Lord of the Highlands (26 page)

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Authors: Veronica Wolff

BOOK: Lord of the Highlands
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He felt her shift, lean closer. Felt her face hover over his, but still he kept his eyes closed. Perhaps he’d never wake from this dream. Perhaps they’d always been here, could always remain here, in this magical, dark place, alone together.
He felt her kiss him tenderly. On his cheeks, his brow, her soft mouth tasting him all over, as if he were a sweet. The notion of it unmanned him.
How had he come to feel so deeply for her? Such a delight, such a treasure, she’d changed his life. Him, a man changed.
How would he ever live without her?
The thought made his lust grow desperate, his cock straining with the need to be in her, to claim her and keep her close.
He opened his eyes, and his first sight was her lovely face still held near, lips parted and waiting for him. He kissed her, dragged his hands along her naked back, and her hair fell around them like a curtain, burying him in the smell of her, a scent like flowers and musk.
He could wait no longer. Grabbing her hips, he lifted her up and onto him. The feel of her tight, wet heat enveloping him, bringing him home, made him shudder with pleasure. It felt too good, she felt too good.
The urge to plow into her consumed him, and he fought it, holding himself still until he could master his breath. Felicity moved first, with a moan and a rocking of her hips, and his lust exploded in response, subsuming him, blinding him, like a battle rage.
Will shifted, braced her body to flip her onto her back, but Felicity tensed her thighs, stopping him.
“No,” she said, finally breaking the silence. “I want to stay on top this time.”
He brought his hands, his mouth, to her breasts. Gripped her ass, her legs, clutching her closer, tighter. He couldn’t consume enough of her.
She moved slowly at first, writhing over him, whispering his name, and then faster, and faster still, until he thought he might die from it. Might lose himself forever, if only he’d let go one last final bit.
And then he felt it—her movements slowing, strengthening, Felicity sat hard on him, gradually stilling.
Her hands, her thighs, and God help him, her muscles down deep, the whole of her body seized, clutching him. His cock, gripped deep inside her. He watched and felt the waves of her climax crash over her. Watched as her skin flushed pink, watched her eyes close and mouth open. Watched as she was lost to him.
And Will lost himself then too. Shutting his eyes, he let go, let himself spin into blackness, the touch and taste and smell of her the only gravity holding him to this earth.
Later, she dozed, but Will did not. He needed to savor every last moment with this woman. Stroking the hair from her damp brow, he wondered how he could ever let her go.
But how could he let her stay?
Felicity had been right on one count. He would have no regrets. He’d let himself love her.
Then he’d say good-bye.
Felicity would leave him, and he knew he would die inside. His life would be forfeit. He’d throw himself into his cause, help the Sealed Knot men, deliver their messages to the King.
Only now it wouldn’t matter to him if he lived or died doing it.
Chapter 25
She woke sprawled over Will, the faint bristle of hair on a muscular chest tickling between her fingers. He’d finally fallen asleep. It was as if she’d given him a dare when she’d said men sack out right after sex. She’d dozed off right away, but every time she roused, he was there to soothe her at once, his hand caressing through her hair.
Night had fallen, and though her body was warm where it touched his, her back felt chilled and exposed. Carefully, she disentangled herself, found his plaid, and pulled it up over them both.
The thing was huge. Such a long stretch of wool, the same blue, green, and yellow of those funny, sexy pants he was wearing when she first met him. She much preferred him in the kilt.
She was wide awake, and occupied her mind with random thoughts. Like wondering how he wrapped all this wool around himself. And thinking about those troops of marching Romans. About witches, and ministers, and magic.
She filled her head with thoughts, and yet a numbing sadness persisted, looming somewhere at the edges, threatening to overtake her. He thought she was in danger, that she needed to go back.
And she knew he was right about the danger. She’d gotten a taste of Robertson’s men. A demon light had blazed in their eyes, longing to tie her up and toss her in the dungeon. To burn her.
But Will thought he couldn’t protect her, and there she knew he was wrong. He was her brave hero; she didn’t understand why he didn’t see it himself. He was strong and valiant, and would save her from any threat. And she had a limited time in which to convince him.
