by Pamela Clare
“You’ve beautiful hair, lass—soft as silk and the color of honey in sunlight.” The major’s fingers worked their way steadily upward, gently coaxing the tangles from the strands. “Who is Lady Margaret?”
“She is…was a friend. She…died last summer.” Sarah could not tell the major that Margaret had taken her own life, for he would surely ask why, and Sarah could not tell him without exposing herself.
“Was poor Lady Margaret married?” The major’s fingers reached her scalp.
Despite herself and her situation, Sarah’s eyes drifted shut at the pleasing sensation as his fingertips curled against her nape. “Yes, she was. Her husband was thrown from his horse and died without an heir not long after their wedding.”
“Och, well, he must have been a brute, for the union of husband and wife is no’ meant to be a chore.” The major ran his fingers through her hair, his touch—and his words—sending little shivers down Sarah’s spine. “There is far more to what happens in the marriage bed than Lady Margaret told you. First, we kiss.”
He drew back her hair, exposing the side of her throat, then nibbled the sensitive skin just below her ear. His breath was hot, his lips hotter, seeming to scorch her as he trailed little kisses along the side of her throat, her cheek, her temple, raising tiny goose bumps on her skin. “Then I will touch and taste you everywhere.”
Everywhere?
Something shivered inside her.
“You can touch and taste me as well.” He sucked her earlobe into his mouth, making her gasp. “I will raise your passion, and you will raise mine.”
Major MacKinnon seemed to be all around her, surrounding her with his heat, his scent, his touch. He nipped her throat with his teeth, a strong arm encircling her waist, his fingers teasing apart the top few buttons of her shirt to caress the bare skin between her breasts.
Something fluttered deep in her belly, her nipples drawing tight as they did whenever she was cold. But she was anything but cold. A warm flush spread throughout her body, leaving her short of breath, her heart beating faster.
He nibbled her earlobe. “After a time, when your body is ready and you ache to have me inside you, I will enter you, bringing us both delight.”
Margaret had said nothing of this.
“It…It does not hurt, then?”
“The first few times can be painful for a lass, but if her husband takes his time wi’ her and is gentle, she willna suffer. That is why I wish to take my time with you, my lady. I dinnae wish to hurt you. I want you to ken how good it can be for a woman.”
The major’s big hand cupped her left breast.
Sarah gasped and stiffened at this brazen touch, and her first impulse was to push his hand away. But she had promised to give herself to him willingly.
Each of us for the sake of the other.
She bit her lip, willed herself to submit.
His hand held and shaped her, lifting, squeezing softly. “Does this hurt, lass?”
“No.” It didn’t hurt, but it was alarming, rousing unfamiliar feelings inside her.
“Does it feel good?” He flicked her already taut nipple with a callused thumb.
The flutter in her belly was stronger this time—unsettling, but also sweet.
He did it again, flicking his thumb over the delicate tip several times in quick succession, making her gasp again. “Answer me. Does it feel good?”
“Yes.” She sank back against him and closed her eyes, her head falling on his shoulder, the hard wall of his chest the only solid thing in her world.
He groaned softly in her ear, his breath warm on her cheek, his hand teasing first one breast then the other, drawing her nipples to tender peaks, tugging on them, flicking their aching tips. “Soon, I will kiss you here, taste you here.”
The thought of his mouth upon her breast made her heart give a thud.
“Major MacKinnon, I…Oh.” Every time he plucked or flicked her nipples, it caused an answering quiver deep in her belly, pleasure vibrating through her as if her breasts and her womb were connected by harp strings.
He nipped her throat again, the edges of his teeth sweetly sharp. “Call me Connor, lass, for we’re about to ken one another as well as Adam and Eve.”
Chapter 8
Och, she tasted sweet!
Connor licked Sarah’s skin where he’d nipped her, felt her shiver, her left breast full and heavy in his hand, her nipple a hard bead against his palm, her heart pounding. His blood was already running hot, her scent and the feel of her soft woman’s body more than enough to rouse him despite their circumstances.
