He lifted her off him. “You’re an innocent.”
His rejection stung. Rising to her knees, she said, “Ha! I’d hardly call myself that.”
He sat up and began rubbing his thighs, as if he had a cramp. “Have you stood naked before a man?” One of his hands caressed her breast. “Has he suckled you here?”
Her nipples tingled. “You’ve no right to ask me that.”
“I think,” he said thickly and slid his hand lower. “That no man has brought an ache to your belly and touched you—” His fingers wedged their way between her legs. “Here.”
Her backbone turned to jelly, and she grabbed his wrist to dislodge his hand. “What are you doing?”
His other hand tunneled beneath her skirts to touch her bare leg. “Proving a point.”
Her knees trembled and yet an odd languor engulfed her. She wanted his touch and his sweet words, not a challenge. “’Tis a silly point when you said you wanted to make love to me.”
“Is it now?”
The flowing of the fountain and the rustling of leaves filled the silence. His hand snaked higher until the warmth of his fingers touched her intimately.
Drenched in a downpour of erotic sensation, she stifled a moan.
At last he said, “Give me the key to the castle.”
Distracted by the pleasure he inspired, she said, “Why?”
One of his fingers played over her woman’s flesh, and to her surprise, she felt a wetness there. She grew lightheaded and a cool flush blanketed her skin.
Leaning close, he said, “Spread your legs a bit.”
She did, and when his finger slid into her, she sucked in her breath. Fire raced through her, and her hips surged against him, opening herself and giving him easy accessibility. He instantly took advantage, and with a twist of his wrist, captured her completely. Magic fingers moved to and fro, tracing flesh that tingled and swelled, but the movement of his thumb against her secret treasure pushed Miriam toward the edge of fulfillment.
“Now will you give me the key?”
Through a fog of delicious excitement, she sought to understand his words.
“If you give me the key, lassie,” he whispered against her cheek, “I’ll carry you inside and love you properly.”
His hot breath flowed over her skin. But a smidgen of rebellion remained. “What if I don’t?”
His thumb moved in quick circles that made her dizzy. “You’ll have bruises on your back from the ground.” He spoke softly, yet urgently. “You’ll get leaves in your hair. You’ll get dirty. We canna have that, can we?”
Involuntarily, her head moved from side to side. Her hand fished in her pocket for the key. Just when she would have given it over, his thumb stilled.
“No!” she cried out, feeling as if she were teetering on a narrow ledge.
“Shush.” He brought her hand to the bulge in his breeches, slipping the key away as he did. “Feel how much I want you?”
He pulsed with vigorous life beneath her palm, straining against the soft leather of his clothing, but selfishly, her mind stayed fixed on her own body and his wretchedly motionless thumb. “Please,” she said.
“With pleasure,” he said, his lips closing over hers, and he resumed his glorious play.
She leaned into him, yielding herself completely. His tongue darted into her mouth, then retreated, while his fingers performed a matching motion. The erotic sensations were multiplied when his thumb stepped up the intoxicating spiral. In reflex, her hand curled around him, eliciting a growl that sounded part pain, part bliss, all undeniably male.
He rocked his hips against her hand, pushing himself closer, then drawing back, and with each lunge she felt him grow stronger, harder, his chest laboring to draw breath, his mouth threatening to devour her.
Miriam gloried in his spontaneous show of sensuality and reveled in her own ability to rouse such passion in so bold and forceful a man. But his expertise soon dominated her budding confidence, and the wizardry he worked sent her thoughts flying to a goal just out of reach. She groaned in frustration.
“Think of paradise, love,” he murmured urgently. “Imagine you’re standing on the bank of a deep blue loch.”
From the delirium, she dredged up a few words, but had no idea if they made sense.
Against her ear, he said, “Aye, you can. Trust me. Do you see the water?”
Afraid he would stop, she conjured an image of the glassy, black waters of Loch Leven.
“Do you see it?”
“Aye,” she breathed, clutching him tighter.
He trebled his assault on her virgin flesh. The garden and Kildalton faded, and her mind latched on to the man and his magical image of silky water.
Then he said, “Jump in.”
In her imagination, she sprang from the bank and plunged into the icy water, but in reality, her body burst forth in a heat that sent a tremor from the crown of her head to the soles of her feet. Like a cinder leaping from the flames of a mighty fire, she jerked and swayed, riding the currents of a gusty wind, letting it take her where it would.
“To paradise.”
“Did I not say ’twas so?” he said in a strained whisper.
Her eyes drifted open and focused on the appealing slant of his nose and the thick brush of his lashes. His eyes were brown, she decided, the warm, rich hue of an oak.
He planted a quick, wet kiss on her forehead. “Put your arms around my neck.”
Too happy to wonder why, she did as he bade, barely noticing that his hair wasn’t slicked back with pomatum as she’d thought, but covered with a scarf and tied at the nape of his neck.
He swept her up and carried her past the urns, and with the ease of a seamstress plying a needle, he unlocked the door to the castle and took her inside.
