by Paula Quinn
When his mouth found her, instinct made her try to close her legs. He held them apart and licked her, once, twice, and again, until she spread herself wider, inviting him to take his fill.
And he did.
He sucked softly, teasing her with his tongue, his teeth, his firm, unyielding lips. She writhed beneath him, groaning, wanting something more. She wanted him, full and heavy, atop her, inside her.
She couldn’t tell him. It was bad enough that she was panting. Her boldness mortified her, so she wiggled away from him.
He rose up on his knees again and gazed down at her with worry marring his brow. “What is it?”
“Take off your breeches.” Heavens, was that her own voice she heard leaving her lips? “I mean…”
His slight frown curled upward into a slow, sensual smile that promised wicked pleasures. He knelt over her, untying the strings at his abdomen, his eyes hungry and hooded on her. She watched just as hungrily while he pushed his breeches down over his hips. Her eyes widened and her heart accelerated when his cock sprang free, large and ready.
He kicked off his breeches and they fell in a heap beside the bed. He leaned down to kiss her, his body heavy and dominant on hers. He stroked her face with the backs of his fingers, smoothed her hair off her cheek, all while looking deep into her eyes, as if she were the most precious thing he’d ever possessed.
She loved the feel of him, the breadth of him. She bit her lip, a bit nervous, for she remembered the pain, but also the pleasure, of his thrusts.
He spoke to her while he spread her legs. He told her of his heart and how she had set it to beating again. He entered her slowly, methodically, careful with her.
She felt drunk with desire, hesitant, but then eager again, and lifted her legs to fit them snugly around his waist.
The room began to move as his thrusts deepened. He withdrew almost to the tip and sank deep inside her again and again, to the rhythm of her heart. She was careful not to claw at his back, and ran her palms down his bandaged sides to his buttocks. She held him, powerful and taut in her hands, while he moved. Pain and pleasure ebbed and flowed, tossing her to and fro. She pushed back, grinding her hips, pulling moans from his throat—and from her own.
“Cailean… I… I—”
Before she could finish, he sank to the bed and rolled her over. She looked down, surprised and delighted, at his smiling face and the feel of him under her.
She felt powerful and in control over every movement. Uncertain as to what she should do at first, she wriggled atop him. He groaned, lifting his head to kiss her breasts. With him still deep inside her, she began a dance that set his body to trembling. She rose up over the length of him and then down again, harder, faster, until the world turned red and orange and burst into flames.
She moved over him as if she were made of liquid, finding all the right angles to take him deepest, to make herself cry out in ecstasy.
When he cupped her bottom and arched to take her more fully, she almost wept with pleasure. She felt her muscles constricting, felt the rush of pure bliss washing over her. She looked at him and found his gleaming gaze on her, watching her. She forgot her name, but not his, and spoke it on a ragged series of breaths while they moved faster and found release in each other.
Later she lay coiled in his arms, held in his safe embrace. She kissed his chest and pressed her ear to it to hear the music of his uneven breath.
“Cailean?”
“Aye, love?”
“Do you think I’ll be a good mother?”
“Ye’ll be fearless, lass—exactly what our bairns need to grow strong and face whatever the world throws at them.”
“Our bairns,” she echoed dreamily. “What an adventure our lives are going to be.”
He stared into her eyes as if he meant to pour every bit of himself into her. The guileless quirk of his smile wrapped itself tight around her heart. When he spoke, every word was uttered with meaning, filling her with joy that she had him for another day.
“I intend to fill m’ days with ye, lass,” he promised on a whisper. “Ye will remain m’ first passion, but I warn ye, I have many.” He rose up on one elbow over her. “I think I shall write aboot ye. I will begin with yer lips.”
He stared at them and she laughed.
After that day laughter often filled the braes around Linavar.
Aye, laughter was what Cailean Grant had been missing in his life all along, that and Temperance in his arms, in his bed, and in his life forever.
And a cat. The hounds of Camlochlin might not have liked TamLin, but Cailean loved her well enough.
