The Pride of Lions (43 page)

She looked directly up into the clear midnight eyes. His expression might have been carved from stone, but
her senses were absorbing very different undercurrents. She let them flow over her, warming her, stirring her with subtle, unspoken messages that were far more arousing than any physical act of touching. The blood flushed through her limbs, and she swayed slightly with the tension, knowing beyond a doubt that he was fighting the same strong urges. As she watched, a thin white line formed around his mouth and a pulse began to beat in his temple—the same temple scarred in his duel with Hamilton Garner. The duel where he had won her as his wife.

“I am a Cameron too,” she reminded him. “You made me one.”

She stepped deliberately closer, bringing the ripe, sweet musk of her woman’s body tantalizingly near. Every one of Alex’s nerves tingled, every small hair in every small pore stood on end.

“Catherine, I don’t think—”

She pressed even closer—close enough that the heat of her body paralyzed him. His fingers clamped a rigid warning around her arm, but she ignored it. She raised both hands and curled them around his neck, the contact sending a visible shiver through his big body.

“You don’t know what you’re doing,” he began, but he felt her breasts cushion enticingly against his chest and he saw the bright violet shine of desire defying him to push her away. He started to. By God, he started to. And his lips parted, intending to offer a final warning, but with a soft rushing breath her mouth was there, moist and supple, sweeter than anything he had imagined or remembered tasting in his lifetime. The pink tip of her tongue flicked between his lips, teasing him, taunting him in a way he himself had taught her, and her hands tightened around his neck, forcing him to bend, forcing him to respond in kind.

With a deep-throated groan he sank his fingers into the glossy waves of her hair and crushed her to him, casting aside all of his good intentions, his honorable resolutions, his firm and noble determination not to further enmesh
either one of them in a dilemma that could have no happy solution. He kissed her with lips that were bruisingly hard; he held her in arms that trembled like those of a schoolboy. The rasp of new beard on his chin chafed her tender skin, but Catherine did not seem to notice. She responded with an eagerness that flamed his need beyond all caution and reason.

Alex lifted her and carried her to the bed, his hands tearing at her clothing almost before he had set her down. He bared her breasts and his mouth plundered each straining peak, devouring the last of her doubts even as he unleashed an urgency within her as great and ungovernable as his own. His hands abandoned her, but only for as long as it took to release the yards of pleated tartan from around his waist, and when they returned it was to press her down onto the bedding, to feverishly brush aside the remaining barriers of her clothing and thrust himself as deeply inside her as sense and passion would allow.

A cry was shocked from his throat as the pleasure gripped him instantly. The hunger that had haunted his every unguarded thought engulfed him now, driving him to a possession that was forceful and unyielding. He tried to hold himself back, to check himself, knowing it was too soon … too soon … but Catherine sensed his weakness, shared it as she drew him deeper, held him tighter while the hot torrent of his ecstasy surged and erupted within her. She writhed with the joy of it, clawing her hands into his flesh, into the bunched muscles of his back and shoulders as he shuddered again and again. Blindly, convulsively, she arched herself higher, opened herself wider so that his life force throbbed and pulsed at the very heart of her soul.

Her name was on his lips as he shook the last of the mighty spasms free and collapsed, gasping, on top of her. She lay absolutely still, stunned and splintered with wonder. She raised a hand and combed her trembling fingers through the waves of raven hair, her skin tingling
everywhere under a wash of utter contentment as she pressed her lips to his temple and soothed him, calmed him. Reluctantly, he slipped into an exhausted sleep, his arm fast about her waist and his head pillowed between the soft mounds of her breasts.

Catherine drifted back from a dreamless slumber sometime later. She and Alex were still curled together, although their positions had changed somewhat. Her head was now nestled in the curve of his shoulder. One of her legs was lying carelessly across his, whether to pin him down or to offer protection was unclear. She raised her head slowly, tentatively, but he did not stir except to release a deep and untroubled breath. It occurred to her that she had never seen him sleep before—in fact, she had often wondered if he ever slept at all. How different he looked! Gone were the brooding lines of worry, the stern set to his jaw. The thick black crescents of his lashes lay like fallen wings on his cheeks, and his hair, swept back from his forehead, looked like strokes of black paint against the whiteness of the sheets.

