Текст книги "My Fierce Highlander"

Автор книги: Vonda Sinclair

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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

A groaning sound came from the garden. “What is—”

“Shh,” Alasdair breathed against her ear, and she shivered. After their entrance, he eased the gate closed and urged her behind an evergreen shrub. The balefire lit up the sky and reflected off the gray stone castle wall to cast a soft glow down into the flower garden.

The sounds came again, a soft male groan. Was someone hurt? And then an answering giggle. Oh, dear lord, two people were…making love in the garden. Gwyneth’s face grew hot as the fire crackling outside.

“We must go,” she whispered.

“Nay. They will leave soon enough.”

His hand rested heavy on her waist, his fingers stroking through her corset. Her nipples peaked and ached for his touch, for his wet mouth, licking, sucking.

She tried to draw in fresh air to clear her mind, to fight the effects of the spell he cast over her, but instead inhaled the smoke that had seeped into his clothing along with his clean male scent.

His hot breath fanned her hair. He sucked her earlobe into his mouth. She gasped but he placed his thumb over her lips. The thrill of him coursed through her, possessed her. She flicked out her tongue against his thumb, then surprised herself by sucking it into her mouth. She didn’t know why she yearned to do that, but she wanted some part of him within her. Wanted to taste him.

Alasdair hissed against her ear, moaned her name. Shocking herself, she wondered what that other, very hard part of his body would feel like against her lips.

Though she could scarce think, she knew the other couple nearby in the garden continued with their mating, oblivious that anyone was near. Their sounds of pleasure escalated. The woman cried out. Was that how Gwyneth sounded when Alasdair made love to her? She could only remember experiencing him in a most earthly, carnal way that sent her flying toward the heavens.

As the man in the garden groaned with his release, Alasdair pressed his lips against Gwyneth’s throat and trailed his tongue downward to her collarbone. The way she had taken to sucking his thumb put lascivious images in his head. Moving his sporran aside, he pressed his erection firmly against her stomach.

He craved the woman in his arms more than he craved spring in the midst of winter. And though it made him a traitorous Scot, he yearned to cast his gaze upon her more than the bonny hills surrounding him. He wanted to savor her and drink her slowly like the finest whisky.

Her skin smelled of smoke and woman. Her hands, fisted on his doublet and tugging him closer, spoke of unfulfilled hunger. He knew of hunger, aye, indeed. The kind that made his soul yearn and set his body afire.

The other couple in the garden finished their tryst and left, but he was happy to see Gwyneth hadn’t noticed. He enjoyed being the sole focus of her attention. And he reveled in her earlier jealousy.

She melted and swayed against him with sighs, inciting his arousal to yet a higher level. Taking his thumb away from her mouth, he kissed her, full and deep, fed her erotic kisses, and she ate. She flicked her tongue against his. Her whimpering little gasps and moans made the aching pleasure in his erection intensify, and he wanted naught more than to slide into her tight, wet heat.

Loving the way she held him close, he yanked up her skirts and petticoats. With his fingers, he relished the softness of her thighs, the curve of her hip. Her silky skin stole the last of his rationality.

Discovering the stone bench nearby, he sat and tugged her to him, straddling his lap, facing him. He raked her skirts up to her lap.

“Oh, Alasdair, I cannot,” she whispered in a desperate tone.

“You must only do what you wish.” Please let me make love to you right here. “I’m dying to have you, a shùgh mo chrìdhe.”

He spread his hand on her thigh, above her stocking, and stroked it upward. He rubbed his thumb across her mound, her soft curls and lower, gently through her moisture and swollen female lips that made him ache. She gasped and jerked against him.

With his thumb he massaged her wet, swollen nub. She fell to his shoulder and moaned incoherent words. Aye, she was loving that. But no more than he did. He was ready to ignite like gunpowder.

She strained toward him, closer to his shaft. He yearned to bury himself forcefully deep inside her, but he wanted her to be the one to initiate the action, so she could not deny how much she wanted him.

