Sue-Ellen Welfonder - [MacLean 01]

by Knight in My Bed

  The crone set the cup of ale in front of her. Resting her age-spotted hands on the tabletop’s rough surface, she leaned forward. “A wise person know the gods oft give us not what we want or set out to achieve, but what we need.”

  More perturbed than she cared to admit, Isolde glanced out the cottage’s two square-cut windows at the gathering storm clouds.

  Just as the cailleach had predicted.

  Right as always.

  A chill slid down Isolde’s spine.

  “And lo,” Devorgilla barged on, straightening, “most times we surprise ourselves by discovering that what we need is also what we most wanted but were too blind to see.”

  That did it.

  Isolde stood, causing Bodo to jump off her lap. He gave her a white-rimmed look of offended reproach.

  “I am weary of having all and sundry tell me I am blind,” she said, glancing down to dust off and smooth her skirts.

  Mayhap not with your eyes, but what of your heart?

  Isolde raised her head at once, but rather than peering at her with a wizened expression on her ancient face, proud of having spewed yet another noble-sounding gem of wisdom, the stoop-shouldered crone was already shuffling back to her steaming cauldron, Isolde and her troubles clearly forgotten.

  Dismissed.

  “Mayhap not with your eyes, but what of your heart?” Isolde muttered under her breath as she let herself and Bodo out the door. Closing it soundly behind her, she set off at a fast pace for Dunmuir and the night of passion awaiting her there.

  “But what of your heart?” she mimicked in anger when she stumbled over a stone.

  Clutching the soft, woolen folds of her arisaid more snugly around her shoulders, she hurried on. What she needed was to reach Dunmuir’s sheltering walls before the storm broke.

  What she didn’t need, and a plague on Devorgilla, Evelina, and even Donall the Bold, his bonnie self, for telling her otherwise, was to go a-peeking into her heart.

  She already knew what lurked there.

  He stalked toward her the moment she let herself into her chamber, his whole demeanor rife with lordly bearing and self-contentment. His raven hair gleamed damp from his ablutions, and his dark eyes smoldered with hot need and something more fierce.

  Something bold.

  Something wild and furious. As untamed as the powerful storm just beginning to unfurl its might on the waiting night.

  Someone, no doubt he, had not bothered to fasten the shutters, and a fast, keening wind swept into the room. The two cresset lamps swung on their chains, their flames dancing, while the more fragile tapers of the candelabrum guttered and extinguished, leaving tendrils of gray smoke hanging in the chill, damp air.

  But they, too, were quickly vanquished.

  The fragile smoke whisked away by the same swift-moving air licking coldly at her cheeks and every other inch of her exposed to the biting, wet wind.

  Snuffed out and routed as easily as her well-laid plans.

  And then he was upon her, his bold strapping self looming up before her. A pagan sea god risen from the storm-tossed sea, the wrath of the heavens blazing across his handsome face, in the tight set of his jaw and the proud, imposing spread of his shoulders.

  And, merciful saints, he was shirtless again.

  His discarded tunic rested on the foot end of her bed, slung impotently ’round her bedpost. A frightfully mundane bit of limp brown cloth, harmless and woefully unimpressive without him filling it out.

  Filling it out so nobly.

  So fine.

  Isolde clutched at her damp arisaid. Something had changed. Though he was still her captive, the power between them had shifted. She’d seen the change coming, but it hadn’t been truly apparent, not real, until this moment.

  Even Bodo sensed the difference. The little brown and white dog stared up at him, tail wagging as always, but the tilt of his head and the quizzical look in his bright gold-brown eyes bespoke his puzzlement.

  Isolde stared, too. She could do naught else. The sheer power of his presence left her breathless, stayed her limbs. She couldn’t even lift her hands to remove her arisaid.

  As if he’d read her thoughts, his hand shot out and snatched the plaid off her shoulders. “I do not want you catching an ague,” he said, the husky tone of his voice a fine match for the dark fire in his eyes.

  “I want . . .” His words trailed off as his gaze lighted on Bodo.

  The dog stood with his forepaws braced on Donall the Bold’s hose-clad knees. Peering up at him, Bodo looked every bit as awestruck as Isolde herself.

