Seducing the Highlander (28 page)

The moment of virginal hesitation did not surprise him, and he gave her a wickedly persuasive smile. “You’ll like it, lass.”

Gillian’s cheeks flushed a deeper pink, but she complied, parting her thighs so he could touch her cleft. It was damp, sleek, and beautifully warm, telling him she was almost ready for penetration. He stroked, finding the small bud he knew evoked the most sensation for any woman, and circled it.

A small moan came from between her parted lips.

“That’s it, lass,” he said in encouragement as her legs fell farther apart. “Feel the pleasure. Let it come to you.”

Before long, his fingers were coated in the fluids of her desire and she arched impatiently against the persuasive pressure of his hand. As her orgasm rose and built, her slender body began to quiver uncontrollably, and she let out a keening cry. Adain continued the stimulation, keeping her on that peak, taking pleasure in her abandoned enjoyment.

When she went limp, he withdrew his hand and moved upward, pushing her legs apart even farther so he could position himself between them. His hard cock found her small opening, well lubricated and soft from her climax, and he began to ease inside her passage.

Gillian’s lashes lifted at the pressure of his entrance. There was a look in the blue depths of her eyes that spoke of her awakened awareness of sexual release.

Go slow; give her it inch by inch. Do not selfishly rush this because your eager cock rules your head.
. . .

Even though he was taut with need, he said hoarsely, “I will be as gentle as I can.”

A smile curved her mouth and she whispered with humbling conviction, “I know.”

The muscled power of his body should probably frighten her, Gillian thought, still feeling a little dazed from the wondrous thing that had just happened to her. Braced on his arms, Adain Cameron’s powerful body dwarfed hers as he hovered over her, his lean hips wedging her legs wide-open. She could feel the hard strength of his shoulders under the grasp of her hands, and most certainly the size of that part of him that made him male was imposing. How her body was supposed to accept it, she wasn’t sure, but she
was
completely sure of one thing.

Drunk or sober—or in his current in-between state—he would never hurt her purposely. While it was sometimes uncomfortable to be sensitive to the emotions of others, it was certainly to her advantage when it came to judging their character.

The slow progress of his cock as he pushed it into her passage was only a little uncomfortable, and balanced by the unique coil of excitement in the pit of her stomach. Handsome face flushed, he advanced until he was arrested by the barrier he had to breach. The nudge of the tip of his engorged shaft against it was not enough to break through, and he leaned down to kiss her, his mouth warm and persuasive. “I am sorry, lass, for there is no other way past. You are so small and delicate. I don’t wish to hurt you.”

“A little pain is inevitable,” Gillian told him, recalling Aunt Eugenia’s no-nonsense recital. Moved by his care for her, her voice was unsteady. “Do what you must.”

Still, he hesitated. “It is only this first time. Once your maidenhead is gone, you can take a man with pleasure.”

“I am resigned to the pain, and then you may show me the pleasure.” She said it breathlessly as she waited, open and almost impaled.

One ebony brow arched and he chuckled, his face lighting magically. “That sounds like a challenge, Lady Gillian.”

He didn’t laugh often.
That
she knew about him already.

“Call it what you will, but please move.” It was probably audacious for her to be so impatient, but she was anyway.

He did so, a hard thrust that suddenly sheathed him fully and impossibly deep inside her. The pain was brief, and not at all the ordeal she expected, and Gillian barely noticed it in contrast to the sensation of being so filled and possessed. “Adain.” She gasped.

“I’m sorry.” His voice sounded thick. “But the deed is done.”

“Do not be sorry. It was nigh to nothing. . . . What happens now? Surely there’s more.”

“Aye, lass.” Silver eyes gleamed. “Much, much more.”

As he began to withdraw, she tightened her hands in protest, rewarded when he sank back in with a smooth forward movement that tore a moan from somewhere deep inside her. He did it again and she arched into that seductive, sinful forward glide, wanting—needing—his cock buried as far as it could go. “Yes.”

