Must Love Kilts (28 page)

But two words circled in her mind, pushing her to be bold.

Strong
and
courageous.

“Margo.” He leaned down and kissed her, hard and swift. “You’ll no’ regret this.” He broke the kiss, breathing the words against her cheek.

“I know. . . .” She nipped his lower lip, flicking her tongue against his.

Strong and courageous, strong and courageous . . .

Those were her fighting words.

And she knew that if she caved, showing doubt or hesitancy, Magnus’s eyes would shutter and his shields would rise—his honor and sense of duty would keep him from “taking advantage” of a woman who might not be completely keen.

She was more than keen.

And she desired Magnus badly enough to jump over her shadow to make him hers.

As if he guessed, he crushed her to him then, practically squeezing the air from her lungs. “Margo ...” Holding her securely, he ducked beneath the door’s low lintel and set her on her feet on the hard-packed earthen floor. “You will bring me to my knees, lass. It earthen floor. “You will bring me to my knees, lass. It has been too long. . . .”

He pulled her to him again, taking her face between his hands and kissing her deeply. Slow and languorous kisses, full of tongue and soft, hot breath.

Each kiss tantalized and melted her, curling her toes as their eyes adjusted to the cothouse’s gloom.

When he pulled back, stepping away from her, Margo gasped. “Someone must’ve been here.” She turned in a circle, surveying the tiny one-roomed space, impossibly tight and earthy-smelling. The floor had been swept clean and the walls and ceiling were free of cobwebs. The promised plaid pallet looked fresh and newly plumped. And someone had placed a cloth-covered basket of viands and an ale jug on the floor near the door.

Most telling of all was the mound of elegantly twisted, silver-hued driftwood waiting to be lit on the room’s central grate.

“Orla did this.” Margo’s heart warmed.

Magnus shrugged. “She may have done. I’d ordered my men to ready the place, but they wouldn’t have taken such care.”

Margo adjusted the soft wool of the shawl Orla had given her. “She is a good woman.”

“You are a beautiful woman.” Magnus’s voice was deep, smooth, and rich as cream-laced whisky. He touched the side of her face, tracing a finger down the curve of her cheek, and then along the line of her jaw.

“I have ne’er desired a woman so fiercely. Have you spelled me, Mar
-go
?”

“No.” She could hardly breathe. “But if some kind of magic brought us together, and that seems the only way we
could
have met, then I am not sorry.” She wasn’t.

Just standing so close to him was a sensory overload. Being alone with him here, in a teeny cottage on a Highland mountain, where the Scottish wind sighed in the trees and the surf shushed against the distant shore—
a Highland shore
—felt as romantic as if he were already making love to her. . . .

It was almost more than her heart could bear.

“I thought you were a Valkyrie.” His voice softened as he looked down at her. “Or mayhap a sea witch . . .” One corner of his mouth lifted as he slipped a hand into her hair, letting the strands spill through his fingers. “A temptress sent to lure me with her spume-kissed glistening nakedness, making me so hard I could no’ breathe.”

“I was covered with sea spray this morning.” Margo leaned into him, slipping her arms around his waist.

She needed his closeness.

“Spume-kissed, aye.” His breath was soft and warm against her face, and the intimacy excited her. “But”—his dark gaze flicked her length—“you weren’t naked as I saw you the first time.”

Margo shivered. The thought of him already having seen her naked almost pushed her to a climax.

“I also saw you riding astride me in Orosius’s kettle steam.” He slid his hand down her back, splaying his fingers across her hips and pulling her closer. So near that she could feel his heat through the rough wool of his plaid. She also felt his arousal, long, hard, and thick. The manliest part of him proved his desire with an impressive kilt-bulge.

“You were naked then, too, Margo-lass.” The kilt-bulge nudged her belly. “And now ...” He bent his head to kiss her, thrusting his tongue between her parted lips, sharing breath as he slowly twirled and tangled his tongue with hers. He slid his hand lower as they kissed, gripping the round curve of her bottom, kneading her flesh.

“Now, Margo”—he broke the kiss and stepped back, his dark eyes burning—“I would see you naked again. I want to hold you. Kiss you everywhere and make you mine—”

“Will you undress, too?” Margo blurted her wish, acting strong and courageous before excitement made her stutter and spoil everything. She did not want him to worry she was frightened or unwilling.

