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Page 20 of A Rogue in Twilight (The Whisky Rogues #2)

“Y ou are mine, I am yours,” he repeated, “but if you want—”

“I want, I want. Hold me tight, do not let go,” she said, and felt him take over the moment, pulling her to him at her waist, his other hand cradling her head.

He kissed her, her lips opening beneath his, and she held him close, not wanting him to see the Seelie Court or the magical lady who would take both of them into her realm.

“Hold me,” she whispered again. “Do not look back.”

He scooped her against him, his kisses as powerful as the wind that rocked them in the long grass, nearly taking her to her knees, her limbs melting more with each kiss.

Fairy lore claimed a loved one could be saved from the pull of the Fey by a fast and hard embrace, by not looking back or letting go until the danger passed. They were fickle sorts, the Fey, and if thwarted, would move on and find another to lure away.

James kissed her again and she sank against him, feeling as if a whirlwind spun around them.

Her hair bannered out, his fingers threading into the strands as she tilted her head back for kisses renewing, wild and hungry.

The wind shoved them, turned them about, and Elspeth strived to keep him from looking toward the riders.

Sensing a change, she glanced through her lashes to see the riders fading into mist. The man who rode in the lead with the women looked back. He looked strangely familiar, but Elspeth could not think why. Then he vanished with the others.

Soon you will be with us, Eilidh, came the echo of his voice on the wind.

Now she had seen them and felt their power; now she knew what her grandfather had known all along. They did exist, if her eyes told the truth. And they wanted to take her away, just as Grandda had said.

But snug in the circle of James’s arms, she felt safe. Loved, if just for the moment. Real or not, she wanted that feeling to last. She wanted to be with him.

The mist and the chime of tiny bells faded, leaving drizzle, fog, and darkness. The air was damp and ordinary and the wind had died. The danger had passed.

She had saved James; they had saved each other.

He leaned to kiss her again, slow and tender this time, and he wrapped the plaid around both of them as the kisses resumed, still hungry but different now, nurturing and certain.

The rain wet her face, slicked her hair, her hands, wet their lips in slippery and delicious kisses.

He cupped her face, lips caressing, coaxing.

She wanted only this, only him, the need, and the cleansing rain.

“Hold me,” she whispered, pressing against him. “Hold fast, never let go—”

He groaned low and tightened his arms around her.

She slid her hands under his overcoat to his shoulders, where fabric and muscle felt warm to her chilled fingers.

She pulled at his open collar, starved for skin and warmth, still seeking wildness.

He slid his hands along her arms, over her waist, up over the damp nightgown to find her breasts, and she sucked in a breath at the sweet shock of his touch.

They turned, slow and dance-like, his fingers cradling and teasing, thumb grazing.

She cried out softly and found his mouth again in a deep kiss.

His tongue glided now against hers as his hands teased her breasts, finding the tips.

As her knees folded a bit, she sank down into the soft, wet grass.

In a way, the thrall of the Fey was still with her, weakening her, driving her to act impulsively, craving without thought.

James sank to his knees with her, pressing together, chest to breast, abdomens tight, so that she felt his desire for her, hard and sure.

Melting within, she pressed closer, arms around his neck, lips caressing, his fingers seeking, their breathing heightening.

The mist thickened once more around them, suspending them in a place that was nowhere and everywhere, faded light, cool and heat, kiss and caress, breath and touch.

She wanted this, his touch, his kiss, whatever he wanted, she craved too, anticipating with thudding heart and pulsing body the next moment and the next.

Arching as the strength of it built within her, she gasped, hungry for him, sliding her hands over him, tugging at his shirt, shaping his chest, his shoulders, the power of his torso. He pulled her deeper into his arms, rolled with her as she rocked her hips against his, intimate, daring, wanting.

He whispered softly at her ear as her nipples turned to pearls beneath his fingertips.

She moaned as he dipped his head, lips seeking, hands rucking up the damp fabric of her gown, and when his lips found her breast, she gave an ecstatic gasp.

His hand slid boldly down, fingers cupping, slipping, teasing.

The delicate pressure, the deepest wanting, took her breath away.

Shaping her hand over his breeches in silent answer, she felt his heat, his steely solidity.

She felt wanton, tingling deep, wild as one of the very Fey herself.

