The Taming of a Highlander Page 16

  She captured his gaze and held. Held. Stroked his jaw and held him fast.

  His hands tightened upon her waist, his fingers lacing along her back. Digging in. Kneading. His breath caught. Heaved. A massive palm slid up her back to cup her nape. Another angled down to her lower spine and drew her tight against him.

  This time, she was the one who groaned. He was hot. Hard. So very hard. His chest flattened her breasts, making her nipples beg for more. More pressure. More friction.

  Suddenly the room felt scorching. Her skin tightened and zinged. Her breasts swelled and ached.

  He angled her head, breathing against her lips. “Dinnae say I never warned ye, lass.”

  Between one moment and the next, Kate’s world both exploded and shrank to a pinpoint. There was only this. His lips sliding against hers. His tongue sleeking inside. His taste—whisky-sharp—teasing her senses.

  She answered by clasping him closer, looping his neck. He pleasured her mouth with his, stroking and teasing, making the invasion a sensual dance. But he was too careful. Too slow. Too gentle.

  Needing him deeper, harder, she ground her mouth against his. Chased his tongue with hers. Dug her fingers into his scalp and clutched his thick, cool hair.

  His hand slid into her hair, too. It grasped and forced her away.

  Whimpering, she realized how breathless she’d gone. How cold she felt without his mouth. How little she’d known about desire until now.

  He gazed at her with that single, ravenous eye. “I was imprisoned for six months,” he rasped, holding her hair and her body and her sanity in his hands. “Recuperating another six. If we do this, I cannae be gentle. Do ye ken?”

  She stroked her knuckles across his lips. Rested her forehead against his. “Can you make it pleasurable?”

  His breaths quickened. He uttered a low growl. The hand on her back squeezed until she could feel his fingertips. “Aye.”

  Brazenly, she traced her tongue along his lower lip then whispered, “Right answer, Broderick MacPherson.”

  Everything sane inside Broderick burned away. He’d had the thought—fleetingly—that he should be the one to leave. To save her.

  But then she’d kissed him. Stroked him. Offered herself so sweetly and so persistently that he’d lost track of why she needed saving.

  His hands tightened on her tiny waist. His fingers dug into her hips. She was small. Probably untried. He should take care.

  She gave him one of her glowing smiles, and he cracked. Split like wood down the middle. The wood burned to ash, revealing what lay inside.

  Need. Dark, shocking need.

  With quick, jerking motions, he tore loose her dressing gown. Beneath lay a shift that might as well not exist. Positioned as she was, her breasts were level with his mouth. He saw her nipples. Hard, pouting.

  He took. Suckled her through the linen.

  Not enough.

  He grasped her hems and stripped her shift and gown up and off. Ah, God. His wife was exquisite. Curving hips, dark hair, lean thighs. Milky-white skin and soft, pink-tipped breasts. The one he’d suckled was darker, flushed hard with pleasure. He took the other in his mouth and tasted flowers and velvet.

  He clutched her naked body tighter. Closer. Lifted her off her feet and dropped her flat on the mattress.

  Faintly, he heard her gasping. Then, she laughed.

  Sweet Christ. That laugh.

  He growled, deep and low. Yanked his shirt off. Tore open his fall. He was so hot, he wondered if he might set the bloody room on fire. “Need ye,” he rasped, all senses focused upon her beauty and her scent. “Spread yer legs.”

  “Broderick,” she crooned. “Look at me.”

  “Kate. Do as I tell ye.”

  “Here, darling. Kiss me.”

  He wanted to. Her mouth and her nipples and her sex. But the monster of lust, primal and uncaged, had taken control. This was precisely what he’d feared. He should have paid some whore to ease him. He should not be mauling his wife.

  But she wasn’t his wife, was she? Not yet. Suddenly, that fact was an untenable agony. She must be his. Nobody must question it.

  He gripped her legs and drew them apart, tugging her closer until her knees bent wide. That was when he noticed. Like an animal, he fixated upon it. She was pink, as berry-bright as her blush. The folds glistened like flower petals after a hard rain. And she smelled like flowers, only deeper. Richer. He wanted a taste. How long since he’d tasted a woman?

  Too damned long.

