24
MARGARET MOANED, twisting in her sleep. Her body felt so heavy, so languid. She gasped, arching, at a delicious flicker of sensation between her legs. The long slow circle, a gentle thrust, and stroking of a . . .
Her eyes popped open. A tongue!
Soft rays of sunlight spilled through the slits of the shudders, enabling her to just make out the dark-blond head of the man who’d roused her from her slumber.
Not that she was complaining, especially when he . . .
She moaned again as his tongue thrust deep inside her. So deep she could feel the intimate scrape of his jaw against her. And then he was licking her again, nuzzling tenderly—hungrily.
It felt so good . . .
Her body started to tremble. Her nipples strained taut beneath the sheets—he’d stripped her bare last night—as her back arched and her hips lifted shamelessly to his intimate kiss. Hot swirls of pleasure raced through her. She could feel the sensations building . . . intensifying.
“Oh God, I’m going to . . .”
She didn’t realize she’d cried out until he lifted his head. “Privacy, remember?”
He wouldn’t dare stop. “Eoin!” She looked down at him with murder in her eyes. Although it was too dark for him to see her expression, he must have guessed from her tone and started to chuckle.
“We don’t want to wake Eachann.”
“He will sleep through anything.”
“I hope you’re right because I’m going to make you scream.”
He did. Cupping her bottom, he lifted her to his mouth and ravished her. Those long, wicked strokes . . .
He kissed her harder, sucking and licking until she thought she’d go mad with the pleasure.
And when he brought her to the very peak, he held her there, forcing the spasms deeper, slower, harder. She felt the release rock through her, and then explode in a shattering wave.
She put the pillow Eoin gave her to muffle her cries to good use. And when she was done, she handed it to him.
He was going to need it.
Eoin didn’t realize what she was doing right away. It wasn’t exactly what a man expected from his wife.
When she’d handed him the pillow and taken him in her hand, he’d been amused. Their games in the forest after they were married were a long time ago. A hand—even her hand—bringing him pleasure wasn’t going to make him lose control enough to shout.
But his smile fell as the lips peppering kisses over his mouth and jaw started to trail down his chest and stomach.
They didn’t stop.
What was she doing?
He stiffened, feeling something almost like alarm. The hand that was gripping him had stopped pumping and his cock was pounding.
She stopped when her mouth was inches from the throbbing tip and looked up. There was just enough light peeking through the shadows for him to make out her naughty, catlike smile.
He knew exactly what she was doing—and so did she.
He was holding himself so tightly he didn’t realize his hands were gripping the sheets until she laughed. “I think you might need that pillow after all.”
He couldn’t talk. Her mouth was too close and he was so damned taut with anticipation he didn’t know how much more teasing he could take before he started to beg. Before he gripped the back of her head and moved her mouth over him.
Suck me . . .
Just the thought of her warm mouth closing over him made his cock jerk in her hand and a bead of pleasure seep from the tip.
She licked it. With one slow flick of the tongue she licked and swirled the plump, sensitive hood as if he were a juicy plum.
Pleasure shot through him like an arrow. He nearly came off the damned bed. But it was nothing compared to the incredible sensation when her mouth finally wrapped around him, those sensuous crimson lips stretching to take him in. Lower. Deeper.
Oh God. How many times had he imagined this? But he’d never come close to the reality. He wanted to thrust. He needed to thrust. His body shook as sensation coiled at the base of his spine.
When he couldn’t take the torture anymore of her innocent kisses, he told her what to do. He told her how to milk him with her tongue and hand, and how to suck him deep and hard.
She didn’t need much instruction. It didn’t take her long to bring him to the edge. He would have pulled out, but she wouldn’t let him. She took him deep in her throat, coaxing the thick vein with her tongue, and he couldn’t hold back. He started to come in hot, fierce, pulsing waves that tore from him in a roar of pleasure so intense, he probably could have used two pillows.
How had she known . . . ?
Eoin didn’t let himself finish the question that he had no right to ask. He’d let her think he was dead. He had no right to expect fidelity from her. She’d been betrothed to another man, for Christ’s sake.
No good would come from knowing or wondering. It would be better for them both if they erased those six years from memory and never spoke of it.
But it wasn’t going to be easy. The jealousy and irrationality that had always been his weakness where his wife was concerned did not listen to reason.
Margaret should have no complaints. The first few days at Gylen were much better than she could have expected. Eachann’s natural cautiousness had eased a bit, and he seemed to be coming around to the idea of new grandparents—especially a grandmother who had made no secret that she intended to indulge him beyond all good measure.
Seeing Lady Rignach with Eachann showed Margaret a different side of Eoin’s formidable mother. It gave Margaret an idea of what she must have been like with her own children. She must have loved them fiercely, protecting them like a lioness did her cubs. Margaret coming out of nowhere, throwing her son’s life in a tumult, would have been perceived as a threat. It did not excuse all of her coldness, perhaps, but it explained some of it.
With Eoin, Eachann was still reserved—if not so wary—but that lessened considerably after Eoin showed him his personal library and promised to arrange for a tutor to instruct him until he was ready for schooling. The lad’s excitement knew no bounds. He’d even relaxed enough to join some of the other young boys in the yard for training one day.
