by Kresley Cole
He broke away. "No. I'm no'…myself. I'll hurt you."
"Take. Please." She said the last as a moan, and placed his hands over her breasts.
Palming them, he groaned against her, tongue back to her soft, slick flesh, and she began to come under his lips, arching her back, pressing her breasts into his hands and grasping his head. Her cries had him bucking against the bed with need of her.
He moved to take her waist, to hold her steady, and watched, awed, as she skimmed her hands up her torso and brushed twice over her tight nipples before her arms fell over her head. She was completely lost to what he was doing to her, and nothing had ever affected him so. He kissed her with all the hunger he felt, wringing her, making her come longer, to a torturing degree, until her quivering finally eased and she went limp.
Reluctant to remove his lips from her skin, he lavished attention to her thighs and hips, then lay beside her so her breasts were just before him.
"Wait, MacCarrick," she said in sultry voice. "What about you? Did you?…"
"I'm fine," he grated before circling her nipple with his tongue. He would be. Because he was going to wait until she slept and then take care of himself. He would never ask her to finish him now, not after the thwarted time in the coach and then after his taking her this way tonight. He had no idea what would happen when he finally got to spend, having never ached for it so furiously—
"MacCarrick, I feel grateful to you, very grateful because of these things you've shown me—"
"You feel grateful tae me for this?" He'd take much more away—he'd replay this over and over in his mind for the rest of his life, starting as soon as she slept.
"Yes, and I will feel uncomfortable unless I can reciprocate." She placed herself under his arm, and rested her face against his chest. His body thrumming, he laid back and held her close, vowing he wouldn't ask her to make him come, even while feeling her breaths on him and shuddering….
She began walking her fingers down his chest.
His nerves were screaming, his mind begging…
"Ah, God, yes!" His back arched, his whole body rigid, when she handled him.
She stroked him as they'd done in the coach, her grip hard, as he liked it. He couldn't make her stop—he was too far gone. Apologies in advance.
She moved so slowly. Tormenting him up and down. Hard, tight, but slow. Torture. Didn't matter. He'd still come. He'd be insane, but…
His voice low and wretched, he rasped, "Whatever you do—whatever I do—doona take your hand from me…."
"I won't. But I thought," she began in a whisper before flicking her tongue against his chest, "I should lick and kiss you now?"
The thought of her licking his—
He erupted in her grasp, yelling out, heels digging into the bed and back arching, pumping his seed onto his torso. He reached around to seize her breast—clutching it, pawing it—and bent down to take her lips and tongue in a raw kiss. He ground against her hand, relentless, groaning between thrusts of his tongue, then tensing until there was nothing left of him.
It seemed hours before the world righted itself, and he finally stopped shuddering and released her breast and lips. "Did I hurt you? Did I hurt your arm?"
"No, not at all," she answered, her voice unsteady.
He put his fingers under her chin to bring her face up again, needing to know how she reacted to his total loss of control—and to her first sight of a man spending. Would she be disgusted? Upset?
No, her eyes were excited, her breathing rapid, as if she'd just witnessed a miracle. His brows drew together. He wasn't a modest man, but he didn't know how to feel about her expression of utter delight for him spilling in front of her. Should've been a means to an end, something that occurred as it would've in the coach, but she looked as though it was a trick she'd want him to perform every night for her. Worse, she looked at him… differently.
He pulled his shaft from her hand and his arm from under her, then left the bed, swooping the top sheet with him.
And he certainly didn't like that he had to wipe himself off while her gaze followed his every movement, her eyes wide and curious. He threw the sheet in the corner, then returned to bed. Not close to her.
If she noticed, she didn't act like it. She crawled to him, putting her head back on his chest. "That was amazing," she whispered.
"It's no' exactly a feat."
"Why didn't you make love to me? Am I too small?"
"No," he said, in half truth. He'd never thought he would curse his size before he'd been between her spread legs, glaring down at himself.
"Then why didn't you? Were you afraid to get me with child?"
"That's no' the reason." He wished that was the reason.
"Then what?"
"You still have your virtue. Your future husband will demand that."
"Husband? I don't know if you realize this, but being kidnapped by a gang of mercenaries severely curtailed my husband hunt."
"You could go to America. Marry a rich man there."
"I don't want to go to America."
"I read your letters, Anna."
She stiffened. "Why are you telling me this?"
"I read the one from the railroader's daughter writing about her brother." The brother had planned to ask Llorente for Annalía's hand. "I've heard of their name before. They have more money than the queen. You could go there—"
"Aleix already turned down his suit."
"Did he, then?" he said, his voice deadened. Why should that surprise him? Court had obviously lost his mind during those moments when he'd thought, What if I just keep her? Lost his mind thinking she might come to want him for more. "Still, there are options, but only if you're…intact."
"Would you demand that of me?" She rolled over on her stomach and propped her chin on her hand. "If you were to be my husband?"
I'd take you any way I could get you, he thought again. "I doona consider those kinds of things."
"Why?"
"Because I never plan to marry."
"Did a woman hurt you?"
"No."
"I don't believe you. Why else wouldn't you want a woman to have all your own?"
