My love. Perhaps he should not have said the words. He certainly didn’t mean them, did he? Barran swallowed at the very thought. Love. It was not a concept he’d spent much time thinking about. He’d never been a man to worry about what it meant or if he’d ever find it. In fact, while he’d rather assumed he’d love his children as he had his father, as he loved Catriona, he’d never even considered the matter when it came to choosing a wife. He’d always assumed he’d choose someone that he liked, someone that he found attractive. He might not be an aristocrat, a true gentleman, but he’d always planned on a son to take over the family lands. That had been why he’d planned on taking a wife. Love had never entered the calculation. So why was he now using the word? It was not a word he could remember using before. He’d never been a man to throw about endearments in a casual manner.

He stroked a finger up Emma’s instep, watched the delicate shudder that ran through her. Now that was something he could love, a responsive woman. Was there anything better? He rather imagined he could have her moaning his name in a matter of minutes. Yes, now, that was something a man could love. And far safer to think about than any other reason he might have said the blasted word. “So, Emma,” he said. “Will you marry me?” He stroked her foot again.

Her eyes stayed serious, despite the parting of her lips. “Yes, James, I will marry you.”

There was something in the way she said his Christian name that caught him. It had been years since anybody said it in those soft terms. His nurse? Certainly not his mother. He stroked the high instep again, trying to ignore that the very use of his name was more intimate than any endearment ever could have been.

Her eyes stayed on his, and after a moment it became too much. He was a simple man and did not like his mind veering in unknown directions. He placed a hand on her other foot, stripped off the stocking, and pressed deeply into both insteps.

A louder moan, one that had his cock at full attention.

And another.

Women always did like that hard push right on the arch.

He circled his thumbs, moving to the back of the heels, squeezing tendons between thumb and forefinger. Her eyes grew wide with the pleasure. Perfect. He rotated her sore ankle, being sure that all was as it should be. His hands moved up her firm calves, massaging muscles tight from yesterday’s walk. She was breathing faster now, her whole body moving with each inhale.

The backs of her knees. Ah. She had not known just how sensitive a place that could be. He could see her surprise in her expression. He stroked his fingers back and forth, watching every quiver of her body.

He slipped his hands slightly higher, pushing the hem of her chemise up. Her gaze moved from his face to his hands and back. She was nervous, but curious, wanting more, but unsure how to ask.

And, he admitted to himself, he was also unsure, used to women who knew exactly what they wanted and how to ask for it. He would have to tread with great care if he was not to scare her and was to give her the pleasure he so desired. It was important that this experience be perfect. He wanted a wife who cherished the bedchamber, not fled from it.

He pushed her chemise up a few more inches; her thighs were plump and white, edible. He longed to bury his face between them, to feast on her very essence, to taste all that she was. His mouth began to water—but he doubted she’d even heard of such things, much less was ready for them.

Her eyes darted back and forth again, daring him onward.

* * *

Was he going to . . . to . . . to . . . She couldn’t remember the word for it, something long and Latin. She was not a complete innocent. Many of her friends had married and had been free with their words, explaining both what their mothers had told them and the actuality of the event. There had been wide variety between the stories, some verging almost on horror while others had left her tingling with wonder, wonder she was soon to experience.

There had also been a couple of older women in her circle, women who whispered of things more than “the act,” things that she might be about to experience. It had been hard to believe when she’d heard it described, but now it seemed all too possible.

The muscles deep in her belly tensed. It was hard not to squeeze her thighs tight, but she didn’t want to push him away. What he was doing, the way he was rubbing against her thighs, had a warmth spreading through her unlike anything she had ever known. It was almost like having tiny flickers of fire moving over her skin, but highly pleasurable fire.

He moved her chemise another inch.

She swallowed.

Much further and he’d be able to see everything, and she did mean everything.

It was hard to be sure how she felt about such a thing. A flush of embarrassment was rising, but so was that tingle of excitement—and also a feeling of rightness, that this had always been meant to be.

But how could that be? She’d known Barran only a day.

The chemise slipped further up.

Her mouth went dry. Was he actually going to . . . ?

And then suddenly he pulled back. He sat back on his heels.

