Defiant (28 page)

Her heart almost sang with joy.

After she’d dressed, she put out the string, and they shared a breakfast of cornmeal porridge sweetened with the rest of the maple sugar, sometimes speaking, sometimes in silence, Sarah feeling more at ease with him than she’d ever felt with another person, a golden, shimmering bond seeming to stretch between them. She found herself asking him question after question, laughing at his stories of the mischief he and his brothers had gotten into growing up on the frontier, enthralled when he told her of the four-day struggle for survival that had earned him his warrior marks, fighting tears when he told her of his mother’s death.

“She never stopped missin’ her family. She never stopped missin’ Scotland. She was a highborn lady, but she died a
pauper in a strange land, her named carved on a wooden cross, her body buried in a hole my brothers and I dug. Our father never recovered. ’Twas grief killed him, so it was.”

“If only your father had not abetted—”

“If only Butcher Cumberland had permitted my brothers and me to remain on Skye!” Connor’s eyes flashed with anger. “He feared the men we would become, and so he exiled us along wi’ our father. Our mother couldna bear to be parted from her husband and her sons, and so she came wi’ us—and died.”

Sarah’s pulse tripped to see such rage in Connor’s eyes, to hear him speak thus of her great-uncle. Refusing to be intimidated by his anger, she reached out, took his hand. “I am sorry for your loss. I do not hold the trespasses of your clan against my great-grandsire against you, and I pray you do not hold those of my grandsires against me. We were both but children then.”

“Forgi’e me. I didna mean to speak to you in anger. You are blameless in my eyes.” His gaze softened. He leaned forward, slid his hand into the hair at her nape, and kissed her.

Desire flared to life inside her at the simple touch of his lips. Without breaking the kiss, he stood, drew her to her feet, and hastily removed their clothing as they stumbled to the bed. But rather than stretching himself out above her or lying beside her, he sat up, resting his back against the wooden bedstead.

“Come.” He drew her back against him. “Lean back against my chest. Aye, that’s it. Now close your eyes, and think of naugh’ but me.”

How
could
she think of anything but him? He sat naked behind her—fifteen stone of Ranger, a man in full vigor. He seemed to surround her—the hard wall of his chest behind her, his muscular thighs on either side of her, proof of his desire pressed hard against her. Curiosity at what was to come tangled with excitement inside her as he began to rub her shoulders, easing away tension she hadn’t known was there.
“Mmm.”

He kissed her hair. “It pleases me to please you.”

Then his callused hands cupped her breasts, molding them, caressing their sensitive undersides, his fingers catching her nipples, tugging them, plucking them, making her womb quiver, filling her belly with heat. Then, when her nipples stood like sharp peaks, he flattened his hands and rubbed his palms in
light circles on the very tips. He was barely touching her, and yet the sensation was overwhelming.

“Does that feel good?” His voice was a deep purr.

She whimpered her answer, arching her back in offering, unable to believe such big hands—hands that had killed—could be so gentle.

“Now you try it.”

Whatever did he mean?

He took her hands, positioned them as his had been above her breasts, and began to rub her open palms over her nipples. “A woman can bring herself pleasure and sate her own desire, even when she is alone and wi’out a man.”

She wasn’t sure what shocked her more—his words or the sight of her hands touching her own breasts in such a fashion. Her insides quivered, and her nipples grew tighter, not seeming to know or care that she herself teased them now.

Behind her, Connor moaned, as if the sight of her touching herself aroused him, his lips pressing a kiss against her temple. Then he released her hands, sliding his fingertips down the length of her arms, his thumbs caressing the yellowing bruises at her wrists where Katakwa had so cruelly bound her, as if to ease the distress of that memory. Then he lifted one hand, pressed it palm to palm with hers.

His hands were not the soft, white hands of a nobleman, but dark and callused. There could be no doubt that his were the hands of a man who lived by his strength. “Your hands are so small compared to mine—so delicate.”

There was a note of awe in his voice, and some part of her reveled in the contrast, feeling intensely feminine. Then his hands sought her belly, moving in slow circles downward toward the hairless mound of her sex. And her anticipation grew.

