Duchess of Mine (29 page)

“Please, Duncan,” she whispered as she pulled
on his hardness, forcing him to enter her a tiny bit more.

He kissed her again, then slid into her. So
very wet, so very strong, and so very engulfing—that was how she
felt. His whole body spasmed with relief and then desperation for
more. She released such a primal noise, so raw and hungry, he
thought about pumping into her, making this act fast and
animalistic. But the nagging sensation came back to him. He should
make this good for her. Holding still, he wanted her body to adjust
to his. Her lips melded into his, her tongue in his mouth, then she
pulled him with her legs. At that, he did begin to pump in and out
of her. Each time a mounting pressure burdened him to continue, but
something was not right, and he knew it.

He hadn’t told her what laid in his heart,
that he did want to make vows with her, promising to love her the
rest of his life, promising to protect her and provide for her.
Promising to wind his life with hers. And he’d wanted to hear her
say the same, that she would do anything to stay with him, that she
would fight the muses and that god, because her heart belonged to
him.

His mother might have teased about the
wedding, but it was the kind of jesting where he knew his ma
actually wanted the end result—for Fleur to be his, for his heart
to be hers. He wanted that too.

“Fleur.” His whisper sounded crazed and too
bearish.

She moaned and tilted her head back. “So good
. . .”

It
was
so good. Duncan kept pumping,
feeling her body tighten even more. More out of instinct than
anything else, he once more adjusted his hold of her, and slid his
hand between their bodies. Around the mass of his plaid and her
skirts he found her sex, felt where he pounded into her and her
swollen flowering bud. Swirling on it and around it, he felt her
channel tighten all the more. She gripped onto his hair with one
hand, with the other, her fingernails bit into his shoulder.

“Oh...Duncan . . .”

That was what he wanted. He wanted her
calling out his name. So why did it feel so wrong then?

“Duncan, I...oh...I . . .”

“Aye, come for me, Fleur,” he whispered,
leaning his head near hers, her breath mixed with his.

She opened her eyes and stared at him. He’d
consider himself mad if he didn’t admit how much he loved the way
her head swayed with every push of his hips, the way her pink
cheeks glowed, the way her body clutched onto him. She did feel
perfect, as if she were made for him. Only, he knew he hadn’t
waited for the right moment, hadn’t made it special enough, hadn’t
told her of his heart.

With her heated gaze focused on him, it was
hard to keep eye contact, but he did. He should have looked away,
should have stopped himself. But he kept on, feeling his own body
begin to burn—too much pressure in his lungs, in his bullocks.

“I want you to come for me too.”

“Oh, I will, darlin’.”

“I love your eyes,” she whispered and
feathered a fingertip around his brow.

His heart contracted, hoping she’d tell him
how much she loved him too.

“Your eyes remind me of a sunrise. I love
them.” Her lids fluttered closed, especially as he put a little
more pressure against her clitoris. “So good. I don’t want it to
stop.”

His legs were already feeling weak, and his
one arm holding her was shaking. But, Lord, if she wanted it to
linger, he’d give it a hell of a try.

Suddenly, her eyes bolted open once more.
“Duncan?”

“Aye, my love.” Well, he’d been wanting to
call her that, but the fact it had come out surprised both of
them.

Her eyes widened, but flickered shut again.
“Oh, God, it’s so good.”

“Aye.” It was deliciously wonderful. She kept
tightening around him. He felt her stomach flutter. Lord, she was
holding back, he knew it, but he didn’t blame her. Making love to
her was better than...there was nothing to compare it to. It was
too complete. Even with his nagging thoughts, and the sense he
should have waited, he felt it too—that he was meant to make love
to her.

Once more she opened her eyes and gazed at
him. “Duncan...Oh . . .”

“Let go, my love. Come for me.”

“I—Promise me we’ll do this again. We’ll do
it often.”

He chuckled. “I promise.” And he meant it. He
could make it up to her, having their first time behind his
mother’s house, against a wall. It was rather passionate, but he
wanted her in silk sheets and flowers around her wee body. He
wanted to tempt her, tease her, draw out the love making until they
both exploded, their bodies becoming limp and twisted around each
other’s, where they’d lie for hours.

