She was still in too many clothes, the ridiculous froth of skirts and crinolines making her want to gnash her teeth. But the flash of air on heated skin that told her the buttons of her bodice were now being completely undone. She acknowledged that perhaps there was a certain delicious anticipation to be found in the unwrapping.
A wicked grin claimed his face as he took in her simple corset. “It laces in the front,” was all he said.
Pen’s cheeks heated, knowing her undergarments were nothing close to the height of fashion. “It is easier to d-dress without a maid.”
He went to work unlacing it and parted the stiffened fabric almost reverently. “Praise the saints for your independence then, lass, because you are easier to undress as well.” The low tenor of his approval sent a snaking down her spine.
He pulled the straps of her chemise down and then stared down at her, no longer moving.
No longer breathing.
Pen squirmed, but he stilled her with a hand. “Lie still, lass, and let me look at you.”
She would have rather he just kissed her again, but she held herself motionless, sensing this was somehow part of the process, though looking and touching had not been mentioned in any of the books she’d read on the subject.
Finally, he began to swirl a hand over her aching, greedy skin. “I wanted this first sight of you for a memory. You are too beautiful for words.”
Pen swallowed, though his hands were wreaking havoc on her senses. Memory, he’d said, as though acknowledging that what lay between them was temporary at best.
But it didn’t feel temporary. It felt . . . portentous.
As though she was about to be changed forever.
And then his head was lowering to her breast, and he was drawing her nipple into the heat of his mouth, and she gasped at the unexpected waves of feeling rolling through her. How was that possible? His mouth was there, but she felt it lower. Deeper.
Stupid books and their scientific explanations.
She closed her eyes and tipped her head back, drowning in the feel of all he was doing to her. He was a generous lover, paying as much attention to one breast as the other, his hands roaming, touching, until she was panting with need. He loosened her skirts, dragged them free, and then worked his hands and mouth up her body, leaving a wake of devastation and longing as he moved on to new places. She let him.
No, she begged him, scarcely able to believe the pants and cries that echoed softly in her ears were her own.
Gently, he parted her thighs, and she could feel the moist heat of his breath as he kissed first one trembling limb and then the other. And then his fingers were there, in a spot that made her hips buck upward from the bed. A gasp of surprise wrenched from her lips.
She thought she’d understood her body. The process outlined in the books she had read.
How unbelievably wrong she had been.
He responded with a low, throaty chuckle. “Perhaps I need to revise my assessment, lass. You’ve passion enough for ten women, I think.”
And then, still pressing against that secret, mind-stealing spot, he slipped his fingers inside her. As her body stretched to meet the demand, Pen was launched into a different sort of feeling, one that seemed to come from within.
But abruptly, he stilled, his fingers still deep inside her. “You’ve put in a sponge?” he whispered, his voice hoarse with disbelief.
She nodded, cheeks burning. She’d naively imagined the precaution would be her secret, but she’d not counted on fingers as part of the process. “I d-do not want to risk a child, not when I’m to return to London in two days.” She lifted herself on her elbows and risked a look down at him. He looked shaken by his discovery. “I’ve read a good d-deal on the subject,” she reassured him. “I know what I am about in that regard.”
He swallowed. “So you mean to go through with all of it then?”
“Do you not?” She felt herself blush, which was an odd response, given that his fingers were still embedded in that most intimate part of her. “I want all of it, MacKenzie. All of you.”
And for once, her words did not fail her.
Miraculously, he nodded. She pressed her head back against the pillow and gave herself up to it. To him. His fingers seemed to know just where to press to make the breath catch in her throat and her body writhe in anticipation.
And then she was there, teetering on the edge of something unknown.
“MacKenzie,” she gasped. “This feeling . . . I do not . . . I c-cannot . . .”
“Trust me, mo ghraidh.”
The sound of that whispered endearment was enough to send her over. Her body exploded beneath his fingers, a shower of sparks and feeling that seemed to reverberate through every inch of her. It drew on endlessly, and then, with a small cry of relief, it was gone, tendrils of want and feeling the only thing left in its wake.
She felt . . . boneless. Surely there was a more sophisticated word for it, but right now, in the haze of such pleasure, she could not think beyond the simplicity of the word.
And then he was looming over her, and dimly she became aware that somehow he had shed his clothing. Dark eyes met hers, a fierce question in their depths. “Last chance for regrets, Pen. We can stop here and count ourselves fortunate to have had the moment.”
“No regrets,” she breathed. She shook her head and wrapped her legs around his broad frame. “If you stop now, you will have only given me half the experience.”
He buried his face in her neck, and she could feel the near desperate tension in his shoulders. He exhaled, a shuddering sign of his own internal battle. “I hope you know what you think you want, lass.”
And then he was piercing her, and it hurt, but it was done, and she was glad.
Somehow, though he was undoubtedly a large sort of man, it all fit.
At last, the book had gotten it right.
She breathed in, once, twice. The pain began to subside, leaving only a delicious feeling of fullness in its place. He began to move, gently at first, and she realized with a small jolt of surprise there was more pleasure to be had here.
