8
EOIN KNEW this was a bad idea. If he hadn’t had any control when he’d been a hundred feet away from a castle full of people, how the hell did he think he was going to find it when they were alone in a secluded cottage?
But as he was to discover, knowing and stopping were two very different things. He’d been wanting to take her in his arms since he’d caught her in the stables, and the moment he’d walked into this cottage and seen her sitting there, he’d known he was fighting a losing battle not to touch her.
He needed to touch her. Needed to show her how much he cared about her. And needed to let her know it would be all right.
So for the second time in as many days, he didn’t do the smart thing. He didn’t think. He let himself feel . . . and it was incredible.
The passion that had exploded between them in the library had not dulled; if anything it had only grown hotter. Their tongues knew exactly how to find each other, their bodies how to fit, and their hands how to touch.
Well, maybe not exactly how to touch, because if he had his way, she wouldn’t be gripping the hard muscles of his arms right now, she’d be gripping another hard part of him.
Just thinking about her hand wrapped around him made him throb, made him deepen the kiss, and bend her back into the curve of his body.
He loved the taste of her, the soft feel of her lips, and the passionate thrusts of her tongue circling against his.
She was a good kisser. He pushed that thought away before it could take hold, not wanting to think about what she’d said about Brigid’s brother.
Still, a swell of possessiveness surged inside him, and his kiss grew a little fiercer. A little rougher. And a lot more carnal.
Was he trying to shock her? He didn’t know, but with every suck, every nibble, every rhythmic thrust of his tongue—meant to mimic another rhythmic thrusting—he savored the soft gasps of surprise that told him this was new.
He ravished, he plundered, he claimed her mouth, and then he claimed a whole hell of a lot more. His mouth slid over her jaw, down her throat, and once he’d tossed the plaid off her shoulders, down the curved bodice of her gown.
She’d gone lax in his arms, her head falling back, her breath heaving, as if to offer the bounty of her breasts to gorge upon. And what a feast they were. Full and generous, yet firm and perfectly rounded, they were everything he’d dreamed about at night when he was an untried lad.
The pressure in his groin was growing unbearable. He groaned as he slid his hand up to cup her breasts, as his mouth slid over the creamy soft skin above her bodice. Just the weight of all that soft flesh in his hands sent a swell of heat deep in his groin that was nearly enough to drive him over the edge. When she arched her back and started pressing into the palm of his hand, he slid right over.
Margaret didn’t know what was happening, but she knew she didn’t want it to stop. Eoin had taken control of her body, and she didn’t want it back. Not when he could make her feel this good.
The feel of his hands on her breasts was unlike anything she’d ever imagined. Tristan had tried to touch her there once, but she’d kneed him in the bollocks so hard he hadn’t been able to walk straight for a week—or so he claimed. But with Eoin . . . she wanted his hand there. And the lower his lips descended on her chest, the lower his tongue danced beneath the edge of her gown, the more she wanted his mouth there as well.
A fever had taken hold of her body. Her skin was hot, her breath uneven, her heartbeat erratic. Her limbs were so weak she could barely stand.
But he had her. The strength of his body was like a lifeline, an anchor to hold on to as the maelstrom lashed around them.
Still it wasn’t enough. The maelstrom wasn’t around them, it was inside her, and she needed to find a way to release it.
Instinctively she knew what she wanted, and the pressure of her body moving against his grew more insistent. More demanding.
And he responded. The heat of his mouth through the fabric of her gown as he covered her breast made her weak; the feel of his manhood wedged between her legs made her wet. She cried out in pleasure as his hands cupped the sensitive flesh of her breasts, as his mouth sucked, and as his hips thrust. She was falling apart. Melting. Surrendering to the pleasure racing through her veins.
But she wanted more.
Had she said it aloud?
She heard him swear, the sharp curse a guttural answer to her plea. The next moment she felt the rocky wall of the cottage against her back. He lifted her skirt, wrapped one of her legs around his hips and started fumbling with the ties at his waist.
She could have stopped him, but she didn’t want to. She wanted this as badly as he did.