  He grasped her waist, lifted and slid her higher on the bed. Then he dropped to his elbows, held her hips with desperate hands, and began to feast. A groan rumbled from the deepest part of him.

  Sleek. Swollen. Wet.

  She tasted of exotic blooms and salty lust. She tasted like honey from the depths of paradise. With his tongue, he stroked and delved, watching her ripe crimson nub swell and beg. He suckled it hard, controlling her as she arched high. Ignoring her as she yanked at his hair and demanded to know what he was doing.

  He was devouring her, that’s what. Feasting like the desperate, starved beast she’d married. How tight was she? he wondered. As soon as the thought occurred, he sank his longest finger into her sheath, feeling for the small signs of her virginity. Found it. Added another finger. Stretched her as he suckled her sweet nub and felt her rippling. Rippling. Rippling. Seizing. Ah, God. So bloody tight.

  Her screams of ecstasy echoed in his ears, and it was not enough. He wanted her juices on his cock. He wanted her to feel him there inside her long after he’d left. The desires should have signaled how far from reason he’d strayed. Instead, they satisfied the wild, primitive creature he’d become.

  Aye. He wanted her beneath him. Taking him. He wanted this tight, slick sheath wringing him dry.

  “… rick, pl-please. Kiss me. I want you here.”

  His guts twisted hard. He looked at her—the flushed, white skin. The soft curves and downy curls. Then, he let his gaze travel higher. Her breasts heaved, the nipples red and beaded. Finally, he dared to meet her eyes.

  He couldn’t stop the growl. It came from so deep inside him, he wasn’t even sure it was human. She was painfully beautiful. And the way she glowed—like the damned sun, she was.

  “Kate.” Her name was agony. How he hurt. How he needed the glow in her eyes and her soft, sensuous smile.

  She reached for him.

  He came over her.

  She kissed his mouth.

  He dove in deep.

  Her fingers dug into his back as his clawed the MacPherson wool on either side of her head. “Need ye, lass.”

  “Mmm. Yes.”

  He reached between them, took out his cock, and stroked her folds with the tip.

  “B-Broderick?” Her eyes flared. “Is this going to … just let me … perhaps give me a moment—”

  He didn’t have a moment. The world was on fire. He wedged his hips deeper into the cradle of her thighs, forcing her legs wider. Then, he tucked his cock at her entrance and, as slowly as he could manage, he pushed inside. She squirmed, grunted, huffed. He controlled her movements with a hand on her nape and one on her thigh.

  He forged deeper, the heat and vise-like grip of her body making his head float free, his senses spin. The base of his spine tingled and sparked. His ballocks felt heavy as cannonballs, primed to fire.

  She squirmed again, and he growled. Repositioned her firmly. Gave another thrust.

  “Too … big. Broderick. Good God.”

  Her eyes caught his, pleading for mercy.

  He had none. It had been beaten out of him before he’d ever met her.

  With another ferocious growl, he pulled free of her, earning him a surprised yelp. Before she could either thank him or protest, he flipped her onto her belly, yanked her up onto her knees, and bent over her.

  “Say no, lass.” He gathered her hair in his fist, pulling it to the side so he could nip her earlobe. “Tell
me to go to the devil. For, that’s where I belong. Say it.”

  Her shoulders heaved on stormy breaths. “I—I can’t.”

  “Say it. Or I’ll take ye like this.”

  Her body trembled beneath his, her shoulders and her smooth, creamy back shuddering as her head hung between her braced arms. “Then, take me,” she panted, her voice in threads. “I want you to.”

  It was all he needed. His first thrust was hard, but she was tight as a fist, and he only forged inside five inches or so.

  She stiffened. Whimpered. Gasped and clawed the blankets.

  He withdrew and thrust inside again, deeper this time. She was slick from her earlier climax, and it helped ease his path. But it took several more thrusts before he’d filled her completely. When he was seated as deep as he could go, a strange thing happened. The urgency receded the slightest bit. His head cleared of its steamy heat long enough for him to notice her shaking.

  He bent closer. Slid his lips along her nape and down the side of her neck. Holding himself deep inside her, he used his free hand to caress her breasts. He worked her nipples, squeezing them hard. He cupped and plumped the breasts he’d failed to pleasure sufficiently. Then, he slid his hand down to her sex, the downy ringlets wet and warm, now. Her swollen nub begged for his stroke. He answered with a firm nudge that made her jerk and gasp. Her sheath wept its approval, seizing upon him with an uncertainty he couldn’t tolerate.

