by Amy Jarecki
Wispy clouds sailed overhead, and Enya didn’t have to wait long for her eyes to adjust. She listened for sounds of the night guard and heard nothing but the mating calls of frogs. By skirting around the garden, she could avoid being noticed by using the back door of the stables.
Golden light streamed down from the loft opening. Bran must still be awake. Unfortunate. Enya had so enjoyed waking him with kisses.
Enya climbed the ladder. “Sir Bran,” she whispered, popping her head through the trapdoor. The scent from a tallow candle hung in the air.
Bran snapped his head up and stuffed something under his pallet, sheathing his dagger in his stocking. “Miss Enya? Och, I thought ye wouldna come—what of the dangers we spoke of?”
He offered his hand and helped her climb up. Enya’s heart thundered as she fell into his embrace. “How could I stay away?”
She rose up on her toes and kissed him. When she closed her eyes, a river of emotion coursed through her blood. Enya slid her arms around Bran’s powerful back and held him against her body. She wanted to melt into him. So warm and huggable, she kneaded her fingers into his back, kissing him as passionately as she knew how, hoping he could tell how much she missed him.
“Och, Enya. Ye’re on fire.”
“I couldn’t sleep at all when you were away.” The bovine scent of a tallow candle hung in the air. “Word is war is near—very near, and you will be at the head of the Ross army.”
“Aye. Did ye expect yer father to put his men on the front line?” Bran gestured to his pallet. “Would ye care to sit? I’m afraid I’ve no chair to offer ye.”
Enya cast her gaze down. A bit of wood stuck out from under the pallet. “Are you working on a carving?”
“What makes ye think that?”
“You stuffed something under your pallet and sheathed your knife when I ascended the ladder.”
Bran tapped the object with his toe. “Ye’re too observant.” With a devilish grin that attacked her insides, he sat and pulled her onto his lap. “’Tis far too dangerous for ye to be stealing to the stables.”
“I couldn’t stay away.”
He ran his fingers through her hair, his eyes dark. “I missed ye—thought of ye every moment I was away.”
Enya cupped his face between her hands. “I thought the days would never pass.”
Bran closed his eyes, his brow furrowing as if in pain. “On the morrow, I’m to patrol until we leave for battle.”
A lump formed in her throat and she grasped his hands. “You shall be gone again?”
“Aye.”
She squeezed his palms, not wanting to release him. “But I cannot bear it.”
He brushed his lips across her cheek. “We must enjoy the moments we can take.” His eyes drifted to her mouth. “I shall cherish them always.”
Enya could wait no longer. Her heart raced as she lifted her chin. Bran’s mouth covered hers. Enya’s breasts screamed to have his hands on them again. Kissing him, she ran her fingers along the length of his arm and grasped his hand. Slowly, she led it under her dressing gown and to her unbound breast. Bran’s strong fingers kneaded her, his lips moving along her jaw line. “I canna resist ye.”
“I do not want you to.”
He pulled back and gazed into her eyes, the hazel glistening with the flickers of candlelight. His eyebrows ticked up as he pulled the string that closed her nightdress. Enya watched him, her lips parted.
Bran gently pulled the thin fabric aside and exposed her. Praying Bran would not be disappointed, Enya watched the brown rims of his eyes grow dark. His tongue tapped his top lip as he cupped her breast in his hand. “’Tis bὸidhche—beautiful.”
Enya’s breath sped as the ache between her legs coiled tighter. Bran dipped his head and licked her nipple. Enya threw her head back and moaned. He took the tip into his mouth and suckled. Enya slipped her shoulders out of her dressing gown and pulled her nightdress down, completely exposing herself. Her breasts swelled with desire, as if they would explode at any moment.
Bran spread his hands over her, framing her breasts between his large palms. “My God, Enya, ye are perfect.”
Beneath her buttocks, Bran grew rigid, and heat coiled in Enya’s sacred spot—a longing so intense, she feared it would never ease. As Bran’s kisses swirled across her breasts, Enya had never been so alive. She gently pushed on his shoulders and tugged his shirt free of his waistband. “I want to see you too.”
