by Ann Jacobs
A muffled cacophony of whispers and gasps fell over the crowd. Kristiana was confident her own gasp of mortification was the loudest of them all.
“’Tis the truth, is it not, Lady Kristiana?”
Tavish stared at her, his eyes burning for a response, and the respect and lust she’d been feeling toward him crumbled in turn to the snow at her feet. She could not lie to her people, no matter how much she might be tempted to do so. They trusted her to guide them. They only stood gathered today because she asked them to do so.
Resigned, she lowered her chin and nodded. “Aye, my laird. ‘Tis the truth. My family can trace their roots to England.”
His large, warm fingers settled beneath her chin and he lifted her face so she was forced to meet his eyes. The compassion she’d witnessed back at the manor claimed his dark features, involuntarily softening her opinion of him. “’Tisn’t something to be ashamed of, my lady. ‘Tis only your past. If we lived in the past, what would we have to look forward to on the morrow?”
Powerless to find her voice, she thought to pull away from him, but his words, his expression held her captive. The sinful urge to feel his hands and mouth upon her naked flesh returned in a mad dash, stirring heat low in her belly. She caught her lower lip between her teeth as her mind whirled with what felt to be drunkenness. She wanted him, wanted him, wanted him. And it was so very, very wrong.
“He has a point.”
The woman’s loudly spoken words brought Kristiana from her trance. Still, she made no move to step away from the strength Tavish exuded. The raw virility. The maddening effect he had on both her mind and body. She was mad. For she found once more that she wanted to like him. Wanted to respect his efforts. Wanted to forget their pasts, the present, and all those gathered here today, and knock him onto his back in the snow, strip away his breeches, and impale herself upon the pulsing length of his thick shaft.
“Prove it!” a man called out.
“Later, darling,” Tavish whispered huskily, then casting her a smile hot enough to warm the coldest and most deeply buried of hearts, he released her to address the crowd. “I shall prove it. On the morrow, we begin the resurrection of Landon. By the first of the new year, Hogmanay, this village will be restored to its former glory.”
“We?” a stunned man questioned. “You plan to stand by and assist, m’laird?”
“Aye, I plan to swing the first hammer.”
Silence reigned for several long seconds and then one brave fool clapped. Slowly, more of the crowd joined in, until a sound so merry and hopeful it brought tears to Kristiana’s eyes rang through the streets of Landon. The sound of deliverance. Of hope. Optimism restored by the least likely of saviors.
She forced back her emotions when Tavish turned and offered his arm. She took it out of civility, with the idea her show of alliance with their laird might press the villagers’ faith ever farther in his direction. As for her faith, she wasn’t completely convinced yet. Close, but not quite.
She waited until the villagers’ excited voices were nary a whisper behind them to make this fact known. “That was a foolish move, my laird. Making promises you’ve no intention of keeping merely to earn respect.”
He stopped short and, using the arm she had looped through his, brought her around to face him. His dark eyebrows drew together, and what could only be described as lecherous amusement washed through his gaze. “And which promises would those be, my lady? The ones I made to the villagers, or the ones I made to you?”
The husk in his words sent her heart thrumming. As much as she had thought she wanted him moments before, needed to feel his long, sturdy staff embedded deep inside her, whether they be surrounded by people or alone, she wasn’t ready to admit it aloud. For once he knew the truth, there would be no stopping him.
She attempted to pull her arm free of his iron grip, but he held fast, making it clear she would be going nowhere until he allowed it.
Lifting her chin, she squared her shoulders and pretended she had no idea what he spoke of. “You made no promises to me, sir.”
Tavish raised his free hand to caress along her cheek, down the column of her throat to play at the vee where bare flesh met the edge of her coat and gown. The amusement in his eyes turned to outright lust, and her belly rolled with a fit of anxiety, even as her nipples tightened with expectation.