Her gaze intensified, her fingers tightened
in their hold of his hair and shoulder, then he felt her sex ripple
with her orgasm. While still looking at him, she moaned and began
to shake.

“Duncan,” she whispered, “my love.”

That was what broke his own control. He came
immediately, feeling his heart expand at her words, the rush of too
tight and too hot air flashed down his lungs, landing low in his
stomach, until his testicles released their warm flow. He poured
himself into her, thrusting himself all the way inside. His body
twitched a few more times, especially when he felt her tight
squeezes around him. Then his legs nearly buckled.

He released his finger from her and wrapped
both hands around her pert bottom. God, one of the ways he’d love
to make love to her was with her back to his front, where he could
see her lovely arse the whole time. She’d turn her head and kiss
him over her shoulder and...he convulsed a few more times into her,
spilling himself entirely as he planned their future. Cradling her
close, he spun around, leaned his own back against the wall, then
slid down until he sat with her still connected to him, but where
his legs could finally become boneless.

She cuddled into him immediately, wrapping
her arms around his neck, settling her head on his shoulder. Her
own breath was rapid, and he felt her damp brow.

“Seriously, we have to do that again soon,”
she whispered.

He chuckled.

She leaned back, her dark brows furrowed. “It
wasn’t just me, was it? Did that feel...was it good for you
too?”

He caressed her cheek with one of his hands.
“Perfect...nay, better than that, love. Heavenly.”

She smiled, leaning her head against his
shoulder again. “I like it when you call me that.”

“What? Love?”

He felt her shake her head. “Well, I like
that too, but I like it when you say...my love.”

He tilted his head and kissed her cheek. “Ah,
sweet lass, my love, I shouldn’t have done it this way. I should
have—”

She lifted her head again as she placed her
fingers over his lips. “Please don’t. I wanted it this way. I like
that we were here, outside.”

“But ye deserved better. We’re on the dirt.
Ye deserved—”

She shook her head, her brows furrowing
deeply again. “I needed you, Duncan. I hope you needed me too.”

He nodded. He needed her more than she ever
could ever know. Lord, how he needed her.

Chapter 25

F
leur knitted three, pearled twice,
then returned to knitting. The pattern was simple, but very pretty.
Na had taught her how to knit, but it was while being around Helen
that she’d remembered how the wool would feel as it slipped between
her fingers, the mindless, zen place she’d find while continuing
the pattern with her hands. How good it felt to check out, while
she produced something as useful as a blanket.

Knit, knit, knit . . .

She glanced up at Helen in the waning
evening’s light that sent shocks of orange and lavender throughout
the room. Surprising Fleur, Helen’s warm hazel eyes stared back at
her. She smiled slowly.

“Where’s my Duncan?”

“Rory came back from...well, wherever he’d
gone. Duncan’s meeting with him, asking for more time away from
training the troops.”

Helen nodded. “Ye watchin’ over me,
dear?”

Fleur returned the grin and nodded. “I’m
trying to finish your blanket, but I’m nowhere near the knitter you
are. My stitches are too tight.”

“Ye nervous, bonny lass?” Helen lifted
herself on unsure arms, looking like a newborn colt.

Fleur dropped the knitting on Helen’s canvas
bag, then assisted Helen with a few fluffy pillows to sit more
upright. As she did so, Helen grazed her arms with soft, warm, bony
fingers.

“I make ye nervous, eh?” Helen whispered, as
one of her hands found Fleur’s. “I don’ mean to. I want ye
comfortable with me, in my house, around my son.”

“I—I’m comfortable.”

Helen made a gargled derisive noise. “Nay, ye
aren’t. But I don’ blame ye. I’m sorry for teasin’ ye and Duncan
so. What ye do in a bed together is none of my business, is
it?”

Fleur squeezed Helen’s hand then returned to
the wooden chair near Helen’s bed. Her heart sank. Here Helen was
trying to overlook cultural dictates to make Fleur happy. As much
as Fleur’s throat constricted and a part of her wanted to run from
this conversation, she decided it was time to stand up against her
own fears and talk.

After clearing her throat, she said, “I think
it is your business. We’re in your house.”

Helen waved a hand, trying to clear the air.
“Whatever makes the two of ye happy, makes me happy.”

