Carnal Gift (6 page)
Brighid gasped, closed her eyes, turned her head away. She felt the mattress yield to his weight, felt the heat of his body as he lay next to her and pulled the covers over them. She tried to cease her trembling, could not. What was wrong with her? She wanted to scream. She wanted to hit him. She wanted him to kiss her again. Her skin tingled where his mouth had touched her. Her lips ached, and her belly felt as if a fire were blazing deep inside her. If only she could close herself off. If only she could stop feeling altogether.
The mattress rocked, and she felt his weight settle on either side of her and knew he was above her now. She squeezed her eyes shut. But when he began to lift her chemise, her eyes flew open. “No!”
He spoke aloud. “I’ve respected your maidenly shyness long enough, love.”
“Please, don’t!”
The weight of his body held her down as he slipped the soft cloth up and over her head. He held himself above her, like prey poised to strike. “Most women say it hurts the first time. I will do what I can to spare you, but it depends in part on you. Don’t struggle.” At his words, raw panic seized her. What if he had been making sport of her just to pacify her? What if he had been lying all along? She struck at him, tried to twist away, pushed against the hard muscles of his chest. “Don’t fight me, Brighid.” His voice was sharp this time. He captured her wrists in one hand, pinned her arms above her head, held her motionless.
She felt overpowered by his size, his male strength, overwhelmed by his presence. She was helpless, trapped. His lips found hers again, ravished her mouth, left her unable to breathe or think. His tongue explored her, twined with her own. The hard wall of his chest brushed her nipples—a new sensation, both disturbing and seductive. She felt her nipples tighten, begin to ache. Then she knew.
Some part of her desired him. Him. Her enemy. A hated
Sasanach.
The man whose attention had made the
iarla
notice her. The man who had saved her brother. His knee nudged hers apart and his weight settled between her thighs. He reached down between her legs with his free hand.
Sasanach.
The man whose attention had made the
iarla
notice her. The man who had saved her brother. His knee nudged hers apart and his weight settled between her thighs. He reached down between her legs with his free hand.
She froze, heart pounding. But instead of using his hand to guide himself into her, she felt cloth settle against her. Somehow he’d maneuvered a bundle of blanket between her thighs.
He’d been telling the truth.
She gaped at him in astonishment.
His pupils were wide, his eyes dark with some emotion she didn’t understand. “I want you.” His lips traced a line along her throat. Then he whispered, “Cry out. Now.” She felt his weight shift, felt his body thrust against the cushion of blanket that separated them. Startled by the intimacy of his motions, she shrieked. He moaned, rained kisses across her cheeks. “Shh, love. The pain will pass.”
Instead of pain, Brighid felt sweet relief wash through her. He’d been telling the truth. He
wasn’t
going to rape her. He
was
trying to help her escape. “You feel so good.” He moaned, began to move between her thighs in a rhythm that needed no explanation. Relief turned to mortification. She felt her face bum with embarrassment. She squeezed her eyes shut, would have turned her face away had his lips not reclaimed hers. He kissed her forcefully. His tongue probed her mouth, searched for her secrets. She succumbed to his invasion, discovered she was kissing him back. Through a haze, she struggled to regain control of her emotions. What magic did he use to make her feel this way? What was wrong with her that any part of her responded to this man? Though he had spared her the worst, he was touching her in ways no man should. He was a stranger. He was a
Sasanach.
She hated him.
wasn’t
going to rape her. He
was
trying to help her escape. “You feel so good.” He moaned, began to move between her thighs in a rhythm that needed no explanation. Relief turned to mortification. She felt her face bum with embarrassment. She squeezed her eyes shut, would have turned her face away had his lips not reclaimed hers. He kissed her forcefully. His tongue probed her mouth, searched for her secrets. She succumbed to his invasion, discovered she was kissing him back. Through a haze, she struggled to regain control of her emotions. What magic did he use to make her feel this way? What was wrong with her that any part of her responded to this man? Though he had spared her the worst, he was touching her in ways no man should. He was a stranger. He was a
Sasanach.
She hated him.
Just then, he arched his back, called her name, groaned. Then he was still.
For a moment there was no sound but their mingled breathing.
“Oh, Brighid.” He kissed her lips lightly, brushed the hair from her face. “I don’t think I shall ever let you go.”
