Sarah Gabriel (16 page)

He tried to tell himself all that, tried to use logic. Then he summoned a shield of reserve as he pushed open the door.

P
arting the heavy drapes to peer out the window, Sophie saw only darkness and mist swathing the view. She yawned, telling herself that it was past time to get back into bed. She had been asleep for a while, but something had woken her—not ghostly music this time, but something else, an uneasy sense, as if somehow the fabric of her world had changed. She wondered if something had happened, wondered where Connor was, for he had not yet returned.

Startled, she jumped a little as the door opened behind her. Whirling, she turned to see him standing there, just when she had been thinking of him—but he was never far from her thoughts.

“Oh, Mr. MacPherson!” she said softly, hiding her relief. She wrapped her arms around herself, shuddering with cold. She wore only her thin chemise
with a plaid draped over her shoulders, her feet bare. The room was chilly, particularly by the window.

“Keep the drapes closed, lass,” he said sternly, coming toward her. “You might be seen. And it’s freezing in here. You’re shivering. Get into bed, then.” He touched her shoulder.

He stood so close, smelled so good, like pine and winds, like strength and freedom. Sophie tilted her head, felt his breath soft upon her cheek.

“I did not expect to see you tonight,” she said.

“But I wanted to see you,” he answered. “I just…wanted to see you.” His grip tightened on her shoulder and he leaned down.

She drew her brows together. “What is it?” But her heart quickened.

“Sophie, I…” He leaned closer still, lifted a hand to brush his fingertips softly over her cheek.

Then he was kissing her, quick and fierce and with such richness that she gasped in surprise. Leaning into his embrace, she slipped her arms around him. The kiss renewed itself, one following another. Sophie felt her heart slamming now, felt herself turn to warm honey in his arms.

Drawing back suddenly, he slid his hand from her shoulder to the small of her back, where her hips snugged against his. With only chemise and plaid between them, she could feel how quickly, how surely, he wanted her.

But he let go and stepped back. “Lie down, lass.” He turned her toward the bed.

She blinked up at him, startled, felt as if she was emerging from fog—his kiss had that much power. But when she realized what he was telling her, how cold his order was, she found her wits.

“I will not be taken advantage of, just because I—because…” Breath heaving, she stopped, glaring at him.

He frowned. “What?”

“Because I cannot seem to resist whenever you touch me,” she whispered. “But that does not mean that you should take—”

“
Tcha,
” he said, a sound of weary disgust. “You must be tired. It’s late. And I told you to get in the bed because you are shivering from the chill.” He lifted his hands as if to show her that he would not touch her.

Mortified by her impulsive, vulnerable statement moments earlier, she did not answer.

“And I’m that weary myself,” he went on. “It has been a while since I rested peacefully. But until you move your feet from that spot, I’ve nowhere for a bed.”

Surprised, she sat on the bed, tucked her feet up. “Where will you sleep?”

“On the floor,” he said.

“Not—with me?” she whispered. “Because…I am not Kate?”

“That,” he said, as he loosened the upper part of his plaid, “is not the reason.” He knelt, then lay down, pulling part of his plaid over his shoulders like a blanket. Sophie lay back and heard him shift about, seeking comfort on the cold stone floor.

“You said you wanted to annul the marriage,” he said then. “I will respect that decision.”

She felt a sharp disappointment. Had she decided that or had he? Sliding under the blankets, she lay staring at the embroidered canopy. “Good night, Mr. MacPherson,” she finally ventured.

“Good night,” came a muffled growl.

“I was wrong,” she added softly. “I apologize.”

He was silent for a moment, then huffed acceptance. “Go to sleep, lass.”

In that moment she felt different, as if her heart had turned within her, opened somehow. Sympathy flooded her, and something inexplicable. She cared deeply about him, she realized. Knowing him only briefly, she felt as if she understood him intimately, as no one else could.

Yet all she really knew was that he was a rogue and a thief, and hid in a ruined castle. He kept his secrets close. But she glimpsed the inner man now and then, and he fascinated her.

Connor valued home and family so much that he kept his family’s things in safekeeping, yet refused to consider the ruin his home. His friends respected and loved him, and when he gave his word, he kept it no matter what it asked of him. He was intelligent, well-mannered, confident, and educated. And while he preferred to appear gruff and unfeeling, he was not. She was sure of that.

