Page 25

A little pulse of pleasure throbbed in Clara’s center as her husband ordered her to remove her gown.

The laird—her new father-in-law—had called her a filthy whore .

Perhaps she was. No respectable debutante would shiver with a secret thrill as her husband tossed her over his shoulder like a savage, subdued her with his hand, then carried her to his lair.

Maybe she deserved the laird’s insults.

Trembling, she unlaced her gown, then glanced up to see her husband looking directly at her.

The raw lust she’d expected—but not the compassion that shimmered in his eyes.

He approached, hand outstretched.

“There’s no need for ye to do anything ye don’t want, lass,” he said. “I can’t deny that I want yer body—but I want yer consent also.”

Clara fought the urge to bury herself in his arms. Did he think to fool her with fine words and pretty speeches?

She grasped her gown and pulled it over her head. Then she tore off her undergarments, her body tightening at the cold air on her bare skin.

“Lass, I—”

“You’ve nothing to concern yourself with, husband,” she said. “I know exactly what to do.”

After all, she’d seen the dogs on the streets of London, and the pigs on the farms near her home in Pittchester.

Her former home.

Gritting her teeth, Clara climbed onto the bed on all fours.

“Lass, I—”

“Just get on with it!” she said.

She heard a deep sigh, followed by the rustling of clothes as he dropped his garments, then silence.

Her breath hitched at the sound of bare feet against stone.

Then a hand touched her thigh, and she flinched.

“H-husband, please…”

“Won’t ye say my name, lass?”

“Murdo.”

“That’s better,” he said. “Did I not say, that afternoon on the moors, that I longed to hear ye speak my name?”

Moisture stung her eyes at the memory of the pleasure his hands wrung from her body, and the hope he’d ignited in her heart.

The bed shifted under his weight, and she braced herself for the onslaught. But, instead, he caught her shoulders and pushed her sideways. She resisted at first, but his touch was firm, though gentle, as he coaxed her onto her back.

She drew in a sharp breath. He was as naked as she. His body glowed in the firelight, sharp shadows emphasizing his maleness—the sculpted muscles rippling with barely suppressed power, the deep V near his waist, and…

Oh my!

…the thick part of him that jutted from the nest of wiry chestnut curls.

I’ve never seen anything so—so…

“So big ?” he said, his eyes flashing with pride.

Sweet heaven —had she spoken aloud?

“It pleases me, lass, that ye appreciate what I give ye,” he said, “that ye’ll know the pleasure of being taken by a real man at last.”

At last?

He crawled over her, his manhood bobbing, and she caught her breath as his body heat seeped into her skin. A rich aroma of wood, spice, and sweat flooded her senses—the primal scent of man. She drew in a deep breath, and he gave a slow smile, his nostrils flaring.

“Aye,” he said, “the most delicious scent known to man. The air is thick with it.”

“With wh-what?”

“With the need to mate.”

He settled on top of her. An unfathomable sensation fizzed through the skin of her breasts, and her nipples ached. He leaned over and kissed her mouth.

“Yer lips taste as sweet as I remember,” he said. “Does the rest of ye taste as fine?”

Before she could ask what he meant, he dipped his head and took her nipple in his mouth. She drew in a deep breath as the ache in her breasts turned into a burning need.

“Oh!”

Her voice came out in a rasp as he suckled her breast, teasing the nipple with his tongue. When he grazed his teeth across the tip, she let out a cry at the exquisite nip of pain. Then he soothed it with his tongue before withdrawing to place a kiss on her other breast.

“I could feast on ye, lass, like a man starved,” he growled, “until I could take no more.”

“Wh-what do you…” she began, then let out a low cry as he dipped his hand between her thighs and ran it along her slick flesh.

“Ye’re ready for yer husband,” he said, triumph in his eyes. “I hardly need touch ye before yer body weeps for me.”

He withdrew his hand, and she bit her lip in frustration. Then he teased her thighs apart.

She closed her eyes, fighting her shame at being utterly exposed to him. What pleasure could he take out of looking at her… there ?

Then she felt his lips on her thigh and opened her eyes to see his head nestled between her thighs.

“Murdo, what are you doing?”

His tongue flicked against her flesh, and she tried to close her legs.

“I didn’t think—I mean, I haven’t…”

He paused and lifted his head, astonishment in his eyes. “Och, lass, have ye never had a man tend to ye with his tongue?”

She shook her head, and tears welled in her eyes.