Knowing there was only one thing that would calm her mind, she slid her hand down Will’s chest. He stirred, sighed deeply in and out, then his breathing grew rhythmic once more.
She felt suddenly wicked and free there, lying naked in the woods, the flicker of starlight making its way into their burrow, a faint patchwork shimmering through the dense thicket overhead.
Felicity traced her hand lower. Found the light line of hair at the base of that flat belly, leading from navel to groin. A little shiver of pleasure rippled through her, tracing her fingers through it.
Happy trails
, she thought with a naughty smile.
She wondered what time it was. Feeling that chest and those abs had made her eager for the sun to rise. Will’s upper body was strong, compensating for his damaged legs, and she wanted to see him move in the daylight. Watch how his muscles would shift and flex. She wanted to memorize every detail.
Her hand moved lower. Brushed along his cock. It began to rouse at once. She didn’t want to wake Will, but she couldn’t keep her hands off of him. He was so vulnerable in sleep, all hers, there for the taking.
She touched him again. He continued to stir, stiffen. She couldn’t not touch him. He swelled to life, that thin skin, fine like silk.
“I thought you said just the once.” His voice was a husky rasp.
“Well . . .” She looked up and smiled at him in the dark. She’d loved watching him sleep, but she much preferred having him awake, by her and with her.
She could’ve fooled herself, thinking her goal was simply to really
really
convince him she needed to stay, but Felicity knew she simply just wanted Will inside her again. To connect with him, feel his love filling her.
“As long as we’re here . . .” She began to stroke him, just in case he needed her to draw a picture.
He didn’t.
Will pulled her closer, careful with her body along the moss and leaves of the ancient path. He kissed her, and deepened the kiss at once. His body ready for her, at once.
He turned her away from him, onto her side, and giving his arm for a pillow, settled himself behind her. Her back had been so chilled, but the feel of that solid chest and belly on her skin warmed her, finally, thoroughly. Heated her.
She was turned on already, thought she’d probably woken that way, and she nestled her rump back to find him, urge him on.
He stroked his hand down her side, along her leg, and back up again, cupping her breast and pulling her more tightly to him. He slid into her and this time was only tender, only slow, nibbling lightly along her shoulder, nuzzling kisses and words of love into her neck.
And as they came, Felicity embraced the calm that finally smoothed the chatter from her mind.
 
“How do you work this thing?” She stood before him in only her petticoat, his plaid draped over and around her, trying to get a handle on all that wool.
Part of her wanted to make him get up and stalk his naked way over to her. Another part simply wanted to try the darned thing on.
“Planning to don my plaid, is it?” He grinned.
“No. Maybe.” Shrugging, she smiled back at him. “I just want to see how you do it.” She bobbed the fabric up and down. “Man, this is heavy.”
“We Scotsmen are a strapping lot.” He sat extra straight, giving a slight flex to his muscles.
“Sure you are,” she said with a laugh.
“Och, you devil me.” Chuckling, he gestured to the fabric. “Just lay out my plaid, love. You can help me put it on.”
“Oh my God,” she gasped. “It’s about time you asked. The only thing sexier than your kilt is the thought of helping you into it.” She billowed the wool out like a sheet, letting it fall heavily to the ground. “Strike that, actually. Nothing beats taking it off,” she said, mustering her best saucy wink.
“Don’t get any ideas, woman.” He furrowed his brows in an attempt to look menacing. “There’s only so much a man can take.”
He moved opposite her, straightening the fabric’s edges along the ground. Felicity guessed it was no less than five feet wide and over twelve feet long.
“This is kooky!”
“I’m not sure what that word is, love, but if you mean to say this is not always the most convenient procedure, then aye, it isn’t.”
She didn’t correct him; Will was just too cute. He looked up and caught her staring at him with what she was certain was a dopey, adoring look.
“If I’d known the sight of my plaid would put you in such a sweet dither, I’d have enlisted your help long ago.”
He sat down and began to gather the wool into folds. “Come, kneel just here. We need to pleat it. Aye,” he said, seeing her pick up his belt, “we need that too, tucked so.” He slipped his belt under the plaid, roughly bisecting the wool across the center.
