Unless Morgan woke up with a complete change of heart and uncontrollable lust in his eyes, he wasn’t going to satisfy her appetite.
So she needed to shake off her lingering desire and his grip on her before someone could catch them in the throes of… She mentally sighed. The throes of nothing.
Feigning sleep, she shifted under his arm and rolled onto her back, sure her movement would wake him.
It didn’t. He was still dozing. And she’d only made things worse. His arm was now slung diagonally across her chest. His hand curved beneath her breast, and his thumb rested with brazen grace upon her nipple.
She ventured a cautious sideways glance.
He continued to breathe heavily. His nostrils quivered with every breath. His hair fell in unruly tendrils along his corded neck and over his brow, not quite reaching his closed eyes. Fine, dark stubble covered his jaw. But it was upon his lips her gaze fastened.
Not quite like his son’s perfect, pouting bow, his mouth looked similarly soft and slightly swollen from sleep. It was hard to imagine harsh words coming from those lips. Easier to dream of whispers of affection, murmurs of passion, groans of desire.
She bit the inside of her cheek as irresistible yearning swelled through her body, entering through the aching spot between her thighs, flowing deep inside through her abdomen, and bursting out at the tingling tip of her breast, where his thumb rested.
Transfixed by the sight of his mouth, Jenefer continued to stare, licking her lips, wondering how it would feel on her flesh. What he would taste like. What it would be like to kiss him.
Then he suddenly parted his lips, and she caught her breath.
With his eyes still closed, he mumbled, “Do not torment me with starin’, lass. If ye’re goin’ to strike, do it.”
Shocked by his invitation, encouraged by her lust, and unfettered by caution, Jenefer took him at his word. She pitched forward, angling her head, and planted her lips on his surprised mouth.
Chapter 33
Morgan could not have been more startled. He had braced himself for a slap of outrage. At worst, she might deliver a punch to his jaw.
He figured he deserved as much. And he’d given her permission. He was well aware he should have found a way to judiciously separate from the lass before she awakened.
But he hadn’t. And the reason was simple. He liked the way she felt in his arms.
Her hair was fragrant. Her body was supple. Her breast sat perfectly in his hand. And her hips were inviting as hell.
That she didn’t clout him for his intimate transgression was astonishing.
And what she did do was so unexpected that he froze in stunned wonder. At first.
Then, of course, his masculine instincts took over.
He answered her kiss, drawing her velvety lips against his and pressing tentatively forward.
She sighed into his mouth, a sigh full of wonder and pleasure. Like a bellows, her breath instantly inflamed his desire.
Weaving his fingers through her curls, he pulled her closer, kissing her with desperate haste.
She responded with a sort of breathless enthusiasm he’d never before experienced. Her fingers raked through his hair to seize him by the back of the neck. With her other hand, she clenched the front of his leine in her demanding fist. Gasping and ravenous, she kissed him again and again.
Her kiss was like ale splashed on the flames of his passion, driving the blaze high and out of control. The beast in his trews roared like a wild inferno. Morgan’s brain deserted him, and his body acted on instinct alone.
He slid his palm over her lovely bottom and hauled her hips against him. He groaned as his cock, squeezed between the two of them, throbbed in anticipation.
She answered his groan with a sensuous purr, born deep in her throat, driving him to even greater heights of desire.
Without thought of the consequences, he turned with her then, rising above her, trapping her between his legs and pressing her down into the mattress. He rained kisses all over her beautiful, enraptured face and then returned to her mouth, delving with his tongue to slurp up every drop of her lust.
Wrapping her arms around his neck, she arched up against him, urging him to continue.
He let one hand delve beneath the neck of her kirtle to find the peach-soft flesh of her breast.
She rasped in a quick breath of welcome shock as he plucked her nipple to a firm point.
It had been so long since he’d touched a woman, he feared he was proceeding too quickly. His head swam with yearning. His heart drummed at a feverish pace. Already the pressure was building in his loins.
