Noiselessly she glided across the floor to sit before the fire. She pulled
the brush through her hair until it was free of tangles, then set it aside.
Tugging it over her shoulder, with her fingers she started to separate it into
three long ropes.
Only then did he speak. "Leave it," he said quietly.
Puzzled, Sabrina turned to gaze at him questioningly.
He smiled slightly. "Your hair is lovely, sweet. 'Tis a shame to see it
plaited and bound."
Sweet
. Her heart squeezed painfully. 'Twas the first time he'd
called her thusly. Did he mean it? Or was it but a slip of the tongue—an
endearment spoken in idle remark…
Spoken… but not from the heart.
He extended a hand. "Come here."
"In a moment." She dallied overlong, spreading the glowing embers with a
poker, throwing a chunk of wood onto the fire and watching the sizzle of sparks
spray upward.
"Sabrina." There was that in his tone which bespoke a subtle warning.
Hauling in a fortifying breath, she went, on legs that weren't entirely
steady.
As she reached the bedside, strong fingers closed around hers, drawing her
down upon the bed. Sabrina could not help it. She stared in fascination at the
hand which imprisoned hers, resting there upon her thigh. His fingers were so
much bigger than her own, lean and dark and supple. She recalled anew the
tauntingly erotic play of those long fingers around the tips of her breasts, the
hollow of her belly, and aye—there at the joinder of her thighs, the place that
even now grew warm and tingly in remembrance.
"Now then. You will not sleep upon that wretched pallet again."
It was an order, as arrogant and imperious as ever.
Her eyes flashed up to his. She bristled. "And where am I to sleep,
then?"
"Where else would you sleep but with your husband?"
"But your shoulder—"
"—is doing quite well, thanks to your care. And indeed"—his smile was
brazen—"I will rest much better with my wife beside me."
Her tone was stem. "Ian, you are in no condition to… to… " To her horror, she
grew flustered, unable to put into words the act that even now loomed high aloft
in her mind.
"To what?" His expression was innocence itself.
Oh, but he was horrid to do this to her! "To—to partake of… of any
pleasure!"
There was a devil's glint in those crystalline eyes. "And what pleasure might
that be, lass?" He trailed a finger down her bare arm, sending shivers of
delight all through her.
"The pleasures of the flesh!" she blurted.
"Ah, but would the pleasure be all mine?" His gaze now dwelled on her lips.
His voice grew as soft as thistle-down. "Would it, sweet?"
Sabrina's heart was thudding so hard she feared it would crash through her
chest at any moment. "You know it would not," she said helplessly.
His eyes darkened. "Lie with me."
She inhaled sharply. He pressed a finger against the fullness of her lips.
"Nay, not in the way that you think. I would hold you, sweet. I promise, that is
all."
Sabrina was helpless against such tender persuasion. She slipped into bed
beside him, careful not to jostle him, nestling herself against his hard length.
His arm came around her and she pillowed her head against the smooth hollow of
his shoulder.
For a long time there was no sound in the room but the crackle and hiss of
the fire. Her tresses streamed across the width of his chest. With his free hand
he lifted a ribbon of hair and brought it to his lips.
"Beautiful," he murmured again.
Sabrina flushed self-consciously. "When I was young," she said softly, "I
used to wish for smooth, golden hair like Margaret's—hair the color of wheat. I
remember once," she confided, "before you came to foster with us, I took the
shears and cut it. Margaret laughed. Papa was furious. But I—I thought it might
grow back like Margaret's."
His arm tightened. "I am glad it did not. I much prefer yours. 'Tis like
living fire." He was silent for a moment. "You need not compare yourself with
Margaret. You are as fair as she. Don't you know that?"
Sabrina had gone very quiet. "But Papa—"
"—was blind to your beauty," he finished almost harshly. "All he could see
was Margaret."
Despite his praise, a squall of uncertainty blustered in her chest. "Alasdair
said"—her voice was very small—"that Fionna was very beautiful."
At the mention of Fionna, she felt the sudden tension that invaded him. She
thought he might refuse to answer. Instead he said gruffly, "Aye. She was."
Despair like a clamp seized her heart. No wonder he'd been smitten with
her.
