Lois Greiman (17 page)

He stared.

“It gives people pleasure. What could be more rewarding?”

“Cleaning slop buckets?”

She smiled, turned toward him, and let her gaze slip down his body to his crotch. He remained very still.

“So you still don’t want me?”

“Mayhap ye’ve forgot that ye tried to kill me.”

She laughed and sauntered toward him. “I shall make you a proposition.” Facing him, she slipped a knee between his legs and nudged them apart. The tunic fell open. One tremendously lucky button caressed her nipple. “If you cannot resist me…”

He was sweating like a butcher. “Methinks I’ve already proved I can, lass.”

She raised a brow and lifted Lambkin from his lap, setting her atop the bed. “Surely you’re not naïve enough to think I’ve tried to tempt you?”

“Ye’re naked,” he croaked.

“Silly Scotsman.” She slipped her calf up his thigh. “As I was saying…if, after an hour’s time, you cannot resist me, then the staff is mine.”

“I fear ye’ve lost yer mind, lassie.”

“Not that confident?”

“Na that daft. Na daft enough to trust ye, leastways.”

“That is yet to be seen,” she said, and sat down on his lap, her bottom warm and soft against his thigh.

He opened his mouth. Maybe planning to object. Maybe hoping to breathe past his lolling tongue. Either way, she interrupted.

“The greater share then,” she said, and skimmed her fingers up his cheek.

“What’s that?” he rasped.

“If you cannot say no to me I get the larger portion of the spoils.”

He remained silent, pretending to think. “And what if ye canna say no to me, lass?”

She laughed and skimmed her knuckles across his lips. “Then it doesn’t matter, Scotsman, for the world is about to end.”

“Ye are amusing,” he said, and refused to shiver.

“And alluring,” she added.

He didn’t bother to disagree. He was, after all, still trying to convince her he wasn’t daft. “Same round aboot.”

“What’s that?”

“If ye canna resist me,” he growled, “I get the lion’s share.”

L
eaning forward, she kissed him on the lips, mouth open, fingers slipping through his hair. “A subtle lass,” he breathed, eyes shining like midnight stars.

She smiled, because this once, against all good sense, she would allow herself to touch him. Maybe to purge him from her dreams, from her mind. But maybe, in truth, simply because she could not resist. He had captured her heart weeks ago, and now she could not free it, no matter what he was. “In my immensely vast experience, subtlety is wasted on men.”

“Mayhap I be a different kind of man.”

She licked her lips.

He watched the motion…and moaned. The sound soared through her heart like loosed doves, and she smiled.

“Tell me, lass.” He was still watching her mouth. “How did ye become so cruel?”

“Maybe it was my tragic childhood.”

“Was it?”

“No.”

“So ye were doted on constantly by your beloved mum?”

Memories again. Laughter beside the hearth. Poems and readings and candlelit banquets Then death. Sudden and horrid. But she would not tell him that. “That’s right.”

He watched her, then reaching up, touched his fingers to her cheek. His skin felt like magic against hers. “Liar,” he said.

“And whore,” she lied.

“So I’ve heard, but I’ve na seen a scrap of proof thus far.”

“That’s because you’re wearing far too many clothes.”

He glanced down. He didn’t even have a shirt. “Absolutely.”

Sinking to her knees, she let her breasts squeeze between his thighs. He closed his eyes and set his jaw. “Tight fit,” she murmured.

“’Tis bound to happen when you’re as well endowed as I.”

“I imagine,” she said, and leaning forward, kissed his chest.

He shivered, and for that alone, she loved him. “Do ye? Imagine?”

“Ever since I met you.” The truth slipped out, braving a cold reception, but he barely seemed to notice the horrid truth.

“’Twas probably the bloodied eye. I’m certain it was terrible becoming.”

She remained silent for a moment, forcing herself to be still, to fight past the memories. He was not the first person to suffer, after all. Nor was she to blame. Nevertheless, she could not resist touching the wound on his arm with careful fingertips, feeling the warmth of skin against skin. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

He sighed, his expression unusually somber. “Mayhap I deserved it, lass, since I planned to take his treasure for me own.”

She smoothed her hand gently down the corded muscle of his arm. “I can hardly blame you, since I was there for the same purpose.” ’Twas true, in an odd, twisted sort of way.

“Aye well…” He sighed and smiled with his breathtaking eyes. “Me mum taught me better.”

