Claire Delacroix (11 page)

Then those hands lifted her high. Morgan’s mouth went dry as Alasdair let her slide slowly down the length of him until they stood toe to toe. His hand still rested proprietarily on her waist and his gaze blazed into hers. She barely dared to breathe as she stared up at her self-appointed protector and felt his thumbs tracing little circles on her back.

Morgan was fully aware of his erection. If she’d had any doubt of what she’d felt, she had none now. His hardness pressed against her stomach as though there wasn’t all this clothing between them.

And the glint in Alasdair’s eyes was unabashedly sensual.

Nothing else could have fired her blood like the evidence of Alasdair’s arousal. Matt’s continued pursuit of other women – and his avoidance of intimacy with his wife – had left a deep scar in Morgan’s belief in her own attractiveness.

To have this aggressively masculine man desire her was a siren’s call Morgan couldn’t ignore.

But Alasdair was waiting. And when Morgan looked deeply into his eyes, she understood why.

He was waiting for her to decide how to proceed. Morgan knew not only that Alasdair wanted her but that she could push him away with one fingertip.

And if she did, he would go.

Just having the choice made Morgan want to choose otherwise. She eyed his firm lips and wondered...

It had to be the glass of wine she’d had with dinner.

Or maybe it was the adrenaline rush of barely escaping a mugging.

But the truth was that Morgan didn’t care. She wanted to kiss Alasdair, just once, just a little kiss, just because she had the choice.

Maybe not such a little kiss.

Right here, right now, she had the perfect excuse.

Alasdair’s grip tightened ever so slightly on Morgan’s waist. “You are not going to be so foolish as to run off again, are you?” he demanded, his fair brows bristling. “You may be sure that I shall see you safely to your abode.”

Morgan could smell Alasdair’s scent, and her toes curled inside her mutilated shoes.

“No.” Her voice was no more than a whisper. She was vaguely aware of catcalls and whistles around them, but couldn’t have cared less about anything beyond this man.

Alasdair arched a brow. “Promise?”

The “r” rumbled in his chest, the vibration startling against Morgan’s breasts. She felt her nipples tighten as her imagination concocted what she could have expected if she had been Alasdair’s woman.

How would he kiss?

“Promise,” she agreed, breathless.

Alasdair smiled then and lifted one hand to gently touch her cheek. “Are you unharmed by those ruffians, then, my lady? Hale and hearty?”

His protective concern was the icing on the cake. No one other than Justine and Auntie Gillian had ever been so concerned for Morgan’s welfare. Certainly, no one had ever saved her from thugs.

“Yes.” Her voice was breathy, like some silver screen movie star. “I’m just fine.”

“Good.” Alasdair nodded emphatically and started to step away.

It was Morgan’s last chance.

Before she could lose her nerve, she stretched to her toes. Alasdair froze, obviously uncertain of what she meant to do. Morgan paused, a finger’s breath from his firm lips and looked into those blue, blue eyes.

“Thank you,” she whispered, then kissed him.

Morgan had been thinking of just brushing her lips across his, sort of a sisterly buss of affection, but Alasdair evidently had different ideas. He stiffened for just a moment, as though surprised, then made a quick recovery. He angled his mouth across Morgan’s and lifted her against him.

Possessive, passionate and powerful.

Perfect.

Some of that tentativeness lingered in in his touch, reassuring Morgan that she could rebuff him – if she wanted to. She melted at that certainty and wound her arms around his neck.

And he deepened his kiss.

Morgan’s imagination hadn’t begun to do Alasdair’s kiss justice.

Her eyes closed in pleasure as Alasdair’s one hand cupped her buttock and the other cradled her shoulder. Her lips parted of their own accord, and the sleek heat of Alasdair’s tongue slid between her teeth.

The whistles Morgan had heard earlier were nothing compared to the ones echoing around them now.

But Alasdair tasted so good that she didn’t care. Her arms twined around his sturdy neck, her fingers taking note of the muscled strength of his shoulders before tangling in the thick hair at his nape. Morgan could feel the thunder of his heart against her own as his kiss became more demanding.

