Sarah Gabriel (24 page)

Shifting toward him, drawn to his solid strength, she easily fit her body against his, and felt his low groan drift over her lips.

He kissed her, skimming his lips along her arched throat, his breath warm, his beard rasping over her sensitive skin. She sighed and arched closer, slipping her hands over the width of his shoulders, pulling him tightly against her—she needed more, wanted more.

Now his lips slanted over hers fiercely, and she caught her breath as she felt his hand rest on her breast. His touch floated over, so that her nipples rose, stiffened, and stirred against the linen of her shirt, and though she ached for his touch there, he traced his fingers farther down her abdomen, and a strange, wonderful, peculiar flutter began deep within her.

Sighing, she shifted in his arms, kissed him, his lips pliant and insistent over hers, and his other hand now slipped over her breast, his fingers kneading with exquisite care, so that she cried out softly and pushed her hips instinctively against him. Supporting her with his other hand, he held her, caressed her breasts, and she felt the heated, pulsing hardness of him pressing against her. She trembled all through now, felt like flowing water, moved with the wave of what she felt.

Wrapping her arms around him, she sank into the bliss of touch that he gave. She did not want to think—she only wanted to feel his hands on her skin, his lips on hers, his hard body tight against
hers, all the warm curves and hollows finding their exquisite, seductive fit.

Soon his hands explored downward, delicate touches that made her gasp, so that his lips upon hers, and his fingers fluttering lower, lower still—made her turn slick within, her body pulsing and ready in deep, craving ways that she had never imagined before. Though she knew she should not do this, should never allow this—she desperately wanted him to touch her in secret places, as he was doing in that very moment—she gasped again, and arched in his arms, compelled by the wildness of the sensations aroused in her body.

And then he drew back, just as her heart was slamming, her body anxious for release, just as her head seemed to be whirling—he drew back, rested his brow against her own, and stilled, his body snug against hers, his arms tight around her.

“Not this way,” he said. “Not with the fairy whisky upon you. Much as I want you—dear God, my girl, much as I do—not this way.” And he rose from the bed, stood beside her in the darkness. “Rest,” he said, and stepped back. “You need to rest.”

“Not alone,” she whispered. “Not here.”

He sighed audibly and sat on the edge of the bed, taking her hand. “Sleep. I will stay.”

She did sleep, sinking faster into it than she expected; she slept deep and full, the effects of the whisky still in her blood. Sometime in the night, she woke slightly and felt Dougal beside her in the
darkness, his breathing deep and even. His arm looped around her and she leaned against him, resting her head on his shoulder. As she slid into dreaming, she felt his lips against her hair, felt him draw the covers higher over both of them.

She woke again, much later, opening her eyes to see a gray morning light edging the window frame. The air was cool, and she shivered a little, turning, longing for Dougal’s solid warmth—but he was gone, the bed cool there. Sitting up, she shoved back her hair and looked around.

He was there, standing in the shadows by the window, staring outward. Silently Fiona slid from the bed and went toward him. As he held out an arm, she tucked into his ready embrace, and she stood with him by the window, looking out over a misted world, a blur of silvery fog.

“On the day I met you,” she whispered, “the hills were misted over like this. And I thought you were one of the Fey, come for me.”

He laughed softly, turned her in his arms, and kissed her—and she felt, in that moment, a powerful sort of magic stirring between them, a spell that she could not resist, and one that she meant to feed—drawing her hands up his back, feeling the ripple of solid muscle there, she arched in his arms and felt his kisses deepen, felt his lips trace over the curve of her jaw and along her throat. She moaned with it, her body already relaxed from hours of sleep, her head no longer spinning, but her heart turning within her with a depth of emotion—
a depth of love—that she could not deny within herself. Caught between sleeping and waking, in a sense, as if the misty world outside veiled what could happen, what she knew now would happen, between the man and the woman inside.

“My head is clear now,” she whispered.

“Is it?” he murmured against her lips, her cheek, her ear. “So is mine.”

“I know what I want now,” she said, taking his face in her hands, feeling the textured whiskers that roughened his jaw.

“What is that?” he asked, as he bent close, his lips tracing her cheek, her ear.