She tugged at his kilt beneath her, then lifted herself off his lap, shoved his kilt up and captured his hard shaft in her cool hand.

“Oh, saints, Gwyneth!” He barely curbed the primal urge to thrust. “Take me inside you,” he whispered against her lips.

By slow degrees, she lowered herself onto him. Trembling with restraint, he forced himself to remain still as he slipped deeper into her hot, drenched passage. Had he made that growling animal noise? She took his humanity and control. He wanted to ravish her like a rutting beast takes its mate, with wild immoderacy.

She covered his face with kisses. Emotion ached in his chest, and suddenly with bright clarity, he knew what it was.

Mo dia, I love her.

He froze for a moment, savoring the realization. How had that happened? He knew not. The only thing certain now was he would never let her go. Never.

He drew her upward, then lowered her again. Her tight body clenched and caressed him.

Watching her eyes, drifted closed in bliss, he taught her the rhythm. She placed her feet on the ground and rode him with eagerness and abandon as if she could not stop. Sweet heaven, she desired him.

Marry me, Gwyneth. Nay, he could not say the words again. Not now. Her mouth would tell him no, even as her body said yes.

When she cried out in release, she squeezed him so tightly he near lost his mind. He took her mouth with a deep kiss.

His patience and control at an end, he picked her up easily. Still buried inside her, he wrapped her legs around his waist and leaned one arm against the high rock wall. His other hand beneath her hips, he held her steady and thrust up into her, slow and gently at first, but with increasing need and strength, as his body demanded. Waves of heat and pleasure coursed through him.

He breathed against her mouth, watched her eyes half-closed with female bliss. She gasped and whimpered her encouragement. When she flicked her tongue against his lips, he lost himself. His release crashed down upon him with the force of a boulder. But instead of unbearable pain, unimaginable rapture sang along his nerve endings. It went on and on, spun out and ricocheted in echoes.

For a moment, he feared they might both sink to the ground. Still holding her, he stumbled backward and dropped to the bench. “Dear God, Gwyneth, you have taken away my strength.”

She held his face between her palms and, in the dimness, gazed into his eyes with a most solemn expression. “And you have taken away my control.”

He smiled.

“Give it back,” she whispered.

“Nay. Never.”

“Then I shall keep your strength.”

“Delilah.”

Loving the affectionate grin that spread over her face, he kissed her once again, slow and deep and sweet.

Shouts, running footsteps and a commotion erupted outside the garden gate.

“What the devil is going on?” Alasdair helped her stand, and their clothing fell back into place. Taking her hand, he led her to the small garden gate and opened it.

All manner of clan members ran through the main barmkin gate.

“Alasdair!” Fergus shouted and strode toward him. “Some MacIrwins slipped in, but we don’t ken to what purpose.”

“Where were the guards?” he asked.

“I’m thinking there were too many people here for the festival, strangers and people in costume.”

“We caught this one, trying to escape!” Angus and Busby dragged a struggling captive through the gates and into the barmkin. They threw a hood back to reveal a woman.

“They took Rory!” Matilda shouted from the castle portal. “’Twas one of the mummers in a mask.”

Chapter Thirteen

Someone took Rory? Cold steel scraped down Alasdair’s spine.

Gwyneth looked like a lost specter. In a trice, she dashed out the barmkin gate.

“God’s wounds. Gwyneth!” By the time he reached the open gates, she approached the hill’s edge. “Crawford, stop her!” he yelled to the guard. But she had already passed him.

Thank God, Crawford caught her halfway down the hill. Gwyneth screamed. Her arms and legs flailed as she fought and kicked. Damnable woman! Could she not think before she acted? The burly guard hauled her off her feet and carried her back toward Alasdair.

“No! They took Rory!” Gwyneth screamed.

The guard set her on her feet. Alasdair grasped her upper arms with a strength he feared was too harsh. She, at least, was safe. If Gwyneth ran onto MacIrwin land, death was sure to follow. He could not lose her.

