My Fierce Highlander (14 page)

Her breath came out in a rush against his
throat. Heat and chills chased over his skin and his erection
tingled and tightened, hard as the stone wall.

He exhaled against her forehead. “God help
me, Gwyneth, I want to taste your skin.”
Kiss you, lips to ankle
and back again, lick you in dark, forbidden places. Get drenched by
your desire while you surround me and hold me tightly so deep
inside you. Wrap yourself around me and moan my name.

“Good heavens,” she whispered.

“Are you wanting that, too?”

She didn’t answer.

He pressed a kiss to her forehead, then drew
back slightly. “Gwyneth?”

She glanced up, her normally light eyes
turned dark, her lips parted. Though it might be sacrilege, he
thanked Heaven for female lust. She slipped her hand around his
neck. Taking that as the signal he needed, he captured her
lips.

She tasted of salvation and damnation at
once. No woman had ever lured him to forget who he was…forget his
past, his future, and fill him with the need to have her no matter
the cost to his soul.

She was more delicious than the sweetest
comfit. She was honey and cream he wanted to lap up like a famished
cat. He hardened so fully, dizziness snatched his equilibrium. He
could not help but pull her to him, his hands at her waist
dropping, caressing her derriere through the petticoats, no
farthingale to hamper his progress. His fingers ached to tug up her
skirts, to caress the softest skin, wet, hidden female places.

Alasdair’s kiss was unlike anything Gwyneth
could’ve expected. Never had anyone kissed her in such a
fierce-tender, devouring way. The shameless movements of his
tongue, flicking into her mouth, shocked her and awakened her to
each tiny detail of him. He tasted faintly of lemons, delicious and
tangy, and she savored him.

A moan rumbled from his throat. “
Mo
dia
.” A curse or prayer, she wasn’t sure which.

Tingling heat covered her body and moisture
gathered between her legs. By the saints! This was worse—far more
sinful than anything she’d ever done, because she exulted in it.
The sheer sumptuousness of his mouth obliterated all else.

Her aching nipples rubbed the hard muscles of
his chest. And his hands, good lord, the places he caressed. And
then she felt him—his aroused shaft stroked her belly, pressed
firmly against her, as if begging to be inside. She ached. His kilt
and her own threadbare skirts were almost as nothing between them.
Instinct urged her to pull him down to the ground, atop her. Inside
her.

She gasped, shocked at her response to him.
What her father had said was true—she was a harlot, easily seduced
when the right words were whispered in her ear. And Alasdair knew
the perfect ones.

She jerked away from him.

In the gloaming, his face was flushed, his
eyes black as midnight, his breathing unsteady. She had always
thought his eyes had a sensual, lustful look about them. Now, that
was multiplied a hundred times. Undoubtedly, he was a man made for
the bedchamber. A man who knew everything about seducing a woman
and rendering her helpless under his lascivious spell. A woman such
as herself would be doomed in his presence.

“I must go.” She ran back toward the door of
the castle.

***

That night, the soothing rhythm of Gwyneth’s
clear, animated voice mesmerized Alasdair, as it did his clan. Days
ago, she’d started telling Rory and one of the other lads a story
of great adventure, but within a few days she’d lured all the
children. And now the bigger part of his clan, young and old, had
gathered around her in the great hall after supper to hear these
fantastic tales they’d never heard before—obviously English, or
perhaps she’d made them up herself to amuse her son.

Her descriptions of the unusual landscapes
her characters passed through and their funny adventures were
indeed spellbinding.

What he’d found even more enthralling was her
kiss. It was a good thing she’d pulled away. He might have taken
her there, against the stone wall, with no protest from her.
Indeed, she had been an active participant, tugging him closer,
teasing his tongue with her own. Saints! A passionate woman was a
wondrous treasure. Thinking of how she had kissed him with a hunger
that increased his own now made him hard with need.

It had been far longer than he wanted to
admit since he’d been with a woman. He’d smothered his natural
desires beneath his grief and his duty of leading and overseeing
the clan. Apparently, his desires were awakened in full now and
demanding release. But he could not pursue this with Gwyneth. He
could not dishonor her.

