The look of shock on Duncan MacHarg’s face nearly made her laugh, but the way he looked at her when the shock dissipated took her breath away. She realized with a start she was on the verge of becoming foolish about him, and not just foolish like this morning. Foolish in a far more dangerous way.
She turned away, flustered. “I hope you don’t mind, but I thought this was the best way.”
“Why would I mind?” He brushed the cobwebs off his shoulders and peered up the stairs. “It’s only time away from dragging a quarter ton’s worth of chain through the castle like Marley’s ghost.”
“Marley?” She closed the door behind them and threw the latch.
“An acquaintance of mine. Dead.” He looked around the small space. “More Kerr secrets, is it?”
“I don’t know about more. It is certainly secret—at least until now.”
“And what does a chieftess like you have to hide?”
There was an air of danger about him that made her senses come alive.
“Whiskey, weapons, and wealth,” she said, “the three W’s every clan chief hoards.”
He looked into the ascending darkness. “Given the steepness of these stairs and lack of shelves or storage, my guess would be that it is a different W the Kerr chiefs have wanted to hide, something a little, shall we say, more warm-blooded.”
“Women. Aye, I suppose that’s true as well.”
“Barring yourself, of course, milady, whose desires would never run in the direction of such carnality.”
She swallowed. This was a different Duncan MacHarg than the one she had known for the last day and a half. She found herself uncertain and a little scared.
“Indeed, my predecessors were known to bring the occasional woman here. Barring, of course, Cailean Kerr, the fourth chief, a buggerer of some renown whose only son was sired by the town’s rather dim-witted but strong-as-an-ox stonemason, breathing new life into the Kerr blood and happily infusing generations to come with an irrepressible need to extend the castle’s perimeter.”
“Buggery is probably the least of the sins that have taken place here. I assume I should follow you.”
“I…well, yes.” His presence overwhelmed the small space. It was more than the size of him, though that seemed to have doubled since she saw him last. It was his tang of sweat and labor, the way his whiskey burr reverberated within these walls, and the inexplicable sense of him as a devil-in-a-box, ready to leap at her at any instant.
She hurried up the steps, already regretting her carefully plotted plan. A small fire, a comfortable seat, and a chance to share the story of elevation to the Kerr chiefship with him was all she’d wanted. Their easy rapport had stirred something in her she thought she’d locked away forever, and the chance to unburden herself away from the gossiping tongues of the castle had seemed an elixir more powerful than wine. Now, as she hurried to keep herself beyond the reach of the storm-like current that seemed to pop from him, she wished she’d drunk the claret she’d set out before sending the maid to him.
At the third turn, the small square door stood open, revealing the silk, linen, and velvet that hung in the wardrobe that shielded the stairs from sight.
He disappeared into it before she had a chance to give a single word of explanation. She blew out the lantern’s flame and crawled in behind him.
Her head had no more than emerged through the fabric when he caught her by the waist, lifted her to her feet, and enveloped her in his arms.
“Your bed,” he whispered.
She didn’t know if this was a question or statement about the room in which they now stood. In an instant it didn’t matter. His bruising kiss seared her mouth, and his arms expertly maneuvered her against the wardrobe through which they’d climbed.
“What am I here for, chieftess?”
Abby’s legs tingled and she struggled to catch her breath. Another kiss cut off any response but a hungry return of his attentions.
He lifted her like a sack of beets and turned. A crash of metal filled the room.
“Bloody goddamned quiver.” He kicked the arrows aside and laid her on the bed. “If ye want me,” he said, pulling off his sark, “ye will have to tell me exactly what you want me to do.”
His chest, dusted generously with auburn curls, gleamed in the candlelight.
“Do ye understand?” he said. “Every step. Ye command me, aye? So give me your command.”
He stretched himself over her and looked into her eyes, the iron of his arms as striking as the forged steel between his legs.
“I only wanted to talk.”
He laughed. “Did you?”
His kisses trailed down her neck to the valley between her breasts. His hair tickled her sensitive flesh, and blood rushed to her nipples.
“Then talk,” he said.
“Not here.”