She jerked against his hands. “Bastards! They took Rory!” The tears streamed down her face.

“Gwyneth. Listen to me.”

She latched her fists onto his doublet and tugged. “They’re getting away! We must get him back!”

“And we will. Just calm yourself.” In truth, he wanted to charge onto MacIrwin land himself and bring the lad back, but he had enough rationality about him to realize it would be suicide without a plan and a large force of men.

“We don’t ken yet who took him, Donald or Southwick.”

Gwyneth sagged against him and sobbed. “Southwick,” she said almost incoherently. “I wager it was the knave.”

“If Southwick took him, he won’t kill him. He’s wanting an heir.”

“He’s my son! Not his! He will hit Rory. I’ll kill that bastard if he harms my baby.”

“Aye, and I’ll help you. But first, we must go back to the tower and question the MacIrwin woman who was captured. Then we shall round up a party and go after him.”

She nodded and wiped her eyes.

Guiding her steps, Alasdair helped Gwyneth back to the barmkin. Every ten seconds she glanced back over her shoulder through the darkness toward MacIrwin land. His soul ached for her for he knew what it was to lose a son, and he intended to do everything in his power to return hers to her arms.

They passed the still-burning balefire, then strode through the gates. Gwyneth tore herself away and ran toward the MacIrwin woman, whom Angus and Busby still held near the castle wall. Alasdair caught up with her.

“Who took my son?” Gwyneth demanded.

The woman hung her head.

Gwyneth grasped her hair, yanked her head up and stared into her face. “Ruth? Your name is Ruth, is it not?”

“Aye.”

“Who took my son?”

“Answer!” Alasdair bellowed at the woman when she remained silent too long.

She shrank back and gaped at him, mute and wide-eyed.

“Do you ken what it feels like to have a noose around your neck?” he asked.

The woman’s face scrunched into a horrid expression, and she collapsed into blubbering tears. “’Twas the MacIrwin. Don’t kill me! I beg of you, don’t kill me.”

“Why was he taken?” Alasdair demanded.

“A fancy Sassenach lord said the lad was his son. He paid us to rescue him.”

“Oh, dear lord!” cried Gwyneth.

“Southwick. ’Tis as I suspected. Where are they meeting the Sassenach with him?” asked Alasdair.

“At the south border. He was wanting to be away, toward London, afore the morn.”

“London. I will kill him.” Gwyneth wiped a hand over her tear-drenched eyes.

“How many men were traveling with the Englishman?” Alasdair asked.

“A half dozen or so.”

Alasdair glanced around to find most of the clan gathered behind them. “I need five able-bodied men ready to ride south within the hour to recover Lady Gwyneth’s son.”

He was proud to see two dozen of his strongest men step forward.

“I cannot believe you would do this, Ruth,” Gwyneth said. “You have a son of your own. How would you feel if a vile man stole him away from you?”

Ruth hung her head.

“Take her to a cell below,” Alasdair told Busby. “Tell the guard to give her bread and water twice a day until I return.” He turned to the group. “I need to see all the men in the hall now.”

Once inside, he noticed Gwyneth disappearing up the stairs. Where the devil was she going?

When the clan was assembled, Alasdair motioned his cousin onto the dais with him. “Fergus, I’m leaving you in charge.”

Fergus nodded and gave an abbreviated bow.

Alasdair turned his attention to the rest of the men who packed the great hall. “’Tis possible Donald MacIrwin will think I have followed the Englishman with a large company of men. He will assume he has an advantage for attack here. But he doesn’t. I will only need five to ride with me. The rest of you will stay here. Be vigilant, armed and ready for battle.”

He glanced at the men in front who had volunteered. “To ride with me, I will need Padraig, Angus, Boyd, Tomas, and Sweeney. As for the rest of you, I’ll need your skills here to defend the clan and Kintalon. I thank all of you for your willingness to help.”

