Chapter Fourteen

Slowly, Fiona rose to consciousness. Oh wow, she’d been having such a delicious, delicious dream. Nothing like dreaming about being wrapped up warm and snug against a hunky Highlander. And not any Highlander.

Duncan.

She smiled in her fuzzy half-sleep, her cheek moving against fabric. Awful hard for a pillow. And warm. And…and steadily moving. Up and down.

Her eyes flew open, her heart doing a little oh-my-god kick. Surely not.

Dim light greeted her. Grass and dirt. She looked to where her cheek rested and…

Oh!

She was snugged up tight against Duncan, basically using him as a body pillow. Memories rushed back—their frantic, cold flight from the wrecked ship, their fight with the English Williamites, and their trek to this little nook in the ground...

Past their feet stretched more flower-topped grass until it reached the green of grass kissed by the darkening sun.

She didn’t want to budge. At all. Because if she did, she was pretty dang sure this excuse for snugging up against him would go poof.

So she pretended. Pretended, in this small stretch of time until reality would show it for a lie, that being in his arms was normal. That they could always do this. That she wasn’t facing a future where she’d have to fight Duncan to save her ancestor.

Then she stilled. Because was that what actually went down? She ran the legend through, parsing it.

The forefather of our Virginia kin was one William Campbell, and it was a near thing that any of us were born, for in the year of our Lord 1689, his very life nearly ended during the siege of Urquhart castle. It came to pass that he found himself in a fight for his life along the banks of the River Enrick, where the dragon’s tongue meets the fork. His fiercest opponent was a warrior of the MacCowan’s, formidable and fearsome, with a crescent scar above a Celtic knot on his manly chest. Our ancestor fought long, brave, and true, but this may not be enough for even the best of men. He would have met his Maker that day but for the quick and decisive intervention of the brave lass Fiona.

Bonnie was she, with hair the color of spun gold. Her aim proved true, and William Campbell was saved from most certain death. Wishing to start a new life in a new land, he bought passage to cross the sea to the shores of old Virginia. This silver buckle, my children, was once of a pair, bought with his first earnings as a merchant on these shores. A promise to himself to celebrate the new life he’d been granted, engraved with the name of his deliverer—Fiona.

His fiercest opponent was Duncan, yes. But that implied more than one. And so…the blow she blocked could be from someone other than Duncan.

Aaaand—her heart sped up—Duncan had gone still. His breathing was totally fake-casual. He was awake.

She peeked down to a specific spot.

Heat flushed her body, giving new energy to her heartbeats. Yep, he was awake, all right.

If she kept pretending…

She waited, dreading the moment they’d have to break apart. A bird trilled to the right. Another answered, farther away. And still he didn’t move.

He was awake; why didn’t he move—?

Oh.

Mental forehead slap. He was also not moving for the very same reason—he didn’t want to break apart either.

Could he also want more?

Heart pounding so hard she could feel it where her ear pressed against his chest, she innnnnchhhed her hand down his torso. Because this could be a natural movement. In her sleep. Like they were pretending to be. He grew even more still, if that was possible. But didn’t break the we’re-still-sleeping ruse. This had to mean he welcomed it. Possibly.

Go for it, girl.

This time she moved her hand with purpose. Letting him know—this was no accidental movement in her sleep. She smoothed her hand up his linen-clad chest, the tight weave—warm from his skin and the last rays of the sun—skim-skim-skimming across her palms.

His breath caught. And grew more ragged. She brushed her nails up until she reached his nipple. And then scraped across it.

Duncan nearly sucked the air out of their ground bowl.

Lord God in Heaven, Duncan’s blood, his skin, his loins—all of him—was aflame. And not from a fever.

At least he hoped not.

He’d awakened to find Fiona a hot little bundle in his arms. He’d believe it all ’twas but a dream that she touched him so boldly, except never would he wish for such an encounter, burrowed in a crevice in the ground.

No. If he were dreaming, it’d be a feather-tick bed. Maybe a heather-filled one if his dream-mind was feeling more realistic. Not the ground.

That meant her fingers trailing up his chest, the brazen and breathtaking scrape across his nipple, was real.

