by Pamela Clare
She smiled and wiped the soap away with the back of her hand, her laughter like the sweet fall of water. “So it’s my beard you’ll be shavin’ now? You daftie!”
The idea struck him hard, made his blood run thick and hot. For a moment all he could do was look down at her, staggered by the thrum of his own lust. Ignoring her surprised gasp, he lifted her, turned her, laid her back on the table, following her down to kiss a trail along the soft skin of her throat. Drawing up her shift in impatient fistfuls, he tore his lips from her skin, lifted the vexing garment over her head, and tossed it onto the bed behind him. Then he stood between her thighs, parting them, forcing her knees to bend.
She opened for him like a flower, her sex rosy, her scent wild and sweet—a blushing musk rose wreathed in golden curls. He savored the sight of her, the scent of her, his cock painfully hard and pushing eagerly against the leather of his breeches.
“Iain, wh-what—?”
“I find I want you even more when the sun is up, a leannan.”
Annie felt his big hands close over hers. He drew her hands to her own thighs, forced her to hold them back and apart. Heat suffused her cheeks as his gaze fixed upon her most intimate flesh and his eyes grew dark. His fingers ran lightly over her, parting her, brushing her most sensitive spot, the tip of one slipping inside her, making her moan. Then he reached for the shaving soap.
It was then she realized what he was about. It shocked her to her soul, drove the breath from her lungs, excited her beyond reason. “Nay, Iain! You cannae mean to—”
“Aye, I do.” Warm fingers slowly spread the soap over her mound and outer folds, kneading it into her, the pressure sending tremors of delight through her belly.
“Iain, nay, ’tis indecent, and . . . aah!” Her objection faded into a moan, and she found her hips lifting to meet his touch, shame forgotten.
“Hold still.”
Those two words made her breath catch in her throat. Then she heard something swish in water. The razor.
At the first sharp touch of the cold blade against her sex, she whimpered, as much from arousal as for fear. “Oh, please, Iain, dinnae—”
“Uist, a leannan! I willna hurt you.” Brow furrowed, he slid the razor over her skin, one deft stroke after the next, pausing several times to rinse the blade in water.
’Twas like nothing Annie had ever felt before—the biting caress of the razor, the warm tingle that followed each stroke, the intimate touch of his hand as he held her for the blade. Her fingers dug into the flesh of her thighs as she fought not to move, both afraid and unable to breathe. She saw the heavy rise and fall of his chest and the midnight blue of his eyes and knew that he was just as stirred to passion as she.
He set the razor aside, then lifted the bowl of hot water, spilling a gentle stream over her to rinse her, water splashing unheeded on the floorboards below.
“Iain!” The breath Annie had been holding left her in a rush as the heat trickled over her vulnerable, sensitive flesh, flowing over her like the caress of hot silk. She closed her eyes, lost in unimaginable pleasure.
Then she felt only the brush of cool air.
She opened her eyes to find him staring down at what the blade had revealed.
“Och, lass!” He parted her, ran his fingers over her, slipped one inside her, drawing a moan from her throat. “You are bonnie beyond my dreams.”
Eager to know what he saw, Annie glanced down and saw the mound of her sex stripped bare, the skin bright pink as if blushing to suddenly find itself exposed. “Mercy!”
And then she was beyond words, for Iain had dropped to his knees, settled her feet on his shoulders, and begun to taste her, his mouth hot and slick, his finger moving deep inside her. Though he often pleasured her with his mouth, the sensations his tongue conjured between her thighs this time were almost unbearable. Without her curls, every aching inch of her was free for him to tease and taste. He drew her puffy folds wholly into his mouth, laved the tender skin of her mound, suckled her aching bud, leaving her wet and slick and frantic for him.
Fingers clutched in his hair, she writhed and arched against his mouth, his name lost amongst cries and whimpers and moans, the heat in her belly a molten blaze. She wanted him. She needed him. “Iain, please! I need . . . ooh!”
