Claimed by the Highlander (12 page)

Chapter Eight

Angus lay in bed, tossing and turning. There was no point in visiting Gwendolen’s bedchamber again, he told himself, over and over. He’d given his word that he would not bed her before marriage, and he’d drunk too much wine tonight. In his present mood, a single moment alone with her could turn him into a liar, or worse.

Nevertheless, when sleep continued to elude him, something compelled him to rise. He lit a candle, donned his shirt and tartan, and quietly ventured out of his father’s chamber. He walked through the chilly castle corridors toward the East Tower and hesitated there. The torch at the bottom of the stairs had gone out, so he used his candle to light it again, climbed the twisting staircase, and stopped, disconcerted, outside Gwendolen’s door.

He felt like a dog that had caught the scent of something juicy and couldn’t resist rummaging around. Reaching into his sporran for the key to her room, he inserted it into the lock, carefully turned it and entered, with the full intention of merely checking on her.

Moving closer to the bed, he raised the candle high over his head and observed her sleeping form. The flame cast a dim golden glow across the gentle curve of her body. She had pushed the covers aside and was stretched out on her belly with one leg bent, her shift tangled around her voluptuous hips and bum. Her hair was splayed out around her like rich ribbons of black silk. The soft ivory flesh of her thighs gleamed erotically in the candlelight.

His blood quickened, and he was forced to confront the uncomfortable truth that his capacity to be patient with her was fading fast. For two years, he had lived apart from society with the oracle, Raonaid—a beautiful but unfeeling woman, who was, in a way, his mirror image. There had been nothing innocent or vulnerable about her. She was not tender, and she regarded the world with antagonism and ill will.

For a time, he’d believed she was his perfect match, for she required very little from him. He could be distant and uncommunicative with her, and she offered no complaint, for she was just as distant in return. He really knew very little about her past, except for the fact that she had visions.

This woman, however—his future wife—was his opposite in every way, for she was innocent and pure of heart, noble and self-sacrificing. Some long-forgotten part of him wanted to touch that purity. A more familiar part of him wanted to pilfer and consume it—even when he knew he did not deserve to be in the same room with it. What he deserved was to rot in hell with a woman like Raonaid, who would not dare to judge him for his rancor, for she was the same.

Gwendolen breathed deeply and rolled to her side. She cupped the pillow in her arms, brought her knees to her chest. A chilly draft caused the candle’s flame to dance wildly on the wick, so he set the brass holder down on the table and pulled the covers up over her shoulders.

A moment later, she tossed the covers aside with agitation and rolled onto her back. The sweet-smelling perfume of her body touched his nostrils and awakened his senses, just as she opened her eyes and blinked up at him innocently.

A dangerous, passionate stirring of desire overwhelmed him. It was unlike any other desire he had ever felt for a woman. It was beyond sexual. He felt dazed, restless, and ravenous. In that moment, he was not sure he had the strength to keep the promise he had made to her, for he had never been a calm or patient man. He was a warrior at heart, and when he wanted something, he wanted it with violent, blinding fury.

And tonight—bargain or no bargain—he wanted
her
.

*   *   *

Gwendolen had been dreaming of the lion again, and when she opened her eyes and saw Angus standing over her bed like a beautiful creature of the wild, she wasn’t sure if she was awake or still floating in a mindless slumber.

A candle flickered in the room, and his enormous shadow loomed on the wall behind him. He smelled of musk and leather. His golden hair fell in blustery waves onto his broad shoulders—just like the lion’s mane in her dream—and her flesh tingled when his hungry gaze roamed over her body.

Was
she still dreaming? Her body felt warm and languid, remarkably calm, as she squirmed lasciviously on the mattress.

He crawled up onto the bed and positioned himself above her on all fours. His hair touched her cheek like the soft teasing tip of a feather, and she breathed deeply, realizing at last that he was not a figment of her imagination. He was true flesh and blood, and he had come to her bedchamber again, perhaps to break the promise he had made. Or perhaps he was here merely to explore and test the limits of her resistance.

Without uttering a word, he found her mouth in the hush of stillness between them, and her quivering lips parted instinctively. His tongue, constantly moving, circled around hers in a rush of damp heat, while her blood began to pulse through her body in a sweltering torrent of sensation.

His hand moved to her breast, and she gasped faintly at the light pressure of his thumb over her tingling nipple. She was surprised at herself—that she was not fighting his advances—but he had awakened her at the worst possible time, when she was aroused by the dream and did not feel so innocent.

Angus lowered his heavy body to hers. Her shift was bunched around her hips, for she had tugged it up during sleep, and she could feel the soft wool of his tartan against her bare inner thighs. His hands came to rest on her hip, while his tongue continued to swirl erotically around hers.

He had said nothing since the moment he entered the room, and she suspected that if she voiced even the smallest note of resistance, he would retreat, and for once, that was something she did not want. At least not yet.

His hands explored her body in smooth, graceful motions, and she grew bold enough to touch the corded muscles of his back through the fabric of his shirt. She gathered his tartan in her fists, desperate to squeeze and tug at his clothes.

A moment later, he dragged his lips from her mouth and kissed the side of her neck, moaning softly, as if he were devouring something succulent. She moaned in response, and his hand slid up under her shift and found the throbbing ache between her legs. His mouth moved quickly to her breasts, while he pushed her collar out of the way to gain better access. Gwendolen found herself squirming under the twin pleasures of his fingers stroking her womanhood and his tongue caressing her sensitive, pebbled nipple.

