Bride of Fire

by Glynnis Campbell

  And yet the sight of her—wet and hot and eager, licking her lips in anticipation, looking up at him with smoky lust—made him forget reason.

  Just one kiss, he told himself. Yet even as he articulated that lie, he was already engaging in a second kiss. And a third.

  Her lips were not only welcoming. They were demanding.

  Every kiss became more and more insistent, until he lost count of them.

  She threaded her fingers through the wet strands of his hair, drawing him closer. She slanted her mouth across his again and again, feasting on him with ravenous hunger.

  Before he could catch his breath, she locked her arms around his neck, clinging to him with a desperation born of desire.

  She arched up toward him, and the sensation of her supple breasts sliding over his chest, her tight nipples grazing his skin, wrenched a groan from him.

  Casting caution to the winds and damning himself for a fool, he plunged his arms into the water, delved his hands beneath her bottom, and scooped her out of the bath.

  The divine, slippery curve of her buttocks and the sleek legs she immediately wrapped around him did nothing to dissuade him from his purpose.

  Nor did the trail of water he left as he carried his beautiful, dripping prize to the bed.

  He laid her atop the coverlet. A fierce swelling of lust left him breathless as he gazed down at the beautiful lass. Her mouth was open in awe. Her breast heaved with passion.

  He’d never wanted a woman more.

  And yet enough chivalry remained to give him pause. He clenched his fists, fighting his inner beast. He closed his eyes, hoping—robbed of the sight of her—he might see reason more clearly and change his mind.

  He never guessed she would seize the reins of his desire. Nor did he anticipate the frenzied pace at which she intended to compel him.

  But in the next instant, she tugged off his linen covering with a soft gasp of wonder. Then there was no hiding his ardor now. No denying what he craved.

  And when he dared to open his eyes, he saw a thirst in her gaze that was undisguised and unabashed, brash and demanding.

  He knew then that he was completely wrong about her. The lass had definitely done this before.

  There was no hesitation in her manner. Not a shred of modesty. Not even a pretense of maidenly shyness.

  And that, more than anything else, convinced him to plunge headlong into the waters of temptation.

  Jenefer’s head was spinning.

  She had no idea what she was doing.

  Instinct made her race headlong toward the seduction she’d intended. And she didn’t dare stop, lest her plans be undone.

  But her heart was pounding at the prospect. Coursing through her veins was a thrill of excitement and desire and fear. Fear, because she’d never done such a thing before.

  Once, she’d caught a pair of servants coupling in the stables. And she’d overheard tales of conquest from knights in the armory. But what she knew of lovemaking wouldn’t fill a thimble.

  Besides, this felt so much more real. More present. More compelling.

  She was no longer master of her body. She could hardly catch her breath. Every nerve was quivering with life.

  And yet, instead of feeling panic, the rush of sensation and emotion exhilarated her.

  She felt like an arrow shot from a bow, arcing with precision and purpose toward its target. Once released, it couldn’t be recalled. And she wouldn’t know for certain whether she’d sailed true until she met her mark.

  So she ventured onward, following her heart’s desire and her body’s cravings.

  Freeing him from the linen, she was startled for an instant at the size of him. Perhaps he was no larger than other men. But considering what she was about to do, that part of him seemed enormous and foreign and forbidding.

  Then he swept down upon her, branding her as they met, skin to skin, and blotting out her thoughts.

  Now there was only want and need. A primal urgency to mate that went beyond the two of them. A drive as old as nature. As inevitable as time.

  With every fiber of her being, she welcomed him. Already clasping her arms around his neck, she arched up and locked her legs around his buttocks.

  He groaned against her ear.

  A primitive vibration shivered through her.

  He rasped his chest against her bosom.

  Her nipples stiffened, sending fiery current racing to the spot where her legs joined.

  She pressed hard against him, hoping to ease the suffering there.

  He growled in answer, pressing back.

  Yet it wasn’t enough.

  Somehow he knew it wasn’t enough.

  Slipping his hand down between their bodies, he combed through her woman’s curls with gentle fingers. Resting his brow against hers, he carefully parted her nether lips.

  She caught her breath, feeling suddenly too exposed, too vulnerable.

  But it was too late. Already he trespassed with his fingers, awakening her with a tender touch.

  Squeezing her eyes shut and biting her lip, she moved against his hand, writhing in a sensual dance that was both familiar and unknown to her.

  But as engaged as she was in her own rising sensations, she felt him journeying beside her. His labored breathing, blowing across her ear, summoned her to new heights of passion.

  He kissed her, and she answered with a deeper exploration, longing to taste every recess of his mouth.

  And then a strange thing happened. The arrow of her lust mysteriously changed course. It had been racing with ever increasing haste, heading for the bull’s-eye at the speed of lightning. Then, as wave after wave of sensation surged through her body, the arrow arced up at a steeper angle until she wasn’t sure where it was headed.

  Just when she felt it had veered completely off course, the quarrel halted at the top of its arc. Her body went rigid, frozen in time. For a wondrous, terrible, divine instant, desire hovered at the breathless point of no return.

