Twenty-Six

The next day’s journey began in awkward silence, progressing over time to nods, clipped questions, and one-word replies. Remembering how he’d made her beg and whimper, only to leave her pleading like a child, Catherine followed Jamie in stony silence. Recalling his mocking words in the coach and her own pleading ones last night, “Please, Jamie, please,” she clenched her fists and gritted her teeth, looking straight ahead. He plays with me! I’m a toy for his amusement. I hate him! I wish we were back on the mountain so I could push him off!

The storm had blown itself out overnight, but the ground was still wet and boggy, and as they left the mountains behind them, they squelched and sloshed over scrubby hills that soon gave way to squares of wood and fields. The weather remained undecided. The sky would darken suddenly, gushing rain, and a moment later the sun would return, changing it back to a brilliant cerulean blue. Just like him. Shining down on you in all his glory one minute, then pfft, gone, the next. I will never kiss him again. I will never touch him again. I will never drink whiskey again. She repeated the mantra over and over, using it to fuel her march.

Jamie made several attempts to engage her in conversation, pointing out interesting features they passed on the way, but she studiously ignored him. Heading east, they entered a fertile stretch of land he insisted on telling her was the Golden Vale, part of the basin of the River Suir, which crossed the county from north to south. Here, lush expanses of farmland were separated from each other by ranges of gentle hills, kissed by the heavy mists that rolled inland along the river. They passed through it on roads lined with ancient, twisted trees clothed in vine and moss, and bordered by stone-walled pastures.

By nightfall, the country was level and they’d reached the banks of the Suir. Jamie told her of a legend that the river began to flow on the night King Conn of the hundred battles was born. Curiosity piqued, she spoke at last, asking for the story, but he only shrugged. Sullivan had told him. He didn’t know the rest. Yet another disappointment, she thought sourly.

The property was on the north bank of the Suir. Comprised of five hundred acres of farmland and lush pasturage, it was crowned by a large, tower-house castle, surrounded by walls and defensive turrets, perched on top of a small rise. They approached through a park-like setting, down an avenue of ancient oak and yew, and entered the courtyard through a medieval arched gateway. Inside were several stone-faced buildings that included a stable for twenty horses. The house stood five stories tall and had numerous gun loops and four towers with a timber guard walk between them. Catherine was impressed. Though not as large or imposing as Castle Drummond, it did a more than adequate job of combining the virtues of a comfortable manor house with a formidable defense.

“This is a good deal grander than I was led to expect, Sinclair.”

“Just so. I apologize if I’ve disappointed some romantic notion about living in a hovel, but it doesn’t do to flaunt one’s good fortune, lest some fool get jealous and attempt to take it away. Most gentlemen of my acquaintance lust after lands in England, not Ireland, and many who’ve been given land here have never been to see it. They rent it back to the original owners at exorbitant prices or sell it for development. Charles would never have given me this had he known its worth, but there’s been a tradition since Cromwell’s day to reward with lands the soldiers you can’t pay, and now they’re mine.”

“Will James strip them from you, as he has your property in London?”

“If he thinks of it he might, but I’m hoping if I stay out of sight and mind, my Irish properties and I will be considered too insignificant to warrant much attention. If not, I think I can persuade Dick Talbot to argue they be returned to Sullivan. It was an excellent idea you had… coming here. I was so… If you hadn’t talked some sense the other night, I’d be on my way to some meaningless campaign somewhere in Europe. I consider you a good friend, Catherine. I hope you know that.”

Catherine stopped in her tracks, astonished. Sometimes he said the most unexpected things. Just when she thought she had him figured out, she found she didn’t know him at all.

He continued on through a grilled door without her, and she had to hurry to catch up. They entered a large hall, paneled in Irish oak, that stretched over one hundred feet in length. It was hung with beautiful tapestries and boasted mullioned windows and a handsome limestone mantel. A spiral staircase led to the upper floors.

“I thought you said you were poor.”