She fought back the desire creeping through her, rendering her limbs all but weightless and her inner thighs damp with a sticky moisture that seemed to be in endless supply in his presence. Where they stood, sheltered by the wood at the outskirts of Landon, they could easily be spotted. Even if she wished to respond to the hunger in his potent gaze, she could not. And she did not wish it. Not now. Not here.
At least, not the sensible portions of her.
His thumb settled in the hollow of her throat and his lips drew up in a wicked grin. “Oh, but I did, Kristiana. And you agreed.”
“I did no such thing,” she squeaked out, struggling to breathe normally as his thumb stroked over her skin with a languidness that was slowly driving her mad.
Her eyes drifted shut of their own accord. He was doing it again, she knew. Drugging her with his touch, with his voice. With his thumb edging ever closer to her swollen nipple.
She had no idea how he’d managed to glide his hand past her garments to the rise of her breast, but he had done it masterfully, and in such a way that he had her panting, eager for his stroke. Her nipples ached as the memory of his indecent words at the manor again reached her. She’d been so hot and needy, her thighs sweaty and her sex heavy with desire. And she’d been clearly senseless. He was a seducer, a scoundrel by nature, and she¼she was like a lost lamb to the slaughter.
His thumb reached its destination, petting her beaded nipple with hard, demanding strokes, and she forgot about time and place. Wetness dripped from her slightly parted thighs, past her thin undergarments to dampen her legs. Sweat broke out on her upper lip and her hands fisted with tension. Her whole body was afire. Flames of raw need licked at her center, flames only one man could put out.
Take me, she silently pleaded. Make me yours.
The pressure of his thumb left her suddenly, and she snapped open her eyes. His hot, spicy breath rolled into her face, and she gasped at his nearness. With the slightest of movements their bodies would be flush, with the simplest rush of skirts and opening of breeches, his shaft would be inside her, filling her, unleashing the unknown.
Nay, she was not ready for that!
“Prove it,” he rasped. “Show me you don’t want what your eyes tell me you do.”
“I don’t want you!” Kristiana shouted, praying the volume of her words would make him believe and he would release her.
But he didn’t set her free. No, the fool chuckled. “So, is that what your eyes have been saying? That they want me? You really are a wanton little chit, my lady. I find it rather refreshing. Or perhaps it’s arousing. Yes, I believe that’s what it is.”
Damnation! He’d talked her into a circle. Made her say something that wasn’t true. At least, something she didn’t wish to be true. Drawing from the crispness of the air around them, she said as coolly as her heated body would allow, “The only thing my eyes said to you, sir, was to stop handling me.”
“Ah, but darling, handling is a necessity if you’re to be my mistress.”
He said it so matter-of-factly for a long moment she could only blink, and then she put all her strength into being free. She pounded at his chest and kicked his shins, but he gave no quarter, merely held her within his grasp as if she were nothing more than a helpless puppet. “Have you gone completely mad then?” she asked breathlessly.
“Tell me you don’t want that, darling. Tell me you don’t want this.”
This? What was this?
His intention registered the same moment that his mouth slammed over hers. He drew her tight against him, the hard muscular wall of his chest a solid strength against her. A warmth and comfort she yearned to
sink into. Only she could not. She would not. She was a lady, not some strumpet to be made into a man’s plaything.
Even if that man did kiss so expertly he made her forget her name. His forceful tongue spilled into her mouth, swirling and dipping, violating her in the most pleasurable way imaginable. She fought the urge to kiss him back, to glide her tongue over the coarseness of his and feast upon his masculine flavor. But when his hand slid from her arm to pull her hair free of the bun she’d secured it in, she lost the fight.
His fingers drove through her tresses, winding in their length, tugging gently, yet in a way that shot straight to her womb. Her blood boiled with raw need, her thighs trembled, and a low cry of ecstasy broke from her lips.
He moved his mouth to her neck and grazed his teeth over the sensitive flesh. She shivered with the delightful sensations swirling through her body, whimpering when his teasing nips turned to nearly painful bites. His mouth went even lower and his tongue dipped beneath the edge of her garments to caress the farthest reach of her breasts. She wanted him to go farther, ached to feel his tongue foraging on her nipples, on her belly, on the swollen, damp folds of flesh between her thighs.