She didn't realize she'd spoken aloud until he gave a bitter laugh. "Smitten?
Hardly. Though I've no doubt Fionna believed every man was smitten with
her."
"So you did not… love her?"
"Nay!"
His vehemence was convincing… almost. "And you did not marry me because I- I
resemble her?" She held her breath and waited.
His fingers caught at her chin and brought her eyes to his. "As I recall, you
are of a size with Fionna and she had hair of flame, but the resemblance ends
there—despite what Uncle may say, I do not think you look like her. For you see,
Sabrina, her beauty was deadly, her charm poison. My father knew not that she
betrayed him with other men. He loved her, but I most assuredly did not. I found
her selfish and vain. In short, Sabrina, she was a witch, and if I thought you
were anything like her, I would never have married you."
Sabrina bit her lip. She wanted desperately to believe him. And yet…"But you
thought I lay with Jamie."
"That I did."
"Yet still you married me."
"Aye. Because I wanted you, Sabrina. I wanted you then, and I want you now.
That is something that will never change."
A gossamer tendril of hope curled within her. “Truly?”
A rakish brow arose. "Do you doubt me, lass?"
It was then she realized… it was not him she doubted, but herself. Her
ability to hold him, to believe that he might truly want her for herself…
“Nay,” she whispered, and knew it for the truth.
"Good. Nonetheless, I'm not averse to a bit of persuasion."
Though she protested anew that he was ill, he kissed away her protests. Her
doubts… and her fears. He kissed her, long and lingeringly, as if he were
starving—as indeed he was. He kissed her again and again until her arms crept
around his neck and she yielded all he sought with a tiny little moan of
surrender. Reluctantly he broke away, resting his forehead against hers.
His fingers fell to the hem of her gown. “Might we do away with this?" he
whispered. "I would hold you—all of you."
His meaning did not go unheralded. She sat up and whisked the bed-gown over
her head. It fluttered to the floor, forgotten, as he raised himself on an
elbow. Greedily he charted the unblemished flesh that lay open to his gaze.
Though she pinkened to the roots of her hair, she did not stop him from looking
his fill. Though his loins felt near to bursting, Ian would not go against his
word. Besides, he sensed that she was exhausted from her care of him.
Pulling her to his uninjured side, he kissed her forehead and bid her good
night.
But sleep did not come immediately. He held her within his embrace, enjoying
the rise and fall of her breasts against his ribs, the trickle of her breath
across his bare chest.
She was not so unaware of him as she would pretend, he decided—and aye, as he
had been convinced. These past few days had told the tale only too well.
He recalled the delicate sweep of a hand on his brow. The way she twitched
the sheet into place just so. The gentleness with which she changed his
bandages. He envisioned anew the tears that shone brilliant in her eyes when
he'd first awakened; her smile, watery but blindingly sweet.
A fierce swell of contentment rose like a tide within him. It was more than
just the pleasure she brought to him in his bed, though she stirred him as no
other woman had… as no other woman
would.
It was more than the fire lit
in his loins, the fire in his heart. He'd sensed her apprehension at coming to
his castle and assuming the role of wife. But she faced all with a brave
determination that earned his admiration, and aye, his respect. Oh, she was
still feisty as ever, for she was a woman of spirit and pride, a woman of
strength.
And she was his.
His
.
There was a newfound peace between them in the sennight that followed. His
recovery was swift, for he was young and well-conditioned. His left shoulder was
a trifle stiff, but he knew it would pass.
One morning he announced his intention to spend the day fishing. She startled
him by asking if she might accompany him.
" 'Tis an arduous climb," he told her, "too rocky for horses."
Her chin tipped, as he'd known it would.
"I am up to it," she declared staunchly.
He smothered a smile, for he'd known that would be her reply.
They set out. Silence settled between them, but it was not an uncomfortable
silence. In many places the path upward to the mountain loch was narrow
and twisting; they could not walk side by side. Sabrina followed behind,
lithe and sure-footed. She slipped once, sending a shower of rocks down the
cavernous slope. Ian turned immediately and caught hold of her hand, bringing
her to his side.
"I am fine," she said breathlessly.
"Good. 'Tis not far now."
