Текст книги "My Fierce Highlander"

Автор книги: Vonda Sinclair

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“Alasdair?” she begged in a breathy tone.

“Aye.” He could wait no longer to join his body with hers. Savoring every delightful inch, he slowly slid into her tight, wet heat and growled at the euphoria that dazzled him.

Gwyneth uttered beautiful quiet groans and pants. He kissed her mouth, flicked his tongue in and out as he mimicked the motion of his shaft. Locking her legs around the back of his and meeting his hips, she shoved him to the brink of release too soon. Though it had been only a day since their last encounter, he hungered for her hourly.

Holding his weight up off her slight frame, he thrust himself into her, gently over and over. And then faster with more urgency.

She tilted her hips and met his thrusts just as her climax grasped hold of her. She squeezed him and near took his sanity. With his kisses, he tried to muffle the cries coming from her mouth so she wouldn’t wake the others. At the same time, his own impending release charged in on him, replacing his rationality with a pleasure so sharp it stole his breath.

Though he tried to stifle his own moans, he was too far drowned under the influence of ecstasy to control anything.

When his reasoning ability returned, he sucked in deep breaths.

He placed soft, lingering kisses to her mouth. Nay, he could never let her go.

***

Gwyneth awoke sometime later, feeling a rough, hot hand stroking up her leg, over her derriere, across her belly and up to her breasts. She immediately remembered where she was. And what they’d done. Sweet heavens! She had not meant for this to happen.

Well, maybe she had.

She had but wanted someone to hold onto, someone to talk to. Alasdair. She was not strong like he’d said, but weak, especially in his presence. He was her weakness, but at the same time, her strength. He made her believe anything was possible, indeed, that he could accomplish anything.

With him lying close behind her, she snuggled her naked bottom to his hard body. He felt delectable. His erection prodded her. A warm tingling swirled through her belly and moved downward in a wet, itching sensation. She was his puppet.

“Gwyneth,” he breathed into her ear and suckled her earlobe.

“Mmm, yes.”

He lifted her leg back over his and spread her thighs in a most unusual way. With his fingers, he teased her, stroking between her legs. The pleasure was so immobilizing, all she could do was slide her hand backward around his neck, into his hair and hold on.

Then he did something she didn’t expect—positioned himself and thrust into her. Surely this was a scandalous and forbidden way to make love. She had not even imagined it would be possible. This was the way animals mated. And at the moment, she felt like an animal—she wanted to bite him.

“Shh,” he whispered in her ear, and she realized she’d cried out. His clansmen slept outside. She was momentarily shocked at herself. With a fingertip, he continued to rub her in a scandalously erogenous spot while he glided into her depths, slowly at first. Then with more demanding insistence.

The magical tingles centered there. She arched her back and pushed her rump against him. Wanting more, wanting him deeper, wanting all he would give her with his forceful body and powerful movements. She shoved the wadded up plaid into her mouth and bit into it to muffle her cries as rapture claimed her. Oh, her body wanted to hold onto his and never let him go.

He grasped her to him tight and slid to the hilt. There he shuddered into her and moaned.

“I want all of you,” he breathed into her ear. “Tha gràdh agam ort.”

She knew what those Gaelic words meant—I love you.

Conflicting emotions besieged her. Instantaneous joy, overshadowed by deep sadness. Rage and helplessness.

Dear God, I love you too, Alasdair. But too many things prevented her saying the words.

Their love could never be.

Chapter Fourteen

When next Alasdair became aware, men’s voices echoed back at him from some distance. He opened his eyes to firelight and early dawn glowing through the tent. God’s bones, summer nights were too short. He had not wanted to be caught in Gwyneth’s tent, for her sake. He had meant to return to his own bedroll long before now, but he’d found it nigh impossible to leave her.

Gwyneth lay sleeping, cradled in his arms, her nose pressed to his chest and her soft breaths tickling his skin.

She was still naked, as was he. Closing his eyes, he savored this moment as one that neared perfection. If he could but wake every morn ensnared in her arms, he would be a happy man.

Would she ever consent to marry him? He would not ask her again until he was sure. She had cried last night after they’d made love the second time. Perhaps she had understood his words spoken in Gaelic. One part of him wanted her to know he loved her, but another part didn’t, because she might not feel the same.

It wasn’t over yet. He was nothing if not determined. Once he rescued Rory, Alasdair was certain Gwyneth would agree to marry him. He would somehow convince her Rory would be safe growing up in the Highlands. And if he could achieve peace, once Donald MacIrwin was arrested, there would be no more feuds and skirmishes between the MacIrwins and MacGraths.

