Highland Wolf (Highland Brides) (24 page)

She watched him pace. Not until this very moment had she noticed how truly beautiful he was. She'd admired his strength, his fitness, his nobility. But now even the slight bend to his nose fascinated her. The way his eyes flashed, how the muscles in his massive thighs flexed when he walked.

He shook his head. Dark hair brushed his shoulders. Scars marred his back. And suddenly she wanted to kiss those aged wounds.

"I should have known ye were na capable of honesty. What a fool I was ta think otherwise. 'Twas obvious from the start that I could na trust ye. 'Twas—"

" 'Twas wonderful," she murmured.

He stopped in his tracks. His breathing ceased. "Lass," he murmured, but then he shook his head and glared at her again. "Ye'll na soften me with sweet words. 'Twas na as if we but shared a fine meal or a ..." He tossed up his hand again, as if mere words were not enough to express his anger. "Or a stolen kiss in the wine cellar. I stole..." He closed his eyes and rubbed them. "Hell fire, I stole far more than that!"

"I may know little about the ways of men and women," she said, still watching him, "but theft is a subject I know a fair bit about. And I would say, what you took 'twas freely given."

He lowered his hand to stare at her. "Could it be that ye are so naive that ye dunna realize the significance of this?"

"Significance?"

"I took yer maidenhead!"

"Somehow, I never imagined a man would be upset by such a situation."

"Well then ye have never imagined me!" he said. The amulet danced as he thumped his bare chest. "Ye think I can simply turn me back on me responsibility?"

Tara drew a steadying breath and reeled herself in from the soft void of contentment. For a moment she had forgotten who he was—the beloved foster son of a laird, a nobleman, wealthy, privileged. But she would not forget again. "So that's it, is it, Scotsman? You think I am binding you to me?"

His dark brows lowered a bit more over his eyes.

"You think I have tricked you and now plan to force you to pledge your troth?" She forced a laugh, but the effort hurt her chest. To cover the pain, she slipped her feet to the floor and bent to retrieve her garments. "Well, you needn't worry, for I have no such plans."

Clothing was strewn everywhere. She rummaged angrily through it. "And I'll retrieve the necklace as I vowed. You needn't worry on that account either. This changes nothing. I'll—" she began, but suddenly, his hand encircled her arm and he jerked her upright. She gasped, peering at him through a veil of golden, misplaced hair.

"Ye'll not," he said, glaring into her face.

"What?"

"Ye'll na go ta Dagger."

She tried to pull her arm from his grasp, but he held her still, so she glared at him from where she was. "’Tis what I vowed to do, and I will do it. This changes nothing."

"This changes ..." he gritted, then filled his nostrils with air and flexed his jaw, "…everything."

"Was this not your idea from the first? Twas it not you who insisted that I retrieve the necklace?" she asked. "Or am I going mad?"

He smiled. It was a wolfish sort of grin, beguiling, bewitching. "Yer going mad," he said.

"Nay!" Forcing her gaze from his face, she finally managed to yank her arm from his grasp. "But ye are
making
me mad. I vowed to retrieve the necklace, and retrieve it I will." She tightened her lips and her fists. "Harrington will not create another orphan. Not while it is in my power to change his course."

"What say ye?" Roman asked.

She swallowed, realizing abruptly what she had said. He was making her lose her focus, reveal her secrets. 'Twas a thing she could not afford to do. "I said I will fulfill my vow," she said simply.

"Ye said Harrington would not create another orphan. What did ye mean?"

She shrugged, finally giving up on her search for clothing and tossing the garments angrily to the floor. "He is a noble. Nobles have a knack for making orphans of children. I but guess that he's no different."

Roman shook his head. "'Tis na what ye meant," he said, taking a step toward her.

“’Tis." She backed away and scowled up at him.

"'Tisn't,” he said, and wrapping his arm about her bare waist pulled her close for a kiss.

The heat of it seared all thought from her mind. Her muscles loosened, and she forgot to breath.

"’Tisn't," he said, drawing the kiss to an end. "What did ye mean?"

She stared at him, trying to think, but his body was hard against hers. His abdomen rippled with strength and against her breasts, his chest was packed with tightly sculpted muscles.

