The MacGowan Betrothal

by Lois Greiman

  “Aye,” Isobel breathed.

  Her body sighed. It’s about bloody time.

  Chapter 16

  She didn’t know how her nightrail disappeared. It was simply gone, slipped over her head or under her feet, or perhaps disintegrating like mist in the sunlight, but whatever the case, she was naked. Absolutely and totally naked with her senses still sending up a wailing litany about nonsense and need and…

  She was in the water before she realized it. It rose up her thighs, touched her navel and swelled like magic over her breasts. Candlelight shimmered off the water’s dark surface.

  “Isobel.” He breathed her name like a prayer and touching a finger to her lips, traced a wet trail over her chin and downward. She shivered. “You are beautiful beyond words.”

  “Am I?” she asked. She tried to sound distant, for of course he told every woman that, and yet she found that she longed to believe.

  “Let us make this pact,” he said. “For this short span of time, we shall tell each other naught but truth.”

  She watched him.

  “No lies shall pass me own lips, and none shall pass yours. Can you do that?” he asked.

  “I am not the one who tends to lie.”

  His hand smoothed over her shoulder and down her arm, pulling her closer. “So you will have no trouble telling the truth?”

  “Nay,” she lied.

  “Then tell me this, lass, do you find me unappealing?”

  They were close now, close enough for her to feel the warmth of his body. Somehow, his legs, bent at the knee, cradled one of her own, and slowly, like the sweep of the sun, he pressed his hand down her spine. She arched toward him, and he kissed her throat.

  “Isobel?”

  “Unappealing?” She licked her lips and tried to hear the voice of her good sense. It was damnably faint, but she thought she could just discern its wail of dismay, as if it came from a thousand leagues away.

  “Aye, lass,” he said and kissed her shoulder. “When you look at me, do you feel a longing to touch me?”

  “I am not the type to—” she began, but he pulled back slightly so that he could look into her face. Her words faltered. “You are a bonny man, MacGowan,” she admitted. “That you know.”

  To her surprise, he didn’t smile. And indeed, it seemed almost that in this sober mood, he was more beautiful than ever.

  “I know that some like the look of me,” he said. “But that is not what I asked.”

  His fingers trickled down the curve of her spine, then cupped and smoothed ever so slowly over her buttocks.

  “I asked your feelings Bel. Have you a desire to touch me?”

  Although she listened, she could not even hear a whisper of caution.

  “Aye,” she murmured. “I am not beyond the effects of your charm.”

  “Then why do you hold yourself back?” he asked and smoothed his hand along the underside of her thigh. His other hand had joined the assault and gently stroked her hair back from her face.

  “Is it still truth you want?” she asked.

  “Aye.”

  “I hold back because you would do me no good. A moment of pleasure mayhap. No more.”

  “A moment?” He kissed her where his fingers had swept her hair away from her ear, then the corner of her mouth. “Methinks I have given you more than that already.”

  She raised a hand, but whether it was to fend him off, or pull him near, she was unsure. “You know just what I mean.”

  His fingers found her chin, and tilting his head slightly, he kissed her lips with agonizing softness. “You mean that I would use your tender body and leave you for another.” His lips were so close she could feel the brush of his words against her mouth.

  “Aye,” she said, barely able to force out that single word. “That is exactly what I mean.”

  “And yet I wonder; if I had you once could I ever let you go?” he asked and trailed his fingers with languid tenderness between her breasts.

  “You have no choice,” she breathed.

  “Because you would not have me or because you would not let me go?”

  “I would not—” she began, but his kisses had slipped down her chest, and in that moment his tongue touched her nipple.

  “MacGowan!” she hissed.

  He lifted his head with slow reverence. “What were you about to say, Bel?”

  With one hand, he now held her astride his thigh, so that her bottom was pressed tight to that powerful muscle. When he shifted, the muscle danced, and she closed her eyes and pushed unconsciously against it. Pleasure swept through her and she realized with mind numbing surprise that he had begun a rhythmic stroking from the small of her back to the curve of her bottom.