His clansmen talking and laughing outside drew Alasdair’s attention once more. They had to be on their way soon if they intended to catch Southwick. Alasdair gently disentangled his limbs from Gwyneth’s, stroking his hand over her silky skin in the process. Such temptation. If he didn’t stop touching her, he would emerge from the tent with an erection his trews couldn’t hide.

He turned to his back, found his trews beside him and struggled into them. After kissing Gwyneth’s forehead, he braced himself to face his men.

He crawled from the tent, stood and closed the flap behind him.

When he turned, the gazes of the five men gathered around the fire locked on him. Tomas, Boyd and Sweeney smirked. But Angus and Padraig scowled at him.

“Good morrow.”

They murmured greetings in response.

He didn’t care whether they approved or not. Ignoring them, he strolled toward the bushes to relieve himself, then to the stream to wash his hands and face in the cold water. That brought him awake with refreshing clarity. Upon returning to the campsite, he found his gear on the ground near his bedroll and dug through his possessions for a shirt.

He slipped the garment on and sauntered toward the fire. Angus handed him a pewter cup of ale and a warm oat bannock.

“I thank you.” He sat on a rock by the fire, while the others stared anywhere but at him. “A fine morn, aye, lads?”

“Aye,” they chorused.

“We shall make much progress this day and cover many miles. I’m hoping we’ll be arriving in Edinburgh afore gloaming.”

“Are you wanting to run the horses into the ground, then?” Angus asked, staring at the fire.

Alasdair stiffened. He hated his authority questioned, but Angus was his cousin and ten years his senior, so he oft spoke his mind.

“Nay,” Alasdair said with obvious patience. “If we don’t make it by then, it cannot be helped.”

He ran his gaze over the men. When they looked him in the eye, he dared any one of them to challenge him. He would not have them passing judgment on something they knew nothing of—his feelings for Gwyneth and what existed between them. Best to face the issue head on.

“I can see you’re all wondering what the hell I was doing coming out of Gwyneth’s tent. In truth, ’tis none of your concern. And I won’t tolerate your judging her for it. She is a lady now and always, deserving of our respect.”

“Forgive me, Alasdair,” Angus said. “But are you sure you’re showing her respect?”

“Aye, though I ken you don’t see it that way.” He refused to explain his relationship with Gwyneth to them. He would not have them know he’d proposed but she’d turned him down. He was not yet done convincing her to change her mind.

“Do you care for her, then?” Angus asked.

Padraig’s arrow-sharp gaze cut through Alasdair.

Boyd, Sweeney and Tomas cleared their throats, rose and drifted away to saddle the horses.

“Aye, that I do,” Alasdair admitted.

“Have you thought of marryin’ again?”

Alasdair tried to hold back his grin. “Don’t fash yourself, cousin. I’m working on it.”

Padraig clenched his jaw so hard, he was certain to crack a tooth. And his glare only intensified.

“Do you have something to say, Padraig?” Alasdair asked.

He shuffled his feet and lowered his eyes. “Nay. Just that…Lady Gwyneth is kind, and she’s been through hell. You shouldn’t take advantage of her weakened state…m’laird…with all due respect.”

Alasdair knew Padraig was a wee besotted with Gwyneth, but he did not know the extent. He couldn’t speak harshly to the kind-hearted man who had been loyal to him, and his father before him, for many years. As well, Alasdair couldn’t tell them Gwyneth had sought him out last night.

“’Haps ’tis true I’m a rogue, but I have the best of intentions. Just give me a few days.”

***

Gwyneth awoke to daybreak and the rumble of male voices. She couldn’t understand their exact words, but she recognized Alasdair’s voice among them.

Alasdair. Oh, goodness!

She covered her head with the blanket and recalled the details of their encounter. The way he had given her comforting kisses and seduced her, body, mind and soul so that she forgot her troubles. Forgot her darling Rory within the clasp of a London knave.

Oh, dear lord, I am a weak wanton. She knew she shouldn’t have gone to Alasdair last night. She had been safe in her tent. Safe and good and afraid…but most of all, lonely. She had craved holding someone in her arms. And needed someone strong—Alasdair—to hold her. She didn’t normally accept comfort from anyone, but he had been out there, so close. She had needed his deep voice murmuring in her ear, words of reassurance that everything would be all right. She believed him; she trusted him. His hands, so warm and comforting, smoothing over her. That’s what she had wanted.

But the rest—the carnal bliss that he unleashed on her—was part and parcel of their connection. Something she needed like her next breath, yet at the same time, she knew it was folly. She could not seem to learn her lesson. Sensuality was to be her downfall, her most horrid sin.