Alasdair wanted her.
Her
. Morgan’s skin heated, and the tingle of desire in her belly grew to a roar. She wanted to wrap her legs around Alasdair and drag him back to her lair.

And ravish him all night long. Alasdair had unlocked a barricaded door, setting ten years of pent-up desire free.

Morgan didn’t want to cage it again.

Alasdair must have been thinking along the same lines. He lifted his lips from hers, and his sapphire gaze clung to hers for an electric moment.

Then he swung her up into his arms and began to stride through the crowd.

And Morgan had a moment to think.

What on earth was she doing?

How could she have forgotten what Alasdair had done?

* * *

Chapter Five

The sorceress changed mood faster than an autumn sky. No sooner had Alasdair acknowledged the not-unpleasant feeling of having her nestled in his arms, than she twisted and fought his grip like a wild thing.

“Put me down!” she demanded.

Only then did Alasdair realize his own foolhardiness. He had lost himself in Morgaine le Fee’s kiss! He was seven kinds of fool to be so careless with his own fate.

The enchantress did not need to repeat her request. Alasdair dumped her on her feet without ceremony and backed away. He wiped the taste of her kiss from his burning lips with the back of his hand and surveyed her warily.

What witchery had she cast over him?

Morgaine looked as distressed as Alasdair felt. Her cheeks were flushed in a most attractive way; her eyes were flashing; her hair was tangled.

And her lips were temptingly swollen. Anger rose hot within Alasdair that he had been so readily tricked.

“How dare you touch me?”

“I touch
you
?” Alasdair retorted. “You were the one as pressed yourself upon me!”

“You were the one who took more than was offered!” the lady fired back, shaking an indignant finger. “I was only going to give you a peck of appreciation....”

Alasdair folded his arms across his chest and glowered at her. He refused to think about the fire this one would start when she
meant
to kiss a man soundly. “That was no peck, my lady.”

“It certainly wasn’t!” She glared back at him, so full of vigor that Alasdair was tempted to repeat the exchange.

Even if his better judgment demanded he keep her at arm’s length. Alasdair fought against his desire and slowly got his pulse under control.

His gallant words were forced through gritted teeth. “Clearly, ’Twas no more at work than the fright we both had have.”

Morgaine looked as though she would have argued that point, then she nodded vehement agreement.

Alasdair wondered only for a moment whether she had deliberately been testing her allure. Then, he shook such whimsy from his mind and offered Morgaine his elbow, his manner as coolly impersonal as he could make it. “My lady? I would accompany you to your abode.”

“You will not!” she snapped and danced backward. She tossed her hair like a flighty filly. “I can find my way there alone, thank you.”

Did the woman have so short a memory as that? Alasdair folded his arms across his chest and knew his skepticism showed. “Aye, you were doing a fine job of it when I last came along.”

The lady flushed crimson and Alasdair’s anger melted to naught.

“I gave my word to Blake,” he added gently when she seemed at a loss for words. “And I would see it kept.”

Morgaine stared at him for a long moment. “How do I know you don’t want to hurt me? You said you want the stone - you might mug me and leave me in a gutter somewhere.”

Alasdair snorted and glanced pointedly about himself. “I should think that even in this place, on such a busy avenue, someone might notice a foul deed and intervene on your behalf.” When she looked unconvinced, Alasdair felt himself scowl with impatience. “Why would I come to your aid just to attack you myself?”

Morgaine exhaled slowly, her bright gaze fixed upon him. “You might want me to trust you,” she mused.

Alasdair studied her, liking the light of intelligence in her witchy eyes. She was a clever one - he had not even thought of such a ploy.

“My lady,” he said in a tone that brooked no argument, “I grant you my word that I mean you no harm.”

She lifted her chin proudly. “Then what do you want from me?”

Here was his chance. Alasdair sobered as he dared give voice to his only hope. “I only want to go home, my lady.”

Morgaine stared at him, as though confused by his simple request, then bit the lip he had so recently tasted. Alasdair’s desire roared to life.

“So do I,” she admitted, a most fetching and shy smile curving her lips. “Except I don’t know where it is.”