In their haste to reach the bed, neither had completely disrobed. Catherine still wore her chemise and bodice, although both were loose and gaped open over her breasts. Her skirt had been discarded, but his impatience had allowed him only to push her petticoats above her hips and free one slender leg from the pantaloons. Alex still wore his shirt, the linen spread open across the breadth of his chest with the excess shoved up beneath his arms.

Her eyes wandered lower and she stared. Despite their previous night of passion, when she had been left with the distinct impression there could be no possible secret or mystery yet to discover, she realized she had never seen a man’s naked body in the full, uncompromising light of day. By candlelight, or by firelight, her modesty had been greatly spared. There was no such vestige of charity now, and her cheeks flushed a hot, bright crimson
as she studied the sleeping male form, measuring it and charting it as might an artist who was planning to transfer the bold contours to canvas.

Aside from the sheer physical beauty of Alexander Cameron, there were harsher realities revealed by the daylight. Dozens of scars, both fine and wide, threaded their way across the hard surface of his flesh. The thigh cut by Hamilton Garner’s saber bore an older welt, the skin shiny and pulled flat over the surrounding tissue. His ribs, his arms, even his belly wore the telltale signs of the life he had led in his fifteen-year absence from Achnacarry.

The love in her heart swelled to epic proportions, and she could not resist stealing a tender kiss from the wide, full lips. She carefully disentangled herself from the circle of his arms and left him to sleep, deciding she would make his excuses to the family and bring him a tray of food later.

Moving quietly so as not to disturb him, she slipped her skirt back on over her petticoats and repaired the froth of confusion he had made of her chemise and bodice. A quick glance at the mirror told her she would never be able to offer simple conversation as an explanation for their prolonged absence, but she worked a few minutes with a brush and comb to restore at least a modicum of propriety to her appearance. In truth, she did not care if the whole world knew what she and Alexander had been doing in the tousled arena of the bedchamber. Nor did she feel the least bit embarrassed that she had shamelessly seduced him into her bed. If there had been any lingering question as to how she felt about herself or her husband, it had been answered most thoroughly in his arms, and that was all she knew or cared about.

She had professed to love Hamilton Garner, but that love had been as phony and pretentious as the rest of her sorry existence. Her heart had never beaten wildly out of control at his approach, her skin had never prickled at the sound of his voice, her bones had never seemed to melt
from within at his touch. All these things happened, and happened with shocking intensity, whenever Alexander was near her—even from that first moment she had laid eyes upon him in the clearing. She could no longer deny it or argue the logic of it: She was in love. Honestly, completely, painfully in love. And such a sweet pain it was! Sweet and all-consuming, from the tenderness between her thighs to the ache within her heart. She would gladly forsake anything to hold on to this feeling. She would willingly live in a little sod cottage if he asked it of her and if he was there to share it with her.

She finished her repairs and was crossing on tiptoes to the door when she saw Alex raise a hand and rake the hair back from his temple.

“Catherine?” His voice was slurred, heavy with fatigue.

“Go back to sleep,” she whispered and went over to the bed. She pulled the quilt over his body and, on a sudden impulse, bent down and kissed him squarely on the mouth.

The dark eyes showed surprise … and pleasure.

“What was that for?”

“You,” she said simply. “Because you thrive on challenges.”

“I do?” he asked warily.

“Indeed. And here is a new one for you: I love you, Alexander Cameron. More than common sense or decency should allow. Your strength frightens me and your stubbornness angers me, and I believe you to be a truly dangerous threat to a woman’s inbred gentility, but there you have it. And unless you are prepared to give me several honest and convincing reasons why I should do otherwise, I intend to remain here at Achnacarry as your wife, as your lover if you will have me, as the mother of your sons, of which—please God—there will be many.”