  He kissed her mouth. His tongue touched her lips and she opened for him, hungry, nay, starving for his kiss. There was nothing between them, not the merest space. His chest felt hard against her breasts. Beneath her, his thigh shifted with power, and along the flat of her belly, his cock stretched up like a ancient symbol of fertility, pulsing with power.

  It was that portion of him wherein lay the danger. She pressed shakily against his chest, managing only to push herself a few scant inches from him.

  “MacGowan…” she was breathing foolishly hard.

  “Aye lass?” he said and kneaded her bottom.

  She closed her eyes and quivered against him. “You made a vow.”

  “And I’ve done naught to break it,” he said and kneaded again.

  She writhed against him, seeming unable to stop the crush of her body against his.

  “Have I now, lass?” he asked and slipping his hand sideways, skimmed a finger up the crease of her buttocks.

  She gritted her teeth and bucked against him, but he had ceased all motion.

  “Have I?” he repeated.

  She groggily opened her eyes, then let her gaze skim down his torso. Her fingers were spread across his chest, and his nipple, peaked and dark, poked from between them. She licked her lips, and lowering her head, lapped her tongue across the summit. He gasped a sharp breath through his teeth and she raised her head to watch him before licking him again.

  His erection spasmed with life against the heat of her flesh, and though she meant to tease, she found that she too could not help but grit her teeth and fight for control. It came after a shuddering moment and then she slipped her hand down the undulating length of his belly. He sucked in his breath, and glancing down she could not help but notice that her knee was lodged firmly against the apex of his body, cradling his balls like precious jewels against her leg.

  Mesmerized, she slipped her hand lower. He was holding his breath, she noticed, and yet that did not seem so fascinating compared to other things. Another inch and her fingers closed around him and tightened.

  He groaned, and glancing up, she noticed that his head had fallen back against the towel. She couldn’t help but kiss his throat, couldn’t help but stroke her fist up his hard length, couldn’t help but feel a spasm of her own tight need. She stroked again then found his nipple with her teeth.

  His body jerked against hers and suddenly he was atop her, pressing her back against the heavy metal. Water splashed about them as she braced her weight back upon her hands. His cock, hard and broad, bumped with heated urgency against her swollen bottom, and she remained still, breathlessly awaiting the thrust. Planted beside her torso, his arms quivered.

  “Lass,” he whispered. “I think mayhap I have overtaxed meself.”

  “Wh-what?” she panted.

  For one quavering instant, she felt him thrust forward, but then he pulled back and lurched to his feet.

  Water dripped from him, running in rivulets down his belly to fall like raindrops between his thighs. She watched their progress then leaned impulsively forward.

  He stumbled backward, nearly falling out of the tub.

  Reality streamed abruptly into Isobel’s brain. Snatching up a nearby towel, she pulled it to her chest and rose on shaky legs.

&nb
sp; Retreating from the tub was ridiculously difficult, but she managed somehow and turned away with frantic haste, blindly searching for her nightgown, or possibly a hole in which to hide.

  “Isobel.” His voice traveled up her spine, quivering at the back of her neck. “I am sorry.”

  “Sorry?” She turned as one in a trance, still holding the towel before her, draped ineffectually between her breasts.

  “I am recovered now.”

  “Recovered?” She was mimicking his words like a festival parrot, and yet she could do naught else, for when her gaze fell lower she could see every inch of his manhood. It stood like an impatient soldier against the hard packed muscle of his belly and throbbed as if in agony.

  ” ‘Twas not me intent to be rude. But if I am to keep me vow…” He shrugged, making the muscles of his perfect body dance. Firelight flickered off every damp inch.

  Isobel swallowed.

  “Mayhap you should find your bed.”

  She raised her gaze to his face. “What?”

  “I am usually quite controlled.”

  She nodded in mute agreement.

  “Me apologies,” he said and stepped forward.

  She stumbled back as if just awakened. ” ‘Tis quite…” She had no idea what she was saying. ” ‘Tis quite all right.”