He very much feared that he lacked the strength to resist what she so plainly offered.

To test his perception, he eased his hand down from where it rested cupping her shoulder until it lay lightly at her waist.

He bit his lip and held his breath.

And squeezed at that sweet curve by her hip. He waited. Tensed.

She didn’t bolt in fright. Or maidenly shock.

Heart at full gallop now, he contented himself with only brushing his hand up her waist and back down.

It had been a long, long while since he’d lain with a woman. Aye, he’d desired many but only rarely indulged. When he did so, ’twas with a widow on a croft between Dungarbh and Glengarry Castle, with whom he had an understanding. Even so, he didn’t visit every time his errands took him past her farm. And not since he’d met Fiona.

Something told him that laying with Fiona would be very, very different.

If they even indulged.

A contented rumble emerged from her throat, like a stable cat, the sound vibrating against him. Impossible for her not to notice his cockstand now.

She stroked and teased his nipple, and, Criosd, that simple touch—simultaneously gentle and caring and seductive—nearly made him spill his seed in his féileadh.

He closed his eyes. Warm skin beneath his palm. The dip at her waist. These details he concentrated on.

He skimmed up her hip and back to her waist, but ventured no farther. ’Twas possible she was unaware of what happened between a man and a woman. Might be acting purely from instinct.

But, nay. The awareness that such an action could be arousing… The boldness. And yet he dared not assume ’twas proof.

Overhead, the sky darkened, cloaking them by degrees into a more intimate space.

She swung her leg over his hip, put her hands on his chest, and slowly sat up.

Her eyes were hot on his. And his cock was as hard as the boulders nearby. Longing seared him, making his blood pound urgently.

She shifted until she was astride his member, leaving no doubt as to her carnal knowledge.

Her warmth, even through their clothes, cupped his now aching cock. A needy, desperate pain. His hips bucked reflexively. Och, God, he nearly came then and there.

Then she rocked up. And back.

Aye. No doubt now.

Glad he was, for he burned to be with this woman with a fierceness that should scare him in its intensity, but that fierceness also meant he didn’t wish to question his raw emotion. However, if she was experienced, why had she shied away from him that first night?

She bit her lip. “I’d like to see if the rumor is true.”

“What rumor?” His voice emerged low, almost unrecognizable in its gruffness.

“The rumor about what you wear under your kilt.”

“Kilt?” he asked at the unfamiliar English word she used in her Gàidhlig.

“Your féileadh.”

“What daft soul wears anything under a féileadh?”

She swatted his chest. “So it’s true! And you took away my surprise. Well, I’m going to see if it’s true.” She curled her hand on his chest. “That is, if it’s okay with you?”

She must be distracted, for again she used another English word. “Okay?” But he welcomed the distraction, for it assisted in reining in his control.

She smoothed her hands down his chest, her palms’ warmth soothing. He liked that. Very much. Too much.

“It means a lot of things, but in this instance, do you give me permission to peek?”

Heat flared and pooled, coiling at his hips, at the bold request. “Aye, lass, ye can peek all ye like. I’ll not stop ye.”

Perhaps he’d misunderstood?

But, nay. She lifted onto her knees and scooted back. And then eased the folds of his féileadh upward, her plump, kissable lip held fast by her teeth.

The remainder of his blood shot down to his groin, shifting his cock.

Her eyes flipped back to his, and she grinned. “Very nice.”

“Are we done with the peeking?” Controlled breath in. And out.

She nodded. And then she bit her lip again, her eyes serious. “You should know that I’m not going to marry Malcolm MacLeod. I never intended to.”

Briefly, he closed his eyes. A small shudder of released tension escaped him. “Why agree to go to Dunvegan then?”

Her eyes searched his, and she leaned forward, her hands on his chest. She settled back on top of him, and his cock was very happy indeed. So much so, ’twas hard to concentrate on what sounded like a serious conversation.

“Traci told me to say yes, to help save Iain’s dignity. But I looked for a way not to. Until I learned you were going,” she finished on a whisper.

His foolish heart kicked. “My reason as well.”

