He was leading her deeper into the tower, not outside. This was her chance to protest if she wanted to. She did not. He lifted another latch and led her out into a dimly lit passageway.
"Where are we going?" Her voice was breathy.
He halted and lifted his finger beneath her chin. "Where do ye want to go?"
Elen's eyelids felt so heavy that she could not keep them up. He knew. He knew where she wanted him to take her. His bedchamber, of course. His bed.
Munro kissed her first, but only because he was quicker. Elen pressed her back to the rough plastered wall, easing her hands over his broad shoulders. He was hot from the exertion of dancing, his clothing damp. But Elen was not squeamish. She knew that her face, too, gleamed with perspiration. She liked the way he smelled right now, hot and sweaty and clean, as only a man could.
Munro thrust his tongue into her mouth. He tasted of wine. Of desire—desire for her. She found that thought exhilarating.
He pressed her harder against the wall, lifting one hand up beneath her breast.
She moaned. Aye, this was what she wanted. What she must have or she would not live.
When Elen thought she would faint for want of air, he slid his mouth from hers. "I've changed my mind," he murmured huskily as he kissed her neck, the pulse of her throat.
She threaded her fingers through his thick, short hair. "Have ye, now?" she panted.
"What was so generously offered a few nights ere," he breathed in her ear. "Does that proposition still stand?"
She could not resist a chuckle. He knew, of course, that it did, else she would not have allowed him to lead her into the darkness. She would not be allowing him to fondle her here in the hall by the light of a single burning torch.
She caressed his back, speaking between stolen kisses. "No one may know," she panted. "No one. One night. Just once. And there are no obligations, Munro. I do nae expect any from you. Ye willnae get any from me."
"Elen, Elen," he whispered. "Ye are stronger than I could ever be."
She lifted her lashes, brushing the tip of her nose against his. "Ye talk again, when ye could have a naked woman standing in front of ye."
He laughed and eased her against the wall to kiss her again. This kiss was not one of passion, but tenderness.
"Which way?" she whispered, slipping her hand into his. "We must hurry. No one must realize we're gone."
He exhaled, running one hand through his hair. He appeared slightly dazed. Was it the dancing and wine or her kisses? She liked to think it was her.
"I nae want it to be this way," he said. "Rushed. Without proper time to woo you."
How sweet. A truly chivalrous man. "This way or no way," she whispered against his lips. And she meant it.
For one fearful moment, she thought he might change his mind. Perhaps he had really meant what he'd said when he told her he did not merely want a bedmate but a wife.
Fortunately, he came to his senses.
"This way."
They ran like children down the dark stone passageway and up winding narrow steps. She knew he led her to his bedchamber, but she was certain this was not the way she had come when she had paid a visit to her sister and his brother earlier in the week.
At a landing, he stuck his head around the doorway and then tugged on her hand. Then they were inside his bedchamber. His door had a sturdy bar.
Before she could slide the bolt home, he was on his knees pulling off her boots. She laughed, keeping her balance by pressing her hands to his broad shoulders. He stripped off one of her short hose and then another, letting them fall to the floor without care.
As he stood, she tugged on his belt and removed it, along with his sheathed dirk. He took off hers and looped both of them over the back of a wooden chair. First his shirt, then her tunic. They were both in such a hurry that their movements were awkward. They laughed as they fumbled to remove each other's clothing.
"Ye are so beautiful," he murmured as he lifted her linen undertunic over her head and she stood before him naked.
Elen was not embarrassed. What God had given her was all she had. Ample but not overly large breasts, a flat stomach. A sturdy, strong body to work... but also to make love?
He said she was beautiful, and for this one moment in time, she believed him.
She ran one hand over his bare chest, reveling in the feel of the sparse, dark hair. He was all muscle, hard, lean. Now there was nothing between them and complete nakedness but the plaid he wore bound about his waist.
Again, their lips met. "Do ye take this off, or do I?" she teased, boldly running a finger along the waistband. "I do nae know the rules of this game."