  “Here.” Turning slightly, he bent. Firelight gleamed off the bunched muscle of his buttocks and between his thighs. His testicles bulged into view. “Isobel…”

  She realized a bit belatedly that he was speaking and pulled her gaze to his face with hard won discipline.

  His voice was hoarse. “Your gown.”

  She reached for it. Truly she did, but when their fingers touched, her body moved in and she kissed him.

  Feelings sizzled like lightning across her lips, and suddenly she was pressed up against him, needy and wet. He kissed her back. There was no longer tenderness, but passion, fierce and wild, and suddenly she was on the bed, pinned beneath his weight.

  She knew she should struggle. Should scream, for if she did, rescuers would come. But… damn the rescuers! His kisses left her lips, blazing a hot trail down her throat and stopping at her breast. She held her breath as he cupped it in his hand, and then he took her nipple in his mouth and suckled.

  She did scream then, but softly as if she were dying. His penis nudged between her thighs, slipping against her wetness. Her moan echoed his, but in that moment she felt his muscles harden with control. His hands slipped to her waist and then he turned, rolling beneath her until she was planted atop him, straddling his thigh.

  She groaned and contracted against his strength. He bent his leg, aiding in her cause, and she bucked against it as his mouth found her nipple again.

  Feelings sizzled through her. Heat consumed her, and her head dropped back as she pressed again and again against him. There was nothing else in the universe now except the feeling, the crescendo of sensations that wracked her body until the world exploded in a blaze of colors and she fell limp and sated atop him.

  She was sweating, breathing hard, lifeless, with her hand lying against the firm skin of his chest.

  Sated, she was sated, she reminded herself, but the sight of his nipple drew her hand and she slipped her fingers over it.

  Gilmour jerked beneath her as he caught her wrist.

  Blinking, she pulled her gaze to his.

  “Lass.” His voice was low, almost threatening. “I have fulfilled me own part of the bargain. I would not press on if I were you.”

  But he was beautiful, so bonny of face and form that she could not help but smile. “It seems to me I have already pressed on, MacGowan,” she said and turning her face just so, kissed his opposite nipple.

  He clenched his teeth and squeezed his eyes closed. Every lovely muscle hardened like granite beneath her, and between her legs she felt that now familiar ache. Shifting slightly, she felt the brush of his balls against her thigh.

  “What are you about, lass?” His words were little more than a growl, and she raised her gaze to his once again.

  “Whatever do you mean?”

  Gone was his ever present smile. Indeed, his expression looked as hard as his lovely body.

  “I mean, what is your intent?”

  ” ‘Tis naught,” she said and slipping her hand from bondage, skimmed it onto his chest again. ” ‘Twas it not you who said one can enjoy without consuming?” His was a phenomenally lovely chest. She trailed a finger across it then lower, over the hillocks of his belly and onto his pulsing penis.

  He sucked air between his teeth, and her wrist was caught again.

  “What is it you want?” he growled.

  She smiled into his strained expression. “What do you want?”

  His muscles relaxed the merest degree. “I never thought you to have such a short memory.”

  “How so?” His lips were very full, his lashes ungodly long.

  He growled, “Do you forget that you promised the truth?”

  “Oh.” In fact, she had forgotten most everything. “Nay, I remember,” she said and tried to wriggle her wrist free.

  “Then tell me truly, Bel, did I not satisfy you?”

  Satisfy? She skimmed her gaze down his chest and lower. Between her legs she felt wet and warm and heavy and sated, but still, he was naked and…

  “Bel!” He wrenched her attention back to his lips. Such nice lips. “Did you enjoy it or nay?”

  “Aye.” She said the word like a sigh.

  “Then why…”

  “Is it so unheard of to want to feel it again, MacGowan?” she whispered.

  “This quickly? Aye. ‘Tis unheard of.”

  She raised herself on an elbow, relinquishing control of her wrist, which he still held in a steely clasp. “I do not believe you,” she said. “Surely in all your experience you have found a woman who wants it more than once a night,” she said and brushed her thigh, light as moon shadows over his crotch.