Fleur plastered on a smile, although her eyes
instantly smudged with tears, making the image of Helen blurry.
Helen clucked, but Fleur spoke faster than Duncan’s ma. “I don’t
remember a time when I’ve been so happy. I love being here.” Her
voice had sounded so childish. An octave higher, breathier.

“Ye certain?”

Fleur nodded through her moist eyes. It was
the truth. As much as she loved her work, it was similar to
knitting—numbing. Granted, everyone needed to check out from time
to time. But she’d been doing it for years instead of the
occasional meditation. Here, in the Highlands, she felt things—and
it hurt. Her body ached with forgotten emotions she’d tried to bury
as soon as she landed in Texas. It was as if she had never fully
grown up since then. That she’d locked tight her sense of self to
avoid any further pain.

But here she couldn’t hide from it. And for
that, she’d finally grown.

She also couldn’t hide from the fact that
she’d just attacked Duncan. God, had she just forced him to have
sex with her? She’d wanted him so much, she hadn’t thought of
anything else. And he sweetly tried to stop her, tried to talk
about making their first time a little more special. But, honestly,
if Fleur had to do it all over again the only thing she’d change
was to tell him that she wanted to make love like that, with the
soil under them. Not that the way she felt about him was dirty. No.
It was...primordial, new, clean. Perfect. It had to be outside,
close to the ground to represent how much it meant to her.

But, again, she’d been a coward and hadn’t
told him any of what lay in her heart.

That had to end.

Fleur looked up at Helen. “I love it here,
Helen. You’ve made me so comfortable in your own home, with
you.”

“And my son?” Instantly Helen flinched.
“Don’t tell me. I don’t need to ken.”

A tear surfed down Fleur’s cheek, but still
she looked Helen in the eye when she said, “I’m deliriously happy
with him.” Another tear escaped, and Fleur wiped them away
slowly.

“Then why ye cry, lass?”

Because nothing lasts. Because this isn’t my
life. Nothing is my life. Because I have no control over if I stay
or go.

A breeze whispered through one of Helen’s
open windows, and Fleur remembered again the muses saying that she
had many choices to make while here.

But it didn’t feel as if she did. Nothing
ever felt as if she had a choice. The choices weren’t up to
her.

Yes, she knew she’d been the one to graduate
with her degrees. She’d been the one to become a genealogist, when
any field of science or mathematics was open to her. She’d made
that choice. But living, truly living by engaging in emotions and
wanting—wanting love,
that
she hadn’t felt was one of her
choices. She was so scared to want Duncan. Obviously, she did. But
she wouldn’t tell him how much, too afraid that if she finally did
he’d vanish. No, it wasn’t that the people she loved disappeared.
She did
. She’d been forced away, then she’d been the one to
pull herself into a shell and hide from everyone and
everything.

Fleur looked down at her hands. “Because I’m
scared. I’ve never been this happy before, and I’m scared it will
go away.”

Helen extended her arms wide. “Come here, my
sweet, come to me.”

Fleur flew to her faster than she thought
possible. Helen cradled her, forcing Fleur’s head on her tiny sharp
shoulder, soothing her small hands around her hair and an arm.

“There, there, my lass. There, there.”
Helen’s voice lowered and whispered the mothering words. “’Tis hard
not to be scared. That I understand all too well. I don’ want to
leave this earth. But I’m goin’ to.”

Fleur glanced up at Helen, shaking her head.
“No, you’re recovering—” As the words spilled out, something in her
brain rebelled, reminding her of when cancer metastasized. Words
like terminal and fatal flashed through her mind, but she didn’t
want to think it, didn’t want it to be the truth, and forced
herself to think otherwise.

Helen had tears standing in her own eyes.
“Mayhap. But one day I will leave this earth. I ken death all too
well. My first husband, Patrick, left me and Duncan so long ago. It
was the silliest of an accident. He was out harvestin’ the oats,
walkin’ behind another man who had his scythe over his shoulder. My
love Patrick waved at me while I held our big baby, Duncan, then my
Patrick walked right into the scythe, cut his own neck. He was
nearly bled out by the time I ran to him. Had enough time to smile
once more at me and our chubby bairn. Then he passed.”