  Then, plunging faster than a bolt from a bow, she shot earthward with deadly speed. As she caught her breath in awe, shaken by shuddering flutters of release, he drove into her.

  She gasped, startled more than wounded by the sudden sting of his invasion and his thick presence within her.

  He gasped as well and went instantly still.

  His brows collided as he stared down at her.

  She knew a moment of dread. Had she done something displeasing? Would he withdraw now? Were her plans going to go awry?

  “What is it?” she whispered, afraid of the answer. When he didn’t reply, she muttered, “You don’t want this? You don’t want me?”

  “Nay, ’tisn’t that,” he was quick to answer.

  “You’re certain?” Despite his assurances, she felt her throat thicken.

  “Bloody hell, Jenefer,” he blurted, “I want ye more than I’ve ever wanted a woman. ’Tis only…”

  She braced herself for the worst.

  “Did I hurt ye?” he asked, his brows gathered in concern.

  “What?”

  “I didn’t mean to hurt ye.”

  She blinked. Surely he wasn’t that ignorant. Even she knew losing one’s virginity came with a bit of pain.

  But it wasn’t as bad as thwacking your forearm using a bow without a bracer. And he looked sincerely full of remorse. So she told him, “It doesn’t hurt. Not really.”

  He looked deeply into her eyes, as if to measure the truth of her words. “I didn’t know ye were a maiden.”

  That made her scowl. “Wait. You thought I wasn’t a maiden?”

  Chapter 38

  Morgan opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again, and closed it. There was no way he could answer without insulting her.

  He’d made up his mind that Jenefer couldn’t be a maiden. No maiden, he’d reasoned, could be so fearless and assertive. She’d been flirtatious and demanding, as expert in her seductive manipulations as a harlot.

  To realize with such immediate
clarity that he was wrong—by stealing her maidenhood—was mortifying.

  Courtesy had made him cater to her desires first. It was always his way. But then he’d claimed her with all the grace of a barbarian, taking no special care to be gentle with her.

  She should despise him.

  But when he looked at her, it wasn’t hate he saw. Aye, she was vexed at him for believing she wasn’t a virgin. And he was sure she’d not been truthful about the pain. But a glaze of desire lingered in her eyes.

  Still, he’d already guessed wrong once. He wouldn’t do it again.

  No matter how much he craved the lass.

  No matter how beautiful and tempting and desirable she looked with her damp hair spilled across the coverlet and her glorious body naked beneath him.

  No matter how he throbbed in the irresistible grip of her womb.

  No matter how painful it would be to withdraw from her now.

  “Tell me the truth,” he breathed. “Do ye desire this?”

  She didn’t answer him at first, only gazing up at him with her smoky green eyes, as if she stared into his soul. After a moment, a soft sparkle glistened there, joined by the upward curve of one corner of her lip in a coy smile. “Oh aye.”

  Relief flooded his veins. But he still intended to be careful. “If ye like, we can…”

  Before he could finish, she arched up against him with a smug look of triumph.

  He gulped. “If ’tis less painful, I can lie…”

  She angled her hips backward, easing him halfway out, and then thrust forward again, sheathing him completely.

  The sensation left him speechless. It had been so long since he’d lain with a woman, it was almost like starting anew. And to couple with a lass so direct and unashamed was intoxicating.

  He’d intended to let her sit astride him, to allow her to set the pace, to slow, to stop if she wished. But she never paused long enough in her amorous pursuits for him to make the offer.

  Even from beneath him, she became mistress of her own passion. She retreated to draw back the bow of her arousal. And surged up to impale herself on the shaft of his desire.

  Again and again, she fired with ever-increasing swiftness and precision, until his heart was pounding and he forgot how to breathe.

  The roar that erupted as he shuddered on his arms and exploded into her was deep and loud and fulfilling.

  It was also loud enough to wake the next town.

  But by some miracle, as their gasps collided in the room, making the candlelight flicker wildly…as they covered each other with grateful kisses and collapsed in a tangle in the sheets…as they drifted off to deep, untroubled slumber…the bairn never stirred in his crib.

  By the time Jenefer woke, the candles had guttered out. The fire was burning low. The bath water was no longer steaming. The light of the waning moon filtered in through the crack of the shutters. But there was still no sign of Cicilia or Bethac.

  Miles slept in his cradle. She could hear his shallow breaths.

  She bit her lip. As much as she was enjoying lying beside the Highlander—savoring the heat of him, feeling his hot breath on the back of her neck and his warm flesh against hers—she wondered why the maidservants hadn’t returned.

  Soon Cicilia would come to feed Miles.

  More importantly, someone had to catch Jenefer in bed with Miles’ father. After all, how else would she snare Morgan for her husband?

  Her husband.

  The words made her smile.

  As heir to the du Lac title, she’d always expected her marriage would be one of political strategy. She’d be wedded to a wealthy but landless man. Or a landed man with whom an alliance needed to be forged.

  Never had she considered she might arrange her own strategic match. Not in her wildest dreams did she imagine she’d actually be attracted to her husband.

  But she was. Every inch of him.

  From the soft brown waves of his silk-fine hair to his oversized feet, currently entangled with hers.

  From his broad and powerful shoulders to his lean, thrusting hips.

