by Carmen Caine
Still, he grieved when she died. Kiernan, a boy of ten, had been inconsolable. Marcus worried his son had never quite forgiven the world for taking her from him. Even now, he glimpsed flashes of resentment. They were rare, but the emotion ran deep. Kiernan always seemed to ask—to demand—why Marcus had been unable to save her when she'd been thrown from her horse. She hadn't died immediately. It would have been better if she had. Instead, she'd lingered a day, an afternoon, really.
Kiernan had stolen into his mother's room while she lay dying. Jenna hadn't wakened. Whether that was better or not, Marcus had never been sure. But Kiernan had said his good-byes. Marcus recalled seeing the lad on his knees beside his mother's bed. When he entered the room, Kiernan remained motionless. Neither moved for some time. At last, the boy rose and left.
Marcus shook off the morose memories. He crossed the room. Kiernan looked up from the paper. His face brightened and he stood, flashing a smile that dispelled the fear in Marcus's earlier memory. He grasped his son's hand and pulled him close. They separated.
"What brings you to London again so soon?" Kiernan pointed to a chair next to his, then sat. "I hadn't thought you'd be here until spring."
"Not glad to see me?" Marcus chided.
A corner of Kiernan's mouth lifted a little higher. "Never say you braved London for me. Why, Father, I don't know what to say." He motioned to a steward. "Two brandies," he said when the man reached hearing distance, then turned his attention back to Marcus. "Or are you missing city life?"
Marcus grimaced. "Nay. I had business with Loudoun."
Kiernan's smile vanished. "Damnation, Father, what sort of business?"
"Unsavory business."
Kiernan grunted. "That's about the only sort you could have with him."
Marcus gave an account of recent events. When he'd finished, he took the final swallow of his brandy.
An all-too-familiar gleam entered his son's eyes. "Perhaps I should return to Brahan Seer. You can use all the help you can get. I'm handy with a sword, if you recall." He flashed a cocky grin.
Aye, Marcus recalled all too well. His son had nearly bested him with his own sword just last year. Damn, the lad was truly grown.
"I do have some good news," Marcus said. He paused. "I am to marry."
Kiernan looked as if he had been hit in the belly. Marcus gave a quick explanation.
A moment later, Kiernan shook his head, his expression disbelieving. "You say she hasn't actually consented?"
"Aye."
"Isn't an announcement a bit premature?"
"No announcements. I am telling only you."
Marcus watched his son. He hoped to glean some insight into Kiernan's thoughts but, aside from obvious shock, he displayed no other emotion. The boy had grown too skilled at hiding the workings of his mind.
"Nothing to say on the matter?" Marcus finally asked outright.
"I assume you care for her."
"I do."
"Then congratulations are in order."
"Aye," Marcus replied, while wondering exactly how he would get Elise to agree. His gaze fell to the Sunday Times still open on the arm of Kiernan's chair. "Let me see that." He nodded toward the paper.
Chapter Twelve
The afternoon sun hung low in the overcast sky when Elise came to an abrupt halt outside the storehouse located in the southeast corner of Brahan Seer's compound. Marcus strode past the children playing at the bottom of the hill, headed up in her direction. Her grip on the small sack of flour she held tightened. He'd been gone less than a week. He hadn't delayed in returning to Brahan Seer—neither had he delayed in seeking her out. She had left the kitchen a few minutes ago and he hadn't been there. He could have only just arrived. Only one thing would cause him to come for her before even his horse could be unsaddled: he had found the notice and made the connection between Elise Merriwether and Elisabeth Kingston.
Her heart pounded against her ribs and she had to force herself not to run. Where would you go? she asked herself. He made escape impossible. You think he couldn't find you within the confines of Brahan Seer? He crested the hill and their gazes met. Her breath caught at the haggard look in his eyes.
He knows.
The children's shouts melted into the background as he halted so close, the warmth of his breath displaced the cool, early summer air against her face. She dropped her gaze and bit back tears. Why did he torture her so?
"Hello, love," he murmured.
Elise jerked her gaze up to his. No anger shone in his eyes. He tugged the sack of flour from her grasp and let it drop to the ground, then wrapped an arm around her waist and drew her close. Passion shot between them in a blazing kiss. She gasped when he showered lush kisses along her chin and down the base of her throat. She inhaled his scent and nearly cried when the familiar fragrance engulfed her senses.
Marcus wrapped his free arm around her and gave her a fierce hug. "I missed ye." He leaned back and looked into her eyes.
Her heart leapt with joy and sorrow in unison. Would it have been better for him to have found the wanted notice and confront her? He brushed aside locks of hair the breeze had blown across her cheek. He crooked a finger under her chin and tilted her face up toward his. Her cheeks warmed and she flicked a glance at the children who seemed oblivious of them. He stroked her lips with his thumb. A dangerous grin flashed across his face.
"Wha—"
Marcus dragged her behind the thick brush around back of the storehouse. He glanced at the massive oak tree behind them.
"Marcus—"
He backed her against the tree and pinned her with his body.
