Page 14 of The Story of his Highland Bride (Dancing Through Time #4)
14
E loise could’ve leaped across the short distance between her and Jackson, throwing her arms him in gratitude. The best critics were those who had no reason to sugarcoat their review, and Jackson certainly didn’t have any reason to sugarcoat his. So, they’d kissed, but that didn’t mean he’d lie to spare her feelings. He didn’t seem like the kind of man who ever lied to spare anyone’s feelings.
He liked it! He actually liked it! Her heart somersaulted in her chest, as she beamed down at her handiwork, overcome with a pride she hadn’t felt since—if she was being honest—the very first book she’d had published.
“Would you change anything?” She wanted to test her theory.
Jackson rested his cheek on his hand, thinking for a moment. “I’d change some of the words ye use, but that’s only because I daenae understand them. Ye spoke of Elizabeth tryin’ to find a… ticket booth. I can guess at such a thing, thanks to the explainin’ around it, but I have nay picture of it in me mind.”
“I wish you could glimpse into my world,” Eloise murmured with a sigh. “I can’t tell if you’d want to swish your sword at everything in sight, or if you’d be too shocked to even move. Your eyes would bug out of your head if you saw a car… and maybe a ticket booth.”
He smiled oddly. “I wouldn’ae be so surprised, now that I have somethin’ of yer world’s knowledge in me head. A car seems to be a horseless carriage, is it nae?”
“Very good.” She clapped her hands together and sketched a frankly embarrassing interpretation of her own car on one of the sheets of paper. “It looks a little like this. Actually, it looks nothing like this, but I’m an author not an artist, so I draw like a five-year-old.”
Jackson frowned at the image. “Aye… that’s nae far from what I imagined.”
“Fibber,” she teased, leaning over to nudge him in the arm.
“Well, maybe it looked a wee bit more like just a carriage without any horses, but me mind is doin’ its best to figure a lot of yer strangeness out, so ye’ll have to forgive it.” He looked a little shy, glancing down at the spot she’d nudged.
She laughed softly. “It’s forgiven, as long as you really did like it.”
“I think ye’ve a rare gift,” he replied earnestly, his hands reaching out to take hold of hers. “I ken there are plenty of men in this world who’d swear on their maithers that nay lass can weave a tale like they can, but the only stories I’ve heard that have stayed in here,” he pressed her hand and his to his heart, “have come from the mouths of women.”
She swallowed thickly, feeling the rapid thud of his heartbeat. “I guess some things don’t change, no matter what era you come from.”
Her chest tightened as she thought about Peter. He’d never wanted to hear what she’d written, never asked what project she was working on, never bothered to show any interest in her passion whatsoever, and always joked about when she was going to leave “this nonsense” behind and “get a real job.” At least, she used to think it was a joke. Maybe, if she’d made herself smaller, made herself less successful, he’d have been satisfied.
But you… her eyes stung with bittersweet tears as she gazed at Jackson. He seemed so excited for her, if a little confused. And the simple fact that he wanted to hear the rest made her heart sing.
“Did I upset ye?” Jackson scooted his stool forward, drawing one hand out of hers to brush one of the tears that had snuck onto Eloise’s cheek.
She shook her head. “The opposite.”
“I daenae understand. Why are ye cryin’ if ye’re nae sad?”
A strangled laugh escaped her throat. “I just realized something, that’s all.”
“What?” He cradled his palm against her cheek, his gaze flitting between her eyes and her mouth.
His eyes held a hunger that made her skin flame, stealing the breath from her lungs as it chased away the last of the anger she carried toward Peter. Peter wasn’t worth her anger; he wasn’t worth a single one of her thoughts, when there was a man like Jackson right in front of her. A man who barely knew her but seemed to care more than Peter had ever done, and she had never craved that wet blanket the way she craved Jackson.
She longed to reply to him with, “How to get over a broken heart.” Instead, she lowered her gaze, overwhelmed by the intensity of his, and whispered, “That this was exactly what I needed. Writing this story with a pen and paper, detaching from my phone for more than two seconds, having someone around who wants to hear what I’ve written without any pressure… it’s exactly what I needed.”
“Is that a pen?” He picked up the Biro from the desk, eyeing it closely.
“You’re not going to snap it in half because you think I might curse someone with it, are you?” She stifled a laugh. “All it does is write, I promise.”