And when he could have done otherwise, he had not disgraced her. He had shown her kindness and patience, and had taken her into his arms to let her taste true passion. Not so long ago, she had feared that would never be part of her life.

Snuggling down, she punched the plump pillows in their soft linen cases. After a moment she sat up and flung one pillow out of the bed. She heard Connor’s surprised grunt.

“Always the lady, Mrs. MacPherson,” he said in the darkness.

She smiled. Closing her eyes, she felt safe—truly safe—with Connor nearby.

He sighed, shifted on the floor, punched the pil
low she had given him. Turning also, she could not settle to sleep, aware of every sound and movement he made.

Finally she rolled over. “Connor MacPherson.”

“Aye.”

“Come into the bed.”

“That would not be such a good thing,” he said, “if you want to annul this marriage.”

“
Tcha,
” she said. Lifting to an elbow, she peered down at him. “Did I say you were to touch me? You are a tired man, and I am weary, too. Come into the bed, Connor MacPherson, and we will sleep.”

Silence. In the darkness, she saw that he bent an arm over his eyes.

“And besides,” she said, “I heard the ghostly music again just a little while ago. It frightened me.” She had not felt so afraid, but she would let him believe so, if it brought him off the cold stone floor where he lay for her benefit.

After a moment he rose to his feet, and she felt his weight press the bed. Sliding over to make room, she opened the covers.

Connor lay beside her carefully, resting on his back, feet crossed, arms folded. Sophie lay on her side and regarded him in the shadows.

“You do not look very comfortable,” she whispered.

“Much better than the floor,” he answered.

She leaned close, feeling drawn to him like iron to a magnet. A thrilling excitement fluttered through her. “Are you cold?” she asked, tugging at the blanket.

“I have my plaid.”

“It’s chill in this room,” she ventured, shifting closer.

Without reply, he opened his arm, inviting her in,
and she settled against him, resting her head on his shoulder. He felt so warm, so strong, so gentle with his arm encircling her. She tilted her head in the darkness, and his whiskers rasped along her brow.

Closing her eyes, now she could not rest for the heavy beating of her heart, the pulsing that grew in her body. Stretching her palm over his chest, she sensed his heart thumping as hard as her own. “Connor—” she whispered.

“Hush you,” he said, turning his head. “Just hush.” His fingers traced her jaw, tipped her chin upward, and he began to kiss her gently, slowly. Yet the tenderness impacted through her like lightning.

He turned toward her, kissing her, his hand stroking her shoulder and tracing down, pulling on the thin shift, the warmth of his fingers penetrating the cotton. She loved the sensation of all of his fingertips upon her at once, for he had one arm beneath her, splaying a hand on her back, while the other hand scooped over her cheek, his fingers brushing over her hair. His lips kneaded hers in one kiss after another. She felt enveloped in his big, muscular hands, felt cherished by his carefulness, his consideration, the way he held back when she knew—oh, she knew, for she felt it sing in him somehow—that he wanted her fiercely.

Rolling toward him, she returned the next kiss with new fervor, growing boldness. Tonight there was no whiskey to fire her courage, and she needed none, for she wanted this, had invited this, she realized. When she had lain in his arms before, head whirling from whiskey, still stunned by her abduction and marriage, she had hardly known what was happening—though she remembered that she had
wanted it keenly, the craving deep and indescribable.

But she did not fully recall what had happened, and for that she felt deprived in her body and in her heart, for she had missed a moment that she had wanted to experience and treasure.

She gasped to herself, realizing that she wanted this—whether she stayed with him or left him, she desperately wanted to know more of passion, of him, of what love could be like. Her desire for adventure in her life grew pallid compared to what she desired now.

Opening her lips, feeling his tongue trace her, enter her, she tasted him in return. Pressing her body against him under the shared coverlet, she felt the prickle of tartan wool against her skin, felt the hard shape of him against her hip as he turned.

“Sophie—” he whispered.

“Hush, you,” she said, and silenced his protest with her mouth. She moved against him, and heard the groan that rippled through him, and she smiled to herself, feeling a gentle power unlike anything she had ever imagined.