"You can't be seri—" The protest was cut off as much by the sudden awareness of the hard length of him pressing into her thigh as by his kiss.
Marcus broke the embrace just as abruptly as he'd begun, ending the kiss with a loud smacking sound. Elise stared. He grinned. She shoved at his chest. He bent over her once more and she heard his quiet laugh before his mouth covered hers. He parted her lips with his tongue, not asking, but taking. He shifted and the vague awareness of his fingers closing around her wrists penetrated her consciousness. He lifted her hands above her head, pressing them against the tree as he leaned his weight against her. A tremor ripped through her and her body coiled in readiness for the hard press of him against her thigh again. But Marcus released her mouth and, dipping his head, nipped at her flesh from cheek to ear.
"I haven't forgotten how mercilessly you teased me before I left." He rocked against her. The press of him against her weakened her knees. "Feel what you do to me, sweet," he said.
Elise inhaled sharply.
"Aye," he whispered.
Marcus rocked again, then again. She arched as he kissed his way down her neck. He released her hands and tugged down her bodice.
"Marcus!" She forgot the remonstration as his weight lifted from her and he bent, his wet mouth closing over a nipple.
Desire spiked through her. His tongue circled the nipple, then released it. She closed her eyes, shivering as the wind slid across her breast, puckering the bud to a hard peak. Marcus abruptly pulled her away from the tree. She snapped open her eyes. He eased her to the ground. The scent of crushed ivy ground cover enveloped her as he came down beside her.
"They're expecting me to return with the flour," she said. "When I don't—"
"They know I came in search of you." He slipped a knee between her legs. "They won't come."
He covered a breast with his palm and slowly teased the nipple with his thumb, while kissing the other breast. His mouth captured the nipple and a rush of pleasure shot from both breasts to the juncture between her legs. He lifted his head and she forced her eyes into focus. His gaze remained fastened on hers as he ran a hand along her ribs. His palm glided past her waist, then along her thigh. He grabbed a fistful of her skirt and pulled it up. She gasped at the feel of his warm hand flattening against her skin, then caressing her inner thigh.
"Marcus," she whispered.
Marcus nuzzled her neck. "Come to me."
She started at the whispered words.
"Come to me," he repeated.
And she did.
* * * *
Elise took one of the scones Jinny had baked that evening from the pan on the kitchen counter. They were still warm to the touch. She pulled the tartan covering her shoulders closer as she stuffed half the scone into her mouth and leaned against the counter. Despite a large supper and wine, she had been unable to sleep. Two glasses of wine hadn't been enough. She should have made it three. At least she would have slept, even if fitfully.
Why had she let Marcus touch her? When he left for London, she had counted on him being away longer than seven days and intended on being gone before he returned. Given enough time, Cameron would have seen her confinement for the prison sentence it was. She had planned on approaching him with care. When he thought she had been wronged by Margaret, he understood her desire to leave. An out-and-out demand for release, however, would be viewed with suspicion. After all, why would a woman with only fifty pounds to her name and no place to go want to leave?
She finished the second half of the scone. If she had listened to her head and not her heart and had shunned Marcus… Elise gave a mirthless laugh. She hadn't—and now she had to deal with him while searching for the secret passage Winnie had spoken of.
She reached for another scone, then decided to take some to her room. She found a cloth napkin in the cabinet and wrapped two scones. Male voices sounded in the direction of the great hall as she had folded the napkin's last flap.
Elise cocked an ear. They approached from the hall leading from the main entrance. Scooping up the scones, she froze at sound of a familiar laugh. Marcus. She tightened her hold on the tartan and darted through the kitchen door toward the stairs but was still half a dozen steps from the concealment offered by the staircase when the men burst into the room. Their laughter ceased.
Marcus's "Good evening, lass. What mischief brings you to the great hall tonight?" stopped Elise. She gripped the tartan more tightly about her throat and turned, lifting her hand to display the wrapped scones.
The men looked at the proffered scones and burst into laughter. She began to relax, then caught sight of Marcus's intense gaze.
* * * *
The colors of the throw Elise wore dissolved in Marcus's mind in a blur of red and blue to the memory of her lying alongside him in the ivy. He felt again her body as she trembled beneath his hand, the moist heat of her—
"Good night, gentlemen," she said.
Marcus jerked his attention back to her as she turned to the staircase and started up. He brushed past his comrades and hurried after her. She paused midway up the staircase and looked over her shoulder. He continued forward and she hurried up the stairs and down the corridor to her bedchamber door where she whirled to face him.
"Marcus, perhaps—"
He leaned forward, his shoulder brushing hers as he reached around her and pushed open the door. The door swung wide and he cupped her bottom, lifting her from the floor. She squeaked and threw her arms around his neck, dropping the plaide and the scones. He stepped inside, kicked the door shut, and took the final steps to the bed. He fell atop her on the soft mattress.
"I need you," he whispered.
The spicy scent of clean bed linen met his nostrils as he kissed her. The fire crackled and it seemed the heat in his blood ignited in unison. Elise gripped his shoulders. The power in her hold belied the soft compliance of her lips. Marcus ended the kiss.
