Highland Jewel (Highland Brides) (27 page)

She was happy. He could see it in her unusual eyes. Could hear it in her laughter. She knew most of the men were unhurt, but also recognized a few potentially serious problems, and mended those men to the best of her considerable ability.

The land was suddenly abuzz with talk of Fiona's miraculous feats. She had snatched poor Malcolm from the jaws of death. She was not the snooty, better-than-thou beauty they had thought—but a healer. And a bold-talking healer at that, they said. For with each passing hour the story of how she had snapped orders at Laird Leith was told and retold.

Leith heard the stories and didn't know whether to laugh or scowl, for to hear the tale one would think the lass was not only a miracle-worker, but also a harridan who dragged him around by a ring in his nose.

She stood now, checking the bump on poor Malcolm's head as Roderic watched. Her fingers were quick and clever as she moved closer to her patient, her breasts mere inches from his head.

From where he stood Leith saw Roderic's brows rise.

"I'm feeling a wee bit of pain in me head too," he stated blithely.

"And ye'll be feeling more should ye get any closer," warned Leith, moving up beside them.

"Ah, me liege," said Roderic with a grin. "I didna see ye there. Strange, but ye seem to be forever close to hand these days."

"Aye." Leith nodded. "That I do, lad, and best ye dunna forget it."

The breeze was crisp and clean against Rose's face. She lifted her chin slightly, filling her lungs with the fresh air and feeling Leith's presence beside her like a strong tonic. From the top of the ridge where she sat astride her black mare, she could see Burn Creag rush along its rocky course. Trees towered above the white-capped water, dark-green and majestic. Closer, and just below their vantage point, a sheltered valley lay in soft, grass-covered peacefulness.

Rose breathed deeply, holding Maise steady with the slightest of pressure to the reins. “’Tis a beautiful land, this Scotland of yours."

"Aye
_r
" Leith agreed, nudging his stallion closer. Sweet Jesu, she was the picture of youthful beauty. She did not ride perched sidesaddle as he'd seen Englishwomen do, but rode astride, her long, slim legs gripping the black mare with easy strength. Without the slightest difficulty he could envision those limbs gripping him, could imagine the euphoric feel of her womanhood closing...

Woo and charm,
Leith reminded himself angrily. He was here to woo and charm her, not to pounce on her like an oversexed hound. Sweet Jesu, he could not trust himself even to get near her, but he would accomplish this task if it killed him—which it might, he decided, glancing at her lovely face.

Woo and charm,
his mind chanted, and he gritted his teeth and set his mind to his job.

" 'Tis indeed a bonny place," Leith said, tearing his eyes from her and hoping to appear casual. " 'Tis na easy for a Highlander to leave his homeland. In truth..." He looked to the north, remembering old Ian's stories of long ago. "I have heard of warriors who would fill their boots with the soil of Scotland before they journeyed, so that their feet might never truly leave the land."

"And did you stuff your boots so?" she asked, smiling a little.

"Nay." He shook his head and found he could not draw his gaze from her face. "I dunna care for dirty feet. But..." He watched her laugh and practically had to slap himself to remember his line of thought. "But 'twas na easy for me to be gone from this place. Though... finding ye made it well worth the hardships."

He meant it was worth it because of the good she could do his clan, Rose thought logically, but looking into his eyes, she thought he seemed to mean something more.

"How is it that you were able to find St. Mary's?" she asked, keeping her tone steady as she pulled her gaze from his with great force of will. But what she really wondered was how he could act so casual in her presence when she could barely breathe in his. Did he feel some of the same hair-raising exhilaration when they touched? And what would he do if she asked him to accompany her to the cool shelter of yonder oak?

" 'Twas a long and difficult course," said Leith, as he too looked away. But not so difficult as keeping his hands from her. Not so difficult as seeing her breasts rise and fall and preventing himself from carrying her to that shaded spot beneath the oak to take the clothes from her body and seek the comfort of her core.

Their gazes slipped, caught, melded. And for one trembling instant, their thoughts mingled and their breathing stopped abruptly in their aching chests.

The shady spot beneath the oak beckoned.