“I am. Selling this would pay off most of my debts, but I’ve not wanted to take anything away from the place to use in England. I’ve kept my hands off for the most part, though God knows, mouse, there’s times I’ve been tempted. Sullivan manages the property and he’s got a good head for business, and Mrs. O’Sullivan, his mother, manages the people. Come, let’s find her.”

“Why do you call Sullivan and his mother by different names?”

“Because I don’t want my ears boxed. Sullivan is the English version of the name and Granny O gets piqued if one uses it in her vicinity.”

They walked through the hall and down toward the kitchen, a swell of excitement building in their wake. Servants came to greet them with curtseys, smiles, and handshakes, messengers left on the run, and dogs and children crowded around. The hubbub reached the kitchen before they did.

“Well, God bless and protect us all, ’tis the devil himself come to call.” A stout, motherly-looking woman, with piercing blue eyes framed by wire spectacles, stepped forward and enfolded Jamie in a warm embrace. “You might have sent word you were coming, Jamie lad, so we could have prepared a feast.”

“I do apologize, Mrs. O, but my wicked past overtook me, leaving deuced little time to write.” The children were clamoring around him, laughing with excitement, pulling at his pockets and jumping up and down. “Mrs. O’Sullivan, there’s a child attached to my leg. Kindly detach it.”

“Off you go now, the lot of you, before I find you work to do.” Mrs. O’Sullivan clapped her hands and shooed them toward the door. Calling them back, Jamie reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief. Passing it through a circle formed by his thumb and forefinger with a dramatic flourish, he opened his hand to reveal several pieces of hard boiled sugar candy. They shrieked in delight as he tossed it to them one by one, and then they and the dogs tumbled out the door and into the kitchen garden.

“I feed them all candy so they won’t revolt and murder me in my bed—except for Granny O, who’s sweet on me anyway and likes to watch her figure,” he confided to Catherine with a cheeky grin.

“So you were chased out of England for some kind of mischief, then. Did my boy come with you?” Mrs. O’Sullivan peered over his shoulder into the now empty corridor.

“Alas no, Mrs. O. I left him cavorting with strumpets and hussies. He’s yet to produce a son and I thought it best. Your boy is forty-two years old. A bit of practice won’t hurt him. He’ll be along directly once he’s done.”

“You’re not too old to have your ears boxed, Jamie Sinclair. Who’s the girl then? Will she be staying, or should I be sending to the village? If you plan to keep her, be sure to tell her the way things are.”

The old woman gave Catherine a challenging look that would have made a lesser being quaver. All of a sudden, Catherine was acutely aware of her scuffed boots, torn shirt, and stained breeches, and she had to restrain an urge to fix her tangled hair.

“Now, now, Mrs. O. I admit she resembles a ragamuffin more than a lady, but I do intend to keep her. I’ll grant she’s a wanton bent on seduction, who clubbed me and beat me and won’t let me go, but that kind of thing appeals to me, you see, and I can’t seem to resist her wiles. She’s Lady Catherine Drummond, Countess of Moray, Carrick, and once Carlyle, and she’s my wife, and that’s the way things are.”

He turned to Catherine. “Darling? May I introduce Granny O’Sullivan, matriarch and queen of the O’Sullivan clan? I don’t know why they call her granny, as her lump of a son has yet to produce any children and she herself is eternally youthful, like an Irish spring.”

Catherine brushed by Jamie and offered her hand. “I am pleased to meet you, Mrs. O’Sullivan. Your son has been kind to me, and Ja… my husband, speaks of you with great fondness.” I don’t need to push him off a mountain. A battlement will do just fine.

Mrs. O’Sullivan returned the gesture, her face warming to a smile. “Welcome, my dear. So the lad’s finally done something right, has he? You must be his Highland lass, and every bit as fierce and lovely as he described. Come with me and I’ll show you the castle while the servants prepare your rooms.”

Jamie nudged Catherine, as they trailed behind her. “You’re shameless! It took me gifts and bribes and months of trying, and you’ve tamed the dragon with a few honeyed words. You must have stopped and kissed the Blarney Stone near Cork when I wasn’t looking.”

“I’m shameless? Where in heaven’s name did you get candy?”

