Once Upon a Highland Summer (15 page)

He let go of her just long enough to lift the bar from the door, and drop it in the grass. He tugged her into the velvet darkness, and the wind blew the door shut behind them, leaving them in deep darkness; the sound of the revelry was distant now, the drums still beating in his ears, his veins, filling him with excitement and need. The roof was open to the stars, and the light of the moon made a soft pool in the center of the room, and he drew her into it, tipped her face up, stared down at her.

Caroline stared up at the moon, breathless, and stepped into the circle of the light. He took her in his arms, held her, looked down at her face, stroked her hair. “You’re beautiful,” he whispered. She stood on her toes and cupped his face in her hands, her fingers moving over the rough stubble of his beard as she kissed him again. He moaned softly and pulled her closer still, pressing her against the length of his body, breast to chest, belly to belly, thigh to thigh. She opened to his kiss, sparring with his tongue as if she’d done this a thousand times. Could he tell she hadn’t? She should stop, but she didn’t want to. She was the queen of Midsummer, and he was her king, at least for tonight.

She tilted her head so he could kiss her neck. It felt so good. How was it possible to live as long as she had and never know that such a sensation existed? She could feel his arousal, knew what it meant. He desired her. He groaned as she pressed closer still, shifted her hips, moving against him. She tangled her hands in the rough linen of his shirt, holding him to her, needing more than kisses, yet she couldn’t imagine anything more delicious than his kiss. She could not have stopped kissing him if she wanted to. She was bewitched.

He trailed his mouth down her throat while he opened the ties of her gown ahead of his questing tongue and teeth. She slid her hands inside his shirt, felt the heat of his skin under her hands. He pushed her gown off her shoulders, baring her breasts, and drew her nipple into his hungry mouth. The sensation drove the last clear thoughts from her mind. She wanted this, wanted him, and he wanted her. She writhed against him, pleading for more. She pushed back his shirt and the plaid that covered his chest the way he’d done with her gown, baring his shoulders and chest in the moonlight. Hard muscles gleamed in the soft glow, turning him golden and glorious, a mythical Midsummer king indeed. It must be magic. She ran her fingertips over him, exploring the silk of his skin, the fascinating flex of his muscles beneath. His body was marvelous, male perfection. The scent of his skin poured over her, intoxicating her far beyond anything the ale had done.

She pressed her mouth to his chest, kissed him, tasted him, and he groaned. She felt his heart pounding under her lips, felt the breath singing through his body in time to the beat of the drums beyond the walls as his muscles tensed with pleasure at what she was doing to him. Power sang through her own veins. She found his nipple and bit gently, then sucked the hard pebble, and he gasped for breath, his hands tangling in her hair.

“Wait,” he murmured. He pulled his shirt over his head, unbuckled his belt, and let the folds of his plaid drop. She drew a breath at the sight of his naked body. He spread the plaid over the ground, a makeshift blanket, a bed padded by the soft moss beneath. He used his shirt to make a pillow. He knelt. “Come here,” he said, holding out a hand to her. This time, it wasn’t hard to decide what she wanted. She put her hand in his and knelt before him. He tugged her gown over her head, tossed it aside. She held her breath as went still, he looked at her in the moonlight. What was he thinking? No man had ever seen her this way before. Was she beautiful?

“Oh, lass,” he murmured, and ran the back of his hand over her cheek, her shoulder, her breasts. “I trust we should go slow,” he said. “Or stop. The choice is yours.” His voice was thick with desire.

She put her arms around his shoulders, tangled her fingers in his hair, and brought her mouth to his. He groaned and pulled her down onto the soft bed of his plaid. He groaned and tumbled into her embrace, covering her body with his. She reveled at the sensation of hard muscle and hairy legs against her skin, the sound of the murmured endearments he whispered in her ear in Gaelic. He suckled her breast as his hand explored the curves of her body, finding places she hadn’t even known existed before he touched them. He set her on fire everywhere his fingers brushed, until she arched upward, restless, desperate.

“Please,” she said softly.