Yet as much as she wanted him inside her, it was still a shock to feel the tip of his manhood nestled at the cleft between her legs, and she gasped.
For one moment the haze cleared, and their eyes met in silent lucidity. From the firm grip she had on his shoulders, she could feel the tension reverberating through his body. He was shaking with it, every muscle in his body flexed with restraint.
“Tell me you want this,” he said roughly, his blue eyes so dark they almost looked black.
He would pull away if she wanted him to. He was giving her a chance to change her mind. But she wasn’t going to. “I want this,” she said softly.
“Thank God,” he groaned, “I’m sorry . . .”
She didn’t understand the apology until she felt the jar of the wall as he thrust up inside her.
She cried out as a sharp pain sliced through her.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “Oh God, a leanbh.” Little one. “I’m sorry. It will be better in a moment.”
She hoped that wasn’t a note of uncertainty she heard in his voice. As it couldn’t get much worse, she wasn’t inclined to argue. Her body was pulled as tight as a bow. She couldn’t breathe, let alone talk. But seeing the concern in his eyes, and the gentle pleading, she did all she could do and nodded.
He kissed her then. A slow, tender kiss like he’d never given her before. It was as if he was trying to soothe the sting—the hurt—with his mouth and tongue.
Nay, she realized. It was more than that. He was wooing her. Showing her with his kiss how much he cared for her.
She could feel her heart soften. Feel the love she now knew she felt for this man blossom inside her. It was the only explanation for what was happening. I love him.
She loved this serious, handsome young warrior with all his quiet intensity who was as learned as a monk but kissed with the raw, aggressive passion of a man who knew how to be wicked. She loved the dry sense of humor that seemed reserved just for her. She loved to tease him, loved to make him smile until the crease between his brows disappeared, and loved the unexpected gentleness and tenderness in his eyes when he looked at her.
Her body responded to that emotion. Relaxing. Releasing the tight hold she had on her pain.
It was then that she became aware of what the pain had prevented: the feeling of him inside her. Big, thick, and hard, filling her with his heat. Possessing her. They were connected, joined in a way she’d never imagined.
Not that she didn’t know the particulars of fornicating, which she did. And she knew enough from her brothers (and those people in the Hall) to know that it could be enjoyable. But she’d thought it would be embarrassing and awkward. What she hadn’t expected was the incredible closeness and bond that would be forged between them.
He lifted his head from her mouth. “Are you all right?”
Seeing the self-recrimination and silent apology in his eyes, her heart tugged. She would remember this moment for the rest of her life and cherish it.
She put her hand up to cup his stubbled jaw. “I’m perfect.”
And she was. Margaret knew this was exactly where she was supposed to be. Joined with this man in the way God had intended. She didn’t care what the priests said, this couldn’t be a sin. It was heaven.
Eoin’s teeth clenched against the urge to thrust. The urge that was as primitive and powerful as anything he’d ever experienced.
He’d done this before. Maybe not as many times as Fin—he was focused on other things than chasing women—but enough to know that this was different.
And it wasn’t just because Margaret was a maid (even if he’d had to keep reminding himself of that fact with the passionate way she responded to him). Christ, he hadn’t expected that much pain. It had scared the lust right out of him. Though unfortunately only for a minute. It had come roaring back full force as he became aware of the tightness of her body squeezing around him.
What made this different wasn’t just the sensations gripping his body, but the emotions gripping his heart. Eoin didn’t believe in bards’ shite like fate and destiny, but looking into those incredible golden eyes while seated deep inside her, the words came to mind. He felt something in his chest shift with the intensity of the emotion that rose inside him. He wanted to protect her, cherish her, and most of all love her with everything he had.
Unfortunately, the base instincts clamoring inside him like the drum had other ideas. The pressure pounding at the base of his spine warned him that he didn’t have long. He’d just come up against the limits of his control.
As soon as he felt her relax, he couldn’t hold back anymore. He had to move. Slowly at first, and then as her breath quickened, and soft cries filled the cottage, faster.
