Craving the Highlander's Touch (3 page)

Finian wasn’t touching her with the intent to hurt her; his fingers were gentle and deeply arousing. She bit her lip when his fingertips slid over her nipples, stroking her breast while his mouth tasted her nape.

But then his hands reached lower, raising the fabric of her gown. Against her naked bottom, he pressed the length of his arousal while his hand parted her legs.

A gasp was trapped in her throat, her body growing wet and aching. Finian was speaking in Gaelic, a hushed whisper of words.

His hand moved to the silken curls that guarded her womanhood, seeking the moisture that lay within. Against her spine, she felt him move, his shaft warm and firm. When his fingers moved to her sensitive flesh, she couldn’t stop the cry that emitted from her throat. Enfolded in his arms, she was helpless to escape while he explored her folds.

“Finian,” she whispered in desperation. It seemed that he wanted to make love with her, to penetrate her flesh with his, when they hardly knew one another. “Wake up,” she pleaded.

She started to move away, but at that moment, his fingers took a nipple between them, rolling it like a precious pearl. Between her legs, he echoed the sensation, barely touching the hooded flesh above her entrance.

She didn’t know what he was doing, but the wickedness was making it hard to breathe. She felt herself arching against his hand, welcoming the gentle rhythm that was driving out the harsh memories of her past.

Like an awakening, he was transforming her, shaping her like molten wax into a new woman. And when his hand moved faster, she convulsed against him, unable to understand the overwhelming feelings of heat and need.

She was ashamed to admit that she wanted him. She wanted to feel his driving length penetrating her, pushing her toward the aching release that held just beyond her reach.

As if in answer to her craving, he pushed two fingers inside her, slowly entering and withdrawing. She backed up against him, her hand reaching to his. But when he used her wetness to rub against her cleft, slowly intensifying the vibrant need, her fingers dug into his thigh. Every part of her needed this, wanted him to show her what she’d been missing for all these years.

She was writhing against him, her body trembling hard, and when he murmured more endearments, she felt a sudden rising from within. The wild, dormant need clenched hard, and she let out a fierce gasp as the pleasure took her. She no longer cared that they were strangers, that she was allowing him intimacies only meant for a husband. She could only surrender to the movement, taking the fulfillment he offered, until she was wet around his fingers, squeezing him hard until his hand stilled.

A racking sob overtook her, tears she couldn’t have stopped. Finian had given her sensations she’d never known were inside her, and he’d made her feel desirable.

“Gillian,” he whispered. His voice was ragged, tormented. Alys froze at the mention of another woman’s name. Was it his wife? Was he still wedded to someone else?

Her cheeks burned with shame as she extricated herself from the bed and adjusted her gown. Swiping at her tears, she walked barefoot to the other side of the room. What had she done? Her husband had been dead for only a few hours and already she’d gone into another man’s arms.

A man who had been thinking of someone else when he’d touched her. Dear God, what was the matter with her? Was she so starved for affection that she would seek comfort from a stranger? Alys lowered her head to her knees as she cried.

Finian had promised to take her wherever she wanted to go. She wished he could help her disappear, where no one would ever find her.

Finian’s mind tormented him with visions of reality blurred with dreams. He was shaking beneath the heavy coverlet, his body terribly cold. And yet, his body was rigid with arousal, an aching heat holding him captive. When he struggled to open his eyes, he saw Lady Harkirk staring at the fire, tears glistening against her cheeks.

He wanted to tell her not to cry, that he’d keep her safe. But his tongue was thick in his mouth, his mind unaware of his surroundings. His back ached with pain, and he gritted his teeth, not wanting to bother her.

She stood suddenly and looked at him. “You’re awake.”

He managed to nod, but delirium slipped over him, until the vision of her disappeared. Darkness surrounded his mind, but on the edges of his memory, he recalled female skin beneath his hands. He imagined touching the yielding flesh, sliding his hands over large breasts with soft nipples.

The dream made little sense, for his wife had been small, her breasts barely a handful. She’d been plump, too, not slender and lean. Finian’s eyes snapped open, and he saw Lady Harkirk sitting beside the bed. He glanced at her briefly, and saw that she did indeed have generous curves with high, firm breasts and a slender dip in her waist.

He must have dreamt of her, letting his imagination replace the memories of his wife.

“Are you in pain?” she whispered, leaning in. The laces of her gown were loose, and a forbidden lust gripped him. He knew it was madness to think of the Lady in this way, but then, these dreams were in his mind. As long as he did not act upon them, he could imagine whatever he liked.

“My back…is a little sore,” he said. He wanted to feel her hands on him, the way she’d touched him earlier. The silken touch of her fingers against his skin had driven him towards madness. It had hurt when she’d put the healing medicine on him, but he’d been distracted by her touch.

“Turn over, and I’ll put more of the salve on your wounds.”

He obeyed her command and when she slid back the coverlet, he couldn’t stop the involuntary trembling from the cold. She sat down on the bed beside him, and he inhaled the light scent of her skin. So faint, as though she’d lain upon rose petals, their silken blossoms surrounding her.

