Page 19 of To Love a Scottish Lord (Highland Lords #4)

She drew in a deep, shuddering breath. If he were the man he’d once been, Hamish would have done one of two things at that moment.

Either enfolded her in his arms to comfort her, or stepped back, apologizing for the crudeness of his words, if not the suggestion.

But he did neither, being well past absolution.

Instead, he held himself still, listening to the silence interrupted only by their soft breathing.

“Yes.”

The word, uttered in a lifetime of waiting, made him breathe deeply for the first time since she’d entered the room. Yes. Mary’s assent propelled him into anticipation and eagerness, twin emotions he’d not felt in years.

He lowered his head, placed his lips against her throat. A tender salute to warm flesh, beneath which her pulse beat wildly and strong.

From the moment he had seen her, she’d not done what he expected. And this instant was no different.

“Is this something you truly wish, Hamish?” she softly asked. The words lingered on that lush mouth of hers, her eyes intent on his face as if she sincerely waited for an answer.

He smiled, wondering if she knew that the question had been answered the moment she entered his room.

“Oh, it’s something I truly wish,” he said, tracing a path up her throat with the sweetest, kindest of kisses, only to hesitate at her chin.

He wanted to kiss that mouth, but he wavered, enjoying the feeling of being perched on the knifepoint of longing.

He wanted his desires assuaged, but not too easily or swiftly.

He wanted to linger with her, measure his own endurance.

He watched her mouth as he grew nearer, anticipating the taste of her lips. But she drew back, reaching up to undo the heavy braid at the back of her head. In a matter of moments, her hair was unbound, pins clutched in her left hand.

Holding his hand out, he waited until she transferred the gold pins to his palm, noting their gleam in the candlelight.

“Another present from Gordon?”

“Yes,” she said softly.

Suddenly, he despised her dead, unknown husband.

She bridged the distance between them once again by planting her hand flat on his chest. “I mustn’t stay too long. Brendan will know.” Her voice was soft, a melodious chastisement.

“Do you think I care?”

She looked startled.

He pulled her closer using his good hand, wishing in that moment that he had two arms that worked well enough to surround her.

She looked up at him, her eyes direct and unflinching. Slowly, as if she knew how much the gesture would inflame him, she licked her lips. Lust suddenly swamped him.

He bent his head and kissed her.

Her lips tasted warm, and then all thoughts disappeared beneath a mindless wonder. He coaxed her lips open with his thumb at the corner of her mouth, and heard her almost inarticulate whisper of protest. His tongue traced the seam of her lips, and then explored further.

His hand cupped her face, his thumb rubbing her cheek softly. He tilted her head, deepened the kiss, feeling starlight behind his lids.

His erection swelled, delight soon transformed to something deeper and more dangerous, a selfish need that ignored everything in its path. He wanted to feel her, smooth his palm over her naked skin, delve into crevices, and hollows. Now. Not five minutes from now or a quarter hour.

He walked her backward until she was pressed against the curving wall, and raised her skirt with one fist. The material was keeping him from touching her and it frustrated him.

Images of Mary, unbound and unlaced, arching in wild abandon on his bed made him want to tear the clothes from her.

Instead, he burrowed beneath the fabric, restraining himself to no more an animalistic impulse than lifting her shift.

Finally, blessedly, absolutely, his fingers trailed over a warm, curving hip. Mary, unfettered at last.

He couldn’t breathe. His heart was beating so loudly that the sound of it was like thunder in his ears. His fingers and toes tingled, but all other sensations centered on his erection, gloriously tumescent and demanding in a way he hadn’t felt for years.

“Unfasten my shirt,” he muttered, unwilling to surrender the prize he’d captured. His hand was on her waist and moving up, popping stitches in her shift. He wanted to feel her breasts overflowing his hand. He continued to kiss her, needing the touch of her mouth on him.

She’d abandoned the pose of sweetly virtuous widow somewhere in the maelstrom of their kiss and was now surprising him with her skill. Her tongue explored his mouth and stole his breath.

His hips began pressing against her, mimicking the act of possession.

The fingers of his good hand cupped one buttock, drawing her closer, grinding against her so that she couldn’t help but feel him, hot, hard, and ready.

