Lana and the Laird (30 page)

She shot a glance at him and something else rose in him at the glimmer in her eye. It was something tender and sweet and oh so sublime. The vision of her—sitting there with her chin on her fist, her hair tumbling about her shoulders, a slight smile turning her lips—blurred a little. He blinked and it cleared. Had he ever seen such a lovely sight? Had he ever known such a pure soul? Had he ever loved, quite like this?

Never.

He'd never even thought it possible. But she made all things possible, this tiny, elfin bundle of bliss.

Even love.

She was perfection. She was a miracle come to him in his darkest hour.

She was his dream.

“And that, Your Grace, is how the Laird of Forss immolated the Sassenach horde.” The innkeeper's wife's voice rose to an un-ignorable trill as, with a flourish, she set the candle to the pudding.

It exploded before him in a great whoosh of flame.

He lurched back, lest his nostril hair become charred, and stared at the sight, a bright-red-and-orange licking of flames with a hint of blue. It was difficult to imagine how the pudding would survive this scorching. It was … “Extraordinary.”

The woman clapped her hands and leaned closer, risking a certain singeing. “It's the brandy,” she whispered.

Lachlan swallowed a chuckle. “I'm sure it is.”

They all stared at the unfortunate pudding for some time as the flames ate at it merrily. It appeared the woman had been a little too generous with the brandy. By the time the blaze died down, there was little pudding left.

Still, Lana turned to the cook, eyes alight with glee. “That was brilliant,” she gusted.

A blush blossomed on the woman's face. She turned to Lachlan with a curtsy. “I am so happy you enjoyed it.”

“It was wonderful,” he said. And it had been. Until the detonation had caused Lana to jerk her dainty foot away, but there was time for that later. “I am sure this is a tale we shall be recounting for years.”

The woman's eyes boggled. “Really, Your Grace?”

“Oh, definitely.”

Her multitudinous chins quivered.

“In fact, I imagine the prince would enjoy this greatly.”

Perhaps he'd gone too far. The woman's eyes rolled back in her head and she teetered. He despaired she might collapse into a pudding herself. Thankfully, she recovered herself before she could faint. “The p-p-prince?”

“Aye.” Lachlan winked. “He loves a good immolation.”

“Oh, dear. Oh, dear.” The woman wrung her hands, cast about the room, and muttered to herself. “The prince. The verra prince.” Then she hustled away, no doubt to share the news with all and sundry, that her pudding would be mentioned to the prince.

Which was fine and good, because, once again, they were alone.

Lana shot him a smile. “That was kind of you.”

“Was it?”

“You made her so happy. And…” She tried to hold back a laugh but failed.

“What?”

“You … you…” she huffed through her chuckle. “You should have seen your face when…” She opened her hands in a fairly accurate representation of the explosion. “Whoosh!”

He couldn't help it. Her laughter spurred his and before he knew it they were both holding their sides and howling with it. Occasionally, one of them would make an explosion-like noise, or utter a portion of a word, which would undoubtedly send the other off in another paroxysm of hilarity.

He'd never laughed so hard, ever—until tears streamed from his eyes and the muscles of his midsection ached. He'd never realized there was such music, such magic in the sound. It was more healing, more soothing, more renewing than any medicine.

But as much as he loved the feeling of a guffaw rolling through his soul, he liked even more the sound, the sight, of her laughter.

It was the most exquisite thing he'd ever experienced.

 

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

They waited a reasonable amount of time before mounting the stairs to their rooms, although in Lana's estimation it still seemed an eternity. Dinner had been wonderful. The conversations they'd had, Lachlan's steamy glances, the play beneath the table …

It made her shiver that, as her foot had touched his manhood, she'd found him hard. She didn't know why the realization that he was roused and ready, all through the meal, made her feel weak and wobbly.

Or maybe she did.

She was roused and ready as well.

She glanced at him as he paused before his door. “I will come to you soon,” he whispered.

Her lips formed a pout. “Not now?” She was ready. So ready. For now. And she wasn't a patient girl. She never had been.