He seemed to understand, for he stood and slowly unlaced his breeches, burning her with his gaze. His shaft sprang free, thick and hard. He grasped it, stroked it. “Is it my cock you’re wantin’, lass?”
“Now, Iain!” Aye, she was radgie, her hips lifting of their own accord, her body yearning for the invasion that would bring them both release.
He rested her calves against his shoulders, then pushed himself forward. But rather than entering her as she had expected, he slid the length of his shaft between the slick folds of her sex, pumping his hips, driving himself over her, teasing her aching bud with his hard, satiny head.
“What . . . ? Oh! Oh, God!” Helpless against the fire inside her, she reached for him with trembling hands and gave herself over to this new sensual torment.
Iain could not wait much longer. The sight of her bare sex, the musky taste and slick feel of her in his mouth, the rich scent of her, the erotic sound of her cries—’twas almost more than he could endure. But he wanted to prolong her pleasure, wanted to give her everything he had, for it would be long ere he made love to her again.
Her head thrashed from side to side in sexual abandon, her eyes closed, her cries desperate. Her nails dug into his forearms. Her breasts were swollen, her nipples pinched, her skin flushed pink.
God save him, but he loved her! Wanted her. Needed her.
Unable to wait any longer, he pulled back, guided the head of his cock to her glistening entrance, and buried himself inside her in one slow thrust. She closed around him, hot and slick and tight as a fist. “Sweet Jesus, Annie! You feel so good.”
His strained words were lost amidst her cries as he thrust into her, bending down to meet her welcoming embrace, raining kisses on her face, her throat, her breasts. She wrapped her legs round his waist, drew him closer, her hips lifting to meet him. Then he felt the tension inside her peak—and break.
“Iain!” She sobbed out his name, her nails sharp against the skin of his back, her inner muscles clenching around him as she came, bringing him his own release.
“Annie, mo luaidh!” He drove into her with hard, deep thrusts, shaking with the blinding pleasure of it, spilling his soul against her womb.
They were still kissing, their heartbeats not yet slowed, when a knock came at the door.
“Iain, I dinnae wish to, um, wake you, but we’ve a problem.”’Twas Morgan. “Joseph’s men have gone, and that whoreson of a lord is demandin’ to speak wi’ you.”
“I’ll be out in a bloody minute!” Iain shouted toward the door, realizing he had yet to finish shaving and getting dressed. He looked down, saw the worry in Annie’s eyes, brushed a strand of hair from her cheeks. He hated keeping secrets from her, but in this case he had no choice. “Dinnae fret, a leannan.”
She reached up, held his face between her palms. “How can I help but fret? You live life wi’ death on your heels.”
“For your sake, lass, I promise to stay one step ahead.”
Iain stood before Wentworth an hour later, spoke the words he and Joseph had agreed upon. “’Tis I who wronged him. I must set it right.”
Wentworth stared up at him through gray eyes that for once betrayed a hint of anger, a cup of tea held delicately in one hand. “I am disappointed, to say the least. I would expect more from a man who knows their ways as well as you do.”
“’Tis no’ uncommon for kin to bicker, is it, Your Holiness?”
Wentworth set his tea down and stood. “No, it’s not uncommon. My noble uncle and His Majesty have upon occasion disagreed with one another, but His Grace never withdrew his army in a fit of ill will toward his father.”
“Would that he had.”
Wentworth seemed not to hear the tre
asonous comment and strode slowly across the room toward the window. “What do you propose?”
“Morgan and I should depart at once for Stockbridge, leaving Connor in command. Perhaps we can overtake them along the way. I am certain that wi’ the right words and gifts I can persuade Joseph to return wi’ his men.”
“Just the two of you?”
“Few dangers lie between here and Stockbridge. There’s no cause to spend my men’s vigor on a task best accomplished by one or two alone.”
“Very well. See that you return swiftly.”
Then Iain got to the part of the plan that worried him most. “Miss Burns shall remain in Ranger Camp under Connor’s protection while I’m away. They’re under orders to see she doesna leave the island and to kill any man who tries to harm her.”