  For a moment, the MacLean’s imposing countenance softened, but then he glanced at her again, and the hard, resolute glint was back in his eyes. And stronger, more daunting than before. Without a further word, he spun away and strode to her bed.

  Bodo, the wee furred traitor, trotted after him.

  Her bold knight snatched his tunic off the bed, but rather than don it as she’d expected, he kept his broad back to her and appeared to fumble with the shirt, his wide-set shoulders rising and falling with whatever devilment he pursued.

  His back and arm muscles tensed and bunched, and the sight made her breath catch in her throat. Hopeless longing welled inside her, an unquenchable ache she could no sooner deny than stop her heart from beating.

  Bodo stared at him, too, the little dog’s stubby brown tail wagging furiously.

  As furiously as the mad rush of Isolde’s pulse.

  Her gaze clung to his powerful back, to the sheaf of raven hair just teasing his shoulders. Thick, silken tresses, high-glossed and gleamed by the cresset lamps’ glow, caressed by the night wind pouring through the open windows.

  Faith, but she ached to comb her fingers through the heavy silk of his hair, burned to gentle her hands over the smooth-muscled contours of his shoulders and back.

  Touch him . . . everywhere.

  Be touched by him.

  But her feet, her arms, even her tongue wouldn’t move. She stood transfixed, awed by his magnificence. The heated anticipation of his embrace, of his loving, swirled through her, unchecked and free.

  A pleasing languid warmth to dispel the night’s chill.

  To warm her soul.

  Even as her heart screamed the impossibility, the shame, of loving him.

  Uncomfortable, she glanced away, then immediately wished she hadn’t, for she glimpsed Lileas’s anguished face, a fleeting image, briefly outlined against the wind-whipped clouds racing past the windows.

  No shame, not hi— . . . the pale lips seemed to whisper, but a sudden burst of pelting rain and brilliant flash of lightning dissolved the illusion. Gusty wind and a deafening peal of thunder carried off the imagined words.

  A brooding silence descended, thick and pulsing. A palpable quiet almost loud enough to block out the storm’s fury. An uncomfortable stillness to swallow the very roar of the sea.

  Almost compelling enough to overpower the hard thudding of her heart. Silence the pounding of his as well, for she would have sworn she could hear its slow, steady beat.

  Desire, wild and menacing as the storm, surged and tossed inside her. A hungry wanting, surely as dark and forthright as his own.

  Demanding as the menaces of this strange night.

  And then her feet carried her forward. To him, to her heart, and all she yearned for. She stopped an arm’s length from him, trailed her fingers over the well-defined muscles of his shoulders.

  “You want?” she murmured, urging him to finish the sentence he’d let hang between them.

  He whirled around, his dark eyes heavy-lidded with desire, his jaw set with a new and formidable determination. “I want you,” he said. “You, and naught else.”

  Isolde lowered her gaze, unable to bear the intensity banking in his. She saw the twisted shirt in his hands then, and her heart swelled at what he’d done. She watched him give Bodo the knotted tunic, her emotions wheeling out of control.

  With a look of pure adulation, the little dog grasped t
he toy and bolted off with it before her heart could even comprehend the gift, the pleasure, this braw and strapping man’s simple gesture had bestowed upon her wee champion.

  How easily he’d won her dog’s affection and trust.

  How easily he’d won hers.

  Her affection, if not quite her trust.

  “Be you wise, my lady,” his deep voice cut into her musings, “you shall make ready and give yourself to me of your own free consent, trusting and loving me as wholly as your four-legged companion.”

  He reached for her, taking her hands in his. “Be warned, for would you deny me, naught shall stop me from taking you.” His dark eyes gleamed. “Not any dread consequences your misguided minions might attempt to visit upon me, not all the terrors of hell combined.”

  He squeezed her hands, a light but firm assurance he meant his every word. “Willing or otherwise, I shall have you.”

  “I have denied you naught.” She looked up at him, knowing he meant more than the mere giving of her body, yet unable to break free of the one strand of resistance yet binding her heart.

