by Pamela Clare
“Stop!” His fingers threaded through her hair, gently forcing her head up. “Do you ken what you do to me, lass? Nay? I’ll show you.”
Then he wrested control from her, pulling her beneath him, plundering her mouth with his tongue, and forcing her legs apart. She yielded gladly, more than willing to let him guide her through this sensual, new world. But rather than entering her as he’d done before, he kissed a burning path over her breasts down her belly to her sex.
Feeling exposed, she fisted her hands in his hair to stop him. “Oh, Iain, dinnae think—”
“Uist!” His fingers parted her, opening her to his gaze, to his touch, to the hot little gust of breath that left him at the sight of her. “You’ve had your taste of me. ’Tis my turn to feast.”
With a shocking flick of his tongue, his mouth settled upon her, hot and insistent, making her gasp in surprise and delight. Just as she had licked and suckled him, so he licked and suckled her, drawing on her sensitive bud with his lips, teasing it with his tongue, sucking it with the heat of his mouth. It felt good beyond anything she could have imagined—desperate, blinding, savage pleasure.
“Iain!” She heard herself call his name, her breath coming in ragged pants, her fingers clutched in his hair, her body quivering uncontrollably as he made love to her with his mouth.
“You taste so sweet, Annie—like woman and wild honey.” He moaned, the deep vibration only adding to the overwhelming torment.
Then he thrust his tongue inside her.
She came with a keening cry, breaking against his mouth, her fingers twined in his sweat-damp hair, her heart slamming in her chest.
And then he was kissing her, his lips wet with her juices, his tongue rich with her musky taste—and the fire inside her began to build anew.
Her peak had left her slick and sodden, and there was no pain this time as he slowly nudged himself into her, filling her, making her complete.
He made a sound like a growl as he settled into her, cupping her bum, tilting her hips, penetrating her fully. “Och, Annie, lass, you are so wet, so tight.”
Already she was lost in the slow rhythm of his thrusts, the sweet stretch, the slick glide of him inside her. “Iain, oh, Iain!”
She lifted her hips to meet him, matching his thrusts measure for measure, the passions of her flesh and those of her heart becoming one, even as her body and Iain’s were one. And then it was upon her, scorching and sweet. She panted his name, wrapped her legs around him, and pulled him closer as her inner muscles clenched around him in ecstasy.
He cried out for her, his breath hot against her temple. Then his body stiffened, and she felt his shaft jerk inside her as he found his release and spilled his seed against her womb.
By the time they remembered their supper, it had grown cold. They ate like ancient Romans, lying naked on their sides and sharing a single plate. Iain fed Annie slivers of succulent venison, licking the juices off her chin while she licked his fingers. She asked him questions about his latest mission. He answered, well aware that they had more important things to discuss.
He waited for a moment of silence. It was time. “Connor told me what happened today.”
The joy fled her face, and her eyes filled with shadows. She looked away, hugged the bearskin close. ’Twas clear the attack had been far from her mind.
“Wentworth said . . . He led me to think you’d been in his bed. Had I kent the truth, I’d no’ have come to you thus. I’d no’ have lain a hand upon you but to comfort you. I’m sorry, Annie.”
“Lord William?” She looked at him, confusion in her eyes, and he could see she was puzzling it out. Then she did something he did not expect. She laughed. “You thought I’d lain wi’ him? You daftie!”
Feeling like a fool, Iain recounted Wentworth’s words. “The thought of you in his bed drove me to near madness. ’Tis ashamed I am. I let him play me like one of his pawns.”
“I thought you knew. I thought you were angry wi’ me for—”
His own words echoed in his mind.
I’ll be damned before I share you wi’ another man.
“Och, Annie, how could I be angry wi’ you? ’Twas no’ your fault. What a brute you must have thought me. Why did you no’ stop me, lass?”
Her cheeks flushed, and she looked away. “The moment you touched me, I forgot. I . . . I wanted you.”
The sweetness of her answer humbled him. He pulled her gently against his chest, kissed her hair, held her, offering her the comfort he’d denied her earlier. “Do you wish to tell me of it?”
