Adventures of a Scottish Heiress (20 page)

Carrying her into the bothy, he put her down gently. The room was swept clean and dry. The hard stone floor would have to do.

She opened her eyes, disoriented.

“Wait for me,” he said quietly.

She nodded.

Outside, both horses were already grazing. Ian unsaddled them, hobbling both with the reins. Neither gave him a worry. The chestnut turned out to be a gelding and of good quality. Ian felt repaid for the horses Fielder had stolen from him in the beginning.

The first huge drops of rain hit the ground just as he ducked inside, saddles and bridles in hand.

Lyssa still sat where he’d placed her.

“A storm’s coming,” he said.

The frown formed between her brow. She tilted
her head as if she might have heard his voice but wasn’t certain.

He moved to stand in front of her. “Are you all right?”

Her frown deepened. Her jaw tightened. She reached up and yanked at the plaid, pulling it off and tossing it aside, her actions speaking louder than words what she was feeling.

Ian picked the tartan up and spread it on the ground, using a saddle for a pillow. “Here, lie down. You need the rest.”

She didn’t move. “They’d both be still alive if I hadn’t arrived. If I hadn’t ever started on this foolish, ill-fated adventure.”

He hunched down until he was eye level with her, his hands resting on his knees. “Either that or your cousins would have tried to murder someone else. I have no illusions about Fielder. We weren’t his first victims.”
But we had become his last.
Ian felt no remorse over seeing the man dead. Life was like that.

Outside, the skies suddenly opened and the rain came down in gray sheets, separating them from the rest of the world.

“Perhaps we should go to the magistrate,” she said, not looking at him. “We stole horses.”

Ian shook his head. “Lyssa, we’ll go to your father first. He will take care of everything from London. It will be better to explain ourselves there than here, where Davidson may have friends.”

“But you were right,” she said. “From the very
beginning, you told me I was a fool for running away.”

“I—” he started but she cut him off.

“I’ve destroyed everything. I’ve opened the door for my stepmother’s hatred and almost cost you your life.”

He reached for her but she edged away, crossing her arms tight against her chest. “It’s my fault,” she said. “And I was actually happier before. Even marrying Robert couldn’t be worse than the way I am feeling now, seeing those men die—”

Ian moved in, wrapping his arms around her. He held her tight, his chin on top of her head. She felt stiff and cold. He tried to warm her with his body heat, to take the pain she was feeling upon himself.

“Don’t do this to yourself,” he begged her. “There are things that go on in this life that no one understands. Perhaps running away was a mistake or perhaps you were meant to be here and everything happened exactly as it should have. I don’t pretend to understand the world, Cailín. All I know is that you can’t go back. The past is done. It’s out of your hands now.”

“Don’t say that,” she whispered. “Please don’t say that.”

“It’s gone,” he pressed sadly.

She moved, forcing him to loosen his hold. From her belt she pulled a card. Ian had to lean back to see it properly. It was a picture of a rider
on horseback swinging a sword. “What is it?” he asked without recognition.

“The Knight of Swords. It’s a tarot card, Ian. Used to tell one’s fate. I’ve carried it with me ever since Madame Linka told my fortune and I met you.”

“You don’t believe such nonsense, do you?”

“I don’t know.”

“I do. No one can tell the future.”

She raised tortured eyes to him. “Then why has it all come true?”

“Lyssa—” He wanted to reason with her but he didn’t know how. This was not his spirited Cailín but a woman who had just learned her limitations, who had discovered fear.

And then, she broke down, crumpling the card in her fingers. She would have collapsed on the ground, her body racked with heart-stopping sobs, if he hadn’t been holding her tight.

Ian was at a loss. “Please, Lyssa. It’s not your fault,” he said. But she was retreating to a place he couldn’t go…a place that frightened her.

He couldn’t stand idly by. Not without a fight to bring her back.

So, he did what he could do, what he wanted to do. He kissed her. Savagely, possessively, completely.

And to his surprise, and everlasting joy, she kissed him back.

