Chapter Fourteen
Madeline heard the cart creaking and horse jingling from within the great hall. The door was propped open so she and Fingal could carry items out. Greta, developing gout, sat upon a stool folding a final stack of clothes upon the empty board. Madeline froze, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath. Would it be Moreville himself escorting her? She prayed not, and secretly had prayed all night long to both the Virgin Mary and God above that no one came at all. That they would forget.
She pinched her fingers upon the bridge of her nose, shaking her head in an attempt to shake away the memories of Teàrlach, the dreams of him that galloped through her mind. In these dreams, he was like a dark-haired Fionn, Greta’s mythical warrior, riding out of the fog to swoop her up as he rode past. Except in her dreams he kept riding, spiriting her away. And it felt so freeing, until she woke.
“Daft, daft woman,” she scolded herself.
“What, my dear?” asked Greta, looking up from her gnarled fingers.
“Nothing, Greta,” she replied.
She walked to the door, adjusting her Crawford tartan over her newly made gown of soft blue, a white corset, and white sleeves held upon the shoulders by a blue ribbon. A cart was making its way through the gates, the driver wearing the formal surcoat of Laird Moreville. This wasn’t real. She felt her face pale again at the thought of her life slipping away now that she had tasted true freedom. She should have taken her sister up on her offer to house her at Huntington in East Anglia. Mariel would never force her to marry.
But her eyes focused on the driver’s dark, curling hair, his broad shoulders, his burning amber eyes, his firm jaw, his noble but slightly crooked nose… Her heart stopped. Her eyes watered. Her breath left her, and she felt like collapsing. After resolving each and every day to rid her mind of his face, of his touch—here he was. Awareness sizzled her stomach like meat upon a hot stone and she gripped her middle, dropping her gaze to her feet. She noticed the cart wheels, noticed King’s hooves, and out of her periphery, noted the bright, deep blue of the surcoat, but refused to look up, knowing he was refusing to look at her as well.
The cart stopped before her. Fingal hurried forth and took hold of King’s bridle. “Good morn, sire!” he exclaimed. “A pleasure to see you again! Lady Madeline was certain you had moved on to other endeavors, and we would never get the opportunity to thank you for caring for her these past months.”
“Master Fingal,” Teàrlach returned the greeting, the words polite but not enthusiastic. “Good day to you.”
He finally glanced at Madeline, still frozen in the doorway.
“Why are you here?” she asked, her words quiet but her meaning clear: if they were to cut ties, this was in fact a perfect way to rip open the wounds that had yet to heal. She crossed her arms, holding the ends of her plaid at each elbow.
He cleared the gruffness from his throat. “I was ordered to deliver you to Edinburgh, my lady.” He said no more, but their eyes met, and the frown on his brow and heavy lines in his poorly shaved cheeks told her he wanted to be anywhere but with her. “At first I declined, but it was either me or Duncan, the guardsman who came a fortnight last. I decided that would nay be acceptable.”
“I thank thee,” she replied.
Duncan had been an unbearable flirt, all too happy to have his hands upon her, even if he never crossed a proprietary line. Something had told her that if Laird Moreville and his son hadn’t been there, he would have pushed the boundary. The eager touch of a man was something she wasn’t accustomed to. Only Teàrlach had ever touched her. His touch seemed branded upon her skin, on her lips, in the heat of her stomach, within her heart.
“Forgive me for my lack of manners, sire,” she said, pulling herself together. But God, the formality between them was killing her. “Please do come in for a light refreshment. I have naught to offer in food, but I do have drink.”
“Nay, my lady,” replied. “The journey is long and we best get started.”
She nodded at his abrupt refusal, noting that he was descending from the cart as Fingal brought King a bucket of water. He landed upon the ground with a jingling thud, his sheath clinking against his chausses protruding from the splits along the sides of his surcoat. One by one, he picked up her two trunks, one containing her dowry linens, and secured them in the cart. This was everything to her name, she realized. All her worldly possessions fit into two trunks.
“’Tis time to say your good-byes, lass—my lady,” he caught himself, and she heard him swear “fok” under his breath as he laid out a blanket for her to sit upon.
Greta hobbled to the door on a cane and gave Teàrlach a stern, appraising look. Then she turned to Madeline. Tears formed in the old woman’s eyes, her gray hair falling in wisps about her face, and she pulled Madeline into an embrace.
“God speed, milady,” she choked. “I’ll miss you so, my fae creature. ’Twill be a miserable life from here on out without your bonny face to brighten it.” Madeline gripped her back, clenching shut her eyes and biting her lip to keep from sobbing.
“And I you, Greta,” she whispered. “But you go to your daughter and grandbairn now. You’ll never need to leave them again.”
“This I know,” the old woman said. “Take care. You’re a special lass. You always have been. Never forget that.”
Madeline lost control and sobbed, clutching Greta, then ripped away from her and strode to Fingal, repeating the embrace with him. Teàrlach, waiting by the cart to assist her, took her about the waist, lifted her onto the gate laid flat, and held her hand as she maneuvered around the trunks to the padded seat of the blanket. She sat down and tucked her knees under her skirts. Fingal came to her and she took his offered hand. He kissed it, then reached up and gave her a gentle caress down the cheek.
“The sunlight leaves Dungarnock today,” was all he said, smiling with wobbling lips.
“A word, sire,” Greta directed at Teàrlach. “I beg you come to me, as I am losing my ability to walk.”
…
Teàrlach did so. Greta pulled one of his hands into hers. Clasping it with the firmness of a seasoned washerwoman, she gave him a scathing chastisement. “Only an eejit would let her get away. If you had any good sense, you’d take that lass, elope, and make her an honest woman rather than deliver her to an arse who does nay give two shites about her happiness. And that, sire, is a crime if I ever saw one.”
She stepped back, unwilling to hear his rebuttal. Damn, but he was an eejit, just like his brothers had teased him. He had no rebuttal prepared. The old woman had lost all respect for him. But he was doing the honorable thing, wasn’t he? Madeline was under contract, a contract blessed by King William, no less. Eloping on a lark with her was poor judgment and didn’t account for all the myriad ways in which both of them would suffer repercussions. Surely, the old woman could see that, couldn’t she?
His eye contact with Greta faltered and he backed away, taking the hand the old man offered and giving it a stout shake. He climbed back into the seat, slapped the reins to King’s hide, and steered him in an arc to circle back out of the yard, not once looking at Greta, nor Fingal, and most assuredly, not at Madeline.
Nay, one look at her as he’d come through the gates and his heart had bled. His lungs had bled. He wanted her so badly. She was thin, he noted. She had always been thin, but she looked unhealthy. Her eyes were red rimmed, freshly so, making the sparkle more pronounced. The pain it caused him was nothing short of agony. And yet still, she was so beautiful. Her hair was pulled back along the sides and braided, wrapped within a stylish net at the base of her neck. Her gown was new, too, leaving a sweep of creamy skin from her breasts to her neck exposed.
He couldn’t look at her again. He left the gates, leaving Dungarnock farther and farther in the distance. Finally, he chanced a glance at her. She was staring at the tower that had been her only home since leaving Castle Aye. Her posture was stoic, her gaze steady, and he felt suddenly jealous that she could find that sanctuary within herself while his own emotions were a ragged mess.
They traveled through the day, passing Glengarnock on the road. He made a point to wave at the guardsmen on the southern walls, so that it could be noted that he had passed by at midday, and all would consider him long gone by nightfall. They passed over tilted hillsides and around a loch, and it wasn’t until the sun began to descend that he realized he hadn’t stopped for a nooning meal or a respite from the relentless sun. Good God Almighty, he hadn’t even offered water, he had been so focused. The forested uplands would make a nice shelter for the night and provide tree trunks between which to tie a blanket and create a shelter for her. He would sleep in the cart.
He steered off course, heading for the trees, the cart bumbling over the natural bumps in the untrodden grasses, and he looked back to see she clenched the cart to keep from being tossed sideways. Entering the trees, he stopped King, climbed down, and came around to her. She wouldn’t look at him, her cheeks pink from the sunlight and her nose burned, and he felt worse than the dregs from the bottom of a firth. He offered his hand to help her down, but she pushed to her feet, clenching the back of the driver’s bench for support in obvious pain from the lack of blood circulating her legs. Then she made her way to the end of the cart, bunching her skirts together, and attempted to sit in order to slide off. Teàrlach didn’t give her the choice, despite her rebuff of his help. He spanned her waist in his palms and lifted her down.