“You know, of course, that I can countermand your orders where she is concerned.”
“You can try.” Iain turned and strode away.
But Wentworth’s voice followed him out the door. “Let us hope they do a better job protecting her than you have, Major.”
Wentworth’s words planting misgivings in his heart, Iain returned to his cabin to fetch his gear and take his leave of Annie.
He held her close, wiped her tears away. “’Tis no’ a dangerous mission, but it could be a long one. Dinnae fret.”
She smiled, a forced smile that did not dispel the sadness in her eyes. “Go wi’ God, Iain MacKinnon—and remember your promise.”
He kissed her. “Always one step ahead, a leannan.”
Chapter 26
It was only after Iain had gone that Annie discovered she was a near prisoner on the island. She tried to go to the hospital to help Dr. Blake, but Cam, who stood guard at the bridge, refused to let her cross.
“I’m vexed for you, miss. Truly, I am. But those are Mack’s orders.”
Her grief over saying farewell to Iain turned to fury. What right did Iain have to confine her thus? How was she to make herself useful if she could not work in the hospital? Why hadn’t he discussed his orders with her before imposing them upon her as if she were his captive?
She went in search of Connor to set things aright. But Connor was on the other side of the river, drilling the men for the coming campaign against Ticonderoga. She could just see them in the great field between the fort and the forest, crawling on their bellies like boys playing in the dirt, rifles in hand, gear upon their backs.
But this was not games. It was war.
And Iain had not confined her to the island to make her miserable, but because he thought it safest. As irritating as his orders might be, she would not waste anyone’s time with a fit of childish temper. She was no longer the cosseted lady who’d needed a maid to help her dress, nor was she a lost child. Surely there was something else she could do to help, at least until she was able to speak with Connor.
Unsure where to begin but eager to keep her hands busy and her mind from worry, she went back to Iain’s cabin and set about giving it the sort of thorough cleaning it’d likely never seen. She washed the bedding and hung it in the warm May sunshine to dry. She wiped dust from the windowsill and the mantel and polished the little crucifix. She stood on a chair and cleaned cobwebs from corners. But no matter how hard she worked, nothing pulled her mind off her fears.
What sort of mission would require Iain and Morgan to go off on their own? What had happened to make Joseph and his Stockbridge warriors withdraw? Was that where Iain had gone—to fetch them back? When she’d asked him, he’d told her he couldn’t speak of it.
Bereft of answers, she took up the broom and began sweeping the floor. When the bristles brushed over the water-stained wood in front of the table, she stopped, knelt down, touched the dampness. Images of the passion they’d shared flooded her mind—the heat in his eyes as he’d lifted her shift over her head, the indescribable feel of his mouth upon her shaven sex, the way his powerful body had seemed to shake apart in her arms as he’d come and filled her with his seed. Just the memory of it made heat curl through her belly.
They’d been lovers for a little over two weeks now—two weeks so filled with joy they seemed to chase off the darkness that had come before. Every night, Iain had taught her something new about the ways of men and women, revealing the secrets of their bodies, bringing her pleasures she hadn’t thought possible or even imagined. And every night, she’d fallen asleep in his arms, feeling safe, her body, mind, and heart content.
What miracle was it that had guided her to him through the vastness of the forest? It couldn’t be mere chance that she had fallen down that embankment and landed at his feet. A man able to protect her. A man who could set her body on fire with a glance. A man who believed her.
She would thank God every day of her life for bringing her to Iain MacKinnon.
Now she was set to marry him—a Catholic, the son of Jacobites, a Highland barbarian. ’Twas not the match she’d dreamt of making as a young lass—a titled British gentleman with broad lands and an old and honored name. There’d be no gown of silk and lace. No Burness emeralds gleaming at her throat. No tables groaning under roasted meats, wines, and sugared cakes. No bright rooms filled with scented flowers. No chamber orchestra or quadrille to dance.