Chapter 9
Absolute darkness and the mustiness of damp stone greeted them. Without faltering, he carried her through a second door, then started up the stair tower.
The circular, upward journey had a dizzying effect. Her head grew light, and she nestled her cheek against his neck. He smelled clean and earthy, like fallen leaves, freshly cut timber. Beneath the pleasant aromas, she detected the odd odors of dank wool and something burned. At the absurdity, she focused her thoughts on the man himself, his allure, his vitality.
She seemed as light as eiderdown to him, his steely arms cradling her, his thickly muscled chest a wall of strength.
“You know this castle well.”
“To make you mine, lassie, I’d gladly brave the fires of hell.”
His seduction called to mind a classic conquest of the heart and everlasting love. In her fantasies he’d been cast as a fair-haired and honor-bound knight fettered to goodness by virtuous deeds. But what was a little tarnish, she reasoned. With her help, this errant knight could turn his back
on subterfuge and race back into the fold of the righteous.
Inspired by so noble a challenge, she said, “Where are you taking me?”
“To the first soft spot I find.”
“Where?” she insisted.
“To a storage room in the tower.”
He stopped, but she knew they hadn’t traveled far enough to reach the top. Dipping his shoulder, he leaned into the stone wall. As if by magic, the wall moved.
Her heightened senses were filled with the sweet aromas of basil, sage, and rosemary. She had a moment to wonder if they had come full circle on their journey, for the herbs were the same that grew in the giant urns in the garden.
But when he relaxed his hold and let her slide down the length of his body, thoughts of fragrant plants fled like morals at court. Just as her feet touched the floor, he pulled her against his chest and kissed her again, murmuring Scottish love words. The satiny feel of his lips on her neck rekindled the desire she’d thought he’d extinguished. The tender phrases enticed her into blissful surrender.
Before she’d felt anxious. Now she felt empty, wanton. And in love.
Love. Her logical mind stumbled on the word. Did she love him? Yes, her heart answered. He was the man of her dreams.
“Take off your cloak,” he whispered, “and give it to me.”
Languishing in her newfound passion, she did as he bade and heard the rustle of wool as he removed his cape. Missing his solid strength and warmth, she said, “What are you doing?”
“Making a soft place so I can love you properly.”
The burr in his voice drew her like an entrancing melody. She stepped deeper into the inky darkness and reached for him. As he whirled toward her, his movement stirred the perfumed air. Never, she thought, had any bride enjoyed a sweeter bower of love.
Her eager fingers touched the coarse homespun of his shirt and pulled him closer. His hands roamed her back, tracing her spine, cupping her bottom and lifting, introducing her once more to his blatant and erotic male need. The rasp of his breath close to her ear sent tendrils of desire cascading over breasts that begged for his touch and to legs that-seemed too weak to hold her.
Emboldened, she unbuttoned his shirt and splayed her hands on his chest. The springy, silky hair curled around her fingers as if to caress her in return. She pictured them lying naked and imagined the feel of his crisp chest hair against her taut nipples. Her belly grew tight at the thought. “I want you now,” she heard herself say.
“All in good time. ’Tis too soon, love.” He nipped her shoulder. “Think of something else while I take off your clothes. According to legend, I’ve waited for you one hundred years. I’ll not be rushed.”
Oddly, she considered the pelt of curly hair that covered the earl’s groin, and as her fingers explored the Border Lord’s chest, she thought of his easy sensuality and the differences between the two men. The fair, bashful earl and the dark, alluring lover.
But when he freed the laces of her gown and eased it off her shoulders, she forgot about the gentle nobleman. When he stripped her of chemise and petticoats, she remembered that her lover was still dressed.
She pulled his shirt from the breeches and unbuckled his belt. The leather felt soft and warm, a contrast to the hot, hard length of him that lay beneath.
He groaned. “I should’ve worn a kilt.”
Confidence filled her. “You’d be loving me now if you had. Because you wear nothing under it.”
He froze. “How do you know what the Border Lord wears or doesna wear beneath his kilt?”
The sharp words surprised her. “’Tis common knowledge that Scotsmen wear nothing under their plaids. Are you jealous that I might have seen another man’s nakedness?”
His hands started roaming again. “Aye, lassie. I canna bear to think of you with another man.”
A hint of humor flavored the agreement. Miriam’s inability to understand innuendo kept her from grasping why.
He tore at the buttons on his breeches, then began working them down. She rested her hands on his slim waist and the rippling muscles there. Like a path, a trail of hair led to the niche of his navel and lower, to the swollen maleness that strained and pulsed with life.
Her fingers closed over skin smoother than silk velvet. He sucked in his breath and surged forward, his rock hard manhood jutting through the circle she’d made of her hand, the crown of him nudging her belly.
Since she couldn’t actually see him, she envisioned the earl’s exposed manly parts. In comparison, the Border Lord had been overly blessed by nature.