"Rose." He said her name in a hoarse tone, his face tense. Hers was no more casual.

"Yes?" she breathed.

Woo! Charm! Damn!

He drew a great breath and tried to relax. "We should be getting back. Ye must be tired."

"Yes." She shifted her gaze regretfully to that seductive, shady spot beneath the tree. Yes, she
was
tired—of aching for his touch, she thought raggedly, then drew her gaze to where her knuckles formed a bumpy ridge over her clenched, sweaty palms. "We'd best return."

It was dark. The room was silent. On the far side of the door Leith's servant, Ranald, slept. On this side of the door, two bodies lay on a velvet-draped bed as far apart as was humanly possible.

Tonight Leith had dared remove his shirt, for the night was warm. He stared at the wall and considered his options.

He could lie here night after night, so close he could smell her sweet heather scent, could hear every breath she took as she slept, could imagine every rise and fall of her luscious breasts—and still not touch her. In short, he could lie here and go insane.

Or he could get roaring drunk.

Or he could ravage her before she awoke.

Going insane had its obvious drawbacks.

Large quantities of intoxicants held little appeal.

But ravishing her... Leith gritted his teeth, giving that option more consideration. It was a time-honored tradition. To the victor goes the spoils and all that.

He was the victor. She the spoils. And she was hot for him. So why not?

Because he was supposed to woo her! Because he was supposed to make her love him, to agree with his plans, to stay forever, pretending to be Fiona. Because he was doing all of this for his clan! Remember?

No. He would not take her. He was strong. He was Scots. He was laird.

He was dressed.

He was...

She rolled to her back, her eyes closed, breathing softly.

He was horny! Damn it to unholy hell, he was so ungodly randy he could not bear it.

His hand touched her hair. It was soft and inviting.

Beneath her white nightrail her breasts rose and fell. Rose and fell.

Sweet Jesu, how was he supposed to keep himself from her when she kept breathing like that?

He could no longer resist.

He kissed her on the neck where her hair caressed her ivory skin. It was not a hard, passionate kiss, but a gentle kiss that made his rock-hard body tremble and spoke of all the badgering demons that possessed him.

He was kissing her neck, Rose thought in swirling wonder. What the devil should she do now? And ... would it be too outrageous if she ripped his clothes off?

She moaned as his kisses trailed upward along her jaw. His tongue touched the curved ridge of her ear, slid down it. She was breathing hard.

His teeth nibbled at her, and then without warning he pulled the soft lobe into his mouth and sucked.

God's toes! She jerked spasmodically, her eyes flying open.

"Ye’re awake, lass?" he murmured, so near her ear that she shivered.

"L-Leith!" It was not difficult for Rose to make her voice sound surprised, as if she'd just been awakened, for in truth it was always a surprise to realize how desperately she desired him.

"Were ye expecting another?"

"Nay."

One corner of his mouth lifted as he slid closer. "Ye know, love," he whispered, one hand moving to caress her neck, "ye are beginning..." He kissed that delicate spot just behind her ear, making her shudder with sheer, raging desire. "... to talk like a Scot."

"No," she said, her breath catching as his fingers slipped to the satin ties that held her nightrail fastened.

"Aye," he said. "And ye look like a Scot."

The tie had come loose in his hand and she swallowed hard. "N-no," she repeated intelligently.

"Aye," he countered, moving on to the next tie. "Yer hair is the red of the holly berries in winter. Yer eyes are the hue of Scottish jewels. And yer skin..."

"Leith!" Her hands caught his arm to prevent it from moving, for the last tie had already fallen victim to his fingers. She had to stop him before it was too late.
Too late,
her mind echoed. Then, "Leith..." she whispered breathlessly. "What about my skin?"

He kissed her mouth then, full force and trembling with urgency. "It’s soft and smooth as drifting snow," he murmured. "Blessed as white heather."

"Leith," she breathed again, every nerve vibrating with excitement. “I need to ... " She breathed hard and fast. What did she need? Hold, fast, and what? “I need to ... "

"Aye, love." And he kissed her again.

Her legs bent of their own accord. The nightrail slipped toward her waist, and her hands, eager and hot and trembling, moved down his muscular body, over the lean, rippled length of his torso and downward.