He furrowed his brow. “How?”
“The ink is already inside. Try it.”
Pulling a fresh sheet of paper toward him, he touched the nib to the virgin white and wrote, in cursive so elegant that Eloise wanted to frame it immediately, her name. His eyes widened with every letter and flourish, a boyish smile spreading across his face. It was the first time she’d seen him look anything but serious, and it suited him.
“This is… magnificent!” he cried. “Ye’ll have to tell me where ye found such a thing, so I can have one for meself. What is it made from? It doesnae feel like anythin’ I ken.”
Her heart fluttered and sank, all at once. “I’ve already told ye where it’s from. As for what it’s made of—it’s plastic. We use a lot of that in my time. Too much, really.”
He set the pen down and took hold of her face in both hands, gazing deeply into her eyes as though he was trying to find the truth within them. She’d told him everything, but she couldn’t make him believe it. Yet, as he continued to observe her in a way that made it feel like he was memorizing every freckle, every flaw, every feature, she thought she saw a flicker of acceptance in the narrowing of his eyes.
“So, this “pen” and this former betrothed of yers really are nae in this time?” he asked quietly. Thoughtfully.
Eloise arched a curious eyebrow. “I don’t know what the two have to do one with another, but no—neither are in 1701. Both are back—or forward, I guess—in 2016.” She hesitated. “Does this mean you’re starting to believe me?”
“Impossible though it all sounds… aye. There are things that only the eyes can make ye believe, and I’ve seen enough of yer strange belongings to… at least try and understand that the impossible might be possible,” he said slowly, like he’d only just come to that conclusion. “The way ye speak and write, too. It isnae of our time, for if it was, I daenae think ye’d be here in this chamber right now. I think ye’d be—”
She put a finger to his lips, silencing him. “Please, don’t say what you’re about to say. Don’t ruin the good feeling I have, going on in my heart.”
“As ye wish.” He smiled. “Would it dampen yer good feelin’ if I said I was sorry that ye came from another time?”
“No,” she half gasped, wondering what he meant.
He leaned in closer, bringing his lips to her ear. “If ye were from my time, or I was from yers, I’d beat that bastard old betrothed of yers black and blue, until ye had yer satisfaction for the wrongs he’d done to ye.” His tongue flicked against her earlobe. “And when ye’d had yer satisfaction, I’d take ye home, and claim ye for me own, where there’d be satisfaction of a different kind for us both.”
Eloise had assumed that 18 th century flirting would leave little to be desired, or that it would rub her the wrong way, but, as it turned out, she kind of liked how rough around the edges Jackson was. Maybe it was because, unlike some of the men back home, she fully believed he could protect her and defend her honor if he wanted to. She also knew he could claim her for his own, right then and there, if he would just kiss her the way he’d kissed her the previous night.
“Are you trying to give me ideas for my novel?” Her teeth grazed her lower lip, her body yearning for him.
He pressed a smiling kiss to her neck and drew back, teasing her. “Am I one of those menacin’ two lads, where ye ceased readin’?”
“Why would you think that?” She blushed furiously, her cheeks so warm there was no way he couldn’t see how red they must be.
He chuckled. “I just want to ken, so I can decide if there’s somethin’ I can do to change how ye’ve written him. Perhaps, ye just daenae ken him well enough yet. Or, rather, Elizabeth doesnae. He might begin as someone that ye daenae think is a decent sort of lad, only to discover later that he… means well.”
He seems to be plotting the same book I’m writing, Eloise mused, her entire body flushing with heat.
“I think, once my hero starts to understand Elizabeth, the misunderstandings will be smoothed over, so they can start again—get to know each other from scratch,” she said hoarsely, her throat tightening with the need to feel him close to her again. Her skin tingled, just underneath her earlobe where he’d kissed her neck, and she wanted that tingle to spread throughout her. She wanted more. She wanted every bit of inspiration he could give her.
Jackson slowly closed the gap between them once more, his arm encircling her waist. His lips came to within an inch of hers, taunting her with the promise of passion, only to move them away as he pushed a lock of hair behind her ear.
“I daenae want to guess ahead, Eloise, but I think, in the end, yer hero will have nay choice but to choose to understand her,” he whispered, rising up slightly to press a tender kiss to her forehead. “Daenae make it easy for him, though. Ye cannae write it so it’s easy. After all, what would ye do if a lad from the future came to yer time and told ye of it. Ye’d think he was mad, would ye nae?”