What? Had she done something wrong? Perhaps she’d misinterpreted . . . No. He had definitely been moving up her thighs and his face had been . . . “Did I do something wrong?”

“What could you possibly have done wrong?” he replied, his voice deep and husky.

“I don’t know, but you—you stopped. Was I supposed to do more—or do less?”

“No, you are perfect.”

“If I am perfect then why did you stop?” Her voice trembled slightly.

“I thought . . . I didn’t think you . . . I did not want to rush you to things you were not ready for.”

“Oh.” Now that brought her to a conundrum. How did she tell him that she very much wanted him to . . . ? That actually, it seemed much preferable to true relations. She still wasn’t sure about this fitting together of body parts and from what she’d seen with animals it did not seem very comfortable for either party.

“Did you want me to continue?” he asked, his eyes roving her face, searching.

“Yes.” It was little more than a squeak.

He placed his hands back upon her knees and his thumbs gave long easy strokes.

That was better. It was easier to concentrate on feeling than on thinking. Deep in her heart, she knew she was doing the right thing, but if she thought too much about it . . .

His fingers moved up her thighs faster this time, stopping just before the apex. Her skin grew more sensitive than she could ever remember it being. She longed for more, let her legs ease open slightly.

He lifted his head and stared at her, his eyes not moving down as his hands pushed her chemise the rest of the way up. She was completely bare now, could feel the chill of the room despite the blaze of the fire.

And she didn’t care.

Deep breath in. Deep breath out.

Courage she had not known she had filled her, courage and curiosity. “Don’t you want to see my breasts again?” she asked. Wasn’t that part of this activity?

A slow smile spread up his cheeks. “Yes, I’d be quite happy to see your breasts. The one I saw is already in my dreams. Do you wish to show them to me?” His fingers swept back and forth, trails of fire lighting her skin.

Her fingers froze and then reached for the ribbon at her neckline. She pulled it free, took a deep breath, felt the sensitive tips of her nipples abrade against the soft fabric. Did she have the courage to do more? How could she not? Lifting her fingers to the chemise straps, she slowly pushed them off her shoulders. The fabric caught at the top swell of her breasts. Pulling in another deep breath in, she moved her hands and pushed the fabric down one breast. It caught briefly at the tip, but then slid free, baring her left breast.

His eyes fastened on the pink tip, almost a physical sensation. The nipple grew tight beneath his gaze, the hard berry almost bursting with need. Her mind filled with the memory of his kiss. Her breasts grew heavy and swollen, the tips aching. She’d never felt anything quite like it before—not even earlier when he’d put his lips upon her nipple. Sometimes the tips stiffened with desire or grew tight with cold, but this . . . This was beyond her wildest imaginings. It felt almost as if they pulled her toward him.

Abruptly, he pushed to his feet and stood. Her eyes followed him, confused.

He turned to the cot and then glanced at the floor where the blanket and her cloak lay. He bent, spreading the blanket more fully before the leaping flames of the fire and then placed her cloak on top of it. He held out his hand.

Placing her fingers in his palm, she let him draw her to her feet. The chemise caught for a minute and then fell to the floor, puddling about her feet. She shivered once, but then he drew her closer to the fire, to the warmth, helping her down until she knelt before the hearth.

He stood looking down at her for a moment, his eyes darkening, and then quickly sat in the chair, removing his boots. His shirt followed—and all she could do was stare wide-eyed at the display of hard muscle and smooth skin, the light scattering of dark curling hair. And she’d thought him beautiful before. Now he was beyond compare.

Would his trousers follow?

His brow furrowed for a moment and she was sure he debated the same question as he moved to stand above her, staring down.

* * *

For a moment all he could do was look at her—again. Every time he paused he was caught anew by what a sight she was. It was hard to be sure he’d ever seen anything so beautiful, perhaps the loch near his home at sunrise as the first morning light turned the water to glowing silver.

But no loch had ever left his cock straining with need and desire. No silver water had ever made him wish a moment would never end.

She did both of those things.

The upper curve of the full breasts. The sweet sweep of rounded hips.

And her face. The eyes looking up at him full of curiosity and need equaling his own.

The full lips, slightly parted. Oh, those lips. The things they made him think of, dream of, things that were highly inappropriate for a woman of her innocence. Although she had asked him not to stop earlier when his thoughts had been moving in a similar direction.