She shook her head. But as the silence stretched, the words began to spill from her. She told him how the redcoat had come to her complaining of a bellyache and how she’d offered to make tea for him while he waited for Dr. Blake to attend him. She told him how he’d twisted her arm behind her back and cut off her scream with his hand. She told him how he’d bent her over a cask, lifted her skirts, forced her legs apart—and discovered her brand.
“I tried to fight him. I tried.” Her body trembled.
He heard the desperation in her voice and wondered what it must be like to be a woman, to be smaller and so much weaker than men. He held her closer. “Dinnae blame yourself. You did all any wee lassie could do. He took you unawares.”
“I bit him, and he let go of my mouth long enough for me to scream. And then . . . When I heard Connor’s voice, I—I thought it was you.”
“I wish it had been.” He fought to still his loathing for himself. “I’m sorry I wasna here when you needed me. I turned my back on you and walked away in anger, leavin’ you alone wi’ your sorrows. Can you forgi’e me, Annie?”
A shimmer of tears filled her eyes. “Y-you believe me?”
“Aye, lass, I believe you.”
Understanding dawned on her face like the slow rise of the sun, and she looked up at him through astonished eyes. “Do you mean that?”
“Aye, a leannan. I was heartless that night. If I could take it back, I would.”
Tears spilled onto her cheeks. “Oh, Iain! There is much I would change as well. I am sorry I deceived you.”
He wiped her tears away. “Though I dinnae like that you lied to me, you were tryin’ to survive. I cannae blame you for that. Your uncle . . . He deserves a traitor’s death.”
Then her tears came in earnest, and Iain understood. She was weeping out the grief she’d held back all these lonely months as she’d fought to protect herself, to stay alive.
“Annie, mo luaidh, no man will hurt you again.” Feeling utterly helpless, Iain held her trembling body, murmuring endearments, offering his strength as a sanctuary, silently cursing her uncle and the redcoat who’d attacked her to the coldest, darkest circle of hell.
The redcoat would pay for his crime soon enough. And if that mac-dìolain of an uncle ever crossed his path, Iain would gut him like the animal he was and feed his entrails to the crows.
Long moments passed. Annie’s tears stilled.
Then Iain asked a question that had burnt inside him for weeks. “You kent Wentworth when first you saw him, aye?”
She sniffed, nodded. “He stayed wi’ us when I was but twelve. I was shocked to see him again and so afraid he would contact my uncle. But he doesna ken me.”
Iain wasn’t so certain. There was something in the way Wentworth acted toward her that said otherwise. “You must stay away from him, lass. He means you ill. I can feel it.”
She shivered, snuggled more tightly against him.
He kissed her hair, held her tight. But there was one last thing Iain would ask her before he left her side for the warriors’ council. He needed to hear her answer.
“Your uncle must be prosperous and powerful, indeed, if he plays host to Hanover. Tell me, Annie, is your uncle Argyll?”
She looked away, seemed to hesitate. “Nay. Argyll is his cousin.”
Chapter 25
“I find the major’s licentiousness appalling—to seduce an innocent under his protection. She is far above hi
m and deserved better.”
William stared out the window at the dawn and listened to Cooke’s indignant condemnation of Major MacKinnon, wondering what the lieutenant would have to say if he knew the woman in question was a highborn lady. ’Twas a secret William had not yet shared with anyone. And although he was amused by the lieutenant’s transparent jealousy, his own response confounded him. Much to his surprise, the thought of Lady Anne in the major’s bed sickened him.
He kept his voice impassive, his words detached. “Come now, Cooke. They are both Scots—and he the grandson of a clan chieftain.”
“A traitorous clan chieftain,” Cooke muttered, brushing lint from William’s jacket, which hung on its stand.
William had only himself to blame. He’d known from the first moment he’d seen Annie that she was no lowly daughter of the American frontier. Yet he’d done nothing to protect her virtue or to secure her for himself. Indeed, he’d known Major MacKinnon would eventually lose the war with his conscience and bed her—and he’d found the idea amusing.