She stepped back from him and he ran his hands through his hair.
“We’ll stop here,” he said, then backed away. “Nature calls.”
He strode to King and unhitched him, setting him loose to wander to the stream trickling nearby, leading down to the loch below. Then he moved some paces away and stripped his belts, then his surcoat, then his hood slouched around his neck, then his habergeon and gambeson, then his mail chausses, then his greaves and thigh pads, until he stood in his tunic and trousers, leaving everything in a disorganized heap. He couldn’t breathe and he knew Maddie stared at the display. After a fortnight of separation, it made awareness tingle over his skin.
He walked into the trees and found a private space to pull free his cock and release a stream of water long enough to make King jealous, returning moments later to find Madeline still standing where she was. Her eyes were fixed on him. He found he couldn’t look away as she scrutinized him…nay, as she scrutinized his chest. He looked down and blast it, but the pouch tied with her kerchief was flattened upon him. She might not know what the pouch contained, but she recognized the fabric. Now she knew he pined for her.
She turned from him with a rustle of skirts and departed into the trees opposite him, no doubt to tend her own call of nature, leaving him to watch her retreat. He stared at the empty space in the trees she had departed through, though he wasn’t looking at anything in particular. He wasn’t thinking either, and finally shook himself mentally to get to work unpacking the cart. Tonight he would need to lie to Madeline, and it didn’t sit well with him. But if he was going to recover Moreville’s ledger, he needed to go back under the cover of darkness.
He began setting up camp. He grabbed the rope out of the cart as well as a couple stakes and strung it up between two trees. Then he draped a blanket over it, hammering the corners of the blanket to the tree with the stakes.
She returned and watched him working, then she glanced at the jug laid out on a crate of foodstuffs. He had uncorked it and a wooden cup sat beside it. She went to the vessel, still watching him. He looked over at her, nodded to the vessel, and returned to work. Pouring herself a cup, she sat upon the ground until he finally came to join her. Except, as he had all afternoon, he avoided speaking to her. She sighed, set down her drained cup, and looked at her hands folded in her lap.
“Have I offended, sire?”
His eyes darted to her. “What? Nay. Why?”
She slanted her gaze sideways, still unwilling to look up at him. “It’s as if you’ve grown cold to me. You won’t even look at me. Have I done something wrong?”
He kneeled beside her and his hands came to hold either side of her face, tilting it upward. “I’m the furthest thing from cold toward you, lass,” he whispered, running his thumbs over her cheeks. Just looking into her eyes, touching her thus, made his heartache throb anew. “But looking at you is also painful.”
She looked away, pulling free from his touch and leaving his hands hanging. “Imagine what it must be like knowing in a sennight’s time you will have to consummate a union to someone you detest.”
Teàrlach looked away and sighed. “I know it must be hard for you too, Maddie. I just…I do nay know how to make the pain stop.”
She put a hand over her mouth. “I…” Her voice wobbled and cracked, and she sucked in hard, closing her eyes. “I do nay want to do this!” He grabbed her before he could think, pulling her to him and landing on his knees straddling her. “Why must I do this?” she blurted out, a question not meant to be answered as he smothered her against his chest, running his fingers against her scalp to clench her hair.
She grabbed him, gasping for air. He encased her with his warmth, protected her, if only for a moment. If only for now.
“Wheesht,” he whispered against her ear, wishing he could take the future Henry de Moreville had laid out for her and throw it in the rubbish heap. “Wheesht, love,” he crooned, his lips kissing her hair, then her ear, then her earlobe, then her cheek, dusting their way to her lips with more and more urgency.
She kissed him back fiercely, gripping him, tugging desperately on his tunic, and allowed him to bend over her, allowed him to grip her hair so tightly he knew it must pull on the roots. He bent farther, farther, leaning her backward, until he was laying her down in the underbrush. His mind ran wild. He had to have her. He had to hold her and kiss her and thrust against her the way a man did when he was smitten. Fok John de Moreville. The bastard didn’t deserve her. She was his, Teàrlach MacGregor’s. Everything within him knew that what was happening in this moment was right. It might be wrong in the eyes of the law, but in the eyes of nature, this was meant to be. He was meant to have her. She was meant to have him.
He settled his weight upon her chest, resting on his elbows beside her ears so as not to crush her, and nudged his hips between her legs until he was settled against her core. One of his hands managed to untangle itself from her net of hair and caressed down her side, back up again, down again, up, and this time over the mound of her breast. He didn’t think, he only acted. He was desperate. Grabbing the edge of the bodice, he dragged it down, exposing one of the most perfect, most round, most delicate virgin breasts he had ever seen.
He severed his kiss, staring down at the soft flesh, then up into her wide, moist eyes. She didn’t fight him, however. Her chest rose and fell, rose and fell, lifting the tip toward his lips, then back down again. Her cheeks were raging pink, and her fingers gripped him in a deathly clench. She finally released him as he continued to stare at her, then it, then her again, wanting nothing more than to sink into a kiss with that beautiful breast that would scald them both with memories forever. Her hands slid up his sides, under his arms, and her eyes watched her hands’ progression, taking in the breadth of him spread over her, down the underside of his arms to his hands, up over the tops of this fingers, up his arms to his shoulders, her fingers snaking into the base of his hair in the most sensual caress he could ever remember feeling.
“Ah, lass,” he murmured, shuddering, closing his eyes at the sensation. Then he dropped his lips to hers once more, sucking her lower lip into his mouth, letting it pop free as he trailed his kisses eagerly onto her jaw, then her neck, then her chest and then…
…
Oh, heaven have mercy on my sinful soul. She felt the heat of his kiss upon her breast. His lips grazed her nipple, then his tongue took a slow sweep over the point as her breathing became ragged, erratic. He took it all in his mouth, his eyes closed, and she knew his resolve was lost. He nibbled upon her, light bites of the teeth. Her body jolted, her breath caught, and her hips pushed against him as if of their own free will.
“Teàrlach,” she murmured, her hands clenching his hair as she arched her chest to him. “Teàrlach, Teàrlach, Teàrlach…”
He moaned, suckled harder, pulling her into his mouth, then releasing, one hand still firmly holding her head, the other gripping her breast, massaging it, squeezing it, offering every sensation he could in one moment. God above, she thought. She was a virgin, aye, but she was feeling the natural course of things as intensely as he. The primal needs that had perpetuated humanity were taking over, making her grip him with hands doing what they willed for themselves, making her body undulate against his, flooding her netherparts with heat she knew was meant to prepare her for his joining, and she welcomed his loss of control as he returned the favor, thrusting against her, wedged between her legs as he was, unable to stifle his moans.
…
“Jesu, Maddie…Christ…” he said, his cock heavy and restless for her. Skirts and trousers be damned, the sensation was unreal, unlike anything in this world. His tongue swirled around her nipple as he sucked in steady, slow rhythms, nursing upon a breast he wished would nourish him forever…
He didn’t have forever.
This wasn’t his breast.
It was John de Moreville’s.
The thought poured ice upon his lust. He pushed up to his knees, severing the heated embrace, ripping his neck and shoulders out of her kneading fingers. She looked up at him, shocked. And then a wave of embarrassment splashed across her face as he raked his fingers through his curls, closing his eyes.
“Fok…what the hell am I doing?” he muttered, tipping back his head, pinching his eyes harder and gritting his teeth. “I can nay do this.”
He stood and paced away, throbbing in such intense pain in his trousers as his smaller man quarreled with him about the decision to quit. Except now he had abandoned her, innocent as she was, upon the ground with her breast hanging out like a brothel whore. He whirled around to assist her, but didn’t need to. She was sitting, her clothes righted, and she pushed to her feet. She didn’t look at him but wiped her cheeks, her eyes, and turned away from him. Then without warning, she lifted her skirts and marched away, finding a fallen trunk farther in the trees to sit upon. She remained so, her back to him, not once saying a word.
He dared not approach her to comfort her, sensing anger emanating from her. But finally, he did, stopping a few paces away from her. She heard him approach, he could tell, for she stiffened at the rustling of leaves.