“Not to think, not to talk,” she whispered, kissing him then, the words tumbling even as her lips kneaded his. She felt his hands set about her waist, snugging her close against him. “Not to wonder if we should—we want this, you and I—nor do I want to talk of fairies, or whisky, or what is proper. That may not seem proper, but it feels so to me. This feels right. Promise me,” she said, delving into another kiss, nearly breathless. “No word of what should or should not be—”

“Hush,” he said, and pulled her tightly against him, his hands at her lower back pressing her against him so that she could feel the hard shape of him that said what words could not. “Hush.”

Her heart beat so strongly now, in a rhythm that her body took on as a deep, irresistible, undeniable need. Kissing her, he swept his hand down to catch the hem of the long shirt she wore, and she
gasped as she felt his warm, big hand smoothing over her hip, her bottom, the sensitive hollow of her lower back. Pressing against him, she pulled at his shirt, tugging a little wildly, eager to feel his skin under her fingertips, wanting to feed further the urges that now burgeoned and threatened to burst within her.

His back felt smooth and hard-muscled under warm skin, and her fingers found the woolen edge of his wrapped kilt. A sudden boldness came over her then and she pulled at it, shoved it aside, her fingers rounding over his thigh, massive and taut, and her hand moved higher, then as he turned slightly, dropped away, for his hand found hers and moved it deliberately away.

“Not yet, love,” he murmured.

“No words,” she reminded, and his lips found hers again, sudden and swift and hungry, his tongue teasing her mouth and then meeting the tip of her own tongue. All the while his hands shaped her waist, her rib cage, until his fingers found her breast, traced its softness delicately, found the nub of her nipple. And at that touch, her knees seemed to falter, her legs trembled. She grasped his shoulders, moaned a little, and when thumb swept the sensitive tip, she whimpered, felt herself shudder, crave, grow impatient for more.

Then he swept her up into his arms and carried her back to the bed, still warm as he laid her down among the tumble of linens and pillows, and stretched out beside her. His lips found hers
in the shadowy darkness of the bed, and she drew back to look at him, to pull at the shirt and plaid he wore. She sat back a little, watching as he tore away the plaid, and then the shirt, leaving them in a muddle at the foot of the bed. A moment later her own nightshirt was there, too, for she whipped it free and then fell back into his arms, delighting, wantonly so, in the sensation of his warm, smooth, wonderful body heating against her own.

She arched back, allowing him to touch her however he desired, his hands tracing over her breasts, his lips following. And when his fingers sank downward and found her clefted passage, she cried out, clutched at him as his fingers dipped and delved. Another moment, and wavelets of blissful sensation ripened and then rippled through her. Exploring him with her hands, grasping for him, she found him, hard and ready and nearly hot to the touch, like velvet sheathing iron. She shaped him long with her hands, heard him groan—and then he turned her full to her back and arched over her. She shifted, opened, gasping with the need to have him closer, as close and deep as could be, to ease the tender ache and demand within. A moment later, a gentle press and shift as he moved and she tilted, the knowing clear, somehow, within her—and he slipped into her like glove to hand, the feeling keen and stunning, so that she cried out and surged in welcome, wanting this, wanting him to be part of her in this primal and certain way.

A rhythm began between them, delighting and then quickly overtaking her, so that she rocked with him and then shuddered with an immense and sudden release—it swirled in her like joy itself, and she knew, without thought or words, that she felt love, that she was loved. His breath was deep and in tandem with hers, and she felt the love rise between them like the wild heat of a strong hearth, rousing too hot, then subsiding to comfort.

Moments later, she rolled with him, and he stretched out beside her. Taking her into his arms in silence, he wrapped her against him. Nestled in the warmth of his embrace, with his breath soft on her cheek, and his body so solid and safe against hers, Fiona closed her eyes.

“Fiona,” he whispered, his lips against her hair. “We—”

“Do not speak, not yet—for the magic will flee. Let love make its own magic,” she said, and in that moment she understood what the motto of her clan truly meant.

