‘Twas along that barrier that he kissed her now. ‘Twas along that barrier that she felt the rasp of tongue.
She gasped, but when she jerked, she found that she had moved only marginally away, and indeed, when he did not follow, she closed her eyes and leaned back against the bed. Kisses again, hot and sexy, skimming up her spine, nipping at her waist, caressing her shoulders until her hands trembled to loosen the last of her garments. They fell away with a sigh of satisfaction, and though she dared not turn, she could hear his exhalation, could feel it brush her skin, and then, like a forbidden dream, his lips touched her buttocks. Shards of desire stabbed her with primitive need, and she grasped the bed post in one hand, holding herself upright as his kisses skimmed downward, over the underside of her bottom, grazing her thighs. She spread them without thinking. He kissed higher. She felt his hair brush her buttocks, felt his tongue lick her wetness.
She jerked about, tripping in her skirts as she did so. The floor tilted toward her face, but his hand snapped out to catch her wrist and pull her easily to her feet.
Their eyes met. He was wounded, without his full strength, yet his hand felt as unflinching as a vise around her arm. And she was naked, vulnerable. Helpless. Panic skittered up her spine.
Yet … he hadn’t forced her, hadn’t rushed her. Indeed, ‘twas she who felt impatient, who felt desperate and driven. She who finally leaned forward and felt her nipple caress his as she kissed him.
Something akin to a growl sounded in his chest. She felt his great body tremble and he dropped her arm, giving her every chance to back away. Despite the bitter residue of fear, she had no wish to do so. Deep inside she ached with longing, not just for release from her physical yearnings, but for something more—for peace, for understanding, for touch, which suddenly seemed as necessary as the very air she breathed.
She touched his face, watched him close his eyes, then ran her palm slowly over his brawny shoulder and down his muscular back. His manhood nudged her hip impatiently, but still he did not rush her. Instead, when she stroked her palm around to his abdomen, he leaned back onto his heels, breaking off the kiss.
In the flickering candlelight, he looked like a primitive warrior, naked to the world, his member hard and ready. And like a primitive maiden, she went to him. Slipping with quaking trepidation onto the bed, she kissed him again, until, as if by some unearthly magic, they were stretched out on the mattress, her body pressed tight and hot against his.
His kisses were everywhere, warm and needy, and their bodies had begun some sort of timeless rhythm that she failed to understand or control. His hardness pressed against her wetness just so, and her hiss of pleasure melded with his groan.
Their movement ceased. Their eyes met. ‘Twas not too late to quit—but her body insisted otherwise. And when he kissed her, there was nothing she could do but grip his arms and skim her knees up the length of his powerful thighs. There, poised above his manhood, she eased around him. Heat filled her, spread her, enlightened her. She gasped at the raw, aching pleasure and pushed tentatively against him. Feelings sprang through her like hunting beasts, pressing her on, but he pushed his head backward and remained as he was, unmoving, every sinew tight as a bowstring. She moved again. More feelings, wilder yet, crowded in on her. She eased up on her knees, her hands still clasped around his arms as she arched into him, squeezing hard.
Then he began to move, rocking into her with a careful pressure that heightened the feelings a hundred-fold. She moaned at the rush of need and pleasure, and he raised himself up on his elbows, changing the pressure slightly. She panted with longing, pushing harder still, and suddenly felt his mouth upon her nipple.
She could take no more. Feelings burst inside her like artillery fire. Lights danced. Her head swam, and in that swimming state of Utopia she felt his hands touch her for the first time. Felt them wrap about her waist, felt them lift her away.
She wanted to complain, to insist that she stay just as she was, wrapped with cocooning warmth about him, but in an instant, he settled her against his throbbing heat. She pressed against it, seeking the final dregs of pleasure and feeling his seed pulse out in a hot rush.
Their groans combined, and then, like a found waif, she rested her head upon his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart until sleep took her.
“Anora.”
Her dreams were warm and comforting, her haven hard to leave, and she awoke slowly, opened her eyes in the flickering candlelight, then jerked in surprise.
“MacGowan!” It wasn’t exactly that she had forgotten he was there. In fact, she could remember every moment before she fell asleep. Yet it seemed far less real than the dreams from which she had just extracted herself. “Did … did you wake me?”
