Let Me Be Your Hero (22 page)

She should not have done this. She was wrong to couple with him, because she had found the answer to the question she had been too afraid to put to herself. She still loved him; in truth, she had never stopped loving him. Only now, after the loving, she knew her love had reached a depth and breadth she had never known.

How, she wondered, could she pick up and go on without him in her life? He would go back to Edinburgh and the law practice he spent years educating himself for, and she would return to Loch Lomond and her beloved Inchmurrin Island. Everything would be
the same; only for her, nothing would ever be the same again.

He lowered his head, and drew circles on her cheek with his nose. “If ye were no’ such a scrawny lass, I would make love to ye again.”

“Mayhap I could be more passive this time…to conserve my energy, ye ken.”

He threw back his head and laughed. “Claire… Claire…I have missed ye and yer funny ways. No one has ever made me laugh the way ye do.”

Her heart wrenched. She ached to hear him say he loved her; that he wanted them to try to find the magic they had before. She knew he cared for her still, for Fraser was not the kind of man who made love indiscriminately. There had to be feeling in it for him.

M
IRANDA
:
I am your wife, if you will marry me;

If not, I’ll die your maid: to be your fellow

You may deny me; but I’ll be your servant

Whether you will or no.

F
ERDINAND
:
My mistress, dearest;

And thus I humble ever.

M
IRANDA
:
My husband then?

F
ERDINAND
:
Ay, with a heart as willing

As bondage e’er of freedom: here’s my hand.

M
IRANDA
:
And mine, with my heart in’t.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616), English

poet and playwright.

The Tempest
(1611), act 3, scene 1

F
raser was never certain if it was merely lust, or the knowledge that this might well be the last time he ever made love to her, that drove him to see, taste and feel every possible part and place of her.

He wanted to see her the way God made her, and he eased the rest of her dress from her. Her skin was as white and gleaming as a pearl, and the glossy curtain
of her hair spread like a scarlet cape. She was every beautiful woman written into a poem, each exquisite form captured by an artist’s eye, and yet no mortal could have painted her more beautiful than she was to him at this moment.

He kissed her and kept on kissing her, with his hands torturing her breasts and his hips joined in perfect movement against hers. He loved her more now than he had before, when he thought it impossible to go beyond the love he felt in his heart. His lips yearned to whisper about his tender feelings for her, and the depth and breadth of his feeling, and the agony of loving someone so much, and yet being afraid to open your heart to show them what lay within.

So he tried to show her without words, as if she could absorb the meaning of each touch, every move, the disconnected staccato of each breath.

He kissed his way down between her breasts and across her stomach, until he found the place he sought between her legs. “Sleek as an otter, slick as gloss, as slippery as a snowy track. Ye are the satin petal of a flower, the silk on a butterfly wing. Ye are so perfectly formed, Claire, that each time I look at ye, I feel as though some of my life is sucked oot o’ me.”

He lowered his full weight upon her and sheathed himself with a powerful thrust, as far as he could go inside her. “No matter what,” he said, “ye will remember this day for the rest o’ yer life.”

He came at her again and again, in a fierce hammering, driving to the hilt each time, as if each movement, every stroke was a message to be deciphered, and a way to show his power and supremacy over her. They were joined by the sweat of their bodies, and she saw
his dark hair was wet with sweat, his body and face gleaming from exertion. Her legs ached, and she could feel the mark of bruises to come, but he showed no sign of stopping, nor proof that he was tired at all.

Again and again, with smooth repetition, as if he was asking the same question over and over, and throwing the answer back at her when it was not the one he wanted. The pain she felt crossed a threshold and pleasure slipped into place. “Oh…” The words jammed in her throat dissolved into short, gasping pants as she moved to his rhythm, wanting him faster, harder, deeper, until she could feel the joining of their souls.

“Aye,” he said, “ye will not forget this day’s work, lass, and stay with ye it will, for I will not stop until I ken ye are completely mine.”

He lifted her legs over his shoulders, so he could go beyond the point he had reached before. His mouth covered hers, not with the gentle, coaxing kisses as before, but with a kiss that was demanding and urgent. Her lips felt as if they might split, and she bit his lip and, a moment later, tasted his blood.

She was wild beneath him. Her hands raked and clawed his back, then lower, where she clawed the hard curve of his buttocks. Once or twice she felt his bite on her neck, and his teeth pulling her earlobe until it stretched with…was it pleasure or pain? She could not tell anymore. The lines were blurring, and all the colors of the world were running together, until there were no lines, no beginning and no end.

She heard him moan and cry out a curse, and she fought him, fearing he wanted to draw her completely into him, and feeling the need to do the same to him. “Dinna stop, Fraser, dinna ever stop.”

She would have thought further upon it, but the fierceness, the hard edge to him now made her lift her hips and not receive him gently, but to meet him equally, thrust for thrust, until her whole body knotted and coiled into itself, and she cried out with spasm after clutching spasm, wanting him to stop, needing him to continue, and wishing this moment could go on forever.

He called out in Gaelic, and she vaguely recognized the sound of her name, and then she lost herself in him and knew by giving him what he wanted, she got back the same. She heard his groan, then felt the weight of him collapse fully upon her.

She was not sure if she passed out or went to sleep, but at some point she was barely cognizant of his weight rolling away from her, and his arm drawing her close against him, as if he needed to separate from her in gradual intervals.