Her response drove him wild. Her back arched . . . the leg around his waist tightened, and he was lost. His hips thrust, circled, and plunged. Deeper, harder, faster, until the pleasure unwound inside him.
“Oh God, Maggie, you feel so good. I’m going to . . .”
He couldn’t finish. He stiffened, shuddered, and cried out as the force of his release exploded from him in wave after wave of powerful bursts.
When it was over, it was all that he could do to stand. He collapsed against her and slowly let her slide from his body as he fought to regain some of his strength—and breath.
He was utterly drained. Spent. Wrung out of all his energy. When he was seven—just before he left to be fostered—he’d been swimming in the sea around Gylen Castle and become caught in the current. He’d nearly drowned, struggling for over an hour, before finally dragging himself to shore and collapsing in a dead heap in the sand. That was about how much energy he had right now.
Until her muffled voice penetrated the euphoric haze. “Eoin, uh, are you all right?”
Ah hell. He pulled back with a curse, realizing he’d probably been crushing her. He realized other things as well, like the fact that he’d just taken her maidenhead with little more finesse than an eighteen-year-old lad.
She was probably confused—worried—wondering what the hell happened now. In other words feeling the same way he was. Divesting young ladies of their virginity wasn’t exactly something he had a lot of—any— experience with.
He didn’t bother asking himself what the hell he’d just done, he knew exactly what he’d just done. Rather quickly. Against a wall, for Christ’s sake.
“God, I’m sorry,” he said, raking his fingers back through his hair. “I didn’t mean it to happen that way. You deserved better.”
She looked stricken. “You regret what—”
He stopped her. “Nay. God knows I probably should, but I don’t.”
It was too late for regret. Too late for self-recrimination. Too late to say he’d made a mistake. Too late to tell himself that he never should have brought her here.
Even if he wanted to be angry with himself for doing something so incredibly stupid (not to mention dishonorable), something guaranteed to cause them both a shite-heap of trouble, and something that could jeopardize his place in his kinsman’s secret guard, he knew it wouldn’t change anything. What was done was done. Whether she was right or wrong for him no longer mattered: she was his. And damned if that didn’t make him happy.
Reaching down, he cupped her face in his hand, gently stroking the soft curve of her cheek with his thumb. She was so damned beautiful she took his breath away, and never more than now when she bore the stamp of their passion on her swollen lips and stubble-scraped skin.
Eoin was discovering that he hadn’t left those Viking marauder roots as far behind as he thought.
“All I meant,” he explained, “is that you deserved far more than a wall in a fisherman’s cottage for your first time, and had I any semblance of honor and control, I would have given it to you—along with far more pleasure.”
Relief spread over her delicate features in a bright smile. “But you did bring me pleasure.”
He had, he realized, as surprising as that was for a maid. From everything he’d heard, the first time for a lass was always horrible. But Margaret had liked it. Just thinking about the way her body had responded to him, how she’d pressed her breasts against his chest and tightened her leg around his hip, drawing him closer, did what he would have thought impossible. Defying every law of nature, he felt himself stir.
He looked into her eyes and continued to run his thumb over her bottom lip. “There’s more, a leanbh,” he said huskily. “Much more.”
“Really?”
The spark of anticipation in her eyes went straight to his bollocks. She was still standing in front of the wall, and he was remembering too well how she’d looked pressed up against it. How her eyes had slitted, her breath had quickened, and her cheeks had flushed.
He had every intention of seeing that again, but this time, he was going to do it right. “Aye, really. But before I show you exactly what I mean, you must agree to one thing.”
A small frown drew between her brows. “What’s that?”
“To be my wife.”
The look of shock on her face would have been amusing had it not been at the expense of what honor he had left.
“W-w-what?”
He frowned. Surely she knew as well as he what this meant. She was his, damn it. She’d given herself to him, and he had no intention of letting her go.
“I want you to marry me, Maggie. Right here, right now.”
Margaret’s head was spinning.
Barely had she recovered from the fear that she might have killed him—the look on his face before he’d collapsed against her had been as close to a man glimpsing paradise as she’d ever seen—then she was reeling from the blow of thinking he regretted what had happened. Now he was proposing? And unless she was mistaken, what he was proposing was just as shocking.