“Like you, I’m very resourceful. You carry supplies to catch fish wherever you go, I, to lure small children.”

“You play so many games, Sinclair, I swear you remind me of a child yourself.”

“It’s not children’s games I play, love,” he whispered before stepping away.

Mrs. O’Sullivan was also resourceful, and that night the great hall rang with song and laughter as the castle inhabitants and local farmers and villagers came to celebrate and welcome Jamie and his lady. They sat around the edge of the room with their backs to the wall and feasted on salmon cooked over an applewood fire and mutton and pork spitted and basted in honey. Mead, sloe wine, and cold sweet ale added to the festive mood as they listened to singers and storytellers, harpers, fiddlers, and drummers.

“I swear I’m feeding every displaced farmer in County Tipperary. I wonder how I’m paying for it all,” Jamie said to Catherine under his breath, but his voice was amused, his posture relaxed, and his smile appeared to be genuine.

Singing and music led to dancing, which led to competitions. Catherine watched in amazed delight as Jamie accepted a challenge, removing his coat and leaping onto the table, arms outstretched and hair flying, matching his opponent step for step in an intricate eight-bar dance as they battered their feet on the thick wood in a percussive rhythm like drummers. They went faster and faster and the hall erupted in whoops, cheers, and applause, until both of them jumped laughing to the floor. Triumphant, Jamie strutted over to her through a backslapping, shouting throng, and pulled her into a wild reeling dance. She forgot her anger, she forgot her embarrassment, and she forgot all her good intentions. God help me, I’m falling in love with him. I’m well and truly lost. She threw back her head, laughing, and joined him in the dance.

Six days later, Sullivan arrived in the first of three large carts, all overflowing with towering piles of furnishings and baggage. He informed them gloomily that the London house had been confiscated by the crown, but it was nothing they hadn’t expected, and looking at the mounds of rugs, tapestries, and furniture in the wagons, Catherine had difficulty imagining he’d left anything worth taking. He was accompanied by a beaming Maire McKenna, a grumpy Charlie Turner, two grooms, a frothing and fretting stallion, and six high-stepping mares. There was another feast that evening as the O’Sullivan scion was joyfully welcomed home.

It was a bustling, cheerful home, prosperous and well run. Catherine fell in love with it and its inhabitants and enjoyed the feeling of being surrounded by friends and family, something she’d been missing for a while. Taking her cue from Jamie, she participated where she was invited, which was often enough to feel welcome, and otherwise stepped aside. She watched with interest the subtle shift between Jamie and Sullivan. Though she’d noted in London that they were far more familiar than master and servant, in Ireland they met as friends, with Jamie and Kieran replacing Sullivan and milord.

If she’d not understood at first why Jamie had been so protective, leaving the place and its people untouched, she did now. He loves them. This is as close as he’s ever had to family, brothers and sisters and a mother of his own. She loved them for it, though sometimes at night it made her weep.

The constant buzz of activity reached a high point as the Yule approached. An army of workers and servants scrubbed, polished, beat carpets, and whitewashed walls, while the children scoured the countryside for crimson-splashed holly and fresh ivy boughs. Mrs. O’Sullivan oversaw the placement of candles and kept a watchful eye on the whiskey cakes, as Kieran, Mr. Turner, and Jamie settled the horses and prepared for the St. Stephen’s day races the day after Christmas.

Catherine found it easy to settle into the life and rhythms of the castle—which were not that different from the ones back home—and harder to maintain her reserve around Jamie. By day, she was captivated by his teasing grin, easy humor, and ready smile. At night, asleep in her tower room, she tossed and moaned, caught in fevered dreams that left her soul and body aching. He was happy here in a way he hadn’t been in London, except when on an adventure. His eyes sparked with enthusiasm, his wit was warm and playful, and he charmed without calculation or guile. The London courtier is the mask. This is who he really is. I wonder if he knows?