As she plied her newfound knowledge, her mind wandered to the reason behind the differences in men; perhaps a bold man required a greater organ than a timid one. Could courage have a bearing on a man’s sexual prowess?
“Enough,” he growled and grasping her waist, he lifted her, snatching her thoughts from the earl and planting them firmly on the Border Lord.
Weightless and supported only by his strength, she clutched his shoulders for balance. But when his mouth touched her breast, she went limp, all of her perception focused on his lips and tongue and the wildly erotic sensations he aroused. A connection was born between her breasts and her woman’s core, and like a silken cord, twisted and strung tight, the bond weaved its magic.
He laved and suckled, opening his mouth so wide she feared he might, then prayed he would, devour her. A new wetness flourished between her legs, and deeper, an aching hollow begged for fulfillment. She bit her lip to stifle a keening cry.
Drawing back, he blew gently on the pebbled peak of her breast, sending a shiver to the soles of her dangling feet.
“Speak your mind, Miriam,” he whispered. “Doona grow shy on me now.”
Unable to comply with his reckless request, she shook her head. Her hair swished around them.
Using delicate bites, he plucked at her nipple. “I canna be certain what you like if you doona tell me.”
A sound, half laughter, half frustration, passed her lips. “I too much like what you’re doing. I want more.”
He chuckled and lifted her higher. “I would gladly give all, but I canna stop kissing your breasts.”
The long, heavy heat of him throbbed against her thigh, yet he continued to lavish his attention on her nipples. In pleasurable agony, she grasped his head to pull him away, and was surprised when her palms met soft fabric. She raked off the scarf and threaded her hands through the thick mass of his shoulder-length hair. Even without light, she knew it was black, same as his brows and side-whiskers.
“Unless you’d care to…” he began.
“To what?” she said.
Against her breast he answered, “Unless you’d care to whisper your secret desires in my ear.”
Needing no further coaxing, she leaned close and in Scottish said, “Make me yours.”
He shivered so hard she thought he might drop her.
“Please,” she added.
“My pleasure.” He lowered her to the makeshift pallet.
As she lay back on a bed of soft wool over bundles of dried herbs, she became aware of his every movement. Even though she couldn’t see him, she could hear him kick off his boots and peel the breeches from his legs. His belt buckle rattled loudly on the stone floor.
Then he was beside her, enveloping her, devouring her with hungry kisses that fed her desire and filled her with longing. The enticing drag of his crisp body hair rubbing against her skin heightened her impatience. “So this is how the Border Lord makes love,” she said, thinking of the wild disparity between reality and her girlish dreams. “You don’t feel like a ghost.”
“How do you know how a ghost feels?” His legs slid between hers, spreading her and saturating her imagination with visions of the joining to come. When he had settled himself to his satisfaction, he tunneled his arms beneath her shoulders, taking his own weight and hugging her to his chest. His manhood brushed her.
“Are you truly experienced, lass? Doona lie to me.”
An aw
ful possibility occurred to her. “Do you promise not to stop?”
“Miriam,” he said on a pained sigh, “I couldna stop, even if the dragoons were scaling the walls.”
Relieved, she said, “I’m not ignorant of the workings of men and women.” To accentuate the point, she lifted her hips, eliciting a gasp from him. “But to be exactly truthful, I haven’t been … Oh, bother it. I’m still a virgin.”
“In truth, lassie, I’m very happy. I’ll go slow.” His lips brushed her cheek. “You’ll find pleasure in our loving. I give you my solemn word as a Scotsman.”
Her dream knight had always spoken similar declarations. Through her fantasies, she knew about honor among men. She turned so their mouths touched. “But I want you now.”
Her words so excited Duncan that he almost threw caution to the wind. He burned with the need to claim her, but the idea of deceiving her pricked his conscience. Deceiving her? Christ, from the moment he’d seen her huddled in the garden, he’d begun to play the role of cavalier. He’d even climbed the castle wall.
If she ever learned his true identity, she’d be angry, but worse, she’d be hurt. Wounding the bright diplomat didn’t bother him. Harming the untried woman did. He told a small truth. “In a moment you may regret your eagerness, but ’tis said the pain goes quickly.”
Her hands traced his nose, his brow, and his cheeks. Her palms would be stained with lampblack. With her loving gestures she had inadvertently stripped him of every vestige of his disguise. Later he would wipe her hands with his shirt and hope for the best.
“I trust you,” she said.
Her honesty stopped him. He’d never bargained for her trust. Or had he? As Duncan, he needed her to believe in him, but the Border Lord required no such allegiance. Or did he? One identity bled into the other. Confusion and passion warred within him.
The movement of her breasts against his chest and her softly spoken, “Please … I want you,” ended his emotional battle.
With a shaking hand, he guided himself into her and felt a moment’s regret. But then his thoughts scattered and her maidenhead beckoned. Lust caught him in its grasp. Exerting gentle and constant pressure, he broke through her veil of innocence.