He groaned aloud and pushed her hand aside. "The rules are simple. Take care, lass, or all will be o'er ere it has begun."
She laughed and withdrew her hand, but she was not worried. Something told her this man was virile enough to take more than a single inexperienced caress from a lady's hand.
He lowered his head between her breasts and leaned against the door for support. He took one nipple and gently tugged. At the same time he brought his hand up to the throbbing dampness between her legs, and it was she who thought all might be lost.
"Munro, please," she begged. "I nae wish to die a virgin."
Laughing, he scooped her into his arms and carried her to the same great bed her sister had rested upon only days before.
This is Munro's bedchamber, she told herself, pushing all thoughts of Rosalyn and Cerdic aside. His... and now mine... for a moment, only a moment.
They fell beside each other on the great, soft bed, and somehow he unwound the plaid at his waist. He sprang forth into her hand, hotter and larger than she had anticipated.
Elen's breath caught in her throat. It did not seem to matter that she had never been with a man before. Her body seemed to know instinctively what to do, even when she did not. She opened her legs to receive him, her need for him greater at this moment than her need to breathe. She knew they hurried, and yet as he took her, time seemed to slow... to become suspended.
She had heard tales in women's solars of the pain of joining, remarks of disgust, abhorrence even. But what she experienced as he entered her was nothing short of glorious.
Again, Elen's breath caught in her throat. She was drowning, drowning in pleasure, in the smell and the feel of Munro. In his power.
He muttered sweet words in her ear as he slid deeper, and Elen lifted her hips to meet him.
"Munro," she cried.
"Elen... Elen."
The rhythm came from somewhere deep inside her. She knew instinctively how to move to please him, to please herself. Deeper, faster. A part of her wanted it to last forever, but a part of her pressed on. She could no longer control her need.
And then it was over in an explosion of bright light, tensing muscles, and sweet release. At almost the same moment she reached her climax, he, too, burst. With a groan and one more thrust, Munro reached completion.
"I'm sorry," he muttered, rolling off her and onto his side.
"Sorry?"
Slowly he opened eyes to meet her gaze. He rested one hand on her waist, and they lay facing each other crosswise on the bed.
"Next time will be better." He swallowed hard and closed his eyes, trying to catch his breath and slow his pounding heart, no doubt.
She laughed. "Better?"
He opened his eyes. "Ye laugh at me."
"Better and ye would kill me," she whispered, delighted with him, with herself.
Chuckling, he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her damp forehead. "Ye are good for my ego, my love."
She lifted her lashes, mischievously. "Am I, now?"
He ran his hand over her hip in a gentle caress. "Aye, ye are. And I am sorry I handled ye so roughly your first time. It was nae my intention." He traced a line over her hip and down her thigh. "But I couldnae help myself. Watching ye dance, I thought I would embarrass myself by bursting right there in my own hall."
She smi
led and snuggled up against him. "Now that would 'struth have been a sight."
He brushed his lips against hers in a lingering kiss. "Do ye think anyone has noticed we're gone?"
She wrinkled her nose, wishing he had not brought up the others downstairs. Now she could hear the music again, faint but most definitely present. They could not keep the world at bay for long, but perhaps for a few more minutes. She had left Finley at home, against his wishes. She wondered now if this joining had been her intention all along; she'd just not known it. "Nae. No one has even thought of us. Your wine is too good, your minstrels too experienced."
He slid his hand over her thigh to the softer, inner flesh. "Does that mean we do nae have to go yet?"
"Nae yet..." she breathed, letting the ripples of warmth he created with his gentle motion wash over her.
"Shall we take it slower this time?"
She ran her hand over his bare shoulder. "Again? I dinnae ken a mon could do this again."
"Ah, this mon can," he growled playfully.
He rolled her onto her back and she closed her eyes.
The music downstairs in the great hall seemed to dim as she allowed Munro to carry her away one last time.