T
O
Lyssa, Ian’s kiss was a lifeline. He understood her when she didn’t understand herself.

He
was her fate.

The crumpled tarot card fell from her fingers as she put her arms around his neck and kissed him with everything she was worth. The touch of his tongue against hers signaled that all had changed between them. There were no more walls, and she could have cried in thanksgiving.

The rest of the world faded.

Fears, doubts, mistakes—nothing mattered. In his arms, she was safe.

In his arms,
she belonged
…and that was a powerful, heady discovery for a woman who’d feared ever finding her place in the world.

Neither of them held back. Breeding, inexperience, social standing—none of that mattered. Outside, the rain came down harder. Lyssa didn’t
care. The only reality that existed for her was the feel of this man’s body against hers.

She met him kiss for kiss, arched to be even closer to him. He leaned her back upon the plaid. His knee rode up her leg and instinctively, she moved toward him, eager for what she didn’t yet understand.

His response was to devour her with his mouth. And deep within Lyssa, the sweet ache of need built. She wanted more, needed
more
.

Their lips never parting, they began pulling at clothing, searching with blind fingers for fastenings and secret openings. The first moment his hands covered her bare breasts, Lyssa gasped, her heightened senses electrified by his touch. When he leaned down to cover one hard nipple with his mouth, she cried out his name in shock, a cry that ended in a moan of pure pleasure.

Her legs parted with a will of their own. She buried her fingers in his hair, never wanting him to stop—and yet hungry for something deeper, more fulfilling.

Ian knew what she wanted. He sucked hard as if marking her, and her breath caught in her throat, the pull of his tongue traveling down to her very core.

She’d long ago kicked off her skirt. Her petticoats and chemise were around her waist. His jacket with the torn sleeves had been practically ripped off him and she hadn’t helped the damage
any in her enthusiasm to undress him. His shirt was up under his arms. He still wore his boots and leather breeches, but she’d undone the buttons—and it was there, the male part of him, the one wags swore had more power over men’s heads than their hearts and brains did. It was bold and insistent. Lyssa could feel him against her thigh. She ran her hand down over his hip above his breeches, but shied from going closer to
it
.

However, if her mind was skittish, the rest of her body didn’t seem afraid at all, and let him settle himself between her legs.

Ian closed his lips over her other breast, and she could feel the stroke of his tongue there, at the most intimate part of her. The head of
it
caressed her and Lyssa thought she would go through the ceiling from the sensation.

She pulled at his shirt and ran her palms down his naked back. Hot, wet, anxious…

He slid down, positioning himself.

Oh, dear God.

Ian looked up. His lips were swollen and his glazed eyes had turned the color of dark pewter.

Who was this man? The Ian she knew always had control. This man was raw, open…vulnerable.

“Lyssa.” He whispered her name like a benediction and thrust deep inside her with one smooth movement.

For a second, she couldn’t think, couldn’t breath.

He was inside her.

And he felt
so
good.
So
right.

There was no pain. A small discomfort but nothing to compare to the satisfaction of being joined with him. Of being one.
Oh, Sweet Lord!

She tilted her head back, reveling in the feel of him. Accepting him. There was a low growl of triumph in the back of his throat, and he took what she offered. Kissing her neck, his whiskers tickling her skin, he moved deeper still.

Here was the meaning of life. Her reason for being.

Her body was no longer her own, but his. Her senses were filled with him, with the texture of his skin, with the warm male scent of him, with the feel of every muscle, every sinew.

And Ian knew it.

His hands cupped her buttocks and he thrust deep, pulled back and went deeper still, claiming every fiber of her. Nor did Lyssa suppress her joyful response. Their joining took on a life of its own. She hugged him close, and met him move for move.

Together they strived toward what she did not quite understand—yet. But he knew and drove on, knowing exactly what she wanted.

Her heart beat in her ears. His skin was hot and slick against hers. He pressed deeper still, the heat of him pushing her toward some pinnacle, sharp, precise—

Her world exploded.