A lie, clearly, for no queen could forget the site of her own lair. Yet Alasdair guessed this was a test of his ingenuity. Were his gran’s tales not filled with Faeries requiring mortals to prove themselves worthy of any otherworldly gifts?

And to be released from the domain of Morgaine le Fee could only be considered a great gift. Alasdair had but to think of his son to have his determination renewed.

He gripped Morgaine’s elbow and marched her into a brightly lit establishment, where the portly patron glanced up from his ledger. “I have need of direction to the lady Morgaine’s abode,” Alasdair said firmly.

The man blinked as though he had not the wit to understand and looked to Morgaine.

“The Thistle Bed & Breakfast,” she supplied and understanding dawned on the man’s heavy features.

How could he not know the home of his queen?

The man led them back to the door and pointed in the direction they had been headed. “Down thisaway a good six eight blocks to Leeds Avenue, then right for a few blocks, then left on Thistle Down, then it should be along on your right beside the off-license.”

That might as well have been in Latin, for Alasdair understood little of it. The off-license? And Leeds was far to the south, in the Briton’s country.

“Thank you,” Morgaine said with a charming smile.

Alasdair squinted down the road. Right left right. He could remember that.

“Right, then,” the man said with a nod and ducked back to his books.

Morgaine and Alasdair exchanged a glance and he was reassured to see that she evidently understood no more than he did.

“We had best make a start of it,” he said crisply. “My lady, you had best look for this Avenue of Leeds. I shall count these six eight blocks.” He cleared his throat as they stepped onto the pavement. “What, my lady, would be a ‘block’?”

Morgaine seemed to fight the urge to smile. “The distance between two cross-streets.” She pointed back to the last intersection, then to the next with a quick explanation and Alasdair understood.

It was no small advantage that each intersection was marked with curious illumination that changed from green to amber to red. Indeed, a man could scarcely miss such a signpost.

Alasdair began to stride down the walkway with Morgaine’s elbow firmly within his grasp, but the lady wriggled free and danced ahead of him.

“You can see me back to the bed and breakfast if you like -” she cast the words over her shoulder without looking back, but Alasdair heard that she was not as indifferent to his decision as she might have liked him to believe “- but don’t even think about touching me again.”

Oh, Alasdair
would
think about it, that much was for certain, especially with those hips twitching right afore his eyes. A man did not readily forget a kiss that left him simmering clear down to his toes.

The enchantress limped along as he watched, then stumbled over the shoe that yet sported a stilt. In a quick gesture, she ripped off the shoes, looked them over, then cast them aside, marching on without them. One pale toe peeked through her dark stockings and Alasdair feared for those tiny feet amidst the muck of the street.

He scooped up the shoes as he trailed behind her and easily broke the stilt off the other one. A perfect pair they were now.

If only she would accept them from him. Alasdair could not help but wonder whether the sorceress would grant him another token of her esteem when he showed concern for her tender toes. The very idea did hot and thick things to him that could only betray his desire to return home.

Aye, he was a fool and then some to lust after a Faerie queen.

* * *

Morgan stifled a howl of pain when she stubbed her toe hard on the pavement. She bit her lip, hoping Alasdair didn’t notice her clumsy move, and fought back her tears as she tried to continue on as though nothing had happened.

He was beside her in a moment, his lips tight with impatience. “Have you no care for your own welfare?” he demanded, then bent and lifted her injured foot in his great gentle paw. He ran a fingertip over the bruise, his touch making Morgan shiver, then slipped her own discarded shoe onto her foot.

In the blink of an eye, Morgan had matching shoes on her feet. They felt strange without the heels, the toes curling up like Aladdin’s slippers, but were a lot more comfortable than the pavement.

Why hadn’t she thought of that?

“Now, then,” he said briskly, eying the street before them. “We seek six eight blocks. I count this crossroads ahead as one.” He gripped her elbow and set off at a purposeful pace.”

He probably couldn’t wait to be rid of her, Morgan concluded.

The idea bothered her so much that she didn’t have it in her to make conversation. With a heavy heart, she clumped along beside him, enjoying the way he cupped her elbow in his warm palm even though she knew she shouldn’t.