Chapter 38
Morgan opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again, and closed it. There was no way he could answer without insulting her.
He’d made up his mind that Jenefer couldn’t be a maiden. No maiden, he’d reasoned, could be so fearless and assertive. She’d been flirtatious and demanding, as expert in her seductive manipulations as a harlot.
To realize with such immediate clarity that he was wrong—by stealing her maidenhood—was mortifying.
Courtesy had made him cater to her desires first. It was always his way. But then he’d claimed her with all the grace of a barbarian, taking no special care to be gentle with her.
She should despise him.
But when he looked at her, it wasn’t hate he saw. Aye, she was vexed at him for believing she wasn’t a virgin. And he was sure she’d not been truthful about the pain. But a glaze of desire lingered in her eyes.
Still, he’d already guessed wrong once. He wouldn’t do it again.
No matter how much he craved the lass.
No matter how beautiful and tempting and desirable she looked with her damp hair spilled across the coverlet and her glorious body naked beneath him.
No matter how he throbbed in the irresistible grip of her womb.
No matter how painful it would be to withdraw from her now.
“Tell me the truth,” he breathed. “Do ye desire this?”
She didn’t answer him at first, only gazing up at him with her smoky green eyes, as if she stared into his soul. After a moment, a soft sparkle glistened there, joined by the upward curve of one corner of her lip in a coy smile. “Oh aye.”
Relief flooded his veins. But he still intended to be careful. “If ye like, we can…”
Before he could finish, she arched up against him with a smug look of triumph.
He gulped. “If ’tis less painful, I can lie…”
She angled her hips backward, easing him halfway out, and then thrust forward again, sheathing him completely.
The sensation left him speechless. It had been so long since he’d lain with a woman, it was almost like starting anew. And to couple with a lass so direct and unashamed was intoxicating.
He’d intended to let her sit astride him, to allow her to set the pace, to slow, to stop if she wished. But she never paused long enough in her amorous pursuits for him to make the offer.
Even from beneath him, she became mistress of her own passion. She retreated to draw back the bow of her arousal. And surged up to impale herself on the shaft of his desire.
Again and again, she fired with ever-increasing swiftness and precision, until his heart was pounding and he forgot how to breathe.
The roar that erupted as he shuddered on his arms and exploded into her was deep and loud and fulfilling.
It was also loud enough to wake the next town.
But by some miracle, as their gasps collided in the room, making the candlelight flicker wildly…as they covered each other with grateful kisses and collapsed in a tangle in the sheets…as they drifted off to deep, untroubled slumber…the bairn never stirred in his crib.
By the time Jenefer woke, the candles had guttered out. The fire was burning low. The bath water was no longer steaming. The light of the waning moon filtered in through the crack of the shutters. But there was still no sign of Cicilia or Bethac.
Miles slept in his cradle. She could hear his shallow breaths.
She bit her lip. As much as she was enjoying lying beside the Highlander—savoring the heat of him, feeling his hot breath on the back of her neck and his warm flesh against hers—she wondered why the maidservants hadn’t returned.
Soon Cicilia would come to feed Miles.
More importantly, someone had to catch Jenefer in bed with Miles’ father. After all, how else would she snare Morgan for her husband?
Her husband.
The words made her smile.
As heir to the du Lac title, she’d always expected her marriage would be one of political strategy. She’d be wedded to a wealthy but landless man. Or a landed man with whom an alliance needed to be forged.
Never had she considered she might arrange her own strategic match. Not in her wildest dreams did she imagine she’d actually be attracted to her husband.
But she was. Every inch of him.
From the soft brown waves of his silk-fine hair to his oversized feet, currently entangled with hers.
From his broad and powerful shoulders to his lean, thrusting hips.
From the twinkling humor in his eyes to the feather-light touch of his fingers upon her skin.
And the way he’d made love to her—with his hands, with his lips, with his body—made her long to join with him again.
But there was something else.
Something that went deeper than the mere joys of trysting.
Something warm. Touching. And treacherous.
It wasn’t only attraction she felt.
For so long, she’d heard Highlanders were cruel beasts, crude and uncivilized. She’d believed the stories. That they filed their teeth to sharp points. Enslaved the children of their enemies. Hacked their servants to death in war games.
But she could see now the tales must be completely untrue.
Morgan Mor mac Giric had qualities she’d never expected to find in a savage Highlander. Qualities she’d treasure in a husband.
A strong sense of honor.
A rough-hewn nobility.
The admiration of his servants.
An even hand when it came to justice.
A sweet and caring tenderness.
A respect for her wants and needs.
Could it be she’d…fallen in love with him?
Surely that was impossible. She’d known him only a few days.
But even her own parents had started out as bitter enemies. Sometimes love took root in strange ground.
She coiled a lock of his hair around her finger. Then she frowned, letting it unravel and withdrawing her hand.
What did it matter whether she did or didn’t care for the Highlander?
Love had no place in marriage. Not when you were destined to be a laird. Besides, emotions could be as fickle as the moon.
She’d made a plan. She meant to stick to it.
She’d managed to seduce him into swiving her.
Now she had to coerce him into marrying her.
And then she’d force him to bestow the stewardship of Creagor upon her.
Her gaze followed a moonbeam down to where it bathed sweet Miles in its gentle light, and she sighed.
If she was so certain of her plan, why then was she racked with guilt over the idea of manipulating Morgan, preying upon him at his weakest, while he was still mourning Lady Alicia, his dead wife?
As mad as it was, Jenefer couldn’t get past the feeling she was stealing the husband of a much better woman than herself.
Morgan awoke briefly as Jenefer stole out of the nursery, just enough to miss her warmth and feel a hollow ache in his chest.
He’d been so sure he’d never love again. So certain the fracture in his heart was beyond repair.
Yet what he’d had before with Alicia paled in comparison to the way he felt now.
This was an entirely new emotion.
It wasn’t only because Jenefer was engaged and interested in him. Expressive of her desires. Free with her passions.
It wasn’t only because her appetite for swiving rivaled that of her appetite for food.
Not as impulsive and bloodthirsty as she pretended, Jenefer was honest and honorable. Generous and kind. And whether she was defending his reputation to his maid or stubbornly insisting on calling his son “Miles,” her strength of character and outspoken ways were refreshing.
She was an uncommon lass, full of fire and wit. He found himself drawn to her, wishing to be consumed in her lusty flames. And he was chagrined to admit he might be falling in love with the fiery maid.
He could guess why she’d sneaked out of the nursery.
She didn’t wish for Bethac or Cicilia to find their laird in a compromising position.
He grinned. The same lass who had once claimed ravishment at his hands was now protecting his honor.
Her concern was completely unnecessary. He intended to make things right. He’d never been more certain of a decision in his life.
As much as he’d resisted her temptation, he realized now that Jenefer held the key to his future.
He meant to marry her.
It was the natural solution. She could be a mother to his son. They could share the castle. And the two properties of Rivenloch and Creagor could become powerful border allies against invasion.
Content that the matter was settled, he drifted back to sleep, dreaming of sharing his bed, his clan, his fortune with the desirable Scots lass.