Authors: Julia Keaton
Releasing his
breath and stilling his lungs as though it would lighten him, he continued
walking. His face grew hot, his muscles ached with tension, but in moments,
the window was there, close enough he could touch it.
Gathering himself,
he stepped from the limb, stretching until his foot met the window’s ledge. He
leaned forward, trusting the sole of his shoe not to slip, and he grasped the
window, pulling himself across the short distance. He hugged the frame,
catching his breath, willing his blood to calm.
Finally, calm
enough he could continue, he bent and peeled the skin loose, working it open so
that he could step inside. Darkness swallowed him as he dropped to the stone
floor.
He was on the
second story. From the hazy childhood memories, he remembered the family and
guest rooms were on this level. Below lay the great hall and other points of
gathering as well as rooms for servants. He had no way of knowing which room
she’d been given.
There was no choice
but to pray his fortune had changed and God smiled upon him.
Bronson crept down
the hall, stopping at the first door he came upon. Heart hammering, he eased
it open, discovering the room was empty. He breathed a sigh, part relieved,
part frustrated. He moved on, checking each door. It seemed this wing was
empty of anyone, for he found not a sign of life. These had to be the guest
quarters, which comforted him somewhat. Surely she would have been sequestered
here.
He was drawing near
the main hall, evidenced by the spread of its passage and the torch lights
illuminating it. He had but one more door to check. Steeling himself for
disappointment, Bronson eased the door open.
Eyes adjusted to
the dimness, he peered inside toward the bed at the back wall. Pale light
streamed through a crack at the animal skin covering the window, casting just
enough light with which to see the bed.
His heart stopped
as he saw that it was occupied. He stepped inside, willing the raging blood to
cease roaring in his ears. He crossed the room, making nary a sound, not
stopping until he stood beside it and could gaze through the gaze draping the
bed.
Alex
.
Thinking her name
sent a shaft of desire through him that mingled with relief so desperate it
shivered his spine. Looking on her filled him with a sense of softness,
begging him be gentle. He wanted to take her in his arms and carry her from
that place and kiss every inch of her skin. She looked achingly innocent
there, sleeping with one hand curled against her cheek, her hair spread around
her in fine wisps. She was beautiful, at peace, and he wanted her with a
suddenness that made his blood roil with frenzied passion.
He lifted the
curtains aside, kneeling on the bed. She stirred, parting her lips on a sigh,
unconsciously begging him to kiss her. The hour was late. He knew no one
would disturb them. Who more than a guard could be up at the hour? He warred
with himself, needing to make haste, but he had to kiss her as she lay, touch
her with the gentleness he was capable of and had never shown her.
Losing the fight,
Bronson eased onto the bed, lying beside her, looking down at her face, soft in
the silvery light. He brushed a thumb across her lips, enjoying the feel of
them. The were soft as rose petals. Unable to resist their velvet lure, he
bent and touched his lips to hers, tasting her breath. ‘Twas not enough—and
never was.
He tugged her
bottom lip, sucking it into his mouth, wanting to groan as he tasted how sweet
she was—sweeter than he remembered. It seemed an eternity since he’d touched
her. She moaned, coming awake, kissing him back, her tongue reaching out to
him. He released her imprisoned lip, exchanging his captive for her tongue,
sucking her into his mouth and mating his tongue with hers.
He reached a hand
under the covers, down her belly and cupped her femininity through the night
rail she wore, its sheerness no barrier to the heat between her legs, the
instant moisture he aroused as he touched her. She whimpered into his mouth,
parting her legs for him. Through the fragile fabric, he thrust his fingers
into her core, his progress hampered by the cloth, frustrating them both.
He tore from her
mouth, branding her neck with kisses, her broken sobs and arching body firing
the need of his loins. He was hard with arousal, deaf to anything by her moans
of pleasure.
“Do I dream?” she
gasped, clutching the sheets as though he would tear her from them.
“Nay, wildcat,” he
breathed hot against her ear. “I came to steal you back.”
She bit her lip as
he moved his hand and thrust her rail aside, coming flush against her hot, wet
flesh, toying with the bud that swelled against the pads of his fingers. She
shivered, arching her neck as he tasted it and the gooseflesh that whispered
across her skin.
His cock pushed
against his cod piece, demanding freedom, seeking the molten sheath his fingers
thrust into.
Her core clenched
around him, nearing that peak that tantalized, quivering and unclenching. She
cried out as he rasped her nub with his thumb, sucking a mark of possession
beneath her ear.
“Bronson, pray,”
she breathed, frantically tugging his arm--, “give more, love. I need you
inside me. I need … all … of … you.”
He groaned
raggedly, tearing his hand away to remove his cod piece.
A cold voice spoke
behind him, halting his movement. “Take yer hand off yer sword, my lord, else
I will do what my father could not.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Bronson sat up and
shielded her from Kiara’s eyes as she straightened herself. Alex looked around
Bronson’s massive shoulders as her cousin came fully into the room, leaving the
door open behind her.
Kiara lit a candle
in the sconce and regarded him angrily. Alex could see her temper was barely
in check. Her hands were clenched tight, as though she would pummel Bronson,
but in her right hand she held a sword—a broad sword—and she had every look of
one who could use it.