“Oh, not here.” He swung her from the bed as he stood. “Where then? Here?” With an easy movement, he brought her thighs to each side of his hips and backed her into the tapestry-covered wall. He was ready. Through the silk of her gown she could feel it, and her own desire burned as he moved her slowly up and down.
“No,” she whispered.
“Over here perhaps, then?”
His footsteps echoed on the worn wood, and he swung them both into the deep sill of her window. His hands slid up her gown and, finding her hips, arranged her over the peaked wool of his plaid.
Wildly unsteady, she anchored herself in the only way she could, with palms against the glass panes. He took the nipple that jutted before his mouth and tugged.
The hunger in her moan surprised her.
“Do ye want me to undress you?” he asked.
She closed her eyes and nodded.
“Say it, chieftess.”
“Undress me.”
He freed his hands from her skirts and unbuttoned the bodice. Then he lifted the silk over her head and tossed it to the floor.
In an instant, the straps of her chemise were around her elbows, and her breasts, freed from their bindings, swayed gently with her heart, which now beat even harder.
His eyes widened, not, as she had wanted, in desire, but in shock.
“Tell me what you see,” she said.
“Milady…”
“You said I am to command you. I command you. Describe it.”
He brought a hand to her shoulder and gently traced the scar’s ragged outline. “A wound,” he said, the hardness gone from his eyes, replaced with penetrating sorrow. “Healed, aye, but terrible nonetheless. I saw the other side of it, I guess, when I saw you diving. But that mark was no more than a line. What happened?”
“I was shot. ’Tis part of the story of my ascension to the chiefship—and an important part of my life—but I dinna wish to talk about it now. Not right now,” she added, bringing a hand to the rough, tawny stubble of his cheeks. “I find I dinna want to talk at all, at least not with words. I want…what we have started.”
His eyes, full blue, gazed at her through long, black lashes, and he pulled her into an embrace so gentle, she smiled.
“I willna break,” she said. “I promise ye.”
“No, it’s not you.”
Her face was buried in the lustrous waves of his hair, and her breasts pressed against the warm expanse of his chest. Yet even through the tenderness she could feel the hesitation.
“I dinna think…” He stood, taking her with him, then placed her on the floor and turned away. “I dinna think I can do what you want.”
Abby flushed. She suddenly felt very exposed—and very foolish. “Why?”
“The truth?”
“Aye. Always.” She returned her chemise straps to her shoulders though it hardly mattered. He gazed into the fire.
With evident effort, he relaxed his hands, which had balled into fists, and turned back to her. “I’ve never been so addled by a woman before. On the one hand, I should like to throw you in the bed, grab that bonny bottom, and bend ye to my pleasure. There’s nae place on ye I shouldna like to bury my tongue, roll under my palm, or feel pressed against the head of my cock. If we dinna finish what we’ve started here, only an eager hand and the most wicked imagining will free me from the thought of you tonight—and for many nights to come, I should think.”
The fire deep in Abby’s belly flared. “But?”
“But ye use me. And ye lie—or withhold the truth. I dinna want to be the man who comes to ye when you’ve sent your husband from your bed—or your husband-to-be.”
“It’s not what you think.”
He held up a hand. “The worst part is, I dinna want to be that man, but I know I will. That’s the part I hate.” His breath was ragged now. “But ye make it even worse for me.”
“How?” Her throat was so tight, the word caught.
“Because I want you. You face such challenges. And you do it with such fierceness and determination. I want to be the man that you take to your bed—even if I’m not the only one.”
Someone knocked, and Abby groaned. MacHarg was already reaching for his sark.
“The door’s locked,” she said under her breath.
“Abby?”
The voice belonged to Rosston. MacHarg met her eyes.
She said, “I should talk to him.”
“Of course.” He slipped the sark over his head stiffly.
She grabbed a blanket from the bed, threw it around her shoulders, and scurried to the door. MacHarg had retreated from sight.
Cursing Rosston from the depths of her soul, she unlocked the door and opened it a crack. She could feel MacHarg’s exasperation at her back. “Aye?”
“I hoped we could talk.” Rosston held out a bottle of old brandy.
“It’s late. I’m tired.”
“Jock said you missed your meeting with him. I was worried.”