“Oh my God,” she said in English, laughing. Every time he heard her laugh, its sparkling tones seemed to have a magical weight to them, filling the space between them until it touched him, no matter the distance.

He brought his hand up into that space, reaching until his fingers…touched her arm. He trailed them downward with just enough pressure to compress the fabric so his skin could feel the solidity of her arm underneath. She shuddered.

“Why are ye telling me this, Fiona?” That little seed of hope unfurled its first small, tender leaf.

“Because—” Her breath hitched. And again she trembled. Both times had been so subtle, he’d have missed it if his fingers weren’t still tracing a slow path down her arm. She trailed her hands down his torso and fingered the edge of his linen shirt that had pulled out from his féileadh. He breathed in. And out.

“Because I’d very much like to sleep with you,” she said in a rush.

The seedling of hope flared into a hot ball of lust, arrowing straight to his loins. “Do ye now?” he growled.

“Yes.” She inhaled a deep breath and locked her gaze with his. “And we are handfasted. Though I’m not sure I forgive you yet for not acknowledging it in front of Iain, Traci, and the MacLeods.”

Forgive him? Did she not understand honor had prevented him from forcing a woman to abide by a union when she wished it not?

Iain had said her customs were different, though. And then…and then as he pushed that aside, happiness burst in his chest. She admitted their joining. “I thought ye did not wish for it to be acknowledged.”

Now his chest tightened at how much he revealed. For with each tiny confession, he stepped farther out onto that wooden floor. Each confession tested its strength. He must be careful not to rush full tilt across that foundation. Not until he was certain. Of her. Of himself.

He had no desire to go crashing through the floor of his heart again. Like he had with Margery. Like he had every time he realized he mattered not to his mother, no matter how he wished otherwise as a boy.

She lifted an eyebrow. “I think it’s time we consummated our marriage, don’t you?”

“Aye,” he breathed out. Then he stilled. “Wait.”

She’d been lifting his linen shirt up his chest. Now she paused and cocked her head in query.

He swallowed. Breathed in. And out. “Here?”

“Yes. Here.” She dragged the soft cloth up and up, the fabric tickling along his sensitized skin. He trembled. Never had he been so responsive to a woman’s slightest touch.

He should protest. Say that they await their arrival at Dunvegan. Fiona leaned down, eyes on his, and flicked her velvet tongue across his nipple. He bucked, his back grazing across the soft bed of grass. Shivers coursed down him, and what little sanity he possessed flew right out from their cozy scoop in the hillside. Nothing else mattered. Nothing but joining with this woman, his wife, in the most fundamental way.

He ached to be inside her, but he also had no desire to spill his seed before that event transpired. He lasted longer when on his back, so he only needed to expedite matters.

“Out here it is, then.” He gripped her hips and lifted.

Without him even communicating his wishes, she lifted his féileadh, exposing him.

And then—he closed his eyes and hissed at the sensation—she gripped him in her wee hand. That was not what he’d meant. But, God.

His woman hummed in satisfaction, and lust and urgency shot heat through his veins. A heat which inflamed him with the desire to flip her over and ram into her, over and over, until they both screamed in pleasure. He clamped his jaw tight. Breathed in. And out. And eased her back to his thighs.

“Easy now,” he groaned. And watched. And breathed in. And out.

She stroked him, her grip tight and warm, a prelude of what he’d soon find inside her. He arched his head back and clamped his eyes tight. He breathed in. And out. And found the control needed to brush his hands up her waist like he ached to do. Ached while knowing that doing so would be another spark to the flame already ravaging his control. Up, to the perfect globes encased in her petticoat.

His palms bumped the underside of her breasts. Her hand paused and then gripped him tighter, her strokes more frenzied as he reached up with his thumbs and caressed. And cupped. Och, so perfect, so round, so soft, even through the constricting fabric.

She jerked, losing her rhythm, and grazed a finger over his swollen tip, found the bead of moisture at the top, and slicked it down his rigid length.

He shivered and gripped her waist. “I mean it, Fi, I’ll not be lasting long if ye keep stroking me in that manner.”

The vixen chuckled.