“At first,” Eloise admitted, breathless. “But, as you suggested, I’d have to learn to trust my eyes, even if what I was seeing seemed impossible.”
He trailed his lips down from her brow, leaving his searing mark on her temple, moving to her cheek. “Ye daenae feel impossible,” he said softly. “Ye feel so real that… maybe I daenae want to believe ye’re from some other time. A time and place ye’re wantin’ to return to.”
Is he asking me to stay? She shook the troubling thought away, concentrating on the graze of his mouth against her skin as he pressed kisses all the way down to her lips. She was the one misunderstanding; she was certain of it. He seemed to like her, she knew she fancied him, so why shouldn’t they entertain that for as long as the snow kept her from the Cairns? What was the harm in a little winter fling to keep out the cold?
Any lingering worries faded as his mouth caught hers, and his arm around her waist pulled her closer to his broad chest. She thought of his heartbeat and wondered if it was racing again, curiosity pressing her palms to that hard muscle. A rapid thud greeted her, and she smiled against his lips. She couldn’t deny it; it was nice to have that effect on someone like him. The kind of man she could only have dreamed about.
The kiss was sweeter and slower than the last time, like they both knew they could take their time and enjoy one another. There was tenderness in place of desperation, their mouths meeting in a sensual rhythm that was somehow more passionate than a hungry crush of lips and flesh. Inside Eloise, an invisible cord tightened from her throat to that secret, hot part of her that longed for more of him. With every kiss, it pulled tighter, until she was panting with the delicious strain of it, like only he could relax her again.
Suddenly, Jackson rose up, taking Eloise with him. His powerful arms lifted her onto the edge of her writing desk, though she notice, quite sweetly, that he was careful to avoid her fledgling manuscript. Perhaps, her writer’s mind was getting carried away, but it was almost as if he really did want to influence the story that sat beside them, his kiss guiding her to believe that he was a friend and not a foe. More than a friend, if she’d let him be.
Their kiss deepened as he moved between her legs, running his hand up her thigh until she shivered with the anticipation of it all. But he still took his time, savoring her lips, slowly caressing her tongue with his, his hips rolling in tantalizing ebbs and flows that brought her own hand to his muscular backside, urging him even nearer.
Spurred on, she pulled the coarse fabric of his leine from the waistband of his kilt and slipped a hand underneath. His skin was warm and inviting, rippling as he moved in a way she’d never experienced. She leaned with him as he pressed her backward, one hand braced against the desk to protect the manuscript and papers that littered it.
She gasped as she felt the hardness of him, straining to reach her. There wasn’t much stopping them from taking their blossoming flirtation into something more, and she was blatantly, excitedly aware of it.
“I cannae restrain meself when I’m around ye,” Jackson growled, grazing his lips against her throat. “I nay longer think ye’re a witch, but ye have bewitched me.”
Eloise smiled, thinking of how long she’d waited for a man to say something that romantic to her. “Then, despite being separated by hundreds of years, we’re not so different.”
“Daenae say that,” he urged.
“Say what?”
“That we’re separated by anythin’. Right now, I daenae want us to be,” he replied in a throaty tone that set off fireworks inside her: sparks exploding in her veins, a bonfire blazing in her chest.
How can you be real? She couldn’t fathom it. How can any of this be real? It almost seemed unfair to the rest of the world’s brokenhearted women, that she’d been sent through time to meet the perfect balm for her heartache. She realized it was the first time she’d thought of the situation as lucky, and not a curse she had to escape.
As his tongue danced with hers, his arm supporting her waist, his hips swaying in a manner that gave a lot of insight into what a night with him would be like, the air in the room shifted. It was that pivotal moment, the atmosphere charged with electricity, where everything was about to change.
He seemed to feel it too, as his hand slipped higher up her thigh, his fingertips hooking underneath the lacy fabric of her underwear. There was no hesitation, this time, as he eased them down, like he’d spent enough time thinking about the flimsy garments to figure out how to remove them.
He’s thought about me. She glowed at the prospect, wondering what he’d imagined, what he’d pictured between them.