“That’s it. Move with me,” he murmured, eyes half-closed as he slid in and out between her open legs. “Lift your hips, my sweet. Ah . . . yes, exactly that way. It’s good . . . so damned good. . . .”

His words were a background to her pleasure, a running dialogue of heated masculine desire, and she undulated to his rhythm and took him over and over as tension built and she felt that incredible rising need for blissful release. Panting and nearly wild, she clung to the man possessing her body. When she finally shattered from the sheer pleasure of it, he seemed to come apart too, the inner tremor of her muscles igniting a reaction. Adain stiffened and groaned, the flex of his sex spilling a warm, sudden flood as he forcefully released his seed.

The full weight of his body took her breath away for a moment, but he quickly rolled to his side, dragging her with him, his embrace comfortable and intimate. Sprawled across his damp chest, hearing his rapid breathing in the aftermath, Gillian smiled in deep contentment.

Long fingers sifted through her hair, moving softly, and his arms felt strong and secure. “It has been too long,” he said softly, as if talking to himself.

“I agree,” she murmured sleepily against his heated skin.

She could feel a laugh rumble from his chest. “As you were a virgin, that’s an odd sentiment to hold.”

“I meant for you.”

He peered down into her face, his eyes narrowed.

“You needed to love someone,” she explained, then added, “and I am glad I was the one.”

The hand stroking her hair stilled. Adain’s whisper was barely audible. “Have you always been so insightful, lass?”

Gillian was too tired to answer. Instead, she surrendered to a deep, contented sleep.

T
he afternoon was as wet as the bottom of the River Tweed, a cold drizzle falling from steely skies and a chill wind whistling by. His men already looked miserable on their stamping horses, and the Earl of Kleiss didn’t care in the least.

He’d woken with a foul taste in his mouth from too much drink, and an even fouler mood blackening his temper. Thomas tugged on his gauntlets with impatience and fought the urge to smash his fist into someone’s face just to brighten his day.

His oldest son, Malcolm, eyed him warily, the younger man well aware of his own availability as a potential target. Even though at nearly forty years of age Malcolm was thick-bodied and a seasoned fighter, he obviously had a healthy respect for his father’s temper, and that was just exactly how Thomas wanted it. More than once he’d caught a hint of rebellion in his oldest son’s eyes, and he wasn’t about to stand for it. As earl, he ran his holdings, his men—and his family—with an iron fist, and all who knew him held his legendary wrath in deference.

He liked it that way.

Malcolm said in a curt tone, “I’ll have Simon bring another woman. A little sport should ease your need, Father, and bedding her should pass the time until Lady Gillian arrives and can take her place.”

“I don’t like whores; you know that.” He snarled the words, motioning for his horse to be saddled. “Their well-used bodies and willingness disgust me.”

It was true, though occasionally he did use them, if the mood struck him. He knew Malcolm would be too prudent to remind him.

“I itch for English blood on my sheets,” he said, his voice heavy with menacing conviction. “And I shall have Lorin’s golden-haired niece beneath me this night, if I have to ride into England to get her. Now mount up. If our incompetent men cannot follow a simple road and find an old man and a girl traveling in a carriage, by the gods, I can do it myself.”

It was true. Travel stained and weary, the men he sent to investigate the delay in the arrival of his future bride had come back empty-handed.

He had gone from impatient and eager to furious.

“They tried, Father,” Malcolm protested, grabbing the reins of his own mount and swinging into the saddle. “Dammit to hell, we lost two horses, they pushed them so hard. There was no sign of the girl. Perhaps the baron changed his mind about the marriage.”

Thomas narrowed his eyes to slits. “If he has, he will wish he had never entered into his pathetic existence on this earth. Besides, he has too many debts and no affection for the girl, for she was raised by an elderly relative. Why would he change his mind? She needs a husband and I offered good coin. I was even willing to overlook her black English blood, by damn, so he should be crawling on his hands and knees at the opportunity to wed her to an earl.”