“Aye.” He moved his hand as if he would reach out, then curled his fingers against the mattress and remained as he was, his torso naked but for the bandage that crisscrossed his hardened chest. “Are you well?”
Memories bloomed in her mind like spring crocuses. Memories of hot flesh and aching need and gentle euphoria. “Aye,” she murmured. Residual desire curled in her stomach like a haunting wisp of wood smoke. She too was naked, her breasts exposed to the nipples above the comforting blankets. She could pull the woolens higher, but ‘twas surely a bit late to lock the stable door now. His gaze felt hot and nerve-wracking, but strangely exhilarating. “Did you …” His eyes were as bright as the moon, intense, and as hopelessly mesmerizing as everything about him. “Did you need something?”
His nostrils flared like a stallion’s, and for a moment she hoped that he would reach for her again. “The babe wakes,” he said instead. “I will need to fetch fresh milk.”
“From …” Her stomach fluttered. “Ailsa?”
“Nay. Her lad will bring it by.”
“Oh. Oh!” she said, and grasping the blankets to her chest, abruptly sat upright. “I must go.”
“Aye,” he said, and swinging his feet off the bed, stood up.
His back was to her, and the muscles between his shoulders flexed with captivating beauty, while his—
He turned and she dragged her gaze to the blankets scrunched in her hands and forced herself to breathe. In and out, in and out, as if her world hadn’t been turned inside out by this god of a man who had just wrapped a cloth around his hips. Though it covered his loins, it cracked open at one hip, showing the entire length of one powerful thigh. The muscles there bunched and flexed as he stepped forward and stood with her garments clasped in his outstretched hand.
Oh! She was supposed to take them. “Thank you,” she said, and dropping the blankets, reached for her gown.
“Do you need assistance?”
His voice was deep and strangely entrancing, while his eyes—
“Anora?” he said.
She jerked. “What say you?”
“Do you need me help?”
“Oh. Nay, I can …” Thoughts, set to swirling like frenzied grains of sand by her embattled senses, scrambled to make some sense of her uncertain emotions. “Well, aye. I could use your help. If you …” She swallowed. “Don’t mind.”
A muscle jumped in his jaw as he stepped back, giving her room to exit the bed. But he was naked, or very nearly naked, and for a moment she couldn’t quite remember what to do.
“Please, lass …” He lowered his gaze to her breasts, then clenched his jaw as if he waged some internal battle. “I will avoid gossip if I can, but if you do not dress soon …”
“What?” she murmured. She was frozen to the bed, waiting breathlessly for him to finish. Their gazes caught fire, and he stepped forward. His lips crashed against hers in a kiss of searing intensity, burning all thought to ash.
“Oh,” she breathed as he drew away.
“And we wouldn’t want that,” he murmured.
From the cradle, the baby complained softly.
“Nay. Nay, of course not,” Anora said, and stepping from the bed like one in a dream, stood on unsteady legs before him.
“Mayhap you should put it on.”
“What?”
“The gown,” he said. “You’d best put it on.”
“Oh.” She nodded, but failed to do more. “Aye.”
In the end, he all but dressed her. His fingers fumbled a few times and once he kissed her again, but finally she was clothed and heading like a demented sleepwalker toward the door.
“Will you be safe?”
“What?”
“Shall I see you to your chambers?” he asked.
She glanced down the length of his fabulous form and back to his eyes. “Like that?”
“I could don me clothes.”
“Nay. I wish to remember …” She paused and swallowed. She had truly lost her mind. “Nay. I shall be fine.”
From the wooden cradle, the baby mewled softly.
“You’d best go then, lass, before the castle awakes,” he said, and opened the door.
“MacGowan.” His name escaped her lips, though she knew better than to loose it.
“Aye?”
She swallowed hard. “When can we …” She glanced hopelessly toward the bed, trying to find words for what they had done. But there were none, and in that moment he kissed her.
Tenderness and longing and a dozen unnamed emotions sizzled between them until she was breathless and weak kneed.
“I am here until I am gone,” he said, and suddenly she found herself on the far side of the door.
Her journey down the dark hallways seemed strange and dreamlike, but she arrived finally at her own door. It opened with a low groan. The sound conjured a memory of Ramsay’s quiet—
“She is well?”