The meeting in which he’ll tell me I have no choice but to marry you, she thought. “Aye, my father was causing a wee stir.”
Rosston sighed. “I’m sorry, Abby. I know ye struggle.”
“It’s done now.”
“I have something that might set your mind at ease. I have brought to Castle Kerr—”
“I know what you brought,” she said. “I had to order new chain for it from the blacksmith. What sort of mad man parades a king’s ransom through the borderlands like that? Ye of all people should know better.”
“I did it for you, Abby. I dinna want you to worry anymore.”
His chestnut eyes reflected the fire’s flickering gold. She knew he cared for her. But that just made it worse.
She gave him a heartfelt hug. “I know. And I thank ye for it.”
“I burn for ye, Abby. Invite me in. Let my money save you.”
She stepped back into the relative safety of her bedchamber. “Watch your words, Rosston. A less agreeable woman might think ye intended to buy your way between her legs.”
“And a less prideful one might recognize such an offer as a generous and fair one.” He swept her into a kiss that was urgent and brief. “I willna wait forever.”
She had no interest in being forced into anything, including a kiss, and she gave him a firm push. He shook his head, disappointed, and disappeared into the darkness of the hall, bottle at his side.
She steeled herself for MacHarg’s reaction.
He stood slouched against the wall, arms crossed, staring moodily at the floor. “Ye seem to have an abundance of suitors this evening.”
She held her breath, terrified he’d walk out.
“I’m not going to leave,” he said, “because I want to hear the truth about the two of you. Even if it kills me, I think.”
She tugged his arm, and he followed her reluctantly, but when he saw she was leading him toward the bed he stopped.
“I cannot.”
“Lay with me. Or sit at least. When I was a girl, my friend Eleanor used to say ’tis impossible to tell a lie when you hold hands with another.” She wove her fingers into his. “See? No lies.”
“No lies?”
She shook her head.
“Are ye free to fall in love as ye choose?” he said.
She inhaled sharply. “Have I not taught ye to engage an opponent more craftily? Ye dinna start with the coup de grâce.”
She pulled him onto the bed and lay beside him, so that they both looked up into the plum velvet folds of her canopy, clasped hands between them.
“I’ve been promised the truth,” he said, “and yet ye dinna answer.”
She took a deep breath. “Who is ever free to love as they choose?”
He wrenched himself out of her grasp, but she caught him again before he stood. “MacHarg, please. Who is free? Have you chosen the girls you’ve come to love? It’s not as if we stroll through the stalls in Covent Garden and point to ripe peach and say, ‘This is it. This is the one.’ We may be offered a gleaming peach, yet for a reason we canna explain we willna be talked out of a bruised pear.”
The muscle in his jaw flexed. She had gained a foothold.
“Sit,” she said. “Please.”
He laced his fingers back into hers and lay back on the bed.
She let go of his hand only for an instant as she stood, transferring the constancy of touch to their knees. He watched her, uncertain. With a deep breath for courage, she slipped off her chemise. Those sea blue eyes widened and grew more guarded. She crawled beside him again, taking his hand.
His silence lasted so long she nearly reached for the chemise again. His eyes remained fixed on the canopy ceiling.
“Ye have put me in an awkward position,” he said at last.
“More awkward than mine?”
He chuckled, and she felt him relax a bit.
“Eleanor said ye canna lie holding hands. But I want to show you I can tell you the truth in the most natural position in the world to lie—in bed with a man, lying naked. Why, the words themselves prove it! ‘Lying naked’!”
He made a small laugh but did not turn his head.
“I will tell ye the truth,” she said, “and if I dinna, ye may do as ye wish with me.”
“If ye dinna, I will leave.”
“I know. And what bigger blow could a woman suffer than have the man she courts leave her naked on a bed after she has thrown herself at him? I have given you the weapon with which to eviscerate me.”
“I hope not to use it.” He stroked her palm with his thumb. “Is he in love with you?”
Love? An irrelevance for a clan chief. Yet the idea, once so elusive, seemed to glimmer in her mind’s eye as a possibility for the first time in her life. “If he does,” she said, “it is the love of a child for a toy he does not wish to share.”
“Will ye wed him?”
