Snowy Night with a Highlander (14 page)

Except that she didn’t think Lady Gilbert’s husband would be in favor of the journey.

“Perhaps I will!” she said firmly. “Much depends on my brother, of course—he might need me in London—but Lambourne Castle is quite nice, is it no’, if one enjoys the moat and parapets?”

Duncan pressed his lips together and nodded. “Quite,” he said curtly.

He seemed almost pained to hear it. Well, he could bloody well be pained! Fiona was not a shy young debutante so easily influenced by his remarks as she’d once been. She would not run to London! “I am sorry if that displeases you, but I shall be very busy at Lambourne, I assure you. No one has been about for so long, I imagine there is quite a lot to be done.”

“Lady Fiona—”

“And really, I should no’ bother you in the least, as
there is quite a lot to be done
here
. How can you leave such a magnificent home in such a state?” she cried, throwing one arm wide. “It is a jewel in the Highlands, yet you let it rot! If I am to remain in Scotland for a time, I could be persuaded to help you, you know.”

She could scarcely believe she’d just said it. She hadn’t even really thought about it before it came tumbling out of her mouth. But there it was.

He stilled and looked at her closely. “Perhaps I shall accept that offer,” he said low.

“
Good
.”

He was looking at her in a way that made her feel oddly exposed, and Fiona blushed. He’d always had that effect on her—just a look with his brown eyes could make her feel warm and a little weak in the knees. “You need someone like me, if you must know,” she added pertly. “Someone who is no’ afraid to say what must be said.”

A soft smile curved his lips. “No one would ever accuse Lady Fiona of being afraid to speak, that is true.”

Oh Lord
. She was beginning to feel very wobbly and put a hand to her nape as she cast her gaze at the carpet. “But now I think there is naugh’ more to say,” she said. “Other than that I should very much like to thank you for delivering me home. I . . . I could no’ have come alone. It would seem my uncle was right again.”

“It would seem.”

“Aye.” She was surprised by the feeling of sadness that suddenly rose up in her. She looked up and smiled sheepishly. “Well then. Thank you, laird. I shall leave you in peace.”

That was it, then. The night they had shared notwithstanding, that was it, all that could be said between the
two of them. And as she was not one to reveal how distressed she truly felt, Fiona turned to go.

But Duncan suddenly moved, crossing the room, shutting the door and locking it. He turned around, his back to the door, and looked at her again, only this time, his gaze locked with hers, and in that gaze was a world of meaning. “
Fiona
 . . .”

The way he said her name was like a caress. It was soft and low, trickling warmly into her consciousness like the bit of whisky she’d drunk.

“I . . .” He paused and stared helplessly at her.

The mighty laird of Blackwood seemed unsettled. Uncertain.

He cleared his throat, looked down as he ran a hand over the top of his head, then looked up once more, catching her gaze and holding it. She could feel the intensity of it, could feel that magnetic pull between them again.

“I . . . I canna express to you how . . . how much I regret what I said all those years ago. I will be honest—I donna remember it, but I’ve no doubt I said it. What I can no’ understand is how I might have possibly dismissed someone as . . .”

He paused and let his gaze drift over her, and Fiona felt herself on the edge of some precipice.

“As beautiful,” he said, his voice breaking slightly, “or as
vibrant
as you. Fiona, in a very short time, I have come to simply . . . adore you.”

Fiona’s mouth gaped. It felt as if time had rewound itself, and he was saying the things she’d wanted him to say eight years ago.

“I was a bloody fool,” he said, his face darkening somewhat.

“What?”

“A bloody, ignorant fool,” he repeated, only more adamantly, and Fiona’s heart swelled in her chest, choking the breath from her.

“And now?” he said, clenching his fist at his side. “Now I would give what is left of Blackwood to make amends to you. But I harbor no illusions, lass—I know I canna repair it.”

“What—why?”

He scowled and turned away from her. “Must I say it? The scandal that surrounded Devon’s death. My useless arm, of course. My . . .” He gestured impatiently to his face. “My scars.”

Fiona took a step closer to him. “What scars?”