Anora stumbled backward, bumping into the door. “Isobel!”
The girl watched her, her gaze steady. “Is something amiss?”
“Nay! Nay. All is well.”
“Then she yet lives?”
Anora’s brain scrambled.
“The babe,” Isobel said. “Meara said you were tending the babe. That it was your right and your duty, and that all should leave you to the task.”
“Oh! Aye. The babe.” Her face felt hot and her hands unsteady. “She is well.”
” ‘Tis good. Then she will soon be strong enough to travel.”
“Travel?”
“If MacGowan calls her his own, surely he will wish to take her with him when he goes?”
Anora felt her throat close up, as if she were sinking beneath icy waves. “He is wounded.”
Isobel scowled. “Because he is a man. You said yourself, ‘twas because he chose to battle.”
“In our defense.”
The room went silent. “Might it be that you want him to stay?”
She saw the emotions in Isobel’s eyes and recognized each one as her own. Fear. Jealousy. Guilt. “Nay, of course not.”
Their gazes met, but Anora could not hold hers steady. “I’d … best find me bed,” she said. “It has been a long night.”
“Aye,” Isobel said, and turned solemnly away. “That it has.”
* * * * *
Anora knew she should be tired, but when the sun rose, she did the same. ‘Twas not the fact that Ramsay would be breaking the fast that made her rush through her toilet. Nay. She had duties to see to, she told herself. But when she entered the hall her breath stopped in her throat, for he was there, looking so much the bonny rogue that she could not take her eyes from him.
“Me lady.” Cant approached rapidly from her right, interrupting her view of Ramsay. “I’ve a matter of some importance I would discuss with you.”
And thus the morning began. Duties and decisions kept Anora busy throughout the day, broken now and again only by a glimpse of Ramsay from the corner of her eye. But even that much sent hot blood spilling into her cheeks, and she was forced to look away, lest others guess the wild bent of her imaginings.
Not until evening did she find a chance to settle into her chair upon the dais in the great hall. Ramsay was seated at another table and her heart twisted with disappointment at the seemingly vast distance between them.
Immediate self incriminations followed. She was no foolish twit, set aflutter by his mere presence. She had used him on the previous night, had employed his body in an attempt to … better herself. She was, after all, the lady of this keep, with responsibilities and—
“Anora.” Meara sat not far from her, her dried apple face disapproving. “Surely Evermyst’s champion should sup at the high table. We’ve no wish to seem ungrateful, do we?”
Anora turned her gaze breathlessly toward the old woman, and for a fleeting heartbeat of time, she thought she saw a gleam in the old woman’s eye. Then it was gone, replaced by bland disapproval.
“Would we?” she asked again.
“Nay! Of course not,” Anora breathed. “Clarinda,” she said, turning to the nearest server. “Tell the MacGowan that I request his presence at my table.”
In a moment he was there, bowing slightly at the waist. The movement seared a thousand memories through her mind, but she held his gaze and tried not to blush.
‘Twas a task that did not become easier throughout the meal, for whenever their gazes met, she remembered the night before—the heat of his kisses, the strength of his—
“More mead, me lady?” Isobel asked from beside her elbow.
“Oh!” Anora jumped. “Aye. ‘Tis … rather warm in here.”
“And you, me laird?” ‘Twas Ailsa who spoke from beside his elbow, and ‘twas Ailsa whose bosom threatened to fall into his mug. Anora stiffened.
Glancing up, Ramsay allowed the dark widow to fill his horn to the brim.
“Me thanks,” he said.
“Is there anything else I can do for you this eve?” she asked, still bending low.
Ramsay shifted his gaze to Anora, his eyes gleaming. “Nay. That will be all,” he said.
“More mead here,” called someone from the table, but Ailsa ignored him.
“Are you certain?” she asked.
“Aye. Quite,” he said, and Ailsa departed with a scowl.
Anora turned her attention to her grouse pudding and tried not to look giddy.
“The babe is doing well, then?” she asked, not glancing up immediately.
“Aye.” There was something about his voice that made it difficult to breathe. “Helena is seeing to her care whilst I sup.”
“Ahh.” There was so little to say and so much she wished to do. “And your wounds? I trust they are mending well.”