She could not meet his gaze. The fire burned inside her still, and she felt ashamed and furious—ashamed of her body’s response, furious that he had forced so much upon her. Hadn’t he done everything a man could do to a woman but take her virginity? He’d made her feel things she shouldn’t. His touch was now a mark upon her soul, for surely what she’d felt had been sinful and wrong, even though she hadn’t meant to feel it.
He rolled off her, pulled her into the crook of his arm, began to stroke her hair. “Sleep, love.” She lay stiffly beside him, her head resting on his chest. She would never be able to sleep like this—naked and so close to him she could hear his heart beating. Something tickled her cheek, and she found her gaze inadvertently drawn to his body. Crisp gold curls were sprinkled lightly across the planes of his chest, which rose and fell slowly with each breath. His nipples were flat and rosy brown, his skin smooth and kissed by the sun. Brighid closed her eyes. She’d seen men’s bare chests before. Why did the sight of this one make her blood grow warm?
And that other part of him. She’d gotten only a glimpse. It was the first time she’d seen a fully naked male, or at least a naked male over the age of five. There were some clear differences—first and foremost size. His sex had stood huge and rigid against his belly. The sight of him had left her—
She felt his body tense. Then she heard. The door to the next room squeaked on its hinges, closed almost silently. From the hallway came the sound of approaching footsteps.
Chapter Five
Brighid felt her heart lurch. She would have sat bolt upright had he not held her tightly against him. He pressed a finger to her lips. “Shh.” The footsteps drew near, stopped outside the bedroom door.
Her breath froze in her chest.
The silence pressed against her. Seconds passed with agonizing slowness.
Then footsteps. They moved away from the door, grew distant, faded.
Brighid felt the Englishman’s body relax, released the breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. “I would not have let him take you, love.” His voice was deep, resonant in his chest.
“Don’t call me that.” She pushed away from him, more than a little distressed to discover she’d been clinging to him, her breasts pressed against his side, her thighs stretched alongside his. She gathered the sheets and pulled them up to her chin, scooted to the far side of the bed. Rage, shame, fear, relief churned through her, mixed, entwined. This
Sasanach
had seen her naked. He had touched her in the ways of a husband. He had forced her to feel things she should not. He would not have let the
iarla
take her.
Sasanach
had seen her naked. He had touched her in the ways of a husband. He had forced her to feel things she should not. He would not have let the
iarla
take her.
He turned on his side to face her, folded one strong arm beneath his head. “You’re not still afraid of me, are you?”
She’d taken most of the covers with her, leaving him exposed to the hips. Try as she might to avert her gaze, she couldn’t help looking. A scar on his right shoulder, still red as if the wound were recent, was the only blemish on his strong body. Even his stomach was molded into ridges of muscle, his skin tawny, smooth. Stretched out on the bed, his muscles rippling beneath sun-browned skin, he made her think of a lion—beautiful to behold and dangerous. Her pulse quickened. “I was never afraid of you, Sasanach.”
“I’m not one to call a beautiful woman a liar, but if you were to say that again, that’s what I’d have-to do.” His expression was grave. “And call me Jamie. This
Sasanach
business is getting old. What does it mean, anyway?” “Englishman.”
Sasanach
business is getting old. What does it mean, anyway?” “Englishman.”
He shrugged. “That’s not so bad. A dog does not mind being called a dog.” “Do you hate us all, Brighid?”
She had grown up hating the English. The English had killed Aidan’s father, starved her mother, sold her father into slavery, stolen her family’s land. The English had taken away the churches, killed or exiled priests, slaughtered countless Irish. Just today, an English lord had tried to rape her, had stolen her from her family, and given her away as a prize. Did she hate them all? She looked into Jamie’s green eyes. “I want to get dressed now.” “You should sleep while you can. We’ll need to leave in a few hours if we’re going to get you away from here.” “I can’t be sleepin’ under his roof with you here and both of us . .. naked!”
“I see.” He rolled out of bed, an irritating grin on his face.
Brighid got a glimpse of his backside, tight and muscular, before she averted her gaze. She heard the rustle of cloth, felt something soft land on the bed beside her. It was her chemise. She grabbed it, pulled it beneath the sheets, and tried to find the sleeves.