Ever mindful of her safety, he slowed his pace a bit. As he predicted, it
wasn't long before the pathway delivered them to their destination.
A small loch lay nestled in a tiny meadow just below the ledge where they
stood. Sapphire waters glistened smoothly. High above, wheeling shafts of
sunlight chased away the low-hanging clouds, bouncing off the craggy peaks that
loomed in the distance. There was no fog to mar the beauty of the granite
mountains, austere and barren though they were, and indeed, it was a sight that
never failed to move him deeply.
Beside him, Sabrina caught her breath.
He turned. Did she feel what he did, this—this oneness with the land? He
wanted her to, he realized. He wanted it quite badly.
He eyed her closely. " 'Tis not like Dunlevy Glen, is it?
“Nay." She gazed off where earth and sky seemed to meet and meld. " 'Tis just
as beautiful," she mused softly, "though in a very different way."
His chest filled with pride. Her answer pleased him—it pleased him mightily.
"Come," he said, reaching for her hand.
Together they descended to the shores of the loch. Ian spread a blanket to
blot out the cold from the mossy embankment, and it was there they sat. The next
hour was spent lazily fishing.
After a time, Sabrina plucked her long sapling pole from the waters and laid
it aside. To whit, neither of them had any luck in catching the loch's
residents.
Ian felt her gaze touch on his bare legs beneath his kilt.
"Are you not cold?" she ventured after a bit.
"Aye. Come warm me, wench."
He dropped his pole and reached for her. She evaded his hands and leaped
lightly to her feet.
"I'm famished," she announced.
"So am I"
She ignored his leer and marched over to the pouch that contained their
noonday meal. Ian sighed and moved to join her. She tore off a tidbit of the
roast lamb they'd supped on last eve and offered it to him.
He did not pluck it from her hand. Instead he curled his fingers around her
wrist and brought her hand to his lips, taking the tidbit in this way. His mouth
closed around her fingers, clear to her knuckles, sucking the last bit of
succulent juice from her skin.
Her eyes widened. "A tasty morsel, I see." Her voice was as unsteady as his
heart.
"Indeed," he murmured. But now his gaze was on her lips. A floodtide of
desire shot through him. He ached to plunder the velvet softness of her mouth.
He leaned closer, inhaling the fragrance of her hair. She wore no coif, nor had
she confined her honeyed tresses in the braid she usually wore. It was loose and
unbound, tumbling over her shoulders and down her back. Had she worn it thusly
for him?
He reached for her, and this time she did not dance away. Pulling her
close, he availed himself of lips sweetly upturned to his, seeking the moist
interior of her mouth with the eager glide of his tongue, glorying in the
unguarded innocence of her offering. She tasted of honey and roses—of breathless
surrender—and all at once his loins surged. He kissed the curve of her cheek,
the tender place below her jaw where her pulse thrummed wildly, before returning
to smile against her lips.
"More than a morsel," he whispered suggestively. "I daresay, a veritable
feast."
He loved the way her eyes opened, heavy-lidded and smoky, to gaze straight
into his. The tip of her tongue carne out to moisten her lips.
"Ian," she said faintly. "The others will be disappointed if we fail to catch
our supper."
"To the devil with the others." He shifted so she could feel the pulsing
steel between his legs.
She blinked. "Ian," she gasped.
His laugh was husky. "Why so reluctant, sweet? I was not wounded there." Her
nearness heated his blood to boiling. He kissed her again, letting her feel the
throb of his manhood. But when he started to press her back, she brought her
fingers to his lips.
"Nay," she said with a tiny shake of her head. "Let me."
She set her palm to his chest, pushing him back slightly. He leaned back,
long legs outstretched before him, the bulk of his weight braced on his
hands.
Her green eyes shone with a faintly teasing gleam. "You cannot touch, Ian.
Remember that, my Highland prince.
Ian's heart began to thud. Waiting, anxious, a trifle puzzled, he allowed her
to do what she would, for this was a side of her he'd yet to see.
Lifting her skirts, she straddled his body. Then her hands were on the hem of
his kilt… her furrowed cove brushed his rigid shaft. He inhaled sharply, feeling
near to bursting the constraints of his flesh.