Patrick MacGregor’s content to fight his way through Scotland, spending his earnings on whisky and women. But when he stumbles upon a beautiful nymph bathing in the woods, he’s utterly captivated by her. Could this unrepentant rake finally be falling in love?
Please see the next page for a preview of the new book in Paula Quinn’s sinfully sexy MacGregors: Highland Heirs featuring Patrick MacGregor!
EARLY EIGHTEENTH CENTURY
SCOTLAND IN SUMMER
Chapter One
Ye’re undressing me with yer eyes, rogue.”
Patrick MacGregor slanted his mouth into an unrepentant, dimpled grin that made the serving wench’s hands tremble and the jug of ale she carried slosh and spill onto the floor. He reached out to capture her wrist in his fingers. She’d been teasing him all night with her swaying hips and veiled come-hither glances. He’d rather get himself a room and sleep for the next two days, but he wasn’t one to turn down a willing maiden.
Up for the game, he pulled her into his lap and plucked the jug from her hand without spilling a drop.
“Ye’re a wee bit behind, lass,” he told her, dipping his mouth to the jug and then her neck. “Ye’re already bare in m’ arms and I’m aboot to fill m’self with the sweet taste of ye.”
She giggled and nestled her rump deeper into his thighs. “I should slap ye fer yer boldness, stranger.”
“Aye.” He lifted his face from the folds of her hair and flicked his emerald gaze to hers. “Ye should.”
He liked the full dip of her lower lip and the promise of pleasure in her bonny blue eyes.
“What are we doing still sitting here, then?” she asked.
Hell, he didn’t have to be asked twice. He swigged his ale, wiped his mouth, and called to the tavern owner for a room.
“This isn’t a brothel,” the taverner blustered beneath his bushy brown mustache. “I run a respectable establishment.”
“Good thing.” Patrick rose from his chair with the lass in his arm and gave the taverner a pat on the shoulder with his free hand. “I’m certain this lovely lass would cost more coin than I carry.”
She lifted herself on the tips of her toes and whispered to Patrick that she had a room abovestairs and he should follow her.
He did, tossing the taverner a wink as he went.
On the way up the stairs, Patrick set his gaze on the wench’s well-rounded rump and thought of all the things he’d like to do with it. It didn’t startle him when he could think of only two. He’d fought twelve fights today. His muscles still ached with tension. He smiled at her when she turned, catching the direction of his gaze. Mayhap she’d understand if he changed his mind.
When they reached the second landing, she stopped, looped her arm through his, and leaned in close. “I’ve been thinking about how ye taste as well.”
He felt his cock stir to life. He’d been a fool to reconsider. “Lead the way.”
Inside her room he watched her run to her moldy-feathered bed and slip off her shoes. Hell, he wanted to sleep on something soft. Sleeping on his plaid in the grass stopped being pleasant after three hours with pebbles in his back. He undraped his plaid, discarded his coat, and pulled his léine over his head, groaning a little as he stretched and then tossed the shirt to the floor.
He heard a little sound escape her lips. He looked at her from beneath the inky sweeps of his lashes and fou
nd her gaze fastened to the thick muscles in his arms, his taut, rippling abdomen. He wondered if he could convince her to rub down his sore muscles with some oil.
“Don’t ye want to know my name?” she asked, tugging at the laces of her stays. She pulled them loose and her breasts spilled out.
“Nae,” he said, giving her a slow half smile while he moved toward her, unbuckling his belt. “’Tis less to ferget.”
She giggled and it struck him, as it always had, how most lasses didn’t mind his detachment—until after, which was why he tried not to remain in one place too long.
He pulled one leg out of his leather breeches and then stopped to think about what he was doing here.
He wanted sleep. He’d left Camlochlin with enough coin to last long until after he arrived at his uncle Cameron Fergusson’s Tarrick Hall. But women and whisky didn’t come cheap, and he’d stopped in almost every town for both while he traveled to Craigneil, using up his supply.