“I’m sorry, lass.” His words were gruff. “I take what is nay mine. I take from John, even if I think the sod is undeserving.”
She showed no sign of hearing.
“Maddie, I…” He had no words. He attempted to find them, but he had none.
She began shaking her head. She shook it several times, then stood, turned, and looked upon him coldly. He could see words of anger forming on her lips. He had planted the seed in her, teaching her to read and treating her as if she mattered. And he was about to feel her wrath.
“You take what is mine.” He furrowed his brow at her icy words. “My affection is mine to bestow on you, or on John. He has legal claim of my body, but no one will know that I feel no love or loyalty for him. No one except you. I’m tired of being bartered over. Even you, as noble as you try to be, treat me as if I am no one.”
“What?” he exclaimed, flabbergasted. “Where does such a thought come from?”
“I take from John,” she replied, her voice trembling. “Nay, Teàrlach MacGregor. I gave you permission, and I’ve missed you. I felt as if I had lost the part of me that kept me grounded when I woke to you gone a fortnight ago. I felt as if I had never had all of you. Mayhap I’m no better than a wanton kitchen maid and you don’t share the affection I thought you did—”
“A lie,” he interrupted, feeling his own anger rising, but she interrupted him in return.
“And mayhap my heart will never be repaired, but I wouldn’t have denied myself now. And I wouldn’t have denied you. Henry de Moreville never asked if I agreed to marry his son. Therefore, he gets no say in how those ‘goods’ are delivered to him.”
“He suspects us of trysting already, Madeline,” Teàrlach retorted.
“Then I fail to see how arriving debauched to my marriage altar is much of a problem,” she replied. “But I won’t throw myself at you. Not again, as lovesick as I bloody-well am—” He smarted at the curse. Such a word, he had never imagined passing over her mannered lips. “Because if you really wanted me, you would have me. And if you really honored me, you wouldn’t hold back. I face a horrible future, sire. I’ve felt the worst of men, for aye, my faither was a tyrant. I have tolerated men my whole life. He lorded over me, over my sister. And now, Laird Moreville makes decisions that will ruin my whole life, without my knowledge. I care nay about my future, for I won’t be alive in it, even if I’m living. I’ll be miserable. John hates me—”
“He does nay hate you. He hates having to marry someone other than the lady he wants.”
“Which will lead to resentment. You honestly think he plans to honor me?” Nay, Teàrlach thought as she continued. Henry was having mistress quarters built at Kirkburn for his wayward son, on coin that had been intended for Madeline’s upkeep, no less. Nay, from the beginning, John didn’t plan to honor anything about her. “He’ll be in bed with any willing maid, any at all, rather than in bed with me. And do you know? I’m fine with that arrangement. I doubt he’ll even pay much attention to swiving me on our wedding night to know if he breeched a maidenhead or nay—”
“Maddie, these words from your mouth…” He shook his head, bracing his hand to his forehead in bewilderment. “It’s unlike you−”
“What am I supposed to be like?” she asked, her head tipping like a curious pup, her voice rising. “Hmm? Demure? Quiet? Seen, nay heard? Agreeable? Subservient? Accommodating? What? What am I supposed to be like, especially on the eve of my life sentence to a man who wants nothing to do with me? Why should I fear his wrath? I won’t be feeling any longer anyway! But say you hadn’t just rejected me now, and you had shown me what it’s like to be loved by a man. What have I to fear then? John’s criticism? His fist? The one kind thing my faither did for me was teach me how to stop feeling. Then you came along and I started feeling again. At least, that’s what it seemed like. But even you, a big, strong warrior who seems nay to care what other men think, is willing to hand me over to John with no questions asked.” She looked at him with disgust, then shook her head. “What have I to lose? Laird Moreville already suspects us? Why did he send you to bring me to Edinburgh?”
“He did it to test me,” Teàrlach argued. “To see where my loyalties lie. To irritate me. To play games with me.”
“And where do your loyalties lie, sire?” She smirked. “For I’m hard-pressed to think of one time you have spoken of Laird Moreville with affection. Nay. You’ve shared your anger at him with me but that is all. Are you the sort to play games?”
How had he ended up on the interrogation chair? He shook his head, disoriented. “Nay. I hate them.”
“Then why do you play?”
He had no answer. None. He already planned to quit and go home. He already planned on a poor recommendation from Moreville, if he should ever seek it. He already planned on potentially ruining himself by stealing the man’s ledger and turning it over to the king.
“I laid myself bare to you. I felt no shame whilst you…” Her face reddened. “Whilst you did what you did…just now… Until you made me feel like your mistake.”
The hurt in her eyes sliced at him. He couldn’t bear looking at the censure. And in some way, he had taken advantage of her, even if he had never thought about it. He had known her to always be demure. He had never expected a tongue-lashing, especially one with lashes so well-placed upon his most tender spots. But he had assumed her unable to speak for herself. And so he’d made the decision for her.
She turned away again, giving him her back, looking up at the sky dimming, as the sun sank lower and lower.
“Nothing about you is a mistake,” he finally said.
But if he was hoping for a reaction, he didn’t get it. He didn’t even get acknowledgment that he had spoken. And when he realized she was done arguing and would offer no further words to him, he backed up.
“I go to hunt, Madeline,” was all he finally said. “You’ll be safe here until my return.”
…
Eejit, he muttered to himself as he rode King through the darkening woods. After some time, he came into view of Glengarnock. Who knew such fire lay beneath Madeline’s poised face? She was right. Even he had his own misconceptions about her, after all this time. He’d mistaken quiet and mannered to mean agreeable and obedient. But she had been willing to lie with him. The thought swirled in his mind. She had been willing to give him her virginity. John would find something to hate her for, no matter what. He should have made her feel special in that moment, instead of cheap. He should have given them both what was likely to be the best love-making a man and woman could ever create together. Propriety be damned. This wasn’t a typical situation. If they were to be in love, they may as well be lovers and make it official. How could he lack so much courage and she have it in abundance?
He walked King to a halt, the copse the safest option for leaving King hidden while he crept into Glengarnock. King was a lazy old mongrel of a horse and would likely leave willingly with a thief. Despite his misgivings, Teàrlach removed his sword from his back and ensured all daggers were fastened down. He didn’t like leaving Maddie alone, but there was no other way to accomplish this task. He needed to get in and out of Glengarnock without being seen or heard. Tucking his sword in his saddle packs, he had even more misgivings about leaving King alone in the woods. This situation was anything but ideal, but he would do it to see Madeline receive justice. It was unlikely anyone would suspect Teàrlach of taking the ledger, least of all Moreville, after being seen traveling. Moreville would never think him capable of leaving the lass vulnerable in the woods.
He moved through the trees on foot, his Moreville blazon clear on his chest. No one would think much of a Moreville surcoat moving about the castle. The gates were still open and the castle bustled as the evening meal commenced. He pulled his hood over his curls and donned his nasal helm. His claymore had always been a distinguishing instrument and without it, people would be less likely to recognize him.
He walked along the path leading to the main gates, moving at a purposed pace, adjusting his speed to allow a cluster of serfs hauling a cart laden with bundles of thatching to catch up. As they neared the portcullis, the guards at the gatehouse began cranking the chain to let down the grate.
“Wait!” called the peasants. “We’re almost through! The thatching must be stowed for the night!”
The guards reversed the cranking and pulled up the grate. Teàrlach put himself to good use, knowing his face was obscured by both the nighttime and the helmet, and got behind the cart with two other men, pushing from behind to speed it through. The cart creaked over the ruts and the gate closed behind them.
No one paid him mind. The cart was stowed in a shadow along the wall, and as the peasants dispersed, moving back to the gate to be let out, Teàrlach moved along the shadow to the corner where it met an outbuilding. Getting in through the main doors would be tricky. Guards manned the doors, and up close with a torch upon him he might be recognized, if anything, by his height.
Still, he was surprisingly calm. Maybe not surprisingly. He loved the challenge of a covert mission, whether it was to catch his brothers in the midst of making trouble and present the evidence to their father, to sleuth for the likes of Madeline’s father, the Beast of Ayr, or to steal a ledger book. Such was a punishable offense, but then again, with the evidence contained in those pages, two wrongs might just make a right.
