The Striker (24 page)

“Really?”

“Really.”

And he set about proving it to her. Slowly. With a kiss that told her exactly how much she meant to him. They had all night, and he was going to make damn sure she knew how much he loved her. He didn't want to think about how long this might have to last.

Following his lead, she responded to the long, slow strokes of his tongue with a deft tenderness of her own that made his chest ache. He'd never imagined a kiss could be filled with so much emotion—or express so much feeling. But he felt the longing, her desire, and love that matched his own, with every sigh, every stroke, and every soft caress.

When he'd finished worshipping her mouth with his lips and tongue, he went on to worship the rest of her. He kissed her jaw, her throat, the tender place below her ear, and finally, once he'd paused long enough to remove her clothes, the berry-pink tips of her nipples. Aye, he took plenty of time with those, circling his tongue around the puckered edges, flicking the rigid points, and sucking them deep into his mouth until she squirmed and moaned.

She tried to undo his surcoat, but he stopped her. “Not yet, sweetheart. If you touch me, it will be over too soon. I want to give you pleasure. Let me do this.”

She nodded, and he went on exploring. Her body was a fantasy, and he took his time savoring every cock-hardening inch of it. He couldn't get enough. She was so soft and sweet, her skin dissolving against his mouth like honey. She tasted so damned good he wanted to taste all of her. He wanted to give her the kind of pleasure he'd never given another woman before. He wanted to put his mouth between her legs, slide his tongue inside her, and feel her come apart against his lips. And if the way she was pressing her hips against him was any indication, she was close.

He skimmed his hand over the slender curve of her waist to her hip. “Tell me what you want, Maggie.”

Her half-lidded eyes met his in a sensual haze of passion so dark and deep it threatened to drag him under. God, she was beautiful. He'd taken the time to remove not just her veil this time, but the pins from her plaits, and her hair spread over the pillow behind her head like a fiery blaze.

“You. I want you, Eoin. Inside me.”

A fierce swell of satisfaction surged through him; he loved the boldness with which she told him what she wanted. There was no false maidenly modesty with Margaret.

He brushed his fingers between her legs, feeling the silky dampness sliding between his fingers like warm honey. “Do you want my hands, my cock, or maybe my mouth?”

She gasped, the haze clearing from her eyes as they met his. She was clearly shocked, but she was also clearly aroused by the idea, if the fresh rush of dampness spreading through his fingers meant anything. So warm and silky. “Should I kiss you right here?” She gasped again when he pressed against her mound. “Should I slide my tongue inside you like this?” She cried out when his finger plunged and circled. “Shall I do that, Maggie?”

She was no longer looking at him. Her eyes were closed, her head moving side to side on the pillow. “Yes. Oh God, please, yes.”

He gave her what she wanted. What her body was weeping for. But he took his time, teasing out every sensation, every drop of pleasure, as he kissed a slow trail down her stomach.

When he reached the delicate place between her legs, he lifted her hips, wrapped her legs around his neck, and brushed feathery kisses along the inside of her thighs until she started to shake. Finally, he nuzzled her softly with his mouth, applying the lightest amount of pressure where he sensed she needed it most. Only when her thighs started to tighten and her heels dug into his back did he give her the pressure she wanted. Gently at first, and then harder as her pleasure peaked. As her body started to quiver and contract.

She tasted so good he couldn't get enough. His tongue plunged deeper and deeper, his mouth sucked harder, and finally he had his reward when he felt the hard spasms of her release against his lips.

But he gave no quarter, bringing her to the peak again and again. All through the night and following day, in between short periods of rest and food, he made love to her—with his hands, his mouth, and his cock. The only time reality intruded was when he removed his shirt, and she noticed the bandage he'd wrapped around his arm to cover the new tattoo that he must hide from her, and when he slid out and moved between her legs instead of inside her as he took his release.

Shortly before he had to go, he woke her for the final time. She looked like a debauched angel, with the sheets snaked around her bare limbs, her fiery hair streaming around her shoulders, and her skin rosy—all over—from the scrape of his beard, and was clearly exhausted, but he didn't have time to wait. God knew how long they would be apart, and now that she knew pleasure, he had to make sure she knew how to find it without him.

Taking her hand, he moved it between her legs and told her what he wanted her to do.

Her eyes widened. She shook her head and tried to pull her hand away. “I couldn't.” She blushed. “It's wrong.”

“It's not wrong,” he said firmly, keeping her hand where he wanted it. “I want you to think of me. Pretend it's my hand that is touching you. My fingers that are stroking you.” Gently, he moved her fingers under his, showing her what he wanted. “That's what I'll be thinking about.”

She looked surprised—and maybe a little intrigued. “You will?”

He nodded. “It will drive me crazy thinking about you touching yourself. Please, sweetheart, let me watch. Give me something to remember.”

Slowly, he removed his hand.

She stared at him self-consciously, a soft blush staining her cheeks. “I don't know what to do.”

“Whatever feels good. Close your eyes.” She did as he bid and he nearly groaned at the first tentative strokes of her dainty fingers against those pretty pink lips. He only realized that he'd taken himself in his own hand when she opened her eyes, and her gaze followed him there.

Slowly, he started to stroke himself, matching the rhythm of the tentative fingers moving between her legs. “That's it, sweetheart. A little faster now. Rub yourself a little harder.” He tightened his own grip and started to pump faster. “God, doesn't that feel good? Look what you are doing to me.” He was big, red, and straining in his fist. “Are you wet yet? Are those soft pink lips quivering?”