“I believe I will, MacHarg. Not out of some windswept emotion. Out of necessity. I wish it were not true, but it is, and there we are.” His hand did not loosen, and she let out a quiet sigh of relief.
“How much money stands between you and the altar?”
“Five thousand pounds. Though it might as well be fifty.”
“And if you dinna get it?”
“I willna be able to pay my bills. My clansmen will go hungry. Children will die. Eventually the families will be forced to go begging to Rosston anyway. At least if I marry him, I will be able to maintain a nominal place as head of the clan.”
“What if I can help you?”
“Are you a wealthy man, MacHarg?”
“In another time and place I am.”
“That other time and place—”
“It’s my time to ask questions, aye? Rosston says ye are to be married on Thursday—at least that’s what Nab told me. Is it true?”
“Rosston said that? Scoundrel. No, ’tis not true. He may wish it. But he needs to learn that wishing does not make it so. Not with me. I havena even accepted his proposal.”
“But you will marry soon?”
If only MacHarg could understand she had no choice. “Aye.”
He sat up abruptly and her heart skipped a beat, but he did not release her hand. Turning on the bed, he brought the full weight of his gaze on her. “The next question will be harder for you to answer,” he said, “and if I should have to leave…well, I should like to have the memory of you like this safely tucked into my heart.”
“You are a cheat, MacHarg.”
The corner of his mouth rose, and his eyes traveled over her slowly. She knew her breasts were too small and her skin too ruddy to be a real beauty. But her hips were round and welcoming, and her legs, though brown, were firm and lithe.
His gaze was investigative, referencing a sizable volume of past experience. She knew him to be well practiced. She recognized him now as connoisseur as well. With a less consequential man, she might have felt violated by such scrutiny. Instead, MacHarg raised her to a pedestal beside the most expertly sculpted Diana. She wished, however, her body did not quite respond so plainly to his appreciation.
“In my land,” he said, voice low, “women shave their mons.”
“Have they lice?” she said with horror.
He laughed. “I dinna think so. Personally, I think they’re mad. I hope they seek to please themselves, because they dinna please me—not that they should, of course. But I find your hair enchanting.”
Abby had never thought of her hair as enchanting. She had never thought of her hair there at all. But she knew how much she was looking forward to drawing her palms across MacHarg’s stubbled cheeks and braiding her fingers in the silk of his auburn waves, and wondered, in a Samson-like rumination, why anyone would give up even a scant inch of hair if they could help it.
“Touch it,” she said, hoping to distract him from the question he intended to ask, which she was certain she already knew and had no wish to answer.
“Ye are a siren.”
He lifted his hand, still holding hers, and drew his knuckles slowly across her mons.
“God help me,” he whispered. “My grand-da had a beaver hat when I was a kid. It couldna touch this for softness.”
Any other man would climb instantly between her legs. But MacHarg would not rest until he had learned what he needed to know. He laid his hand—and hers—on her belly.
“If ye marry him,” he said flatly, “will ye still take me to your bed?”
The question was hard, not because she didn’t know the answer, but because she knew the answer would hurt him.
“I am not a great clan chief, ye ken, nor daughter, nor friend, nor even child of God. However, it isn’t because I dinna try. If I marry Rosston, I should like to be a good wife. I should rather try and do it miserably than take my oath with the intent of breaking it.”
MacHarg stared, unseeing, at the place their hands met. He looked so handsome in her brother’s plaid, the dark crimson a striking contrast to the copper of his hair and gold of his cheeks. Her words had hurt him, and she was sorry to have brought him pain.
He said, “It’s for the best. I dinna think I could bear to have you in one way and be shut out of the others.”
She squeezed his hand. “I could convince you, I think, even if ye were not inclined. But ye would hate me for it.”
And that was that, she thought. The truth of the situation. She couldn’t be with him, nor he with her. She wondered if male clan chiefs had to sacrifice even half as much.
He let go of her and stood. She reached for the discarded wrap, her nakedness now odd and uncomfortable, and lay motionless with it in her hand. She had no interest in watching him go.
When she lifted her head and turned, he had taken off his clothes.
“Then ye shall have to put off this wedding as long as ye are able.” He lay beside her. “I willna be done with ye for a while.”
