Page 45 of Highland Fire
None too carefully, he upended the bottle, sloshing champagne into his glass. Ignoring the droplets which had spilled down the front of his shirt, he drank deeply, then replenished his glass before setting the bottle away from him.
Stone cold sober, Rand was a formidable adversary. He had been drinking, and though he was far from inebriated, the controls he habitually placed on himself were fast disintegrating and she wondered if he intended that to occur.
Completely unnerved, she rushed into speech.
“David was my friend. I don’t know how else I can explain it.
He entered into my feelings about things.
We dared not meet openly, because of the feud and…
and…well, it’s just not done. You know what I mean; unattached males and females have no occasion to meet unless they attend balls…
We went for walks, and sometimes went riding on the moors. It was all very innocent.”
“What? Did you never entertain my cousin alone in your cottage?”
The sarcastic inflection was not calculated to reassure her. “It was all very innocent,” she repeated, this time more desperately.
Under that considering stare, she felt the last vestiges of her control slipping away. “I swear it,” she whispered.
“As you swore that we were brother and sister?” he said, and tossed off the dregs in his glass.
“Why won’t you believe me?” she cried out.
“Oh, I do believe you. You wear your virginity like a badge of honor. But no longer.”
Every instinct warned her that now, now he was going to pounce.
As he moved to set down his glass, she flung herself backward.
One strong hand instantly reached for her, catching at her skirts, and there followed the sound of rending material.
Frantically striking out at him, she half rose to her feet.
He lunged for her, and they both went rolling on the bed.
Panting, gasping, she tried to fight free of his iron grip.
Immediately, the weight of his body trapped hers, bearing her back against the rumpled bedclothes.
Winding his hands into her hair, he held her head steady and his lips came down on hers in a smothering kiss.
Twisting back and forth, trembling with impotent rage, she balled her hands into fists and struck out at him.
Her blows fell harmlessly against his back.
Raising himself, he quickly shifted position to take advantage of her movements, and pinned her with one long leg between hers.
Her wrapper had fallen away, and the hem of her nightgown had worked its way up to her thighs.
Her heart was pounding against her throat, as if it were trying to find a way out of her body.
When she stopped struggling, he lifted his head slightly.
His expression was unreadable. Her eyes flashed fire. Bitter tears, scalding tears, welled up in her eyes and spilled over. With ravishing gentleness, he kissed them away. That one act of tenderness, coming so late, seemed more insulting than anything that had gone before.
“I shall never forgive you,” she said, her voice as brutal and as bitter as she could make it.
His lips flattened. “I’m not asking for your forgiveness. Your submission is what I have in mind.”
She caught her breath as if he had slapped her. Before she could marshal her thoughts, his head descended and his mouth moved demandingly over hers, forcing her lips to part, muffling her cries as his hand covered her breast.
Her capitulation was sudden. She wasn’t moved by his passion, nor did she fear him. She wanted to demonstrate her complete and utter contempt for him. She succeeded, but not enough to deflect him from his resolve.
Taking advantage of her passivity, he quickly disrobed first her and then himself. She stiffened when he stretched out beside her. If he was determined to have her submission, she was equally determined to give him a hollow victory. She was going to remain as cold and unmoving as a corpse.
So she thought.
He knew better. Since she wasn’t offering any resistance, he made a feast of her.
He was fascinated by the slope of her breast and the engorged crest that flushed delectably when he laved it with his tongue.
The valley of her waist, the indentation of her navel, and the dark veil shielding her femininity received equal homage.
His touches grew more wanton as he felt the change in her.
Caitlin was fighting the battle of her life, holding her breath in an agony of suspense over what he would do next.
The heel of his hand was there, between her thighs, kneading a pleasure point she had not known existed.
She made a small sobbing sound and shifted restlessly, lifting herself to give him freer access.
“Yes,” he said thickly. “This is how I knew it would be. Give in to me, Caitlin. Give in.”
