Carnal Gift (23 page)
“You look lovely.”
The way he said it—slowly and with the emphasis on the word “lovely”—made her insides go warm and soft. She met his gaze, felt her heart trip. There was appreciation in his eyes, proof he meant what he said. “Thank you.”
He turned, offered her his arm. “Shall we?” She hesitated, reminded herself she hated this man. He had lied to her, betrayed her, kidnapped her. Protected her from the
iarla.
iarla.
She hesitantly accepted his arm. “Don’t think this means I’ve forgiven you,
Sasanach.”
Sasanach.”
His rich baritone laughter filled the room like sunshine.
“I shall try to remember how very much you despise me.” He led her out into the long, spacious hallway, with its polished wooden floors, ornate sideboards, and many paintings, shared with her the history of Kenleigh Manor. One portrait was larger and stood out among the others. A tall man, dark and strikingly handsome, stood behind a woman with curly rose-gold hair. She had lovely green eyes that seemed familiar, and on her lap sat a darkhaired baby. Beside her stood a young boy, his head crowned with shining blond curls.
“Who are they?”
“That is Alec Kenleigh, my brother-in-law, and Cassie, my sister.”
“And this is his home?”
“Aye. One of them. He has lands in Virginia, as well.” Brighid looked at the woman in the painting, and the man beside her. “Your sister is quite lovely. You have the same eyes. Those must be her children.” “Yes, the one on her lap is my nephew and she has another one due any time now.”
“Your sister is with child?”
“Aye, though Alec swears ‘twill be their last. He says that every time. He cannot bear her suffering.” “Yet he cannot keep himself from her. He must love her very much.” The idea seemed terribly romantic to Brighid.
“He does.” The tone in Jamie’s voice was one of deep respect. “And he loves his children.”
“Who is the other child? He has her eyes.”
“It is I.”
“You?” She took a step closer, gazed up at the painting. The hair was lighter, the features softer, but she thought she could make out the strength of his jaw, the fullness of his lips in the sweet face of the little boy he’d once been.
She glanced up at him to compare, found he was watching her. The warmth in his eyes made her feel almost dizzy. “Aye, it is you.”
“Am I interrupting?”
Brighid gasped, whirled toward the sound of the voice, saw an older man with a wooden leg stood at the door. He had white hair—or was it a wig?—which was pulled back and worked into a beribboned braid. His square jaw was softened by a friendly smile that lit up his light blue eyes. He wore dark brown breeches and a deep blue waistcoat. In his right hand, he held a cane of carved and polished black wood with a golden knob at the top. “Matthew, allow me to introduce Brighid Ni Maelsechnaill.” Jamie smiled at her reassuringly. “Brighid, this is Lieutenant Matthew Hastings, Elizabeth’s husband.” Brighid was amazed at Matthew’s grace as.he walked forward, took her hand, kissed it. “We owe you a debt of deepest gratitude, Miss Ni Maelsechnaill. Jamie is as a son to us. If there is anything we can do to repay you for your care of him, you have only to ask.”
She felt her face grow warm at Matthew’s gracious greeting. “Thank you, sir.”
“I wouldn’t have interrupted, Jamie, but this just arrived, and I knew you’d want to see it immediately.” Matthew retrieved what looked like a letter from inside his waistcoat and handed it to Jamie. “If I were to be entirely truthful, I must admit I wanted to meet you, Miss Ni Maelsechnaill.”
Brighid didn’t know what to say. “Thank you, sir. Tis a pleasure meetin’ you, too, sir.” She felt so silly, so out of place. She glanced over at Jamie, hoped to see some sign on his face she wasn’t making a fool of herself. But his gaze was focused on the letter, his brow furrowed, the line of his mouth hard. He handed it to Matthew, who quickly read it, handed it back.
She could feel the tension in the two men, but neither said anything about the letter’s contents. A tendril of fear snaked through her belly.
“Thank you, Matthew.” Jamie slipped his arm through hers again as if nothing had happened. “Shall we continue our tour?”
He showed her the billiard room, a two-story salon, the formal dining room. Then he led her down a side hallway to a set of large double doors. “I think this will be your favorite room.” An enigmatic smile on his face, he grasped the brass door handles, pushed the doors open.