Something powerful moved through her, a craving to be free, act as she pleased, do what she willed, a freedom and a commitment to what she was allowing, what she wanted, all this with him.

“James,” she whispered as she drew his head up to kiss him again. “James.”

As if in answer, he drew his hand up, away, outside the plaid. He angled on an elbow, lying with her in the wet grass under a thin blanket of fog, and pushed back her rain-slicked hair.

“Dear God,” he rasped, “what is this?”

“A wild pledge on a fairy night,” she whispered, breathless, and kissed him again.

She felt that her pledge was true, even if this was all they would have.

Love , her thoughts repeated. Love. Could it be as quick and sure as this?

She was often impulsive, direct, and certain, and she felt that now. But he was pulling away.

“Not here, not like this, savage in a garden.” He got to his feet, and reached down to pull her up beside him. “My God! A wild pledge on a fairy night—I could almost believe in fairies.”

“Did you see them?” she asked.

“Who?” He looked around.

“The Sidhe ,” she whispered. “The Fey. They were so near, may still be about.”

He stared at her. “Has the storm got to you, or did the whisky addle your brain?”

“But you must have seen them. They rode past us. The Seelie Court. They tried to lure us into going with them.”

“We had best get warm and dry.” He lifted the plaid, draped it over her shoulders, turned her toward the house. “On such a night as this, it is easy to imagine all manner of things.”

The cane lay on the grass and she stooped to grab it. “James, what did you see?”

“Rain and mist. And you, my girl. The fog was—strange. I heard—bells. Where are the dogs?” He looked around. “It’s coming down hard again. Come away, Elspeth.”

She handed him his cane, and he leaned on it as they went toward the house. The pain in her ankle had returned. She wondered if James’s limp had improved when the fairy riders came near, as hers did.

The dogs met them on the way, circling and barking, and they all headed into the house through the kitchen door, shaking off the rain. Elspeth laughed as the dogs bounded around them.

James removed the borrowed coat and hung it on a hook. He brushed the rain from his hair and his shoulders. His thick curls were wet, his cheeks stained uneven pink in the chill. He looked wildly handsome, Elspeth thought, liking the bit of natural disarray in this cautious and regulated man.

“What a storm,” he said, taking the wet plaid from her and hung it on another hook.

A red plaid, thick and dry, hung near it, and he wrapped that around her shoulders.

“The trees were blowing and bending so much that I should look for damage in daylight. The horses were fine, thankfully, when I looked in on them.”

“You saw only the storm?” She kept very still.

He touched her cheek. “I saw a lovely woman out there,” he murmured. “And I did not act the gentleman. Elspeth—”

“We were in their thrall.”

“I was in your thrall.” He brushed his thumb over her cheek. “Forgive me.”

“Forgive me, do—but please tell me if you saw them!”

He frowned. “I hope we were not seen out there.”

“The fairy riding,” she said. “They were out there tonight.”

He quirked his brows and said nothing, pausing to stamp his muddy boots on the old carpet by the door.

He must think her a fool. She wondered again what had happened out there. Had it been a vision, or something real? For a moment she burned with shame at the way she had thrown herself at him. She turned for the stairs, limping. “I must go.”

“Elspeth, what is wrong?”

She looked back. “If I tell you, you will call me seven kinds of lunatic. So I will not trouble you with talk of fairies. But I thank you kindly for the compromise. It was lovely, better than I could have imagined. It will do nicely.”

“Compromise,” he repeated. “Blast it, come back. Talk to me!”

“Wait,” James said, but she was gone, footsteps rapid in the corridor, on the stairs.

He grabbed his cane and went after her, the dogs eager in his wake.

Pausing, he took the little black terrier by the collar before it could race ahead and trip the girl up, for her gait, though quick, was as uneven as his just now.

“Miss MacArthur! Elspeth!” he called. “Wait!”

He caught up with her in the main hallway outside the library and study. She turned when he called again, and nearly missed her footing, setting a hand on the wall.

“Careful. Tell me what the trouble is,” he said.

She tipped her head, folded her arms. “Truly you saw nothing out there?”

“Rain and fog, and two foolish people kissing in a lightning storm.”

“We were nearly stolen away by the fairies. We were saved by those kisses.”

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