His grin was wicked. “I've arranged a surprise for you.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Will I like this surprise?”

“I certainly hope so.”

She didn't understand the thrum in his tone, but decided it was best to wait and see, so with a brief, surreptitious kiss to his chin, she headed for the grand chamber at the end of the hall. She sat on the bed, staring at the fireplace, which had been laid, and then at the tray of wine and cheeses on the table. There was a plate covered with a dome that spurred her curiosity so she headed over and lifted it. Her brow wrinkled. It was a custard—thankfully not steeped in brandy. It looked quite delicious, but was this her surprise?

She set the dome back down when a knock came at the door. Her heart fluttered. He was here.

But drat. It wasn't him. When she opened the door, it was to a collection of servants, young and old. One of the men tugged a forelock. “Your bath, my lady.”

She gaped at him. Anticipation whipped through her. “My … bath?”

“Aye.” They all trooped in, the first two carrying a large copper tub, and the rest with steaming buckets. Lana watched, bemused, as one by one they poured the hot water into the tub.

Oh, lord in heaven above. After two days covered with the dirt of the road, two days with aching muscles and lurching bones … how delicious would it be to soak? Maybe scrub the grime from her hair?

She felt a flicker of guilt. Hannah would probably have enjoyed a bath as well. The guilt, however, wasn't difficult to thrust away. Especially when, after the army of servants left, another knock came at her door.

She opened it and peered through the crack. It was Lachlan. Her heart lurched at the sight of him, his smile. Without delay, she let him in and then closed and latched the door. They didn't want any visitors tonight, for certain. Not given the glint in his eye.

“Did you like my surprise?” he asked, waving toward the tub.

She responded by walking into his arms as she'd been longing to do all day, wrapping herself around him and kissing him soundly. “It is inspired,” she murmured.

“Aye.” He chuckled, holding her closer and rubbing against her in slow arcs. “It was inspired. Inspired by my imaginings.”

“And what did you imagine?” Though she probably knew.

“I imagined bathing you. Bathing with you.”

“That would be grand indeed.”

But ah, grander still … his fingers fumbled over her buttons as he undid her kirtle. No doubt it was due to his excitement, which she felt, pressing against her belly. In the end, she finished the job herself, allowing her dress to fall to the floor in a heap.

He stared at her body, sheathed as it was in her chemise, and his face puckered. “Do you really need to wear so many layers?” he grumbled. Then he reached for her hem and drew the offending garment off.

And then he froze as his gaze locked onto her breasts. “Ah, Lana…” He reached for her, intending to cup her, but she stepped away.

“Nae, Your Grace.”

He frowned. “Nae?”

She waggled her fingers at him. “Finish the job first.”

A wicked grin lit his face as he caught her meaning, and he busied himself with unwinding his plaid and stripping off his travel clothes. It was gratifying to see the lift of his cock as he pulled off his kilt.

She couldn't help but saunter closer and inspect him. With her hand. He winced as she took his length in a tight fist, but it was a wince of pleasure. “Ah, Lana.”

“Ah, Lachlan.”

He turned her so she was facing him and then fit them together, chest-to-chest. It felt wonderful, that warm slide of his skin against hers. The hairs on his chest scraped at her nipples, which were, she found, quite sensitive. She wiggled against him to increase the friction. He groaned. “You are going to slay me, woman.”

“Slay you, nae. Play with you … perhaps.”

He caught her chin and tipped up her face and kissed her. It wasn't a hungry kiss, rather gentle and sweet. “You already played with me,” he complained. “At dinner. See what damage you wrought?” He nudged his hard cock against her belly.

“Och, my laird. My apologies,” she cooed. “Would you like me to … repair the damage?”

When his brow rumpled, she reached between them and fisted him. And stroked.

He huffed a laugh and pulled away. “You'd better not. I have other reparations in mind, and if you continue that, I shall be unmanned.”

She couldn't help but put out a lip.

“Lana, darling. You don't understand. I've been aching for you all day. I'm on the knife's edge as it is.”

“Then let me—”

He caught her wrist. “No, my darling. Tonight I want to pleasure you.”

