Alex usually did not need to be told to kiss a woman. Usually, he did not need to be led to his own bed as a lamb on a rope. But this was no ordinary woman. This was the woman who would bear his sons, the woman who would lie by his side in that bed, and every other, for the rest of his life. It was a heavy moment, full of portents and of the future. Still, his body raged on, his lust like the background music of an opera, when all he wanted to do was stand and take in the beauty of the woman about to open her mouth to sing. His songbird stood before him, waiting. In the end, it was she who once again stepped close, rose on the tips of her toes, and kissed him.
She had learned a bit since the last time. Her knowledge seemed to grow by what it fed on, and now her lips danced over his with their own innate rhythm—not the steps he had taught her, but new ones, entirely her own. He could taste her desire and her innocence together, a heady drug.
She pressed herself against him and he could feel the soft contours of her breasts against his chest. His arms went around her in spite of his better judgment. He knew he would have to choose: surrender or send her away. But he also knew himself. He had locked both doors, not just to keep her in, but to keep the rest of the world out. He intended to have her, and to make it such a night that the priest’s blessing to come would seem like an afterthought. This was their true wedding night, and he would vow himself to her before he took her under him.
He pulled back from her, and when she moaned in protest, he pressed his lips to hers once, swiftly, in consolation. “I must speak, my angel, before we go on.”
“Must you?”
She wriggled against him, trying to give her hungry body solace, trying to find a way to assuage the need she felt. But she rubbed hard against his nether region, and he felt desire spike in his blood and in his chest like a lance. He took a deep breath, thanking God he was a man, and in control of himself.
He looked into her fevered eyes. The mossy green had burned away, and brightly lit emeralds had taken their place. He almost said to hell with it and kissed her again, but this moment between them was sacred. Impatient as she was, she would thank him for it later.
“You must know that I have a special license. We will be married tomorrow, by my uncle, the Bishop of London, quietly. Your mother and sister will attend, as will Robert and Mary Elizabeth. You may even have Mr. Pridemore there, if you prefer.”
The last was a sad attempt at a joke, but his angel did not think it was funny. He could see that he was dampening her ardor with all this talk of planning. She pressed herself against him again, no doubt in an effort to distract him from his folly. He swallowed hard, his lust beginning to rise like a flash tide that would never go out.
“But this night is our wedding night, for all that a priest has not blessed us yet. My uncle is Church of England, and good for little other than to circumvent English law. But I will marry you again in the Highlands, at Glenderrin, with both our families present, before a true priest of the Church.” Alex realized he’d been issuing orders as if she were his valet. He swallowed hard, and watched the firelight as it played over the gentle planes of her face.
She was as still as a rabbit in his hand, a rabbit who hoped to deceive the hunter into passing on.
“Will you marry me, Catherine Middlebrook?”
She swallowed hard and kissed him, fiercely. She looked into his eyes. “The day we find ourselves before a true priest of the Church, I will wed you, and bless the day as the best of my life.”
He quirked an eyebrow at her. It was an odd way to agree to be his wife, when all she had to do was say yes, but nothing was easy with his girl.
“All right, then,” he said.
It seemed that there was a shadow in her eyes, dimming the emerald brilliance. But she pressed herself against him as if she were drowning at sea and he was the last rock in the world. He kissed her then, and wondered how he was going to coax her nightgown off without frightening her when she wriggled out of his arms and walked away.
* * *
Catherine could not bear one more moment of talking about a marriage that would never be. She knew now that she would be breaking his heart as well as her own. Once she was safely wed to another, she would write to Alex and explain all she had done, and why. No doubt he would curse her, and all the love he felt for her now would turn to bitterness. Catherine knew that she was selfish. She should leave him where he stood, even now. The key waited for her. All she had to do was pick it up, and turn it in the lock. But she knew that she would not do it.
She walked to his bed and climbed up on it. She was no siren, and had no way of knowing how fashionable ladies got their husbands to come to them when they were reluctant. She would have to simply be herself, and improvise.
She drew her borrowed nightgown up and over her head, tossing it down on the thick rug. She felt a blush rise, but for once it was not from embarrassment. Alex’s jaw went slack from shock, his eyes darkening almost to black with desire. A sudden wave of triumph broke over her, and she felt drunk with power. That she could make the man she loved look at her like that by only taking off a cotton gown was a miracle.
Next, she undid her braid.
He did not move to her side but watched her as a cat watched a mouse hole. Something new and strange seemed bound to happen when he leaped on her as that cat might. She had no doubt that he would make sure that she enjoyed it.
She knew a little of what went on from watching the birds dance and the sheep cover each other in the fall, but she was not ready to turn her back on him and let him mount her yet. As much as she wanted his body on hers, she wanted to keep looking at him even more.
