Page 24 of Lyon of Scotland (The Lyon’s Den Connected World)

“Shall we toss discretion to the wind, then?” he murmured.

“I think we already did that in London.” And she kissed him, bolder with each moment, even bolder yet as he laughed and closed his arms around her and rolled a bit, bringing her over him in a tangle of blankets, the bed creaking beneath them.

“Ah, perhaps we did,” he answered, and traced her throat with lips and a delicate tongue, skimming down to her chest, pushing back the gauzy fabric of her night rail. She arched her back, lost in the feeling as he dipped to the soft valley between her breasts.

“Oh! London,” she went on, and gave another quick gasp as his hand slipped under the fabric, cupped her breast, his lips teasing that way too. “Was that real?”

“It was. So is this.” His words were soft, muffled. She caught her breath, her nipples pearling and tingling under his lips. Thought was slipping away. She mewled, gasped.

“Love, tell me you want this,” he whispered. Love. She melted further.

“I do,” she said, and his fingers slid lower, pausing so that she ached, hungered for more.

Her body knew, and her heart filled. As he lifted his head to kiss her again, she cupped her hands on his face for a moment, thinking only that he was beautiful, the most beautiful man she had ever seen.

The promise of all the dreams flowed in, and her body thrummed, heart pounded, yearning urged her as she met his kiss deeply, pressing her body against his, pulling him against her.

With a low groan, he rolled her onto her back and took her into his arms, one hand caressing the length of her now, shoulder to breast to hip and thigh and up again, slowly as he kissed her.

She curled against him, then opened to him, arching, inviting.

She had never wanted anything so much as this moment, with him, its power building from long ago, fired by his touch.

He felt it too—she sensed the surge that went through his body where their hips met now.

His kisses traced down and she offered the angle of her throat, the curve of her body toward him as his lips caressed and his lowered hand rucked up the fabric of her nightgown.

Nimble and tender, his fingers explored, sliding, teasing, and her body grew eager, edging on desperate, his kisses hot and deep.

She tugged impatiently at his shirt to soothe her hands over his chest, pushing his rumpled kilt aside to find him beneath, hard and ready.

He groaned against her lips, shifted to cover her, fabrics pushed away, cool air on hot skin, breaths deep, hearts pounding.

As he found her, fitted to her, the merge overtaking her, a burst of passion erasing thought, vanishing time and the moment.

All she ever wanted was here, part of him as he was part of her.

Then she shared with him long breaths, and a soft gasp of relief as they drew apart. And though reality slipped in with dawn and chilled air, she knew nothing could part her soul from his now.

“Well, good morning,” Dare murmured with a soft laugh, pressing his brow to hers. His breath had slowed, his body so relaxed he hardly wanted to move, but he drew her close, wrapped her in his embrace in the tumult of her nightgown, his shirt, the blankets and pillows. “Lovely, aye?”

“Oh aye.” She rested her arm on his chest. “I want to tell you something. About when you visited my father’s house in Edinburgh.”

“Aye, what about it?” He kissed her silken hair.

“Whenever you came to the house, I wanted to be wherever you were, one room and another. I would watch you as you talked with others, or when you stood looking about in that way you have. Quiet and watchful.”

He snugged her closer. “I always knew when you were near.”

“Did you? I could not tell. I thought you were so handsome, such a gentleman. You hardly spoke to me, but there was something about you that I liked—so much. I thought you were not interested in an artist’s daughter. But then—” She sighed, stopped.

“What?” He waited.

“Sometimes you were in my dreams,” she said in a rush.

“So you said before. I am flattered. And?”

“And I imagined—being married to you.”

“Did you now?” He gave a crooked little smile. “Then let me confess that I always noticed the artist’s daughter—you.” He brushed back her hair, traced the line of her jaw, tipped her chin up. “And I wanted to court you. Thought about marrying you.”

“Did you? Why did you not tell me?”

“I am not sure,” he whispered. “We could sort that out. We have time.”

She snuggled closer, kissed his jaw. “Dare,” she said then. “Why do they call you Dare? Is it because you take risks? You took one with me.”

He huffed, amused. “We both took a risk. I think it will turn out well.” He paused.

“When I was a boy,” he continued, his fingers playing with the ribbons on her nightgown, “I jumped into a gorge filled with a heavy spate of water because my friends had dared me. I nearly drowned, but somehow made it to the bank. My brother sometimes called me Dare, and after that, it stuck.”

“Dare,” she echoed, resting her hand on his heart. “I think the first real risk I ever took was when I came to London. And it was a disaster.”

“Not entirely. It led to this. To us.” He traced her cheek. “Is this a risk?”

“At first. Not now. I realize now I feel—braver around you. Stronger.”

He laughed. “Good. You needed a wee bit of that, my lass.”

“I did. Alasdair—what would you dare me to do?” She shifted, coming up above him, her hair drifting down, a golden shield.

“I can think of something,” he laughed, and rolled her to her back as she laughed with him, welcoming, tempting.