“Aye,” he whispered. “I’ll wager the men ye tended to only thought of their pleasure.”

“The men I’ve what ?”

But he shifted position, and she caught her breath as she felt his hardness against her thigh.

“Ye’re mine now, lass.”

He thrust forward, and she cried out at a deep pinch of pain.

“That’s it, lass. Take all of me.”

She clung to him, trembling while the pain subsided.

Then he withdrew, slowly, and pushed himself in again.

A spark of pleasure flared as he withdrew once more, then slipped inside her again, forming a slow rhythm, his breath caressing her cheek.

Pleasure replaced the pain as he seemed to swell inside her, filling and stretching her body with an unfathomable deliciousness.

“Oh, lass…” he said, his breath coming in short, sharp puffs, “the way yer body grips mine… How did ye learn to do that ? Ye’re a glorious creature—so tight, so sweet—I could die from it!”

He quickened the pace, and the pleasure swelled, then Clara tilted her head back and cried out as a wave of ecstasy tore through her.

He continued to thrust, the pace growing frenzied, until he gave a shout and fell forward, drawing her into his arms while her body flooded with heat. He continued to thrust weakly, then grew still, his heartbeat pulsing thickly against her bare skin.

“My wife…” he murmured. His body rose and fell in a deep sigh, then his breathing grew even, settling into the rhythm of sleep.

Her body still pulsed faintly where the inferno settled into a delicious heat.

Was this what it was like, what a man and woman did together? Was that why men and women cast themselves into ruination for a taste of such pleasure, why women such as her mother were exploited to satisfy the men who purchased her for a coin?

Men such as Murdo’s father?

Had she surrendered her freedom merely to satisfy her base needs?

A wave of shame engulfed her. She tried to move, but his huge body pinned her to the bed. She lay back, fighting her self-loathing at how much her body relished the feel of him on top of her—still inside her. At length, she surrendered to the comfort and safety of his arms, and sleep claimed her.

When Clara woke, the warm glow of the fireplace had gone, replaced by the cool light of the dawn.

She lay cocooned in a fur, her husband beside her, his chest rising and falling with each breath. In his sleep he looked younger, carefree, an expression of serenity on his face. She sat up and stretched, and he stirred.

“Mmm, Clara…” he murmured, then he rolled onto his back and gave a deep sigh, before his breathing steadied once more.

She slipped out of bed and tried to take the fur with her, but it was trapped beneath her husband’s body. Abandoning it, she padded across the floor, wincing at the cold stone against her bare feet. A dull ache throbbed between her legs, and her thighs were sticky and slick.

She reached down and grimaced as she saw a smear of red on her fingertips. Her monthly flow must have come early.

But whom could she ask to tend to her? Certainly not her husband. Mama said such a subject was not for a man’s ears.

A breeze rippled through the air and she shivered.

None of her shawls would be warm enough.

But a blanket was draped over the back of a chair, in the colors to match her husband’s plaid—scarlet and blue, contrasting against dark brown.

She draped it over her shoulders and tiptoed out of the chamber.

The castle was quiet, hardly a sound apart from snoring coming from behind one door. She made her way to the staircase and descended, her footsteps echoing against the stone floor.

As she reached the ground floor, she heard sobbing, then caught sight of one of the maidservants—Marsaili, was it?

—limping along the hallway. Another woman approached her and Clara recognized the housekeeper.

She shushed the girl, then steered her away.

When their voices faded, Clara slipped outside through the main doors, flinching as they creaked open, and made her way around the side of the building, seeking cover, where none of the windows—great black eyes embedded in the walls—could stare at her with disapproval.

The rush of the wind in the trees filled the air, together with the distant cry of birds—and an irregular thudding.

Perhaps the footsteps of far-off giants.

Then she shook her head. What nonsense! She was no longer a fanciful child. She was a wife, subservient to the man who owned her, and his family who despised her.

What the devil was she doing here?

Only yesterday, Papa Harcourt had taken her aside to warn her of the mistake she was making. But she’d trusted in the skills of Mrs. Dove-Lyon, who was renowned for making perfect matches out of unlikely pairings.

“I’ve been a fool,” she said to nobody. “A damned, bloody fool.”

“Is that so?” a deep voice said.

Clara startled and turned toward the voice. “Who’s there?”

She glimpsed a figure between the trees and approached it, finding herself in a clearing with a small wooden hut and a pile of logs to the side.