The Highlander (14 page)

When that feeling passed, she simply felt sleepy. "I must be getting warm," she said, "but I don't understand how that can be. No one is ever warm in Scotland." She yawned and nestied against him, and with her head on his shoulder, she slipped off to sleep.

There was no way of knowing how long she had slept, but she awakened as he was carrying her to her bed. She said nothing as he undressed her down to her undergarments, and pulled the blankets over her.

He sat down beside her and took her in his arms to cradle her against him.

"Are you going to make love to me?"

She felt his chuckle. "Yes, but not now. Go to sleep."

He stayed with her, not leaving her side even once, until she opened her eyes and scowled when she saw he was still sitting beside her.

"Are
you
still here?" she asked, sounding quite grumpy.

"Aye, I am still here. Are you still angry?"

"Of course. Nothing has changed that."

"I thought you were feeling better after your cry."

"I do feel better, but that does not mean I gave up. I might be overcome—-you are obviously bigger than me—but I will never yield," she said, lifting her nose defiantly.

He laughed. "We are not enemies engaged in a war, and I was not asking you to relinquish your life. Can we not call a truce?"

"You mean neither of us wins?" she asked.

"Or neither of us loses." He knew his smile made his eyes shine a little bit brighter, for he could not hide the pleasure he found in her— even when she was angry.

She could not know how she looked or how achingly beautiful she was with her lovely brown hair loosened in sleep, its long silky skeins wrapped around his arms and curling over her breasts.

One long curl had wrapped itself around her neck, and when he untangled it he saw the angry, red welt, raw and crusted with blood.

He ran his finger along the scratch and kissed it, but decided not to mention finding the necklace. He had not yet completely enticed her out of her grumpy mood, and he did not want to test how far he could go with her right now. The necklace could wait until another time.

He noticed she had narrowed her eyes with a suspicious look she was giving him.

"What? Have I done something?"

"I want to know what is it that you want."

His brows rose with surprise. "Do I want something? I do not remember saying I wanted anything. Why would you ask me that?"

"You are humoring me, and when someone humors a person it is because they want something."

"If I am being indulgent, it is only because I wish you to be happy." "Why?"

"Because you are under my protection, and I am concerned for your welfare, and when you are happy the responsibility is much more pleasurable."

"You make it sound as though I am a great deal of trouble."

The smile that had been tugging at his lips broke forth with a chuckle. "Responsibility is not always a problem. Sometimes it can be pleasure."

When he lifted his hand to brush the back of his fingers lightly along the curve of her cheek, he saw the way the blueness of her eyes seemed to darken as she regarded him thoughtfully.

"Which one am I?" she asked.

He lifted one finger to trace down along a dark curl that lay like a question mark over her breast. He noticed the way she watched his hand as it toyed with the coiled lock of hair. "You are pure pleasure, Sophie. Always."

She was suddenly fascinated with her fingers and gave her nails a critical going-over. He took both of her hands in his, brought them to his lips and kissed each palm in turn. He kissed the soft, tender skin of each wrist and drew them up and around his neck.

This put his face close to hers. He saw her eyes widen. She had never appeared more innocent. "You are the most seductive woman, even when you are trying not to be."

His mouth came down on hers, his hands slipping around her and holding her close. The silken contact of her skin against his was overpowering. Even through their clothes, he could feel her shapely, feminine softness that mated so well with the hard musculature of his own body.

His hands moved in a gentle, questing Odyssey over her, and followed each movement with a kiss.

"You are making it difficult for me to remember just why I was angry at you," she said.

"I know," he whispered, as his lips played with the sensitive skin around her ear. "If I said I apologize for anything I have said or done to hurt or offend you, would you forgive me?"

"I forgive you
this
time, but don't press your luck.
D'accord
?"

"Aye, I agree, you little witch."

She was watching him, with her soft hps half parted, and he knew the moment had come. He wanted his mouth against her, wanted the taste of her on his tongue, wanted her lips and her limbs open to him, of her own free will.

It had been a torturous two hours, holding her while she slept, the soft cushion of her breasts rubbing his arm with each breath like an invitation. Once, he had placed his hand over her breast and cupped it in his hand, content to simply keep it there because it was part of her.

It' was a moment of pure truth, void of lust or desire.

Before long, the agony of her nearness became too much. He wanted her desperately. He wanted to turn her on her back and to lie on top of her, and press her mouth open with his, while his legs parted hers.

He knew now that he could never let her go. She belonged to him and with him. An eternity with her would never be enough.

How ironic he did not meet her until he fancied himself betrothed to someone else.

_Ten

The best way to get the better of temptation is just to yield to it.

—Clementina
 
Stirling
 
Graham
 
(1782-1877),
  
Scottish
  
writer.
  