  From the twinkling humor in his eyes to the feather-light touch of his fingers upon her skin.

  And the way he’d made love to her—with his hands, with his lips, with his body—made her long to join with him again.

  But there was something else.

  Something that went deeper than the mere joys of trysting.

  Something warm. Touching. And treacherous.

  It wasn’t only attraction she felt.

  For so long, she’d heard Highlanders were cruel beasts, crude and uncivilized. She’d believed the stories. That they filed their teeth to sharp points. Enslaved the children of their enemies. Hacked their servants to death in war games.

  But she could see now the tales must be completely untrue.

  Morgan Mor mac Giric had qualities she’d never expected to find in a savage Highlander. Qualities she’d treasure in a husband.

  A strong sense of honor.

  A rough-hewn nobility.

  The admiration of his servants.

  An even hand when it came to justice.

  A sweet and caring tenderness.

  A respect for her wants and needs.

  Could it be she’d…fallen in love with him?

  Surely that was impossible. She’d known him only a few days.

  But even her own parents had started out as bitter enemies. Sometimes love took root in strange ground.

  She coiled a lock of his hair around her finger. Then she frowned, letting it unravel and withdrawing her hand.

  What did it matter whether she did or didn’t care for the Highlander?

  Love had no place in marriage. Not when you were destined to be a laird. Besides, emotions could be as fickle as the moon.

  She’d made a plan. She meant to stick to it.

  She’d managed to seduce him into swiving her.

  Now she had to coerce him into marrying her.

  And then she’d force him to bestow the stewardship of Creagor upon her.

  Her gaze followed a moonbeam down to where it bathed sweet Miles in its gentle light, and she sighed.

  If she was so certain of her plan, why then was she racked with guilt over the idea of manipulating Morgan, preying upon him at his weakest, while he was still mourning Lady Alicia, his dead wife?

  As mad as it was, Jenefer couldn’t get past the feeling she was stealing the husband of a much better woman than herself.

  Morgan awoke briefly as Jenefer stole out of the nursery, just enough to miss her warmth and feel a hollow ache in his chest.

  He’d been so sure he’d never love again. So certain the fracture in his heart was beyond repair.

  Yet what he’d had before with Alicia paled in comparison to the way he felt now.

  This was an entirely new emotion.

  It wasn’t only because Jenefer was engaged and interested in him. Expressive of her desires. Free with her passions.

  It wasn’t only because her appetite for swiving rivaled that of her appetite for food.

  Not as impulsive and bloodthirsty as she pretended, Jenefer was honest and honorable. Generous and kind. And whether she was defending his reputation to his maid or stubbornly insisting on calling his son “Miles,” her strength of character and outspoken ways were refreshing.

  She was an uncommon lass, full of fire and wit. He found himself drawn to her, wishing to be consumed in her lusty flames. And he was chagrined to admit he might be falling in love with the fiery maid.

  He could guess why she’d sneaked out of the nursery.

  She didn’t wish for Bethac or Cicilia to find their laird in a compromising position.

  He grinned. The same lass who had once claimed ravishment at his hands was now protecting his honor.

  Her concern was completely unnecessary. He intended to make things right. He’d never been more certain of a decision in his life.

  As much as he’d resisted her temptation, he realized now that
Jenefer held the key to his future.

  He meant to marry her.

  It was the natural solution. She could be a mother to his son. They could share the castle. And the two properties of Rivenloch and Creagor could become powerful border allies against invasion.

  Content that the matter was settled, he drifted back to sleep, dreaming of sharing his bed, his clan, his fortune with the desirable Scots lass.

  Chapter 39

  Jenefer sighed as she stole past the snoring guard and into the laird’s bedchamber. The decision was the most painful she’d ever made. But she knew she’d made the right choice.

  In the end, her conscience had gotten the best of her.

  Gazing at the sweet, sleeping babe in the moonlight and remembering Morgan’s adoring face as he looked down at his son, her heart had cracked, and she’d realized she couldn’t do it.

  She couldn’t trick the trusting Highlander into wedding her.

  Morgan Mor mac Giric was decent.

  He would have done the right thing.

  He would have willingly accepted the consequences of his actions.

  And he would have thrown away his entire future to pay for one night of reckless passion.

  But she couldn’t bear to think that his heart wasn’t in it. That he’d only be agreeing to marry her out of duty. The knowledge that she’d tricked the laird into wedding her would haunt her for the rest of her life.

  Nay, she decided, if she couldn’t win his affections honestly, she’d rather win the keep in battle than betray him in bed. So she’d slipped out of Morgan’s arms, dressed, and left the nursery before the maids could return.

  “Where have you been?” Feiyan whispered when Jenefer climbed into bed beside her.

  “In the nursery.” She didn’t intend to confide in Feiyan, not after the argument they’d had.

  “Listen, Jen, I’m sorry for laughing before.” Feiyan sounded truly contrite. “’Tis only that I’ve always seen you as a brilliant warrior, not a lover. The thought of my fierce cousin seducing a man…well…”

  Jenefer couldn’t help herself. She wanted to prove to Feiyan, once and for all, that she was deserving of a man’s affections. “But I did.”