He stared down at her for a moment more, then lowered himself to his own knees and carefully drew her into his arms until their bodies were pressed together, every warm curve pressed against him. The feeling of her bare breasts against his chest almost pushed him over the edge. He closed his eyes tight for a moment and fought for control.

For a moment he simply luxuriated in the feeling of her, in the scent of her, in the knowledge of what was to come. Then, with gentle care, he eased back, letting his gaze roam over her face before lowering it to those wondrous breasts. He reached out and lightly ran a finger over one stiff peak.

Her body jerked, a sharp inhale of breath.

He stroked again. A soft sigh.

Lifting his other hand he cupped each breast, leaving his thumbs free to stroke back and forth across the nipples. God, she was sensitive, her body responding to each tiny stroke and movement. Glorious.

He bent forward and sucked one nipple deep into his mouth.

* * *

Glory be! She would never grow used to this feeling. Every bit of her centered on what he was doing, on the incredible feeling of mouth on breast. It was far beyond anything she’d ever imagined—even when he’d kissed her nipple earlier. Her whole body grew tight, centered. Her every thought on what he would do next.

The hand on her other breast moved, stroking, teasing, and plucking at the nipple. It was good. All so good.

His finger squeezed tighter. Lightning shot straight down between her legs, settling right at the apex of her thighs.

And then she was lying down, thighs pressed tight, arms over her head as Barran suckled, his eager mouth moving from breast to breast. Her eyes closed. She was lost in the moment, nothing mattering beyond the feel of flesh on flesh, the wonder of what was to come.

His mouth slid down her breast, working down her ribs.

She wanted to complain; her breasts felt unbearably tight without his touch, but then a single finger played across her lower curls, brushed lower, touched a spot she’d always known was there but never dared explore.

A spasm of pleasure took her at that lightest of touches.

She gasped.

God. God. God. It was blasphemy to think such a thing, but . . . God. God. God.

He held still for a moment and then touched again—and yet again, until he stroked with regular rhythm.

Her whole body began to move in response to his touch, her hips rising and falling, even as his mouth moved lower, circling her navel, his tongue darting out to explore.

Her thighs clenched tight about his hand and then she forced them to relax, not wanting to deter him in any way.

Then his mouth was there—there.

And it was all she’d heard of and more. Pleasure such as she had never known filled her, even her toes curled with it, as his mouth and tongue moved hungrily over her.

She could feel herself, swollen and slick, knew she should be embarrassed, but all she could feel was joy—joy and delight and pleasure and desire and want and need and . . . Word after word filled her mind and then burst into color. Joy.

She knew his fingers moved. His tongue. He sucked tight. He nipped and played.

But all she knew was joy—and then suddenly it was all too much. Tighter. Tighter. Until she burst.

Her whole world came apart and then resettled, her body falling exhausted to the floor.

For a moment she lay there, just breathing and being, feeling like she’d learned some deep secret of life she hadn’t known existed, some secret she now shared with Barran.

James.

Barran.

James.

The name ran softly through her mind, swirling with emotion and care.

But Barran was not done yet. He rose between her parted thighs, his hands at the waist of his trousers, his fingers on the buttons.

Her eyes met his, held—and suddenly she wanted more, so much more.

“Are you sure this is what you want?” he asked, his voice a seductive whisper.

The space between her thighs clenched again. A single swallow. “Yes.”

He bent over her until he could bring his lips to hers in a single sweet kiss—a single serious kiss. It was a kiss that spoke of want and need, but also of caring and plans. Could a kiss speak of plans? Could one feel the weight of a coming lifetime, a lifetime of commitment in a single kiss?

Yes.

Even as she felt the heat of his body press against her, felt desire grow, she felt that something more—and it was good, so good.

Her body arched up to his. He braced himself on one arm as his other worked at the fastenings of his trousers. She wanted to push him back, to look, to see. He’d certainly seen all of her, but given how big he felt pressed against her thigh, perhaps it was better not to, not to let imagination and fear take her from this magic place.

And then she felt him press against her, press into her.

She looked up, caught his gaze, caught the strain upon his face.

“Are you sure?” He groaned, holding himself back this one last time.