* * *
As the half moon had already fallen in the sky and dawn was nearing, Elen and Munro stood in Rancoff's bailey. The bride and groom had been put to bed, and most of the guests had departed for home or bedded down in the great hall or in one of its chambers. Only a few of his men lingered in the dark, frozen courtyard, smoking their pipes, finishing off the last of the ale.
"I wish ye dinnae have to go so soon," Munro said quietly, walking beside her. He caught her hand, not caring who saw. He was in love, and he'd tell anyone who would dare to stop and listen. He'd tell Elen—if she'd just stand still long enough to hear him out.
She let him hold her hand only for a moment and then slid it away from his. "So soon?" She glanced up at the dark sky already fringed with light. "'Tis almost dawn." Her voice was still sultry from their lovemaking.
"Marry me and ye would nae have to go home," he murmured in her ear.
She gave a laugh. "Ye've had too much to drink, Munro Forrest." She eyed him in the darkness, her green eyes twinkling. "Or too much of something else."
He laughed with her. "There could nae be too much of ye for me, Elen. Never enough."
They reached her mount, which Munro had ordered saddled and brought around. Her escorts were already mounted and waiting for her on the open drawbridge.
She smiled up at him, ignoring his proposal. But that was all right. Tonight he had realized for certain that this woman was the only woman for him. He could never be whole again without her. Hell, maybe he had never been whole before. What he did know was that one way or another, he would make this red-haired, man-talking, sword-wielding woman his wife.
"Thank ye," she said to Munro, taking her reins from a sleepy stable boy.
Munro arched a dark eyebrow with amusement. "Thank ye?" he said quietly so that none could hear. Though he would make no bones about declaring his love for Elen, he agreed with her. No one should know about the consummation of their love. "I have nae had a woman thank me for my affections in the past."
"Perhaps ye were nae this good."
Before he could respond, she slid her boot into the stirrup and lifted into her saddle.
He stared up at her for a moment, not shocked by her forwardness, but certainly amazed. And just a wee bit flattered.
She settled in the saddle and pulled her gloves from inside her cloak. "I suppose this is good-bye."
He shook his head, taking a glove from her. "Only for tonight." He offered her an open glove and watched her slide her hand into it, remembering what those hands had felt like on his body. Just the thought made him hard all over again.
She slipped the glove on her other hand and clasped her reins. "The agreement was this one time," she whispered harshly. "That was the understanding. Ye agreed."
He smiled, and slapped her horse's rump with his hand. "So I lied," he called after her as her horse bounded off for the drawbridge.
Her words caught in the cold wind, so he did not catch what she said, but he guessed there was no sweet crooning now. Chuckling to himself, Munro started across the bailey.
He was tired, but content. He would sleep a few hours and then rise. He had a great deal to do. There was much to attend to at his keep before winter truly set in, and those matters had to be seen to before he could concentrate on convincing Elen to be his bride.
As he passed several of his clansmen, he saw by the light of a smoking torch that coins were passing between them as one man collected for bets. Scots were always wagering on something—the speed of a horse, the trueness of an arrow. "What's the bet?" he called good-naturedly.
A red-bearded man, his steward, Robert, looked to another. "When ye'll wed Dunblane," he dared.
Munro halted. "Your bet?"
"By Epiphany," the steward said.
Munro thought a moment and then gave a nod. "I'll wager prior to that. A horse from my stable for ye if I am nae wed to the fair Elen ere Christ's birthday."
The men in the bailey stared in amazement.
"And if I lose, m'lord?" Rob called.
"Oh, ye will lose. And then you, my fine friend"—he pointed in amusement—"will ride naked round the castle's outer wall."
The clansmen who stood around burst into laughter, patting Rob on the back and shoving each other.
"That will be the day," Rob called to his master.
"I look forward to it." Munro waved good night as he walked through the open yett. He was anxious to get to bed and wrap himself in the bed linens he hoped still smelled of his rough and tumble Elen Burnard.