One heartbeat she was whole and sane, and in the next, she felt she’d shattered, her senses a million stars.

So this was why poets sang and wise men sacrificed. This was behind all those romantic novels, the element she hadn’t quite been able to fathom.
This
was worth a hundred books, a thousand poems.

She wondered if she still lived and yet, had never felt more alive in her life, especially at the moment he released his seed deep within her.

Time stopped. The life force moved from him and into her—and she was complete. Whole. One.

He eased down on her with a satisfied sound of his own fulfillment—a lover’s highest praise.

The weight of his body on hers felt good. His head rested in the curve of her neck, one hand possessively on her hip, the other buried in the tangle of her hair.

Lyssa dared not move. The sound of the rain mingled with the beat of his heart, a beat her own matched.

“Are you all right?” he whispered.

Still unable to speak, she wrapped her arms around him. He smiled against his skin.

“Yes, me, too,” he answered and gathering her close, rolled off her. Pulling the edge of the plaid around their hips, he kissed her forehead lightly, once, twice.

Nestled in his arms, her body satiated, Lyssa fell asleep.

Ian held the woman in his arms close. After years of wandering, his life now had substance.

Love did exist.

He should be tired, and yet he’d never felt more awake or more aware of his senses.

The rain let up, becoming little more than mist. Fog rose from the ground, even daring to roll inside the stone bothy, and he knew it would be a dreary day. Not one good for traveling, but perfect for making love.

He no longer worried about pursuers. What was left of the Davidson clan might not be too keen with the prospect of him sharing his side of the story with the magistrate. But even if they were, they’d have a search on their hands. The rain would wash away all traces of their tracks. If he wished, they could disappear completely.

Even Pirate Harrell wouldn’t be able to find her—

Ian was stunned by the direction of his thoughts.

Reality was not pleasant.

Suddenly, he came face-to-face with the enormity of what had happened. He’d just bedded Pirate Harrell’s daughter. He’d plowed into her, taking all that she’d offered and then some. He’d reamed her good. Her innocence was his, as was any babe that might even now be growing in her belly.

He thought of Janet and Fiona waiting for him. Of the money he desperately needed. Harrell
would kill him instead of paying him…and Ian didn’t know if he cared.

Lyssa was his and, now that he had her, he would never let go. Ever.

Lyssa woke to find herself tucked in by Ian’s side. He was sleeping, his chest moving with quiet regularity. Propping herself on one arm, she studied him. The shadow of his beard gave him a dangerous look and she decided she’d never known a more handsome man. He appeared exactly the way the Knight of Swords should look. However, she no longer feared him.
Or his sword
, she added to herself with a smile.

She’d crossed the threshold and had no regrets.

Ian’s eyes opened. “Hello.”

Lyssa smiled, full of happiness. “Hello,” she whispered.

He moved his leg, curling his toes and tickling the bottom of her foot. “How do you feel?”

In love.
“Perfect.”

“Perfect?” Humor lit his lazy gaze.

“Puuurrrfect,” she repeated and he rolled over on top of her. His lips brushed the top of her hair. She curled her arms into his chest. “Ian?”

“Mmmmmm?” He kissed her temple. Outside, the rain had renewed. They’d not be traveling anywhere this day.

“Are we going to do it again?”

His lips pressed against her forehead stopped
moving. “Would you like to?” he asked, and she felt him aroused and strong.

Her answer was to reach down and boldly brush the length of
it
, no longer timid. And this time, making love was even better than the first.

There didn’t seem to be a need to get dressed, so they didn’t.

The furnitureless bothy became their own Garden of Eden. It could have been furnished with the richest stuff, and Lyssa would not have been happier.

They spent the rest of the day listening to the rain and making love until Lyssa ached in places she didn’t know could ache, and still she yearned for more.

When they weren’t making love, they talked, their topics covering anything and everything. He confessed his worry for his nephew Liam. She made him laugh with stories of what a disaster she’d been in Society. He’d kissed her nose and assured her that if he’d been present he would have swept her off her feet.