“Perhaps you believe my own mother insisted that I sleep with men for money?”

His gaze caressed her. “How old were ye when she passed, lass?”

She drew away a bit. “What makes you think she is gone?”

He was leaning back in the chair. “I see it in ye,” he said, “a sadness. Little matter what she was or was na, ye were yet a lass when she was taken from ye and ye cherished her.”

She did not want his pity. Nor would she give him the truth, for soon she must leave him and take his dreams with her. “You’re wrong,” she said, and trailed her fingers down his midline.

“Oh?” The muscles were taut beneath her hand. He let his eyes fall closed for a moment, but forced them open, teeth gritted in concentration. “Where does she live?”

“In Chiswick.”

“All alone is she?”

“Not at all. She has a cat.” She skimmed her fingers sideways, between the lovely sheets of muscle that spread across his belly. Fascinating. “A one-eared tabby. Ugly as sin. Hates the sight of me. Spits every time—”

He caught her hand. Their eyes met. “Ye lie, lass.”

She raised her brows, and he brought her hand slowly to his mouth. Straightening her fingers, he kissed her palm. Languid feelings flowed like mulled wine, but she kept her tone even. “What makes you think so?”

“Na one could hate ye.”

“You only say that because I’m naked.”

He smiled against her palm, watched her from beneath his lashes.

“’Tis na true. ’Tis also because ye said I was hung like a horse.”

She laughed, breathless. “So you heard that.”

He swept his thumb in an arc across her life line and kissed her wrist. Her pulse beat like a throbbing drum against his lips. “What’s his name?”

“Whose…” Dear God, that felt good. “Whose name?”

“The ugly-as-sin cat,” he said, and skimmed his fingers up her arm. Sparkling sensations followed his progress. Amazing really. She had heard of such things. Had heard, but never believed. Never let herself take such a risk, for she had a mission and would not be distracted.

“Lass?”

“Riley.” She said the name a bit too fast, cleared her throat, tore her gaze from his progress and tried again. “Riley.”

“Ahh.” He nodded, kissed the crease of her arm. “Good name, lass, considering ye made it up in the heat of the moment.”

“There is no heat,” she breathed.

He chuckled against her skin.

She forced a smile. “I am being entirely honest,” she said, and slid her hand up his thigh. “You should try it sometime.”

“Verra well then, lass. Here’s a wee bit of truth for ye. Me own mum died many long years back.”

It was a game, all a game, she told herself, and yet she felt something in him. Something she had sensed from the first—a boy, bereft and broken, longing madly for love. “I’m sorry.”

“Are ye?” he asked, holding her gaze like a fragile sparrow.

“Of course.” Indeed, she felt a blink away from tears, from drawing him into her arms, into her heart, from confessing all. “For it gives you the advantage in this little contest.”

“Is that what this is?”

“Certainly,” she said, and ran her fingers up his chest. The muscles there quivered in her wake. “A game of chance.”

“Then I shall tell ye this too. She died saving me.”

Her hand stopped of its own accord. Her heart cracked. For she knew loneliness. Knew it. Hated it. And still, though she was no fool, hoped to conquer it. “From what?”

“Greed,” he said. A muscle jerked in his jaw.

“Whose?”

“If I told ye that, lass, I fear I would be showing me hand.”

“So that’s why you’re here,” she said, and then, because she could no longer resist, kissed the corner of his lovely mouth. “Because of guilt.”

Surprise sparked in his eyes. “The guilt is na mine own.”

“No. It is not,” she said, certain suddenly that it was true. “And yet you are here with me because of it.”

His eyes spoke volumes, but his lips quirked into a roguish smile. “I am here with ye, lass, because ye are all but naked,” he said.

She teased him through her lashes and kissed his hard pectoral.

He gritted his teeth. “And for revenge.”

She paused, drew back slightly, breath held. “What?”

He stiffened, paused. “Do ye disremember? Ye left me to die, lass.”

“I didn’t think you would hold such a small offense against me,” she said, and brushed her fingers lovingly across his nipple.

The muscles in his thighs jerked against her.

“Chetfield,” she said suddenly, and drew back, staring at him. “You want revenge against Chetfield.”

His breathing was labored, but in a moment he shook his head, denying.

“What did he do?” she asked, and pressed her breasts against his fevered abdomen. He let his eyes fall closed.