He kissed her gently as he entered her. His rocking was so slow and her body so wracked with anticipation, she thought she might die for lack of air. The heat oozed through her body—belly, knees, the breasts he stroked—till it reached her toes, which stretched into the cool night air like a dancer’s. This was a different MacHarg. Not the morning’s warrior claiming his prize, but a man in the desert, savoring his last sip of water.
She memorized each part of him—his muscled shoulders and long crevasse on each side of his collarbone; the musky, salty scent of his neck; the wiry brush of chest hair; and of course the gold and russet curls around his thick, ivory cock.
Would she be able to hold on to the memories after she bedded a new husband? She closed her eyes and gave entrée to Rosston’s shade, feeling his thumping thrusts, tasting his ale-soaked lips, yielding to that insistent gaze.
“A leannan?”
Her eyes flew open, though the word had been barely audible. MacHarg stared down worriedly.
“Have I done something?”
“No. Aye. Something wonderful.” She smiled. He had called her “darling.” She shooed away the ghost with no regret.
“Oh, good. I was afraid there was something else I should be doing—moving faster or slower, perhaps, or applying some wee spanks.”
Her eyes popped wide. “Spanks?!”
“Och, I keep forgetting!” He flushed a deep red. “Ignore me, please. I am ungovernable—or so my grand-da says.”
She held up her hand. “Are ye saying the women in your land—the wee lousy ones—like to be spanked?”
“I dinna…It isn’t that I…I mean, they do ask for it sometimes, ye ken.”
She blinked. “’Tis part of bringing a woman to climax?”
“Ye make it sound so vulgar.”
“Make it sound less so.”
He chewed his lip. “A spanking can, well, heighten the arousal. Some women like it—some men too.”
She sat up so quickly they slipped apart. “Ye have spanked a man!”
He waved his hands wildly. “No, no, no. I havena spanked a man. And, please, no more questions. I should like this discussion to be over. I should like all discussion to be over.”
Not being a fool, she laid down immediately, and he entered her again.
“But…”
He paused.
“Oh, dinna stop,” she said, feeling somewhat foolish. “It’s just…I dinna understand how a woman might enjoy such a thing.”
He climbed to his knees, still lodged within her, and lifted her ankles over his shoulders. Cupping a buttock, he said, “Imagine I told you to count up all the wicked things you’ve done with your lovers—tempting them when they couldna possess you—”
“I have never—”
“—taking them in a kirkyard, under God’s own midday sun—”
She clamped her mouth shut.
“—or pleasuring them like a wanton, with those fine, full lips.”
Fire spread across her cheeks, and with an amused groan, he brought her hips more tightly against him.
“Then,” he said, “after ye’d finished your counting, imagine I told ye that you would endure one hard crack for each transgression?”
Her belly contracted so hard around him, she felt light-headed. “Oh.”
“Oh, indeed.”
If he brushes my bud now, even the barest touch, I will ignite.
He read her thoughts and didn’t move.
After a moment, the danger passed, but the warm, hard hand on her arse still twitched in anticipation.
“I dinna think I’m quite ready for such a thing,” her voice choked.
“That’s fine.” He brought his hand instead to the thick, dark curls below her waist, weaving in his fingers till they were as tight as a comb. Tucking his thumb against her bud, he lowered her to the bed and bent to his work.
She arched, the exquisite intersection of pressure and pleasure sending waves of warmth over her. His thrusts slowed or quickened as necessary to hold her in the searing flame tips of heat, and she writhed wantonly. He seemed to savor the pleasure of her groans as much as if she were a succubus and he the one being ravished.
She clasped his shoulders as the wave began to crash, and kissed him hungrily. He held her tight, as if she might disappear, and rode the wave with her though he was nowhere near his own peak.
“Oh,” she cried. “Oh!”
When her breathing slowed and she opened her eyes, he was gazing at her, smiling.
“God, you’re beautiful, Abby. I canna believe I’m holding you in my arms. Did I please ye?”
“Aye, ye did. I believe I might never enjoy a man again as much—even if I tried every one between here and the gates of York.”
He clapped his forehead and she laughed.
“Ye heard?”