But just when she thought he would touch her there, his hands moved off to caress her hips then her legs, his fingers tickling her inner thighs.

She whimpered, only to hear him chuckle softly.

“Patience, lass.”

He continued to caress the skin of her inner thighs until her legs parted of their own accord, the heat inside her now an ache. But still he did not touch her where she needed him most. And she realized he was teasing her, taunting her.

“Why, oh why, do you torment me?”

And it
was
torment, but sweet torment—excruciating and exquisite.

He chuckled. “The sharper the hunger, the more satisfyin’ the meal, aye?”

He reached down and caught her legs behind the knees, drawing her knees back and apart until her feet rested on his thighs. The only thing more shocking than the sight of herself so blatantly exposed was the pleasure she felt when, at last, he touched, her, cupping her sex with one big hand.

And Sarah realized her torment had only begun.

C
onnor couldn’t help but smile at Sarah’s frustration, knowing he had far more in store for her than she could imagine. He let his hand have its way with her, parting her full outer lips, gently stretching the delicate inner ones, caressing her little clitoris, until it began to swell and her hips began to move, her breathing turned to sighs.

Then he took her hand and, ignoring her shocked squeak, guided her so that she touched herself as he had touched her, the thought that she might live her life without a man to love her making him determined to teach her how to find release alone. “Can you feel how beautiful you are, Sarah? Can you feel how you swell and grow wet at my touch?”

“B-but I can’t touch—”

“You can.” He cut off her sputtered protest. “If you should find yourself in need, hungry for a man’s touch, dinnae be afraid to pleasure yourself.”

Slowly, her resistance faded. He watched her brow furrow, felt her fingers adjust beneath his, refining his motions, becoming his unwitting teacher as together they explored the secrets of her response. With his free hand, he delved deeper, found her entrance, and slid first one, then two fingers, inside her, moving them slowly in and out until he was tupping her good and hard.

Och, she was wet! So wet, so tight. Ready for him.

Her release was swift and shattering. She cried out, arched against him, the tight inner muscles clenching around his fingers. “Connor!”

He kept up the rhythm, the fingers of one hand inside her, the other twined with hers, caressing her swollen clitoris. Only
when her peak had passed did he withdraw from her, trailing his sex-drenched fingers over her lower lip.

“Taste yourself.” When she hesitated, he raised them to his own mouth and sucked, unable to stifle a moan. “I love the way you taste, the way you smell.”

His hunger for her insatiable, he drew her beneath him, kissing her everywhere, marking the lush territory of her body forever as his. Her throat, the underside of her breasts, her nipples, her ticklish rib cage, her navel, her inner thighs.

She shivered, her breath coming in little gasps. But when he pressed his mouth to her sex, she froze. “Surely, you cannot mean to—”

“Aye, I do. You are so sweet, Sarah. Let me taste you.”

Not waiting for her answer, he lowered his head and kissed her, groaning at his first full taste of her, his tongue teasing the lips of her sex apart, then flicking her swollen bud. Then he drew that most sensitive part of her between his lips—and suckled.

She cried out, writhing against the bearskin, her breath coming in ragged pants. Still, he gave her no quarter, his lips and tongue relentless. She fisted her fingers in his hair, her cries mingling with his deep moans, her body nearing its peak again. Then he slid a finger inside her and thrust hard.

With a cry, she came against his mouth. He took her sweet nectar down his throat, until he was filled with the taste and scent of her. Then, unable to keep himself from her any longer, he raised himself up above her, wrapped her legs around his waist, his aching cock poised at her entrance. No longer afraid he might hurt her, he drove himself home with one slow thrust.

Och, she was impossibly tight, her wet heat gripping him hard, lust shearing through his gut at the hot, slippery feel of her. His gaze dropped to where their bodies joined, his cock buried inside her, her delicate inner lips clinging to his shaft as he moved in and out of her, her entrance stretched tight and glistening.

It was a mistake, the erotic sight of their union almost making him spend. But he would not come—not yet and not inside her.