Startled, he turned to look at her. “Fiona! I treated you contemptibly—you and others. I was vain and proud and . . .” He made a sound of disgust. “I am a changed man, Fiona. In my heart I have changed. I am ashamed of what I was then and I leave the burned shell of my house to remind me of it every day.”

Her heart went out to him. Oh, how he must have suffered! She took another step toward him, and another. “Have you no’ punished yourself enough for it, then, Duncan?” she asked him softly. “Can you no’ see that it is time to build a house as a testament to the man you are now?”

His eyes filled with helplessness. “I am but a shadow of the man I was.”

“Oh, but that is where you are wrong,” she said, moving closer. “You saved my life by risking your own, Duncan! You saved my
life
. And . . . and your generosity to the Nevin family was astoundingly kind.” He glanced skeptically at her; Fiona nodded adamantly. “I was there when
your gift was delivered to Mr. Nevin. You cannot imagine his happiness. Do you see? You are more than the man you were then,” she said again. “You are strong and giving and handsome and . . . breathtaking in your sincerity.”

As she spoke the words, she realized how true they were. He was a completely different man now, a better man.

“Ah, Fiona,” he said sadly. “Can you really see past this deformity? It is no’ a pity you are feeling?”

She responded by taking the last few steps to where he stood. She reached up; he recoiled, turning his face, but she caught his chin in her hand and turned his face toward her. With her eyes on his, she pressed her palm against his damaged flesh. “I see no deformity. I see only you, a man greater now than he was before. A man who is kind and thoughtful and sincere. I see only you.”

With a groan, Duncan abruptly caught her up in his arm. He kissed her as he twirled her around, putting her back against the wall. “I canna resist you. You’ve made me feel more alive than I have felt in a very long time.”

His kiss was urgent, his embrace fiercely possessive. It filled Fiona’s heart—she wanted to be possessed, body and soul. She threw the last vestiges of her pride and virtue to abandon, raking her hands through his hair and returning his kiss with an urgency of her own. She’d never felt so wildly aroused as she did the moment he swept her up, never felt so emotional as this.

She caught his face in her hands as his mouth moved from her lips to her neck, then down her body, to her bodice, nibbling and kissing the flesh of her bosom.

Fiona closed her eyes and pressed her head against the wall, reveling in his attention to her. She was an alluring woman who could entice a man to do this. She felt feverish,
on fire, as if they’d denied themselves for a lifetime instead of a day or two. Duncan’s mouth and hand caressed every curve of her body, every patch of exposed flesh, so that her body was quivering with anticipation, her skin consumed by his touch.

She slipped her hands inside his coat, running them across the breadth of his hard chest, the flat plane of his abdomen, and up again to his neckcloth, which she quickly untied, loosening it so that she might put her hands into the space between his collar and his shirt and feel his flesh.

But Duncan caught her up again, holding her against him in a one-armed embrace, and strode to a divan. He deposited her there, then stepped back and hastily unwound the neckcloth. His fingers flew down his waistcoat, which he discarded along with his coat. He went down on one knee beside her and tenderly caressed the hair at her brow. “I was a bloody fool all those years ago, lass. You are beautiful, Fiona, a Highland beauty.”

He could not have seduced her more completely. Fiona sat up, put her hands to his waist, and pulled his shirttail from his trousers. She moved to lift the shirt over his head. Duncan’s immediate reaction was to try and stop her, but Fiona caught his hand and pushed it away. With her eyes on his, she slowly lifted his shirt, her hands sliding up the skin of his chest, her fingers grazing his nipples, his sternum, and up, until she felt the ravaged skin of his shoulder.

Duncan winced; Fiona stilled her hand. “My . . . my body is hideous,” he muttered.

“It is beautiful,” she assured him, and she meant it. His skin might be horribly scarred, but he was a strong, virile man, and no puckered skin could change that.
She rose up on her knees and pulled the shirt over his head, tossing it aside, and looked unabashedly at his arm and shoulder, running her fingers over the worst of it. It was misshapen; the skin had healed in such a way that it pulled his arm to a strange angle. She leaned forward and kissed his chest. His shoulder, his arm.

