Defiant (14 page)

But it was too late. Where she had burned moments ago, Sarah now felt cold.

“Stop.” She reached down and caught Connor’s wrist. “Please, stop! I cannot bear this.”

He met her gaze through troubled eyes, withdrawing from her, his fingers now tracing lines on her sensitive inner thighs, his lips full and wet from kissing her. “There is fire in your blood, Sarah. I feel it. You felt it. Dinnae let that crone steal the pleasure that is your right. Let me bring you release. You—”

Sarah pressed a finger to his lips to still him. “Please, Connor, do whatever you must to bring this night to an end.”

For a moment, he studied her face, his dark brows furrowed, and she was afraid he would deny her. “As you wish, my lady.”

She turned her face toward the wall and squeezed her eyes shut, fighting tears.

But he caught her chin, turned her to face him. “Open your eyes, lass, and look at me.”

She did as he asked, tears trickling down her temples.

“Your tears I can bear if I must, but if you cannae once stand to look upon me…” His expression hardened, a kind of desperation in his eyes. “I’m no’ an animal.”

And she remembered that she wasn’t the only one who’d been forced into this.

Each of us for the sake of the other.

She rested her palms against his chest, her gaze locked with his. It did not waver when he untied the fall of his breeches and pushed her skirt up to her hips, forcing her legs far apart with his own. It did not waver when he settled between her thighs, reaching down to part her and position the tip of his penis against her entrance.

For a long moment, he looked down at her, holding himself above her, his weight resting on strong arms, a torn expression on his face. “Forgi’ me, my lady.”

She was about to tell him there was nothing to forgive, when he nudged his hips forward, thrusting into her. The pain of his invasion was knife sharp. She bit her lip, squeezed her eyes shut, her nails digging hard into him as she fought not to cry out.

“I’m sorry, Princess.” Connor brushed kisses over her lips, her cheeks, her forehead, as if trying to kiss her pain away, his voice tight. “I’m so sorry.”

And for a moment, he held himself still inside her. Pain slowly dulled to an uncomfortable, stinging throb. He felt huge and hard, stretching her past the point of ease, filling her to the mouth of her womb, his hips cradled between her thighs.

She opened her eyes to find his face mere inches from hers, lines of strain on his forehead. And it struck her as almost unbearably intimate to look into his eyes when his body was joined with hers. Then she remembered what she’d overheard him tell Joseph.

Whene’er a man touches her, whene’er her husband takes her to his bed, she will think on this night, and she will hate me.

Needing him to know that she did not fault him, she reached up with both hands, framing his face. “I do not hate you, Connor.”

A look of surprise crossed his face, his eyes growing darker.

Then he began to move, slowly withdrawing from her, only to enter her again and again and again. And although it still hurt, the pain was not as sharp as it had been, his strokes smooth, his rhythm steady.

The strain on his face grew more pronounced, his breath coming faster, his body shaking. “Let me kiss you, lass. Let me…touch you. I need…to touch you.”

Something about the way he said it—the rough whisper that was his voice, the naked longing in his eyes—made her want to be kissed and touched. As if he could sense her decision, he lowered his mouth to hers, capturing her lips in a rough kiss, his tongue demanding entrance, one big hand cupping her right breast, plumping and shaping it. A tremor ran through him, and she realized that touching her gave him pleasure.

He groaned, moved faster,
harder, his breath mingling with hers, his body straining against hers in an almost feral way, sweat beading on his skin.
“Sarah.”

She bit her lip, tried to ignore her discomfort, tried not to let it show on her face, the pain increasing as he thrust faster, harder, his movements startlingly forceful, this joining of man and woman more animal than she could have imagined.

Faster, harder.

His breath came in ragged pants, every muscle in his body tight.

His gaze met hers for the briefest of seconds, then his eyes closed and his head went back, his body shuddering as he drove into her—and then was still. He sank against her, breathing hard, his heart thudding against hers.

Thank God in heaven.

It was over.