He rose to his knees and pulled her up and off the bed with him. He tugged the straps of her night rail down over her shoulders, forcing her arms down so that the garment skimmed along her body and pooled at her feet. His heart hammered. At last, she willingly stood before him, soft curves his to touch, her charms his to take. He forced back the need to crush her beneath him and pound into her heat with all the force in his body and drew her into his arms. She rested her head on his shoulder. He held her quietly until the pounding in his ears dulled to a low roar, then bent and brushed his lips across hers.
When Marcus lifted his head, he held her gaze as he rotated his hips against her. Uncertainty played across her face. She dropped her lashes at the second, more ardent grinding of his arousal against her mound. He stepped back and she looked up in surprise. He raked his gaze over her, then brought his attention back to her face. A furious blush crept up her cheeks.
He unbuttoned his shirt and dropped the garment on the floor. His left boot followed, then the right, leaving him standing in nothing but his kilt. Marcus studied her as he removed his belt and let it, along with the kilt, fall to the floor. The belt buckle clinked on the stone, but Elise's eyes remained fixed on his face. He took the few steps to her and, grasping her wrist, gently brought her hand to his shaft. Her gaze jerked down to where he firmly held her. He wrapped her fingers around him and nearly came to his knees at the cool feel of her fingers against his pounding heat.
"Do I frighten you, lass?" he asked.
Her head snapped up. "No."
Marcus gave a hoarse laugh. Bloody hell, mayhap she wasn't afraid, but he was. He picked her up and carried her to the bed. Placing her on the mattress, he lay down beside her. He ignored the hammering in his head and ran a shaky finger along her arm.
"I'll be gentle," he said.
She frowned. "I won't break."
"Nay, love," he agreed. "But compared to me, you are naught but a feather."
Elise sat upright. "I am no porcelain doll to be kept on a shelf."
Marcus opened his mouth to deny the implication but stopped. "Is that how your husband treated you?"
A long silence drew out.
"You cannot compare me to him," Marcus finally said. "I'm no fool."
She blinked, then rolled to her side and started toward the edge of the bed.
"Nay." Marcus grabbed her.
"You can leave now." She twisted as he yanked her back.
"Nay." He rolled on top of her. "Hush," he commanded when she opened her mouth.
He kissed her. She pressed herself into the mattress, but he lengthened the kiss. She wriggled as though to sidle out from beneath him, rocking their bodies together. Pleasure shot through him. Marcus ended the kiss, breathing hard.
"Elise," he whispered hoarsely, "you are not discouraging me."
She ceased.
Marcus slipped a knee between her legs. "I am a fool," he said. "I wanted you the moment I laid eyes on you. You know that."
He reached between them and drew apart the folds that protected her sex. He feared, at first, she would resist in earnest and he would be forced to spend yet another night without her, but an instant later, she wrapped her arms about his neck. Marcus touched her in heated strokes. He breathed deep of her scent filling his nostrils, stroking, petting until, at last, she cried out and buried her head in his shoulder. He trailed a long, moist kiss from her ear to a breast, taking the hardened nipple in his mouth.
"Marcus," she groaned.
He continued to tease her while settling himself between her legs. He probed for entrance into her body, aware of the sudden rise and fall of her breast, the subtle tension in her. His body tensed in response, hungry for the resistance. The tip of his shaft slipped into the moist opening.
<
br /> "You're ready for me," he rasped, and in one swift motion, thrust.
Her nails pierced the flesh of his shoulders. She stiffened. Marcus stilled, waves of pleasure radiating from his groin. He took a shaky breath and focused on her face. His mind instantly cleared at sight of the drawn brow and hard lines around her mouth.
"Bloody hell," he cursed. "I hurt you."
"No," she denied so quickly he wouldn't have believed the pope had he said she spoke the truth.
"You may be no porcelain doll," he muttered, "but you aren't to be misused."
"You don't understand—"
"I understand well enough." He began to lift himself off her.
Elise held fast to his shoulders. "You do not, but it doesn't matter. If you will just continue, it will pass."
He frowned. "If you think I could misuse you—"
"Good Lord." She rolled her eyes.
"What in God's name has possessed you this evening?" he demanded, feeling frustration grow and himself soften.
"You, I thought."
Marcus blinked. He stared at her face for a moment, then dropped his gaze to her breasts. The nipples no longer stood erect. He lowered himself so that his chest brushed the soft peaks. They instantly stiffened. He hardened. He shifted slightly, gasping as the tight passage closed in around him in a hold he hadn't recalled since—Marcus froze, jerking his attention back to Elise's taut face—since he'd bedded Jenna on their wedding night. She'd been the only virgin he'd ever had, but the memory remained vivid. However, there had been no maidenhead with Elise. She had been married, had a child. She was no virgin.
"Elise," he said in a low voice, "how long since your husband bedded you?"
Her stricken look and the sudden moisture in her eyes told him all he needed to know.