As his fingers slipped downward over her hip and her leg to bunch up the cloth of her chemise, she pulled in a quick breath. His fingers, warm and strong, moved upward, grazing over her inner thigh, stopping her breath, grazing past the nested place between her legs, tracing over her belly and upward. She could scarcely breathe for the anticipation of where he might touch her next. Waiting, she felt on fire; splendid, delicate fire. His fingers caged her breast gently, and she felt herself pearl against his palm, and her breath returned in a rush. She moaned, writhed for him, invited more of his touch with her body, her
breath, her hands upon his shoulders, his back.

He kissed her deeply, then drew away when she wanted more and traced his mouth down her throat, shoving aside the low neck of her chemise, the cloth caught between his tracing kisses and his caressing hand. She lay back then, arched her throat, opened herself to him in a way that seemed wanton to her, and yet she did not care. The feel of his mouth upon her breast, now, was too wonderful, and the desire that churned in her was far too powerful.

His fingertips danced over her ribs, light and warm, tracked over her belly, arousing an irresistible sensation, a delicate fluttering, a deep need. Leaning her head against the pillows, she pushed her hips toward his hand, letting her body take on a delicious will of its own.

“Connor,” she whispered, sinking her fingers into his thick, silky, wavy hair.

He lifted his head to kiss her and drew back. “This is not what I intended.” He drew his hands away from her. “Not until—”

“No,” she said, capturing his hand in both of hers, pulling it against her chest, where her heart pounded. “I need to know…”

“What?” he whispered.

“That first night,” she said, “I had taken too much of Mary’s whiskey—I remember little of what we did.” She shrugged. “The next day, I felt…cheated, somehow. I truly wanted to know what that is like. But I do not remember.” She gasped, a half laugh. “And I am sorry for that.”

He brushed back her hair. “There is no need to apologize.”

“If I…invite you to do this now, if I want it, too, then no one is forcing anyone, and you are not…a cad. A rogue and a bride stealer, aye,” she added crisply, so that he chuckled. “But not a cad. Do you know what I am saying?” Her heartbeat drummed with the boldness she felt.

“Aye,” he breathed, and kissed her again, and cupped his hand upon her breast, grazing over the nipple until she sighed, tilted back her head, arched. He lowered his head to touch his tongue to the nipple so that it grew taut, sending shivers through her, easing a deep sigh from her.

The pleasure she reaped from even his simplest touch made her want desperately to share it and return it to him. She pulled at his plaid, skimmed her hand over his strong bare thigh, heavy with muscle, yet soft, his buttock a smooth curve beneath her palm, and she boldly rounded on the path to find his hip, his lower belly, the hair there thick and soft to touch, so soft.

He moved against her hand, and his fingers caressed her further, found the cleft in her, separated it gently. She gasped aloud, and he tilted his head to kiss her mouth. As his tongue touched her lips, his finger eased into her slowly, and she gasped again, and moved against him. Heat stoked in her lower body and her legs melted open, her body arched, and she felt her breath take on a new rhythm. Her body rocked, pleaded.

God, she wanted to share the feeling—generosity was her nature, her impulse in so many things. She sought him, took hold of him boldly. Warm velvet over steel, he was, and she a glove for him. She stroked along the lovely length, and he groaned,
deep and earthy, in her ear. That low sound, and the warmth of his breath there, shot through her like the wick of a flame.

“Sophie,” he whispered, “leave me be.” He moved away from her hand. “Let me touch you, just you. I owe you that, I think. And if you continue to touch me like that, I will not be able to stop myself from—hush now,” he said, as she began to speak. “And just let me…”

He moved his fingers, circling delicately, coaxing further, and she felt herself turn to flame where his fingertips teased and loved her. She felt her body melt into honey and fire, and she began to move as a rhythm pulsed through her. He kissed her, held her, and murmured something against her hair that she could not hear. She wanted to hear—but she began to soar then, crying out with the power of what he was doing to her with that exquisite touch. Sinking back into his arms, she felt the embers catch fire in her again, and she lifted again with its force.

And suddenly she knew, in that moment, how much she trusted him. She had to trust him to let him touch her as he did now, so intimately. And to know that he loved her this way for her, only for her, and not for himself, brought her an even deeper thrill. His generosity was tender and profound. She realized that she could trust this man with her body’s secrets, and with her life. Perhaps she could even trust him with her heart, her very soul.