He stepped off the dais and found Gwyneth descending the stairs from her bedchamber. She had changed back into her old clothing.

He narrowed his eyes and tugged her toward a corner to talk privately. “You’ll stay here. We will return as soon as we have Rory.”

“I must go with you.” Steel resolve echoed in her quiet tone. She threw the large sack she carried onto her shoulder. What was that, her clothes?

“Nay, ’tis too dangerous.”

“He’s my son. I have to be there.”

“You’ll slow us down. If there’s a skirmish, ’twill be difficult to protect you.”

“If that happens, I’ll hide and use my sgain dubh. And I’m a good rider, either sidesaddle or astride. What will you do if Southwick gets all the way to London with him? I am Rory’s mother. I have legal rights to him. You do not.”

He could see it was no use to argue with her. If he didn’t allow her to go, she’d likely find a way to follow, alone. That would be far more dangerous for her. She had slipped by the guards before.

“You’re to keep up on your own. ’Tis for your son we do this. If you hinder it, ’twill be your own fault.”

She stood straighter. “I will not hinder it.”

“Very well, then. I’ll have one of the grooms saddle a mare. Be ready within the hour.”

“I thank you, sir.” She curtseyed.

Alasdair strode away from her to give separate orders to each of the five men and have Fergus convey his apologies to the visiting clan chieftains and other guests for his absence.

Gwyneth wanted to thank Alasdair a hundred times over. Indeed, she could never show the depth of her gratitude for his willingness to help her to this extent.

She glanced around at the milling crowd, then a second later, realized she was looking for Rory. The hollow pain in her chest widened. Oh dear God, help me.

This was her own fault. If she had been with Rory, telling stories, instead of with Alasdair, cavorting in the garden, this wouldn’t have happened. She had been wallowing in the depths of carnal pleasure at the same moment her son was stolen away. I am a horrid mother.

***

We will find Rory.

In the pre-dawn moonlight the seven of them raced south, over moors and between mountains.

We will find Rory. Gwyneth ran the words through her mind, silently repeating them, like an incantation or prayer.

The horses’ hooves, rumbling against the ground like never-ending thunder, combined with the rhythmic movement, threatened to mesmerize her. But the cool, fresh air, along with the scent of horses and leather, kept her grounded in reality.

Her first instinct was to believe God was punishing her for her sinful behavior. Yes, maybe He was. But her regard for Alasdair was not evil. Her emotions were not evil; they just were. Those same emotions had given rise to her desire for the man riding before her. And that desire had allowed her bright moments of joy such as she had not known possible.

Joy and love were not evil.

Love? Do I love him?

Yes, some jubilant part of her wanted to shout. But she couldn’t allow him to find out, because her love for him would change nothing about their present situation.

***

“Halt!” Maxwell Huntley, Lord Southwick drew up in the darkness before a rushing stream.

His son, whom the other men had bound and tied across one of the saddles, screamed and yelled. He called for his ma and for Alasdair; he screeched out insults that would scorch the ears of most soldiers. What the devil had Gwyneth been teaching him? If the loud and obnoxious little terror was not his son…he could not think of it. The lad simply had to be his.

“We don’t have time to stop now, Southwick,” Lord Peterson said. “If we do, the MacGraths may catch up to us.”

“I must see if this irritating little rascal truly is my own flesh and blood,” he muttered, dismounting. If Gwyneth had lied to him that day six years ago, he would be murderously angry. “Bring the torch here. And take the lad off the horse.” Once his guard had set the boy onto his feet, Southwick yanked the sack from his head.

The boy’s hair was blondish-brown and straight, much like his own.

“Take me back to my ma!”

“Rory. Is that your name?” Southwick asked.

“Aye.”

He sounded like a damned Scot, and had a Scots name besides. Southwick ground his teeth. He’d see about changing both.

“What is your mother’s name?”

Rory struggled against the guard holding him. “Gwyneth.”