“Yes.” This time in was not a whisper.

His hips pressed forward. There was pain, but far less than she would have expected. And then he was moving within her, pressing, pushing, filling. She’d never felt so full, so complete.

It was pleasant, not as good as the other, but . . . And then it was. She felt her body tighten around him, felt the desire pulse, felt the inner springs begin to coil again as each thrust and stroke . . . Felt it all begin again, felt the coiling, the need, the want, the . . .

And then she couldn’t think. She could only feel—as again worlds burst.

* * *

Barran cried his pleasure, cried his want, his need and . . . something more, something large and warm and soul-filling.

He cried again, her name, as the orgasm took him fully, drawing everything out of him in single perfect endless moment.

His muscles tensed and strained, his cock thrust hard, pressing deep and then deeper.

God. So good. So good. Pleasure. Color. More. More. More.

He pressed forward a few more times, slowly, carefully as the passions seeped from him and exhaustion took its place. Gently he lowered himself beside her, unable to describe all that had happened to his body—to his mind.

They lay there in quiet for minutes, for hours? He wasn’t sure and wasn’t sure it mattered. Slowly the light outside began to fade, whether from storm or nightfall or both he was not sure—and given how early night fell at this season, he was not sure it mattered.

“Should I fix some dinner?” he asked. “Meaning, of course, should I bring over some more bannocks and perhaps slice the sausage?”

Emma rolled on her side and smiled up at him. “A fine dinner that sounds. And are bannocks those hard scones?”

Did she really mean that dinner sounded fine? It sounded as if she did. What a woman, happy to be stranded in the midst of a storm with little more than bannocks and sausage—and wine and whiskey. He’d be a fool to forget those. “Perhaps I should open the wine. It seems appropriate as we wait for Christmas.”

Her eyes darted up suddenly, glanced at something, and then she reached up and pulled his head down to plant a firm kiss upon his lips.

He looked at her, questioning.

She looked up again and grinned.

He followed her gaze and saw her focused on a small dry twig with a few berries.

He looked back at her, still confused.

“It’s mistletoe and now I’ve given you true love’s kiss.” Her eyes twinkled in the firelight.

He still wasn’t ready to think too deeply about that, but . . . He leaned down and gave her a deeper kiss, one that left them both breathless.

Pulling back before things could get too heated, he asked, “And where did you find such a thing?”

“It was in my Bible. My mother put it there long ago and I’ve never wanted to remove it—but then today . . .” Her voice drifted off.

Placing a finger beneath her chin, he lifted her face until their eyes met. “I understand,” he replied. And strangely enough, he rather thought he did. He understood both the longing for maternal love and the fear of letting it go even once it was already gone. And more than that, he understood why she’d taken it out today and hung it up. He understood how that simple gesture, and her sharing it with him now, said things that words could not yet.

After a single day neither of them was going to say “I love you,” but that did not mean that the feelings were not there, growing and developing, that there was not a silent promise that they would be said in the near future.

“I’d best get that dinner.” He stood, feeling his trousers fall to his knees and then the floor. He stepped out of them carelessly. She would need to adjust to his nudity.

He heard her gasp, turned, saw her focus upon his leg.

Shit. He had forgotten. He glanced down at his ruined thigh and waited for her questions, for her horror.

Instead, she merely leaned forward and laid a single kiss upon it. “You should have told me more. It cannot have been good for you to carry me so far.”

“It was not far and it hardly pains me at all anymore,” he lied, but only slightly.

He saw the doubt in her eyes, but she did not push the issue. Another piece of understanding that somehow lay between them. He would tell her sometime, but not today. This night was not for war stories.

Fetching the wine and food, he lowered himself to sit beside Emma and then poured some of the wine into her mug.

She sipped it. “That is rather fine.”

He smiled back. He was sure it was and he would never inquire too closely about where Robbie had come upon it.

Taking another sip, she pushed up until she sat fully beside him. The cloak she had pulled over herself slipped, leaving her breasts bare. She looked down, blushed, and then, pushing her shoulders back, made no move to cover herself.

He stared in appreciation for a moment and then took a sip of his own wine.

“So are you finally going to tell me?” she asked.

“What?” he replied.