“Ye canna read me mind, lass,” he said. “Ye are entirely wrong.”

“I only meant…There is nothing that is beneath him. No one too kind to wound. I can assure you of that much.”

He stared at her, expression shadowed, eyes filled with a dread so deep it sucked her in. “Tell me he did na harm ye, lass.”

His dark emotion all but stopped her heart. For there was caring there; there was fear, real and undeniable. For her. Something twisted in her chest. “No,” she said, “Not me.”

She knew the moment she said the words that they should not be loosed but ’twas too late to draw them back.

“Yer mother,” he whispered. “He forced…” And then he stopped, his expression a sea of sorrow. “Fie, lass, does he know?”

She was careful, controlled, lest she spill the truth and the thousand awful secrets that lived with it. “Know what?”

A tic jumped in his jaw. Dread shone in his eyes. “Does he ken that ye be his daughter?”

She forced a laugh. “Good gracious, Highlander, I think my nudity has driven you quite mad,” she said, and slipped her hand toward the fasteners on his trousers, but he caught her fingers.

“Does he?” The easy smile was gone from his lips. Her stomach felt sour. Memories were crowding in, prodding, torturing.

“Apparently he can’t see the familial resemblance.” She closed her heart to the horrid, unbelievable truth, but the words came out all the same. “He has my moth…
mouth
. Did you not notice?”

“Ahh lass, ’tis so terrible sorry I be.” His words were a tender burr against her senses, weakening her, softening her. “So terrible sorry. But ’twas surely best that he did not nurture ye.”

She laughed, but the sound was off. “Believe me, I wish I had never heard his name.”

He nodded, touched her face. She closed her eyes to the caress. “So ye’ve come to get a bit of what should be rightfully yours.”

She didn’t argue. ’Twas safest that way, though she’d come for far more.

“You know the worst of it then.” Her throat felt tight, unwilling to loose the words. “I was sired by the devil.”

“Lucky lass,” he murmured.

She raised her eyes to his.

“There be no pressure then. No reason to be good. To be better. While I—” He gritted his teeth.

“You what?” Her fingers played a little sonnet on his side.

“I was born to an angel. An angel and her hero.” There was tragedy in his eyes. “Only the hero died, and the treasure could not save me. Only she could. Only her death. And mine.”

There was a riddle here. Almost solved. So close. “Your what?” she asked, but he drew himself from his trance and smiled.

“Ye will never win the bet with talk, lass.”

She touched his face. “Your what?” she whispered.

Subterfuge fell away. His eyes looked as old as time. “My death,” he said.

Another kink in the riddle. “You don’t seem dead.”

“But I was,” he breathed. “Afore you.”

“E
xplain,” Charity whispered.

Keelan watched her. She was too lovely, too wounded. He could resist neither her body nor her questions. “There was trouble,” he said. “In London.” He cleared his throat and took the plunge. “Indeed, they thought her a witch.” She said nothing. He drew a careful breath. “As I see it now, these many years after, she was certain me life would be forfeit because of it.” He shrugged. The movement felt stiff and ungainly, shooting pain through his chest, through his heart. “Therefore she killed me herself. But only for a spell.”

“I don’t—” she began, but then her eyes widened. “She knew potions.”

“Aye. I was so deep asleep that they thought me dead. All but me aunt, me mother’s sister. I am told she knew the truth and carried me body
back to the Highlands where she yet lived.”

“And you remained there for—”

“Above the earth,” he hurried to say. “Na ghoulish grave for me.”

“Still—”

“Toft…an old man…me aunt’s…relation…he looked after me, I suppose ye could say, until I wakened.”

There was a long pause. “And your mother?”

“Witchcraft was an unforgivable sin.” He fought back the memories.

Her face was stricken. “They killed her,” she whispered.

He said nothing.

“But…” She scowled. “They don’t burn witches. Not since—” Her words stopped. Her eyes widened. “When were you born?”

He remained silent. Few knew the truth. So few.

“What year?” she asked, palm warm as sunlight on his chest.

The sensation of skin against skin was beyond compare. “I be older than I appear, lass. Indeed, some call me well preserved.”

She was watching him, breath held, lips parted. “Did you know him then?”

“Who?”

“Chetfield. Did you know him as a child?”