Bran pulled the shirt over his head and Enya stared. A chiseled Roman statue sat before her. She had never been this close to his bare chest. Peppered with white scars that contrasted with his lightly tanned skin, he was more magnificent than her wildest imaginings. A gush of longing moistened the sacred flesh between her legs. Enya pushed him back onto the pallet and straddled his waist. Her breasts ached to brush across his flesh, but she wanted to suckle him first. When her mouth met his dark nipple, he groaned and thrust his hips up, torturing the coiled need between her legs. Unable to control her response, Enya moved her hips against him, the friction sending waves of unquenchable longing through her core.
After lowering his head to the pallet, she leaned forward and joined her mouth with his. Slowly, deliberately, she caressed his taut flesh with her breasts. Ripples of excitement sent shivers across her body. But it only increased the burning pull of desire.
Bran’s hands slid to her buttocks and he held her against his hard manhood. “Ye are as sweet as God’s nectar.”
Enya gazed into his eyes. No words could express the connection there. Something deep inside stirred. The power of the bond between them could move heaven and hell. “We are meant to be joined. Why else would you be in Renfrewshire?”
“If it only could be so.”
Enya kissed his forehead. “We will find a way.”
“But yer father—”
She didn’t want to hear it, and smothered his mouth, clamped on to it, showing him the power of the love that beat with rapid pulses under her skin. He relaxed beneath her, gently rocking. She slid over the length of him and it touched her—right in the sacred spot where hot longing coiled so tight, she thought her body would burst. Enya tried to steady her ragged breathing.
Bran moaned and Enya again slid her sex up and down his manhood. She’d seen horses mate in the paddock, and Bran’s manhood felt as erect as a stallion’s. He wanted her as much as she wanted him. Unable to stop, she rocked her hips against him and moaned. But she needed something more. “I want you,” she uttered in a husky voice she hardly recognized as her own. “Show me.”
Chapter Twelve
Enya practically unmanned him when she spoke the words. I want you. Show me. Nothing else existed but the exquisite, bare-breasted woman who relentlessly rocked her mons across his cock. He had to touch her. Reason no longer needled at his mind. Bran slid his hand down and grasped the skirts of her nightdress. Their mouths joined. Ever so slowly he hiked up the linen until his hand found her silken, bare buttock. He had never been so hard, never allowed a woman to control him, but Enya owned his very soul. She moved against him as his fingers found the heavenly wet core of her womanhood.
Her body shook with every breath. Enya arched her back. “Yes.”
He pulled back and gazed into the face of the Madonna herself. God had given him a gift when she ascended the ladder to the loft, and he would not misuse it. “I willna see ye ruined.” Uttering these words took more restraint than he’d ever exercised in his life, but he would not throw her down and plunge into her no matter how much he wanted to. Enya needed to be guided into the world of sensual pleasures—and her maidenhead must be kept intact, lest they both meet their ruin.
“Please.” She panted and rocked in concert with his teasing fingers.
He rolled with her so she lay on her back with him beside her, pressing into her hip. He smoothed his palm between her thighs. “But I can show ye pleasure. Spread yer legs for me.”
Enya clutched his shoulders. “I want to lay with you as a
woman would her husband.”
“Trust me.”
He kissed her and slid his finger between her legs. With a gasp, she opened for him, slick with ravenous longing. Bran could slide into her with ease. Oh, to watch the ecstasy light up her face. He wanted to witness her first taste of pleasure. He pressed his cock against her hip as he worked his finger around the place of a woman’s delight. Enya grasped his shoulder, rocking her hips, her tongue all over him. He slid his finger inside her tight, ribbed center. If only he could be in there for just a moment—two strokes and he would come undone.
Enya made tiny sounds that sent Bran wild as his finger worked. He licked his lips and gazed into her face—mouth spread apart, pure joy radiating from her countenance. She was ready to explode. Moisture spilled from the tip of Bran’s manhood.
Enya arched up, every sinew taut, trembling. She cried out with her release, barely able to catch her breath. Bran steadied his hand against her and showered kisses along her neck and breasts. His cock jutted hard against her hip. God, he would come with only one stroke.