He turned away from the sound of her
seductive voice and strode upstairs onto the battlements. The cool
night wind blew his hair back from his face. He released a pent-up
breath and drew the fresh air in deep.

The high-pitched skirl of bagpipes echoed
through the darkness from the village. Beautiful and haunting, the
hymn reminded Alasdair of his father’s funeral. The pain and
confusion that came with becoming the clan’s new laird was
something he had finally overcome. But the grief he had not
forgotten. Of course, all his life he’d known he would one day be
laird, but he had not expected to be so young, twenty-three, when
it happened.

He had promised himself he would avenge his
father’s murder, but he hadn’t been able to. He hadn’t told all of
his clansmen who the murderer was. They simply blamed it on the
MacIrwins, Donald in particular. Not long after his own father’s
death, Shaw had been killed in a skirmish with the Kerrs.

The matter was finished, but it didn’t seem
so. Donald, along with Baigh’s two grown sons, had been with him
that day. Accomplices. No, Alasdair didn’t want revenge against
them, but he considered them the lowest of common criminals.

He was sure Gwyneth had nothing to do with
his father’s death, but he couldn’t remove certain images from his
mind—images of her and her vile husband together.

“What are you doing out here moping? Did you
grow tired of the fairy’s tale?” Lachlan chuckled.

He turned, surveying his brother’s amused and
carefree expression. He envied him that. “I’m but thinking.”

“’Tis the lady that’s put you in this glum
mood.”

The truth of that prickled like a thistle in
his plaid. “There is naught wrong with my mood.”

Lachlan snorted. “I saw the way you were
watching her. Like a juicy red apple just out of your reach.”

Alasdair flicked a glare at his meddlesome
brother. “’Tis hard to ignore someone who has bewitched the whole
of our clan.”

“Including you, first and foremost.”

“As I recall, you were not immune to her
charm.”

Lachlan snickered. “I’m not immune to any
wench’s charm.”

Nor were they immune to him. The lasses from
miles around were in love with him. Alasdair had never had time for
such frivolities. Nor did he now. Best to put Gwyneth from his
mind.

“Are you certain you can trust her? She is,
after all, a relation of the MacIrwin,” Lachlan said in a more
serious tone.

“It matters not. I’m helping her as she
helped me. ’Tis all.” But indeed he did trust her, no matter her
clan connection.

“’Tis time you were looking for another
wife.”

Alasdair lifted a brow, determined to remove
the focus from himself. “You’re one to talk.”

“I’m not the earl and chief, and don’t need a
legitimate heir. But you do. An heir, and a spare. And a few wee
lasses.” Lachlan grinned.

In truth, ’twas what Alasdair yearned for so
badly his chest ached. Children and a cherished wife. But he
shrugged it off. “If I don’t, the clan has plenty of other lads who
can step up and be chief one day. ’Haps one of yours if you
marry.”

“Ha!” Lachlan shook his head. “I’ll never
marry. Besides, Da would’ve wanted the next chief to be your
son.”

“I’m certain he would’ve approved of
either.”

Lachlan had never been in love and therefore
had never had his heart ripped from his chest even as he stood
helplessly by and watched the life drain from his wife and
child.

Alasdair did not possess the strength to
endure it again.

***

That night Rory was sleeping with Alasdair’s
cousin’s family in the village, with whom he’d stayed while Gwyneth
was sick. She trusted them completely, and Rory had made friends
with their sons.

Lying on the soft featherbed, Gwyneth
wondered what Alasdair was doing in the bedchamber next to hers.
Was he sleeping? She couldn’t. Her imagination worked overtime.

She could hardly believe the shocking and
seductive words he had said to her.
I have sinful thoughts about
you at night, in my bed.

What sort of thoughts, precisely? And was he
having them now? Her heart rate escalated.

Remembering the firmness of his lips on hers,
she re-experienced his kiss in the darkness. She craved his taste,
the hard press of his powerful body against hers. Never had a kiss
been so intoxicating and delicious, like wine infused with herbs
and honey—sweet, warm and citrusy. She smiled against her pillow,
then traced her overly-sensitive lips with her fingertip.