  He began moving. Thrusting. Out and in. A few inches and a few more. The thrusts pounded, first solid then rougher. Harder. He drew back to watch as he pulled almost free and sank back inside her tight, slick sheath. So pink. So swollen and ripe. His own body’s thick, dark stalk was a marauder, invading her small, delicate passage. The sight obsessed him. She was his, and nothing had ever felt so damned perfect. He took his wife hard. Taking and taking and taking. But her body welcomed him. Her pleasure glistened upon him.

  “… take anymore. Please.” She moaned. Pleaded in rhythm with his thrusts. Her hips writhed and pushed back into him as he went deeper. “Need you. To finish.”

  Not until she did. By God, not until he’d felt her coming on his cock.

  Gritting his teeth, he circled and swirled amidst the center of her folds, using his fingers to force her body higher, closer to her peak. He thrust faster. Rammed deeper. Growled in her ear, “Is this what ye wanted, Kate? To be tupped by a monster?”

  “Oooh, heavens. Broderick! Not a monster. Not … a monster. A man. My husband.” She keened. Seized. A warning ripple. “Aaah! The pleasure. It’s too much. I can’t …” She sobbed and stiffened. Her body undulated. Wrung his cock with wondrous, repeated paroxysms. Her arms collapsed. Her head lowered onto the blankets.

  His hips didn’t stop. His fingers didn’t stop. He wanted everything from her. He wanted to fill her and fuck her and make her understand no other man would ever give her this.

  But his body’s deprivation caught up to him, and nothing could have stopped its eruption. He felt its rise as her rippling pleasure began to ease. His arm banded her waist. His mouth settled in the cradle of her neck and shoulder. He gritted his teeth, and with several mighty thrusts, the pleasure he’d been denied for longer than a year—longer than a lifetime—burst through his entire body. The violent explosion was every wondrous sensation he’d ever had, distilled down to one long, exquisite minute. It pulsed and raged. It eased and relieved. It made every second he’d spent apart from Kate Huxley MacPherson an eternal torment.

  Because this was not the result of deprivation. This was extraordinary. She was extraordinary.

  He collapsed onto his side, his arms drawing her back into the cradle of his body. And, when he felt her soft chuckle, he squeezed her hard. Breathed her in. Kissed her temple. Nuzzled her hair, helpless to do anything else.

  God, how could she be like this after the way he’d treated her?

  “Well, I suppose you did warn me, didn’t you?” she said wryly, her voice in tatters and edging toward drowsy. She stroked his wrist where it banded between her breasts. Her fingers tapped out a ticklish tune on his arm. “Nobody can say we aren’t married now.” Satisfaction threaded her voice. She turned her face and kissed his jaw then sighed. “Including you.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Kate had always been an early riser, but the morning after being ravished by her husband—three times, no less—she slept through breakfast. And then through luncheon. In fact, by the time she managed to roll from his bed, wrap her nakedness in a blanket, and summon Janet, the day was half-gone. She searched for her shift amidst the bedclothes and didn’t find it. So, she dropped to her knees and peeked beneath the bed. There! She reached for the wad of white material, and her knuckles brushed something hard.

  She frowned. Felt wood and metal. It was a hammer. The tool was heavy and worn, the metal head nicked and the handle smoothed by long use.

  Why did Broderick have a hammer beneath his bed?

  She had little time to contemplate it, as Janet knocked at the door. Kate shoved the hammer back into place and greeted her maid with a sheepish glance. “No commentary, if you please,” she warned.

  The maid grinned back. “Wouldnae dream of it, mistress.”

  In truth, Janet was most helpful, arranging a soothing bath and helping her choose a chocolate-brown wool walking gown appropriate to the damp, cloudy weather. Of course, the maid fought a knowing smirk while tending Kate, and that was vexing. But Kate couldn’t blame her.

  The signs of her debauchery covered her body, rendering it sore, pleasantly achy, and sensitive. His whiskers had reddened her breasts, her neck, and most especially, her inner thighs. Her nipples could scarcely tolerate the brush of her shift. Though his hands had never caused her pain, his fingers had left faint marks on her hips. To her, every one of them was a prize.