But then he’d said he loved her in his lilting Gaelic tongue. The beauty of the roughly whispered words had shattered her composure. No man had ever said those words to her. As well, she had never loved a man. But she did love Alasdair, with her whole being.

Why did this have to happen to me?

Their lives were on different paths, going in opposite directions. They could not have a love match, no matter how much she dreamed of it. She had to think only of her son and his future.

I must stop!

She threw back the covers and dragged her clothing onto the pallet. She shoved her head and arms into her smock—which Alasdair had so hastily removed the night before.

No, I will not think of last night and the forbidden, delightful things he did to me.

She put on her corset and fastened up the front with ties. Her breasts were tender where he’d nibbled at them. His mouth had been a tempting torture.

She blanked him out of her mind and struggled into the rest of her clothing. With the comb Alasdair had given her, she removed the tangles from her hair, recoiled it, then tied a kertch on her head.

She emerged from her tent to find Alasdair sitting with his cousin by the fire. Alasdair’s sleepy but intent gaze lit on her and lingered. He had the look of a dissolute debaucher with his midnight beard stubble and his tousled mane. She had run her fingers through it numerous times the night before and knew well how soft and silky his hair was.

I am not embarrassed.

Well, maybe a little. She glanced at Angus, and he dropped his gaze to the fire. Did he suspect anything had happened last night? She hoped they had not wakened anyone.

“Good morrow, m’lady.” Alasdair grinned. “Angus reheated some bannocks—if you can stomach them.”

“I didn’t force you to eat them,” Angus grumbled.

Alasdair laughed and slapped his cousin on the shoulder. “Indeed, they’re gusty as ambrosia.”

“I must excuse myself first.” She gave a shallow curtsy and headed toward the bushes. The scent of horses and fresh horse dung was strong in the air as she passed their mounts. When she heard someone following, she glanced back to find Alasdair behind her.

“I will stand guard. If you require assistance, call out.”

She nodded. “I thank you.”

Once she was finished, she found Alasdair with his back to her, staring off into the distance and whistling. Hiding her smile, she washed her face and hands in the cold water of the stream, then dried them with the only thing available, her sleeves.

With a bow, Alasdair motioned for her to precede him.

Trying to fight back the memories of last night, she sat down on a rock by the fire. Alasdair gave her a warm bannock and cup of ale. The wholesome oat scent gave her hunger pains of a sudden.

“We must be on our way quickly if we are to catch up with Southwick. I’m hoping we’ll be arriving in Edinburgh afore nightfall.” Alasdair glanced at Angus. “’Twould give us about eighteen hours at this time of year.”

“Do you think Southwick stopped in Edinburgh with Rory?” she asked.

“’Tis possible.” Alasdair seated himself opposite her. “But the city is so large, ’twill be hard to find them. Once we’re there, we must find Lachlan and have him join our party. He has spent more time in London than I have and will be much help to us if we end up having to go there.”

“I see.” Lord! She didn’t want to go to London. Not only would Rory be harder to reclaim there, the mere thought of running into people who knew of her disgrace took her appetite.

But she would go through the fires of hell if required, to save Rory and have him back beside her. What significance were a few stares and snide remarks in the grand scheme of things? She would survive them as she survived everything else.

“Is anything the matter?” Alasdair asked.

When she glanced up, she found herself sitting alone with him. Angus had taken himself off somewhere.

Alasdair’s gaze fixed upon her with concern. “Of a sudden, you’re pale as a banshee.”

“I was thinking, I won’t be happy to have to see my father and some of those other Londoners who have told many a lurid tale about me. All true, of course.”

Alasdair’s face darkened, and his gaze grew sharp. “If they insult you, they’ll regret it, I vow.” His brogue intensified, and he muttered a few Gaelic words of dubious meaning.

“I thank you,” she said, trying to keep the wistfulness out of her voice. He was as chivalrous as an old-fashioned armored knight. “But their words can no longer hurt me. The only thing that will hurt me is to lose Rory to an aristocratic beast who would abuse him.”

Indeed, that would be like death to her.

“You won’t be losing him to anyone. Trust me on that.” Alasdair rose, strode toward where his bed had been last night and rolled up his plaid.

His determined tone gave her pause. She didn’t doubt him. No, indeed, she trusted him to the depths of her soul. Adding a silent prayer for her son, she choked down the remainder of the bannock and a few sips of ale. By the time she arose, the men had everything packed, loaded and were ready to mount.

She joined them. “I thank all of you for your help.”

The men murmured responses and bowed slightly.