In the corner, the torch light fell short by several feet. He removed his helmet and looked around. The yard grew quiet as guardsmen roamed inside for their evening meal. Now would be the perfect time to slip in and out of Henry de Moreville’s solar. He glanced around, seeing no easy way in, and looked along the wall. Then up. The wall could be scaled. He was good at climbing. If he could scale up the Spout of Garnock, he could find some footholds here. And out of the blue, thoughts of Madeline teased him as he gazed up the wall to the stars beyond.
He suppressed a chuckle. A pig? She had seen a pig drawn in the stars. Even now he missed her. How pleasurable would it be to lie beneath the stars right now, wrapped in his tartan, discussing the cosmos? Lying beneath his tartan conjured that longing feeling again. He loved her. And he had hurt her. But he hurt, too. And in his hurt, he hadn’t wanted to betray her trust and take advantage of her. But she was right. He should have trusted her in the moment to tell him what she wanted. And what her body had told him, her soft hitches of breath, her fingers digging into him, was that she would receive him and had already decided to allow him to proceed. She had allowed him to expose her, made herself vulnerable to him because she trusted him. And he had treated it as a mistake.
He put his helmet on and found niches for his hands, then felt with the toes of his boots for a foothold. He pulled up onto the wall. His fingers strained, supporting his weight. His other toe found another hold, and he reached out with one of his hands for another handhold. Progressing slowly up the wall, he found nooks for his toes and fingers. The wall walk was quiet above him. Except as he neared the top, he heard the slow footfalls of a soldier strolling out of the doorway leading from the nearest bastion. He paused. The soldier had come to a halt. And then the soft swishing of skirts moved closer and closer from the direction of the portcullis.
“Ah, Clara love,” came the voice of none other than Duncan. “My thanks for meeting me.”
“My pleasure, as always,” she purred. “What ails you?”
Teàrlach could hear fabric rustling in slow caresses.
“I have need of your talent,” Duncan replied, the caresses of fabric continuing.
Teàrlach rolled his eyes, his fingers tense as he held up his weight.
Clara giggled. “Aye, you’re my favorite, Duncan. Let me see…” Teàrlach listened to the soft brushing of more hands upon clothes. “Mmm, what have we here? Goodness, such a big sweet for me?”
“And you know it.” Duncan chuckled, the low groan escaping him telling Teàrlach the man’s cock was being stroked. “Aye…good lass…”
Teàrlach rolled his eyes again. Did he have to remain perched here, listening to the whole bloody tryst? He appreciated that Duncan had the same needs as every other man, but that didn’t mean he wanted to eavesdrop on it. His fingers were straining to hold his weight. He held on. If he went down now, he might not have the immediate strength to pull off such a feat until his hands had rested. And if he moved up any farther, Duncan would no doubt hear him.
Duncan flopped back against the wall, a hand stretching out to grip the ledge while his head fell back. “Ah, that’s it…” he remarked, his voice a low whisper. “Aye, lass…all the way…”
The moist sound of Clara’s mouth hard at work accompanied Duncan’s exhales, and Teàrlach fought the urge to curse. What if Duncan was one of those men who needed a good half-hour workout or more? Teàrlach was strong and skilled, but there was no way he would be able to hang on for that long. His brow was already beading with sweat inside the infernal helmet. Duncan let out another moan. Clara continued to work. Teàrlach stifled a grunt and readjusted a fingerhold that was slipping.
Curse the bastard! He was about to interrupt Duncan and Clara and demand they get on with the final leg of it, except, blessed night, Duncan proved to be a short fuse. His head shot down to Clara on her knees, his body thrust, he let out a muted exclamation, and it was over as Clara wrung each drop from him. Thank the Lord. Teàrlach held on a moment longer, praying, hoping, his hands trembling, his teeth gritting. Duncan and Clara were both chuckling as he helped her rise to her feet. She draped against his chest, running her hands around his waist and leaning up to kiss him.
“As always, you leave me a pleased man,” he remarked, his breathing unsteady. “Here.”
He reached to his waist, tucking himself away and straightening his surcoat over his legs. Jingling ensued as he withdrew a coin from his purse. Clara, giggling, sashayed away. Duncan let out another exhale, shook his head, and walked back inside. And Teàrlach practically bounded over the top of the wall, landing with both feet on the stone.
Relief shot through his fingertips. The moisture on the tips told him they bled. No good. He’d leave a trace that someone had snooped, if he touched anything. He wrapped his fingers in his surcoat and squeezed to staunch the wounds. Finally, satisfied that the bleeding had stopped, he grabbed an extra spear from a storage chest along the wall walk and returned down the wall, entering through the door, closing it behind him.
His head was pouring sweat, and he needed a deep drag of air, but he left the helmet on. He couldn’t risk being recognized. Wasting no time, he walked down the corridor, his boots soft, leaving no sounds of footfalls, down the winding stairs that led to the kitchens, passing the buttery. He proceeded unobstructed, serving lads and lasses hurrying in and out to refill ale pitchers. They paid him no heed at all. An armed guard strolling through the castle on patrol was so normal of an occurrence, it required no acknowledgment. His sore fingers reminded him that things could go wrong, but indeed, he seemed to finally be in the clear.
Winding up another set of stairs, he was now in the laird’s wing of the castle. It seemed to be empty and darkened, except for a guardsman standing watch outside the laird’s personal chambers, slouching on the wall with his arms folded. It was Christopher, Teàrlach realized, dozing. Moreville’s personal chambers lay in one direction, his solar in the other, around a corner. Teàrlach turned toward the solar.
“…but you were right when you reported him at Barclay’s Fair. I could have wrung your neck, Gertrude, until it became clear why you did it. Indeed, I wouldn’t have allowed you to go to Kilbirnie. And when Madeline arrives debauched in Edinburgh, I’ll expect the king to pay a restitution on top of the lass’s dowry,” he heard Moreville saying.
“Is that why you said naught to the Highlander?” came Gertrude’s voice.
Teàrlach jumped against the wall behind a stone support. If he backed up, he’d be in Christopher’s view should the lazy lad choose to wake up. Standing tall, submerged in the shadow down the corridor, he held the spear upright and stood at attention. Moreville walked with his daughter. Both proceeded down the hall, stopping short of him at the solar door.
“Indeed. ’Tis a strategy to gain more wealth. You see, it doesn’t matter if MacGregor swived her mad. At the end of the day, it is an opportunity for John to gain more coin.”
“To request another purse. For being cheated of his wedding night…” Gertrude shook her head. “’Tis clever. I hope Sir MacGregor enjoys every moment of her wedding. He deserves it.” Her words dripped with venom.
“Aye, for trysting with Madeline, but make no mistake, Daughter. MacGregor was right to be angered at you. You interfered with his work and put yourself in danger… However, you’ve proven to be quite clever to me, so I won’t be angered at you anymore.”
Teàrlach remained stoic. But there was no mistaking his urge to snag Moreville and slam his head into the wall. It all made sense now. Gertrude had discovered his relationship to Maddie and tattled on him. Somehow, Teàrlach had been too infatuated with Madeline to notice that he was being spied upon. He had let his guard down.
They paused in front of Moreville’s solar. “Go on down to supper, Gertrude. I’ll be along shortly. I’ve some things to put away first.”
His daughter agreed and walked away. Moreville withdrew a key ring, clanked open the lock, and pushed the door wide. Good, Teàrlach thought. He knew this mission would have to be bold. The bolder, the more Moreville stood to be confused. But where he had been calm before, nerves were churning in his gut now. He wasn’t just flirting with subterfuge. The stakes were high. If he could just take advantage of Moreville’s unlocked door now, it would save him much work.
He propped the spear beside the seam between the wall and the support and removed his helmet, creeping toward the door. Fully exposed, he peered around the frame. Moreville stood at his desk, facing the door, reading a parchment.
Teàrlach held fast, waiting for the man to turn around…at least, praying that the man would. He needed him to turn. The longer Teàrlach stood there with his attention divided between the corridor and Moreville, his chance of discovery increased. He darted a glance down the corridor. No one was coming. Everyone was probably at the evening meal. He glanced back at Moreville who was now drifting across the chamber, lost in thought, reading.