He cupped her head in his big hands, holding her close and kissing her deeply as they moved, slowly at first, then faster. She was caught up in the storm he kindled, feeling his body press into her core, and all too soon she was tipping over that edge once more, crying her release into his mouth, her pleasure too fierce to contain. He followed her over, his own voiced release captured by their kiss, her name a beautiful echo on his lips.
And then she was being gathered against him, held tight. A feeling like shared contentment stole over her, languid bones and loosened skin.
What on earth had just happened? She didn’t feel ravished.
She felt cherished.
She’d set out to seduce him, but somehow the tables had been turned, and she was left with the sense that something had changed between them. She turned her face into his chest, tasting the sweat from his skin, feeling the crisp brush of hair against her cheek.
She was afraid to stay here, but she was equally afraid to leave.
“What does mo ghraidh mean, MacKenzie?” she asked quietly, fearful of the answer and yet determined to know.
She felt his arms tighten around her. “It means ‘my darling.’ ”
She fell silent, processing the intensity of the word. It felt . . . right.
And that terrified her.
His breath ruffled her hair. “And do you think you might finally call me ‘William,’ lass? I’m the man who’s just tupped you senseless.” He pulled back, just enough to grin down at her sheepishly. “I think I might have earned the privilege, aye?”
CHAPTER SEVEN
He was an idiot.
A well-swived idiot, but an idiot nonetheless.
Yesterday William had fully intended to stop after he’d delivered Pen’s pleasure. He’d intended to be a gentleman, of sorts. Instead, her whispered pleas for the entirety of the experience had quite turned his plans inside out. He wa
s unable to deny her anything.
And had there ever been a sweeter surrender?
They’d made love again and fallen asleep near midnight, flushed and happy, tangled in the bedclothes. Some desperate part of his soul argued it was a good thing. He liked this woman. Possibly even loved her, though they’d known each other only a few days. Could see himself marrying her, so easily. But if William insisted on fixing their predicament with marriage—as his sensibilities told him he should—she would only hate him for trying to strip her of her modern notion of independence.
How could he think to bind her to him—to Moraig—when her heart so clearly lay in her profession and the path she had chosen for herself?
But if he let her go back to London, he would forever be a man who’d ruined an innocent. A very well-read and adventurous innocent, but an innocent, nonetheless. And he’d be left to muddle on in Moraig, with no hope for his own future.
He’d left her sleeping, just before dawn. He’d wanted to stay, to prolong the mirage of happiness another minute, another hour. But duties called.
And so he’d taken one last look. Her hair had been spread like a gold curtain across her pillow. He’d buried his nose in those fragrant tresses one last time, in lieu of a kiss that would almost certainly wake her with the force of his hunger.
And then he’d gone to work, knowing the town needed him.
The devil of it was everything was going well. By all accounts, the Highland Games he had worked so hard to organize were a success. Several hundred clansmen were in attendance, and everyone appeared to be having a marvelous time. The morning’s maide leisg competition had drawn a raucous crowd, and the afternoon’s stone put had produced a new record in the region. More to the point, Moraig’s vendors were set up around the edge of the field and were doing a brisk business in meat pies, ale, and pastries.
He ought to be pleased, happy. The town’s economy had gotten a much-needed boost, and if all went well with Pen’s story in the Times, Moraig’s future as a tourist destination seemed assured. Instead, he felt unsure. Miserable. Because he didn’t want only one night with Pen.
He wanted a lifetime.
Even as he’d shaken hands and welcomed clansmen, he’d felt lost, wondering what she was doing and what she was thinking. Had he left her happy? Satisfied? Wanting more?
He’d caught a few glimpses of her during the day, always speaking to people, always taking notes. And now she was here, at the caber toss.
But she wasn’t looking at him. She was looking at McRory.
And he wanted to smash something at the sight.
The late-afternoon sun was drawing sweat from the competitors but did not seem to be dampening the enthusiasm of the crowd in the slightest. The caber toss, the last scheduled event, was already underway, and William had drawn the last toss. But he didn’t watch the other contestants, searching for clues he might use for a win.
How could he when his eyes refused to leave Pen?
The sight of her at work sent his stomach twisting in knots. She didn’t belong to him, not in any sense of the word. She was her own person, refusing to conform to the usual constraints of society and propriety. Worse, by the very nature of this interview with McRory, she was proving her intentions. She was here as a reporter, and her departure was coming all too soon.
McRory’s name was finally called, and a din of approval swept through the crowd. Always a town favorite—and built like a bloody draft horse—he waved to the crowd, grinning broadly. Final wagers were made, and shouts of encouragement were tossed his way.
Pen did not join the crowd.
Instead, she stepped closer to William, though she did not look at him.
The butcher picked up the caber as though it weighed no more than kindling. He heaved it higher, then higher still, until only the last bit of it rested against a shoulder.
“Mr. McRory seems in fine form,” came her low, melodic voice. “You might have some d-difficulty here today, MacKenzie.”
“Aye,” he answered. McRory seemed to have confidence to spare, but William’s own was beginning to flag, especially after such an impersonal greeting.