They were friends again, back to the easy camaraderie they’d shared on their adventures and on the road, but things were different, too. As they sat together deep in conversation, or with heads bent playing chess, she was intensely aware of him. She watched him when he wasn’t looking, fascinated by the curve of his mouth, the sweep of his lashes, and a small tear-shaped scar high on his cheekbone just below his eye. His voice stirred her as surely as a caress, and her body thrilled to every inadvertent touch. A tap on her wrist to draw her attention, a hand on her back or waist to guide her through a door, his arm brushing hers as they leaned side by side at the paddock fence—they stole her breath and raised the hair on her arms in a crackle of anticipation.

* * *

The night after Christmas, with the St. Steven’s Day racing, mummery, and traditional feast over, Catherine relaxed in the sitting room adjoining her bedroom and Jamie’s. With its fanciful carved fireplace, painted sky ceilings, and a recessed alcove that abutted the river, it was one of her favorite places. The day had been full, and Kieran—how strange that sounded—had stolen the show on Jamie’s stallion, winning race after race. People had come from miles around to marvel at the son of Old Rawley. Catherine hadn’t missed Maire’s interest. She’d have to speak to Sullivan… Kieran… soon, about his intentions. She’d have to speak to Jamie soon about his, too. He was somewhere he belonged now, and it was time to make a decision to stay or go.

It was full dark and the feast was long over, but the singing and dancing in the Great Hall would continue for most of the night. She’d stayed a while, enjoying the merriment and celebration, but two days of festivities had made her miss her own family and left her feeling isolated and alone. I’d rather be alone by myself than alone in company, making others uncomfortable or pretending that I’m not. She poured a tumbler of her own Scotch whiskey and raised it high.

“‘Here’s to the heath, the hill and the heather,

The bonnet, the plaid, the kilt and the feather!

Here’s to the heroes that Scotland can boast,

May their names never die–

To the Highlands, I toast.’

“Here’s to you, Dad. You were always my hero. I love you and miss you and I hope I make you proud.” She tilted back her head and downed the fiery liquid in one swallow, then slammed the glass on the table, her eyes watering. A slight cough startled her. Jamie lounged against the fireplace, one arm resting on the mantle.

“‘Here’s to them that like us

Them that think us swell

And here’s to them that hate us

Let’s pray for them as well.’

“To Caroline Ware and your cousin Donald. Slàinte, agus Nollaig Chridheil, Cat Drummond,” Jamie said, raising his glass to her.

“And good health and Merry Christmas to you, too, Jamie Sinclair,” she said with a grin, returning his salute. “How do you come to speak Gaelic so well?”

“I was robbed of my birthright, rescued by gypsies, and enchanted by a fairy queen who forced me to travel the Highlands peddling my wares. I’ve learned a great many things.”

“So… your father’s servants taught you?”

“Some. I like my story better. You’re lucky, mouse, to have someone to miss.”

“I know. I wonder what he’d think if he could see me now?”

“Let’s pray he can’t. Fathers of daughters don’t approve of men like me.”

“You never met my father. I suspect he would have liked you very much. Do you miss your mother?”

“I told you I don’t remember her, Cat.”

“Surely you must remember something. Is she still alive? Where is she?”

“I’ve no idea if she’s alive or dead. I’ve had no contact with her since she left.”

“But surely you must be curious. Have you ever tried to—”

“No! I… no… I’ve not tried to find her.” He finished his drink and placed his glass on the mantle. “Nor has she ever come in search of me. As to what I remember… If you must know, I remember finding her in a hallway with her skirts hiked above her waist with a man who wasn’t my father, and I remember begging her not to go. I remember she told me I was a mistake and she wished I’d never been born. She hated me, mouse, even more than he did.”

Shocked, Catherine could find no response.

“Well! It’s always nice to reminisce. The night’s still young and we’re not fit company for anyone else. Would you care to join me in a game of chess?”

“What? Oh, yes. Yes, of course!” Grateful for the change of subject and promising herself never to bring it up again, she busied herself searching for the chess set, but it wasn’t in any of the usual places. “The board appears to have absconded from the room.”

“Ah! Of course. I’d forgotten. I enjoyed a game with Kieran in my chamber last week and neglected to put it back. Would you care to join me there?”