As if he knew where she longed to be touched, he let free his hold on her arm and slid his hand down her skirts to press against her aching mound. Through the many layers, his touch was restrained and still she could feel it. Wanted to feel it more completely. Without the layers, without anything between them at all. Skin on skin. Body on body. Hardness to softness.
“You wish to feel my hands upon your flesh, don’t you, Kristiana? To feel my tongue dipping into your slippery pussy. My cock buried deeply inside you?” Tavish questioned between plying her chest with damp and biting kisses.
“Aye…” she breathed, her voice strained as the press of his palm came ever harder against her throbbing sex. He was pushing her back to that edge, the edge of climax he had brought her to several times since his arrival, and this time she did not wish to stop him. “I want that¼so badly. Make me explode, Tavish.”
“Here?”
She registered his astonishment, before she closed her eyes and ground her hips against him. She moaned at the feel of his impressive erection sliding along her cleft, tickling the nub buried beneath too many layers. “Aye. Here. I can’t wait any longer.”
He pulled back slightly and lifted his thumb against her mound, petting her inflamed center though her gown. She wanted his hands beneath the material, but couldn’t find her voice to say so. He increased the pressure of his thumb, dipping harder and faster, slicing through her cleft as if nothing but air separated them. His other hand went to her bottom and caught her up in a hard grip.
Instinctively she bucked against his palm, needing more, yet already feeling so much. Blood roared through her ears and her heart took off as he worked his hand between her butt cheeks to roughly grasp and squeeze one in his hand. He caught her neck in his teeth and nibbled ravenously, and any strength that still remained in her legs gave way. She was so close to falling over the edge, so close to feeling the rush of orgasm rippling through her body. One touch of his hands on her slippery sex and she would be gone.
She searched for her voice. “I¼I want¼“
“Yes, what do you want, darling?”
“¼you to touch me.”
His laugh was rough, erratic, as if he struggled to hold himself back. “I am.”
“Nay. Touch me for real.”
“Kristiana—”
“Do it!” she demanded, balling her skirts in her hand and lifting them ever higher.
The hand at her backside fell away and Tavish did as she asked, grabbing her skirts up in a flourish until all that covered her was a thin layer of cotton. With an audible groan, he parted the slit in the center of her undergarments and finally his thumb was upon her mound. She arched up as it coasted over the rim of her swollen lips, daring him to bury it into her center with her helpless, erotic mewls. And then he did enter her, just far enough to rub along the sensitive nub that shuddered for release.
“Oh, aye,” she sighed loudly, as he strummed the rough pad of his finger against the swollen bud. Tremors shook through her body, and he gathered her ever closer in his arms, growling as he once more claimed her neck in a bruising kiss.
His fondling grew to a furious pace that mimicked the onslaught of shivers crashing through Kristiana’s body. Her insides felt like liquid honey, heated beyond the boiling point—then they passed that point—bursting into a tumultuous explosion. She wrapped her arms around his neck and clung for dear life, as the orgasm tore through her, drenching her undergarments, her thighs, and his hand with the sticky juices of her arousal.
He held her in his embrace another few seconds then he removed his thumb from her slit to bring it to his lips. Her breath snagged as he pulled it into his mouth and slowly suckled away the juices that cloaked it. His dark gaze registered every bit of the lust he felt, the same lust that still ate at her, making her yearn for more.
“You taste exquisite, my lady. I shall count the minutes until my tongue is inside you, licking at the folds of your cunt, suckling at your clit until your come flows freely.”
She gasped at his brash words, and he silenced her with his mouth. For an instant the kiss was forceful, demanding and full of promise, and then it slowed to a chaste meeting of lips and he released her.
Tavish grinned, his smile so broad he looked as though he had just captured the greatest of prizes. “We’ve reached an agreement then?”