  The ghost of her sister yet rising between them, a barrier so impenetrable, physical need and not even the yearnings of her heart could breach it.

  “You have had me in many ways and your touch pleases me greatly.” She attempted a lightness, a teasing note, she didn’t feel. Anything to ease the tension thrumming through him.

  Through her.

  Desperate to steer him away from that which could only pain them both, she pulled her hands from his. Hooking her fingers behind her neck, she twirled in a slow circle. “How shall I please you this night?” she sought to entice him. “Voice your will, and I shall indulge you.”

  Feeling quite the temptress, she said, “I have already heeded one of your desires. I wear naught beneath my skirts.”

  Donall’s roguish smile reappeared. “Then dance for me,” he said, scarce recognizing his own voice, so choked with lust were the words.

  His desire surged, overmanning even his great discipline. Seizing her, he pulled her hips against the swollen length of his need, forcing her to accept his passion even if she wouldn’t take his heart.

  His love.

  “Damn you, Isolde of Dunmuir,” he swore, hating his weakness, thanking the saints for the loud clap of thunder that buried the terse words in the resonating rumble of its own ire.

  “Dance for you?” she finally responded, her delicate brows lifting with interest.

  He could see the spark of lust the idea put into her blood, and seeing her thus intrigued, fired his own passion.

  Donall’s loins tightened, his manhood swelling, while his heart hammered low and hard, fueled by the image of what he wanted her to do. By the vivid memory of the carnal dream he’d had of her so many weeks ago.

  “Dance for you?” she asked again, her eyes limpid. She twined her arms ’round his shoulders, threading her fingers through his hair.

  Mutual desire charged the air between them, while her arousal perfumed the damp night. Slipping her hands from his hair, she reached, trembling, for the ties of her bodice.

  “For a kiss, I shall dance for you in any manner you desire, Sir Knight,” she agreed, her fingers already plucking at her gown’s bindings.

  “You shall have all the kisses you desire,” Donall promised, planting a light one on her freckle. “After you’ve danced for me.”

  “Knight’s kisses?”

  His heart melting, Donall flashed her a wicked grin. “Knight’s kisses and many other kinds as well.”

  He lifted her hands from her bodice, gently urging them to her sides. Scarce able to draw air through the gathering thickness of his lust, he smoothed his palms over her back in slow, soothing circles. Massaging her, easing away her tension and coaxing her into a relaxed state lest she balk at what he wanted her to do.

  “Have you a length of silk, my sweet?” he asked when she began to sway into his caresses. “Any length of silk?”

  She shook her head, puzzlement clouding her eyes. “I told you, I have no taste for such luxuries.”

  She moistened her lips then, and Donall’s control snapped. With a low moan, he caught her to him, pulling her flush against him as he took her lips in a searing kiss. His fingers dug roughly into the sweet rounds of her bottom, urging her closer still.

  He drank of her, absorbed her taste, her essence, loving her with his mouth until all her doubts and hesitations loosened and fell from her.

  Until she sagged against him, weak and besieged. Only then did he lighten the kiss. He eased back from her, but kept hold of her hips, his fingers gently stroking her.

  “Do you truly not have a length of silk?” he asked, pressing his forehead lightly to hers.

  She shook her head, brushed a soft kiss along his jaw-line. “Nay, I do not. I possess no frippery at all,” she said, and blushed furiously. “Naught save Ev . . . my friend’s bauble, and that was borrowed.”

  “And ’tis no need you have of such ornaments either. You shall dance for me without the silk, and I will be entranced,” he promised, his lust straining hard against his braies and hose, his pulse keeping bold rhythm with the pulse of his need.

  “I do not understand what you want of me,” came his lady’s soft voice, its magic wooing him back from the dark depths of want pounding through his veins.

  “You will in a moment.” He flashed her his most seductive smile. Holding her gaze, he lowered himself to the floor and stretched out on his back upon the recently strewn rushes.

  Ignoring her surprise, he pushed up on his forearms and gazed up at her, the bold look on his face daring her to misunderstand.

  And she didn’t.

  Evelina had told her of such things, had claimed indulging a man’s basest craving in this manner would drive him wild. She swallowed thickly, and her breath grew rapid, shallow.