“I never thought it would be that miraculous,” she cooed between breaths.
“’Tis a sampling of what could be.”
When her panting eased, Enya rose up on an elbow and cast her gaze to the rigid shaft pushed against her hip. “Did you…do you…how do I?”
He wanted her hands on him, but he could not expect a woman like Miss Enya to pleasure him. “Would ye touch it for me?” He nearly slapped himself for asking.
Enya cupped his face with her palm. “I want to touch it. Show me how.”
Bran guided her hand under his kilt and wrapped her fingers around him. “Ye stroke it like this.”
“’Tis so hard.”
“It wants to be inside ye.”
“Why did you not take me?”
“’Twould no’ be right. Besides, ye could conceive.” He lay back and watched her beautiful face as her hand worked magic.
His ballocks on fire, he slid his hand down and touched himself. His hips thrust in time with Enya’s stroking. The fire in his groin blazed out of control. He pictured himself inside her core and his seed exploded with a bellow that could wake all of Halkhead.
***
Enya rested her head upon Bran’s chest. His heart beat a steady rhythm, lulling her into a dream-like trance. “I want to stay here forever.”
Bran stroked his hand over her hair. His large hands caressed her gently. Enya marveled at how hands that could wield a sword with crushing force could also be incredibly tender. His lips kissed the place where his hand had just been. “I wish ye could, but ye must go back to yer own bed. I still canna believe ye risked so much to come to me.”
“I couldn’t stay away.”
Bran pulled her nightdress closed. “I’ll see ye back safely, lass. Ye shouldna do this again.”
Her heart squeezed. “Do you not feel as I do? Being close to you is like breathing.”
“I ken, but ye’re highborn. Ye’re no’ meant to be in me arms, no matter how right it feels to us.”
How could he share such intimacy with me and then push me away? “Do not give up. Please tell me you will find a way for us to be together. We can sail the seas. You have your cottage on Raasay. Please tell me.”
“I will always treasure you in me heart—no one will ever able to take yer place.” He brushed his lips across her cheek. “Not ever.”
“I feel the same way too.” Enya rose up on her elbow and studied him. Though he smiled, he could not hide the anguish in his eyes from her.
Before she could say another word, Bran sat up and reached for her dressing gown. “Come, we must spirit ye back to the keep.”
He held her hand as they skirted through the garden.
When they arrived at the secret passage, Bran pulled her into his embrace. His body was like a furnace, taking away the chill of the night air. He kissed her with all the passion he had before. If only they could stay together. But Enya was no fool. To expose their love now would be folly. Her father would surely issue strict punishment for her, and most definitely would put Bran’s neck in a noose. The mere thought sickened her.
“Ye must away, ’tis nearly light.”
Not trusting herself to speak, Enya gave him one last squeeze and slipped into the passageway. How the biting chill swarmed around her without Bran’s protective arm. She had never thought she needed the protection of a man, but with him, she wanted it. In his arms she could do anything, mayhap even stand up to her father and tell him this union with Claud Hamilton could never be.
The candle she’d left in the alcove had burnt down to a nub, wax spilling in blobs over the brass holder. She tilted the candle so the wax pooled at the top wouldn’t singe her skin. The flame leapt with the long wick. Enya guessed there was just enough wax left to make it to the solar.
She slipped out from behind the bookcase and closed it carefully to not make a sound. When Enya stole away to ride, she would always enter through the kitchens. Entering through the solar added a risk that her escape route might be uncovered.
Relieved her sisters were all married and gone, Enya tiptoed down the corridor to her chamber. Robert and her parents occupied the floor below. Heavy footsteps might wake them. She grasped the latch of her chamber door. It creaked loudly. Enya stiffened. Her chamber was not as she’d left it.
The candles had been lit. Standing in the center, Heather crossed her arms, her lips hidden beneath an angry white line. “And where have you been, slipping away in the dead of night?”
Enya’s stomach lurched. From the glint in her eyes, Heather already knew the answer to her question. “I had to see him.”
