Border Lord (16 page)

He planted a quick, wet kiss on her forehead. "Put your arms around my neck."

Too happy to wonder why, she did as he bade, barely noticing that his hair wasn't slicked back with pomatum as she'd thought, but covered with a scarf and tied at the nape of his neck.

He swept her up and carried her past the urns, and with the ease of a seamstress plying a needle, he unlocked the door to the castle and took her inside.

Absolute darkness and the mustiness of damp stone greeted them. Without faltering, he carried her through a second door, then started up the stair tower.

The circular, upward journey had a dizzying effect. Her head grew light, and she nestled her cheek against his neck. He smelled clean and earthy, like fallen leaves, freshly cut timber. Beneath the pleasant aromas, she detected the odd odors of dank wool and something burned. At the absurdity, she focused her thoughts on the man himself, his allure, his vitality.

She seemed as light as eiderdown to him, his steely arms cradling her, his thickly muscled chest a wall of strength.

"You know this castle well."

"To make you mine, lassie, I'd gladly brave the fires of hell."

His seduction called to mind a classic conquest of the heart and everlasting love. In her fantasies he'd been cast as a fair-haired and honor-bound knight fettered to goodness by virtuous deeds. But what was a little tarnish, she reasoned. With her help, this errant knight could turn his back on subterfuge and race back into the fold of the righteous.

Inspired by so noble a challenge, she said, "Where are you taking me?"

"To the first soft spot I find."

"Where?" she insisted.

"To a storage room in the tower."

He stopped, but she knew they hadn't traveled far enough to reach the top. Dipping his shoulder, he leaned into the stone wall. As if by magic, the wall moved.

Her heightened senses were filled with the sweet aromas of basil, sage, and rosemary. She had a moment to wonder if they had come full circle on their journey, for the herbs were the same that grew in the giant urns in the garden.

But when he relaxed his hold and let her slide down the length of his body, thoughts of fragrant plants fled like morals at court. Just as her feet touched the floor, he pulled her against his chest and kissed her again, murmuring Scottish love words. The satiny feel of his lips on her neck rekindled the desire she'd thought he'd extinguished. The tender phrases enticed her into blissful surrender.

Before she'd felt anxious. Now she felt empty, wanton. And in love.

Love. Her logical mind stumbled on the word. Did she love him? Yes, her heart answered. He was the man of her dreams.

"Take off your cloak," he whispered, "and give it to me."

Languishing in her newfound passion, she did as he bade and heard the rustle of wool as he removed his cape. Missing his solid strength and warmth, she said, "What are you doing?"

"Making a soft place so I can love you properly."

The burr in his voice drew her like an entrancing melody. She stepped deeper into the inky darkness and reached for him. As he whirled toward her, his movement stirred the perfumed air. Never, she thought, had any bride enjoyed a sweeter bower of love.

Her eager fingers touched the coarse homespun of his shirt and pulled him closer. His hands roamed her back, tracing her spine, cupping her bottom and lifting, introducing her once more to his blatant and erotic male need. The rasp of his breath close to her ear sent tendrils of desire cascading over breasts that begged for his touch and to legs that seemed too weak to hold her.

Emboldened, she unbuttoned his shirt and splayed her hands on his chest. The springy, silky hair curled around her fingers as if to caress her in return. She pictured them lying naked and imagined the feel of his crisp chest hair against her taut nipples. Her belly grew tight at the thought. "I want you now," she heard herself say.

"All in good time. 'Tis too soon, love." He nipped her shoulder. "Think of something else while I take off your clothes. According to legend, I've waited for you one hundred years. I'll not be rushed."

Oddly, she considered the pelt of curly hair that covered the earl's groin, and as her fingers explored the Border Lord's chest, she thought of his easy sensuality and the differences between the two men. The fair, bashful earl and the dark, alluring lover.

But when he freed the laces of her gown and eased it off her shoulders, she forgot about the gentle nobleman. When he stripped her of chemise and petticoats, she remembered that her lover was still dressed.

She pulled his shirt from the breeches and unbuckled his belt. The leather felt soft and warm, a contrast to the hot, hard length of him that lay beneath.

He groaned. "I should've worn a kilt."

Confidence filled her. "You'd be loving me now if you had. Because you wear nothing under it."

He froze. "How do you know what the Border Lord wears or doesna wear beneath his kilt?"

The sharp words surprised her. " 'Tis common knowledge that Scotsmen wear nothing under their plaids. Are you jealous that I might have seen another man's nakedness?"

His hands started roaming again. "Aye, lassie. I canna bear to think of you with another man."

A hint of humor flavored the agreement. Miriam's inability to understand innuendo kept her from grasping why.