  Excited.

  He didn’t say a word. Simply watched her, one brow cocked, a look of fierce want on his handsome face. Without breaking eye contact with her, he lay back and folded his arms behind his head.

  “Step over me, Isolde of Dunmuir,” he spoke at last. The request weighted her belly with warm, heavy pulsings of desire. “Come, my lady. Lift your skirts and stand o’er my face so I can truly see you.”

  Her whole body went liquid. She moved toward him, pausing but a heartbeat before she did as he’d bid, gave him what he desired.

  A deep, feral groan came from his throat. He curled his hands ’round her ankles, held her fast in place, his grip pure iron, viselike.

  Incredibly rousing.

  “I cannot see you well enough,” he said, his tone hot and smooth as the warmth pooling betwixt her thighs. “ ’Tis too dark, my love. You must raise your skirts above your hips.”

  Waves of intense pleasure flooded Isolde, washing away all but her burning need.

  “Hold your gown out and away from your body,” he said, the words a command. “Lift and air your skirts o’er me, so I can gaze upon your sweetness.”

  Heat, fluid and languorous, twisted inside her.

  Pulsed and throbbed, there where he desired to gaze on her.

  Gaze on her while she moved her hips as Evelina had instructed her to do should he beg such a favor from her, should he desire to look on her whilst she circled her womanhood so lasciviously above him.

  The sheer wantonness of such an act sent intensely pleasurable tingles whirling over and through her most sensitive parts. Seized by the rapturous sensations, Isolde dug her fingers into the folds of her skirts and began inching them higher.

  So high as he desired.

  Chill night air kissed her exposed skin as she met his demands, the bite of the cold, damp air soothed and tamed by the warmth of his hands moving up and down her legs.

  “Higher. I would see more,” he urged, letting his caresses roam higher as well. His stroking fingers stoked the flames of her own passion until any remaining shreds of embarrassment unraveled and spun away.

  A
moan slipped from her lips as sheer, visceral passion claimed her. Giving heed to the pleasure spun by his hands and the heat of his gaze, Isolde gave another little cry and yanked the bunched fabric over the tops of her thighs, gathering the whole of it up and around her hips.

  “Sweet Christ . . .” Donall groaned, near spilling himself. The fire’s glow slanted conveniently across her, gilding the lush bronzed vee to a gleaming gold, blessing him with a most tantalizing view of all she’d exposed.

  “Circle, Isolde,” he said, so drugged by lust he could scarce form the words. Too fired by his own need not to. “Move your hips slow and easy. ’Round and ’round, until I tell you to cease.”

  She did, and the sight of her lush intimate curls, her tender woman’s flesh, circling so provocatively above him, yanked fiercely on his swollen shaft. A heated tug so urgent, his entire body shuddered with the force of his thirst for her.

  The power of his love for her.

  Smoothing his hands up her thighs, he slid his fingers into the tangle of damp curls, let his fingertips graze softly along her middle. Again and again, until her moans gave price to the pleasure she took in his touch, in having him look upon her so intimately.

  “You are so beautiful,” he murmured, his words glazed with need.

  And then he stayed her, grasping hold of her thighs until she remained poised above him, unmoving and still. Biting back his own nearing edge, he played at her. Stroking her sweetness, caressing and toying with her curls and tender flesh until her own sharp cries of desire matched his.

  Isolde screamed, a loud and unrestrained cry worthy of the night’s wild magic. A raw and savage demand. A plea for release from the tight, coiling mass of exquisite throbbing centered at the very core of her femininity.

  Wind, a loud and keening gale, raced into the chamber then, a surge of power so bold it knocked her legs from beneath her, its sheer force toppling her to her knees.

  There, where he needed her to be.

  The cry, so fierce, Donall could scarce believe it’d been ripped from his own throat, rivaled the scream of the wind. Beyond control, he pulled her down to him and slanted his mouth over her femininity.

  Incredible need, blinding and ravenous, consumed him. He licked and laved at her, inhaled deeply of her, filling himself with her heady scent. He savored her as the prize she was, losing himself in the glory of her until she went limp beneath him.