He felt like a runaway cart, careening with reckless haste down a steep mountain. He wasn’t sure he could stop. He sure as hell didn’t want to.
Jenefer had never been touched like this before.
But she’d never been afraid of the unknown.
Kissing him was more exciting than she’d imagined. His lips were succulent and inviting, like the most delicious sweetmeats, and she couldn’t get enough of them.
Despite his willful strength, his touch was surprisingly gentle. It made her skin tingle and warmed her blood. Where his fingers grazed her, she felt awakened and alive.
His ragged breath—upon her face, along her throat, beside her ear—made her shiver in delight. Her head swirled in a lovely fog of lust as she writhed beneath him.
His trespass beneath her kirtle to caress her breast stole her breath and her senses. But when she responded to his touch against her will, she knew an instant of panic.
She was as helpless as an overturned beetle, flat on her back. Why had she let him render her so vulnerable? Especially when he commanded her body with such precision?
In alarm, she fought back. Hooking one leg around him, she heaved upward with all her might and at last managed to roll him onto his back beneath her.
But rather than exerting her will and proving her domination, she’d only fed his lust. He was just as content to have her conquer him.
She thrust her tongue deep into his mouth in victory. She clasped his thighs between her knees, holding him captive. She ran her palm boldly over his trews, relishing the blade-hard proof of his craving.
Not once did he object to her subjugation.
Not once did he fight for his freedom.
Though by virtue of his superior strength and size, he might have thrown her over again, not once did he try to master her.
Instead, he sucked in a sharp breath between his teeth when she squeezed the hardening in his trews, arching up against her in need. His face was a study in torment, and his fists contained a powerful fury that longed to be unleashed.
His surrender was intoxicating, almost as intoxicating as her own desire. Her heart raced at the signs of his raw yearning—his deeply creased brow, his tightly closed eyes, his flaring nostrils. Her nipples tensed, and the ache between her legs increased from a painful throbbing to an excruciating need that demanded relief.
Overcome with longing and uncertain what to do next, she lowered her mouth to his again, gorging on his fervor with unabashed greed. For one incredible moment, drunk on desire, lost in lust, Jenefer believed she could happily remain here for the rest of her life.
When the door burst open, Morgan had no time to think. He only did what came naturally to him—the chivalrous thing. At the first creak, he rolled Jenefer back beneath him, protecting her with his body and hiding her from view.
Unfortunately, Jenefer didn’t see it that way. She blustered in outrage and tried to thrust him off of her. She probably would have spat a few choice curses as well, except Bethac spoke first.
“Oh!” the maidservant exclaimed from the doorway. “Beggin’ your… M’laird, I… I didn’t know ye still had compa-… I’ll come back late-…”
“Wait!” Jenefer cried.
Morgan lowered his brows. What was the lass doing? He meant to shield her, to protect her honor. After all, Bethac couldn’t report what she couldn’t see. As far as
she knew, Morgan’s consort could well be a serving lass. Why would Jenefer betray her presence?
To his consternation, Jenefer called out, “We weren’t swiving. I want that to be clear. I won’t have you bandying about that you saw the laird swiving me, because we weren’t. Not yet at least.”
Morgan tried not to laugh. She sounded mildly irritated. They may not have been swiving. But they’d been close to it. And what difference did it make anyway?
“Oh, Miss,” Bethac said with great dignity, “I would ne’er say such a thing, not me.”
“Because if you do, I’ll put frogs in your bed, I swear.”
“My lips are sealed,” Bethac promised.
Then, to his utter amazement, Jenefer confided, “And I don’t want you to think poorly of Morgan. ’Twasn’t his idea. ’Twas mine. You were right. Your laird is not the kind of man to ravish a captive against her will.”
“Aye, Miss.”
Though Jenefer didn’t meet his eyes, Morgan’s heart melted as he gazed down at the blushing lass.