C
onnor raised his head and opened his eyes, his heart still pounding from the force of his release, the last currents of pleasure washing through him. Beneath him, Lady Sarah lay still, her eyes closed, tooth marks on her lower lip where she’d bitten herself trying not to cry out, tearstains on her temples.

The very sight of her, beautiful and innocent, made his chest constrict, a maelstrom of feelings inside him. Which was stronger he could not tell—the tenderness he felt for her or the loathing he felt for himself.

He had claimed her against her will, and he’d found pleasure in it. Though she had not wanted him, she had still satisfied him in every way a woman satisfies a man. He’d told her he wasn’t an animal, but he was. Och, aye, he was.

And yet, as God was his witness, he hadn’t wanted to hurt her. Knowing that each thrust was painful for her, he’d tried to come quickly—the first time he’d ever done that.

Certain she was repulsed by him and wanted him out of her and away from her as quickly as possible, he raised his weight and slowly withdrew from her, his cock still half hard.

He drew his bearskin over her. “Stay here beneath where it is warm. I’ll fetch you hot water and a cloth to wash yourself.”

Then he rose from the bed and faced Crow Mother, the fall of his breeches still open so that she could see his sex. He gripped the root of his cock, ran his hand along the length of
it, drawing the foreskin up to the tip with a squeeze. Then he held out his palm where she could see. “Her blood. My seed. Is this what you wanted, crone?”

The old woman peered into his palm, streaks of bright red mingled with creamy white. Then her gaze met his. “Katakwa’s wife was my daughter. Now, through that one’s blood and pain, she has been avenged.”

Connor felt a cold rage come over him. “Get out. Now.”

I
 
am no longer a virgin.

It was the first thought to cross Sarah’s mind as she awoke from a deep and dreamless sleep. She opened her eyes and found herself looking at a sliver of pink sky through the smoke flap in the roof above. From outside came the sounds of the village already stirring—women talking, a baby crying, the shuffling of feet.

“You’re awake, my lady.” Connor sat on the floor near the fire where he’d slept, stoking the flames to life, his face cast in a golden glow. He’d put on a shirt, his jaw shadowed with a new growth of stubble, his hair tied back in a leather thong. “I hope you’ve had a good sleep.”

He glanced at her as he spoke, his tone betraying no awkwardness, as if nothing had happened between them last night. But for Sarah it was not so easy.

She felt heat flood her cheeks and struggled to retain her composure. This man had seen parts of her no one had ever seen. He’d touched and kissed her in places no one had touched. He’d even been inside her.

Clutching the bearskin to her chest, she sat upright, wincing at the unexpected tenderness between her thighs. “Y-yes.”

He turned his head and looked up at her, his expression
unreadable. “I’ve heated more water. I’ve heard it helps to ease the soreness.”

Her face grew hotter, but she willed herself to look at him, a strange awareness passing through her when their gazes met. “Thank you for your thoughtfulness, Major.”

He ladled water out of a small kettle into a wooden bowl, set a measure of clean linen from his pack beside it, then rose to his feet in one smooth motion, reaching out to hand her something. “Joseph sent this for you.”

A comb carved from bone or antler. “Please thank him for me.”

“When I return, I’ll bring breakfast.” With that, he turned and ducked through the doorway, leaving her alone.

Sarah put down the comb, pushed aside the bearskin, and squatted down beside the fire, washing first her hands and face in the hot water. Then she pulled up her doeskin skirt, spread her thighs, and pressed the hot, wet cloth against the place where she was most tender.

She bit back a moan. Such relief!

Still squatting, she leaned her back against the bed platform for balance and held the cloth against herself, rinsing and rewetting it to keep it hot.

Last night, there’d been blood mingled with his seed. She’d wept at the sight of it, giving in to the tears she’d fought so hard to hold back all night. It wasn’t the stain itself that had made her weep, but rather what it represented.

The loss of her innocence.

There was blood this morning, too, though not much—just faint streaks on the pale cloth. But there were no tears left in her. And as she looked down at the cloth, it came to her.

She felt changed.

It wasn’t just the blood or the soreness between her thighs. It wasn’t just the memories of Connor kissing her, touching her, moving inside her. It wasn’t just that she’d yielded her virginity. It was all of those things—and more.