"No woman's hurt me."
"So the issue is that you don't want one woman. You want your harem."
If she only knew…. After tonight, she'd ruined him. Her hands brushing her nipples as he took her with his mouth. Inward shake. "Why settle for one when you can have many?"
"It isn't as if men stop having other women after marriage."
With you as his wife, this one would.
"But it's been repeatedly explained to me that though a man might require others, he has the need to possess one woman to call his own, the need to protect her and any children they have. It must be so, because both marriages and affairs go on. If you ignore that need, you'll miss out on so much, MacCarrick," she said softly but with conviction. She curled up next to his side again and laid her arm over his chest. His eyes briefly closed with pleasure.
"Enough of this talk." Perhaps before he let her go, he would explain to her that not all men were like that. That she should expect better.
Let her go.
Let passionate, brave, beautiful Anna go. She'd come along as punishment, no doubt. For all his sins. She was his perfect torment.
"So after you reunite me with my brother, you will just leave me behind like all the others."
He didn't hesitate. "Aye."
"Then I thank you for not ruining me further. Because I will have a family and children."
Barely hiding his exasperation, he asked, "Then why had you no' married earlier?"
"I won't tell you—you'll think I'm silly."
"Tell me." When she didn't answer, he squeezed her to him.
She sighed. "I was waiting for someone…for someone I could love. I know you probably think it's a fanciful notion, but I've seen it."
Court had too. His parents had been mad for each other. "Then you could marry where you chose to?"
>
She nodded against his chest. "In the beginning, yes, but I couldn't find anyone, so the choice was taken from me. After Pascal, I understand how vulnerable I am as long as I'm unwed."
He'd avoided asking her about her future because he'd known he wouldn't like her answer, but now he said, "What will happen to you once your brother retrieves you?"
She yawned, then murmured in a drowsy voice, "He'll take me to Castile and get the family to find a husband for me who'll overlook the scandal. I suppose it won't be so bad." She ran her smooth thigh over his legs, relaxing against him, her body warming for sleep. "MacCarrick," she whispered, drifting, "if I'd known husbands touch like you do, I'd have been much more eager to wed."
Court, the blackheart, the mercenary who'd sell his sister for a pound, just took a direct hit to the chest.
Chapter Twenty-four
When Court woke Anna early the next morning, she was slow to rouse, but when she did, she smiled shyly at him. He didn't even bother questioning why his chest reacted to the sight of it. "How do you feel?"
She sat up and gave him a surprised look, as if she'd woken in a foreign but more comfortable body. "I feel wonderful." She didn't seem embarrassed by her nudity, though the blanket bundled in her lap covered some, as did her hair falling over one breast. Which left one uncovered—
When she put her hands above her head to stretch, he ran his palm over the back of his neck, and grated, "Mind the arm, lass." If she were his, he'd always be there to see her stretch in the morning. And he'd make sure each night that she had no clothes on to conceal her.
"Oh, I'd forgotten about it completely."
He gave her a tight nod. "I'll leave you to dress. We'll go on the crossing soon."
Before he could escape, she asked in a small voice, "Why are you…different?"
Because he'd realized in the long hours of the night that she could never be his. Even if he didn't have a five-hundred-year-old curse shadowing him and even if he could somehow convince a fine woman like her to want to stay with him, Court could never have her. And now he cared about her enough that he refused to ruin her. "Because things will no' be the same between us once we reach England. We canna be together as we were last night."
"Then I want to stay here," she said, surprising him.
"No, you know we canna do that."
When she began to reply, he said, "Here. I almost forgot." He dug into his pocket. "I have your choker." He'd finally figured out the secret behind the choker, and held it with the length dropping down and swinging in front of her, hoping this would startle some sense into her about him.
He'd recognized it wasn't merely a piece of jewelry—it was a talisman that had been her mother's. Her mother wasn't buried with her father, but alone in Paris, away from Andorra and from her family in Castile. She'd somehow been disowned by both. By the way Annalía had acted after the grotto, he suspected he knew why.
She wore it so she wouldn't be like her mother.
To his bewilderment, her gaze flickered over it without interest, then returned, intent only on his face. "I don't want it. It doesn't fit any longer."
When she wouldn't accept it, he stuffed it into his pocket, then strode from the room. He shut the door and leaned back against it, thinking that once he got to London, his brothers would see that this woman had him twisted inside. They'd wonder how, if Court cared about her at all, he could let it get this far.
He wondered, too. How could he explain that as things developed between him and Anna, he hadn't felt that he was taking more than he ought?
He had felt that finally—finally—the pieces were falling into place.
Even the exciting steamer ferry trip across the channel did nothing to break up the tension between Annalía and MacCarrick.
He hadn't spoken to her in anything but one-word answers, except when he'd asked if she was seasick. She'd glanced around and seen that most everyone else was, but when she answered no, he appeared bothered, which hurt her feelings.
She scarcely cared that he was surly to her because she had much to think on. She wanted to memorize every instant of the night before because she never, never wanted to forget even the tiniest detail.