He murmured something under his breath, and the words made her heart soar, as he pulled her closer once again. And she feared, as the daylight bloomed paler and she saw more of the room and world outside, that he might never say it again, if the tender magic of that night faded.

As dull a life as she had led, as much as she had believed herself in love with a man years ago, she had never felt like this—and might never again. She did not want the world to intrude on that, but
Fiona had always been practical. She knew very well it would.

Soon her obligation to her clan, with its beautiful, fanciful motto, and her responsibility to her own kin, would take precedence over her dreams.

“If you are going past the laird’s tower this early morning, I will walk with you,” Mary MacIan said. “I want to see the laird of Kinloch, too,” she added with a mischievous smile.

Fiona glanced at the old woman, suppressing her own smile. “I am going to the glen school this morning, that is all.”

“Ah,” Mary said, nodding, a twinkle in her blue eyes.

Looking away, Fiona knew the old woman must have guessed what Fiona had done her best to hide in the past couple of days. But her feelings thrummed like a revelation within her. She had kept away from Dougal deliberately, difficult as that was, for she was certain that when she spoke to him with others around, everyone would know—would see shining in her eyes—how deeply and intensely she loved the laird of Glen Kinloch.

She was sure of that much, yet knew the complications of her grandmother’s will, which she had not yet explained to Dougal. Nor did she know if he even shared her feelings. Since spending the night at Kinloch House, she had avoided him—and the truth—wanting to treasure the feelings that had blossomed in her heart. All too soon she
would lose her Highland laird to the pressure of obligations, just as she had lost her first love to sudden, irreparable fate.

“I am going to Kinloch House today, as it is time to pay my rent,” Mary was saying. “Usually the laird comes to collect my little fee, which I earn from selling cheeses and beer, though I have never told him I can afford to pay him much more.” Mary smiled impishly.

Fiona chuckled. “I would not be surprised if he knows that, and never asks for more from you. When does he collect the rental fee?”

“That should have been this week, but he did not come by.” Mary’s quick glance was so keen that Fiona looked away. “And he always brings me a bottle of something fine when he visits. But I do not mind bringing my payment to Kinloch. It is a good day for a walk. Come, Maggie,” Mary called to the dog who trotted behind them. “She could use a long walk on a sunny morning.”

“She gets plenty of exercise at night, roaming about,” Fiona said. “Which sort of whisky does the laird usually give you?”

“Any sort of Glen Kinloch brew is excellent,” Mary said. “Dougal gives me the very best of Kinloch whisky but once a year, at Christmas time.”

“Is that the fairy whisky?” Fiona asked quickly.

“Och, no! That stuff is not so good. I have tried it and do not see the fuss. Too sweet, and flat. No strength to it.” She wrinkled her nose. “I like aged Glen Kinloch best, but the laird is saving that stuff
for—well, he has plans for it. How do you know about the fairy brew?”

“Kinloch told me about it,” Fiona said.

“Did you taste it when you stayed the night at Kinloch House? Did Maisie give you some? Perhaps the Laird gave you some, eh? Though he was not there, I suppose, with the fire and all.”

“I tasted it,” Fiona said evasively, “and enjoyed it very much.” She felt herself blush.

“Then the fairies favored you. Did you see wee sprites dancing about? They say that the fairies give their blessing to some who drink their whisky. They never blessed me, I can tell you. Did you see them?” She seemed eager to know.

“Oh,” Fiona said, “nothing much happened.”

“When I have tasted the fairy brew, it is like that,” Mary said. “Nothing much.”

Fiona smiled without answer. She looked ahead, along the meadow that filled the bowl of the glen, crisscrossed with flowing burns and, in the morning sunlight, scattered with spring wildflowers. On the other side of the glen, a league’s walk away straight across the meadow, a hill rose toward the mountains. There, in a shaft of golden sunlight, she could see the tower of Kinloch House, just catching the morning light.

She wondered if Dougal was at Kinloch, or already out at this hour. Two nights ago she had stayed the night with him, after the unexpected events the day of the fire, and that night had been glorious. But in the morning she had insisted on
walking back to Mary’s house alone, as if nothing had happened between them. She had let the night, the man, and the whisky take her over—and she would cherish and never regret what had happened.