  Oh, how he’d wanted her. And it had been glorious.

  She wanted to see him again. He’d departed long before she’d awakened, and she wanted to know whether he’d been as pleased as she was.

  After Janet untangled, washed, and dressed her hair, Kate donned her walking gown along with a fur-lined, brown velvet cloak, a blue silk bonnet, and a sturdy pair of half-boots. Her stomach grumbled, reminding her she hadn’t yet eaten.

  “If ye mean to take Ophelia for a jaunt, wouldnae yer riding hat be better, Mrs. MacPherson?” Janet’s smirk pursed her lips.

  “No!” Kate swallowed her chagrin and lowered her voice. “No riding today. I shall walk. You said he’ll be at the distillery, yes?”

  “Aye,” came the amused response. “Pleasant day for a walk. Mind ye dinnae exhaust yerself, now.”

  Kate snorted and rolled her eyes.

  The cheeky maid chuckled and tidied the dressing table.

  “I must fetch a bite to eat before I go. When Mrs. Grant returns from shopping, please inform her I shall be moving my belongings to the master bedchamber, but I shall keep this room for writing.”

  Janet’s eyebrows arched until they disappeared beneath her fringe of sandy hair. “That good, was it?”

  Kate’s lips longed to smile, but sharing such confidences with one’s maid was inappropriate. Instead, she shot Janet a chiding glance and opened the door. On her way out, however, she couldn’t resist. “Not that good.” Her grin broke free. “Better.”

  She hummed a new, inspired tune as she floated along the corridor, down the stairs, and to the kitchen. There, she noticed a plate of sliced lamb and a basket of rolls on the sideboard. She quickly wrapped both in a napkin and slid the bundle inside her reticule.

  A loud clatter sounded from the passage leading to the scullery and larder. A series of grumbled curses and grunts followed. Then, silence.

  Kate frowned. Perhaps she should help poor Mr. McInnes. He was getting on in years, and if he’d taken a tumble—

  An old woman staggered from the passage, bracing herself against the corner of the table. She looked more frazzled than usual, her hair
dusted with flour and her cheeks red as apples. Her leather pouch now hung halfway down her skirt.

  “Mrs. MacBean?”

  The herbalist gave her a half-milky blink. “Och, lassie. Didnae expect to find ye here this mornin’.”

  “It is afternoon.”

  Mrs. MacBean frowned. Glanced out the windows. “Well, look there. It is. Where did the time go?”

  “Are you here about Broderick’s liniment?”

  “Eh?”

  “Liniment,” Kate repeated, louder this time. “Or perhaps his tonic?”

  Half-blind eyes flared wide. Mrs. MacBean rushed toward her and grasped her hand. “Ye didnae use it, did ye?”

  Kate frowned. “Well, yes, actually. It appears most effective.”

  “It does?”

  A twinge of misgiving struck her middle. “This surprises you?”

  The woman blew out a breath and ran a hand across her forehead. Flour dusted down from her hair. “Aye. Ye might say that.”

  Mr. McInnes entered from the same passage Mrs. MacBean had staggered through moments earlier. He had flour on his cap, a misbuttoned fall, and a brown vial in his hand. “What sort of devil’s formula did ye give me, woman? Ye might’ve killed us both!”

  Mrs. MacBean’s gaze shifted sheepishly between McInnes and Kate.

  The conclusion was both baffling and obvious. They’d been in the scullery doing … that. Kate groaned, her fingers moving to her lips. “Dear God. What did I give Broderick?” she murmured.

  “Och, nothin’ poisonous, lass.”

  McInnes grumbled as he dusted his cap off against his leg then stomped to where he’d hung his apron and tied it in place. “Ye owe me another batch, woman. My piles willnae be shrunken after this, I’ll tell ye that much.”

  Mrs. MacBean leaned closer and whispered, “A wee bit of horse chestnut.”

  “And it’ll be days ere I have a proper shite!” he bellowed, yanking a crate of apples from a low shelf and slamming it on the table.

  “The lad might be eager for the privy today,” she whispered with a pat. “He’ll be feelin’ fine by supper. Dinnae fash.”