He tore at the buttons on his breeches, then began working them down. She rested her hands on his slim waist and the rippling muscles there. Like a path, a trail of hair led to the niche of his navel and lower, to the swollen maleness that strained and pulsed with life.

Her fingers closed over skin smoother than silk velvet. He sucked in his breath and surged forward, his rock hard manhood jutting through the circle she'd made of her hand, the crown of him nudging her belly.

Since she couldn't actually see him, she envisioned the earl's exposed manly parts. In comparison, the Border Lord had been overly blessed by nature.

As she plied her newfound knowledge, her mind wandered to the reason behind the differences in men; perhaps a bold man required a greater organ than a timid one. Could courage have a bearing on a man's sexual prowess?

"Enough," he growled and grasping her waist, he lifted her, snatching her thoughts from the earl and planting them firmly on the Border Lord.

Weightless and supported only by his strength, she clutched his shoulders for balance. But when his mouth touched her breast, she went limp, all of her perception focused on his lips and tongue and the wildly erotic sensations he aroused. A connection was born between her breasts and her woman's core, and like a silken cord, twisted and strung tight, the bond weaved its magic.

He laved and suckled, opening his mouth so wide she feared he might, then prayed he would, devour her. A new wetness flourished between her legs, and deeper, an aching hollow begged for fulfillment. She bit her lip to stifle a keening cry.

Drawing back, he blew gently on the pebbled peak of her breast, sending a shiver to the soles of her dangling feet.

"Speak your mind, Miriam," he whispered. "Doona grow shy on me now."

Unable to comply with his reckless request, she shook her head. Her hair swished around them.

Using delicate bites, he plucked at her nipple. "I canna be certain what you like if you doona tell me."

A sound, half laughter, half frustration, passed her lips. "I too much like what you're doing. I want more."

He chuckled and lifted her higher. "I would gladly give all, but I canna stop kissing your breasts."

The long, heavy heat of him throbbed against her thigh, yet he continued to lavish his attention on her nipples. In pleasurable agony, she grasped his head to pull him away, and was surprised when her palms met soft fabric. She raked off the scarf and threaded her hands through the thick mass of his shoulder-length hair. Even without light, she knew it was black, same as his brows and side-whiskers.

"Unless you'd care to…" he began.

"To what?" she said.

Against her breast he answered, "Unless you'd care to whisper your secret desires in my ear."

Needing no further coaxing, she leaned close and in Scottish said, "Make me yours."

He shivered so hard she thought he might drop her.

"Please," she added.

"My pleasure." He lowered her to the makeshift pallet.

As she lay back on a bed of soft wool over bundles of dried herbs, she became aware of his every movement. Even though she couldn't see him, she could hear him kick off his boots and peel the breeches from his legs. His belt buckle rattled loudly on the stone floor.

Then he was beside her, enveloping her, devouring her with hungry kisses that fed her desire and filled her with longing. The enticing drag of his crisp body hair rubbing against her skin heightened her impatience. "So this is how the Border Lord makes love," she said, thinking of the wild disparity between reality and her girlish dreams. "You don't feel like a ghost."

"How do you know how a ghost feels?" His legs slid between hers, spreading her and saturating her imagination with visions of the joining to come. When he had settled himself to his satisfaction, he tunneled his arms beneath her shoulders, taking his own weight and hugging her to his chest. His manhood brushed her.

"Are you truly experienced, lass? Doona lie to me."

An awful possibility occurred to her. "Do you promise not to stop?"

"Miriam," he said on a pained sigh, "I couldna stop, even if the dragoons were scaling the walls."

Relieved, she said, "I'm not ignorant of the workings of men and women." To accentuate the point, she lifted her hips, eliciting a gasp from him. "But to be exactly truthful, I haven't been… Oh, bother it. I'm still a virgin."

"In truth, lassie, I'm very happy. I'll go slow." His lips brushed her cheek. "You'll find pleasure in our loving. I give you my solemn word as a Scotsman."

Her dream knight had always spoken similar declarations. Through her fantasies, she knew about honor among men. She turned so their mouths touched. "But I want you now."

Her words so excited Duncan that he almost threw caution to the wind. He burned with the need to claim her, but the idea of deceiving her pricked his conscience. Deceiving her? Christ, from the moment he'd seen her huddled in the garden, he'd begun to play the role of cavalier. He'd even climbed the castle wall.

If she ever learned his true identity, she'd be angry, but worse, she'd be hurt. Wounding the bright diplomat didn't bother him. Harming the untried woman did. He told a small truth. "In a moment you may regret your eagerness, but 'tis said the pain goes quickly."