“Holy Mother Mary.” Heather crossed herself. “What have you done?”
Enya rushed to Heather and grasped her hands. “Please. Tell no one.”
Heather pulled away and paced. “And to think I encouraged you to embroider the panel for that rogue.”
“He’s no rogue. He told me not to come.”
“Did he lay his hands on you?”
“He did not take me”—Enya dropped her gaze to her folded hands—“as a man takes a wife.” Though I wanted him to. Oh God, if he only would have, I would be his no matter what happened now.
Heather yanked the panel from the table and stormed to the hearth. “This must be burned.”
“No!” Enya darted across and tore the keepsake from Heather’s hands. “It will not be burned.” She clutched it to her chest. “This is difficult enough. Father is forcing me to marry a man I cannot love, while a man who stirs me like never before sleeps on a pallet in the stable loft—chained to his low birth status, unable to shower his love upon me solely because he was born poor.”
“You spend far too much time dreaming about what could be. You must face the world as it is.”
Enya shook where she stood, her blood about to boil over. “Can you not see I am trying to make sense of the innumerable inequities that surround me?”
Heather clenched her fists to her chest, but the crease between her brows eased, and then her shoulders sagged. “Look at me, lass. I’m not nobly born, and my lot in life is to serve you—’tis the best I can hope for. Would you ever see me lusting after the likes of Robert?”
That struck Enya as odd. “But you are so much older.”
“If I were young. Think on it.”
Enya studied her maid. The years had lined her face, but she was attractive under her grey wimple. Had Heather once found love? Enya had never thought to ask, but everyone deserved to find their mate. “Why not? If you loved him and he loved you.”
“Aye, that is a lovely dream, but ’tis not acceptable in noble society.”
Enya’s gut clenched. “My sisters and I have been used for trade like fine horses.”
“Unfortunately, that is the way of it.” Heather glanced toward the door. “I should report this to her ladyship.”
“No! You cannot.” Enya dropped to her knees and crawled to Heather’s s
kirts. “Please. Sir Bran did not take my innocence—it was he who said he would not ruin me, though I wanted nothing more.” A tear slipped from Enya’s eye and she kissed Heather’s hem. “Please, I beg of you—please do not go to Mother.”
Heather crossed herself again. “Dear Lord Jesus, forgive my folly. I never should have left you alone in the tent with him.” She pulled Enya up and embraced her. “Of all your sisters, you have been the most difficult—but you are also the most endearing. You love him, do you not?”
“Yes. More than anything.”
“You are foolish, but I remember being young once.” Heather held her at arm’s length. “I will hold my tongue because your knight has acted like a gentleman, as I would expect.”
“Thank you. Oh, Heather, I’ll do anything to repay your kindness.”
“First, you must promise never to see him again. If I find your bed empty, I shall have no choice but to alarm her ladyship. I could lose my position if she ever finds out I’ve kept something this grave from her.”
Enya averted her eyes and nodded. I could no sooner stay away from Sir Bran than I could stop breathing. But if I atoned to that fact, I would never see him again for certain.
Heather led her to the bed. “Rest, have a bit of sleep and I’ll wake you when ’tis time to dress.”
“Thank you.” Enya crawled beneath the bedclothes. “I shall not forget your kindness.”
“Always remember, a lady acts with discretion.” Heather snuffed the candles and slipped out the door.
Enya still had the panel in her hands. She ran her fingers across the ornate embroidery. She would find a way to give it to Bran. And she would find a way to lie in his arms even if only for one more night. She would lock the tenderness of his touch in her heart and prize it for all eternity.
***
Bran slept later than usual, though dawn was just bringing her light. His rendezvous with Enya had him tossing through the wee hours. God, she was so delectable, so full of life. This was the first time in his life he had regretted his lowly birth. Laird Calum had always treated him with respect—Bran had earned it through hard work and devout loyalty. Lord Ross was quite the opposite. All Bran represented to the baron was a sword for his army. That was bloody right. Ross invited the Hebride clans for a tournament to recruit fighting men. Why not put good fighting Highlanders in the front line so Ross’s clan would be spared?