“Stroking you does pleasure me.”

His eyes gleamed. “I shall keep that in mind. For later. But for now, allow me my delight.” He touched her nipple, and a sear of heat slashed through her.

“'Tis my delight, I suspect.”

“I hope.” His lips closed over hers and he kissed her, aye, gently again, but he wasn't gentle for long. His passion rose as he stroked her and teased her, dragging his palms over her skin in drugging patterns and, occasionally, touching her here or there, in places that made her moan. It was a slow seduction, but one with purpose. He was, it seemed, just waiting for the water in the tub to cool.

When he pulled away to test the temperature, she was annoyed, but then, there on his knees, by the tub, he glanced up at her, his gaze so promising and sweet, she couldn't pout for long. He held out a hand. “Into the tub.”

She sighed. She'd wanted to continue this delicious play, but if the man wanted her to bathe, she would bathe. They could play later.

She took his hand and stepped into the water, then sank deep. As the warmth closed over her body, she moaned. It was exquisite; it sent ripples over her sensitized skin, much as his touch had done.

“Lie back,” he commanded. Holding her head, he guided her down and then back up. Then he picked up some soap and created a lather. And he washed her hair.

She'd never in her life had someone wash her hair, certainly not someone with such a seductive hand. He caressed her and scrubbed her tresses as though he was washing a great treasure. And all the while he kept his gaze on her, steady, serious, and intent. When he bade her rinse, she did, leaning back and allowing him to scoop handfuls of water over her scalp.

She stared at him as he worked, taking in his expression, his gentility, every flicker on his face. And ah, she knew she loved him, but at this moment her heart swelled nearly beyond bearing.

He glanced at her and frowned, swiping a tear from her cheek. “Are you crying?”

“Nae.” Untrue. She was. But it wasn't from sadness.

“Lana? Darling? What is it? Did I get soap in your eyes?”

“You dinna. I'm no' crying.” To prove this point, she splashed water onto her face and grinned up at him. And then because she couldn't stop herself, she splashed him.

His eyes narrowed. Water dripped from the curl flopped onto his forehead. “Why, you minx!”

“It seems to me, I am no' the only one who needs a wash.” She splashed him again.

“I'll get you a towel.” He had set it by the fire, allowing it to soak up heat.

She caught his arm. “Nae, Lachlan.” The tub was large. Large enough for both of them, surely. She edged forward and glanced behind her, meaningfully.

His features tightened and he nodded, carefully easing in behind her and settling into the warm water with a sigh. The level rose dangerously close to the lip, but she didn't care. She liked living dangerously. And she really liked leaning back, into his embrace.

“Ah, Lana.” He repositioned himself behind her, ignoring the slosh of the water, and kissed her temple, the shell of her ear. “This is heavenly.”

“It is.” She nestled into the crux of his legs. Something hard and long and wet nudged her. She smiled and closed her eyes and reveled in the bliss.

He cupped her breasts, but not with illicit intent, simply a hold of possession. His fingers flexed around her. “You are so perfect,” he murmured.

“Hmm. You are.” A lazy declaration.

His fingers began to move, slowly, drawing circles around the pink of her areola. It was tantalizing and delicious and made her nipples peak. Closer and closer he came, in tandem torment, but he didn't touch them. He wouldn't. When he abandoned one breast altogether and skimmed his hand over her abdomen, she nearly complained, but then, he eased lower, and lower still.

It was an odd sensation, his caress on her core, in the warm embrace of the water. Odd, but delightful. He did the same thing there, circling her, teasing her, making her clutch the lip of the tub so she could arch into the caress.

Each stroke sent ribbons of pleasure through her, and while it fed something in her, at the same time it created a new hunger. It curled through her, this heat, burning her, urging her toward some desperate need.

“Lachlan.” A whisper, a plea.

In response, he touched her nipple and that aching nubbin between her legs, at the same time. A surge of sensation shot through her, filling her with a rippling wonder. He began to stroke faster, to pluck at her nipple. To move from one to the other with haste. He kissed his way down her neck and nested there, nibbling and nipping at her flesh.