“Wait,” he whispered against her mouth, and she whimpered as he returned to suckling her nipple, slowly, sweetly. She gripped his shoulders, dug her nails into the hard flesh, begging wordlessly for much more, but he took his time. He blew cool air on her heated flesh, then took the sensitive bud back into his mouth again. She writhed as his palm descended over her belly and hips, moving with infuriating slowness to caress the curls between her thighs. She bucked against his palm, wanting more, wanting—well, whatever it was that made the poets sing, and the ladies swoon. It was within his power to grant it, but he held back. He brought his mouth back to hers and she opened to him, biting and sucking at his tongue and lips, hearing his breath turn into grunts of suppressed desire. His erection pressed into her hip, and she reached down to touch it. She closed her hand on it and he gasped, cried out in Gaelic. His hand still hovered over the delicate lips of her sex, and then his fingers dipped between, found the place she needed him most. She cried out in English, and he began to circle the wild, wet bud with his fingertip, taking her beyond madness to a place of such exquisite pleasure she feared she would die of it. Her hand fluttered over his, half afraid of what was to come, half afraid he’d stop.

The sensation burst over her, like a bonfire roaring to life, shooting flames and sparks, all-consuming, holy. She clung to him, saw the stars above the tower, feeling them descend upon her one by one to sing through her blood, lifting her.

He kissed her, murmured endearments as he shifted, and she felt the blunt tip of him where his fingers had been. She took a deep breath and arched back, her teeth gritted as he drove into her, stifling a cry at the sharp pain. She dug her nails into his shoulder as he waited for her to adjust to him, to being filled for the first time, kissing her neck, stroking her face.

Slowly, he began to move, filled her, withdrew, and filled her again. The pain ebbed and the pleasure returned, and she watched the muscles in his neck cord and tighten, hooked her ankles around his hips, telling him what she wanted. She was breathless with need, and he moved faster, thrust harder, and she clung to his shoulders, wanting this to go on forever. She cried out as the sensation poured over her again, lifting her hips to draw him deeper, and he cried out, tensed against her, buried within her, and she felt him shudder before he collapsed against her, his heart pounding against hers. She folded her arms around him, held him to her.

So this was how it felt to be loved by a man. She hadn’t known. She marveled at the joy she felt. It was magic indeed. His heart beat against hers, his breathing slowed to match hers, and he kissed her face, stroked her hair, and murmured to her in Gaelic. Was he professing his love? It didn’t matter. He moved off her, and she felt the chill of the night wind against the places he’d warmed. He pulled her against his side, and wrapped them both in his plaid.

Caroline blinked up at the moon, and fell asleep in the warm sanctuary of her lover’s arms.

S
kylarks held their own raucous celebration as the first fingers of dawn reached over the horizon. They swooped and dove above the tower, wild with joy. Caroline snuggled deeper into the soft bedcovers, unwilling to wake just yet. She’d had the most wonderful dream, all about— The soft exhale of breath beside her made her open her eyes wide. She turned to look at the sleeping profile of Alec MacNabb, lying beside her, sharing the soft blanket.

It hadn’t been a dream. Panic gripped her. She looked beneath the covers, and realized she was indeed naked. Another peek told her he was likewise unclothed. She dropped the covers, feeling hot blood filling not just her cheeks but her whole body. It wasn’t a dream. She had jumped the fire by his side, danced with him, kissed him, and— She stifled a gasp. She wondered where her clothes were, and saw the linen gown reclining over a chunk of masonry, half covering the carving of a smirking face. The wilted crown of flowers sat askew over carved eyes, a laughing mouth, mocking her. She glanced at Alec again. His face was soft and boyish in his sleep. Long lashes lay against his stubbled cheeks; his mouth was soft, sweet.

Her heart flipped in her chest. He was magnificent. She recalled the pleasure he’d given her quite clearly, the kisses, the caresses . . . It had been the most incredible, unforgettable night of her life.

It had also been the most foolish thing she’d ever done. She was governess to Alec’s sisters, a servant in his household. Her cheeks burned at the thought.

The girls. She sat up with a gasp. If she’d ended up here in the tower in a compromising position, where on earth were they? She slipped carefully out from under the warm plaid and scooted around his sleeping figure to snatch up her gown. It was cold as she pulled it over her head and belted it with Sorcha’s ribbon. The dress was wrinkled and stained with telltale green marks of moss, the black of soot, but it couldn’t be helped. She glanced up at the sky, pink with promise, and sent up a prayer that it was still early enough that she could make it back to the castle unseen. She cast one last look at him as he lay asleep, as beautiful as an angel, and hurried out into the predawn darkness.

