CHAPTER ELEVEN

 

 

Entering heaven had put Alexander in hell. His cock had never been so agonizingly engorged, which made him even bigger than normal. It would be a tight fit with an experienced lass. Manageable, but tight.

With a virgin? Sweet, bloody Christ. Her gasping whimpers and sharp-biting nails left no doubt about whether it was heaven or hell for her.

Yet, with half his length buried inside her fist-tight sheath and his instincts roaring loudly enough to drown out an ocean, he wasn’t sure he could stop. “Dinnae move,” he ordered. If she didn’t move, he could fight this. He could withdraw.

Probably.

He almost managed it. But she moved, rubbing those wee, ruby nipples against his chest. The muscles of her slick sheath fluttered around his cock like a butterfly fighting a net. She tilted her hips, forcing him an inch deeper.

His vision darkened. His head lifted from his body. And the need to claim her filled him until nothing else existed.

He surged into her, driving a gasping cry from her long, beautiful throat. Aye, she was his. Thrust. His. Thrust. His alone.

“Al-Alexander.”

She was his. Not Munro’s. Not young Gavin’s. Not the French duke’s. No other man had felt this silken heat flexing around him. Thrust. Alexander’s cock was the first. Thrust. He was the first. Thrust.

She’d fooled him with her taunts about dirty lasses and seduction pauses. Thrust. She’d tempted him with her wet, white skin beneath nothing but his thin shirt. Thrust. Her nipples had been begging. Begging. Thrust. Her mons had been a shimmering, golden shadow teasing. Teasing. Thrust.

His cock had readied to fill her in seconds. Then she’d bent over in front of him, presenting those sweet, firm buttocks and long, bonnie thighs for his consideration.

He’d nearly come watching her water her plants with her hair.

God, this woman. Thrust. His woman. Thrust. This sweet, lustful woman. Thrust.

He’d mistaken her blistering arousal for that of an experienced mistress slaking her needs after a drought. Naturally, she’d be drenched and desperate, he’d told himself. She’d tear at his shirt and grip his neck like a lifeline and shove her breasts into his mouth. An experienced woman would boldly demand his hands and his cock. She’d swell so tight, she’d feel like a virgin.

A virgin.

“Too much, Alexander.” Her voice now was a frayed plea. Tremulous. Distressed. “Hurts.”

He halted. Focused on how she panted against his shoulder. Felt how she clawed his neck.

She was his. And she was delicate. Those dainty breasts he’d devoured like a hungry beast were bright, ruby red from the pressure of his teeth and mouth. That fluttering sheath he’d breached with headlong urgency quaked as she flinched with every thrust.

She was his to take, aye. But she was also his to care for as delicate creatures demanded.

Just now, she was demanding, “Need more.”

More?

“Let me slide my hand between us,” she panted. “I want … There’s a wee spot I can touch that will …”

Was she giving him tupping instructions? Bloody hell.

He lifted her and pivoted, taking her to the ground. With quick motions, he dragged the plaid she’d dropped earlier over the grass and laid her down. Propping on his elbow above her, he watched those leaf-green eyes as he shifted his to penetrate her at an easier angle.

A surprised blink instead of a wince. Good.

He drew her knees up and wrapped those long legs around his waist.

A wee, dainty moan as she licked her lips. Very good.

He kissed her. Better.

He thumbed her nipple. Hotter.

He trailed his fingers down to the top of her slick, swollen folds—and nudged.

“Oh, God.” She arched. “Again.”

He did it again, swirling this time.

She squeezed his cock until he thought his head might explode. Or perhaps his ballocks, which ached to flood her with seed.

He chased her hitching breaths and feminine groans like prey in a hunt—steadily, relentlessly.

Her pleas became a chant. “Aye, Alexander. Aye, there. Round and round. God, it’s so good.”

He sank as far inside as her sheath would allow, inching forward little by little as her spiraling arousal warmed her, wetted her, deepened the home she made for him.

“Alexander! It’s so goooood.”