Those few words pulled her back from the brink of the sensual abyss into which she was slipping. He wanted her submission. With a strangled cry, she clamped her legs together. Rand sat back on his heels.
“Kate, I want you wet and open for me,” he said. “Believe me, it will make it easier for you.”
She gave him such a look that he almost laughed out loud.
Ignoring that reproachful look, he parted her legs.
Eyes locked on hers, with the tips of his fingers he tested her readiness to take him.
When she moaned he let out a long shuddering breath, and moved to cover her.
For a moment, he seemed to be on the point of saying something; then, shaking his head, gathering himself, he thrust into her.
The pain was so shocking, so intense, that she could not draw breath to cry out.
In her extremity, she did no more than gasp.
He thrust again, and again, as though uncaring for her agony, and she went wild.
Twisting, heaving, in mingled pain and fury she tried to throw him off.
Her movements only worked against her, ensuring a deeper more complete penetration of her body.
She wasn’t aware that for her sake, Rand was holding himself rigidly in check, gritting his teeth against the exquisite pleasure she brought him.
She only knew that he was the aggressor and was refusing to retreat.
When the pain eased to an uncomfortable, stretching fullness, her struggles gradually became feebler.
He was extraordinarily gentle with her now, brushing the lightest of kisses against her lips, her cheeks, and her throat.
She flinched when he eased deeper, then sighed, a little breathy sound, when his movements brought her no pain.
He shuddered and went still. Caitlin’s eyelashes lifted, and she studied him silently. His eyes were closed, and the planes of his face were hard with strain. His head was thrown back. She could feel the tremors begin to sweep through him.
“Caitlin,” he said, “Caitlin.”
One arm slipped beneath her, lifting her to him. He was sucking air into his lungs as if his heart would burst.
Thoroughly frightened, she cried out, “Rand, what is it? What’s wrong?” and she raised her hands, grasping him by the shoulders to steady him.
Gasping for breath, laughing, he moved deeply, rhythmically, gathering her to his hard length.
There could be no pleasure for her in the act.
It was too soon. She had not allowed him to prepare her adequately for his possession.
But at the end, when he spilled his seed deep inside her, they both knew she was not unmoved.
Afterward, when he had relieved her of his weight, he pulled her into the shelter of his body, her head resting against his chest.
“Go to sleep,” he said, and adjusted the bedclothes to cover them both.
She didn’t say anything, though she knew that sleep was the furthest thing from her mind.
Even in this, however, he proved invincible.
Before long, her eyes grew heavy. She wasn’t aware that she had turned into him, sprawled against him in a gesture of trust, but Rand knew, and he lay awake for a long while after.
He was propped on one elbow and was looking down at her. She was too proud to turn away from the naked triumph in his eyes.
“You won,” she said.
“More than you know.” And to test the truth of his words, for his own satisfaction, he kissed her swiftly.
When she made no move to evade him but allowed his kiss to linger, he could feel the pent-up tension gradually uncoil from the pit of his stomach.
He had stormed the citadel and taken possession of his own. There could be no turning back now.
Subduing a grin, he reached for his shirt and shrugged into it.
The embers in the grate were almost cold.
Using tongs and poker he added a few lumps of coal to get a fire going, then padded over to the wash-stand.
Within moments, he had returned with a washcloth wrung out in cold water and a linen towel.
He didn’t ask her permission, but tugged the bed sheet out of her hands, exposing her nakedness.
Not by the flicker of an eyelash did she betray that his proprietary mien caused her the least annoyance.
Rand had witnessed this kind of pride in the aftermath of battle, among prisoners of war.
They asked for no quarter, expected no favors.
As with them, he assumed a matter-of-fact manner.
Parting her legs, he washed away her virgin’s blood, then carefully dried her.
“You hurt me,” she said.
“Yes. More than I wanted to.” He wasn’t apologizing. He had made up his mind that he wasn’t going to apologize for anything, not because he had no regrets but because he deemed it politic not to betray any weakness with Caitlin, at least not until everything was straightened out between them.