The wall of animosity and suspicion that had faced Margaret at Gylen the first time did not seem so thick, although vestiges of it remained. Some of the clansmen still whispered and stared, and there were subtle reminders of her status as the daughter of one of Bruce’s greatest enemies. A plaid that she’d left behind woven of wool from Galloway somehow found its way to the top of her trunk; one of the laird’s “luchd-taighe” guardsmen looked at her whenever the word “traitor” was spoken; and another stared at her whenever John of Lorn and his rebellious cohorts were mentioned. Apparently the exiled MacDougall chief had been put in charge of the English fleet and was making it difficult for Bruce to get supplies from Ireland and France.
Her short trip to Oban with Lady Rignach and Eachann had gone about as well as could be expected. After Margaret’s departure, Eoin’s mother had learned the truth of what she’d been doing there and had made a substantial gift to the convent that—fittingly—had been used to set up a school for the children in the village. As apologies went, it was a satisfying one.
The most difficult moment thus far had been when Margaret had been forced to confront Fin at the feast. As he was Marjory’s husband, he could hardly be avoided. But after an awkward greeting, both Eoin’s sister and her husband had kept their distance. Margaret knew she had Eoin to thank for that.
Eoin’s knee had improved enough for him to walk around without the brace Magnus had made for him, and he’d promised to take her riding around the isle soon.
Though he’d been locked up with his father and his men for most of the days, the nights had belonged to her. As always, their passion was explosive. They made love fiercely and tenderly, with an intimacy of which she’d never dreamed.
It was almost perfect. But she couldn’t escape the feeling that something was bothering him. On the fourth morning after their arrival at Gylen she had to know. As always, Eoin rose early, before the light of dawn was strong enough to fully light the chamber. He’d already drawn on his tunic and had just finished tying the breeches at his waist when she spoke.
“Have I done something wrong?”
He turned to her in surprise. “Of course not. Why do you ask?”
She drew the sheet up around her chest and scooted up to lean back against the carved wooden headboard. “It seems as if something is bothering you.” She paused. “It’s been that way since the first night we arrived.” She thought for a moment, the sudden realization of what it might be dawning. “Since I . . .” Her voice dropped off in embarrassment. “Did what I did not please you?”
He sat on the edge of the bed, putting the sporran he’d picked up to tie to his belt on the bed next to her. His hand found her cheek. “Are you crazed? Of course you pleased me. Could you not tell from all that shouting?”
She almost let the boyish smile stop her. He looked so handsome and relaxed, so different from the grim, angry man who’d showed up at the church four weeks ago. But she knew she was not imagining it. “Don’t, Eoin. Please, don’t do this again. If there is something wrong, tell me. I don’t want there to be any secrets between us this time. Don’t you see? It cannot work otherwise.”
He drew back, his expression hardening. “Some secrets are best hidden. The truth is not always a great panacea. Sometimes the truth can hurt. Sometimes we are better off not knowing.”
“What does this have to do with me? I don’t have any secrets from you.”
“Don’t you?” He was angry now, his eyes hard and his mouth white. “Then should I ask you how you knew to do that? Should I hear about the men you’ve shared your bed with? Should I learn all the salacious details? Will that truth be good for me?”
Margaret sucked in her breath, staring at him in shock. He thought she’d . . .
Dear lord! What was bothering him was the same thing that she’d been trying to force from her mind. Maybe he was right: some secrets could only hurt.
But he was wrong about her. “I learned from Fin.”
“What?” he exploded. “Why did you not tell me? God’s breath, I’ll kill him—brother by marriage or not.”
She grabbed him by the arm before he could leap off the bed. “I simply meant that he told me you enjoyed that. He asked me if that’s how I persuaded you to marry me.” He eased back—marginally. “I’ve never done that to another man, Eoin.”
He held her gaze for a long moment. She could see some of the anger waning. “I let you think I was dead. You were a free woman. You do not owe me any explanations.”
“Perhaps not, but you shall have one. Unlike my first marriage, I was waiting until I was actually married to share a bed with my second husband. Had you arrived one day later I may not have been able to say this, but there is only one man I have ever been intimate with, and that is you.”
His eyes held hers searchingly. “You don’t need to tell me this. It would not change anything if you had. I would hate it, but I would get over it.”
She understood that too well. “Maybe so, but it’s the truth anyway. My memories of you were too strong. I was almost scared to try. I’d loved you so much.” She smiled sadly. “It was different for you. You hated me.”
He frowned, and then seeming to understand what she meant shook his head wryly. “Not all that different. Besides, unlike you, I knew we were still married.”
Margaret didn’t understand. “But you broke your vows anyway?”
“I was trying to tell you that I didn’t.”
“But you must have!” she blurted.
He looked at her as if she were crazed. “Why?”
“Because . . .” She could feel her cheeks flush. “Because you’re so different.”
At first he didn’t seem to understand what she meant, but then he smiled. “I had a lot of practice.”