“Highlanders love to be naked, sweet.” His hand was already at the big Celtic brooch holding his plaid at his shoulder. “We are earthy, lusty men.” Margo melted on the word
earthy
.

No one but a Highland Scot could make such a simple word so toe-curlingly sexy.

The word rolled through her, echoing in his rich, butter-rum burr.

“Oh, dear . . .” Her eyes rounded as he unclasped the pin, pulling off his plaid and tossing it onto the tartan pallet at his feet.

“Och, aye.” He smiled, a slow, wicked smile that warmed her most private places as he pushed back his long black hair. The gleaming strands spilled across his shoulders, falling nearly to his waist.

Margo’s mouth went dry as she wondered how it would feel to have all that silky raven hair swing back and forth across her breasts when he made love to her.

Half-naked, he took her breath away. His shoulders were broad and just as powerful as she’d expected, while his hard-muscled chest delighted with a dusting of glistening black hair that arrowed downward, disappearing beneath his kilt belt. And—Margo’s pulse leapt—a scatter of silvery scars proved he was indeed a lord of battles.

She swallowed, aching to see more of him.

The part she really wanted to see pressed more insistently against his kilt now, looking even longer and harder than before.

Following her gaze, Magnus reached to unlatch his sword belt, then lowered the great brand carefully to the floor. When he straightened, he made short work of his kilt, reaching for her and pulling her roughly to him the instant he was completely unclothed.

She leaned into him as he loosened her shawl and slipped it from her shoulders, tossing it onto the pallet with his plaid.

“I have wanted you all these nights, Margo.” He was undoing her bodice laces, his eyes locked with hers as his hands worked the fastenings. His fingers brushed her bared skin, each tantalizing touch sending ripples of pleasure straight to her center.

But when her newly donned medieval gown gaped wide at the front, her breasts spilling free, modern-day sensibilities reared their ugly head as she threw an uncomfortable glance at the rough-planked door.

“There’s not a lock on that door.” Strong and courageous shouted protest at the hesitation, but Margo-of-the-Bad-Luck could just see the medieval equivalent of a troop of Boy Scouts parading by and peeking inside the shelter.

And if such an embarrassment was going to happen, it would most likely be just when she’d be in the throes of a rip-roaring climax.

Magnus was frowning, his dark gaze on the rain-warped door. “My men are out there, in the wood.

They’ll no’ let anyone pass.”

“They might overlook a small herd boy and his pals.” Margo stood her ground, using her best substitute for a medieval Cub Scout. “What if—”

“You are with me, lass.” His arm whipped around her, a hard band of iron, dragging her to him. “No one would dare come anywhere near this cothouse while we are here. The very wind will skirt this hill tonight, and even the leaves shall skitter in the opposite direction.

“This night is ours.” His voice was fierce, his dark eyes glinting. “Whate’er comes, we shall have these hours.”

Something in his tone told Margo that he, too, feared their pleasure might be fleeting.

She bit her lip, wishing she hadn’t worried about the door.

But it was hard to shrug off a lifetime spent worrying about things like privacy and locked doors. A circle of mailed and armed warriors standing vigil in a wood all night as their leader made love to her was totally out of her experience.

Now...

His words, though romantic, only reminded her of the dangers swirling all around them.

Her
gown
was swirling around her head.

Margo blinked, her thoughts about medieval Cub Scouts and dangers spinning away as Magnus lifted the gown’s voluminous skirts. With a skill that hinted he’d once done this often, he pulled the gown up over her head and off, then sent the whole blue linen bundle sailing onto the pile of his own discarded clothes.

“Sweet holy heather ...” He stepped back, the appreciation in his eyes making her heart race. “You are lovelier than I’d thought. Just stand there and dinnae move. I want to look at you.” At ease with his own nakedness, he bent to retrieve something from a small leather pouch attached to his sword belt. Seeing flint, steel, and a char cloth, Margo realized his purpose. It made tingles sweep across her most vulnerable places as he knelt before the little pile of driftwood and set to building a fire.

He wanted light to see her.

And that notion did very wicked things to her.