Her heart leapt at his words, even as her head urged caution. He’d already rejected her attempts at seduction twice. She was likely the only woman in Ireland invited to a renowned rake’s bedchamber for a game of strategy instead of games of love. Still, it had to be now, or she feared it would be never.

She took another healthy swallow of whiskey and followed him into a spacious room, paneled in wood and leather. Brightly colored rugs lay strewn across the floor, a chest, an armoire, and a wardrobe stood along the far wall, and the south wall boasted mullioned windows that overlooked the river. Brussels tapestries hugged the walls, depicting battle scenes and hunts, but though the room was comfortable, there was nothing in it to reflect his personality. It reminded her of the façade he adopted in London, elegant and impersonal, with no hint of the man beneath. Her eyes were drawn to a carved and gilded four-poster bed with rich green hangings and a magnificent bedspread embroidered in shades of forest, leaf, and gold. Ah! Now that looks like him, she thought with a grin.

They sat across from one another in comfortable armchairs in front of a blazing fire, a rosewood-veneered chessboard, its pieces made from brass and silver, on the table between them.

“Jamie?”

“Mmm?”

“Have you ever considered that we share a great deal in common?”

“Of course I have. We both enjoy gambling, brothels, alcohol, and adventure. We’re rogues of the first order. Speaking of which, would you care to lay a wager on this game?”

“I meant,” she said with great patience, “have you considered that it might work well for us to stay together?”

“You mean forget about a divorce? Why would you want to keep me now, at a time when our association can only hurt and hinder you? I noted you wrote your solicitor before we left London, and you were wise to do so.”

She remembered her surprise at his coldness the night she’d found him in the library. The night I wrote my solicitor about a divorce. Is that what made him angry? No. That was nonsense. “You’re right, of course. It was just a thought. Foolish, really. I could never be what you want, and you would never do for me.”

“Check.” He took one of her pawns with his knight, and then sat back, nursing his drink. “I’m curious now. What exactly do you want, Catherine?”

Her eyes caught his, then darted away. “I’m fairly certain you know.”

“And what is it you think I want?”

His voice made her shiver.

“You want a buxom beauty who’ll warm your bed, do as she’s told, ask no questions, and cause no trouble. Blonde, preferably.” She took his knight with her bishop.

“And yet I married you. You’ll grant you’re neither blonde nor biddable, though you are a buxom beauty.”

“Don’t mock me, Jamie. I’m well aware I’m not the sort of womanly creature most men want. I’m far from delicate and far too bold.”

“Your experience of men is somewhat limited. I like you well enough and you’ve never pretended to be less than who you are. Find yourself a real man, one who’ll appreciate you, not some swaggering bully.”

“Yes, thank you for the advice. I’ll bear that in mind when I’m shopping for my next husband.” She stood up, her question answered before it was asked.

“I mean it, Catherine.” He rose to his feet, the game forgotten. “Any man worthy of the name would think himself lucky to have you. Any man would want you. Surely you know that.”

“You don’t.”

“Oh no, my love. You’re very wrong about that.” Reaching out a long finger, he wrapped it in a tendril of her hair, winding it gently, and tugging her toward him. Breathless, she came. He rubbed it between his fingers, and raised it to his lips, kissing it softly as he inhaled her scent. “I think about it all the time.” His knuckles brushed the nape of her neck just below her ear and she whimpered, stepping closer and putting a hand on his chest. He trailed his fingers along her cheek and jaw, leaving delicate thrills of sensation, then caressed her throat, his eyes holding hers. Curling his fingers around the back of her neck, he drew her lips to his.

Please don’t stop. Please don’t stop. “Please don’t stop,” she murmured, wrapping her arms around his neck and raising on her toes, pressing eagerly against him.

Grabbing her hips, he jerked her tight against him, grinding into her soft belly. “Be careful what you wish for, mouse,” he rasped. Splaying his fingers through her hair, he took her mouth in a searing kiss, his tongue plunging in and out as he walked her backwards to the bed. Hefting her in his arms, he dropped her on the mattress, pinning her beneath him with a groan of pleasure and pain. He’d been so long without a woman his cock was nigh exploding, and he hiked up her skirts with one hand as the other scrabbled at the fastening of his breeches, trying to free himself, seeking relief. Christ, I’m going to spend before I can take her. Oh, bloody hell! I can’t take her as if she’s a common whore. Cursing, he rolled off her and sat up, panting, aching, and shaking with need.