Angus stood closest to her. “You should marry the lad,” he said in a low tone. “Alasdair, I mean to say.”

“What?”

Angus sent her a wise but fleeting glance. His cheeks above his dark beard were ruddier than normal. Good heavens, he knew she and Alasdair had spent the night together.

What had Alasdair told him?

She glanced at Sweeney, not far away. The young man, close to her own age, averted his gaze but she did not miss the grin he tried to hide. She scrutinized the other men. They all knew. She could see it in their mock blank expressions and lips, tight or clamped between their teeth to hide their snide smiles.

Mortified, she turned her back on them and focused on her saddle—not hers, but Alasdair’s late wife’s. A woman who had lain with him without shame, without the smirks of others lashing down at her.

Leather and harness squeaked and jingled as the men mounted.

Alasdair approached, stopping close behind her. “’Tis time to mount.”

Angus and the other men walked their horses ahead, giving them privacy.

“What did you tell Angus?” she asked.

Taking her arm, Alasdair gently urged her to face him and shielded her from the others. “What do you mean?”

“He told me I should marry you.”

“Damnation,” he muttered and darted a glare in his cousin’s direction.

“Did you discuss it with him?”

“Nay more than I had to. He was wanting to ken what I was doing leaving your tent this morn.” Alasdair shrugged and kissed her hand. “Don’t pay him any mind.”

Easy for him to say that. He was not the whore in this equation. Still, she couldn’t stop herself from savoring the softness of his lips on her skin as he kissed the back of her other hand.

Because she had little choice in the matter, she allowed Alasdair to assist her into the sidesaddle. She tried not to think about his hands gripping her waist. Or the way the other men watched them.

She would not be spending the night with Alasdair again.

***

A mist of cool, drizzling rain greeted them the next evening as they reached Edinburgh. All was gray and drab in Auld Reekie—the grimy streets, the tall buildings, the sky with its low-hanging clouds. Even Edinburgh Castle on the steep hill above them looked mournful and bleak with its gray stone walls. The foul air of the smoke-filled city and its sewage near turned Alasdair’s stomach. He glanced back at his drenched and bedraggled party. The rain matched everything else on this miserable trip.

His men thought him a heartless rogue, bent on torturing horses and debauching women. He had done neither. And it irked him like a thistle between his trews and arse that they would believe such of him.

Angus had been right; they couldn’t reach Edinburgh as quickly as Alasdair had hoped. Which meant, in all likelihood, that Southwick now had an even greater lead.

Alasdair drew up at a coaching inn on Grassmarket and dismounted.

Since yesterday morn, Gwyneth had avoided him. She was polite and civil but not receptive to any private conversation or intimacy.

He’d told Angus he shouldn’t have said anything to Gwyneth about marriage.

“Someone needed to tell her,” his obstinate cousin had replied. “As much swiving as the two of you are doing, you need to be getting hand-fasted or married. What’ll you do if a bairn results?”

“Let me handle it. ’Tis not your concern,” he’d said.

Now, neither Angus nor Gwyneth was very friendly toward him. He would not propose to her again until he was certain she would say yes and until Rory was safe, but if she wanted him in her bed, he would readily comply. Betrothal or not, each time he made love to her, he further tied her to him. Perhaps she didn’t realize that.

He would prove to her he could straighten things out with Southwick, and recover Rory. Though he didn’t yet know how he would do it, he had to. He refused to let her and the lad down.

Alasdair approached Gwyneth sitting atop her mare. When he reached up to help her dismount, it was obvious she was trying to avoid looking into his eyes. She didn’t want even that small connection, but he felt her body tremble when he touched her.

By the saints, I shall have you, Gwyneth, body and heart. Don’t doubt it.

But he would not tell her that; he would show her. He would prove they were right for each other.

As he lifted her down, her narrow waist and slight weight within his hands bombarded him with instinctive urges, to hold her close and protect her. Comfort her. To carry her to the nearest bed for a repeat performance of two nights ago. Deep pleasure and devotion. He would show her a love so pure as to be blinding, if only she would let him.

Instead, he set her to her feet and pulled away to instruct two of the men to take care of the horses.

Within the inn’s dining room, their party ate decent mutton stew, cheese and bread. The men shoveled the food in as if they had not eaten in weeks. Alasdair noticed, however, that Gwyneth picked at her food. Hating the worried slant of her brows, he vowed to take it away and set everything aright. Vowed to make her smile. Deep down, he prayed her lack of appetite and her bout of sickness early that morn signified something else—that she carried his child.

A half hour later, after he had handled the business of accommodations for their party and sent two of his men to find Lachlan, Alasdair climbed the narrow, dark stairway and knocked at Gwyneth’s door.

