Sins of the Highlander (9 page)

Rob strained against the cords at his wrists, but he couldn’t free himself. His arms were outstretched, and for a moment, he wondered if he was being held in a cell beneath Drummond’s stronghold. Then he realized he was lying spread-eagled in the middle of a soft feather tick, bound at the wrists and ankles.

It
was
dark, but there was a storm brewing outside the castle. Occasional lightning flashes showed him that he was in his bedchamber, captive on his bed.

And
he
was
naked.

The
door
creaked
open, and light from the torch in the hall sent a shaft of gold spilling across the rushes on the floor. A woman was silhouetted by the doorway, but since she was lit from behind, her face was in shadow.

She
walked
in
without
a
word, and the door closed behind her, plunging him into almost total darkness once more.

“Who are ye?” His question circled the room in sibilant echoes.

It
also
went
unanswered
for
the
space
of
several
heartbeats.

Her
footfalls
rustled
across
the
floor. Once she was beside the bed, she whispered his name.

“Ye dinna know me, Robin?” Her voice was hollow and bloodless, a reed whistling in the wind. “I am the last wisp of dream when ye first wake. A ghost in the corner of your eye that disappears when ye look at it direct. I am that space between one breath and the next, where all things are possible but none are required.”

She
was
no
more
than
a
dark
shape, but her form was pleasing, and when lightning brightened the room like day for a blink, he caught a glimpse of her milk-white breasts. The bodice of her gown was cut so low, her taut nipples peeped above it. His cock rose of its own accord.

“Why am I bound?” he asked, struggling against the cords.

“Because ye dinna have the will to free yourself.”

“Will ye release me?”

“No,” she said softly. “Only ye can do that.”

He
felt
a
hand
on
his
shin. He’d expected her touch to be cold and wraithlike, but her palm was warm as a freshly baked bun. Now that he thought on it, she even smelled like fresh bread. His mouth watered. This strange woman wakened hungers of every kind.

Her
hand
slid
up
past
his
knee
and
circled
his
groin
with
maddening
nearness.

“Ask what ye will, Robin.” Her fingertips teased the small hairs on his scrotum. “In this place, all questions are welcome, though not all are answered. All knots will be untied. One way or another.”

One
question
burned
his
brain
hotter
than
the
others. Even though he feared to ask, he heard himself say, “Am I mad?”

So
many
named
him
thus, he had to wonder if there wasn’t some truth to it.

“No, not as ye mean it. Ye’re only mad in the way all men are.”

She
kneaded
his
balls, and his cock twitched in pleasurable agony. He heard the rustle of velvet. When lightning flashed again, he saw she’d shed her gown, but her long hair obscured her features. For a moment, he thought she might be Fiona, but the voice wasn’t right.

“Will ye show me your face?”

She
laughed. “My face is the last thing most men ask to see when I come to them by night.”

Then
she
lowered
her
head, and her hair brushed over his cock, a thousand silken fingers. His hands bunched into fists, and every muscle in his body clenched. He was helpless before her. His eyes rolled back in his head as she ran her tongue along his length from base to tip.

Then
she
took
him
into
her
mouth.

The
whole
world
went
wet
and
warm. She lashed him with her tongue. She sucked. She rained kisses on him, drenching him, engulfing him.

He
fought
the
downward
pull
of
his
groin.

“I. Must. See. Your. Face,” he said through clenched teeth.

“Think ye I canna please ye without that?”

She
climbed
on
top
of
him
and
settled
herself
on
his
cock, rubbing her wet slit over its length. He fought to keep from spewing his seed over his belly.

He
willed
himself
not
to
come.

“Your face,” he demanded.

Instead, she thrust her breasts toward him, her hard nipples grazing his cheeks, his lips, his closed eyes. He steeled himself not to capture one of them with his mouth.

When
she
gave
up
and
tilted
back, she made sure he slid into her all the way. Bound as he was, he could no more stop that than he could stop breathing.

She
was
tighter
than
a
fisted
glove. And wetter than waterweed.

She
began
to
move. Slowly at first, but then with increasing speed. The pressure on his balls mounted with each stroke. She meant to subdue him with pleasure, drive him to release. She goaded him along like an ox to slaughter.

“Robin,” she whispered. “Dinna fight so hard. Give yourself to me.”

He
shook
his
head, too incoherent with need for speech.

“Ach, verra well. I see your heart is set on it, and when have I e’er given a man aught but what he most wished?”

She
raised
herself
up
on
her
knees, so only the tip of him remained within her tight grip. She squeezed him once with the tiny muscles of her inner walls, careful not to expel him.

“But which face is it to be, I wonder?” She stretched out a hand and sank her fingers deep into his chest.

Rob
sucked
a
startled
breath
over
his
teeth.

Deeper
and
deeper, she probed. He expected agony as she brushed his beating heart, but he felt only warmth and acceptance in her questing touch.

“There it is,” she said softly and pulled her hand back. His flesh closed behind her hand without leaving a mark.