Of course, Lyssa was no fool. She noticed Ian did not mention the future and she tried not to let her fear show. There was only the here and now. Nor did they speak words of love…but she knew. She knew. Even though she hadn’t the courage to say them first.

They didn’t leave the next day either. The rain
had stopped but the sky was still threatening, or so they convinced themselves, and that seemed to be as good a reason as any to stay where they were.

Ian found a stream close by. From his magic knapsack he pulled hook and line and caught fresh fish for their lunch and supper. The filets, cooked over an open flame, were delicious after a diet of dried beef and catch-as-catch-can.

That evening, she went with him to tend the horses. Ian wore nothing but his leather breeches and she left off stockings and shoes. The tall grass tickled the bottoms of her feet, making her laugh. She’d never been so happy.

The stallion’s bullet wound was healing nicely thanks to Ian’s salve. “What’s in this?” she asked, giving the tin a sniff.

“Lobelia flowers.” He ran his hand down the horse’s flank.

“Anything else?”

“Goose grease.” He straightened, brushing off the horse hair that had stuck to his fingers. “Simple enough, hmmm? I received the recipe from a Portuguese woman known for her abilities as a healer. In the army, we all went to her before we’d go to any military quack.”

Lyssa pressed the lid on the salve tin. “And how did you manage to wheedle it out of her?” Her imagination could jump to obvious conclusions.

He threw his arm around her neck, pulled her close, and whispered in her ear, “I saved her son
from a bullet.” He took the tin and dropped it back into his open knapsack on the ground. “The lad was where he shouldn’t be and almost took it from a French sniper.”

“Oh.” Lyssa shifted her gaze away from him. “So, I’m not the first life you’ve saved?”

“You’re the most important one,” he answered, brushing a possessive kiss against her temple. “Here. What shall we name our stallion?”

Our stallion.
Lyssa leaned her back against Ian’s chest. “I don’t know. It must be a grand name, but not something Gaelic.”

“ ‘Davidson’s Pride’ won’t work?” he teased and she elbowed him in the ribs.

“What about Fortune? Irish Fortune.”

His arms came around her and he rested his chin on her head. “I didn’t know there was such a thing.”

“There is,” she confirmed, covering the hands he pressed against her stomach with her own. “I’m discovering a good Irishman creates his. And the truth be known, I have a weakness for self-made men.”

There, she’d made the first tentative step forward to what was in her heart. She held her breath, waiting for his response.

“I want to believe,” he said softly.

“I do, too,” she confessed

His arms around her tightened. He held her close, then said, “Lyssa, we must return to London.”

She felt her heart drop.

“I must face your father,” he said.

“
We
must face him,” she corrected.

“Of course.”

“He won’t be happy.”

“No.”

Lyssa turned in his arms. She knew what he was saying. “Ian, what if he refuses us?”

“Then I’ll tell him the truth. That I debauched his daughter, stole her innocence, and will marry her in a heartbeat whether she likes it or not…although I would like his blessing.”

Joy surged through her. She threw her arms around him. “You love me!”

“Was there any doubt?”

She shook her head, even while admitting, “I couldn’t be certain.”

“My sweet, wonderful Cailín. I think I’ve loved you ever since you crashed that ironstone pitcher across the innkeeper’s head.”

“That was terrible of me.”

“Despicable,” he agreed, smiling, and her happiness knew no boundaries.

Putting her hand on his chest, right over his heart, she asked, “You will really ask my father for my hand?”

“Aye. That is, if you’ll have me.”

“Oh, Ian, such a stupid question.”

“It’s not, Lyssa, I have nothing—”

She cut him off with a kiss. “You have me,” she whispered. “You’ll always have me.”

“And can you live with the fact your father may not give us his blessing?” he asked, doubt in his voice.

“Yes,” she replied with conviction.

But Ian didn’t laugh this time. Instead his expression grew thoughtful. “Now, is this before or after we accuse his wife of attempting to murder you?”

“I don’t even care about that anymore,” she told him. And then she took the leap of faith. “Ian, I love you.”