She recalled the sound of his deep voice
murmuring in her ear.
Gwyneth, I wonder, have you ever had a
kiss that near took your breath away?
Oh heavens, yes, his kiss
had done that and more.

She could easily imagine lying in his big
cozy-looking bed she’d sat beside several nights ago. The best part
would be his hard-muscled body next to hers, his skin heating hers,
his mouth and hands doing wicked but exquisite things to her.

Energy tingled through her body, as if she’d
been standing a bit too close to a lightning strike. What had
Alasdair done to her?

She must have slept…and dreamed. The images
before her and the lustful sensations possessing her body couldn’t
have been real life. She had never experienced such carnal
indulgences before—not at her promiscuous downfall nor during her
hellish marriage. Those were mere gray pebbles compared to the
diamond-like sensations that sparkled through her at Alasdair’s
touch.

Loud shouts and running footsteps woke
Gwyneth from her restless dreams. The fire had gone out in the
hearth, casting the room in cool darkness. She jumped up, crept to
the door and opened it a crack. She couldn’t understand the shouts
of alarm coming from the great hall, but something was terribly
wrong. Even MacDade, her guard, was gone.

Gwyneth yanked on her petticoats, skirts and
arisaid
over her smock and crammed her feet into her leather
slippers. She strode along the dark corridor and down the steps. In
the great hall, the women servants scurried back and forth.

She spotted Tessie and hastened to catch up.
“What’s happened?”

The young woman turned panic-stricken eyes on
her. “’Tis the MacIrwins. They’re burning the village.”

A sickening chill shook her. “Rory’s down
there!”

Tessie’s face blanched and tears glistened in
her eyes. “Oh, Gwyneth,” she whispered and shook her head.

No!
Something deep inside Gwyneth
screamed. Denial blocking out all other thoughts, she dashed out
the door and down the stone steps into the barmkin.

“Gwyneth!” Tessie chased after her as she ran
mindless toward the gate. “You cannot go down there.”

No one would dare keep her from it. She
stopped at the gate and faced Tessie. “I must go get Rory. Where’s
Laird MacGrath?”

“With the men, of course, fighting.”

“Is he a lunatic? His foot is not
healed.”

“’Twould surprise me if he is not at the
forefront. ’Tis his way.”

“Open the gate!” she told the guard. Resolve
tightened her muscles.

“You’re forbidden to leave. The MacGrath’s
order.” The large, battle-scarred warrior stood firm.

“Some of the men are in charge of bringing
people up here from the village,” Tessie said. “Maybe Rory’s
here.”

Could it be possible? Hope making her
lightheaded, Gwyneth glanced back, searching in desperation among
the villagers milling about the barmkin. But she didn’t see Rory or
the family he was staying with.

Beyond the iron gate, fires blazed in the
distance, lighting up the pitch black night. She closed her eyes
and the screams of the villagers reached her ears. A shudder of
revulsion and terror ran through her.

Gwyneth’s throat tightened and she feared she
might be sick and burst into hysterical sobs at the same moment.
But she gathered her strength. “Let me pass! I must get my
son.”

“Nay!” the guard bellowed, his scowl and
thick beard giving him an intimidating look.

“I beg you to stay here.” Tears streamed down
Tessie’s face.

Gwyneth didn’t realize she was crying until
her vision blurred. She swiped the tears away and tried to think
logically. How could she slip past the guard?

A group of armed men and villagers, including
women and crying children, approached the gate outside. Soot and
smoke blackened their faces and clothing.

Please let Rory be among them.

The guards motioned her and Tessie back as
they admitted the villagers. Gwyneth searched each face.

She was devastated to see none of the four
children who’d arrived was Rory. Making a desperate decision,
Gwyneth ran through the gates before they swung closed.

The guard shouted behind her, and Tessie
screamed out her name, but Gwyneth didn’t look back. She would find
her precious child.

Chapter Seven

Alasdair rode hell-bent between the burning
cottages of the village. Acrid smoke stung his eyes and congested
his lungs. The intense heat seared his skin. In the bright light
from the flaming thatch roofs, he searched for the thrice-cursed
MacIrwins.