After all that had passed between them, she was still calling him “MacKenzie”?
William shrugged in irritation. “He hasn’t recently suffered a twenty-foot fall and a sleepless night.” Or for that matter, a potentially broken heart.
Her lips quirked up, but she still didn’t look at him. “Do you regret not g-getting a good night’s sleep?”
His eyes settled on the smooth curve of her cheek. The sun had been fierce today, and he could see a slight redness to her skin.
Or perhaps it was a remnant of last night’s activities.
“No. I would not trade my night for another.” He shook his head, knowing it was true. He might be an idiot, but he was a happy idiot, for however long her attentions were focused on him. “And as for the caber, there’s more to the toss than brute strength,” he reminded her.
“Yes, as you’ve said.” A serene smile claimed her face, but it held a bit of the devil in it. “And I’ve a notion you know how to aim your stick.”
She stared straight ahead, as though they hadn’t been tangled skin to skin last night and as though they weren’t carrying on a conversation filled with enough innuendo to sink a ship. He looked hungrily at her, wanting only to take her by the arm and drag her into some private corner, his own upcoming toss with the caber be damned.
McRory was taking his time, nodding to the crowd as though born for the stage, and damned if he didn’t shoot Pen a confident, toothless smile. She waved back in a manner that made William’s fists clench. Then, with an inhuman growl, the butcher ran a few steps and launched the caber in the air. The entire crowd watched with collective, indrawn breaths as the log arced, end over end, landing with a thump William could feel in his bones.
It was the farthest throw yet.
The crowd’s approval was loud enough to wake the dead. McRory took a dramatic bow, his kilt riding dangerously high. William looked at Pen, wondering if she was impressed.
But in that moment, he realized she hadn’t been watching McRory.
She was looking at him.
And the look of hunger on her face mirrored his own.
As his own name was called, William took his place on the line, his head buzzing with what that look may have meant. The crowd quieted. He looked down at the caber that had been laid for him. It looked nearly the length of a mile. He bent and hefted the log onto his shoulder, testing its balance, and then adjusted his grip in slow increments until the tip seemed to nearly touch the sky. And then, with no heart for the sort of theatrics favored by the butcher, and with Pen’s face occupying his thoughts, he took the running steps required for the right momentum. At the last moment, he gave a mighty heave and imagined he was tossing McRory’s mangy, melodramatic carcass high in the sky.
The caber soared. End over end, in a perfect arc. The crowd shaded their eyes, some doubting, others hoping.
It landed a few inches short of McRory’s.
But unlike McRory’s toss, William’s caber landed perfectly straight.
The crowd erupted in a roar of applause and whistles, rushing the field and lifting him high. Amid the congratulatory cheers and backslaps, William twisted, trying to catch a glimpse of Pen, knowing her approval, alone, was what he sought.
He caught her eye, just as they carried him toward Main Street, and it was only later he’d realized her notebook had been nowhere in sight.
Pen walked among the crowd, sipping a pint of ale purchased from a local vendor. She didn’t need to write down any more notes to remember this day. Indeed, she was beginning to suspect she might be missing some key parts of life to always have her nose buried in a notebook. It had taken coming to Moraig to show her that.
And she only wanted this evening to last forever.
Night had fallen, but in the flickering torchlight, bodies were spinning and feet were flying. The scent
of wood smoke filled her nose, easily overcoming the press of heated bodies, and the din of camaraderie echoed in her ears. The day may have been devoted to the games, but it seemed the evening belonged to a less competitive sort of chaos. Music flowed steadily, along with the ale, and there was a well-inebriated edge to the crowd. Nearly everyone was dancing, caught up in the toe-tapping rhythm coming from the pipers on the stage. She was content to merely watch, mesmerized by the pounding tempo and the acrobatics on display, knowing he would come.
Suddenly MacKenzie was there before her, emerging like a Highland dream. He bowed in his plaid, which no longer seemed ridiculous. Perhaps it was because every able-bodied male in sight was wearing a kilt of some sort today.
Or perhaps it was because she now knew the contours of the body that lurked beneath.
“Miss Tolbertson,” he said in a formal voice, making her clap a hand over her mouth to hold back a giggle. He took the near-empty cup from her hand and unceremoniously tossed it over one shoulder. “I believe you promised me a dance.”
“I did.” She gestured to the people spinning and leaping around them. “B-but I am not familiar with these steps.”
“ ’Tis naught but a jig.” His grin deepened, and in the torchlight his teeth flashed like a promise. Whatever hesitancy he’d initially felt around her seemed to have been banished by the night they had shared, and she was glad for it. “Why, wee babes can do it. In their sleep.”
She laughed, unable to take her eyes from his face. “While the jig looks lovely, I had a different sort of dance in mind.” She did not want to waste a moment if hours were all they had left. Already she was achingly aware of the fact that the coach left at eight o’clock sharp tomorrow morning and that her bag was already packed, waiting on the bureau of her room at the Blue Gander. She had not been able to kiss him a proper good-bye this morning.
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