He was rewarded with a soft moan and the gradual lowering of her lids as the heavy veil of desire began to descend. He felt it, too, the erotic intimacy of the moment wrapping around him. He wove the sultry web tighter, talking her through every moment of the awakening as she took control of her desire—as he gave her the power of knowing her own pleasure.

“When you close your eyes, I want you to remember how my mouth felt on you. How my tongue felt inside you.” The strokes were intensifying now. Her body was straining toward release, her back arching, her hips grinding hard against her hand. “Think of my hand on your breast.” He groaned as her hand followed his unconscious bidding, cupping her own breast and squeezing. “Pinch your nipple, sweetheart. Oh God, just like that.” He felt the pressure at the base of his spine and couldn't hold back. His teeth clamped down as his arse clenched and the muscles in his stomach went rigid. “I'm going to come. Oh God, Maggie, I'm going to come.”

He felt the first spurt right as she broke apart. She shattered right alongside him, her body contracted in spasms that matched his own.

When it was over he took her in his arms and held her until the sunlight streaming through the shutters softened.

Slipping out of bed, he started to put on his clothes.

She rolled onto her side to watch him, bringing the bedsheet up to tuck under her chin. She didn't say anything. She didn't need to. Her eyes swam with a heart-wrenching combination of longing and despair.

By the time he'd finished strapping on his armor, the guilt was so intense it felt like a rock was sitting on his chest. Damn it to hell, why did this have to be so damned hard? Why couldn't they have had more time?

He bent down to give her one last kiss. For a moment her arms latched around his neck and held so tightly he didn't know if she'd let him go. But she did.

He smoothed a tear that slid from the corner of her eye, wishing it were as easy to erase the acid eating its way through his chest. He tipped her chin to look at him. “I'll be back as soon as I am able.”

She was fighting to control her emotions and could only manage a nod.

God's blood, how could he leave her like this? “It will get better, Maggie. Trust me. Just give it a chance. Promise me you'll try. Can you do that for me?”

“I'll try,” she whispered. “If you promise to come back to me. No matter what happens, just come back to me.”

It was a promise they both knew he could not make. God and the battlefield might have other ideas. “I will do everything in my power to return to you as soon as I am able.”

It was the best he could do, and she seemed to understand that. With one last glance that would carry him through the long months ahead, he left.

M
ARGARET TRIED.
The first few weeks after Eoin left were harder than anything that had come before. The relief and joy of seeing him, however briefly, made the contrast of when he was gone even sharper. All the love that she'd felt for her new husband had come rushing back in a torrential wave, and his departure had left her feeling crushed by it all over again. But she'd given him her promise and faced the clansmen of Kerrera with renewed determination to win them over.

She smiled in the face of their rudeness, pretended she didn't hear the whispers, and made an effort to be helpful and friendly. She made sure to wear a veil wherever she went, she held her opinion at meals, even when the conversation turned to the war and the bold-faced lies about her clan and its allies threatened to choke her, and she didn't argue when Lady Rignach suggested she take a guard to accompany her when she rode around the isle or traveled by skiff to Oban.

She even tried to enjoy embroidery, joining Marjory, Tilda, Lady Rignach, and some of her attendants in the afternoons to work on the MacLean banner that would accompany the men into battle. But when she noticed the tiny holes in the fabric in the sections where she worked and realized that many of her stitches were being taken out at night and restitched, she used the afternoons instead to finish the project that had kept her busy during those first five months. But the last piece had been carved, the paint had been applied, and the chess set that she'd made as a gift for her husband sat gathering dust on a table waiting for his return—much like herself.

But nothing she did could chip through the wall of prejudice against her. She was a “wild, wicked” MacDowell. An outsider—and worse, after war broke out and her family allied with the Comyns and Edward of England against Robert Bruce, she was the enemy. To disdain, distrust, and contempt, she could now add hatred.

Margaret spent more and more time in Oban. She would never be a scholar like her husband, but she was no longer illiterate. She could read a smattering of Gaelic and French and even a few words of English and Latin. Her writing was no doubt crude by Lady Rignach and Marjory's standards, but she could compose a simple note.

What impressed the nuns, however, wasn't her reading and writing, but her memory and facility with numbers—skills that she'd honed when her father had left her in charge. When she'd overheard one of the tradesmen who was making a large delivery of victuals read off a long string of numbers making an error in calculation, and corrected him without glancing at the accountings (she hoped he wasn't trying to cheat the brides of Christ!), the abbess had been stunned. She'd welcomed Margaret's assistance with the stewarding of the convent. Not only had it given her something to do, it had given her a way to pay back the nuns for all their help.

But as much as she appreciated all the nuns had done, they were not a substitute for the friendships she had known at Garthland. She missed Brigid desperately. She missed laughing. She missed jesting. She missed lively conversations that went long into the night. And she missed having someone to confide in, someone to share her joys, and someone to share her heartaches. God knew there had been so many of them.

Nor was the convent a substitute for a home. It was quiet and peaceful, but the subdued atmosphere was nothing like the lively, raucous Hall at Garthland, where there were always visitors to entertain or brothers to bicker with and reprimand. She missed the noise, the excitement, and the energy of the life she'd known.

But maybe most of all she missed the freedom. She missed galloping across the countryside with the wind tearing through her hair. She missed being able to go where she wanted and say what she wanted without having to worry about offending someone or doing something wrong.

She
was
wild, she realized. And now she felt caged. Margaret didn't know how much more of this she could take. She was dying on this island. Each day she was losing more and more of herself.