“Do you…Do you think less of me, Major, that I do not fight to preserve my virtue?” The uncertainty in her voice tugged at him.
“Nay, my lady. I think it would be a shame for you to lose your freedom or your life to protect your maidenhead. In the end, ’tis naugh’ but a bit of flesh. Your virtue lies in your heart, no’ between your thighs.”
Hungry for the taste of her mouth, he turned her head only to be interrupted by the grating sound of Crow Mother’s voice.
“I am here to see that you take her and complete the marriage, Ranger, not to watch you woo her. You are wasting time.”
In his arms, Lady Sarah stiffened, sat upright.
Connor glared at Crow Mother, but answered her in Shawnee, using a calm tone of voice so as not to frighten Sarah. “You came to watch me hurt her, but that is not going to happen. If you are in a hurry to leave this lodge, then go. But whatever you do, stay silent. The Abenaki say my brothers and I are chi bai—evil spirits.”
Crow Mother’s face paled.
“I see you know the word. Speak again, and you will see what evil is.”
“Wh-what is it? What did she say?” Lady Sarah looked over her shoulder at him.
Connor drew her back against him, settling her head on his shoulder. “She asked if I ken what I’m doin’, and I told her I dinnae need her help.”
“You’ve done this before.” There was a hint of blame in the lady’s voice.
“Aye.” Connor felt no shame in admitting the truth. Amongst the Muhheconneok, tupping for pleasure’s sake was not considered a sin. Though this distressed the missionaries, it troubled Connor not at all, as he’d taken much delight in the black-eyed Mahican women of Joseph’s village—and they in him.
There was a moment’s pause as Lady Sarah seemed to consider his answer. “Do you have a woman at home—a wife?”
“Nay, lass.” He nuzzled her temple with his lips, trying to lure her back to the place of forgetfulness where she’d been before Crow Mother had interrupted them. “I betray no vows by holdin’ you like this.”
“I am glad of that at least.” Her body was still tense, her arms now hugged around herself, her gaze flitting to where Crow Mother sat against the far wall.
Och, Satan’s arse!
How was he supposed to seduce her with the old midwife perched across the room like a bloody vulture?
He’d known this wouldn’t be easy. Even if Sarah had wanted to lie with him, he would not have been able to ensure that she would find bliss this first time. She knew next to nothing about tupping and seemingly little about her own body. To make matters worse, she’d just been through a terrible ordeal. She was encumbered by grief, fear, exhaustion. And with the old crone sitting there, watching them…
He might not be able to share with her the fullness of sexual pleasure, but Connor could at least show Lady Sarah that a man’s touch could be gentle.
“Come, my lady. I will hide you from her sight.” He lifted Sarah into his arms, stood, then laid her on the bed platform, stretching out beside her to block Crow Mother’s view. “She cannae see you now.”
Sarah watched him through troubled eyes, her hands balled into fists again, her hair fanned against the bearskin beneath her. “Now…Now we…?”
He held her gaze, ran his thumb over the fullness of her lower lip, and smiled, doing his best to put her at ease. “Now I kiss you again.”
He started
afresh—brushing her lips with his, then kissing her lightly, then teasing her lips apart with his tongue. Slowly, she began to respond once more, her eyes drifting shut, her body growing loose and languid again, her breath quickening. Her tongue timidly met his, one hand sliding up his bare arm to rest against the bulge of his muscles as she slowly gave herself over to him.
And as she began to lose herself again, so did he.
Emboldened, he finished unbuttoning her shirt, gentling her apprehension with slow, deep kisses that made her whimper and left him hard and aching. Then, when the last button was undone, he dragged his lips from hers and parted the cloth, baring her breasts to his gaze. Heat rushed to his groin. And, despite her obvious discomfiture, he couldn’t help but stare.
“Tha thu cruinn bóidheach, a rìbhinn.” The words left his mouth before he realized he’d spoken.
Her nipples drew tight as if she could feel his gaze upon them. “Wh-why do you stare at me, sir? And what did you say?”