“A clandestine marriage?” she asked.
He nodded grimly. “It’s not ideal. And if there was another way, I wouldn’t suggest it. But you know as well as I do that our families will not want an alliance between us. The church might not like informal ceremonies done without the banns, but it will be valid—and binding.”
Their eyes met, and she knew exactly what he meant. Even if their families wanted to try to undo it, they would not be able to. If they agreed to wed right now, spoke their vows, and consummated them, in the eyes of the church they would be just as married as if they’d posted the banns for the next three Sundays and then exchanged vows before the church door with a priest.
“But once we explain to them what has happened . . .”
“Do you really want to take that chance? What do you think your father will say?”
Her father would be furious. She didn’t want to think about what he would say, but it was what he would do that worried her. She wouldn’t put much past her father when his pride was involved. He wanted her to marry the Lord of Badenoch’s son—no matter how improbable that was now—he would not settle for a kinsman of Bruce’s, and a third son at that. Her father loved her, but he would do whatever it took to keep them apart, virginity or not.
Eoin was right, if they didn’t marry now, they might not have another chance.
But something was holding her back from saying yes. She tilted her head, studying this serious, handsome warrior who’d wound his way around her heart. “Why do you want to marry me, Eoin?”
He stiffened. “I would think that is obvious.”
That was exactly the problem. Margaret wasn’t a romantic. She hadn’t thought her husband’s feelings for her would matter to her when she wed. It was discomfiting to realize that they did. Honor should be enough, but in this case it wasn’t.
“There is no reason for anyone to know what just happened,” she said softly.
His jaw clenched angrily, his eyes darkening to midnight. He ground out each word. “I will know.” His eyes scanned over her as if he were remembering every moment. An unmistakable thrill spread over her skin. “You gave yourself to me, Margaret, and if you think I’ll pretend it didn’t happen, you don’t know me very well.”
She didn’t. That was part of the problem.
The dangerous glint in his eye made her shudder. Had she not been backed against a wall already, she might have taken a step back. But she wouldn’t let him intimidate her. “You do not need to fall on your sword for the sake of my reputation, Eoin. I’m afraid it’s rather too late for that. Marrying me won’t change what they think.”
His eyes narrowed. Holy cross, he could look menacing!
“That isn’t what I’m doing.”
“Isn’t it? I’m strong enough to weather the storm; I will not let them defeat me so easily. I don’t care what they say. I know the truth.” She gave him a wry smile. “Believe it or not, at home people actually like me.”
He held her gaze for so long she didn’t think he was going to say anything. But as usual, his expression held no hint of his thoughts. “I believe it. And that’s why I want to marry you.”
It took her a moment to realize what he meant. When she finally did, it felt like the sun had just broken out from behind a cloud. “You care for me.”
He drew her up against him. “Aye, I care about you, lass.”
The deep, rough huskiness of his voice sent tiny shivers racing across her skin. She looped her hands around his neck as if they belonged there. “I care about you, too.”
As his hands already were moving possessively over her body, clearly he’d guessed as much.
“Good. Now, if you are finished with your questions, you have about five seconds to give me an answer before I carry you over to that bed. You can be my wife the second time I’m inside you or the third, but either way, I will be inside you, and you will be my wife.”
Her eyes widened. This was a fierce, primitive side of him she’d never seen before, and something about it made her pulse quicken and her blood heat. Or maybe that was the feeling of him hard against her.
She arched a brow. “Is that the way of it, then?”
“It is.” His hand was on her breast. She sucked in her breath as his thumb circled over the crest of her nipple. When he’d made it hard, he drew it between his fingers and gently pinched. She gasped as pleasure flooded her senses—and flooded somewhere else as well. She trembled with pleasure.
“And, Maggie?” His mouth was by her ear, his warm breath and silky tongue making her shudder.
She was in such a sensual daze it took her a moment to realize he was talking to her. “What?”
He lifted her up into his arms. “Your five seconds are over.”