Turn around, ye bastard. Teàrlach willed the laird to do so. Finally, Moreville paced to the window, still lost in thought. Teàrlach emerged in front of the door, ready to step inside, when Moreville began to turn back toward the desk. Sweating, Teàrlach shifted back behind the frame, nerves eating him. He resumed peeking within. Moreville, his face buried in his correspondence, didn’t notice. He paced to the desk again, and, finally satisfied with what he was reading, he discarded it. He picked up another parchment, reading it thoroughly, and then looked up, squinting, and strode to a shelf along the back of the chamber to pull down a manuscript.
Teàrlach didn’t wait again. He darted into the room as silently as a cat, and slid behind the open door, pressing himself flat against the wall. His heart raced. This was by far his most daring pursuit since childhood. He waited, praying he had gauged the moment accurately. There was only a dungeon cell waiting for him if he failed. At long last, Henry extinguished his candle, the chamber darkened, and he quit the room. The door shut. His key in the lock clanked, and Teàrlach heard footfalls recede. He exhaled a long breath, closing his eyes. His stomach, he realized, had actually been bundled up. He might be locked in the solar now, but at least he was alone to think.
The hearth opposite from the desk was wide. He might be able to fit up the chimney and scale down the outside of the wall. The embers were still hot, as were the chimney walls. But when he looked to the window, the shutters barred from the inside, he knew he could never close it convincingly, which would leave a potential trail for Moreville to follow. But if he scaled up the chimney, Moreville would be none the wiser. That was what he must do.
He moved to Moreville’s desk, lifting parchment papers, feeling about. Nothing felt like the size and shape of the ledger. In fact, much of the desk felt reorganized. Bloody hell. Gertrude had helped her father tidy up and had probably stashed it elsewhere. He pulled open a drawer, felt along the shelves, and was about to give up and scoot out when he turned to see the faint outline of the bookshelf. Moreville had stood there examining a manuscript. He had reached to the middle shelf. The manuscript had been bound in light brown leather.
He moved to the shelf, felt along the bindings, and came to the one that felt the most like the book Moreville had pulled down. He felt around behind it, pressing his fingers along the other bindings again. None of them felt like the ledger. Instead, he moved to the dim light of the hearth embers and opened the manuscript in hand. And lo, but embedded within the cutout pages was the ledger. He withdrew it, opened it, and noticed the accounting pages from more than a year before. He flipped ahead, furrowing his brow to focus his eyes, and came to December of the previous year. That was where Madeline’s twenty-pound disbursements appeared to start…and the funds stolen. Each successive month—January, February, March, April, and May—was the same.
Teàrlach flipped it shut, closed the manuscript, and reinserted the decoy onto the shelf as it had been. Then, securing the ledger in his surcoat, he moved to the hearth. He would have to straddle the grate and have care not to leave boot prints in the ashes. He ducked under the upper edge, looking up. It was black, but more than wide enough for his shoulders and, thankfully, only the lower stones of the chimney were hot. He withdrew, put on his helmet, and climbed in the hearth, straddling the embers and feeling the heat roast the insides of his legs all the way up to his bollocks and cock. He shuddered at the thought. The air was cooler farther up. He hurried for fingerholds, hoisted himself up, and began the grueling task of emerging through the soot to the top of the castle keep, completely unseen.
…
Teàrlach rode King hard, distancing himself. Maddie’s words still remained with him. She had certainly put him in his place. If she were willing to love him, he ought to be willing to do the same. Lord knew he wanted it, wanted that final step of unity with her. Maddie was his. She always would be, no matter who she married.
Moreville’s scheme to see Madeline debauched and gain an extra purse of coin as compensation was sick. Teàrlach hated every fiber of the man. But with the blood coursing through him now, he wasn’t going to give up on Madeline again. He wanted his woman and with the ledger against his chest he would see Moreville ruined. Moreville might be chuckling at his scheme now, but Teàrlach would have the last laugh, just like he always had with his brothers. Patience and willpower to not run away with one’s surety and pride was the key to succeeding in this game. Let Moreville chuckle and think he’d gotten the better of his head guardsman. It would make his tumble from grace that much more humiliating.
As he wove through the woods, he worked himself into a frenzy. He needed to see that she was all right. He needed to hold her, to touch her, and aye, to have her. She had laid herself bare. Her words swirled in his mind. She would have had him. She would have let him have her. She cared not of expectations or propriety, for her marriage was her funeral.
He kicked King, reaching back to give his rear a slap. His mission was complete. King’s hooves thundered over the ground. He’d made good time, the moon casting enough light for him to see his way. Anticipation ate at him. Madeline would have me. Her words, her hurt, her pain, all of it, he would strip from her tonight. There was no honor involved. There was only need.
And he was already rising, flexing, demanding to see her. He leaned over King, his surcoat flapping, his damned helmet a nuisance. His steed soared over the ground. He neared the campsite. He could see the soft glow of firelight. He was sweating. And he was going to claim Madeline Crawford and throw his best effort into making himself a permanent fixture in her memory.
He pulled up on the reins. Madeline, sitting beneath the tent he had hung, jumped to her feet, fearful. He ripped away his helmet and tossed it to the ground. She tensed further when she saw his distress. He swung his leg over the saddle, jumping down as King slowed to a stop, and strode to her, pulling free his belts, his sword, the ledger from within his surcoat, ripping the surcoat over his head and flinging it to the ground in a trail behind him.
Her eyes widened. “Are you all right—”
The words had barely left her mouth when he crushed his mouth to hers. She stood frozen at first, then tentatively kissed him in return. He separated from her, resting his forehead to hers as he gripped either side of her face. His breathing was hard and fast. He sweat. His curls were tangled and matted, and he clung to her as if his whole world was rocking.
“Ye want me. I want ye. We both ken it weel. I’ll nay fight it any longer.” He was nodding, swallowing, and so was she, as if both understood what he was saying. “If ye’ll still have me, lass, I’ll have ye…”
They resumed kissing, pecks that deepened into something more, and she reached up to his neck to cling to him. He encircled her waist, pulling upon her, pressing her to his front, leaning over her. She met each thrust of his tongue with one of her own, tangling together, tasting him, and he swallowed a sigh.
“Teàrlach,” she whispered. He couldn’t stop his mouth from kissing down her neck, over her throat, as his hands ran in wild roves across her shoulders, her arms, her breasts, her back, her rear. “Teàrlach, show me what it’s like…”
He was nodding. His hands were ripping loose his tunic, dragging it over his head so that he was forced to pull apart from her lips for a miserable second. They meshed back together the moment the garment was tossed on the ground. She rested a virgin still, and he needed to be careful, but he couldn’t slow. He could barely connect one thought to the next. His hands were pulling upon her bodice, yanking on her laces, grabbing her sleeves to rip them off.
He finally succeeded, dragging her gown over her hips, his lips still locked to hers, pushing it down her legs. He lifted her clean off her feet to help her out of the rest. A sweep of his boot pushed the garment aside, and he began grabbing bunches of her chemise, dragging it up her legs, over her stomach, over her breasts, and over her head. He knew she now stood in only her hose but didn’t break the kiss. He clung to her face, to her head, pillaging her mouth, his hands finally sliding down to her bare shoulders, down her bare arms, up her bare, flat stomach…
She shivered, nearly yelped, as his hands came up to encase each of her breasts. He paused, pulling back just enough to look into her eyes, trying to decipher what the yelp meant. But she stood still, trembling, gazing back into his eyes. “Are ye all right?” he whispered.
She lifted her chin boldly. Such a move was much more like something her older sister would do, whose strong streak had made her a target for their father’s wrath. Maybe Madeline had always been like that, deep down. Maybe learning, reading, and living had given her the confidence to show it. She reached to his face, cupping his cheek.
“I know I’m a virgin, Teàrlach. But I also know what I feel.”
Her words hung between them. He returned the caress of her cheek, the heat of the moment simmering as he gazed into her eyes. She didn’t seem the least bit concerned that she stood in nothing but her stockings as Teàrlach ravished her in a wood.
“I trust you to have care,” she added, for his benefit, he decided, because moments before he had been ripping her clothing off like a starved savage.