Kristiana was breathless, her body afire with rekindled need, and in that moment, as judgment dawned, realized she was also a senseless ninny. And he had in fact captured himself a prize. Or rather he could have, had he chosen to do so. She had played the part of the whore, had all but begged him to throw her back on the snow and have his way with her for anyone to see.
Jesu! She had wanted him to take her virtue.
Disgusted with her behavior, she narrowed her gaze and stepped backward, putting distance between them as she spoke from between gritted teeth. “Nay. ‘Twas a horrible mistake what we did. One that will never be repeated. I lied about wanting you. I don’t. I won’t. And I would rather be hanged than be your mistress.”
And then she ran. For as much as running was cowardly, it appeared the only way to escape the desires of the devil and worse, far worse, her own wicked will to give in.
Chapter Four
The hollow cry of a beast shook Castle Wynderon. Her heart slamming wildly in her chest, Kristiana bolted upright in bed. She’d never been a heavy sleeper, but even if she had been, the terror in the animal’s shriek would have woken her.
The sound was gone and still she fought a shiver. There were few wolves around this part of the Highlands, and even if the sound had been made by a pack animal, it seemed unlikely it would have echoed through the thick stone of the castle walls. Whatever the source of the wail, it appeared to have passed.
On a deep sigh, she lay back. The odds that sleep would claim her again were slim. Four days ago she would have spent the remainder of the night perched on the parapet, awaiting the rise of the morrow. No longer would she make that trip, knowing her space might already be occupied by another. Especially not after today.
She’d acted such a fool, the strumpet Tavish claimed her to be. If she were to find him upon the stone wall tonight, with nothing but a coverlet cloaking the hard ridges of his flesh, his fine masculinity erect and glistening in the moonlight, she would assuredly throw herself at him all over again.
Aye, what a ninny.
A low cry broke Kristiana from her thoughts. Once more she shivered. The wail was deep, fierce, and far too near to be coming from outside. No wolf, but what then…
Of course, the dog.
Tavish’s staff had arrived just before the evening meal. A mixed group of men and women ranging from Scottish to British to an old man returned from the colonies. Along with them they’d brought their master’s hound, a hulk of an animal whose bl
ack eyes and large, honed body resembled its owner’s to chilling perfection. Aye, the mongrel hound. Surely that’s what howled into the night.
But why did he sound so pained? Almost as if he were being tortured.
What if the animal were lost in the winding maze of passageways? Or worse, had managed to trap itself in an empty room? The dog might not be the most affectionate of animals, but it would be heartless of her to leave it there to bawl.
One pass through the castle, Kristiana promised as she slipped from the bed and pulled on her robe. It would only take a short while and was a far better way to spend her time than staring into the dark, trying not to think about the devil of a man who turned her insides to liquid fire and her brain to a puddle of mush.
After lighting the candelabra she kept near her bedside, she slipped from the bedchamber and made her way down the drafty hall, waiting for the sound to come again. She’d walked the entire second floor and had made it back to her chamber door when a bellow loud enough to wake the dead lit the night.
Heart hammering with the unexpected wail, she rushed in the direction of the sound. Once more it came, lower but still so anguished. It carried on the air, guiding her to the last place she wanted to be. Tavish’s bedchamber.
She stopped short and scowled. If the dog was in there, he was fine.
But the roar the animal released an instant later did not sound fine. It sounded frightened, terrified even. Without another thought, she pushed open the large wooden door and peered inside.
Moonlight spilled through the north facing window, streaking across the massive four-poster bed. She held her breath, afraid to look any higher than the foot of the bed for fear every inch of Tavish’s hard, muscled flesh would be visible.
On an indrawn breath, she lifted her gaze.
He was not naked, rather wore buckskin knee breeches. The portions of his wide chest visible to the night were bared, but that isn’t what caused her to gasp. It was the lower part of his left leg that brought the sound into her throat. The flesh was marred with long gashes, raised in some spots, bumpy and rigid in others. She was across the room and touching the old wounds before she could stop herself.