Chapter 14
"Ye should send it back," Finley quipped, glancing up from his ledger.
Elen fingered the fine fabric that had just arrived by messenger from Rancoff Castle. It was tied in a bundle by a green ribbon. "I would garb ye in golden threads," the attached note read. It was signed simply, "M."
"No good can come of it." Finley lowered his gaze to the numbers written on the parchment in front of him. They were taking an inventory of the foodstuffs stored for the winter. "Ye ken why he woos ye."
"Because I am a rich woman," she said tartly.
She knew that, of course. And this had not been the first gift. A full month had passed since she had taken Munro Forrest as ransom for her sister and more than a week since the wedding. The day after the wedding, he had sent a plate of sweets. She had told herself it was a token gift for the hours they had spent naked in his bed.
Then he had sent needles and golden thread, now fabric. And now the gifts were coming with clever little notes.
She had sent the food and the thread and needles back. The sweets would make her fat and slow. And what need did she have for golden fabric fit only for a lady's gown? Hadn't she made it clear to him she could never be his lady?
Elen rubbed her temples irritably. The headache was coming. She could feel it seeping in from the far reaches of her mind, trickling inward. She dropped the bundle of golden cloth on the dais where she and Finley were going over some accounting.
A fire blazed on the hearth in the great hall while a frigid sleet fell outside. Because of the inclement weather, several clansmen were seated in a circle before the fire polishing broadswords and iron-ringed mail. Her hound, Camille, lay stretched out on the hearth. She was now the only dog permitted inside the house, and she behaved as if she were the queen of the keep.
"Ye can send it back," Elen told Finley, giving the golden bundle of fabric a shove across the table. "Gold cloth, indeed. Who does he think I am? Rosalyn?"
But she was too restless to take her seat beside Finley again. She told herself it was the bad weather and lack of exercise. She had wanted to go hunting with her men and their falcons, but had decided against it when the sleet began to fall. They all had enough duties inside to attend to and did not need to be ab
out in such miserable weather.
It was the headache, too, she admitted to herself. And the way everyone looked at her, knowing, anticipating.
What she did not care to admit was that it was Munro who prevented her from fully concentrating on her ledgers. Munro and his gifts. Munro and his clever wee notes. Munro and his hands... his mouth.
She had taken great risk of being caught by lying with him at Rancoff, but she had done it to get him out of her head, to get him out from under her skin. She had been certain that one night, one glorious night, and she would no longer desire him... need him as her crops needed rain.
And sweet bones of God, it had certainly been a glorious night. But it was not enough. Not nearly enough. She had thought one tumble in his bed and she would be satisfied, but she wasn't. She thought of Munro day and night, of the way he had touched her and the feelings he had evoked. She went over in her mind again and again how she had touched him, the sounds that had come from his throat. God save her, she seemed as obsessed with him as he was with her.
"What do ye want me to say?" Finley spoke, interrupting her thoughts.
She glanced at him; she had not even seen him rise, but now he was holding the bundle of golden cloth with a clear look of disdain on his face.
"Say?" she questioned.
He shook the bundle. "I'll send the cloth back by messenger, but what should I say?"
She climbed onto the bench and began to arrange the delicate sheets of parchment before her. "Say naught."
"Naught? Ye should state your rejection clearly, else he will think ye be toying with him."
Elen laid down the sheets of paper and ran her hand over her eyes, massaging the aching sockets. The headache was inching closer. "Finley—"
"I'm sorry." He looked down at his muddy boots contritely. "It's only that your father warned us this would happen. He warned us that men would try to woo ye to get what is yours, the land and the coin. He warned men would try to take advantage of ye."
"I ken what ye say," she sighed. Finley had never mentioned the night of her birthday, when he had discovered her behind the closed bedchamber door with Munro. He had never mentioned it, but sometimes he looked at her as if he were thinking of that very incident. This was one of those times.
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