Mystifications.
"Soiree at Mrs. Russel's" (1859)

Sophie knew he was going to make love to her. She knew she should stop him. She knew, too, that she would not.

Like him, she knew part of her motivation was pure lust, born of the strong physical desire to mate with him, without allowing all of the associated feelings of love or affection to guide her. She knew he wanted her, although she did not realize her yearning for him was heightened by his powerful attraction and sexual desire for her.

She never realized a man could be so sensual, and yet carnal minded, or that it would affect her so much emotionally. She only knew she felt herself wrapped in the magic glow of his desire.

It was a luxurious feeling, like soaking in a hot bath, or sleeping with the sun warm upon her face.

She wanted to mate with him, but she was not entirely certain it was purely her lustful desire for him that motivated her, for it had occurred to her that Jamie Graham might just prove to be her salvation and her protector...inadvertently, of course.

To make love with him carried the risk of becoming
enceinte,
but in her case that could be blessing, for it could deliver her from the jaws of a detestable arranged marriage, and a lifetime of marital slavery to a man she abhorred.

She dismissed the notion that she might be fortunate enough to have both Jamie—for it could happen that he would fall in love with her—and the end to her betrothal to that detestable worm, the Duke of Rockingham.

On the heels of that came the reminder of what her father once told her. "Blessings never come in pairs, Sophie, and misfortune never comes alone."

She knew better than to think of Jamie in terms of her future. There was no future for them, just as there could be no feelings involved.

He wanted her because he lusted after her. Therefore, she told herself, she wanted him because he was a necessary part of her plan for saving herself from the clutches of Rockingham.

They both had a need to fill, and it would be a clean mating, with no attachment, no feelings involved.

If Jamie were to get her with child, it was almost a dead certainty that the Duke of Rockingham would see to it that the betrothal was nullified immediately. No man as powerful as Rockingham would want the taint of a wife carrying another man's bastard—especially the bastard of a Scot.

Sophie was willing to withstand the shame, the humiliation, and even the turning away of her family and country, if it meant the wedding would not take place. She possessed a significant inheritance from both her mother and grandmother. She would be able to live alone quite comfortably for the rest of her life.

A piercing pain stabbed at her when she accepted the fact that to bear Jamie's child meant she would never marry. She hardened herself and pushed away the visions she had long carried in her mind: a loving and devoted husband, a long and lasting marriage and a house full of children.

A pang shot through her at the memory of moments with the father she adored—the busy duke who spent too many lamp-lit hours in the magnificent library at Chateaux Aquitaine. Few as those days had been, they were thick with memories.

One time in particular stood out in her mind, when she had left her bed and gone downstairs to see him. During their talk, he told her that there were times in life when people had to make decisions based upon the facts before them and not upon wants or desires.

"I say this,
mon tresor,
because I know you have a preponderance for pasting together what is true and what is false, and extracting what is plausible. No matter how much you may desire it, one cannot make a souffle rise twice. Practicality, Sophie. Above all, one must always be practical. Do you understand what I am saying?"

"Yes, Papa. It is as Moliere said, T live on good soup, not fine words.'"

Even now, she was warmed by the memory of the way her father threw back his leonine head and laughed heartily as he gathered her to him and gave her an adoring kiss.

Be practical, she reminded herself. She knew Jamie was on the verge of marriage. Once their idyll here had ended, he would return to the arms of the woman he planned to marry, and she would be forgotten.

Yes, she would be practical. Above all, she would not allow herself to fall in love with him.

But surely it would not spoil things if she cared for him just a little, or if she desired him, for the door to passion had yawned wide open before her—too overpowering for her to close.

There was a part of her that was not born of lust or desire, but one inspired by the strong, and deep feelings she had for him. She had never been in love, and had no way of knowing if the things she felt were born of this deep abiding sentiment, or if it was simply the strong attachment and desire that might one day blossom into love.

The warmth of his breath washed over her, as if making room for the legions of goose bumps that followed when his lips began to make lazy patterns across her skin. Each sensation traveled farther and deeper than the previous one, and her breathing became more labored and shallow. She could see by the diffuse brightness in his eyes that he was reacting to her as much as she was to him, and the thought of it was as pleasing as it was powerful.

She closed her eyes, sensing the faint aroma of soap on his skin before she was gently encircled in warm, comforting arms. The heat emanating from his body relaxed her and she felt his gentle, caressing hands stroke her face and throat with inexhaustible patience, followed by a nuzzling kiss to the cheek.

That kiss, by virtue of its restrained gentleness, did what no amount of force could have persuaded her to do, and she lay unmoving, somewhere between the harsh and glaring lights of reality and the soft, muted colors of a dream.

"You know where this will lead?"

She knew what he was asking. How could she tell him that no matter how she might resist, there was never a time when she did not want him.

She gazed into eyes as dark as obsidian granite, almost liquid with desire, and said, "Show me.