Catherine sat up on her elbows. “What is wrong with you? What’s wrong with me? Why won’t you make love to me?” Her voice was trembling. She was almost in tears.

“You’re just a bit the worse for drink again, love,” he said, running his fingers through his hair. “It seems in order to partake of love’s lusty pleasures one of us must be drunk or unconscious.”

“You were not unconscious!”

“Well, I was certainly incapacitated. You took terrible advantage of me. I’m not inclined to do the same to you.”

“I didn’t—”

“Shhh! I’m teasing, love. I enjoy the way you puff and hiss like an angry kitten.”

Catherine sat up, straightening her skirts and gathering her composure. “You’re a jade, sir. You make pretty promises and when the time comes and the thing is upon us you are suddenly coy. Do you find it amusing?”

“Dear girl, when you speak like that I find it intimidating. You’re making me feel like a timorous maid.”

“This game you play is cruel! You lead me along and then abandon me, always with some sorry excuse. I am not drunk, and I wasn’t at the cottage. I was nervous and cold and I drank to give me courage and relax, but I knew what I wanted. I remember it clearly, and I know what I want now. The problem isn’t me, Sinclair. It’s you. I’ve offered you something you haven’t the ability to appreciate. I apologize. You can rest assured I shan’t trouble you this way again.”

“You trouble me this way with every breath you take, love, but I know what you want and I know your worth, and it’s more than I can give you.”

“And what is it you think I want, Jamie?”

“This.” He trapped her face between his palms, capturing her lips in a sweet slow kiss, then murmured low against her ear. “I love you, hellcat. I want you and need you and can think of nothing else. You’re my heart and soul. Every time I see you the world is fresh and new. I’m yours… now and always.” His voice was warm and tender, and he smelled of citrus and spice. Even though she knew he feigned it, her knees turned to water and her heart thudded in her chest.

“That, love,” he said, letting her go, “is what you want. And that I can’t give you.”

“You’re wrong,” she lied. “If you told me that, I’d wonder what ailed you. I lived a full life before I met you, and I’ll continue to do so after you’re gone. I expect you to treat me with honesty and respect, nothing more, but I’m a grown woman and right now, you’re the only husband I have. What I want is to know what all the fuss is about. I want to know what happens between a man and a woman that makes poets write about it, men duel over it, and women risk their reputations. I want you to show me. I want you to teach me, but if you can’t or won’t, I’ll find someone who can.”

Jaw thrust forward, back rigid, she stood to leave, but he caught at her elbow and with a skillful tug and a nudge from his knee, he toppled her backwards and into his arms. Rolling over, he positioned himself above her, trapping her beneath him at wrist, chest, and thigh. Despite a heroic effort, his attempts to protect her—and himself—had failed miserably. If anyone would be teaching her lessons it was he, but he owed her honesty, and one last chance to repent.

“I like you, Catherine… as much as I’ve ever liked anyone… more, in fact. I’ve had many lovers, but very few friends. You’ve been a good one. One I can trust. God knows I want you, but if I disappoint you—when I do—I’m afraid I’ll lose your friendship and I don’t want that. The biggest mistakes I’ve made have all involved you, and each time I’ve known I was making one, yet I’ve done it nonetheless. I’m decidedly uncomfortable that things have come this far, but I can’t seem to stop. I need you to understand I offer friendship and pleasure, nothing more.”

“That’s all I ask.” She relaxed beneath him, unclenching her fists and parting her lips in unwitting invitation. His admission was more than she’d expected, and more than she’d dared hope. Oh my God! It’s really going to happen! She felt a thrill of fear and anticipation, knowing this was a moment she’d been waiting for all her life.