He lay down on it, with the upper edge of the plaid beneath his head and the bottom resting just under his knees. “Then you roll right into it.”
“Ooh,” she purred. “Can I roll right in there with you?”
“Next time,” he promised with exaggerated solemnity. “I swear it.”
“Oh!” she exclaimed suddenly, watching as he wrapped the wool around his legs. “So you get on top, belt it, and the bottom half is the kilt—”
“And the other”—he sat up, pulling the two top ends over his shoulder, one from the front, one from behind—“goes like so.”
She retrieved his leather cord from the dirt and tied it off at his shoulder for him. “And next the sporran, right?” she asked, crawling to grab it.
“Aye.” He gave her a broad smile. “And inside that sporran is a wee token for you.”
“Token? I love tokens!” She plucked his sporran from the ground to hand to him. Hesitating, she pulled it back, tucking it to her chest. “Can
I
see what’s in your little murse?”
“My . . . eh?”
“You know, man-purse. Murse.”
“Och, woman.” He snagged it from her hands, swatting her on the behind just as she was sitting back down. “Mock me, and I’ll be forced to punish you.”
“Mm-hm.” Waggling her fingers toward his sporran, she said, “Hand it over, big boy.”
He relented, and she snatched the whole thing back.
She experienced a moment of total contentment. It felt like such an intimate thing, such a personal thing, holding his sporran. Her and Will, just sitting there looking through his stuff. She smiled.
“You still didn’t answer my question,” she said, stroking the sporran’s flap. It was covered by something gray, furry, and somewhat matted, the provenance of which she dare not question.
“Yes.”
“Yes you didn’t answer my question, or yes I can look in your murse?”
“Call it that one more time and I’ll withhold your wee gift.”
She feigned outrage, and he barked out a laugh in response. “Careful,” he warned, “or I’ll kiss that scowl from your face.”
“Oh I wish you would.” She leaned in, offering herself to be kissed.
Her offer had been playful, but Rollo grew serious. His suddenly hooded eyes prompted an instant response from her body, warm and flushed.
“You will be the death of me,” he muttered, cradling the back of her head for a slow, deep kiss. Her breath caught in her chest, and she wondered if she’d ever get over this. Ever get over the complete craving she felt when it came to Will. He pulled from her, leaving Felicity dazed.
His eyes held hers for a moment, and she thought he must have felt it too. He smudged her lower lip with his thumb. “Open it, then,” he told her huskily. “As you must.”
The prospect of rifling through his sporran spread a tickled little grin on her face, and she watched as it caught his too.
“Oh, I must,” she said, digging in. “Let’s see . . . Bullets?” she asked, pulling out a heavy pouch that clacked as she palmed it.
“Aye, lead shot.”
“Aren’t
you
dangerous?” she mused with a smile, continuing to rifle. “What else . . . A handkerchief, and, oh”—giggling, she pulled out a leather coin purse—“look, another murse, how cute!”
He glowered at her.
“Okay, okay,” she said, stifling her laughter, and pulled out a small metal box. “What’s this?”
“My tinderbox.”
“What’s in it?”
“My tinder,” he said hesitantly.
“Yeah, but what’s tinder?”
“Lord above, woman. Jamie is surely scouring the countryside for us, and you’re asking
what’s tinder
. I use it to light a fire.”
“Ohhhh.” She peeked back in the bag, muttering, “You can light my fire any day of the week, William Rollo.”
She froze. There was a card stuck along the inside of the bag. “What’s this?” It had wedged into a seam, and she plucked it out.
A Tarot card, just like Livvie’s deck. A man walked blithely along, not seeing the cliff he was about to step from.
The Fool.
“This is a Tarot card.” A jumble of emotions rattled her. Such a small and specific memory of her aunt shot her through with grief. But she was also confused. “Where did you get this?”
“I found it. On a pretty girl.” He smiled, cupped her cheek, and Felicity thought she might float away.
She must’ve brought one of the Tarot cards with her. And Will had kept it. She marveled. Why would he keep such a trifling thing?

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