He felt her hands moving upon his wounds, smoothing the cool salve into them. Then she placed a linen cloth on his back and murmured, “Wait here. I’ll bring you something for the pain.”

He didn’t know how much time passed before she returned, but when she sat upon the bed, she offered him a cup of a warm tea. It tasted bitter, but he suspected it would indeed dull the pain.

“The wounds aren’t as deep as I thought they’d be,” she said. “I suppose in another day or so you won’t feel any pain.”

He managed words of thanks, but when she started to leave, he stopped her. “Don’t go. Please.”

Her face took on a shielded look, as though she didn’t trust him. “I shouldn’t stay, MacLachor.”

“Finian,” he corrected. “After all that happened between us this day, you should call me by my name.”

Her face turned scarlet, and she jerked back, holding the bowl of salve. Her reaction was so fierce, he couldn’t think of why she should be so nervous around him. He’d never done anything—

Or had he?

His gaze moved towards her body. Was it possible? He’d dreamed of touching a warm female body with curves such as hers. In his vision, he’d dipped inside moist depths, coaxing the woman into a frenzy. At the very memory, his groin hardened.

He shook the thought away. It hadn’t happened. It couldn’t have.

“I really should go,” she whispered.

He stared at her, his words breaking forth even though he knew it was an impossibility. “When I was dreaming…I didn’t touch you, did I?”

Her hand moved to touch her lips. She closed her eyes for a moment, her face going pale. “You didn’t mean to.”

So he had.

Saints above, no wonder she was staring at him with such fear. He remembered little of it, only the warmth of skin and the shuddering answer of her desire. From the terrified look on her face, he feared that he’d given her many reasons not to stay in his bedchamber.

And after the door closed behind her, he shuttered his eyes, gripping the coverlet. Hating himself for what he’d done.

Alys awakened at dawn and crept down the stairs, tiptoeing past Finian’s brother Brochain and their sleeping kinsmen. Though it was cool outside, she longed for a moment to herself. She’d slept fitfully beside Iliana, her mind reliving the moment when Finian had touched her. When he’d realized what he’d done, she’d seen the fleeting horror on his face. And though he’d given her a moment of stolen pleasure, she despised herself for letting desire overcome her common sense.

She clasped her arms around her chest as she walked around the burned ruins of the outer wall. It was silent within the fortress, and yet, she couldn’t savor the peace of the moment. Many had died here, not just yesterday or the day before, but for as long as she’d been in Scotland. She could sense the ghosts of the prisoners haunting her.

And when a soldier rode through the gate, her hand flew to her throat, her pulse racing.

The stocky black-bearded guard dismounted in front of her. He rested his hand upon his sword while he gripped a shield in the other hand.

“Sir Geoffrey,” Alys breathed, recognizing one of her husband’s knights. “What are you doing here? I thought you’d gone with the others.”

“And I thought this place had burned to the ground.” His eyes narrowed with suspicion. “I find it interesting that you remained behind with the MacLachors. Turning traitor, Lady Harkirk?”

She took a step backwards, unsure of whether or not he posed a threat. “What do you want?”

“Your husband collected thousands of pieces of silver over the years, didn’t he? It’s here somewhere. Unless you gave it over to the murdering Scots.”

She didn’t know what he was talking about. “There is nothing here, save some old weapons and things that belonged to Robert.”

“Oh, there is. And you’re going to find it for me.” He reached forward, and though Alys tried to flee, she wasn’t fast enough. His hand gripped her cloak, dragging her forward. “Your husband’s dead now. And you’ve given his food, his shelter, to his enemies. I imagine King Edward would be interested to hear of it.”

Alys tried to free herself from Sir Geoffrey’s grip, but he seized her hair and jerked her head up to look at him. “Find the silver, Lady Harkirk, and bring it to our camp by morning.”

“I can’t,” she insisted. “I don’t know of any silver.”

“Find it,” he ordered. “Or I’ll bring charges of murder against you. I’ll tell the king that you plotted against your husband and paid the Scots to kill him. Everyone will believe you turned traitor.”

His fingers reached around her throat, tightening against her windpipe. “They’ll hang you for conspiring with the Scots…if you’re fortunate to have such a merciful death.” He released her, and Alys gasped for air. Terror pounded through her as the knight mounted his horse and disappeared through the gates.

Would he truly tell such lies? Would anyone believe him? Though she’d done nothing wrong, she feared that there was enough evidence for Sir Geoffrey’s twisted truth to make others believe it. She
had
released many of her husband’s prisoners. And she was harboring the enemy right now, within these walls. There was no denying it.

She needed to leave, to get as far away from here as she could. But where? Whom could she trust?

Alys heard a slight noise behind her and saw Finian standing there. Though his appearance was haggard, he did look better than last night. “You look pale. Is something wrong?”

She wrapped her cloak tighter around her. “I saw one of Robert’s knights just now.”

“What did he want?”

Alys shielded her eyes from the sun, staring out at the gate where Sir Geoffrey had departed. She didn’t know if there were any other men with him, but she admitted, “He wanted silver. He believes that Robert was hiding a store of coins here. If I don’t bring it to him in the morning, he wants to bring charges of murder against me.”