“ ‘
Bòidheach,
” she whispered as her fingers fluttered over his shoulders and neck, across the ball of his throat and down, to the hard plane of his chest.
Beautiful. . . .

Duncan drew a ragged breath as she explored him with her hands. “I thought the journey would never end,” he said roughly. “I could no’ bear to sit beside you and no’ touch you. I could no’ lay beside you and no’ think of loving you. You are right, Fiona. I need you. I have needed you desperately.”

“If you need me, then make me yours,” she said audaciously.

He cupped her face, pressed his forehead against hers a moment, then lifted his head and looked at her, his brown eyes probing deep. He watched her eyes as he slipped his arm around her back and expertly sought the fastening of her gown, his fingers moving down the row of buttons. He pushed her gown from her shoulders, along with her chemise, down her body until her breasts were bared to him. His gaze dropped to her breasts; he drew a ragged breath as he caressed them with his fingers before catching her around the waist once more and carefully lowering her to the divan again.

He kissed her madly before moving down her body to her breasts, taking one into his mouth and sucking the hardened peak onto his tongue.

The sensation was spellbinding. Fiona closed her
eyes—a consuming desire began to rise up in her; she could feel it growing with every stroke of his tongue, with every caress of his hand until she felt frenzied with it. She kissed his head, kneaded his shoulders, ran her fingers down his back and up again as he laved her breasts. When he lifted his face to kiss her, she took it in her hands and kissed his eyes, his lips, his chin.

But Duncan faded from her again, moving down her body, his mouth on her abdomen, his hand pushing her gown down to her hips, and over them, baring her body to him. His breath was hot on her sex, his hands cupping her hips.

Fiona’s blood felt as if it scored her veins; she was dangerously aroused, desire seeping into her marrow and pooling in a cauldron inside her.

Duncan rose up to kiss her at the same moment he put his hand between her legs, against her hot, slick flesh. Fiona moaned against his mouth; she was lost, completely lost. But when his fingers slipped inside her and he began to stroke her with his thumb, she was mad. She gasped into his mouth and shifted against him, pressing against his hand and body, moving seductively against him, her body begging for more.

“I canna bear it,” he said roughly, and withdrew his hand, unfastening his trousers, pushing them from his magnificent hips, and quickly coming over her again, sliding in between her legs. He leaned down and kissed her tenderly, holding himself aloft with one arm, his knee nudging her thighs apart. “I want to make you mine, Fiona,” he said. “Completely. Always.”

She rose up on her elbows and kissed him. “Always.”

He groaned; she held his gaze as the tip of him, hot and hard, nudged her. Duncan shifted on top of her and moved
his hand to her thigh. He caressed her with his palm, pushing her legs farther apart, then guided himself inside her.

It was an exquisite sensation—her body working to open to him, the tightness easing a bit to allow him. There was a moment of pain, and Fiona closed her eyes. When it had passed, she opened her eyes and looked at him.

He was watching her closely, his eyes full of longing.

Fiona raked her fingers through his hair. “Always,” she whispered.

With a hiss of restraint, Duncan began to move in her—slowly, easily. But Fiona wanted the frenzy of their shared desire again, and kissed him until he let go of his inhibitions and was moving fast and deep inside her.

She ached at the intrusion but longed for more. She moved with him, burying her face in his neck, anchoring her fingers in his flesh. She whimpered with the undiluted pleasure of his body filling hers. When he shifted again, he put his hand between their bodies and began to stroke her as he moved inside her.

The effect was as exhilarating as it was shocking. Her body was responding, and when she found her release, Fiona cried out, tightening hard around him.

He responded with a strangled cry and shuddered deep inside her. She could feel the contractions reverberate throughout his body, and Fiona understood in that astonishing moment that she was precisely where she was meant to be.

Somberly, Duncan gathered Fiona in his arm and rolled to his side. She nuzzled her face into his neck. “I need you, Fiona,” he said again. “Lord God, how I need you.”

She smiled into his neck.

She was home.

Chapter Twelve