He hadn’t known she was Lady Anne, the daughter of an acquaintance and a peer. He hadn’t even imagined such a thing, despite the bounty of clues that in hindsight made the truth seem obvious—that first formal curtsy, her knowledge of his title, her bearing at the dinner table, her near win at chess, her ability to read, her sense of duty toward the sick and wounded, her amusing naïveté about crude sexual matters. She’d been gently bred, intended to grace the arm of a gentleman, to run his household, to bear his heir.
But now she would do none of those things, for Major MacKinnon had clearly lost out to his baser nature and taken her. If it weren’t made obvious by the fact that the major had been sleeping in his own cabin these past two weeks, the light in Lady Anne’s lovely face would have given it away. There was a knowing sensuality about her, a feminine lushness, that hadn’t been there before.
Aye, she’d been plucked. And not by William.
“Surely you don’t hold the major responsible for the actions of his grandsire?”
“The major is little different—arrogant, disloyal, disrespectful. You know better than anyone how little love he feels toward Britain, my lord. Surely you do not defend him.”
“I do not condone his actions, Lieutenant.”
Though I’d have done the same myself.
How this had come about, William could not comprehend. He’d sent the major to her enraged, knowing Lady Anne was in a delicate state and certain the major would acquit himself terribly. Instead of driving them apart, the encounter had inexplicably had the opposite effect, winning the major Lady Anne’s maidenhead.
As commander of the fort, William could take action. He could try the major in a court-martial for conduct unbecoming an officer of the Crown. He could have the major flogged—again. He could have Lady Anne flogged for fornication. He could send her to Albany and turn her over to the sheriff. He could force her to live within the walls of the fort apart from the major, even under his own roof.
Though each of these actions had its precedent—military discipline, Christian morality, tradition, the letter of law, propriety—each would be a strategic error on William’s part, serving to shame Lady Anne and to ensure her hatred, not to mention the major’s wrath. Nay, if William wished to win Lady Anne to his bed, if he wished to possess her, he would have to be patient.
“If it weren’t the worse for her, I’d think he should be forced to take her to wife.” The tone of Cooke’s voice revealed just how little he truly thought of this idea.
Nor could William stand the notion. “Indeed, it would be the honorable thing for him to do.”
“Since when has the major cared for honor? He’ll probably abandon her once he’s got her with child. I would not see her reduced to the wretchedness of a camp follower’s life.” Cooke lifted the jacket from its stand, carried it over to William, and held it up.
William slipped his arms into the sleeves. “I won’t allow that to happen.”
Because I intend to have her.
“I still believe he was in some way responsible for the corporal’s death.”
William allowed his voice to take on a warning tone. “There is no evidence linking the major to the corporal’s death—nothing at all to suggest foul play. Do not feed the rumors.”
Cooke frowned. “Aye, my lord.”
Oh, William knew Iain was somehow at the root of the soldier’s demise. He simply couldn’t prove it. They’d found the corporal who’d tried to ravish Lady Anne dead in his cell on the morning of his court-martial without so much as a mark on his body. The guards on duty had sworn no one had entered the gaol, nor had William found any sign of struggle. And though the guard at the gate had reported seeing Captain Joseph and a few of his men enter the fort late that night, no one had witnessed them anywhere near the gaol. It seemed the corporal had simply lain down with a flask of rum and gone to sleep, never to wake up. The strangeness of it had prompted the Regulars to believe in their ignorance and superstition that the major and his Indian friends had put a curse on him and stolen his breath.
Not that the corporal’s death was a loss, but there was discipline and British law to uphold. And William would have dearly loved to see the swine hang.
Still, the corporal’s mysterious death had proved an effective deterrent. The Regulars seemed afraid even to look at Lady Anne, much less shout obscenities at her or touch her. And if fear of Indian witchery hadn’t been enough, the armed Ranger who always seemed to be in her vicinity certainly was. Did she know the major had set his men to guard her? She never set foot across the bateau bridge without a Ranger shadowing her.