  He dropped her wrist, but before she could take advantage of the situation, he had grabbed her about the waist and swung her to her feet. He was beside her in a moment and prodding her away from the bed, but she refused to budge, so he bent, and, throwing an arm behind her knees, he lifted her into his arms and bore her toward the door. Somehow he managed to wrench it open without dropping her, and suddenly she was in the hallway… stark naked.

  Her jaw dropped. “I cannot go without me—”

  Her nightrail appeared from nowhere and was snapped over her head, binding her arms by her sides.

  His teeth were clenched, his body framed to perfection in the opening of the door as he spoke. “Fair warning. Next time you touch me, there will be no vows,” he said and closed the door on her bemused expression.

  Chapter 17

  Isobel pivoted numbly toward her bedchamber.

  “M’ enfant.”

  Bel jumped then turned, shoving her arms hastily through her sleeves as she did so. “Lady Madelaine.”

  “Belva, dear. Polly said I might find you here.”

  Her lips moved. Heat brushed her face as memories smote her. What the devil had gotten into her? Not MacGowan that was certain, no matter how big a fool she had made of herself. But then, it was certainly her duty to learn if his word could be trusted. ‘Twas surely the only reason she had acted so—

  “Belva?” Madelaine said.

  “Oh! Aye. I thought I might… look in on MacGowan.”

  “Ahhh. And how does he look this eve?”

  “Fine.”

  Madelaine laughed. “I thought he might,” she said, and slipping her arm beneath Isobel’s, steered her down the hall. “And did you bed him?”

  “What?” She reared back as if struck. “Nay, of course not.”

  They turned in tandem into a small sitting room.

  “Mayhap I should make myself more clear,” Madelaine said and dropping Isobel’s arm, crossed the room to pour two draughts of wine from a round bottomed bottle. “I meant, did you make love to him.” />
  Again Isobel’s lips moved while her mind tried valiantly to race along behind. “N… nay.” Technically, that may well be true. She had no way of knowing and no wish to find out.

  Madelaine took a sip of her wine. “May I ask why?”

  “Me lady.” Was she panting? “You have been naught but good to me… those months I was in your household as well as now, and I have nothing but the highest respect for you, but I am not the sort to…” Hot memories bombarded her, heating her face. “That is to say—”

  “Do you mean to tell me that you are still a virgin, Belva?”

  Isobel winced. “Mayhap.”

  Madelaine laughed and urged the other to drink. “Whatever for?”

  The wine soothed Isobel a bit. She exhaled gently and took another sip. “Surely I am not the first virgin you have met, me lady.”

  “Nay, if memory serves, even I was a virgin once upon a time. But the truth is, Belva, you are no babe any longer. Neither are you a great lady who is much in demand on the marriage mart. Indeed, besides your skills in the kitchen, which are admittedly vast, you have little to show for your life. So why deprive yourself of the pleasure a companion could give you?”

  “Do you not believe fornication to be a sin?” Please say no.

  Lady Madelaine shrugged. “Is your God the type to create something pleasurable only to punish you for enjoying it?”

  Isobel might have answered if she’d been able to think, but her experience with MacGowan seemed to have driven any semblance of sense straight out of her head.

  “I have known many folk who enjoy each other well but never marry. Then there are those who are wed at home, or in fields or even, and I can attest to this…” Madelaine said, slanting an uneven glance at Isobel. “Some are wed in the marriage bed itself. Some are virginal, some are not so, and some wait until well after the birth of their first enfant before their vows are spoken. Others barely meet before they are marched before their partners and wed while scores of grand folk look on. They are bound together in great cathedrals with bejeweled guests and fine wine.

  “And yet it seems that the latter group is no more content than the first. Neither are they more blessed, for many who share a bed outside the bonds of wedlock truly cherish each other, while those bound before God and man spend their days detesting their spouses. Which couple, do you think, is the Lord more pleased with, the ones with vows truly spoken who despise one another, or the ones who did not exchange the vows yet honor each other in word and deed?”