She’d never stood naked this long in front of any man. Most of her past boyfriends had been of the old one-two-we’re-done, beneath-the-bedsheets, and all-lights-out variety.

Magnus wanted to look at her.

And his wish to do so electrified her. There was something blissfully decadent and oh-so-arousing about knowing that he wished her to stand here, unmoving and so wrenchingly vulnerable, simply for him to gaze upon.

He glanced at her now, his eyes dark with barely restrained desire as he carefully lit the driftwood. He straightened as blue, purple, and gold flames sprang to life, licking hungrily at the slender twists of silver-bleached wood. It was a beautiful sight.

But the look on Magnus’s face was heart-stopping.

His eyes blazed brighter than the fire, and his raven black hair shone almost as bright, the loose strands spilling around his shoulders as he folded his arms and gazed upon her.

His manhood stood, too. Thick and large, it rode his belly, his eagerness for her making her tingle even more.

She wanted him so badly.

“My
too
-rist.” His voice was low and rough. “I could look at you for all my days and ne’er tire of your beauty.”

“O-o-oh ...” Margo hoped he hadn’t heard her sigh.

But she hadn’t been able to help it. His words excited her; the fierce look on his face unleashed a dark, echoing need deep inside her.

The fire was larger now, the colorful flames leaping as the driftwood hissed and popped. They threw dancing shadows on the walls. In the shifting of light and dark, mysterious shadows whirled, lending a sensual, almost otherworldly feel to the atmosphere.

Margo started forward, wanting to go to Magnus, but he held out a hand, staying her.

“Nae, lass, no’ yet.” He spread his legs and crossed his arms, the stance giving her a good look at the large, heavy male sac between his legs. Even as it was drawn tight in arousal, its size made her blood thicken with aching female need. “I haven’t yet looked my fill of you.”

His words sent a rush of liquid heat to the aching place so low by her thighs.

Even her breasts were heavy and aching, her nipples taut and thrusting, begging for his touch.

She couldn’t recall having ever been so excited.

“Open your legs, Mar
-go
.” He gestured, encouraging her, as she did as he bade. “More.

Spread your legs wider. I would see all of you.”

“Oh, God!” She began to tremble.

“That is better, lass.” His gaze skimmed over her, and then settled at the tops of her thighs, burning her.

And it felt so good, so thrilling as he looked at her with such heat in his beautiful dark eyes.

He went to her then, placing one hand on her He went to her then, placing one hand on her breast, his thumb gently circling her nipple, while he slid his other hand between her legs, gripping her firmly.

Margo’s knees almost buckled. She rocked her hips, needing the contact. When he tightened his fingers on her, lightly squeezing, her climax did begin to crest. Sweet strings of hot pleasure wound through her, each tingling twist and curl making her crave release.

“I didnae want this.” He lowered his head, trailing kisses across the top swells of her breasts, his thumb continuing to rub back and forth across her sensitized nipple. “I’d vowed to care for no woman again.” His voice was deep, roughened by desire as he looked up to hold her gaze, locking eyes with her as he swirled his tongue around her nipple. He stroked and caressed the slick softness between her legs. His touch was the headiest torment.

“By whate’er powers brought you here”—he found her most sensitive spot, rubbed tiny circles there—“I cannae turn away from you. I have ne’er wanted a woman so fiercely. I’ll no’ be letting you go, Margo.

“No’ e’er.” He dropped to one knee before her, leaning in and using his chin to nudge her legs farther apart. “You are so fine, my
too
-rist. And here”—he looked up at her, his tongue now flicking across the sensitive spot where he’d just been circling a finger—“you smell of cold winter mornings, roses, and a wee touch of musk.”

He moved to nuzzle her belly, closing his eyes and breathing deeply as he pressed his cheek against her feminine curls. “You are headier than mead, Margo.” He looked up at her again, once more caressing her with his hand, circling her special spot with maddeningly delicious circles, slow and deliberate. “I could devour you whole. . . .”

“Then do.” Margo opened her legs wider, feeling very strong and courageous by giving him better access. “It feels so good. . . .” She thrust her fingers into his hair, grabbing handfuls of the thick, silky strands as he did just as he’d promised, licking her with long, measured strokes as if he’d never tasted anything more delicious.