Thank Cernnunos, she took pity on him and lifted her hips, grabbing the folds of her skirts. He watched, heart beating madly, his cock anticipating the sweet slide, the sweet friction, the sweet relief—as her skirts frothed upward, bunching around her waist. Then flaring wide, the slight weight sweeping and settling against the bare skin of his abdomen. She shifted forward, and he held his breath, but instead of feeling himself slide into her silken depths, she fit her sex along the length of him, teasing him.

“Mo Chreach!” He jerked and stilled and mentally scrambled for control. The feel of her heat on his cock—moist already for him—was a trial almost beyond his powers of restraint.

She rocked forward, coating him with her beautiful juices, her eyes closed, her head tipped back. “Oh, Duncan.”

Even in the dim light of early evening, he could see her beauty. And then the moment her features softened and she surrendered to pure sensation.

But, Criosd. Whenever he was alone with her, she was draped in darkness. If he could, he’d pull the sun around until it bathed her completely. He wanted to relish the sight of her.

A shudder rocked through her, and his fingers dug into her waist. Barely, he held himself in check. But he had to. She needed to go at her own pace.

He pictured the routine he employed to clean and polish his sword. And then his pistol. And then… Desperately he sought anything to occupy his addled brain other than the feel of her rubbing along his aching cock.

When he despaired of losing the battle, her hand reached under her skirts. Her warm, soft fingers touched him. Lifted. And then, dear God—finally—she lowered herself onto him.

When her velvet heat stopped only an inch down, he greatly feared she’d balked. He knew from the few women he’d been with that he was larger than most.

But she didn’t balk. Instead, she clutched his shoulders and locked her gaze with his. Her eyes rounded, she bit her lip, and slowly lowered onto him farther. And, Lord have mercy, the hot vise of her sex was unlike anything he’d ever experienced.

“Duncan,” she whispered. Was he a fool to hear a note of wonder, along with desire?

Aye, he was a fool. Always had been. But at this moment, he was fine with being the biggest fool in Christendom if it meant he could have more moments such as this. With her.

When she sank halfway down his length, her thigh muscles tensed and she rose. The delicious slide of her heat—it nearly made him shake with need. Need to take her hips and pump, faster and faster, into her.

She squeezed herself down him completely. He couldn’t help it—he nudged up with his pelvis and ground as far into her as he could.

She quivered and opened her eyes.

Looking into their depths felt as if he stepped farther out onto that wooden floor. The sensation was oddly both terrifying and…freeing.

His hands flew to her face, and he pulled her down, crushing her lush mouth against his. She moaned into his mouth and rocked back and forth. Where their mouths were hungry, devouring, their hips were languorous.

Control.

For some reason, the feel of her smooth skin beneath his rough palms, the drugging taste of her mouth, the soft hair at her nape brushing the backs of his fingers helped him maintain control. He snatched that realization—whatever was required to give her the time she needed to find her pleasure.

Details. Brush, taste, stroke.

Her mouth…her mouth tasted like the purest water from a newly made spring after the last snow melt. He swept his tongue inside her, relishing how she tangled with him stroke for stroke. Details.

Her pace shifted, grew frenzied, and swamped the details. His cock swelled impossibly further at the jerky friction. That he could no longer ignore.

She broke away from his lips on a gasp. Her fingers clenched his shoulders, and she exhaled by his ear, sending shivers barreling through him, which… Criosd.

Because he looked on in wonder…

She cried out and trembled as her sex milked him in its greedy grip, her expression the most erotic sight he’d ever witnessed as she found her pleasure.

He rolled them over, keeping his cock inside that molten, milking grip. Pulled back until his tip was just inside. And drove into her. Hard. White heat tightened his cods and gripped his lower back. She clasped her legs around his waist and clamped down on him again with another spasm. He dragged back out and plunged into her tight, delicious heat once more. And let go.

His seed exploded into her, the pleasure ripping through him so hard he choked out her name on a hoarse cry and collapsed against her. His mind blanked.

Somehow, he found a wee shred of awareness, of strength, and rolled onto his back, taking her with him, resting her across his chest. She snuggled into his side with a contented sigh. Right where she fit. Right where she belonged.

Sweet Mother of God. That was—

And then he was useless for forming coherent thought.