His eyes widened and he started to push himself upright, but Catherine was already at the door. She heard him call out, but she dared not stop or go back. She had
said it and she meant it, and it was up to him now whether they used the smuggler’s ship to send out a second explanatory letter to Damien or a bound, gagged, and screaming Catherine Ashbrooke Cameron.

Her heart was pounding and her hands were shaking as she ran through the long gallery and down the narrow secondary corridor that opened into the courtyard. She ran across it and through the judas gate into the rose gardens, slowing down only when she entered the path she normally followed to the tranquil solitude of the shoreline.

When she was into the small band of trees that fringed the banks of the loch, she heard footsteps coming swiftly up behind her. She took a deep breath to brace herself for the inevitable arguments and turned steadfastly to confront her husband—but it was not Alex who came to a grinning halt behind her. It was not Alex who reached out his arms to her, and it was not Alex who clamped a brutal hand over her mouth to stifle her scream of horror.

Alex cursed as he threw back the quilt and swung his long legs over the side of the bed. A wife! A lover! A mother, goddammit! Where had all that come from?

“
Catherine!
”

The roar of his voice died away without producing any results, and he cursed again as he spread the six yards of tartan on the floor and rolled himself in the pleats, securing it about his waist with a leather belt.

She loved him, did she? She was going to stay at Achnacarry, was she? Didn’t she know there was a war about to break out? Didn’t she know her position here in the Highlands could only get worse, not better, regardless of whatever support and protection his own immediate family might be able to offer?

What the hell had happened during his absence?

He sprang to his feet, flinging the surplus length of tartan over his shoulder as he bolted out the door.

She loved him. Of all the stupid, untimely …

His mind replayed her impassioned speech word for word as he ran through the gallery and checked several of the main rooms. A startled servant gaped at his bare chest and his bare feet and pointed out a window, telling him she had seen Catherine run out into the garden, and in a swirl of crimson and black plaid he followed.

He was not entirely blameless, he reasoned as he pushed through the judas gate. He never should have touched her. He should have cut off his hands first before surrendering to the temptation of all that silky white flesh. He never should have kissed her. He never should have looked into those treacherously beautiful eyes of hers and imagined seeing a plea there … a plea to be taken and held and loved.

His footsteps slowed on the gravel path.

So he had bedded her, what of it? He had bedded dozens of women over the years, some equally as lovely and seductive as Catherine Ashbrooke. What made her different? What set her apart from the rest? Why the devil had he gone through with the marriage when he could easily have slipped away into the night and never seen her again? And why, in God’s name, had he gone up to her room today? He had wanted her too badly, needed her, truth be known, in ways he did not even want to think about … and hadn’t thought about until just this minute.

A wife? A lover? A mother for his children? Not since Annie’s death had he even allowed such thoughts to enter his mind.

Annie. There was the real hell of it. He could hardly remember her face anymore, aside from the impression of sweetness and sunshine. When he tried, all he could see was Catherine dancing under the glitter of candlelight at Rosewood Hall, or Catherine in the forest, standing in a pool of sunlight, or Catherine looking up at him, her eyes round with wonder as she discovered ecstasy in his arms.

Aluinn had said it was time to let the ghosts rest. Perhaps he was right.

And she would be safe here. Achnacarry could be changed into a fortress at the turn of a key, isolated and inviolate.…

“Catherine?”

He listened for a reply, but there was only the furious squawking of birds in the trees somewhere off to his left. He ignored the irritating little prickle at the nape of his neck and listened to his heart instead. It was beating against his breastbone, demanding to be heard. He had kept it prisoner too long, denied it the softness and tenderness and trust.…

“Catherine?”

The breeze snatched his voice and carried it into the stand of trees. He saw the glitter of sunlight reflecting off the water of the loch, and he pictured Catherine sitting by the shore, prim and stiff with rebelliousness, waiting for him to present her with all his righteous arguments as to why he should send her away and why she should go.