“Why would he change his mind?” Malcolm repeated deliberately. “Perhaps, in retrospect, even for a damned Englishman, he’s found himself a conscience and considered your reputation.”

He’d thought his son was too experienced and cautious to mention the less than savory repute that made it almost impossible for Thomas to now find a Scottish wife. It was not his fault his brides—all four of them—were in their graves. He had simply used them as women should be used, but now even the most callous of fathers this side of the border did not bargain their daughters. It was something that enraged him, but the promise of the English lass had soothed his anger somewhat.

“Are you arguing with me, you loutish idiot?” he asked in a raspy voice.

“If she is as beautiful as he says, mayhap he got another offer.” Malcolm continued to prod him in the same taunting voice, holding his restive horse with an easy hand.

For a moment, Thomas saw red at that possibility, and the man leading his horse to him halted abruptly, his face blanching. “The papers have been signed and the girl is mine,” he said through his teeth, striding to jerk the reins of his mount from the cowering servant. “I will kill anyone who says otherwise as I would step on an insect. Now let’s ride.”

 

 

At least they were out of the damnable weather and tomorrow would be at Castle Cameron. Adain brooded at the rain-lashed window, his hand cradling a brandy snifter. Dry clothes, hot food, and a stiff drink made all the difference in the level of his physical comfort, but his mental state was decidedly unsettled.

“. . . Scottish flouting of the navigation acts has Westminster fuming, and our Parliament . . . Are you listening to me, Cameron? I seem to be having a decidedly one-sided conversation.”

Adain turned, blank for a moment. “What? I’m sorry. I admit my mind was elsewhere.”

“Ah, the girl and your damned impulsive rescue.”

He said coolly, “What would you have done, Harry, in my place?”

His host, Harold McFerran, lounged in a wing chair by the crackling fire in his study, long legs carelessly extended, and elevated his brows. “Probably the same thing.”

“Only ‘probably’?”

The other man ran his hand through his short red curls and sighed. “No, you’re right. Yes, I would have done the same thing.” The same age as Adain, with russet hair and an easy, charming grin most women found irresistible, Harry was more than an old friend, and he and Adain were as close as brothers in many ways. Even though it made the journey a little longer, Adain had chosen to stop at the McFerran country house for overnight shelter, to give both Gillian and his horse some rest. After all, it had been very late when she finally drifted to sleep in his arms the night before.

Harry said in a noncommittal tone, “She’s lovely.”

Adain turned restlessly, downing a gulp of brandy. “I know. But even if that weren’t the case, I would help any stranded woman in such circumstances.”

“Maybe so, but you wouldn’t look at her the same way, I’d venture to guess, my friend.” Harry’s lean face wore an expression of amusement.

“Is that so? And how do I look at the lovely Gillian?”

“Like a wolfhound eyes a bone. Possessively. And with a good deal of hunger.”

It was true. He couldn’t get the previous night out of his head, and their journey hadn’t helped either. She had ridden in front of him, cradled in his arms and huddled against his chest, her cloak pulled up against the weather. The soft feel of her had evoked every step of the way impressions of the intimate carnal pleasure they had shared, and he had been hard for almost the entire trip.

“It’s lust,” Adain said defensively.

“Did I imply it wasn’t?” Harry grinned. “No argument here.” His smile slowly faded and his gaze was very direct. “However, there is one problem. . . . No, let me correct myself: There is one very
large
problem ahead. If the abominable Kleiss realizes where she is, he just might come for her. He isn’t a leader who inspires loyalty, but fear can work just as well, and I am sure he can summon hundreds of men within hours if you refuse to relinquish her peacefully. On the other hand, the man is such a callous brute he might not care if his intended bride has disappeared and will just pick some other hapless lass to take her place. God help her.”