Instead, she’d wear a gown that had once belonged to someone else. Her throat and fingers would be bare. They’d feast on roasted venison, fish newly pulled from the river, and boiled potatoes. Dougie would play his fiddle. And Annie would call herself blessed.
She stood and went back to her sweeping, a smile on her face.
Of course, they still had to resolve whether the wedding would be at the hands of a Catholic priest, an impossibility as there was none and because Annie didn’t want her children to be considered fatherless, or the fort’s chaplain, who would surely refuse to marry them unless Iain renounced his faith, which he would not do.
But they’d endured so much already. Surely there would be a way.
Iain moved his oar silently, the dark waters of Lake Champlain passing like a whisper beneath the canoe. He’d met Joseph at the rendezvous point a half day out of Fort Edward, and he and most of Joseph’s men had headed north while Morgan and a small party of warriors had turned south toward Albany.
“Beannachd leat!” Morgan had called after him. Blessings go with you!
It would have been much simpler had Iain been able to ask for leave, but Wentworth would never allow a Catholic priest anywhere near the fort, especially not a French one. In these heretical times, priests were treated like criminals and spies. And so Iain and Joseph had concocted a disagreement between the two of them, giving Iain a reason to leave the fort.
Iain hadn’t told Annie where he was going or why. He didn’t want Wentworth to be able to hold her an accomplice if they were found out—’twas desertion to leave his post without his commander’s consent. Nor did he want her to worry while he was gone or to blame herself if he was killed or captured. Although he’d told her it was not a dangerous mission, it was one of the most treacherous tasks he’d ever laid upon himself. Unwilling to risk anyone else’s life, he’d planned to go alone, but Joseph had refused to be left behind.
Their errand was to journey north to Montréal through leagues of enemy territory, make their way through the gates painted like Wyandot warriors, find a priest, and, without harming anyone, persuade him to come with them. Then they would retrace each perilous step, rendezvousing with Morgan at Stockbridge before returning with the priest—and Joseph’s men—to Fort Edward for a secret wedding. Then some of Joseph’s most trusted warriors would guide the priest back to Ticonderoga. Wentworth would never know he’d been there.
Provided nothing went wrong, it would be simple.
Traveling with so small a party gave them great speed. After four days on the trail, they were already well to the north of Ticonderoga. But Lake Champlain was heavy with French ships, not to mention parties of Abenaki and Wyandot. They would soon have to abandon the lake and march over land.
I
n the next canoe, Joseph pointed at the western horizon. The sun was low. They needed to make camp soon. Iain spied a small inlet ahead of them to his left, pointed to it with a jerk of his head. Joseph nodded. They turned their bows toward shore, dragged the small craft into the trees, and hid them in the underbrush. Then, senses attuned to the forest around them, they scouted inland for a site to pass the night.
They’d not gone far when they came to a rocky ridge. With Joseph’s men to guard their backs, Iain and Joseph climbed to the top to get a view of the water and the surrounding forest. Iain took forth his spying glass and peered out over the lake. To the north he saw a fleet of six ships and a dozen bateaux gliding southward toward Ticonderoga. He handed the spying glass to Joseph, pointed toward the ships. Joseph looked through the glass, nodded in agreement with Iain’s unspoken message: they would have to wait until the ships passed tomorrow morning before setting out on the lake again.
Then Joseph frowned. He lifted the glass to his eye once again and pointed the lens toward the forest below. But Iain didn’t need the spying glass to see it.
Wagons. French soldiers.
A supply party.
It was headed westward—into Wyandot territory.
Joseph handed the spying glass back to Iain, jabbed him in the shoulder with his elbow, a wide grin on his face.
Curious, Iain took the glass and looked down at the vulnerable little party. He counted perhaps fifty soldiers, near thirty Wyandot—a sizable escort for a journey so deep in their own territory. They were guarding a dozen wagons, each laden with supplies. There appeared to be no passengers apart from . . .
Iain stared in amazement.
A priest!