She thought him Chetfield’s contemporary. But she did not know the truth, that the old man had lived even longer than he, stealing lives not his own. Stealing his father’s very breath. “I am becoming bored, lass,” he said, and slipping a hand behind her neck, he kissed her with fierce longing. Wanting, nay,
needing,
to forget the past and lose himself in her arms.

Her lips were bright, her eyes dark when he pulled back.

She leaned forward, her luscious mouth inches from his. “Did you know him?”

“Nay, lass, I did na,” he lied.

She kissed the hollow of his throat where his heart beat like magic. “So what, then, brought you to Crevan House?”

“As I said, old Thom told me of a treasure.”

“And you came for that alone?” she asked, breathing the words against his skin.

He closed his eyes. “’Tis a chunk of gold the size of me head.”

“Still…” She kissed a wound on his chest, so feather-soft, ’twas little more than a dream. “It seems rather mercenary of you.”

“And this from the lass what tried to brain me with it.”

“I have rights,” she said.

“Because he is yer sire.”

“But I’m willing to seduce you for it,” she said, slipping her hands down his body. Opening his breeches, she wrapped her hand around him. “Concede,” she said, “and I won’t humiliate you with this loss.”

He gripped the chair with all his feeble strength. “I’ve been humiliated afore, lass. It’s na so verra bad.”

“Really?” she said, and lapped her tongue across his engorged head.

“Mary and…” His body jerked. His breathing was ragged. “I rather liked it.”

“Humiliation?”

“That too.”

She rose to her feet, straddling him, nestling him against the core of her being. “Very well then, make love to me, Scotsman.”

He managed to smile, though his brow was beaded with sweat. “Nay.”

She returned his grin and rocked gently against him. Ecstasy screamed his name. “Stubborn,” she whispered, and arched her smooth, ballerina’s back. One nipple peeked past the edge of his shirt like a mischievous fairy. She rocked again. He gripped the chair with both hands. “You can’t win this one, Highlander.”

“I believe ye’re wrong,” he said, and in that moment her other nipple popped into view. It
might have been then that he began chanting Christ’s name.

“Concede,” she said, and eased back between his legs to the floor.

“Nay.” He gritted the word even as she drew his swollen head into her mouth.

He arched against the beautiful pain of it, but she had already withdrawn. Instead she lapped her tongue up his body as she slid higher.

“Concede,” she demanded, but he could take no more.

Capturing her wrists, he eased her onto the mattress and kicked free of his clothes. Her tunic fell away, baring all. His thigh nestled against her hot core.

“Ye fight dirty, for such a sweet, young lass,” he rasped.

“I’m not sweet, Highlander.”

“Oh?” he said, and lowered his lips to hers. Moving slowly, he kissed her, then slid his tongue along the crease of her mouth. Lifting his head slightly, he smiled at her. “Like honey on me lips.”

“You’re wrong.” The words were breathy.

“Truly?” He canted his head and narrowed his eyes. “And where do you keep your sourness?” Bending again, he kissed the corner of her mouth. Her lips parted the slightest degree. He
dipped his tongue inside. “Not here,” he whispered, and moved back. She licked her lips. He smiled and kissed her chin. It was peaked and adorable. “Or here?”

Easing lower, he skimmed his lips down her neck and up the curve of her breast. Slower now. Concentrating, until he reached the crest and breathed on the nipple. It was as upright as a sapling. She moaned, wriggling beneath him, and that alone was nearly his undoing. But he kept himself still, gazing, soaking her in, for never would there be another moment like this. Nay, for when she knew his true intentions, she would hate him, would do all she could to stop him. But he could not be moved, for this once he had a goal, a purpose greater than himself.

She was quiet now, still, waiting. He leaned closer and kissed the ruddy circle that surrounded the crest of her breast. She breathed something under her breath, and he laughed.

“You can’t win this,” she snarled, but there was a fine sheen of sweat on her porcelain skin. “You might just as well—” she began, but he kissed her nipple.

She jerked like a marionette. Keelan lifted his head to watch her. She was arched against the mattress, pressed hard into the pillow as her
dark hair sprayed like a dark mist across the cotton fabric.

“No sourness there,” he murmured, brushing the words against the inside curve of her breast.

“Give up, Scotsman,” she growled, and he laughed.

Perhaps it was that sound that brought out her fighting spirit, that made her prop herself on her elbows and glare at him, dark eyes spitting challenge.

“You think I want you?” she asked.

He glanced at the straining nipple so close to his mouth, then kissed it again.