“How old are you?”

“Almost six. Let me go, you toad-spotted whoreson!”

Southwick clasped his hands tightly behind his back. He was sore tempted to slap some sense into the lad, but not in front of his men. “Cease! You will be quiet and mind your manners. Has your mother taught you nothing?”

Rory merely narrowed his eyes and produced a malicious glare. He would have to whip some respect into the little hellion.

“When is your birthday?” Southwick demanded.

“Why are you asking me daft questions? I want to go home.”

“That’s exactly where we are going—home. Now tell me when your birthday is.”

“July tenth,” he ground out between clenched teeth.

That would put his conception at the time when he and Gwyneth had a tryst. The boy looked like Gwyneth for the most part, but he had the narrow, refined Huntley nose and chin which gave him an aristocratic air, just as Southwick had himself. The boy was dirty, with soot and ash on his face and worn clothing.

“Let me see your hands and feet.”

“No.” The lad stood sullen.

Southwick bent to remove a primitive leather shoe himself.

“No!” Rory kicked Southwick’s shin.

He grabbed the child’s chin. “Listen to me, Rory. You will show me respect. I am your father.”

“No, you’re not! My da is dead!”

“That wasn’t your real da. I am. You may call me Father.”

“No! I won’t.”

Rage crawled along Southwick’s nerve endings. And then he realized Rory was acting like a Huntley. Most of the men in his own family were stubborn and determined to get their way. Quick tempered. They hated being taken advantage of.

Smiling, Southwick drew in a deep breath, calming himself. Indeed, this barbaric wild child was his son. In London, when the boy was cleaned up, Southwick would teach him about manners and respect.

“Put my son back on the horse. We ride.”

***

A few hours after daybreak, Alasdair, Gwyneth, and their party reached Aviemore. The muddy streets were filled with Scots dressed in their Midsummer finest, plaids of every description. She searched throngs of people for Rory and Southwick. Her anxiety vibrated to a higher pitch with each minute that passed.

“Did you see a half-dozen Englishmen and a lad ride through this morn?” Alasdair called to a grizzly-faced man in front of the livery stable.

“Aye, no more than three hours past. They traded for fresh horses.”

Good lord, a three hour lead! How will we catch up?

They quickly left Aviemore behind. Gwyneth rode in the middle of the group, beside Padraig. This trip through the countryside reminded her too much of when she’d first arrived in Scotland, alone and terrified, six years ago. The fear was worse now, despite the fact she was no longer a naïve girl.

Long before they reached Pitlochry, sunset gleamed over the land in bright orange rays. The gently sloping land here was not as majestic or dramatic as the Highlands.

Alasdair slowed his horse to a walk, and the rest followed suit. He stopped in a secluded spot near a stream and swung down from his bay. “We wouldn’t be able to catch up to them even if we were to ride all night. And ’tis apparent Lady Gwyneth may fall out of the saddle soon.”

“No, I will not.” She had promised him she would keep up with the men, and she meant to do it—even if it should kill her.

“The horses need rest as well.”

She was disheartened that they hadn’t yet spotted Rory or the knaves who had abducted him. How far would they have to ride to catch up to them? All the way to London? She prayed that would not be the case.

The other men dismounted and started unloading the packhorse to make camp.

Alasdair approached and stroked her mare’s muzzle. “Are you ready to dismount?”

“Yes.”

He reached up to her, placed his hands at her waist and lifted her from the sidesaddle. Her feet ached and prickled once set firmly on the ground. She wiggled her numb toes within her leather slippers.

Sunset lit the depths of Alasdair’s eyes to rich brown. “Are you well, then, m’lady?” His low, intimate tone turned her insides to sweet plum pudding.

“Yes, are you?”

“Aye.”

Awareness of him threatened to fluster her. “I thank you for doing this favor for me. ’Tis a grand service, indeed.”