He fought to loosen his muscles, to slow his breathing, willing his body to serve her pleasure. He would give her all the time she needed for another chance at bliss. Searching for the
right rhythm, he adjusted his pace and knew he’d found it when her eyes drifted shut, her lips parting on a whimper. Then, remembering how sensitive her nipples were, he lowered his mouth to her breasts and suckled her.

She gasped, moaned his name, arched beneath him, her nails digging into his shoulders, her legs tightening around his waist, her sweet quim gripping him, stroking him, making his cods draw tight. He tried to hold back, but, och, she was beautiful, the look of carnal abandon on her sweet face making it impossible to think, the perfect feel of her beneath him more than he could withstand. And his own flesh betrayed him, heat building in his groin, his peak drawing perilously near.

Needing to slow himself down, he buried himself inside her and ground himself against her sex, the root of his cock rubbing her swollen little bud. She panted his name, each motion of his hips making her moan. And then her breath caught, and she cried out once more, arching off the bed as she came, her inner muscles clenching hard around him, her bliss his salvation.

And then no force on earth could have held him back.

He reached down with one hand, grasped her hips to change the angle, and drove into her hard, words spilling from his lips in an incoherent stream of Gaelic.

Och, she was so sweet, so tight, being inside her like heaven.

“Sarah!
Och, Christ!
” Almost beyond control, he withdrew from her, the shock of leaving her body making him groan, a muted release stuttering through him in frustrating jolts as he finished in his fist, his seed spilling harmlessly on her belly.

T
hey slept after that, curled in each other’s arms. When they awoke, Sarah was ravenous. Connor took her out into the rain and showed her how to dig up potatoes, then he caught two sleepy trout, which he fried with the potatoes. As they ate, Sarah found herself unable to keep her gaze off him, the play of emotions on his handsome face, his stubble-dark jaw, the gleam in his eye all warming her blood. She allowed herself to pretend for a few precious hours that she
was
his wife, that this
was
their home, that there was nothing beyond these four walls pressing down upon them.

After they’d eaten, Connor heated pail after pail
of water, and they bathed together, soap sliding over soft, wet skin. He washed her hair, and she washed his, caressing his scalp, taking extra time at his nape and temples, watching as his eyes drifted shut, his long lashes dark against his sun-browned skin, the masculine lines of his face softened in repose. And as she cradled his head against her bare breast, she felt an unexpected pang of tenderness. Such moments of unguarded ease must surely be rare for him, this warrior who defied death each day. She found herself wanting to soothe his cares, to ease his burden as he had eased hers.

And it came to her as she stroked his wet hair that she would, indeed, never forget him, for she had fallen desperately in love with him.

She, Lady Sarah Woodville, great-granddaughter of His Majesty King George II, was in love with Connor MacKinnon, colonial Ranger and son of Jacobites.

On the heels of that realization came a rush of dread, for within three days at most they would reach the fort and be forever parted.

But not yet. Not yet!

Fighting panic, she forced the thought from her mind, pressed a kiss to his forehead, trying to memorize the details of his countenance, his scent, the feel of him against her, determined to make each one of those three precious days count.

All too soon, the water cooled. They rose, dried before the fire, dressed again. Sarah had just finished plaiting his warrior braids, when he stiffened, cocking his head as if he’d heard something she had not.

Heart thrumming, she watched as he reached for his musket and walked slowly toward the door, motioning for her to seek shelter near the bed. He had just set his hand upon the handle when there came a shout.

“Hallo in the house!”

Sarah watched as Connor cautiously opened the door, a look of surprise spreading across on his face when he looked outside. “So now you find us? All the fightin’ is done, lads.”

From outside she heard Joseph’s voice. “I found them encamped a few hours south of here. They passed about a mile east of us last night.”

Connor looked back over his shoulder at Sarah, a strange
hollowness masking the disappointment in his eyes. “My men—the Rangers—they’ve arrived.”

And Sarah felt the bottom drop out of her heart.

The three precious days she thought she still had with him would never happen. The world had found them. Their time together was over.