“D
on’t you think we should wake him, send him after her?” Angus asked as Caroline fled down the hillside, her hair trailing behind her in wild, love-tangled curls. He’d loved to coil Georgiana’s curls around his finger as she lay in his arms after they’d made love.

Georgiana shook her head. “No, she’ll need time to think, to realize . . .”

“What?” Angus prompted when she didn’t finish. He grinned. “Let me guess. She’ll need time to realize that it was the best night o’ her life.”

Georgiana rolled her eyes. “She’ll need time to realize that she loves him, despite what happened here this night.”

“Despite it?” Angus cried. “Because of it, more like.”

Georgiana set her hands on her hips and glared at him. “A little rough wooing and you think she can’t live without him, that no other man—any other man—could do what he did? How arrogant you are! She was a virgin, and he seduced her in a crumbling tower, on the hard ground.”

Angus pushed his cap back on his head, staring at the telltale glitter in her eyes. She floated before him, but her eyes were on Caroline. He felt an almost overwhelming wave of sadness. “I thought this was what you intended to happen between them. It was the same for us, was it not? You were a virgin the night when we—” He stopped to clear his throat. “Are ye saying that ye regret what we did?”

She fixed her eyes on him. “Of course not. I regret that it was the one and only time, and that nothing ever lived up to that moment again. Oh Angus, have we made a mistake? What if we’ve only caused them more unhappiness, sentenced them to a lifetime of regret and pain?”

He came closer, raised his hand to her cheek, felt nothing but frustration that he could not touch her, even to offer comfort. “Is there a battle tomorrow I don’t know of? He’s got no brothers to drag him away from the lass, and she’s no father to drag her back to England. They’re here, together. They aren’t going anywhere. Why, later this morning, he’ll wake up and return to the castle. He’ll seek her out, and drop to one knee and—”

Georgiana whooped as Alec ran right through his grandfather’s shade, his plaid belted askew as he tried to pull on his shirt and run down the hill at the same time. They stared after him as he leaped over the last embers of the dying Midsummer fire, dodging the folk still sleeping peacefully in the dew-soaked grass, before pausing, returning to look into their sleeping faces.

“There now, you see?” Angus said smugly, straightening his plaid. “He’s looking for her now.”

“Sophie?” They turned at the sound of Alec’s whisper. “Are you here?”

“Sophie?” Georgiana repeated, her horrified whisper rustling the trees, startling a bird into panicked flight. “He still thinks Caroline is someone named
Sophie
? Even after—”

Angus felt a hard knot of trepidation in his gut. He watched his grandson search among the sleeping lasses for the woman he’d just spent the night with, a woman whose name he didn’t even know.

“They couldna introduce themselves?” Angus asked. “Just a potion, ye said, woman. That’s all it would take and everything would unfold as it should, and the curse would end.”

“It must have been too strong, too much meadowsweet, perhaps,” Georgiana fretted.

“It was
only
the potion, don’t you see? She isn’t the right woman, or he isn’t the right man!” Angus said angrily. “It didn’t work.”

Georgiana’s eyes widened. “How can you say that? You saw how they were dancing, the passion in their eyes—”

“ ’Twas the ale and the firelight, nothing more,” Angus grumbled. “He’s obviously in love with someone else, someone named Sophie.”

Georgiana shook her head, wringing her hands. “No, it’s not possible! If he loves this Sophie, then why is he here, dallying with Caroline?”

Angus gave her a level look. “He’s a man,
gràdhach
, and she’s a lovely lass.”

“Oh, what have we done?” Georgiana cried. “I must go to Caroline, though heaven knows what I can do to help her now. Nothing, nothing at all.”

Angus watched her fade away against the dawn, and stared at Alec, who was staring up at the tower as if he were daft and bewitched both. Angus recalled exactly that feeling. He’d stood in the same spot on a Midsummer morning long ago, unable to think of anything or anyone but Georgiana, and the sweetness of the night in her arms. Even when his brothers had climbed the hill to take him, he’d stood there, unable to move for pure love, for joy. He’d opened his mouth as they reached him, ready to declare his love for Georgiana, but Niall had drawn back his fist and punched the grin off his face. The next thing he knew he was waking up on a ship, sick as a dog. He’d certainly felt daft and bewildered then too, and for an entirely different reason.