His leather belt was wide, his plaid was soft. She tugged the wool slowly upward. Against her breasts the hard, naked expanse of his chest pressed more firmly as he kissed her throat.

She could feel her own pulse there, thrumming wildly against his lips, urging her on. With a brazenness that surely should have shocked her, Rose slipped her hands lower still, feeling the hard, bunched muscles of his massive thighs, and the throbbing length of his turgid manhood.

"Leith," she whispered, pressing her head back into the pillow as his kisses raged on, "I fear I'm not... the strong one."

He did not respond for a moment but hurried his kisses toward her shoulder, pressing her nightrail aside as his hot caresses burned her flesh.

"Then we are indeed in trouble, lass," he finally whispered. "For neither am I. Kiss me."

She did just that, finding his lips with hers and branding them both with her shocking passion.

Against her thigh she could feel his manhood throb with insistent need. Her hand slipped of its own accord around it.

"Holy Jesu!" he groaned against her mouth. "Sweet lass, what are ye doing?"

She arched toward him. “I know not what I'm doing," she said, still holding him tightly. "But it feels right."

"Lass... I..." He was breathing hard and had to stop talking as he arched his head back, fighting to maintain control. "Ye are an ... innocent."

Her fingers moved in a slow, firm rhythm along his shaft.

"Innocent," he repeated raggedly. "And I would..."

Her lips parted slightly, and her eyes closed. He could see the pink tip of her tongue and hear the coarse rasp of her breath as she rocked her hips against his.

"I would ... take this... slowly," he continued.

"Slowly?" she asked, not opening her eyes.

"Aye."

"Why?"

" Tis supposed to be better."

"Better than what?" she asked, still pressing rhythmically against him.

"Please, lass, I dunna wish to hurt ye."

"Hurt me? Leith. I hurt now."

"Ye do?"

"Aye."

"Then I have the cure," he murmured, and, guiding her hand away, he moved over her and with one thrust buried himself to the hilt.

There was a spark of pain, and then rampaging desire.

They were joined, throbbing and feverish, and rode now, the pace hard and fast.

Rose's feet left the bed and in a moment her ankles were locked behind his back.

"Holy Jesu!" A demon possessed him. He bucked against her again and again, knowing he should slow to await her pleasure. But, if he waited he would surely be left behind, for the little vixen was determined to reach the crest in record time.

"Leith!" She called his name just as ecstasy took her, and though he longed to watch her face, his own need was too fierce. He bucked instead, pulsing out his seed in deep, urgent spurts.

Every fiber of his being went limp. His heart pounded against hers. Their frenzied breathing mingled and finally slowed.

"Fiona Rose." He murmured the name as he nuzzled her cheek in rapt appreciation.

It was wet with tears!

He drew back with a scowl. "Rose, what..."

"Please get off me," she whispered.

"Rose," he soothed. "Don't cry. I'll..."

"No." She shoved at his chest, her eyes closed. "Don't say it. Please, just get off."

Leith slipped onto his hip, watching her face, but her eyes did not open as she turned her back to him.

"Please, lass," he pleaded, touching her shoulder as he heard a sniffle, but she jerked from his hand and rose abruptly to her feet.

"Don't. Please." Her eyes were wild now and her breathing labored as she faced him in the darkness. " 'Twas wrong of me. And I am sorry."

"Lass, come back to bed."

"No!" she cried, and, spinning about, raced across the room. She jerked the door wide and disappeared into the hallway.

Chapter 20

“Fiona!" he rasped, but she was already gone, slamming the door behind her and stumbling over poor Ranald, who grumbled and sat up groggily. "Fiona!" Leith yelled again, nearly jerking the door from its leather hinges before he also half-fell over Ranald in his haste.

Fumbling with her nightrail's loosened ties, Rose scurried down the steps.

She must leave! Go back to England where she would be safe from her own desires.

A few candles still burned in the hall. Roderic sat beside the cool hearth with his friend Alpin, their hands gripped as they wrestled to determine which was the strongest.

Their gazes lifted as she flew past, her voluminous gown billowing behind her. Their brows rose.