Somehow, her arms had found their way about his waist. She bit her lip and tried to reprimand her hands for their downward exploration. But his buttocks were hard and seductive. She cupped her palms over them, skimming lower.

His nostrils flared. Between their bodies, she felt his desire stir to life.

"Scotsman?" she whispered, holding his gaze. "Could you do it again?"

Passion flared in his eyes. He leaned forward. Their lips met, but suddenly, he jerked away.

"Nay!" he said, glaring at her. "Ye are but trying ta distract me again."

She blinked at him, feeling bereft. "I but asked," she whispered.

He took a step forward, then shook his head emphatically and stepped back. "Hell fire, woman, ye are driving me ta distraction! Scotsman!" He turned rapidly away to rave at the unoffending wall. "Scotsman! she calls me. She doesna even use me given name. Roman! Me name is Roman!"

"Roman," she whispered, and, quite suddenly, she pressed up against his back, with her arms round his waist and her breasts hot and firm against him.

He swallowed.

"Roman," she repeated softly into his ear. "Can you do it again?"

"Nay," he said, but when her small hand closed around his erection, he shuddered. "Nay, lass, I'll na do it again. A virgin ye were, and I'll not be responsible for yer ruination."

He was sure he felt her smile against his back. "A bit late to worry about that, Scots ... Roman," she whispered.

"Lass..." he rasped. She was doing wicked, wonderful things with her hand, sliding it slowly along the length of his shaft. "Lass, I..."

"I'm no lass," she said. "’Tis two and twenty, I am."

"Ye lie," he managed.

"Aye." She chuckled. Her breath was soft and warm against his shoulder. "I do that. But not about my age. I have seen better than a score of years and never have I felt the magic that ballads are written about. Not until tonight."

She tightened her grip slightly. He groaned and let his head fall back a fraction of an inch.

"I would feel the magic again. Now."

Roman shook his head. It was, without a doubt, one of the hardest things he had ever done. Pride should have spurred through him. But pride was not one of the myriad feelings that coursed through his system. Desire pretty much overrode everything else.

"I'll na do it again," he said, eyes still closed, head still inclined back.

"Why?"

Her other hand had joined in the assault. It stroked his thigh, brushing his gonads, burning his system.

"Why?" He rasped the word. If he had the least bit of discipline, even a wee bit, he would move away. Instead, he stood like one in a trance. "Have ye given na thought ta this deed? Do ye na ken what the results might be? What if a babe should be planted within ye? What if one already has?"

"There is no babe," she whispered.

He forced himself not to turn. He could not make himself move away, but he could manage to remain as he was, and as long as he did that, she was safe from him.

"How do ye know that?" he said, forcing himself to return to the subject.

"You should not assume that I am naive just because I was a virgin," she said, stroking again. Her other hand had moved up to skim his abdomen. "’Tis not my time to conceive."

"How do ye ken that?"

"I learn what I can where I can. Some of my best teachers have been of less than sterling repute."

There was a steady rhythm to her stroking. He swelled and throbbed beneath her hand.

"If I were a lesser man, I'd thank God for the low moral status of yer teachers," he rasped.

She laughed softly against his shoulder. "If you were a lesser man, I would not be begging for your favors."

Her right hand slipped lower to clasp his gonads in a gentle grip.

"Sweet... Mary!" he gasped, going rigid, before forcing himself to relax a smidgen. "Is it... Is it begging ye be, lass?"

"Aye. I am begging."

"It would be..." The rhythmn of her hands seem to have set the pace of his heart. "It would be unseemly to refuse a lady's begging," he said, and, against his better judgment, turned in her arms.

"Aye, it would, Scotsman," she murmured.

"And yet..." he said, wrapping his arms tightly about her and kissing her with all the passion that roared through his system. "I
will
refuse."

"What?" Her lips were red and swollen, her eyes filled with wild desire.

"I will na do it again, lass, unless ye tell me yer true name." Liam had called her Tara, and it felt right. He called her the same, but suddenly it seemed of utmost importance that she trust him with her full name.

"Tis ..." she began, but he cupped her buttocks in his hands and pulled her from her feet. She wrapped her arms about his neck and her legs about his waist, letting these new sensations sear her to the bone. "Betty," she whispered.