Finian’s face turned cold, and his fists tightened at his side, flexing the muscles of his forearms. In that moment, she caught a glimpse of the warrior chief he was. “Where is he now?”

“He left through the gates and said something about a camp of soldiers nearby.” She took a deep breath, adding, “He knows I gave you sanctuary last night.”

“We’ll go and find their camp now. Stay here with your maid and watch over Iliana. I’ll leave my kinsman Alan to guard you.”

“I don’t think you should leave,” she argued. “You haven’t healed enough, and—”

“I’m well enough to handle any threat to you.” He started to return to the tower, presumably to speak with his brother, when he stopped short and turned back around. “I owe my life to you, Lady Harkirk. And my daughter’s. If anyone dares to speak against you, he won’t live to see the dawn.” The vow was spoken with an edge of deadly intent.

A lump rose up in her throat, for no man had ever offered his life for hers, nor promised to keep her safe. Her cheeks were heated, but Alys took a step closer. “I’d rather you didn’t ride into their camp. We should leave this fortress so that no one will find us.”

“What of your family? Won’t they search for you when they learn what’s happened to Harkirk?”

“I am nothing but a pawn to my father. And my other sisters are wedded with families of their own.”

Finian reached out to take her hands. His palms were rough but warm. “Whatever is in my power to give you, I will grant. If you want to live among my clan, you may. Or if you’d rather I escorted you somewhere else, I will do so.”

She tightened her grip upon his hands in silent thanks. “I will go with you and your men for now. And make my decision later.”

When she tried to pull back, he kept her hands a moment longer. “Last night,” he murmured, “I was caught up in a vision that I believed was only in my mind. I don’t even know if I hurt you, but if I did—”

“You didn’t,” she answered, her face burning with shame. “You didn’t even know who I was. It was a mistake, and just as much my fault, since I fell asleep at your side.”

He let out a breath, and she saw the guilt and remorse upon his face. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I ask for your forgiveness.”

She lowered her head, trying to find the right words. He believed he’d harmed her, when the truth was she’d never felt such arousal in all her life. Pulling her hands back, she gathered the pieces of her courage and faced him.

“No man ever touched me in that way before,” she admitted, covering her cheeks with her palms. “I didn’t know…that anything could feel like that. You gave me a gift.”

He stared at her, and Alys fled his side, unable to wait for a reply. She’d told him the truth, though it had speared her pride to admit it. The few moments when he’d caressed her skin, drawing out such a feverish lust, had burned within her until she couldn’t stop thinking of him.

She strode within the tower, passing by his brother and kinsmen without a word. Hurrying up the stone stairs, she sat down near the curving edge and buried her face in her lap.

Why
had she said anything to him? She should have kept silent, pretending that the moment had never happened. But Finian MacLachor had a strong presence that drew her close. He’d offered her anything within his power to give. And when she’d caught him watching her, he looked upon her as if she were an angel. He wouldn’t understand the sinful thoughts running through her mind right now.

Below stairs, she heard him talking to his brothers, and they armed themselves. No doubt they would pursue Sir Geoffrey and find the English camp. She didn’t know whether to be grateful for it or be even more afraid.

Footsteps resounded upon the stone stairs, and Alys raised her head to find Finian approaching. She started to stand, but he motioned her down. Instead, he held back, one hand on the wall, the other upon the curving steps above him.

“Did your husband hurt you, within your marriage bed?” he asked.

“Sometimes.” She hid her face from him, turning toward the wall. “I was his possession. Never a wife that he cared about.”

Finian moved closer, resting his hands upon the stair above her. With both arms surrounding her, she was caught in an embrace. “He was blind to what he had.”

He leaned in, until his face was only a slight distance away. Though he did nothing more than look at her, Alys saw the unspoken desire in his eyes. He was studying her as if he wanted to remember her face.

Just as she wanted to remember his. She understood that whatever silent bonds had formed, there could be no future between them. His dark hair hung down to his shoulders, his gray eyes burning into hers. She knew the feeling of his firm muscles from smoothing the salve upon his back. Even now, the faint scent of the healing herbs emanated from his skin.

“Are you angry with me…for touching you?” he asked huskily.

In answer, she raised her mouth to his and kissed him. Finian let out a shuddering breath and took her lips with his. He bent her back against the stairs, claiming the kiss like a man who had waited all his life for her.

She held on to his shoulders, arching back against the stairs as he devoured her mouth. The heated desire flooded through her body, warming her skin and making her crave his bare skin upon hers.

She needed this. Though she couldn’t understand why she wanted this wild, barbarian Scot, he made her feel…almost beloved. When his tongue swept against hers, she clung to him while he cradled her torso to protect her from the harsh stairs.

When he drew back, her lips were swollen and tingling. She saw the fierce need within his expression, and it made her feel vulnerable. Before she could stop herself, a question blurted forth. “Did you love your wife?”

“We were friends,” Finian said. “Gillian and I were companionable enough. Our fathers arranged the marriage between us. We were wed a year before she died giving birth to Iliana.” He reached out to draw her up. “For a time, I blamed myself for her death.”

“There was nothing you could do, was there?”