Something about
her
felt different.

In the past two days she’d witnessed horrors she’d never imagined, endured hardships beyond her worst nightmares. The slaughter of innocent men, women, and children. The taking of human scalps. She’d been beaten, stripped naked, and
touched by strangers. She’d been forced to go bare-breasted. And last night, she had lain with a man.

What had happened could never be undone. None of it could be undone.

What would her family say? How would her father find her a husband now?

Get out of my sight, for I cannot bear to look upon your face!

The last words Papa had spoken to her came back to her, leaving an aching emptiness inside her. Both Mother and Papa had beaten her when news of Margaret’s journal had reached them from London. Her father had even threatened to kill her. If they should learn of this, they would surely disown her, her dream of marrying a man who truly loved her and raising children of her own forever beyond her reach.

For nine long months, she’d borne this disgrace, carrying guilt for something she didn’t understand. She’d lived cut off from her family, cut off from her music, lonely, ashamed, and afraid, hoping that a lucky match would set her free from this existence.

Never had she felt so alone.

A part of her wished she could turn back the clock to the days when her life consisted of little more than Bible study, needlework, and strolls in the garden with her four sisters. At the time she’d chaffed to find herself so constrained, desiring to play her harpsichord far more than the half hour her mother allowed her each day, to hear new music performed in concert, to meet the musicians employed at His Majesty’s court.

As she looked back now, how simple those days seemed, how happy! If only she had been more contented…

This is your own fault, your own doing. If you had obeyed Mother, you’d be at home in London now, a virgin still.

And yet…

Lying with Major MacKinnon had not been the terrible ordeal she’d feared it would be. It had been painful, yes, especially at first. But there had also been pleasure, his kisses and his touch making her feel things she’d never felt before—that quiver in the belly, that deep ache. And without meaning to, she found herself remembering the taste of his kisses, the feel of his mouth on her nipples, the stroke of his finger inside her.

I promise I shall treat you this night wi’ the same care and devotion I would if you truly were my bride.

He
had
taken great care with her, trying ever to reassure her, touching her with great tenderness, and when he’d had no choice but to cause her pain…

Forgi’ me, my lady
.

There’d been true regret in his blue eyes.

Yet Sarah knew he’d found pleasure in what he’d had to do. The way he’d groaned and called her name, every muscle in his body tight. The heat in his eyes as he’d thrust hard and fast inside her. The way he’d arched his head back and shuddered at the end, as if the sensations coursing through him strained the limits of his control.

And for a moment she wondered what it would have been like if she and Connor had been alone, if she really
had
been Connor’s wife. Would she have found the pleasure and delight he’d said was a woman’s right?

She would never know.

C
onnor found Joseph sitting before a small cook fire near the center of the village. Beside him on a reed mat sat a small pile of leaves, water boiling in one iron pot, salt pork sizzling in another, ash cakes baking in the embers. The mingled scents made Connor’s stomach growl.

Joseph looked up.
“Aquai.” Good morning.
“How was your wedding night?”

Already in a dark mood, Connor lost his head. “God’s blood, Joseph! Dinnae jest wi’ me. You ken we’re no’ truly wed. I dinnae wish to speak of it.”

Joseph frowned. “She fought you.”

Hadn’t Connor just said he’d no wish to speak of this? He sat beside his Mahican brother. “Nay, she offered herself like a lamb for the slaughter.”

“She gave herself willingly.” There was a questioning tone to Joseph’s voice. “I know that look on your face, Cub. You blame yourself for something. You didn’t lose control and harm her, did you?”

“Nay! Do you take me for a mindless brute?” And just like that Connor’s anger was spent. “I didna lose control—but I did hurt her.”

Then Connor told Joseph how Crow Mother had seemed bent upon reminding Sarah that she was there, knowing that
Sarah would be distressed by it and therefore unable to take any joy in their forced union.

“The lass bit her lip so hard tryin’ no’ to cry out that she left bite marks.” The sharp edge of regret pressed in on him. “I hurt her, and I…”