She grabbed his arms, squeezing tight as he touched her for the first time: light and teasing, rubbing slow circles that made her legs tremble. All the while, his lips crushed against hers, ravenous and fierce—feverishly and gloriously at odds with the tender caress of his fingertips.
“Yes, Jackson!” she cried. “Yes, like that!”
He paused for a moment, smiling. “Like that? Nay like this?”
His fingertips moved lower, his thumb replacing the slow, tantalizing circles that had her gasping. And as he pushed a finger inside her, her fingernails dug deeper into his muscled flesh, her breath abandoning her lungs all together as she arched her neck back. A second finger gave her half of what she truly wanted, like a consolation prize instead of the big trophy, but he knew exactly what he was doing.
Peter never had. Peter had hated anything that involved her pleasure, before the main event, basically calling it a “chore.” But Jackson seemed to enjoy seeing her passion and hearing her bliss, his eyes gleaming with desire as he listened to the sound of her pleasure, his fingertips changing pressure and position depending on her response. He was attuned to her after just one kiss, doing what Peter hadn’t been able to do after six years of being engaged and seven years together.
Eloise rocked her hips upward, to meet the push and ebb of his fingers, wishing she was bold enough to just tear his kilt away and feel him inside her, properly.
“Oh, Jackson,” she purred, her head spinning as he tugged aside the neckline of her dress and freed her breast. His warm mouth closed around her nipple, sucking gently to the rhythm of his strumming thumb. It was like a symphony of ecstasy, and everyone was playing the right notes, sending her body into a rising crescendo that she could barely wait to reach.
I can’t remember the last time… I can’t remember it ever feeling like this — Her mind sighed, as she grabbed his face and brought his lips back to hers, kissing him with all the hunger that raged in her veins.
It wasn’t long before the crescendo reached its peak, the expertise of his fingertips and his kiss and his tongue and his caress playing her to the greatest climax of her life. She didn’t even think about being quiet as she cried out in ecstasy, her entire body seizing as the wave crashed through her, her limbs shaking.
“Oh, Jackson! Jackson!” Her fingertips were in his hair, tugging lightly as he slowed everything down, letting her savor her euphoria.
All too soon, the pleasure faded, and she was left trembling and gasping on the desk beside her manuscript, filled with a thousand ideas of what she wanted to write next. This scene had to be in it somewhere, though she didn’t often write about sex. She used to think it was because she lacked the inspiration; being with Jackson had all but confirmed it to be true. In fact, after just that appetizer of what he could do, she had inspiration by the bucketload.
“Ye’re nae afraid to show yer bliss,” Jackson growled, slowly withdrawing his fingers. “Daenae change that.”
Eloise’s cheeks flushed with self-conscious warmth. “I didn’t realize I was loud.”
“Daenae change it,” he repeated, with a grin.
As he leaned in to catch her mouth with his once more, they froze at the thumping sound of a knock at the door. It beat louder than the thud of Eloise’s heart.
“Who is it?” Eloise called, clamping a hand over Jackson’s mouth, as he stifled a laugh.
“It’s Kaitlyn. I was told that His Lairdship had come to visit ye, and I’ve urgent news for him!” Kaitlyn replied, as the iron ring of the door handle began to turn.
In a rush, Eloise wriggled off the desk and pulled up her underwear, struggling to rearrange everything Jackson had set askew. Meanwhile, he turned his back and pretended to be looking out of the window, likely to hide the fact that he was still very obviously aroused.
Eloise had just made it to the armchair she’d left where it was, by the fireplace, when Kaitlyn entered. Glancing at Kaitlyn as innocently as she could, Eloise noticed the maid peering around the room with suspicious eyes, as if she’d been expecting to walk in on something she shouldn’t. In fact, Kaitlyn almost seemed disappointed that she hadn’t.
“M'Laird, there ye are.” Kaitlyn rallied quickly. “I’ve news from Falkernside, and it’s nae good.”
Jackson twisted his head back to address Kaitlyn. “Falkernside? What has the righteous Father done now?”
“A lass, M’Laird.” Kaitlyn’s voice hitched. “He’s… about to burn her. They’re buildin’ the stake in the village square as we speak.”
In the armchair, Eloise’s blood ran cold. For a blissful moment, she’d forgotten where she was… and precisely why she had to leave, as soon as humanly possible. It didn’t matter how passionate or wonderful Jackson had turned out to be; if she didn’t go, she could very well be next.