She’d stood up for him.
That was a rare and touching thing. And in that amazing moment, he realized what he felt for her was more than mere lust or admiration. It was something far more perilous. Genuine respect and affection.
“One more thing,” she said.
“Aye, Miss?”
“Did you bring breakfast?”
Chapter 34
Morgan figured Bethac’s interruption had been for the best.
Jenefer was right. He’d never take a woman against her will. But given enough temptation, he might take a willing woman against his better judgment.
So, with as little comment as possible, he left her to her breakfast and headed to the practice field, hoping to work off his frustrations with a claymore.
There was still no sign of Rivenloch, though he kept his archers posted on the wall and his knights armed and ready for war.
By midday, he was dusty from bouts and dripping with sweat. But he was no closer to forgetting the winsome wench who’d fired his blood this morn.
He couldn’t stop thinking about her irresistible scent. Her lush curls and silky skin. Her glazed and sparkling eyes. The evocative pressure of her lips. Her supple, voluptuous breasts. The feral, feminine sounds she made as she helped herself to his body.
Even now, the memory made him grow hard.
Raising his claymore, he hacked at the stuffed dummy in the midst of the practice field until he chopped it into bits of straw.
He wished he could beat his emotions into submission so easily.
But visions of Jenefer kept intruding.
And to his shame, he kept comparing her to his wife.
They were worlds apart.
Alicia had been sweet and reserved. Too timid to hold his hand or kiss him in front of the clan, she’d blushed if he so much as whispered in her ear. Because she was modest, their swiving had been done in the dark and under the coverlet. She’d never gasped or cried out, but merely endured his fondling and thrashing in compliant silence. Never would she have dreamed of initiating lovemaking.
He smiled as he recalled Jenefer climbing atop him with brazen command, pinning him to the bed with voracious kisses.
Then he sighed.
Surely that was his long forced chastity speaking and not reason.
It was only that he missed trysting. That was all. Jenefer was like a brimming cup of ale to a thirsty traveler.
Still, he couldn’t forget how flattering her bold advances were. How unabashed she’d been at being discovered by the maid. And most touching, the way she’d attempted to salvage his honor.
He’d never imagined he’d grow fond of another woman. He’d thought himself incapable of ever loving again. And it still felt wrong to feel tenderness toward Jenefer, as if he were somehow being disloyal to Alicia.
If Colban were here, he would tell Morgan that he was being ridiculous. Alicia was gone.
In his head, Morgan knew that. But in his heart? His heart wasn’t so easy to convince.
“What’s wrong, Jen? Don’t you want some of this?” Feiyan asked in disbelief.
From the window, Jenefer glanced briefly over her shoulder. The guard had brought in a platter of smoked haddock, hard cheese, bread, and ale. But it didn’t look half as appetizing as what was charging across the practice field below.
“In a bit,” she replied, returning to gaze out the window.
Even at this distance, she was drawn to Morgan like iron to a lodestone. The mere sight of him made her burn.
What devilry affected her, she didn’t know. But her heart throbbed as she watched him wield his claymore with passion and power. The violent ring of steel on steel as he faced his challengers, defeating them with a roar of victory, called to her warrior’s blood. And the memory of lying atop his magnificent body, feasting on his lips while his fingers swept with gentle restraint across her flesh, left her breathless.
She wished she had swived him while she had the chance. Maybe then she wouldn’t be tormented by imagining what it would have been like.
But that opportunity wouldn’t arise again. Not before the Rivenloch knights arrived to banish Morgan Mor mac Giric and his clan to the Highlands.
She narrowed her eyes at the laird sparring with his men below, studying him as sparks flew from his great blade. She’d been watching for nearly an hour when a crafty, devious idea began to coil its way into her brain.
What if she didn’t banish him?
She bit the corner of her lip as she watched him destroy the stuffed dummy in the midst of the field.