When he kissed the top of her head, she sighed and curled closer against him, with one arm tucked under her chin and the other lying across his chest, her fingers moving in slow, careless circles and a lopsided oval that slipped in from time to time.

Her eyes opened to see if he was awake, and she was greeted by the deep blue of his teasing eyes. A faint smile curled lazily to lift the corners of his mouth. There was a question there, she knew, but she was not going to make the first move.

“Was this a contest?” she finally asked, wanting to force him to be the one to speak of it. “More important, was there a winner, or did it end in a draw?”

“You tell me.”

He knew the game too well, and he was well schooled on his defenses. She decided it would do no good to push, so she let it go, as one would cut the line and watch the fish too big to land swim slowly out to sea.

He did not say anything, but he did stretch out and fold his arms beneath his head, flaunting his wares as if he were daring her to ignore that which he knew some women would scratch her eyes out to have. He pulled her against him and cradled her close. Yet he said not a word.

Hurt feelings welled within her, and she felt slighted by his callous disregard that made her feel like a common camp follower, who gave her body for use, and not lovemaking, and when it had been used well and then ignored, she dressed quietly and slipped away.

She decided to get up and made a move to do so, but he stayed her with a detaining hand.

“Why would ye wish to leave me?” he asked, slipping his arms around her. “The lying together afterward is the best part, ye ken. I am sorry if I was too rough with ye, Claire.”

“I got in my fair share of it,” she replied. “How is your lip?”

He touched his lip gingerly. Already a lump had appeared. “It announced its existence some time ago. I ken it will be around long enough for us to become well acquainted.”

“Weel, ’tis yer own fault, ye ken.”

“I wouldna change anything about it. I like it when ye draw the battle lines and refuse to retreat.”

“Come here,” he said. “Bide with me for a while.”

He tugged on her arm and she dug in her heels, so to speak, still smarting from her hurt feelings.

He shook his head and caught her up in his arms and pulled her back to lie beside him. He caught her chin and lifted her face to receive his kiss, but she pulled back. “I canna make love again, Fraser.”

“I didna ask ye to, Claire.” His lips were warm and soft, and so very gentle she wanted to cry. He cuddled her against him, talking to her in that soothing tone that vibrated through her, while his hands showed her a gentle touch could be as arousing as its stronger, more forceful brother.

She buried her face in the crook of his shoulder and slipped her hand around his neck. So many things she wanted to say to him, and would have, if he had only given her some glimmer of hope. But he had not, and she let her pride get in the way.

It was sad to realize that this separation was more painful than the first, because this time she felt the bite of finality, and knew this would be the last time she would ever be with him like this.

It was over. The end had come.

The rush of passion in their blood had slowed to a creep, and the sensation of being near each other did not send ripples of desire pricking at their nerves, or cause the quickening of each indrawn breath. Her heart was sick, her body weary, and the wheels of her mind turned ever so slow.

All things hastened toward their end. To draw the final moment out would be the worst thing to do. When the time for ending arrived, it was best if done quickly.

There came a time when the candle must be
doused, and the fire put out; a day when the last rose of summer resides in the garden alone, and the waves rolling toward the sandy shore will erase the footprints left there.

Her heart was breaking and she feared she would start to cry. She did not want him to see her like this, or to know the depth of her love and feeling for him. “We have an early day tomorrow. I need to sleep, and so do ye.”

“Are ye telling me I need to leave ye now?”

“Aye.”

“Why so cold a tone, when ye were so verra warm a moment ago?”

Tears slid across her cheeks, and she almost hated him for doing this to her. “I am no made o’ stone, Fraser. I have a heart, and it can be broken, the same as yers. There are many wounds I carry, and it is time I saw to the healing o’ them. I will always be grateful for what ye have done, and will never think unkindly o’ ye. But I canna lie her beside ye any longer.”

“Why?”

She was crying in earnest now. “Why are ye doing this? Are ye trying to punish me for the hurt I caused ye? Would it please ye and salvage yer wounds if I gave ye my wrist and asked ye to draw blood? What do ye want from me? Tell me and I will gladly give it to ye, and then we can have done with the suffering and the torture. End it. I beg ye. Tell me what ye want.”

“Is it so verra difficult to figure oot? Can ye not see I want nothing more from ye than I ever wanted? I want yer love, Claire, and yer heart, and yer promise to love me until ye die, and beyond that even, if it be possible.”

She began to pound him with her fists. “Then why didna ye tell me afore now? Why did ye torment me and leave me hanging?”

“Because I had to know how ye felt, Claire. Ye are not the only one who carries scars, ye ken?”

A calm settled over her and she relaxed against him. “What happens now?”

“Weel, I ken we will leave in the morning.”

“And?”

“We will travel toward Inchmurrin, with one stop in Wick before we continue on.”

“Wick? What is in Wick?”

“A minister, I hope.”

“A minister? Fraser, are ye planning that we should marry again?”

“Aye, and this time it is for good, for I willna be giving ye a second divorce, Claire, so ye better be making up yer mind afore we reach Wick.”

“Oh, Fraser, my mind was made up when I heard ye call oot my name in the dungeon.”

ISBN: 978-1-4592-3578-6

LET ME BE YOUR HERO

Copyright © 2004 by Guardant, Inc.

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