He smiled, watching his woman flush and bloom. She shivered as she neared her peak, eyes glowing earthly green and locking on his mouth.

“Kiss me. Move. Please.”

He kissed her softly. Then he moved. A small nudge for his needy woman. Thrust. A tiny pluck of her tender bud. Thrust. Drenched and slick. Thrust. Tight as a fist. Thrust. Hotter than summer’s peak. Thrust. A sobbing affirmation of pleasure from his woman. Thrust. His. Thrust. Exquisite. Thrust. Woman. Thrust.

She seized upon him, clawed into him, milked and goaded him. Her screams of ecstasy sent the birds in the trees skyward. And while he took his woman with a final, frenzied pounding, she enfolded him in light and launched him from hell into heaven. Pure, radiant bliss exploded outward from everywhere they were joined—their mouths, their sex, their skin.

A long while later, sound returned. First the leaves. Then the birds. The rushing river and the rustling grass. Sensation came next—the wetness between them and her fingers stroking his beard. Then her hand settled onto his scar, tracing the puckered patch of skin with trembling hesitation.

“Does it hurt?” she murmured.

“I should be askin’ you that question, Duchess.” He rasped. “But the answer’s no.”

As gently as he could, he withdrew. After stripping them both, he gathered her up and carried her down into the river. As the cool water swirled around them, she shivered in his arms and buried her face against his neck.

When they were deep enough, he lowered her to her feet and gently washed between her thighs. She hissed in a breath. Slowly, however, she relaxed against his hand and let the water soothe her soreness.

“Ye should have told me ye were untried,” he rasped.

“Why should I need to say something so obvious?”

“It wasnae obvious to me.”

She shoved his hand away then shoved him away with a simmering frown. “Only because you drew preposterous conclusions about Sergeant Munro.”

“He was a stranger to ye before he showed up in Edinburgh searchin’ for yer brother.”

Her hands moved beneath the water in the mysterious, alluring motions of a lass having a wash. “Aye. And your point is?” she said tartly.

Alexander glanced down. He was chest-deep in cold water after coming so hard he’d gone blind. How in bloody blazes had she managed to arouse him this quickly? She was vexed and snappish. Her nakedness was nothing but a shifting pink swirl beneath the water. The only visible part of her was her face, and that was glaring daggers. His cock not only didn’t care, the damned thing was standing at attention and giving her a salute.

Shaking his head, he attempted to focus. “Munro was an ambitious sod prone to thinkin’ of his policing duties in grand terms. He spent a decade chasin’ dubious glory in the Inverness constabulary. The thought of shuttin’ down the MacPherson Distillery gave him nocturnal emissions.”

The sergeant had been forced to change targets temporarily after Broderick, with help from Campbell and Alexander, had broken Kenneth Lockhart out of the Inverness jail. Knowing that the well-connected lord was close to escaping justice for his crimes, Broderick had hauled him to a remote corner of the glen, beaten the man to within an inch of his life, then lost track of him after the future Mrs. Broderick MacPherson stumbled upon them in the dark and distracted him from finishing the job. Lockhart had escaped back to Edinburgh—aided by his sister—where he’d managed to target the MacPhersons again.

Sergeant Munro, eager to return Lockhart to the Inverness jail, had surveilled the house Lockhart shared with his sister for signs of the escapee. Alexander had done the same thing. He understood how watching Sabella Lockhart affected a man. So, when he’d discovered that she and Munro were meeting in secret, he’d concluded she was either working against her brother in secret or she was leading Munro away from Lockhart. Considering how she’d helped her brother leave Inverness, Alexander had thought the latter far more likely.

After the putrid pile of demon’s shite had been sent to hell by Broderick’s blade, Munro hadn’t returned to Inverness to continue his war against unlicensed whisky production. Instead, he’d resigned his position—the one he’d spent decades pursuing—to help a bonnie aristocrat he scarcely knew mop up the mess. As far as Alexander was concerned, that was proof of Sabella Lockhart’s power. He’d felt it himself.

Hell, he felt it now.