To earn coin to eat, drink, and be merry, he’d fought for the past sennight in competitions using his fists, and in tournaments with swords. He fought better than most, with or without a sword, well enough to earn enough tender to eat and sleep in the best inns. Usually he liked to enjoy the delicacy of a lass’s sheath tight around his shaft, her arms and legs coiled around him as if his body possessed the solution to all her cares. But it didn’t. It sure as hell didn’t help him with his. Lately he’d been less inclined to prove it to any of them.
He didn’t really want to be here. All his bravado belowstairs had just been his usual play of getting the gel. He was getting a bit tired of always being victorious. Hell, even fighting would soon grow dull if he won every match.
“Lass, I—”
She looked him over like a hungry cat and leaped at him. He laughed, catching her in his arms, and bent his head to brush his mouth over hers. If she wanted him this badly…
The tight little groan he pulled from her made his blood rush to his loins like liquid fire. He hauled her into his embrace, parting his lips and molding his hungry mouth to hers to devour her with leisurely demand.
She pushed him down on the bed and he smiled on the way, liking her boldness and her eagerness for him.
But hell, the bed felt good under him.
A knock came at the door. Patrick ignored it and continued kissing her. As he’d suspected, her lips were soft, yielding to his masterful tongue. Aye, he knew how to kiss a lass. He’d been doing it since he was a lad of thirteen summers, practicing the art almost as often as he practiced fighting.
The knock came again, harder than before. Patrick leaped from the bed and yanked his bare leg back into his breeches.
A kick followed, tearing the meager bolt away. The lass screamed at the giant figure of a man standing in the doorway.
“Unhand her before I rip the head from your shoulders.”
Patrick cast the wench a sour glance. The intruder was either her husband or her brother or some other damned guardian she’d failed to mention. He held up his palms to ward the brute off. He didn’t want to fight. He wasn’t sure if his strength would hold up.
“I’m certain we can—”
The brute didn’t care about talking and came at him swinging, giving Patrick no choice but to fight back.
Patrick ducked with ease and struck the first blow, and then the second. He quirked his mouth in a feral smile when he felt the ogre’s nose crack against his knuckles. All right, so he fought even better than he kissed.
Shaking off the pain of his broken nose, the man threw another punch, bringing a slight breeze close to Patrick’s face as he ducked again.
Coming back up, Patrick delivered a left to the beast’s guts and a right hooking strike to the jaw, and ended the combination with another fist to the belly.
Pain seemed only to enrage the brute further.
Patrick took a fist to the jaw that snapped his head back and loosened a tooth.
As he rolled the tip of his tongue over his teeth, Patrick’s eyes widened and turned a darker shade of green. This wouldn’t do. A broken, slightly crooked nose was one thing. A missing tooth would ruin his smile.
“Let’s talk aboot this.” He held his hands up again, but his opponent showed no mercy and rammed his fist into Patrick’s side.
Hell, he thought as he hunched over trying to catch his breath, the blow might have been a little low.
“Hamish, enough!” the lass cried out.
Paying her no heed, Hamish yanked him up by the collarbone.
Patrick had a dagger in his boot, but why kill a man when it was unnecessary? Instead he took the opportunity to land his left fist in the man’s face, followed by his right. Another man would have succumbed to Patrick’s onslaught, but not this bastard.
He answered Patrick with an uppercut to the chin that pulled the tips of Patrick’s boots off the ground and landed him on his arse.
Momentarily dazed, Patrick shook his head to clear it. Hamish was almost upon him. He rolled away and leaped back to his feet in time to see the lass lift a wooden jug over her head. Patrick grinned. It was just what he needed. He swiped it from her hands and, ignoring her cry of surprise, smashed the jug over Hamish’s head.
The ungainly oaf hit the floor with a crash that shook the walls. The lass hurried to him while Patrick watched. He knew the jug had been meant for his head. Thankfully, his reflexes were quick. He didn’t ask her who the man was or why he’d kicked the door in to get to her. Patrick didn’t care. He’d almost had a tooth knocked out and he hadn’t earned a shilling for it.