He lowered his head and touched his lips to hers, nibbling and caressing, breathing the rich sweet taste of brandy into her mouth. His skillful tongue cajoled and teased, coaxing her to open, and when she did, he moaned and thrust deep inside her mouth. His tongue joined hers in a voluptuous dance as his hand roamed her body, squeezing and kneading and claiming all the places he’d been longing to touch.

“You wore this gown to breakfast once,” he murmured between lazy kisses, trailing his fingers across her silk-clad breasts. He tugged at the jeweled clasps that joined her bodice. “I was jealous of the way these held you… here.” His whispered words sent a tickling sensation along her back and arms that raised the hair on the nape of her neck.

“You were angry with me, and I wished you weren’t, because I longed to kiss and hold you… here.” He caressed the luscious curves that strained against her clothing, his fingers itching to feel her naked skin. “And here… ” He trailed hot kisses across the mounds that swelled above her lace and ribbons. “And… here.” His finger flicked a pebble-hard nipple that begged attention through the sheer fabric of her dress.

She gasped and arched against him.

“Easy, love, we’re only just beginning. I’m going to touch you and taste you all over,” he promised, warm against her ear.

He nipped at an earlobe and a thrill of sensation traveled down her spine, pulsing and rippling between her legs and curling her toes. She tossed and moaned as his wet tongue teased and tickled, and his hot breath played against her ear. He trailed kisses along her jaw, the edge of her mouth, and along her throat, and then returned his attention to the fastenings of her gown, loosing them with expert fingers, freeing her eager breasts from their confinement, groaning with pleasure as they bobbed and bounced beneath the loose fabric of her chemise. “Good Christ, sweetheart, I could devour you.”

He caught one breast in his hand, squeezing it like ripe fruit, brushing its tip with his thumb. Catherine whimpered, straining against him, begging for she knew not what. He bent his head and bit her gently through the fabric, and a wild jolt of pleasure coursed through her, making her cry out. He busied himself with tongue and mouth until the silk was soaked and plastered to her skin, then blowing softly upon it, he slowly peeled it back. When his mouth fastened on her bared nipple and his hot tongue stroked her naked flesh, he took her well past doubt or caution, banishing modesty or restraint.

Gripping his shoulders, she begged and pleaded, bucked and writhed, moaning, “Please… please… please,” between ragged breaths.

He sucked and nibbled, nipped and teased, one peak and then the other, while his hands roamed her body, playing her like a virtuoso, each touch, each kiss, striking a new chord as he used teeth and tongue, palm and fingers to weave delicious thrills, guiding and shaping her, but denying her release.

Her body responded, aching and tender, and unable to separate feeling and sensation, body and soul; her heart did, too, swelling with emotion as her flesh ripened with pleasure. Kiss me, touch me, love me, Jamie, as I love you.

Unable to say it, afraid to break his rules, she tried to show him with her touch what she couldn’t say with words. She tugged at his shirt, pulling it up and sliding her hand underneath to feel his naked flesh. His skin was smooth and hot and he shuddered at her touch. “Show me what to do,” she whispered against his throat.

“God bless you, lass.” Catching her wrist, he guided her to the bulge in his breeches, pressing her hand against his engorged penis as he worked to set it free. It fell into her hand with a soft thump, and he moaned and shivered as she hefted it curiously, testing its weight. “It’s smooth as silk and hot and rather heavy,” she whispered, running her fingers along its length. She tapped it curiously with her finger, smiling slightly as it bounced and twitched. “It’s moving by itself!” Continuing her exploration, she squeezed experimentally, stopping at his groan. “Am I doing it wrong? Am I hurting you?” she asked, pulling her hand away.

“It’s an exquisite torture, love. Don’t stop.”

He gripped her hand and pulled it back, wrapping her fingers around him and moving her hand up and down his shaft. He let go and she continued on her own, fascinated as he arched and bucked as she’d done earlier, realizing for the first time that in the games he played, she had power, too.

“What else shall I do?”

Christ! She was going to unman him. “You could kiss it… if you like,” he gasped.

“Really? You’d like that?” She continued to stroke him.

“It’s very pleasurable to a man,” he said through gritted teeth. “You don’t have to if it makes you uncomfortable.”