His erection pressed against her thigh, and the room seemed to spin in circles. He would have her eventually, she knew, but somehow, full knowledge of his manhood at this moment seemed incidental to the overwhelming intensity of her emotions and her desire for more. Whether it happened now or later did not seem to matter. It was going to happen at some point. She could not stop it. She didn’t
want
to stop it, at least not now.

Using the heel of his palm, he continued to stroke between her legs until she could barely endure the pleasure. Then he slid one long, slick finger inside her. She stiffened and bucked slightly at the shock of the invasion.

He paused, drawing his head back to look at her. “Am I hurting you?”

They were the first words spoken since he entered the room.

She shook her head, rather frantically.

“One finger won’t make a difference,” he whispered. “You’ll still be a virgin in the morning.”

He kissed her neck and breasts, as she lay panting, her chest heaving.

“You must think me a child,” she said.

“Nay, I don’t think that.” He was still sliding his finger in and out of her with a slippery ease that made her shiver with delight. “You’re all woman, and I’m surprised that you’re mine.”

“I’m not yours yet,” she reminded him, feeling overwhelmed by the pleasures. They made her feel wild and out of control. “I could still change my mind.”

He regarded her intently, then rolled to the side and rested a cheek on a hand, while still stroking her down below with the other. “Why would you say that now, when I’m doing everything I can to please you?”

“Because you invaded my home,” she replied, feeling breathless and distracted, barely able to think through the violent flow of sensation.

“From what I heard,” he said, leaning close to her ear and teasing her with his voice, “you almost put a bullet in my brain while I was completing the invasion. What stopped you?”

“I couldn’t get a clear shot.” She bit her lower lip and arched her back, while he continued to study her face.

“Do you want me to stop talking?” he asked.

She could only nod, grateful for the opportunity to focus on the increasing flood of pleasure that was moving through her body.

He lay beside her with his cheek still resting on a hand, while he continued to plunge his finger in and out of her pulsing, scorching depths. She was impossibly wet down there, and the ever-increasing tension begged for release.

Needing to hold on to something, she grabbed his forearm, closed her hand around the firm bands of muscle, and thrust her hips upward to meet each of his deep, slick penetrations. At last, the tension seemed to burst out of her. Pleasure racked her brain, and she tossed her head on the pillow, feeling as wild as an animal. A moment later, her heart slowed its galloping pace, and she shuddered inwardly as each exhausted throb of relief vibrated through her.

He bent close to kiss her neck, lifted her shift and his kilt out of the way, and rolled on top of her. Her legs parted to accommodate him, and he swiveled his hips and touched the silky tip of his erection to the place where his hand had just been. The connection lit her on fire. She wrapped her legs around his hips, and wondered if he would claim her now.

“Why did you not resist me tonight?” he asked, rising up on both arms to look down at her in the candlelight.

“I don’t know.”

It was the honest truth. Though perhaps it had something to do with the dream.

“I’ll need you to be willing when I make love to you.”

“You’re not going to do it now?”

He paused. “Nay.”

“Why not?”

“Because I gave my word, and I can’t expect you to keep yours, if I don’t keep mine.”

“I see.” He wanted her loyalty. Especially when her brother came.
If
he came.

Angus drew himself away and sat back on his heels at the foot of the bed, looking at her.

She leaned up on her elbows. “You should know,” she said, “that I understand why it’s important to you that I am willing. I know about your sister.”

He sat for a long time with his eyes downcast, then ran a hand through his hair. He climbed off the bed and fingered the brooch at his shoulder to straighten his tartan.

Gwendolen crawled across the mattress and hugged the corner bedpost. “I’m very sorry that such a thing happened to her.”

He twisted slightly to arrange the belted section at the back. “I don’t talk about it.”

“Not ever?”

He shook his head. “Nay. I have to go now.”

The candle flickered as he picked it up and carried it to the door. “Good night, Gwendolen.”

“Good night,” she replied, feeling rather bewildered by his swift, yet strangely polite exit.

There had been something very different about him tonight. He had treated her with a certain degree of courtesy, for one, and his hands had been surprisingly gentle. She was still reeling from the pleasure she had never expected to feel with him.

She watched the door close behind him, then flopped back onto the bed and strove to recover from her astonishment.

Chapter Nine

Construction of the new gate began the following day in the open bailey, the clansmen pounding away with their hammers, and groaning as they raised heavy planks under the warm sun. Gwendolen worked hard from the kitchen, supervising the luncheon preparations, for the men required their sustenance.

Late in the afternoon, she ventured through the Great Hall with a group of servants to deliver a cart of ale. She crossed the sunny bailey, her feet tapping lightly over the packed earth while the servants followed with the wheeled cart. When she reached the gate, she breathed in the sweet-smelling scent of freshly cut timber. Wood shavings from the lathe littered the ground, and the crack of hammers echoed off the castle walls.

Then Gwendolen caught sight of Angus. She had not known he’d joined the laborers, and her thoughts clogged her brain as she watched him drag a long wooden plank across the bailey. The heavy length of wood rested on one broad shoulder, and he leaned forward into the task, the muscles of his thighs straining as he took one heavy step, paused, then took another. His shirt clung wetly to his back. Perspiration dampened his hair. He had rolled his sleeves up to the elbows, and she could see the muscles in his forearms, flexing and contracting with each strenuous step.

She stood watching him until the clansmen recognized what was in the cart and began to crowd around it. She helped serve the ale to the thirsty workers, while Angus reached the bridge beyond the gate tower, stopped, and twisted his body to set the plank down. It bounced heavily as it landed, and sent a cloud of sawdust swirling into the air.