Women were trouble.
He stepped around the wench and her fallen hero and left the room to seek out one of his own, preferably with a clean bed.
The next day he traveled south toward the coastal town of Girvan. At night he drank and pulled laughing wenches into his lap. But what left Patrick with a heart that palpitated was the fact that he didn’t partake in the pleasures they offered. A month ago he would have enjoyed a different lass in every village. He would have stumbled with a pounding skull into the light each new morn. What had changed? Normally he wouldn’t have given it a second thought. Change was good. It helped one grow. But not this time.
Two villages behind he had tried to fight against his growing disinterest in bonny lasses by taking a lovely tavern wench with long fiery locks spilling around her freckled face to his newly rented room. He’d undressed her and then backed up to soak in the vision of her. Shockingly he’d felt very little, and had decided against bedding her at the last moment. He could no longer blame his sore body for his wilted condition. His wild, wanton ways had pricked his kin, and lately they’d been pricking him too. He didn’t know why. He didn’t want the kind of life most of his kin had chosen, with a wife, a few bairns, and a dog—or cat.
His lack of interest in marriage was something he’d often had to explain to his kin—his father most recently. He knew what was expected of him, but he liked his life the way it was, with no one to answer to, no one to be responsible for but himself. He didn’t want it to change.
At night, alone in the beds he’d paid for, he’d been examining his life more thoroughly. Being an outlawed MacGregor, he didn’t fear much. But love, ah, now there was a power he would confess scared the hell out of him. Love sought to change a man… and a woman. It snapped at freedom like the jaws of a determined viper. It expected much and demanded even more. If he were to fall in love, he’d have to be prepared to give up not only his heart but his soul as well. He’d seen its terrible power at work, stripping battle-hardened warriors of their convictions and their strength. Two of his cousins, Malcolm and Cailean, had recently given their lives over to love. Were they with him now on this grand adventure? Nae. They were concerned with their women and little else. He didn’t want to be accountable for someone else’s happiness. His own was enough.
But with each new day, the emptiness in his adventures, in his belly, grew like a hunger that wouldn’t be satisfied, making him beg
in to doubt his convictions.
But no more! Today, Patrick promised himself as he set his gaze on a flock of sheep scampering over the rolling hills, things would go back to the way they had been. He’d bed a bonny wench, drink too much whisky, and wake up his old self.
He reached the River Stinchar a short while later, when the afternoon sun formed golden flashes of light on the rippling surface—and on a goddess wetting her toes in the water, her skirts hiked up to her thighs.
Patrick wasn’t sure she was a mere lass. Playing in the glistening rivulets, she looked more like a self-indulgent forest fairy lit up by the sun. She didn’t wear layers of heavy wool, or even a jacket or arisaid, but a gown of billowing blue linen with threads of silver sewn in around the neck and sleeves. She spun in a circle with joy in the day, her skirts flaring slightly at her hips, the fabric thin enough to expose the silhouette of her long, shapely legs. He watched, forgetting to breathe, as her raven locks fanned out around her, a crown of daisies upon her brow.
Had he happened upon something otherworldly, sent to seduce men to sin with her large, dark, feline eyes and dainty ankles?
He watched her skipping over the water as if it were a veil in the summer breeze. His heart leaped at the sight of her lost in her own reverie, freedom personified.
His sister would have scolded him for spying on the nymph unseen. He almost laughed, giving away his position. She was made of mystery and whimsy, of daisies and darkness. How could he not stare at her? A tiny, nagging voice—likely from one of Kate MacGregor’s books on knightly behavior—compelled him to make his presence known, but Patrick decided against it. He’d left Camlochlin to escape those notions his kin, his father especially, lived by so steadfastly. The lass stirred his blood and made his muscles tighten. Honor would deny his desire, rebuke it. He didn’t want to live a life dictated by commitments and duty. That’s why he’d never let himself fall in love.
He never would.
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