“What power Mounthaven has over you? Why you are so willing to marry me?”

“Let us be clear. I wish to marry you because I wish to marry you. No man is forcing me to such an action.”

She raised a narrow brow.

“It may not have been my plan to begin with, I would admit. But now I find the idea rather suits me. I cannot imagine letting you wed another man. Do you feel differently?”

Her eyes clouded. Her brow furrowed. Then she smiled, a glorious, sweet smile. “I am not sure that I like the idea of you letting me do anything, but no, I don’t. I would not have done this”—she gestured at the blanket—“if I did not find that marriage to you suited me rather well. It is not rational to think so, but . . .”

“But that does not change the way you feel—or the way I feel.”

She sat up straighter. “Exactly. But still, you owe me a story.”

He grabbed the blanket and pulled it over her breasts. “If you want me to talk you must not distract me in such a manner.”

She grinned more widely but did hold the blanket tight.

He hoped the wool was not abrading her tender skin, not rubbing too roughly against her breasts, her nipples . . . His cock hardened again at the thought.

“I thought the blanket was supposed to help you concentrate, not hinder all thought and speech.”

He shook his head. “It’s really a very simple tale. I don’t know why I didn’t tell it earlier. I’ve told you that my mother returned to London when I was a child and that it was her family that had the money.”

“Yes.”

“Well, in the way of these things, much of it was supposed to have transferred to my father upon their marriage, but somehow there was delay after delay and once she left there were even more delays. I am sure my father could have brought her to court, but that was not the type of man that he was. Instead, as long as enough funds were available to keep the estate running, he let her be. All was fine until he died and she refused to release the monies for the death duties and taxes. I think she thought that by not paying she would force me back to England. At that point, I did hire a solicitor, but it would have been too late by the time I received the funds from her family. The crown is never patient when money is involved.

“It was Mounthaven who saved me. He offered to loan me the monies I needed until such time as I received the inheritance I was due. It hurt my pride to take his funds, but not as greatly as losing my home would have, losing Catriona’s home. I am still not sure why he was so generous—although I know he’d never been fond of my mother’s family, but still, I owe him all that I have and more.”

She drew back. “And so you are willing to marry me.” Her voice sounded flat.

An icicle formed it the pit of his stomach. He needed her to understand. “Come, Emma, have we not moved beyond that? Can you not accept what you believed of me a few moments ago? I will wed you because I wish to and for no other reason.”

Her eyes narrowed. “For no other reason?”

He granted her the consideration of thinking hard, hoping to find the right words. “I have already admitted that such factors may have started my thoughts of marriage, but I swear upon your mistletoe that I would not marry you if I did not truly believe we would suit.”

* * *

He swore upon her mistletoe. Even as her soul wondered if she could trust him, she felt a smile rise again to her lips. How could she resist a man who understood her so well? She had no doubt that he’d have sworn upon her Bible if she brought it out, but in some way swearing upon the mistletoe was even better.

She could not say she had no doubts, but if she’d known him and his family for twenty years she might have had just as many worries. In so many ways, ways she could not explain even to herself, she already felt she knew him better than she’d known any other man—and she was not speaking in a physical sense. She might not truly know about his home—or even fully his station in life—but she trusted him, knew that he would care for her to the best of his abilities, and knew that he would never abandon her or break her trust.

She let the silence remain between them for a moment and then leaned forward, letting the blanket fall again. “If you’re going to swear upon the mistletoe then I do believe a kiss is required.”

His eyes swept over her, the heat of his gaze burning. When his eyes returned to her face, she stopped breathing. His gaze dropped to her lips and stalled. She found her own eyes moving to focus on his lips. He moved slowly toward her and she to him. His eyes lifted again to hers. They met and held, searching for more than eyes could see. Another inch. Another.

Lips met. First soft and tentative, then harder, more demanding.

His hands lifted to her breasts, squeezed and fondled. She squirmed, feeling herself growing lost in the passion and heat.

She pulled her head back to stare at him once more.

His lips were red, swollen. His eyes so dark a blue they looked black.

Her husband. She might still not be sure if they were wed or not by custom, but it did not matter.

He was hers—and she his.

She glanced back up at the dried twig and felt herself believe—in magic, in Christmas, in true love.