Jamie stepped into his drawers, tied them fast. He was still hard, near to bursting. He didn’t suppose he’d ever been so aroused without enjoying sexual release, and he ached from lack of it. God, how he wanted her. He tried to pull his mind away from his aching cock. He’d never had trouble finding women eager to spread their legs for him. Brighid didn’t want to be here to start with, and she certainly didn’t want him. There was no reason for him to waste time burning for a woman who hated him when there was willing flesh to be had elsewhere. When he returned to England, he could call upon any number of women who would spread their legs and welcome him into their hot, soft bodies. But they were not like Brighid.
He watched, genuinely amused, as Brighid struggled to dress beneath the covers. “It might be easier if you got out of bed. I’ll turn my back.”
She ceased struggling, looked at him doubtfully from beneath impossibly long, sooty lashes. “If you would, please.”
“Let me know if you need help.” Jamie picked up his breeches, turned away. He could hear her soft footfalls on the lush carpet, the rustle of petticoats and silks. The sound and the thought of her putting on clothing he had removed only a short time ago did nothing to cool the heat in his blood. He tried to shut out thoughts of her— the feel of her breasts against his skin, the scent of her, the taste of her lips. Pretending to deflower her had cost him—exactly what it had cost him he wasn’t certain, but it had cost him.
He hadn’t been lying when he’d told Sheff he’d been thinking of her all day. Since this morning when he’d first seen her, she hadn’t left his thoughts. It had been years since he’d reacted like this to a woman. Then again, he wasn’t sure he’d ever reacted this way to a woman. Aye, he’d made a fool of himself a few times as a young man. There was Peg, the pretty bondswoman who’d seduced him in her cabin when he was sixteen. At seventeen, he’d fallen in love with the daughter of a neighbor only to watch her marry a man three times his age. Then there was Sarah. The daughter of a landed English gentleman, she was beautiful, educated, and witty—everything a young man could desire. She and Jamie had become lovers during his third year at Oxford. Jamie had fallen and fallen hard. He’d shared his dreams with Sarah, had loved her until they both lay sated and panting as the sun rose outside her bedroom window. He’d even asked her to marry him. She hadn’t answered him, only smiled and slid her hand inside his breeches.
Then one day she’d told him she was pregnant. He had immediately repeated his offer of marriage, but she’d laughed. “You’re so sweet, Jamie,” she’d said, her hand on his cheek, “but the child is not yours.” She’d claimed the father of her child was her fiancé, about whom Jamie had known nothing. Jamie had been nothing more than a sexual diversion for Sarah, one last thrill before entering the confines of an arranged marriage. Whether the child was truly his or belonged to the man she quickly married, Jamie would never know.
Since then, his relationships with women had not gone beyond the unadorned exchange of sexual pleasure. He had yet to meet a woman he could trust or love. He certainly had no desire to marry. The fact that he was almost thirty and without an heir might distress his sister, but it concerned him little.
But he did have a problem.
What the hell was he going to do with Brighid? She couldn’t go home, that much was certain. Sheff would surely send his men after her again, and she’d find herself on her back while Sheff did as he pleased. The idea sickened Jamie.
Nor could she stay with him. He would be sailing for home soon and had important business to conclude in the meantime, business that demanded both his time and his wits. The last thing he needed was a woman to distract him.
Jamie reached for his shirt, yanked it over his head. There was only one answer. He’d take her to England and leave her with Elizabeth, Alec’s sister. She and her husband, Lt. Matthew Hastings, lived on the Kenleigh estate outside London. They would surely take Brighid in and give her a place in their household. She’d be safe there until her family could move to another county far from Skreen Parish and Sheff. They could see her safely home again when the time was right, and she could go about her life as if none of this had ever happened. But Brighid wasn’t his only problem. His decision to protect her—made without hesitation—could have dire consequences to his mission here. Jamie had been counting on Sheff s support and his influence in the House of Lords. Lives depended on it. Perhaps if Sheff thought Jamie’s wits addled by lust he’d forgive Jamie for stealing Brighid from under his roof. If n o t . . .
Jamie would have to succeed without his help. He could not abandon her to a life of torment. Nor could he forget the frontier families who daily faced the threat of the French and their Indian allies. There was a way out of this, and he would find it.
Sheff was a changed man. He was cruel, arrogant, and more than a little depraved if tonight were any indication. He had left his pretty wife behind in London and openly bedded servant women. Had he always been this way? Had youth and inexperience caused Jamie to misjudge him so badly years ago?
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