She was wet and open and ready, but he shook his head. "Nay, lass," he said. "Betty is the barmaid."

"Fletcher?" she ventured, breathing hard.

"It would be difficult ta convince me that ye are a boy just now," Roman said, smoothing his hand along the back of her thigh, letting his fingers brush the soft moistness of her. She shivered in his arms.

She opened her mouth again, but he kissed away the lies until they were both breathless and aching.

"Who are ye, lass?" he whispered.

They had formed a steady rhythm, bumping gently against each other, reaching.

"Who I once was is of no import," she said, breathlessly searching for fullfillment.

Roman scooped her higher, a hand on each buttock as he gritted his teeth and held her off the aching rod of his desire. "'Tis important ta me, and I will know," he said.

"Roman," she whispered, pulling herself closer until her nipples touched his chest, "please do it again."

His skin burned where her bright, erect nipples touched him, but he held himself rigid and waited for the hardest edge of his desire to pass. Then ever so slowly, he lowered her onto his waiting rod. He watched her eyes fall closed, heard her gasp breath through her teeth, felt her shiver of pleasure, and nearly lost control.

But he managed to stop himself when she was barely impaled on his staff.

"Yer name!" he rasped.

Her fingers wrapped in his hair, tugging. Her back arched, her legs squeezed harder as she pushed against him. But he would not give in.

"Roman!" she pleaded, pushing harder.

"Ye know me name," he said through gritted teeth. "But I dunna know yers, and until I do—"

"Tara," she said, meeting his gaze from mere inches away. "’Tis Tara O'Flynn."

"Tara." He breathed her name, and with a shiver of relief, lowered her fully onto him.

She inhaled sharply and pressed into him, her back arched, her eyes closed.

It was a fast ride, wild, exhilarating. This time there was no time to consider the other's pleasure, only the pulsing climb toward heaven, and the rapid tumble down into satiety.

Every muscle in Roman's body quivered with weakness, but he managed to lower them both to the nearby bed.

She was soft as butter in his arms now. Sweet and warm and impossible to let go.

"Tara," he murmured against her ear.

She opened her eyes, and for a moment he saw fear there. But he smoothed a few strands of gossamer hair behind her ear and kissed the corner of her mouth.

"Trust me, Tara," he whispered.

"I think mayhap I already have."

He stroked her hair again, watching her eyes fall closed and feeling a strange emotion fill him. It was deeper than contentment. In fact, it was deeper than euphoria.

"Tara?"

"Aye?" Her tone was very soft now, like the voice of an angelic child.

She was neither an angel or a child, he reminded himself. But it did no good.

"How is it that ye saved yerself all these years? Surely ye had a good many offers."

"Offers?" She chuckled softly and opened her eyes to stare at him for a moment. "Aye, I had offers. Some kindly, and some not so." She reached out to gently stroke his face. "I learned much as a barmaid. Noblemen and peasants—it seems they are much alike where lust is concerned."

Her fingers were feather soft against his cheek. Too soft, for it brought to mind other parts of her anatomy that were softer still, other parts that might have been mauled by some drunken swine.

Roman pulled her fingers into his hand and wrapped them tight in his own. They were slim and fragile. He closed his eyes, trying not to think of the men that had lusted for her, had tried to take her, willing or no. "Did they.. ."He tried to stop the question but he could not. "Did they hurt ye, lass?"

She smiled again. The expression looked sleepy, ethereal, and yet strangely earthy. "Have you not learned that I am tougher than I appear?"

He tightened his grip. "Aye, but—"

Bringing his hand to her lips, she kissed his knuckles lightly. “I managed to resist them all, Scotsman," she said softly. "Until you. But had I known what I was missing..." She shrugged one shoulder. It was pale and bare, half-hidden by her spun-gold hair and so strangely sensual that he could not help but scoop his hand over the smooth curve of it. His fingers looked dark and hard between the silky sheath of her hair and the ivory hillock of her shoulder that she pulled close to her cheek. "If I had known what I was missing, mayhap I would not have resisted so long." Turning her head, she kissed the back of his hand, then shifted her sapphire eyes to his. "Tell me, Scotsman," she whispered, "had I chosen another, would I still have felt the earth move?"