The
room
brightened, not from lightning but from the woman herself. She glowed like a candle. When she looked down at him, it was with Elspeth’s hazel eyes, Elspeth’s virginal lips curved in a sensual, knowing smile. The milk-white breasts were Elspeth’s, firm and high. The tender triangle of hair covering her sex was Elspeth’s rich chestnut.

“Is this the face ye wish for?”

She
was
everything
he
wished
for. His body raced to the edge of release. He teetered on the precipice, waiting only for her to lower herself onto his cock once again.

“As I thought,” she said, the light fading as she leaned forward and kissed his forehead. “And now, Robin, my love, ye must wake.”

He
felt
himself
tumbling
into
a
deep
well, but just before he struck the bottom…

Rob jerked himself awake. His cock throbbed beneath his kilt, still primed for release. The sun had long since set, so it was nearly as dark in the small cabin as the bedchamber in his dream. But Rob had always been cat-eyed at night. Strange that he hadn’t been in his dream. He could see Elspeth lying beside him right enough, close but not touching. Near enough for him to feel her warmth.

Her mouth was parted in the relaxation of slumber, and her closed eyes made him ache to plant a kiss on them. He willed his body to settle. He forced himself to think of a dog eating its own vomit, a corbie plucking the eye from a corpse on a field of battle, anything to keep from coming in a shuddering rush with her sleeping so innocently beside him.

What if she were to wake and catch his body bucking in release?

He’d been a heartless bastard to turn from her as he did after she’d trusted him to waken her to the joys of the flesh. But he was so confused, he didn’t trust himself to speak to her. Didn’t know what to say. Not after Fiona had danced in his head while he touched Elspeth.

Double-mindedness was worse than madness. A double-minded man couldn’t tell if he was afoot or horseback.

Then the succubus in his dreams! As if he needed a third woman to further muddle the question.

He wanted Elspeth, whether it was wise or not. He didn’t need his dream wraith to tell him that. The fact that she was his prisoner and another man’s bride didn’t bode well for anything but a fleeting tryst or two between them.

And despite the outcome of his dream, he still loved his wife and feared that he dishonored Fiona’s memory every time his eye followed Elspeth about.

The succubus in his dream said he was bound because he didn’t have the will to free himself. Even if he had the will, he didn’t see any way to break out of this web of his own weaving. Elspeth was still his enemy’s bride.

“Rob!” Angus called to him. “Are ye awake?”

Rob silently blessed his friend. A turn at the tiller would give his hands something to do and his head a chance to stop chasing these pointless questions.

“Aye,” he said, sitting up and stretching his arms as far as the cramped space allowed. “I’ll be there anon.”

Elspeth stirred beside him. She sat up and stretched catlike as well. Her breasts were unbound still and strained against the thin fabric of her chemise. He forced himself to look away from those luscious curves, but his gaze sneaked back to them. Her nipples stood out proud under the worn linen.

He started to crawl out of the cabin.

“Wait a moment,” Elspeth said. She pulled the leather bodice on over her head and turned her back to him. “I need your help with the laces.”

He tried not to think about the way the bodice lifted her breasts and pressed them together till a soft curve spilled over the top. He was totally unsuccessful. He pulled the laces tight and tied them off.

“There you are,” he said. Anything to fill the silence between them.

“Here I am.” She ran her fingers through her hair to smooth out the tangles.

It only served to remind him how that silken hair had brushed his cock in his dream and then her lips had followed with devastating effect. His body roused to her afresh.

“You’re staring at me,” she accused.

He looked away, but her image was still burned on the backs of his eyes.

“Ye drag me off with ye, and yet ye seem to be able to forget I exist with amazing speed,” she said. “Did it cross your mind that we might have aught to say to one another after what passed between us?”

He shouldn’t have turned away from her. He knew that. Not after she let him touch her so trustingly.

He should apologize. He should explain. He had no idea how to begin.

“Well?” she demanded. “Have ye naught to say to me?”

“Rob!”

Praise
be
to
God
for
Angus
Fletcher!

“No’ now, Elspeth.” Rob scrambled out of the cabin as if his kilt was afire.

***

Elspeth pulled on her cloak and followed Rob out, but she stayed near the prow. The moon had risen and scattered silver coins across the black water of the loch. Clouds scudded across the sky, so the night was warmer than it might have been for November. She still gathered Rob’s cloak at her neck and fastened it with the plain but serviceable brooch.

She pleased Angus by accepting one of his cold sausages wrapped in crumbling bread, and washed it down with some wine that was only days from turning to vinegar.

“The wind shifted whilst ye were resting,” he told her. “We’ve come about with nary a bit of trouble, slick as snot—ach!” He smacked a beefy palm on his forehead. “Ye must forgive me. I’m no’ accustomed to conversin’ with ladies.”

“That’s all well and good, Mr. Fletcher.”

“Angus,” he insisted. Then he leaned down to her and lowered his voice. “And a word in your ear. There’s folks as say that Rob MacLaren is balmy, but he’s as sane as ye or I, ye ken. O’ course, I love the lad like he was my own son. Now, I’m no’ saying I agree with everything he’s doing, mind, but I understand it.”