A shaft of daylight spilled into the hall, and she peered within.
She gasped, clutched his arm. “Oh, Jamie!”
The walls of the room were lined floor to ceiling with bookcases. Rows and rows of books stretched out before her. How many she could not even guess. Jamie watched delight spread across her lovely face. He’d deliberately saved this room for last. God, how he loved her smile, the sound of her laughter. He would have to tell her what was in the letter, but he didn’t want to do it now.
She left his side, took several steps into the library, an expression of wonder in her eyes. She walked to the nearest shelf, reached out her hand, stopped. “I’ve never seen such a place! May I touch them?”
“They are yours to read as you like.”
She met his gaze, her eyes round. “All of them? Truly?”
“Aye, truly.”
Jamie leaned against the wall, watched as Brighid explored the library’s offerings. She drew out first one book, then another, and soon had a small pile of tomes sitting on one of the sideboards. He smiled to himself, lost in the grace of her movements, enthralled by her enjoyment of so simple a pleasure. There had been far too little happiness in her life.
He watched her run her slender fingers over the spines of one book after another, found himself wondering how those fingers would feel running over his skin. His thoughts had taken a decidedly erotic turn when she squealed and pulled a book from the shelf. She held it up for him to see, then read from the binding.
“The lives and Actions of the Most Notorious Irish Highwaymen”
She thumbed carefully through it. “Well, ‘tis written in your tongue, but I can manage that.” “I dare say you can.”
She met his gaze, flashed him an unguarded smile.
Then her gaze focused on something to his right, and her brow furrowed. “What is that? Is it—“ “A globe.”
She put the book down, walked over to the orb, which was suspended on a stand that rose nearly to her waist. She reached out a hand, hesitated. “May I—“ “Yes, of course.”
She touched the surface, turned it slowly, frowned.
“Where are we?”
Jamie walked over to stand beside her, turned the globe until England lay beneath his fingertips. “We are here. Outside London.”
“Then this is Eire.” She stood so close he could smell the lavender soap she’d used in her bath, feel the warmth of her body.
“Aye. Dublin is here, which means Meath must be .. . here.”
“It’s so tiny! See how small Ireland is compared to the rest of the world?” She looked up at him, amazement in her eyes.
“The world is a vast place.” He wanted to touch her, run his fingers across the satin of her cheek. “Show me where you come from.”
Jamie turned the globe, slowly tracing his finger across the curve of the Atlantic Ocean, until it found its way to the familiar coastline of Virginia and the Tidewater lands of Chesapeake Bay. “My estate is in Lancaster County on the banks of the Rappahannock River. I was born there.” She looked up at him again, rested a hand on his arm.
“So far away.”
Her touch, so innocently given, was like a brand. Jamie could feel its heat through his clothing, through every part of his body. Suddenly, it all became so simple: He needed to kiss her, to taste her. Nothing—not even the voice in his mind that told him he was a fool—would stop him.
His gaze captured hers, and he warned her with his eyes just what he was going to do. He saw her pupils dilate, heard the breath catch in her throat, knew she understood. He tucked a finger beneath her chin, bent over her, took her lips with his.
Chapter Nineteen
Brighid knew he was going to kiss her, did nothing to stop it. She felt the first tentative brush of his lips on hers, like the lick of flames. The raw pleasure of it made her whimper. What spell had he cast over her? She hated him, didn’t she? Hated him. Despised him.
Wanted him. Needed him.
Moved by a longing too strong to deny, she wrapped her arms around his neck, lifted herself to meet him. His response was immediate. He pulled her hard against him, took her lips in a fierce kiss. And when his tongue sought entry, she gave it willingly, eager for that sweet invasion.
On the grass at Teagh-Mor, his mouth had tempted her, but now it possessed her, consumed her. She lost herself in the hot, wet slide of tongue over tongue, in the taste of him, the feel of his hard body pressed against hers.
And hard he was. She could feel the rigid length of his sex against her belly. An image of his body, naked and powerful, leapt into her memory, and something deep inside her clenched. Not in fear, but in desire. He broke the kiss, but not to free her. His eyes told her he would not free her. Not yet. “I like your hair down.”
She felt the fingers of one hand slide into her hair, remove the pins that bound it, felt the heavy mass tumble free.