“Once yer brother was dead, Munro had nae earthly reason to stay in Edinburgh,” he argued. “Yet, he resigned his post for you. What in bluidy hell was I supposed to think?”

Leaf-green eyes snapped at him like the tip of a whip. “Perhaps that he was an honorable man who’d devoted his life to serving the causes of order and justice.”

He scoffed. “Servin’ the cause of bloated honorifics, ye mean.”

“And perhaps there are men in this world more interested in helping a lady in distress than in bedding her.”

“With other lasses, mayhap. With you? Nah.”

She threw up her hands. The exasperated gesture splashed water across his shoulders and face. She either didn’t notice or didn’t care. “Now, I’m a veritable succubus, feeding on the lusts of unwitting males. Is that it?”

It wasn’t the worst explanation he’d heard. “Makes more sense than ye bein’ a virgin.”

This time, she splashed him on purpose. “Ye big, oafish beast! What have I ever done to warrant such aspersions on my virtue?”

He raked a hand through his hair and swiped away the dripping water from his beard. “’Tis not about what ye’ve done, lass. ’Tis about what ye are.”

“What, pray tell, is that?”

He took in her fury-flushed skin and long, elegant neck, her delicate bones and willowy frame, her verdant eyes lashing him for his presumptions and summoning his most barbaric instincts like a lodestone. She was an unearthly pleasure garden locked behind walls and gates. If a man had a key, he could unlock the wonders of heaven. How to tell her?

“To a man, ye’re temptation itself.”

She threw up her hands again and thrashed angrily toward the riverbank. “And you are infuriating!” she yelled over her shoulder.

He thought she might have continued ranting about his hard head being a good substitute for a battledore, but he was a mite distracted by her dripping-wet nakedness as she emerged like a water nymph from the swirling depths.

By God, she was a bonnie sight. Long, slender legs curved into firm, heart-shaped buttocks. Wet, golden hair brushed the base of her elegant spine. When she bent forward to snatch up the plaid, his breath stopped. Then she gave it a shake, and his heart stopped.

“My brother’s crimes against ye don’t give you license to accuse me of harlotry!” She wrapped herself in the plaid. “Or to accuse a good man like Sergeant Munro of lascivious intentions!”

Though he wasn’t a particularly good man, Alexander’s intentions were deeply lascivious. He could scarcely think past the resonant pounding in his cock.

“For your information, Mr. MacPherson, the sergeant’s attachment to me was fatherly. I happened to resemble his beloved daughter, Isobel.” She collected the discarded soap but left the towel and his clothing on the ground. “He was a dear man. A friend.” Her voice quavered on the last two words, either from anger or grief. “Even if he had desired a different sort of arrangement—”

“Havin’ ye as his mistress, ye mean.”

“—I would never stoop to trading my virtue for coin and comforts.”

Dark instincts, deep and cold, seeped up from the well he preferred to keep safely sealed. Lately, it had sprung a few leaks. He blamed her. “Isnae that precisely what ye plan to do, Duchess? Sell yerself and yer womb to a duke? Mayhap his coin is better, but I reckon he’d be purchasing the same goods.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You are swine. No! Ye’re a vile insult to swine.”

“Cannae blame any man for buyin’ a ticket, costly or no.” That pleasure garden was sinful beyond imagining. If other men knew what he’d discovered inside, he’d spend the rest of his life defending the gates.

“Now, I’m a whore for wanting a husband!”

“If the grass stains fit, Duchess.”

“Ye rude, enormous …” She sputtered, reaching for another insult. “Highlander!”

Slowly, he grinned. “Too bad for ye that ye’ll be marryin’ this rude, enormous Highlander, eh?”

“Marry?” Outrage lit her ablaze. “I’d sooner wed Bill the Donkey and feed him from the turnip bin!”

His grin faded. He started toward her. When the water reached his waist, he stopped, glanced down, and cursed. He wished the river was colder. With a shrug, he continued toward the bank.