What if she refused to let him go back?
What if she forced him to stay…as her husband?
Her heart skittered as she considered the rash possibility.
It made practical sense.
Marrying him would eliminate the conflict over the possession of Creagor. No matter what the missive from the king declared or what her parents reported, the holding would remain in her hands. At least half of it would remain anyway.
If they wedded, she wouldn’t have to bother with stealing Miles or convincing Bethac to stay on to care for the babe, since Jenefer would perforce become his mother.
Best of all, there would be no war or siege. Morgan’s fighting force of Highland giants would make the combined armies of Rivenloch and Creagor undefeatable. The Scots border would be impenetrable.
Of course, what made her pulse race at the idea of marrying Morgan was far more primal. It was desire.
As mad as it was, she was attracted to the wild Highlander, like a bee to a thistle. Not only to his magnificent body and inspiring prowess, but also to his good heart, his clan loyalty, his sense of honor.
Whether Morgan was attracted to her, she didn’t much consider. Marriage among nobles was a matter of political alliance, not sentiment.
Besides, how could he say nay? Once he glimpsed the might of the Rivenloch knights, his choice would be simple. Either wed her and remain at Creagor or refuse her and be banished to the Highlands forever.
Bethac pinched her nose between her thumb and finger as she accompanied Morgan through the great hall after supper.
“I insist, m’laird,” she chided under her breath.
Morgan didn’t think he smelled that bad. But he had worked up a sweat on the field today. He’d also taken several strategic dives into the dirt.
“I’ll fill a tub for ye upstairs,” she said, refusing to take nay for an answer.
“Fine.” Then, remembering who was in his bedchamber, he added, “I’ll bathe in the nursery.”
She seemed disappointed. “The nursery?”
“I’m not goin’ to feed the gossipmongers by bathin’ with the two lasses in my bedchamber.”
Offended, Bethac gave him a pout. “No one’s mongerin’ any gossip.”
“And I want to keep it that way.”
She sighed. “Very well. I’ll send Cicilia up to feed the bairn and put him down for a wee nap whil
e I have your bath prepared.”
As she bobbed in farewell and scurried off, Morgan shook his head. Why would the old maidservant care how he smelled? She hadn’t reminded him to bathe since he was a young lad. Maybe, now that he was a laird in his own right, she thought he should answer to a higher standard of cleanliness.
Whatever her purpose, he was glad enough of a good soak a half-hour later when Bethac had him summoned to the nursery.
His son was asleep in his cradle near the hearth. The wooden tub, which he’d had built specially to accommodate the larger men of his clan, stood in the middle of the chamber.
But instead of his usual tepid water with a few rags thrown in for scrubbing, the tub was carefully lined with cushioning linens, surrounded by candles, and half-filled with steaming water into which Bethac was sprinkling some sort of dried herb.
“What the devil?”
Casting a quick glance toward the bairn, she hushed Morgan with a frown and a finger to her lips. Then she explained in a whisper, “The hot water will ease your achin’ muscles and bruised bones.”
He whispered back, “And the…what are those? Leaves?”
“Woodruff. ’Twill make ye smell sweet.”
He scowled. He wasn’t sure he wanted to smell sweet. And all those candles seemed like a waste of beeswax.
But once he undressed and slipped into the warm and fragrant water, he closed his eyes and felt his tensions begin to melt away.
Bethac gathered up his discarded clothes.
“I’ll be back anon with fresh trews and hose and a clean leine.” She clucked her tongue as she held up his filthy cotun. “I’ll see if I can find a servant lad to beat the dust from this.”
“What about the bairn?” He was uneasy about being left in charge of a creature about which he knew nothing.
“Oh, he’s sleepin’.” She gave him a twinkly smile before she left. “Take your time, and enjoy your bath, m’laird.”
He did enjoy it. The water was soothing. The flickering candles calmed him. And there was something about the scent of the woodruff…
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