Before MacCarrick she'd gone about her life completely ignorant of the staggering pleasure a man can give a woman. She caught him scowling at her from the ship's railing and bit her lip. And the pleasure a woman could give a man. She'd seen it….
He'd always been in control, yet she'd wrested it from him with naught but her fingers, and made him yell and thrash with pleasure with every muscle in that huge body going rigid.
Just remembering made her breasts grow fuller and more sensitive, and simply looking at his talented fingers gripping the railing…She frowned. They'd tightened so much around the wood they'd gone white. She glanced up, caught him studying her as she'd been staring at his hands. She parted her lips, and a breath shuddered out. He turned sharply away.
This wouldn't do. She couldn't keep thinking of the night before without longing…without lusting. There. She could admit it. Annalía Llorente lusted for a ruthless Highland mercenary.
Yet she felt tied to him, too, bound to him by what they shared. Last night, she'd acted blasé about his leaving her behind, but to tell the truth, she hated the thought. She'd actually entertained the idea of keeping the Highlander. Did that mean she loved him? She couldn't say, but she knew she couldn't stand the idea of being away from him.
She'd had moments where she anticipated a future of his lovemaking and cajoled half grins, but she didn't know how she'd accomplish this since she'd never be allowed to marry MacCarrick even if he'd "ruined" her.
Not that MacCarrick wished for marriage to her. He'd made what he wanted clear. "Why have one when you can have many?" he'd asked, which made her angry. She'd rather not have him than have to share him. Where had that thought come from? She felt like a jealous schoolgirl who wouldn't share her ribbon. She knew better than ever to be proprietary over a man.
Only one thing could keep a man by a woman's side—she'd seen it in rare couples—and that was love.
When the steamer began docking, and he took her arm, she asked him, "Do you want to know what I was thinking?"
"Anna, every man on board knew what you were thinking about."
"Oh." Annalía hated being obvious.
"Every one of them would have taken you up on it." He sounded furious as he steered her toward a railed gangway.
He was furious? She was the one who had reason to be. She looked back at the ship and in an innocent tone asked, "Were any of them husband material?"
He glowered at her so fiercely any other woman would have quaked in her garters. After that, he said nothing, and his expression defied her to speak to him. Though she decided she wouldn't give him the pleasure, their next stop was proving unbearable.
He was taking her to London on a train. At the station, she had many questions, and she knew he could provide all the answers. It was like having a book in your hand with knowledge you wanted, but the pages were glued together. Sooner or later you'd want nothing more than to hurl it against the wall.
Then London was a chaotic snarl of noise and wares and food smells to be investigated, but he swiftly got them a hansom, and soon they were away from the city center riding into a charming residential area. Copious townhomes with late summer gardens queued along the brick-paved street. Trees abounded and lawns stretched in front of each with spotless perfection. "Fifteenth from the Throne" hadn't been lying when she'd said Brits had taste.
They stopped in front of a grand property with a stately red brick house. Large without being overblown, with every detail tasteful, the property bespoke the wealth of the owners. As was fitting.
"We're here."
She glanced at him, turned to observe the home once again, then frowned. "Did you give Aleix directions to this place?"
"Aye. He should find it easily enough."
"Do you know people who work here?"
He lo
oked at her strangely as he opened his door. "Aye. I suppose I do." Then he was assisting her out and waltzing her up the freshly washed steps, directly to the double doors. The front doors.
"You can't just knock for entrance here, MacCarrick." If he had friends who worked here, he'd get them in trouble.
The skin around his eyes tightened as he rapped the huge ornate knocker. "I can."
Just as she was going to tell him to let her speak for them, one door opened to show a dour-looking butler, whose expression creased into a smile when he saw MacCarrick. "Master Courtland!"
"Erskine, it's good to see you."
As Erskine led them in, Annalía frowned at MacCarrick.
"Is this your home?"
"It's my family's. My home's in Scotland."
"Oh." And precisely why would the mercenary's family home be beautiful and luxurious? "Is yours as nice as this one?"
He gave her an unreadable expression. "Do you like me better now that you know I come from money?"
She poked her chin up. The nerve. She wasn't exactly a pauper. "No, to like you better, I would have had to like you some." Though her answer was dripping disdain, her words seemed to please him.
"Then no, my home is no' near to being this nice."
In the next room hung a large portrait of a woman, clearly the focal point. Annalía inspected it, fascinated with the beautiful redhead. "Who is she?"
"Fiona MacCarrick." He said the words as though reluctant. "My mother."
"She's beautiful."
He nodded tightly, giving her the impression that he wasn't close to her. She lingered, noting the quality of the work. The woman was posed in front of a piano, making Annalía wonder if the family had musical talent. "Does she play?"
"Aye, even a Scottish woman can learn to play the piano."
"MacCarrick! Don't take meaning from innocent questions. Pianos are rare in Andorra and denote wealth. A family would be proud to have one and would pose in front of it whether they played or not."
"Then I apologize."
Still piqued, she muttered, "It's not as if I questioned her posing with a book in her hand," then continued her examination of the home. As he guided her into another spacious area, she recognized that something in the house was…amiss. "Are there any women here?"