Leaf-green eyes drank him in then locked on his groin and went alarmingly wide. She stumbled back a step, tripping on a tree root and catching herself against an alder.

Calmly, he plucked up the towel and dried himself. “Ye didnae give yer virginity to Bill the Donkey,” he said. “Ye gave it to me. So, ye’ll wed me.”

Blushing bright ruby, she turned sideways to peer with tremendous interest at a patch of weeds. “I most certainly will not.”

He donned his trews, wincing as he tucked his cock away. Bloody hell, the thing loved her temper. But there would be no relief until they were wed, and that would take at least a day or two. “I might have put a bairn in ye,” he pointed out. “Now, I’m nae duke or French count, but my seed plants in fertile ground same as any man’s.”

“I refuse to wed a man who thinks me a whore.”

No. She refused to wed a man who was beneath her. As always, the thought provoked his blackest instincts.

Controlling his movements through long practice, he shrugged on his shirt then raked his hair out of his face. “I ken ye’re not a whore. Whores are cheap. A pedigree like yers commands a higher price, Duchess.”

She sucked in a breath at the insult.

“Dinnae fash,” he said. “I’m keen to pay it. Mayhap ye’ll add a bit of bluing to the MacPherson bloodline, eh?”

Shaking with tension, she spun to bellow at him, “I shall never, ever marry you, Alexander MacPherson! Do you hear me?”

“Hard not to hear ye, lass.”

“Ye’re a rude, insufferable beast—”

“Aye, ye mentioned that before.”

“—and nothing on this earth could convince me to bind myself to such an odious, bad-tempered, blackhearted—”

“What happens if yer belly swells before spring? Think a duke will pay if he kens he’s buyin’ used—”

She lobbed her soap at his head with a gritted scream. He ducked, and the missile plunked into the river. Bloop. By the time he straightened, she was halfway to the house.

He climbed the slope in two strides. “Where ye headin’, lass?”

“The kitchen. There are knives there. I’d suggest ye don’t follow me if ye wish to keep yer appendages attached!” She detoured to the drying yard and yanked one of his shirts off the line, followed by her shift and stockings. “Tomorrow, I shall take Magdalene’s invitation to stay at Rowan House.” She wadded a pair of his breeches and threw them at his chest. He noted they were cleaner than usual. “Ye can do yer own dratted laundry from now on!”

Her declaration focused him, shoving his instincts aside long enough for the more reasoned part of his mind to take over. He’d pushed her too far. Bloody hell, he’d let his instincts rule, and now she was leaving.

He ran a hand over his beard as she stomped toward the kitchen, slamming the door behind her. God, he’d made a hash of this. There was nothing for it. He’d have to take a different tack.

Everything he knew about Sabella indicated she should have taken his offer, or at least reacted more favorably. But much of what he thought about her had been wrong. All the cool delicacy he’d seen before was another piece of her cage—the innermost layer she’d worn to protect herself. As she grew more comfortable with him, she’d revealed the woman beneath—persistent, resilient, domestic. Then she revealed more—fiery, sarcastic, sensual. While he didn’t quite know what to do with this Sabella, he did know how much he wanted her.

More than air and whisky.

So, he would persuade her to wed him. And he would keep her under his roof until she wanted him the same way. It was just a matter of applying the right pressure in the right places.

Alexander wasn’t skilled at everything. Apparently, wooing was a weak point. Controlling his jealousy? Not his finest talent. And soothing his woman’s temper might be the skill most in need of honing. He suspected the first two would improve the third.

He’d work on it. Meanwhile, marriage wouldn’t wait.

Flanking and driving were old hunter’s tactics. He was an excellent hunter. He was also adept at designing systems that took advantage of natural forces rather than working against them. The flow of the river drove the pump, which fed the cisterns in the attic, which piped water down to the kitchen via gravity.

Sabella Lockhart had a nature, and she wanted a husband. He just had to convince her that he was her best option. So, he would apply a bit of pressure, redirect her toward the right conclusions, and let her flow into his hands like water from a tap.

How hard could it be?