But the Rangers’ ardor for her would last no longer than their commander’s. She was an Argyll Campbell, daughter of a clan despised by every man amongst them. As soon as the major heard the truth about her, he would abandon her and his men with him. Then William could step in and save her from utter ruin.
Iain leaned against the table dressed only in his breeches and felt the smooth scrape of the razor over his jaw. “We’ll be married by a priest, and you’ll go to live wi’ Joseph’s sister in Stockbridge until the war is over and I am free.”
Annie lifted the razor from his skin and glared at him. Dressed only in her shift, her golden hair still tangled from sleep, she drove him to distraction just by standing there. “We’ll be married by the chaplain, and I’ll be stayin’ right here wi’ you. And dinnae talk, or the blade will slip, and I’ll cut you.”
’Twas a bit of an argie-bargie they’d found themselves in—Annie insisting on marrying within the Church of England, while he swore their union would be blessed in the Catholic manner. He could not blame her, for she had been raised Protestant and mistrusted the true Church. Nor was it a small matter. Under British law, Catholic marriages were not recognized, and children conceived under the blessing of Rome were held to be baseborn and misbegotten. But while she wanted a marriage that would be lawful in British eyes, he wanted vows made sacred in the eyes of God.
Iain had expected this difference of mind, but he would not bend. They’d be married by a priest, and the next morning Joseph and his men would take her to Stockbridge without Wentworth’s knowledge. Although Iain was loath to be parted from her, she was not safe near the bastard lordling. If Wentworth should recognize her . . .
It was not the only plan Iain had made that would displease her, but it was for the best. He’d talked over many things with his brothers and Joseph at their warriors’ council the night he’d taken her innocence. They’d all agreed with Iain that he should tell his men her true name, for it was better they learn the truth from him than be surprised by it. They’d also agreed that the soldier who’d tried to rape her should not live to testify. Though there was a chance he would not admit to having seen her brand, none of them had wanted to take that chance. And although Iain had looked forward to killing the bastard himself, they’d insisted he have naught to do with it, as he would be the first person Wentworth would s
uspect.
“You stay with your woman tonight,” Joseph had insisted. “Leave that son of a dog to me.”
And so Iain had returned to Annie, crawled into bed beside her, and held her while she slept. By the next morning the deed had been done, and he’d been able to speak truthfully when first Wentworth and then Annie had asked him if he was to blame for the soldier’s death. Only when he’d heard the soldier had been found with an empty bottle of rum had he known how Joseph had accomplished it. Though he felt no remorse for what had been done, it had seemed to trouble Annie.
“I wouldna see you branded a murderer and hanged, Iain MacKinnon,” she’d said.
Iain tried to ignore the ache he felt at the thought of leaving her and watched her as she went about the wifely duty of shaving him. It stirred him in a way he could not describe, the tender intimacy of this act, and he felt a kind of satisfaction he’d rarely known to think there would be other mornings like this—the scent of breakfast in the air, the fire burnt to embers, perhaps a bairn or two sitting sleepy-eyed on the bearskin. And Annie.
Her brow was knit with attentiveness. Her breasts swayed enticingly beneath her shift, their crests dark against the white cloth. Her hair hung to her hips, a river of silk and sunlight. Unable to resist, he reached out, cupped a soft breast through linen, and brushed her nipple with his thumb. He heard her breath catch, felt her nipple tighten, saw the pulse at her throat leap.
Her hands stilled. “The sun is already up, Iain. We cannae—no’ now.”
“Is that so?” He did not relent, flicking the eager bud, shaping her breast, feeling it grow heavy in his hand.
He could tell she was trying to ignore her body’s response. She lifted his chin, shaved the right side of his throat, one stroke at a time, stopping to rinse the blade in a bowl of hot water. But her breathing was unsteady, and when he shifted his hand to cup her other breast, her lashes drifted to her cheeks, her head fell back, and the razor clattered to the table.
His face still half covered with shaving soap, his blood burning, Iain pulled her against him and closed his mouth over hers. She pressed herself hard against him, her hot little tongue twisting with his, her fingers curling in his hair. When at long last he broke the kiss, he couldn’t help but chuckle. She had shaving soap on her face.