He nodded his curt nod, but there was more abruptness to it, which translated to more emotion. He bent slowly, slowly, sinking to her lips, then her neck, then her chest, his eyes holding hers, until he placed his lips to the tip of one breast, listening to her inhale a drag of air. And as his tongue began to tease it into a point, he ran his hands down her side to the waist of her hose. He pulled them in gentle tugs over her hips, sliding them over her rear, his eyes closing as he suckled her, groaning his pleasure against her as his palms settled on either side of her rear, squeezing it, realizing how close he was to making good on what he always thought would be a guilty fantasy but nothing more. Her skin smelled of…lavender? She had clearly bathed that morn in preparation for this journey. It smelled just like her, and yet, the lavender intoxicated him.
He suckled her harder, overcome again with lust. He could feel his cock throbbing, straining against the waist of his trousers to reach his navel. The pain was unreal and as one hand continued to work her stockings down her legs, he released her rear and readjusted himself. He didn’t, however, untie his trouser lacings. Nay, that would be Madeline’s task.
Just the thought of her fingers upon his trouser laces made him pulse with need. He released his hold upon her breast, kissing his way over to the other one, administering the same kisses, warm from the heat of his mouth, sensitive from his breath released hotly upon her skin. But he couldn’t feast on her bosom all night. He had pushed her stockings to her knees and couldn’t go any further without sinking lower, and dragging his kisses lower.
With her knees tethered together by the waist of her stockings, he scooped her into a cradle against his bare chest, finally taking a moment to look at what he had been undressing: one of the most fair, unspoiled ladies he had ever beheld. And she was giving herself, her purity, her virginity, to him. Not her husband-to-be.
He was a scoundrel, a thief holding a pearl. But she wanted him, not her husband-to-be. She would sacrifice her reputation for him. He was humbled. Such a gesture should be honored. If he had any honor, he needed to remember from the first step of seduction to the final climactic moment of giving her his seed that this night together was just as much for her. For them. A memory that they would both treasure and revisit on the gloomiest of days until the day they both died.
He lowered to his knees, laying her down upon another blanket so that he loomed over her, grass and leaves protruding around the edge to tickle her arms. He finished removing the stockings when his eyes settled on the patch of soft curls that shielded her maiden space. The thought of what she would feel like flooded through his blood like whisky through the veins of a thirsty man. It warmed him, excited him, frightened him. He had never felt so uncontrolled. He ran his life on control, discipline, and loyalty to those he served. But he hadn’t once felt loyalty to Henry de Moreville. He hadn’t once felt fully in control after finding Madeline at the bottom of the Spout of Garnock, by all accounts dead. And his emotions had been like a sea bird, up and down, with the changing of the winds.
He gazed at her private space, pausing in his attempts to rid her of her final article of clothing. What would she taste like? Smell like? More lavender, mixed with…what? What was her essence going to be like on his tongue? He had to find out. His hands found purpose again, and the stockings were thrown aside. She held her knees together, her legs bent, and slowly, he coaxed them apart, his breath both gone and racing at the same time. Hers too, he noted. Her skin, once reddened, was now smoothed out and creamy pale. She didn’t seem the least bit scared. Nervous, aye, but not scared. It made his heart burgeon with confidence.
…
She burned. She was an inferno. Her stomach did flips, her skin was so sensitive. She couldn’t get a decent breath. How on earth could she feel so…so…there wasn’t a word to describe the sensation, just having Teàrlach gaze down upon her in her most raw, most natural state.
“Relax for me, love,” he said, and she swallowed. His words were gruff, yet full of affection. “Relax yourself. I’ll nay hurt ye.”
She did, letting her legs extend so she lay flat. He grazed a fingertip up one knee, up her thigh. She sucked in hard. The butterflies weren’t just in her stomach anymore. They were fluttering across her body, tingling from head to toe, intensifying at the point of his finger traveling over her skin, following in the wake of his nail. He bent over her, taking a breast into his mouth again, delivering a slow, sensual kiss as her hands rested on either side of her head. She watched the top of his head, felt his hand wrap around her breast to squeeze her nipple to a point so he could latch on harder, deeper, and his other finger now made ginger swirls upon the hair nestled between her thighs.
She closed her eyes, the sensations overwhelming, the feel of all he was doing raging through her. He slid his tongue over her breast again…slid his finger between her thighs, feeling the heat pooling helplessly there. He moaned, his finger delving back between, and this time, pushing into that heat.
She gasped but Teàrlach didn’t seem inclined to allow her a reaction. His mouth jumped from her breast to her mouth to swallow her gasp, his finger giving a second gentle thrust. He moaned against her lips. Again. Was his imagination running as wild as hers? And when her hips wiggled, then bucked at his finger’s entry, a guttural curse escaped him and he doubled down on plundering her mouth, plundering her nether space, his finger taking up a rhythm, swirling, delving, delivering a tiny taste of what was to come.
“Jesu, Maddie,” he bit out. “Jesu, you’re sweet.”
He parted from her, leaving her lips swollen, moist, and wanting, pulling away from her fingers just as she had laced them into his curls. She frowned at his separation, her entire body ignited in flame at such raw touching, until he brought his finger to his mouth and licked it, sucking her flavor from it. His eyes fell shut, as if savoring a heavenly potion, as if fine drink was hitting his blood. He looked down at her. She watched his every move. So this was what it was like for a man to savor every inch of her. It was so scandalous. Wondrous. She was never going to be the same.
He shifted downward, pushing apart her knees with command, and Lord help her, but she allowed it, knowing he could now see her most intimate of places. But he continued to scoot down, flattening himself on his stomach between her legs as he wrapped a hand under and around each thigh.
“What are you doing?” she squeaked, her hands digging into the leaves and pine needles on either side of her.
He kissed her thigh, again, again, rising closer and closer to her hidden center now parted before his eyes. It was as if her virgin seam was making his mouth water for a sweet. “Savoring every drop of you, lass.”
She tensed. Nervous. Yet she knew she was going to love it. The only way to get past it was to get on with it, she realized, and he brought his lips to her center, placing a kiss there, then another, then another. She whimpered, and then she squirmed. He smiled up at her, her eyes riveted to what she could see of his face.
“Aye, lass. Enjoy it,” he encouraged, as she found a natural pace, little lifts of the hip with each kiss.
He flicked his tongue against her, again, then pushed it within. She cried out, bucked against him, vaguely realizing that his vise grip was the only thing holding her down to earth, holding her to him as he tortured her with his tongue and took bolder and bolder strokes. She could hear him swallowing, saw his eyes pinched closed in concentration, listened to his low moans. She gripped his hair so hard she feared she would rip it away, though not once did he show discomfort. She arched her back, pressing herself more firmly against his mouth. It felt so good. He felt so right. He smiled.
“Ye like that?”
His words were cocky, as if pleased with himself, and it caused her squirming to increase and become more dramatic. He kissed her harder, drank faster, suckled more roughly. Heaven help her, she was going to shatter. How, she didn’t know, but it felt much like the fluttering in her stomach when she would lie alone in bed imagining his kisses, though so much stronger and more urgent.
“That’s it, Maddie,” he urged, his fingers teasing the nub above her private space as she moaned, wiggled, and moved her hips up and down against his tongue, clutching his hair, holding him to her. He moaned as she pulled upon his curls, a helpless cry forcing its way out of her mouth. Sakes, but she needed to hold on, lest she float away. “Give me yer pleasure.”
“What’s…what’s happening?” she murmured, her eyes falling shut.
He answered her by working harder, and she knew she was about to feel what was happening. She cried out, clinging to him.
“Teàrlach…Teàrlach…” Her legs began to tremble, she couldn’t help it, and she clamped her thighs against his ears. She stopped moving. A rush of warmth left her. He latched his lips on her as she felt release pour over her like a waterfall. He was drinking in her essence. He was groaning, his arms wrapped so tightly around her thighs, his hands keeping her grounded as he took his fill, his hold upon her lessening as the waves of release receded and she slowly began to relax. The tenseness ebbed from her muscles, and her legs dropped back to the ground. She gazed down at him and he looked up, such a sated look softening the hard lines of his face as if she had actually been pleasing him the whole time.
…
He slid his hands free from her legs, rising on all fours, and crawled up her body so that he hovered over her. His mind was still reeling from her honest sensuality. Her first time finding her pleasure had been for him, and he would have gladly kept drinking her in for eternity. He didn’t have eternity, but he wrangled that heartbreaking thought to the back of his mind.