Her hair fell about her shoulders and down her back like a curtain. She sighed at the feeling of the softness of her own hair against her skin. Her hair was always up, except when she brushed it out. She had never felt it against her naked skin before. She rolled her neck back and forth and her long hair moved with it, sliding over her back and shoulders like a blessing. She almost forgot about Alex for a moment of sensual pleasure, but he was beside her then, reminding her of his presence.
“You are the most beautiful woman God ever made,” he said. He placed his hand gently against her cheek, leaning down to kiss her. He did not devour her, as she wished he would, but skated his lips across hers, then down her cheek, to her throat, where his mouth caressed the beat of her pulse.
He laved his tongue there against her skin, and she shivered, grabbing on to him. She rose up on her knees, trying to draw him closer. But he was much bigger than she was. There was no doubt from the moment he touched her who was in control.
She let him draw her down onto the bed, the soft sheets and blankets cushioning her as she fell. She smelled the scent of bergamot all around her then, both from the heat of his skin and from the sheets beneath her head, and she knew in that moment that she had come home.
He lay down on top of her, and she moaned as his lips closed over her nipple. It had never occurred to her that a man might do such a thing, but she was so happy that he did. His other hand closed over her other breast, so that she was assaulted with pleasure on all sides.
She tried to keep her eyes closed, so that she could concentrate on nothing but how it felt to have him touch her, but she could not stop looking at the way his dark hair fell against the white of her skin, reveling in the feel of his lips on her body. She started to tremble beneath him, and he smiled up at her.
For one awful moment, she thought he might stop what he was doing, but he simply kissed her over her heart, then leaned down and went back to his work on her other breast.
His lips closed over her and his tongue twirled in some magical way across her flesh. When he bit down, once, very gently, she cried out from the pleasure, and he did it again. There was a wicked gleam of triumph in his eyes when he looked up at her.
She was breathless, but she found she could still speak. “Don’t be too full of yourself, Alex Waters. You’re getting too big for your britches.”
He laughed out loud at that, and she felt the delicious vibration of it all the way down her body. “I am definitely too big for my britches at the moment, sweet Catherine, but that is all your doing.”
She was not sure what he meant, until he pressed his hips to hers and she felt the swelling of his manhood against her. Catherine took a deep breath, reaching for her courage even as she ran her hand over him through the thick wool of his trousers. She was well rewarded, for Alex groaned, then hissed between his teeth. She liked to watch his face change as she ran her palm over him. Her hand was small, and he was large, but her ministrations seemed to bear fruit, for when he opened his eyes again, all the laughter had been burned out of them.
For one moment, she felt a thrill of fear, much like she had when she’d told him he might take money from her. His face was all hard planes at that moment. With his long, dark hair falling around them, he looked more like a warrior bent on plunder than a gentleman.
Thank God for that.
She knew not where that irrational thought had come from, for it fled just as quickly. For he stood up and left her. She opened her mouth to protest, but he started undressing, and she found that her breath was gone.
He stood over her supine, naked body, his eyes running over her skin from her toes to her face. She closed her mouth and took in the beauty of him as he stood above her, his wide chest dusted with a coating of dark hair. As he leaned down to strip off his trousers, she reached up and ran her hand across his chest, very lightly, to see how that hair felt against her skin. Her palm warmed from his scented flesh and his hair felt soft and prickly at the same time. She was about to tell him this when he fell on her again, his great body one large, heated brick against her.
She wriggled in pleasure at the warmth of it, knowing now how Scottish women stayed warm through the depths of those long, cold winters.
Alex looked down into her face, and she felt the pleasure at his warmth taking second place to the pleasure his lust brought her. He spoke then, and she felt tears of joy come into her eyes.
“I love you. I will love you all my life, and beyond, if the priests are right. I want you to know it.”
She pressed her hand against his heart, and felt it thundering above her. She leaned up and pressed her lips where her palm had been, the wiry hair of his chest soft against her cheek. She kissed him, then rubbed her face against him like a cat.
“I love you, Alex. And I always will.”
He lowered himself to her, and she shivered as she felt all of his weight come down on her. His manhood was high against her belly, but she could not reach down to touch it, because he had taken both of her hands in one of his. He raised her wrists above her head so that her breasts stood at attention close to his mouth. He blew on them with his heated breath until the nipples peaked, calling to him. She wriggled and moaned, but he did not move to give her relief.
“You are mine, Catherine Middlebrook. Don’t forget it.”
His lips sealed this promise by pressing over hers just as his chest pressed down on her breasts. He let her wrists go then, for his hands smoothed their way down her body, rising to cup her breasts in a heated caress, and moving lower over her thighs.
She left her hand above her head in abject surrender as he lowered his mouth to follow his hands all the way down her body, from her breasts, across her belly, to between her thighs, where at long last, he kissed her.