His skin felt tight as if it were suddenly too small for his body. Even his palms felt on fire.

Her bare hands on his chest were all the indication that she’d succeeded in the task he’d given her. Her nails scratched against his skin in thoughtless abandon, making him smile. She’d traded her roles, going blessedly from healer to siren.

He was desperately grateful that she didn’t use words as a barrier and hadn’t flounced, insulted, from his room. He would worry about the consequences of his actions at a later time. For the moment, he wanted her. Needed her.

Her skirt unfastened, he disposed of her outer clothing soon enough.

But the stays required her assistance. He drew back, and she bent her head, pulling at the lacing herself.

Her hair fell in glorious disarray around her shoulders.

When she lifted her head, finally, and stared at him, her face was flushed, her lips were swollen, and her eyes had a glittery brightness to them that came from passion, not remorse.

He stretched out his hand and with teasing fingers pulled out the untied laces one by one until her stays fell to the floor.

“Why do women wear so many garments?” he asked, surprised that he’d spoken the thought aloud.

“To protect their virtue?”

He fervently hoped that this was not going to be an in tellectual discussion of whether she should continue upon this course.

Thankfully, she said nothing further, only bent to lift up the hem of her shift to remove one garter and roll down one stocking.

She used him as support as she pulled it from her toe.

Repeating the procedure with the second stocking and garter, she finally stood in front of him clad only in her lace trimmed shift.

The man he’d once been had a well-defined sense of honor. He would have ignored the heat of his own desperation and questioned her further. Is this what you want, Mary? The ghost of that man whispered the words but he ignored them.

Afterward. He’d ask her afterward. At some other occasion, he’d ask her, perhaps at breakfast. Or tomorrow at dinner. But not now, not when she was nearly naked and standing, trembling, in front of him.

With as little shame as she’d demonstrated, but with perhaps more inward reluctance, he shed his own clothing. She was beautiful; he was ugly.

She said nothing as her eyes traced the colored lines from his waist to his feet and back again.

However, it was with grateful amusement that he noted her gaze barely skimmed the grotesque shadings and drawings they’d made on his flesh.

Instead, she seemed fixed and fascinated by his ever growing member.

She took two steps toward him until the tip of his erection touched the linen of her shift, an excruciatingly delicate touch that sent shivers through him. If she cupped him, he’d explode in her hand.

“They didn’t touch you here,” she said, reaching out and stroking him with one delicate finger. His erection bobbed in response, almost a subservient bow.

“No doubt I would have been made a eunuch in time.”

“Is that why you escaped?” A small smile dusted her mouth.

He was almost amused by the question. “Not entirely.”

When she would have touched him again, he gently grabbed her wrist. “Please,” he said, a word he’d not uttered in all of his imprisonment. He’d screamed to heaven in his agony, but he’d never begged.

She took a step back and removed her shift, standing naked and glorious in front of him.

Her nipples were puckered and erect, the hair at the juncture of her thighs thick and pillowy.

Her legs were long, her feet delicately arched.

His gaze traveled from her ankles up to her shoulders, taking the time to savor the image of Mary, naked.

Her hand rested on her waist, fingers dancing over her navel as if she were impatient with his perusal of her.

Suddenly, and blessedly, the bed was there.

Somehow, she was lying on it, and he was beside her.

She widened her legs as if to welcome him, and he wanted to tell her that if she did that again he would take advantage of her wordless invitation regardless of her readiness for him.

He’d invade her in one single thrust, uncaring about anything other than his own release.

However, he’d learned enough of barbarism in his recent past and wouldn’t inflict it on another, especially a woman who was blessing him with her sweet acquiescence.

She felt like the softest down pillow, the warmest blanket, a meal to a starving man, a cup of water to a parched throat. She was all manner of comfort and more.

With the tips of his fingers, he traced a path from her lips and down her chin across her jaw to her throat.

Grabbing her hand, he brought it to his lips, kissing her knuckles, and wanting to tell her that he’d never seen a more beautiful woman.

Unreserved, she stared back at him, her lips solemn, her eyes wide.

He wanted to know what she was thinking, yet now was not the time for speech.