“That’s what it feels like when you love a man…and when a man loves ye.”
“Nay any man,” she breathed, reaching up to cup his cheek again. “You, Teàrlach.”
“Aye, me,” he whispered, seeing how her wisps of loose hair splashed around her on his plaid, on the leaves. It was a look he never wanted to forget. It made his heart ache for the moment to never end. Just like this, with her cheeks pink, her eyes warm and worry-free, on a bed of his colors in the midst of a forest. It was an image he would keep close at heart. “I want ye bad, lass. I want all of ye. What just happened…’tis nay the only way to please ye.” She was nodding and he pushed upright so that he straddled her waist.
He looked down his torso at her face, at her breasts beneath him, his arms hanging at his sides.
“Untie my laces, love. I want to feel ye undress me…like a wife would. Just once, before ye’re gone.”
She hesitated, ducking her head in embarrassment. He found it humorous, considering what they had just done. She finally reached trembling hands to him, resting them on either side of his waist. He tensed. The feel of her fingers on his skin, so close to his manhood, was so forbidden, it was heavenly and sinful all in one. Except then she slid her hands to the lacing over the massive bulge in his breeches, and he nearly thrust into her hand, his head tipping back. If such a touch, light and obstructed by clothing, was enough to make him want to swive her hands, how on earth was it going to feel with those hands enclosed around him?
She unbuckled his belt with shaking fingers. He watched with sharp eyes, assessing her progress. She was nervous. But once the lacing was loosened, his manhood sprang free, pushing up the fabric of his undergarments, moistening the thin restraint with his seed. She ran her curious fingers over the hair growing upon his stomach, leading a path over the ridges and valleys of his muscles up to his chest.
He jumped, his skin sensitive, and she whipped her hands back. He snagged each wrist and pulled her hands back, placing them back upon his skin.
“Do nay stop, sweeting,” he ground out.
She hesitated. He could tell she was blushing by the way she turned her head. But her tentative hands began to explore his skin, tickling the hair upon him. He sucked in his navel as her fingers feathered over him, learning the details of his body for herself as he straddled her. The taste of her was still fresh upon his lips. Ah, her taste… He was starved for her already. He had to share, had to kiss her again. Every nerve was sensitive. He needed to feel her. He fell forward, catching his weight on his hands on either side of her face, and lowered himself to kiss her.
…
She tasted him. Her, she told herself. He was kissing her after he had done… Oh, after he had done what he had done. And there was more? When what he had done was pretty much divine? How on God’s green earth could it be better? Just thinking about it should scandalize her. But as he kissed her, her essence strong in his mouth, all she could do was melt. Her belly ached, hot. Her hands roved over his glorious muscles. That private part of him was clearly eager and admittedly, she didn’t know what to do.
He solved her problem, taking her hand, dragging it away from his chest, guiding it to the front of his sagging waistline, gesturing with it to pull his trousers down further… She did so until his trousers were loose and as far as they would go with his thighs splayed. Then he moved her hand to the tie of his undergarments. Her hands brushed against the tip of him straining for freedom. He hissed, inhaled, and sank even harder into his kiss. Having touched the tip of him, having touched the damp fabric, her curiosity was piqued.
He was hot, hard. She placed a tentative hand upon the stiffness. He hissed harder, flinching, and yet she sensed the flinch was a good sign. He nudged into her hand, his hips pressing his shaft into her palm through the linen of his undergarments, then back, then against her again, then back. Glancing up at his eyes pinched closed, his hair sweaty from his hunting excursion pasted to his face, his jaw sharp and tense, she had the idea that rubbing him up and down would be welcome.
She misjudged how welcome. The moment her hands enclosed around his manhood and stroked downward, his head shot back, his eyes pinched tighter, and a near cry trembled from his lips as he clenched his teeth together.
“Jesu, Maddie,” he swallowed, opening his eyes and staring helplessly down at what she was doing. “Fok, do nay stop, lass, ah…”
His ability to keep speaking seemed to flee him, and his words trailed off on a swallow. His eyes landed on hers. She grew shy and looked away, but he rose upon his knees again, straddling her, and tipped her face up to him to watch. He encased her other hand in his and guided her up and down in slow, sensual strokes, tipping his head back again. His hand fell away, and she proceeded on her own. He rolled his hips into her grip, then retracted. She couldn’t peel her eyes away and gazed at her task, gazed up at his face. Was it possible for a man to be considered beautiful? In this moment, there was no other word to describe him as he reveled in her touch.
His eyes were still pinched closed when, on a growl, he pushed to his feet, snagging her hands in his, pulling her up to trembling knees. “There’ll nay be any more if ye can nay finish undressing me, woman,” he teased, and she smiled up at him, noticing the anxious strain knitting his brow, pleased that she had made him so eager. His fingers held her chin up to him and for a moment, wariness crept over her. There was something about the darkening of his brow as he looked at her on her knees, naked before him, his eyes settling on her lips, then the front of his undergarments as he trailed a thumb over them.
Wherever his train of thought was leading him, she interrupted it by her fingers pulling his undergarments down, over his tip, revealing as she did a long lance of flesh, thick of girth that bobbed in welcome of her closeness. She swallowed, sweating, looking up at him for confirmation that she should touch. A terse nod was all she got. She had never seen a man up close, and after hesitating a moment longer, she swallowed again, encircling him, palm to skin. His eyes shot down like a hunter on a target as she cradled him in her hands, absorbing the sight of him from helm to jewels. Even this part of him was beautiful, she thought, inhaling his smell, memorizing it. She should feel scandalized, perhaps terrified, but nothing negative came to mind. This felt…right.
She began to stroke him the way he had shown her. He groaned and he groaned again. He didn’t stop groaning as his eyes rolled shut again.
…
Delicious, delectable heaven. This is what heaven felt like. Or eternal sin. If she continued, she was going to extract his seed before he had even shown her the best part. And she was gloriously nude, on her knees before him, her lips a mere breath away from his cock, and didn’t he love that kind of sport… Nay, with Maddie, you go the whole way. You nay chicken out and take the easy way. You know you want all of her, nay just the easy part of her… He fell back to his knees, his clothing trapped around his thighs, chest to chest with her, and looked into her eyes as the skin of her breasts brushed against him, and his manhood pressed against her belly. His lips threatened to tremble, and he furrowed up his face tightly to master control.
“I’ve wanted ye since I first set eyes on ye. God, I’ve dreamed of this.”
She caressed his cheek. “I wish I would have known.”
“I worried that ye’d be punished if I ever appeared to make an advance.” He shook his head, his eyes solemn. “It’s why I stayed away. But I was always amazed at your strength.”
Her brow furrowed. She shook her head, as if doubting the truth of his sentiment. Mariel had been outwardly strong, Teàrlach remembered, and perhaps Madeline equated her own silence to weakness. But while Mariel had been the one who stood up to their father, trained at archery and defied The Beast of Ayr’s betrothal for her, Madeline had endured.
“Aye, I was.” He caressed her face. “It takes a strong lass to be Harold Crawford’s daughter. To survive, to find ways to placate, to gain an end… I have no doubt ye’ll find a way to live on and survive when you’re married.” God those words tasted horrible on his lips. “I’ve seen a different side of ye, lass. I ken there’s more to ye,” he added, lowering his lips to hers. “I hope ye never lose that strength.”
“As with you, Teàrlach,” she whispered right before his lips touched hers. He paused, scrutinized her eyes to determine her meaning, until she continued. “You’re always quick to point out that you’re nay a laird, just a fourth brother, as if people shouldn’t look at you or think you important. But there’s more to you, too. You’re kind and loyal, you hail from a good family, you’re generous. At least, with me you’ve been most generous, all those supplies you convinced Laird Moreville to send…”
She was wrong on that account, but she never needed to know. He hadn’t bought everything simply to gloat about it. Moreville was a dishonest, gobshite of a man, but Teàrlach would let her think the best of it all.
Uncomfortable receiving the praise, he looked to the side, shaking his head. There was nothing loyal about him. He was about to commit the ultimate dishonor to Laird Moreville by cheating the man’s son out of Madeline’s virginity, not that John gave two rocks about it.
“Teàrlach,” she continued, reaching up to palm his cheek and turn his gaze back upon her. “’Tis all right to hear good things spoken about you. ’Tis all right to be recognized for what you do well.”