“Call me Connor, lass. I would hear you speak my name.”
She hesitated a moment, her gaze locked with his. “Connor.”
“Again.”
“Connor.”
His name sounded somehow exotic spoken with her refined English accent.
“That’s better. I stare because I find you lovely.” He gave in to his desires and cupped her again, his thumb circling a rosy, petal-soft crest. “I said you are full and pleasing. See how you were made to fill a man’s hand? Look. And your nipples”—he drew in a breath—“they blush and draw tight at my touch.”
She shifted her gaze, a little tremor running through her as he caught a nipple between his fingers and gave it a gentle tug. “Oh.”
And then he could wait no more. He ducked his head, flicked her nipple with his tongue, and suckled her.
Her eyes flew open, and she gasped, her body giving an involuntary jerk, her hands catching his head as she made a feeble attempt to push him away.
But he had warned her he would do this. And he could tell the sensation aroused her every bit as much as it alarmed her. So he did not stop, but caught one nipple carefully between his teeth and teased the tip with flicks of his tongue.
Her body jerked again, and she whimpered, her eyes drifting shut, her hands fisting softly in his hair, her body arching as he moved from one breast to the other. A blush rose on her chest, her breasts swelling in his hands, her nipples tight, wet points.
Aye, it aroused her.
And it aroused him, too.
Despite Crow Mother’s presence—he could feel her hateful gaze boring into his back—his cock strained against his breeches, eager to play its part, the knowledge that he would soon possess Lady Sarah rousing his lust. He had promised Joseph that his heart and mind would not take delight in what he had to do tonight, but it seemed he was a liar.
What kind of man was he that he could ignore the lady’s plight and burn for her when she didn’t really want this, when she didn’t really want him?
You’re a radgie bastard, that’s what. A true mac-dìolain.
But how could he help himself? The lass was lovely enough to tempt a saint, her unschooled responses stirring his blood more than he could have imagined. Her quiet whimpers. Her trembling. The instinctive way she lifted her breasts toward him.
To know he aroused her made his blood burn hotter.
Fighting the urgency of his own desires, he feasted on her breasts, kissing the silky undersides, sucking harder on her nipples, and teasing the swells with his tongue until her hips began to move of their own accord, her thighs pressed tightly together.
It was the sign he’d been waiting for—proof of her need.
He moved his hand in slow, descending circles over the silky skin of her exposed belly, then reached down and drew the butter-soft doeskin of her skirt upward, baring the ties of her leggings and then her naked thighs.
“Connor.” She whispered his name, uncertainty in her voice.
He raised his head, found her watching him, and pressed a kiss to her lips. “I ken where you burn hottest, lass. I’m goin’ to be touchin’ you there.”
She watched him warily.
He explained. “I must prepare you to take me.”
Holding her gaze with his, he nudged her skirt up higher still, then caught her left leg and draped it over his hip, drawing her legs wide apart. He skimmed his hand over the soft flesh of her inner thigh, tickling the sensitive skin with his fingertips, watching as one emotion after another showed in her eyes—apprehension, uncertainty, and, aye, need.
“Is this pleasin’ to you, Sarah?”
She turned her face away from him. “Yes.”
He ducked down, tugged on a puckered, wet nipple with his lips, his hand moving higher, his fingertips tracing lazy circles. “And this?”
She bit her lip again. “Yes.”
His fingers grazed the crease where here thigh joined her loins. “And this?”
“Yes.”
Then he cupped her, pressing his hand against her sex.
The breath left his lungs and his heart gave a hard knock, heat lancing through him as his mind struggled to comprehend what his hand had just discovered. She was smooth, hairless. She’d been plucked bare.
Och, sweet Jesus!
He felt pity for her, for he knew it must have hurt.
But his cock grew harder.
Sarah felt the heat of his hand against her. Shocked by the intimate contact, she tried to draw her legs together, tried to pull away from his touch, but her motions only forced her deeper into his hand.