Bronson stood,
moving away from Alex. Alex swung her legs over the edge of the bed, dangling
her feet, regarding her cousin with a mixture of horror, irritation, and
gratitude.
“Yer a terrible
thief, ye know. If you weren’t so concerned on dipping yer wick, belswagger,
you might have gotten away with it. As it is, I’m afraid I’ll be forced to cut
yer cods off. I’ve need of a lucky charm in these black days.”
Alex choked,
snorting, clamping her hands on her mouth as she looked back and forth between
them. She expected any moment to see them come to blows. She could not
identify which seemed the more determined to be victor.
Bronson frowned at
the both of them. “How did you know I was here?” he demanded of Kiara.
“I’ve devilish keen
ears, my lord. You would be amazed. Now, come with me else I’ll be forced to
throw you in the dungeon.” She paused a long moment, and said, “Yer brothers
await outside. ‘Twas truly they who gave you away.”
Bronson scowled,
punching a fist into one palm as he walked toward Kiara.
“Father thought you
damned Blackmores would try something. You canna blame yer brothers entirely.
Men are too predictable by far,” she said, pointing the sword at his back and
prodding him out.
“Alex, you wait
here while we deal with them. I trust you’re okay?”
Alex nodded, still
absorbed in the heat between her thighs and what Bronson had done. She watched
them go, and shut the door behind them. Anger built, stagnating in her mind
after they’d gone.
How dare that
villain steal into her room, touch her as she slept, make her beg for his
caresses. He was to wed another and still, he could not release his hold on
her.
Alex shivered,
ducking back into bed, huddling under the covers in pure misery. Her loins
ached with need, conjured by that cocklorel. He thought of nothing but himself
and his needs and wants. She despised him, and she despised her continued
feeling of softness toward him.
She felt no conceit
that he wanted her for herself, that his position had changed in the short time
she’d been gone—it was only his immense vanity, his pride that made him come to
her.
Despite the
inflammatory reasons she told herself why she should hate him, she realized she
did not. Her strength of will was weak. But it changed nothing.
He’d cast out her
confidence of the McPherson castle. ‘Twas not that she thought them lax, or
its defenses incomplete, but she could not remain locked inside as a prisoner.
She would have to go out, and she feared Bronson would be waiting for her.
She did not feel
she could survive another encounter with him and still regain her sanity.
Forbidden love held its own allure by its very nature, as addictive and
intoxicating as heavy wine, but no less dangerous for her senses. Bronson was
nothing less than the forbidden, a man untouchable, unattainable.
She had to remember
that, no matter how much it hurt. On the morrow, she would ask her uncles to help
her reach the king’s court. She could not remain here. Bronson’s actions
tainted everything around her, until she saw and heard and smelled nothing but
him.
Again, she was
struck with the notion that he was some dread affliction. She shook her musings
aside, settling into bed, the candle easing her fears as she closed her eyes.
Tomorrow, she would
leave and never come back, for how could she stand to know that Bronson lived
and loved with his new wife, so near to her.
* * * *
The Scotsmen ‘escorted’
the brothers to their horses and beyond, taking them to the borderlands.
They’d appropriated their weapons, so they had no choice but to ride back
home. There was naught more they could do.
Already the sky
turned gray with the coming dawn. Bronson rode wearily, feeling as though some
great weight settled on his neck, pressing him down into the saddle. They
arrived at Derwin Hall, and he found that the household was awake, eager for
news.
Bronson ignored
them all, going inside and gathering a quantity of ale that he felt would make
him forget all that had happened, and then staggered into the parlor to sit
before the fire. He collapsed in the Glastonbury chair, spreading his legs
straight out before him, draining his mug in one great swallow before he filled
it again. He nursed his mug, staring into the flames, feeling a great
emptiness gnawing inside him.
He heard the door
open behind him, but he did not look to see who came, merely took another
draught and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. The ale warmed the coldness
gripping him, eased the tension of his body.
“I gather you did
not succeed, son?” his father said quietly in his gruff voice, more a statement
than a question.
“You mean I failed,”
Bronson said with a growl, finishing off his mug and pouring another.
His father pulled a
chair beside him, laying his hand on his shoulder. Bronson shook his concern
off, his black mood failing to dim.
“Drinking yourself
into oblivion solves nothing,” he said quietly.
“It makes me feel a
hell of a lot better,” he said angrily, taking a swallow for emphasis.
His father sighed
heavily. “I would change your fate if I could. I had love once. I would have
my sons happy in their marriage.”
“I do not love her
father,” he said, turning bleak eyes to his father, his voice breaking with
emotion. “She consumes me, mind, body, and soul for want of her honeyed
thighs, but no more! ‘Tis naught but a madness that seizes me in its vile
grip.”
He shook his head.
“I understand.”
“You do not. It is
a sickness. One that needs purging. Leave me so that I might lance the
wound,” he roared.
His father stood,
pushing the chair back from him, standing over him in quiet rage. “You gather
the last of your wits, boy. You’ve fobbed off your bride too long as you
dawdled with your bit of fluff. The Blackmores are men of their word. I will
not have you break the honor of your lineage.”
“I know my duty,”
Bronson said coldly.
“Good,” his father
responded, just as deadly cold. “You ride in a sennight.”