She sucked air through her teeth and bucked against him.

“I believe there be a wee bit of a chance, luv, but who could blame ye?” he asked, and pressed a thigh more firmly to her heat.

She stiffened against him. “Such a great lover, are you?” she rasped.

“I was thinking of me adorable bloodied eye. But in truth, ye’ll have to be the judge, lass,” he said, and nudged his thigh closer still. She was wet with fever. “Ye, with all yer own vast experience.”

“I’m afraid you’re going to have to ask someone else,” she said.

“Funny thing. I dunna want another,” he said, and kissed her again.

She shrieked something high and soft and jerked beneath him.

“Fook it, lass!” he said, overcome by her beauty, her passion as he slid up the length of her sweat-slick form. “Could it be that ye dunna ken how bonny ye are?”

“No.” She was breathing through her mouth now, eyes wild, hair mussed. “It couldn’t,” she said. “For men have been telling me such for as long as I can recall.”

“Men are na always so complimentary to whores, lass.”

“Maybe I’m a different kind of whore.”

He kissed her mouth. She kissed him back, hard and fierce.

“I’ve known me share of ladies of the night, lass.”

“I never doubted,” she said, and rocked her body against his thigh.

He moaned at the wet squeeze of heat against him. “There be some talented lassies, that be true.”

“Glad to hear you speak well of my contemporaries,” she said, and rocked against him. Her nipple brushed his.

He sucked air through his teeth and tried to remember his train of thought. “They generally be less than enthusiastic.”

She pressed her body against his chest. “There’s a good deal at stake here, Scotsman.”

“So…” He drew a careful breath. “Ye become wet at the thought of coin, do ye?”

She drew up her legs and pressed against his heat. “Take me,” she whispered.

“Be this a dream?” he murmured.

“If I say it is, will you concede?” she asked, and slipped up the length of his shaft.

Sweet Mary, if there was naught but money at stake, he would not hesitate a moment, but would lose himself in her a thousand times, would take her into his life, into his trust, into his heart.

Gritting his teeth against the burning temptation, he eased himself down, stretching full length atop her. His balls slipped against her moist heat.

“How long has it been for ye, lass?”

She wriggled a little beneath him. “The lads at Crevan kept me well entertained.”

“I did na think a murdering little bastard would be yer type,” he said, and slipped the head of his cock against her entry.

She closed her eyes, breathing hard. “Bear was really quite gentle.” Bending her legs, she wrapped them around his back. It felt hopelessly right. Wondrously compelling. “Consider
ing his size.” She rocked against him. “Concede.”

He gritted his teeth and swore. “Ye’re lying.”

“He’s big as a bull.”

“But only half as smart. Give up and keep yer dignity.”

“Can’t keep what you’ve never had.” She tilted up, opening like a flower. “I didn’t swive his brain.”

He held himself absolutely still. “Ye did na bed him a’tall. Say ye want it.”

“Never,” she rasped, and kissed him.

He kissed her back. Teeth clashed against teeth. “Give in.”

“You first.”

“I’ve never yet lost a wager.”

“It’s good to try new things,” she whispered.

They were at an impasse, breathing hard, quaking with desire, slick with sweat.

“Together.” He whispered the word.

She held perfectly still. “What?”

“We might concede together.”

She opened her mouth, eyes bedroom dark. “Yes,” she breathed.

“Yes,” he agreed, and sank into her.

She was as soft and tight as a velvet glove, gripping him, driving him. He rolled over, putting her on top, seeking her pleasure. She looked
dazed, lost in her own world. Grasping her hips, he pressed into her. She gasped and took up the motion, riding hard. There was nothing but pleasure now. Nothing but the sound of her breath, the feel of her skin, pulling him higher, lifting him toward ecstasy.

“Sweet Mary, I canna wait.” He gripped her thighs. She grabbed his straining biceps and threw back her head.

Her breasts thrust between the edges of his shirt. He exploded within her.

She came an instant later, shrieking softly before falling against his chest.

He was breathing hard, heart galloping, trying to survive the ecstatic agony. “You flatter me, lass,” he gasped.

She barely managed to shake her head in confusion.

His chest ached with his efforts to breathe. “Ye flatter me with yer little squeal of pleasure.”

Her own air came no easier. “I didn’t squeal.”

“Ye—” he began, but suddenly he realized the truth.

The noise had come from the stairway.