“You have done more than this for me.” He cupped her neck and stroked a thumb over her ear. “You risked your life to save mine when you dragged me off that battlefield.”

Alasdair’s eyes grew too intense, and she dropped her gaze to that vulnerable, sensual hollow at the base of his throat. Had she ever kissed him there? No, she didn’t think so, but she wanted to.

Nonsense. I must not kiss him anywhere, ever again. She glanced aside. I must think only of Rory and getting him back.

She had to believe he was safe. Surely Southwick would not injure his son, though he might not treat him well. He might hit him or starve him as punishment. Rory was a little warrior and he might anger Southwick with attempts to escape or fight back. Southwick probably had him tied up and thrown across a saddle. Her sweet child was likely terrified beyond reason.

She wanted to take her dagger to Southwick.

***

Later that night, Alasdair lay in his bedroll looking up at the stars, thankful it was not raining. Except for Boyd, who took his turn at watch, the other men snored nearby—as well they should. It had been hours since they’d all gone to bed.

Rory and Gwyneth disturbed Alasdair’s thoughts. He prayed the lad was unhurt. No matter what it took, he would return him to his mother.

And Gwyneth…by the saints, at some point, she had become as important to him as his next heartbeat. It had nothing to do with her saving his life over a month ago, and everything to do with the way she’d burrowed into his soul.

In truth, he was the greatest imbecile for letting her steal his heart away. He’d never wanted to feel such depth of emotion for a woman again. When Leitha died, he’d almost died with her. A long time passed before he’d felt alive again. Maybe he hadn’t truly reclaimed his life until Gwyneth saved it.

To look at her was to want her in every way—in his bed, in his life, in his heart. Though he knew he was foolish for wanting her love, that was the thing he craved most.

“Alasdair,” Gwyneth whispered in the darkness, almost as if conjured by his thoughts.

He sat up. The dim light of the dying fire revealed her standing in the opening of her tent, not twenty feet away. She wore a glowing-white smock with her arisaid draped over her shoulders. She looked like a dream come to life.

“Aye. What is it?”

“I cannot sleep.”

“Nor can I.”

She shivered and rubbed her arms. What was on her mind? Did she want to talk? Or something else?

“Come. Cover up here.” Alasdair lifted the edge of his woolen blanket.

He would welcome her into his bed by any means, fair or foul. He craved the softness of her skin and the whisper of her words.

She glanced at the men lying closer to the fire.

“They’re asleep.” Alasdair darted a look toward Boyd where he stood watch on the far side of the small clearing. His back was to the fire, and none of them moved.

Now that the tempting idea of her sharing his bed had invaded his consciousness, Alasdair had to fulfill it, whether she wanted innocent sleep or something deliciously naughty.

Gwyneth crept toward him and slid beneath his plaid. Happiness and arousal flowed through him with the warmth of fine whisky. She snuggled up against him, pressed her face to his chest…and burst into tears.

Damnation.

Alasdair wrapped her in his arms. “Och, Gwyneth, I ken how hard this is on you.”

“Yes.”

After a few moments, she wiped her eyes and nose on a handkerchief she’d brought with her and apparently tried to calm herself with deep breaths—warm breaths that fanned against his bare chest and teased him.

He didn’t know whether he was relieved or irritated that he now wore trews. ’Twas more convenient if he had to rise in a hurry. But not convenient for spontaneous lovemaking.

Gwyneth was an emotional woman needing comfort and reassurance that her son would be safe. But he was an aroused man wanting the woman he cared deeply for—nay, indeed, the woman he loved.

“’Twill be all right.” He stroked a hand over her back and up into the silkiness of her loosened hair. “I’ll make sure of it.”

“We must get Rory back. He’s all I have.”

“Aye, and we will. You’re needing a wee bit of faith.” Though he was certain Rory meant more to her than anyone or anything, he wasn’t all she had. Can you not see that you have me as well? If you would but open your eyes.

“What if we don’t? Southwick is a powerful man. The courts will always side with the man.”