“Who is it?” she called.

“’Tis me.”

She opened the door slowly and stepped back.

Her vivid blue eyes, wide with caution, provided the only bright color in drab Edinburgh, but he forced himself to look away, toward the newly kindled blaze. He approached the small fireplace, hoping the heat would dry his clothing a wee bit.

“I’m thinking you would like a bath after being on the road so long, m’lady.” He admitted he was trying to get back into her good graces.

“That would be lovely.” Gwyneth cleared her throat. “Are you…staying in this room as well?”

He glanced back at her, for a moment perversely enjoying her discomfort. “I told the proprietor we were married.”

Her mouth dropped open. “Why? Why did you do that?”

“You’re a woman in the company of six men. ’Tis better this way. No one will question your position.”

She frowned, apparently mulling that over. He was right, and she knew it. He hated the mockery of pretending to be married to her when he wanted it in truth.

“You mean to sleep here, then?” she asked.

He couldn’t tell whether she hoped he would or wouldn’t sleep there. How could she look so innocent, virginal and demure of a sudden, when she had been such a wanton in his arms? Wallowing in every carnal thing he’d done to her.

An image came to him, of her on top, riding him into the mattress, her eyes closed, head thrown back. Almost as she had done in the garden, but this time she’d be naked. Her creamy skin lit by the sun and her long, unbound hair tickling his legs. Her expression naught but pure rapture. He hardened instantly, wanting the image to be true so badly, sharp desire trapped his breath.

“’Haps I will sleep here. ’Tis not as if we haven’t shared a bed afore.”

A pink flush crept over her face and her jaw hardened. “I owe you more than I can ever repay, so if you want me to…warm your bed in exchange for getting Rory back, I will comply.”

How could she think him so low? He had asked her to marry him twice. What more did she require to know he was honorable?

“What are you blathering on about? You saved my life, m’lady! I’m the one who’s owing you, and repaying you. And even if I didn’t, I would still help you recover Rory. Aside from that, you won’t be warming my bed in exchange for anything, except the mutual pleasure between us.”

Damnation, he’d let his anger get the better of him. His tone and glare had surely been harsher than he’d intended. Drawing in a deep breath, he tried to swallow his irritation.

“Well, I have no money,” she said. “I cannot even pay for this room and—”

He stepped before her and tilted up her face, stroking his fingertips over her blushing cheeks. “Listen to me, Gwyneth,” he said in a rough whisper. “I would give you anything I have. Can you not see that?”

Beyond a trace of tears, the blue flame of her eyes burned into his. Her small hand fisted in his doublet, tugging him closer. He lowered his head and brushed his lips across hers. Slowly he tasted her lips, and between. Such female temptation she was. Luscious torment. He wanted to lick her head to toe, devour her in a few hungry bites. Hands at her waist, he pressed her close, against his hard shaft. He could not overcome his obsession to have her. In every way.

Loud pounding on the door startled them. Gwyneth jumped back and pressed a hand to her lips, her darkened eyes filled with guilt.

“Muire Mhàthair,” Alasdair muttered, turned his back to her and sucked in a deep breath. He tried to shut down his arousal and think of something unappealing. Damnation. Nothing was coming to him.

The knock sounded again.

Thankful his doublet was long enough over his trews to hide his erection, he wrested the door open.

Lachlan stood there, grinning like a mouse in a loaf.

“Ciamar a tha sibh, mo bhràthar?” Alasdair clasped his hand.

“Glé mhath.” Lachlan came in and bowed to Gwyneth. “Lady Gwyneth. Don’t be worrying your pretty little head about Rory. We’ll be getting him back afore long. Aye, brother?”

“That we will.” Alasdair wondered at the way Lachlan addressed Gwyneth. Their clansmen must have filled him in on all the latest, including her appropriate title. And, no doubt, that Alasdair had spent a night in her tent. He dreaded the teasing Lachlan was sure to have in store for him.

“Have you any inkling where the scoundrel is what snatched him up?”

“We haven’t seen a sign of Southwick or Rory since we left Kintalon. All we ken for a certainty is that they passed through Aviemore three hours before we did. After that, they must have ridden like the devil. They may be here in town, or proceeded on to England.”

“They may have taken a ship to London. ’Twould be the fastest.”

“Aye, and ’haps we should as well.”

“We’ll go arrange it.” Lachlan faced Gwyneth. “You’ll be happy to know I’ve found you a governess position here in Edinburgh.”

Nay! The feeling of a large stone smashing into Alasdair’s stomach near knocked him flat.