“Oh, aye. And I had to wonder how long you’d been imagining that particular scene.”
“Well, just the one day.”
She licked the salty-sweet skin of his shoulder and sighed. “Ye taste of goodness and badness both—honor and avarice, loyalty and lust. Does everything on you taste as good?”
His cock swelled inside her. “What are ye offering, lass?”
“Exactly what you think. I want to try every inch of you.”
“Every inch is flattered. Deeply flattered,” he said, adjusting his hips. “Though from my point of view, he is exceedingly well placed where he is.”
“Ah, but ye cannot finish there, MacHarg.”
“Oh?” Eyes glinting, he said, “Why is that?”
“Ye know perfectly well. No man of chivalry would even ask.”
“I tend to be more chivalrous when I am not firmly planted between the legs of the most captivating woman for a thousand miles.”
She giggled, thoroughly surprising herself. She swore she hadn’t giggled since she was besotted with her first beau at thirteen.
He bestowed a series of kisses on her neck and cheek. “Tell me then where I might finish,” he said. “And paint a pretty picture, for I am quite at home here.”
“Well,” she offered, stifling a smile, “you seemed to be most happily served by your hand earlier today.”
He coaxed a nipple into a tiny ruby. “Alas, my hand seems to have found a place more to its liking.”
“I have never known a man’s hand to find a place more to its liking than around his cock. Nonetheless, I will take you at your word.”
He bowed. “Perhaps you have another idea?”
“Well, I am reminded of the story of Lady MacTavish.”
“Is it a long one?” He thrust himself once again into her depths. “I find I am growing less interested in fending off the inevitable.”
She pushed him out of her and onto his back. “Gather your fortitude, sir. You will need it for this story. Lady MacTavish was the most famous of the clan chieftesses—or perhaps I should say the most infamous. She was one of Robert the Bruce’s most powerful supporters. Many men vied to lead her clansmen on her behalf. This was back when a woman could not be expected to lead her own clan. Not like now.”
She rolled her eyes, and MacHarg gave her a charming smile.
“It is said she brought each candidate to her bedchamber to personally measure his worthiness.”
“And was this worth measured with a ruler or an hourglass?”
“Probably both. But the important part of the story is Lady MacTavish was not one to take any unnecessary risks. Legend has it she had her two prettiest lady’s maids put the men through a number of, well, I suppose you might call them exercises, before she did her own judging. The exercises were conducted in a way that brought no risk to the maids’ carefully preserved maidenheads but still managed to force the candidate to thoroughly exhaust his reserves. This was done as quickly as possible, in the full view of Lady MacTavish, apparently to satisfy her that it had been done properly.”
“Are you joking?”
“Och, you have nae heard the half of it. The exercises ended with a blue ribbon being tied rather tightly around, well, the man’s assets. The procedure ensured that the third exercise, involving her ladyship, whose own maidenhead, I believe, was but a faint memory, offered almost no risk of an unwanted child. More important, however, the ribbon, once tightened, guaranteed a certain unflagging constancy in the clansman, a quality most valued by her ladyship.”
MacHarg shook his head. “I am in awe of her practicality.”
“MacTavish clansmen wear blue ribbons into battle even today, though the sight of it never fails to make me laugh.”
“Tell me,” he said, crossing his arms behind his head, “in the story about to unfold here, in this bed, are you one of the maidenly attendants or the chieftess herself?”
She drew her gaze over his daunting length. “I am nothing if not maidenly.”
“In that case, you have convinced me to abandon my original plan.” He climbed to his knees, adding considerably to his daunting-ness. “But before you begin, allow me to give some brief instruction in how it should be done.”
He inserted his shoulder between her thighs and brought his mouth to her bud.
She dug her fingers into his hair, gasping. His tongue warmed her already swollen flesh. Every flick, every caress stoked the fire. This release was coming faster and far more powerfully than the last. She arched hard, and he held her there, on the back-breaking edge of absolute pleasure.
“No, no, no!” she cried.
The next shameless caress undid her. He held her until the tremors subsided.
“You’re a fiend,” she said, dizzy with the reverberations. “Onto your back. Ye shall be paid with the same hellfire.”