Her heart sank, as the color washed from her face. “I thought you said—”
“Not that kind of practice. The kind of practice I taught you.” Suddenly, she understood: he’d thought of her while touching himself. “I thought of how I wanted to touch you—where I wanted to touch you—in vivid detail. I practiced with you over and over for six years.”
Her breath held, not daring to hope. “You never . . . with another woman?”
He shrugged, almost as if he were ashamed to admit it. “I wanted to. I hated you, and it infuriated me that I still wanted you. I tried—once. But it didn’t get very far.”
Margaret didn’t know what to say. She was surprised—stunned—and undeniably relieved. She’d been willing to accept what she must, but she was glad she didn’t have to. “I’m glad.”
He shot her a glare. “It was humiliating.”
“You don’t expect me to feel sorry for you?”
His mouth twisted. “Under the circumstances, maybe not.”
“Do you have any other secrets you want to confide in me?” She said it jestingly, but his face drew up in the blank mask she hated. The mask that shut her out.
He’s hiding something.
“Like what?”
Her gaze fell to his arm, where she could just make out a dark shadow under the thin linen. “Like what you are hiding under that shirt, and why you won’t let me see you without it in the light?”
He swore under his breath and raked his fingers back through his hair. “It’s nothing.”
“Then why won’t you let me see it?”
He didn’t answer her directly. Was he embarrassed? Was that what this was about?
“It’s just something I did awhile back. It’s a marking.”
Her brows drew together. “You mean a tattoo?”
He nodded. “It was something some friends of mine did.”
Was it some young man’s lark? Something he now wished he hadn’t done? Good lord, what did he have tattooed on himself? Her mind filled with all kinds of silly possibilities.
“May I see it?”
He drew off his shirt and she gasped—not even looking at the tattoo. Good gracious. Seeing him in the shadows was nothing like seeing him in the light. Her eyes gorged on the impressive display of bulging muscle before her. He was so big. Strong.
His chest . . .
His arms . . .
God in heaven, he was beautiful. She wanted to run her hands over every inch of those sculpted muscles, she wanted to—
He cleared his throat, clearly amused, reminding her of what she was supposed to be doing. Not that looking at his arm was any hardship. He’d bent his arm to show it to her, and the flex of muscle made her breath quicken and her body warm with unmistakable arousal.
Truth be told she barely noticed the lion rampant and strange weblike markings that surrounded his upper arm like a cuff. She did, however, notice the same words that were engraved on his sword—Opugnate acriter—since they were right on the edge of the biggest bulge of muscle, the sharp demarcations of which had her quite fascinated.
“Keep looking at me like that, sweetheart, and Eachann is going to get a very different kind of education when he walks in here in a few minutes.”
She blushed. “What do the words mean?”
“It’s Latin. The rough translation is strike with force.”
She thought for a moment. “It’s what you do on the battlefield.”
He seemed surprised. “In a manner of speaking.” He bent over to kiss the top of her nose. “Now, if your curiosity is appeased for the moment, I should go.” He stood and reached for his sporran. “Will you hand me that?”
She picked it up, feeling some kind of small, hard object inside. “What do you have in here?”
“Nothing.” He tried to snatch it from her, but she was already pulling the object out.
Realizing what it was, she held it in the palm of her hand and stared at it in disbelief.
“Bloody hell, Maggie. Can’t you follow any of my rules? I told you no snooping.”
She ignored the reference to his ridiculous rules (he couldn’t honestly have thought she would really follow them), feeling her chest swell with emotion as she took in the chess piece that she’d stolen all those years ago from Stirling Castle.
“You kept it.” Her eyes met his. “All this time you kept it.”
He may have hated her, but he’d loved her, too. He’d kept a part of her—a symbol of their love—with him always.
He grumbled something, clearly embarrassed by the sentimentality, and then, as if in acceptance, shrugged and dug something else out of the sporran. “And this. I read it every time I went into battle.”
She recognized the wrinkled parchment right away as the note she’d left him. Glancing at the crude writing and misspelled words, it was her turn to be embarrassed. “You should have thrown that away.” She tried to laugh it off. “Or perhaps it was a reminder of the ignorant girl you mistakenly married and how fortunate you were to be rid of her.”
His reaction was both instantaneous and fierce. He took her chin in his hand and turned her face to his. “It was a reminder of what a damned fool I was. It was a reminder of the girl who’d loved me so much that she’d withstood rumor, gossip, and innuendo to learn to write and read because she thought it would please me. Because I made her think she wasn’t good enough. But I was wrong, Maggie. You were perfect just the way you were, and I hate that I made you think you needed to change for me. Reading, writing, none of that mattered. It was never what was important.”
She looked away, cringing at the memories. “I was a wild, backward little heathen. I don’t know what you saw in me.”
He forced her gaze back to his. “You were strong and beautiful and funny and outrageous and sensual as sin, and I loved you from practically the first moment I saw you.”
“You did?”
He nodded. “I’ve never stopped. God knows it would have been easier if I had, but you are in my heart, Maggie, and that is where you will stay.”
“I love you, too.”
He smiled and kissed her so tenderly she just knew that this time it would be different.