He made a low, feral sound like a growl, fisted a hand in her tresses, pulled her head back. “You taste
so
good.” She gasped, felt teeth and tongue rake her skin, a cascade of pleasure as he sucked, nipped, licked his way down the sensitive column of her throat. She clung to him, almost afraid of the way he made her feel, stunned by her own passion. This was so much better than being angry with him, so much better than not speaking to him. Then his mouth strayed from her throat to the exposed mounds of her breasts where they rose above her gown, his lips hot against her flesh as he kissed first one, then the other.
so
good.” She gasped, felt teeth and tongue rake her skin, a cascade of pleasure as he sucked, nipped, licked his way down the sensitive column of her throat. She clung to him, almost afraid of the way he made her feel, stunned by her own passion. This was so much better than being angry with him, so much better than not speaking to him. Then his mouth strayed from her throat to the exposed mounds of her breasts where they rose above her gown, his lips hot against her flesh as he kissed first one, then the other.
She couldn’t stop the little gasp or the moan that followed. “Jamie!” She felt her insides quiver, her knees grow weak.
Before she could object, he had borned her to the plush carpet and stretched himself out above her. She knew she should tell him to stop. She shouldn’t be doing this. Instead, she found herself twining her fingers in his hair, pressing his head closer, urging him on. “Oh, God, Brighid.” He cupped one breast, ran his thumb over her nipple through the silk of her gown, once, twice, again.
A shaft of pure pleasure shot from her where he had touched her to the heated flesh between her legs. Her nipple drew taut, tingled. She moaned, pressed her breast more fully against his hand. “Jamie, yes!” “You are a banquet to a starving man.” His voice was rough with desire, his breath steamy against her skin. “I would taste more of you.” Then he did something she never could have anticipated. His mouth closed over the sensitive peak of her nipple, suckled it through her gown. She cried out, a wild, erotic sound. Ragged sensation tore through her, made her entire body tremble. The cleft between her thighs ached, grew wet, and for the first time in her life, she yearned to be filled.
Her hips lifted of their own accord, pressed against him. He pressed back, his rigid length thrusting against her just there, just where she needed it most. She knew she should put a stop to this. Why then was she moaning with pleasure as he grabbed her skirts in great fistfuls, lifted them, caressed the bare flesh above her stockings? Why did she arch toward him when his mouth closed over the cloth covering her other nipple? Why was she running her hands beneath his shirt over the bare skin of his powerful shoulders? Then his hand cupped the mound of her sex. No one had ever touched her there.
She drew her thighs together with a surprised squeak, but that didn’t stop him.
He began to move his hand in slow, agonizing circles, and she could no longer think or question. The shock of it, the delicious heat of it, made her body quake. A desperate yearning overcame her, part pleasure, part ache, as the heat between her legs became a raging blaze. And that wild whimpering, that soft keening sound could that possibly be coming from her?
“Let me bring you pleasure. Let me give you release,
a Bhrighid.
I’ll go no further. I promise.”
A Bhrighid.
The Irish form of direct address. Where had he learned that? He’d heard Rhuaidhri say it, of course. Rhuaidhri. Her brothers.
a Bhrighid.
I’ll go no further. I promise.”
A Bhrighid.
The Irish form of direct address. Where had he learned that? He’d heard Rhuaidhri say it, of course. Rhuaidhri. Her brothers.
Guilt slammed into her like an icy wave. Her brothers were in Ireland enduring God only knew what, while she lay on the floor practically making love with the
Sasanach
who had taken her from them.
Sasanach
who had taken her from them.
“S-stop!” She pushed his hand away, twisted away from him, sat up, her skirts askew. “I can’t!” Breath hissed from between his clenched teeth, a strained expression on his face as he fought to bring himself under control. He stood, helped her to her feet. His gaze met hers, his eyes dark with the same need that ran thick in her veins. “Cannot, or will not, Brighid?” She looked at the results of their ardor—rumpled clothing, his long hair loose about his shoulders, the darkened patches of silk where his kisses had made her gown wet. “With you, they are one and the same,
Sasanach.”
For the briefest second, his eyes filled with pain before growing hard and cold as jade.
Sasanach.”
For the briefest second, his eyes filled with pain before growing hard and cold as jade.
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