“But Rory’s illegitimate. ’Haps that will give you the advantage.” Alasdair hoped what he said was true. Regardless, he needed to reassure Gwyneth and take away some of her worries.

“Why can Southwick not simply marry someone else and have legitimate children?”

“’Twould be the best solution. But mayhap there is a reason he didn’t tell us.”

“He doesn’t even know or love Rory. I’ve raised him almost single-handedly. He’s my son. The reason I push forward every day.” Her whisper held the fierceness of a tigress protecting her cub.

“You’re a good mother,” Alasdair murmured. Aye, why could you not be the mother of my own children?

“I wager you’re the only one who thinks so.”

He kissed her forehead. “It doesn’t matter what other people think. We both ken the truth. You’re the most devoted mother I’ve ever seen.” He stroked his fingertips over her cheek and chin, relishing the feel of her velvety skin. “Aside from that, you’re a healer. You oft ignore your own needs to care for others. Even strangers, like me, when you saved my life. You didn’t ken whether I would be friend or enemy when I awoke, but you didn’t let that scare you. You’re a strong woman, Gwyneth. The bravest I ever met.”

“You had a peace treaty, so I knew you would be kind. I had a feeling, even before you awoke, that you were a good man.”

“Och, I’m not that good.” If he were such an angel, he wouldn’t be thinking of ravishing her right here and now, outside on the ground with several other men within speaking distance.

His body tightened and yearned for her, but alas he must fight his urges.

Through her thin smock, her breasts pressed against his bare chest, near stripping away his sanity.

She kissed the base of his throat, and pleasure flowed through him like melted butter mixed with honey.

“You’re warm,” she whispered.

Either he was daft or that was an invitation. “And you’re soft.” He stroked his palm up from her waist and over her breast through the material. Her nipple hardened. “Except right here,” he murmured and rolled her nipple beneath his thumb.

She gasped. In the abandon he loved, she thrust her breast into his hand. When she lost control, he couldn’t help himself. He moved down and licked her nipple through the fabric, plucked it between his lips. The earthy scent of woman with a hint of green herbs filled his senses. Lust washed over him. She lay flat on her back and buried her hands in his hair, embracing him close.

He glanced around and found that none of the men had moved.

“Hold onto my shoulders.” He lifted her as he rose and carried her to the tent. Inside, he lowered her to her bedroll and woolen blanket.

Once he’d covered them again, he kissed her, deep and thorough, relishing the wet, hot feel of her mouth and her unique taste. He loved the way she followed his mouth and sucked at his tongue.

What a rogue he was for taking advantage of her vulnerable emotions. But he wanted her. Forever. And he would use any means to tie her to him. He wanted his bairn growing in her belly. Not just because he needed an heir, but more, he never wanted her to leave him. He would have an excuse to make her stay. That probably made him a desperate bastard and a barbarian, but he didn’t care. His clan, his lands, his title—those were his duty. But Gwyneth was his delight. His reason to smile.

He kissed a trail down her neck and plucked at her nipple through the material again. She whimpered and arched her back. He would have this wretched garment off her.

Stroking a hand up her thigh, he pushed the linen upward to expose her hips. She lifted her upper body, and he pulled the smock over her head.

So much silky, bare skin. The allure near made him dizzy. He didn’t know where he wanted to touch her first, so he touched her everywhere, smoothing his palms along her feminine curves. She purred against his lips. When he grazed his fingertips between her legs, he found her wet. She moaned, and he ached to plunge to her depths.

She was the most eager lover he’d ever had. Surely, she craved him as much as he craved her, by simple touch or look. After he unfastened his trews and pushed them off, he parted her legs and rolled between them.

Maybe if he got her with child, she would be forced to marry him because of her blessed conscience. It was not trickery because she well knew the risks of lovemaking.

He suckled her breasts and rubbed his shaft lightly against her mound. With delirious moans, she arched and tugged at him.