“Easy, lass.” He looked down at her through eyes gone dark. Then he began to move his hand, pressing against her in slow, deep circles. “Does that feel good?”
She was surprised to realize it did, his touch rousing dark, delicious sensations inside her. “Yes.”
The pressure and rhythmic motion of his hand seemed to feed the hunger his kisses had awakened—feed it and yet make it so much stronger. He did not relent, but bent down to suckle her once more, until her womb quivered, the combined sensations overwhelming her every bit as much as the man himself—the hard feel of his body beside hers, the spicy scent of his skin, the tension in his muscles. And soon the need inside her became all but unbearable, a desperate itch even the deft motions of his hand and the heat of his mouth couldn’t scratch, a craving she couldn’t sate. It was…
An ache.
She ached for him.
Why hadn’t Margaret told her about this?
Sarah heard herself whimper, her hips matching his rhythm, his caress the only thing that soothed her.
“Aye, Sarah, give yourself over to my touch.” He parted the lips of her sex with his fingers, settling a fingertip on that tiny, delicate part of her for which she had no name, flicking it lightly. “This little bud—do you ken what it is?”
She shuddered at the intensity of the sensation, shook her head.
“’Tis the center of a woman’s pleasure. Some call it amor Veneris, others clitoris.”
Love of Venus? Clitoris? She’d never heard either word before.
He stroked it, making her insides clench. “It swells and grows hard, just as I do.”
He nudged his hips against her thigh, and she felt a hard ridge beneath his breeches—his penis grown firm and erect, as Margaret had said they do. A shiver passed through her to think that part of him would soon be inside her.
“These soft petals…” He slid his fingers between her folds and caught the delicate inner lips of her sex between his fingers, gently stretching them. “I’ve heard them called nymphae.”
Sarah could barely speak. “I…I didn’t know.”
But then he stroked her swollen bud again, his fingers seeking and finding a new rhythm, this new sensation unlike anything she’d felt before, the ache inside her excruciating. He was relentless, his hot mouth on her breasts, his hand between her thighs.
She felt her hips lift off the furs, her body seeking…something.
>
And then he slid a finger inside her. “And this is your quim.”
She moaned at the sweet shock of it, unconsciously parting her thighs to accommodate him, her inner passage contracting around his finger, drawing tight.
He groaned, nuzzling her throat. “Och, you are so wet, so ready for—”
From somewhere nearby came the sound of a cough.
Crow Mother.
Sarah froze, opened her eyes, the heat in her body turning to ice as she remembered that the midwife was there, watching, listening.
“Shhh. Forget her, lass.” Connor’s lips found hers, his hand diligent between her thighs. “She cannae see you.”
But it was too late. Where she had burned moments ago, Sarah now felt cold.
“Stop.” She reached down and caught Connor’s wrist. “Please, stop! I cannot bear this.”
He met her gaze through troubled eyes, withdrawing from her, his fingers now tracing lines on her sensitive inner thighs, his lips full and wet from kissing her. “There is fire in your blood, Sarah. I feel it. You felt it. Dinnae let that crone steal the pleasure that is your right. Let me bring you release. You—”
Sarah pressed a finger to his lips to still him. “Please, Connor, do whatever you must to bring this night to an end.”
For a moment, he studied her face, his dark brows furrowed, and she was afraid he would deny her. “As you wish, my lady.”
She turned her face toward the wall and squeezed her eyes shut, fighting tears.
But he caught her chin, turned her to face him. “Open your eyes, lass, and look at me.”
She did as he asked, tears trickling down her temples.
“Your tears I can bear if I must, but if you cannae once stand to look upon me…” His expression hardened, a kind of desperation in his eyes. “I’m no’ an animal.”
And she remembered that she wasn’t the only one who’d been forced into this.
Each of us for the sake of the other.
She rested her palms against his chest, her gaze locked with his. It did not waver when he untied the fall of his breeches and pushed her skirt up to her hips, forcing her legs far apart with his own. It did not waver when he settled between her thighs, reaching down to part her and position the tip of his penis against her entrance.