“I don’t want to be noticed or recognized,” he argued, his eyes still flitting around her so as not to look her in the eye.
“Aye, you do. But you’ve become so used to thinking the fourth son only gets the table scraps,” she countered, much to his surprise. Did he actually do that? “You’re special to me. You mean more than the world to me. I’m willing to bet that your faither cared for you as much as his other sons. And you’ve made a name for yourself. You should hold your head proudly.”
Sweet Maddie, so innocent to the ways of the world, and yet, she was right. He did what she said. He tried to remain unnoticed, even when he had done something good. Especially then. He didn’t mind fighting and training. It was what he did best, and he exploited himself to gain rich employ. And yet, even then he remained in his own shadow. Never the center of attention, always sly, always assessing every situation for what information he could extract from it. He lived a duality that most couldn’t achieve.
His eyes finally connected with hers, hard to see as the firelight waned, and he ran a finger down her cheek to her lips. “For you, I will.”
He kissed her and she ran her hands down his stomach, causing him to shiver, and then, with no guidance, she began to push his trousers and undergarments down to the bend in his knees, dragging her fingers back up the front of his thighs to graze against his bollocks. His eyes squeezed shut and his hand that was caressing her cheek and lips clenched her nape.
“Something tells me that to properly bed a woman,” she whispered as she dusted kisses upon his chest, “your trousers need to come off completely.”
He looked down at her again. She was smiling, her fingers trailing up and down his shaft as if scoring lines upon him. He chuckled, the sensation spurring him to action, and he scooped her up and laid her back down, jumping to his feet like an eager lad, ripping his boots away, and bouncing on one foot as he freed his other from the clothing. She took in his nudity, littered with scars from years of fighting and training. He loved it when she looked at his body.
He lowered himself to all fours over her, his heavy manhood hanging between his thighs. Putting his knees between hers, she parted for him. He lowered himself, the fading fire flickering shadows across their skin. They locked eyes as his tip rubbed across her nether hair. He watched a shiver skitter over her skin. Excitement and anticipation thrummed between them. He blanketed her in the warmth and weight of his body, his eyes resting upon hers, and cupped her head as he rested on his elbows alongside her ears.
He repositioned himself with a nudge of his hips, reached down between them as he rested his forehead to hers, their eyes still locked, feeling the heat of her beneath him, pressed to him, and comfortable with him. He was ready to claim her for himself and usurp John de Moreville. And with guidance and no short amount of force, he wedged his way into her. Slowly, stretching, pushing, watching as her eyes fell shut, her breathing halted on an inhale, her fingers clasping his shoulders, biting into him and denting his skin. And when he reached the final point of resistance, tight, his blood raging through him like galloping horses, he breeched her virginity with a fast pump.
She cried out. He threw his head back.
“Mercy, lass…” was all he could utter, his words hoarse and guttural.
He wasted no time moving, giving slow, long, thrusts, accommodating himself within, watching as her cry of discomfort melted into blushing, her hips, frozen moments ago, began to roll naturally. He couldn’t breathe, feeling his stomach muscles contract, release, contract, release, as his body undulated in a steady rhythm. His chest slid against hers. His chin rested upon her forehead, and his fingers combed her tresses, pulling them loose from the braided bun upon the back of her head.
His speed increased. He tempered it. She was new to this, even if she…was that a mew of pleasure? God but she was going to make him snap, show the animal side of himself. He couldn’t, not yet, not when her flesh was so tender. One day, aye, but the very night of losing her virginity wasn’t the night. Or ever, ye eejit. One day’s never going to come for ye. She marries another.
He couldn’t fathom it. The thought made him, a grown man, want to cry, and as he rocked against her, he felt the thickness in his throat mar the beauty of what they did right now. Why did he have to give her up? Sakes, but it was unfair. She would love and honor him to the ends of the earth as his wife. And he would never take another if she were his. He would be loyal and devoted and love every moment of growing old with such a woman at his right hand. He wanted those bairns running around her feet. He wanted the farm, and the home, and the life in the Highlands, tending his land, tending her, tending his offspring. He would never need to be a laird or recognized, for with her, he wouldn’t need anything else to make him feel accomplished. None of it mattered with her. Nothing mattered without her.
…
Her hands slid down his shoulders, and she could sense redness creeping into his eyes. They looked an awful lot like tears. He closed them, his breathing taking on a tone, as if he warred between keeping himself steady and staving off emotions. Not now. This moment was heaven, divine. How on earth had she gone for so long without knowing this feeling? Many women gained experience by age of six and ten, sometimes a bit younger. Somehow, she had made it past the age of eight and ten and had never known how wonderful this would feel.
With the right man, she reminded herself. Teàrlach was the right man and she knew in this moment that she couldn’t marry John. There had to be a way out of this arrangement. But did she have the strength to beg out of the contract? The idea terrified her. She had never argued anything with any authority. Her father had taught her that men controlled decisions. Yet here was Teàrlach MacGregor, and she knew that her father’s lessons were false. Some men weren’t threatened by a woman; they valued a woman. And some wanted one. And the tears Teàrlach was fighting off now threatened to plague her, too. She closed her eyes, her hands sliding down his arms to find his fingers tangled in her hair, and she clenched the backs of them.
Please hold onto me a little longer… she pleaded. His hands let go of her hair, grasped her fingers in return, and flipped them against the ground as he rose up to bear his weight on his knuckles. It gave him leverage and he thrust deeper. She released a cry, a soft exclamation as he filled her, pinned to the ground as she was, and he released a deep, throaty growl.
…
He slid within, shaking from the sensation. Her legs came to wrap around his waist, quivering. He was doing this. He was pleasing her. Her cries intensified as his determination increased. He thrust harder, faster, pushing against her, his skin smacking hers, her beautiful wee breasts bouncing with each drive. He put his weight on one arm, his stomach contracting and releasing with each thrust, and grabbed one of those breasts. Shame he was too big to bend and kiss it while he tended betwixt her legs, but he could toy with them. And feeling all of her, seeing all of her, having tasted all of her drove him to the peak.
He sat back on his haunches and grabbed her hips, no longer taking care, but hammering as hard as he could, listening to her moans and cries. She lay splayed for him, her cries encouraging him that he wasn’t causing her pain. When she rolled her head to the side, her hands thrown up over her head, muffling her mouth against her shoulder, he felt her shatter.
She cried out, her hands swinging down to grip his rear, her chin tipping back, her hair in disarray. And as her sweetness flowed over him, he lost his battle. He exploded. He shoved into her and threw his head back, a rough shout escaping his mouth into the nighttime forest, holding himself deep as he delivered his seed, feeling the steady pulses drain him in long, wringing surges. The feeling was so complete, so whole. He withdrew a touch and shoved back, more pulsing, and another less intense groan.
And then it was over. He collapsed. His skin slid upon hers, slick with sweat. He barely noticed her grip upon his rear, still, and yet, he was completely attuned to her touch. She sighed a long, soft sigh beside his ear. He could feel her heartbeat racing as it hammered against his chest. He could feel her skin burning against his as he panted hard, like a warhorse just finished with battle. And as he came to his senses and began dusting kisses along her cheek, her nose, and her forehead, she whispered, “I love you.”
Such cursed, damning words, and yet, he returned them. “I love you, too, lass.”
He rolled to the side, dragging her with him, and slid free of her as he did. He would have stayed like that forever if he wasn’t worried about crushing her. He grabbed a blanket and pulled it over them. His arms encircled her, pressing her ear to his heart. His lips kissed her hair. He knew his hold was desperate. He couldn’t let go. He couldn’t…
Their breathing slowed and after a long while, she seemed to have stopped moving. Her breathing was soft and steady. Her hand was draped down his stomach, her fingers resting against his softened manhood along his thigh, and he decided that she slept. Neither spoke a word. His hand caressed up and down her upper arm, his heartbeat slowed back to normal, and those bloody tears threatened his eyes again. He blinked them back, knowing she slept, and whispered.
“Do nay marry him. I beg ye…” He pecked the top of her head. “I beg ye…”
He said no more. It wasn’t as if she could hear him. But he couldn’t cling to her forever, and he closed his eyes to try and rid the image of her on John’s arm from his mind.