“If it gives you pleasure, it will make me happy, too.” She lifted his penis in the palm of her hand and pressed an awkward kiss on the underside, then wrapped her fingers around him and kissed its tip. His hips jerked under her inexpert ministrations as if she was a houri come from paradise itself.

Taking her by the waist, Jamie hauled her up against him, then took her face between his palms for a searing kiss. “I thank you, Catherine, for all your gifts, but it’s been months since I’ve had a woman and I need to have you now.” He eased her onto her back and straddled her, then bent to plunder her mouth once more. His roving hand caressed a breast, fondled her waist and brushed across her belly, leaving a trail of heat and shivers in its wake. He found the hem of her gown and, in one swift move, he hiked her skirts above her hips.

She murmured a protest, feeling embarrassed and exposed, but when she tried to pull them down he stopped her, and as his long fingers deftly spread her open and caressed wet curls, he shushed her with a kiss.

“Trust me, Catherine.”

She relaxed and followed where he led her, a shameless wanton, knowing she was his. She lost all sense of space and time or any world beyond the moment, and all that mattered was centered on his touch. As his fingers flicked and played, his teeth grazed her nipples and delicious waves of sensation pulsed and gathered, building at her center. When he brought his mouth, hot and seeking, to her private places, the dam shattered and she cried out as something inside her clenched and released, over and over, and waves of exquisite pleasure rocked her to her core.

He rose along her length, capturing her mouth and entering her in one fluid move. She was hot and wet and aching and he lifted her legs over his shoulders, thrusting harder and faster and deeper, moaning her name. Her fingers scored his back and she made animal sounds low in her throat as her muscles clenched around him and another wave of pleasure shook her, and then it came again. She floated in an ecstasy beyond her wildest imaginings. It was everything she’d dreamt of and a thousand-fold more. It was perfect—all that was missing were three small words.

* * *

Jamie got up, stretched, and poured himself a brandy before stirring up the fire. An unruly gust of wind rattled at the windows and stinging pellets of ice skittered against the pane. It had been a harsh winter so far, but it was warm and comfortable in his room, with a fire blazing in the hearth and Cat Drummond asleep in his bed.

She still wore her gown, despite his best efforts to relieve her of it, and, passion spent, she’d turned shy and demure. I’ll have to work on that. He’d spent a long time after, kissing and petting her, hugging and holding her in his arms. But when he’d tried to speak, to praise and reassure her, she’d ducked her head, blushing and suddenly shy, as bashful and embarrassed as she’d earlier been wanton and bold. It was utterly charming. She’d been well worth the wait. He couldn’t remember ever being so satisfied or so deeply moved.

He watched her now with possessive pride. She lay across the creased and crumpled coverlet, her hair tousled and disordered, spread about her in sleepy chestnut waves. Her skin, illuminated by the glow from the fire, was without blemish, except where his lovemaking had left its mark: a rosy flush still staining her cheeks, the rasp where whisker had brushed tender skin, here and there the imprint of impassioned fingers, and a slight mark where his teeth had grazed her throat. She looked achingly beautiful, vulnerable, and lovely, and he felt the urge to protect her against any who might harm her, including himself.

He moved to stand by the bed, and drew his knuckles gently across her cheek. She’d been trusting and responsive, curious and eager, and breathtaking in her innocence. “You disarm me, Cat Drummond. You’ve laid siege and you’ll conquer if I leave any chink.” He shivered, gripped by the same certainty that had seized him when he’d set out to follow her after she’d escaped him on the banks of the River Clyde, that he’d taken a turn, stepped onto a path, begun a new journey, and there was no going back.

Well then, that was that. No point fighting it. Best enjoy what couldn’t be changed. She wanted to learn, and he was the man to teach her. In return, throughout the cold and dreary months of winter, she’d be warming his bed. Tomorrow he’d have her girl Maire move her things. The thought of having her naked beside him, warm and willing, every night, made his palms itch to touch her again. His cock twitched, heavy against his leg, and he shifted, easing it. If he’d hoped a taste would lessen his thirst he’d been mistaken; it had only left him craving more.