Bride of the Beast (38 page)

Trembling, she did as he bade, lying perfectly still as he lapped at her with slow, wide-tongued strokes. "Do not move, Caterine," he cautioned her when her hips began rocking in a slow, rhythmic motion. "Simply enjoy what I am doing to you."

Pounding need firing his own blood, he drew back to look on her, his gaze devouring her lush beauty... the sheer bounty of her. She was so well-haired he could barely make out the pouty folds of her cleft. Never had he seen a more luxurious thatch, one so lush, so golden.

"I am going to lick you more thoroughly this time," he told her, parting her thick curls with his thumbs until he had a tantalizing view of the pulsing flesh at her very core.

Her thighs tensed, almost clenching as her hips lifted off the bed. "Nay, my sweet, no moving... just keep your legs spread wide," he urged, then swept his tongue the length of her.

Once.

"Each time you move, Caterine, I will stop," he warned, caressing the insides of her thighs, toying with her damp curls,
plucking
at them. "Can you be still? If you can, I shall continue licking you. But you must lie perfectly still."

A little cry escaped her and she wound her hands deeper into the bed coverings, her thighs clenching, but still "beautifully open ... the scent of her arousal, sharp and musky, rising up to intoxicate him.

Savoring it, he inhaled deeply of her tang and cupped her, the flat of his palm rubbing slow circles over her silken heat. "You are lovely in your passion. Keep your legs opened for me ... as wide as you can. Only so can I lave you fully."

And he did.

He opened his mouth over her, wide and hungry, spending bliss with slow, wide-tongued licks. Again and again, he tongued her, sometimes probing her pouty, throbbing folds, most times simply licking her.

Long,
slow
and thorough licks meant to wrest every sigh, every sweet shudder from her... and lay bold siege to every barrier she'd raise against him until he'd won through to her heart.

On and on, he laved her,
drew
on her, swirled his tongue over and around the tiny, hardened nub at the very crux of her sweetness.

He claimed her with all the passion he had, branding her with the desire she craved, until with a great, shuddering cry, she seized her release, her sensual ecstasy ripping through her.

She went utterly limp, the way to her soul, at last, laid as wide open to him as the golden expanse of her dampened intimate curls and the hidden flesh beneath.

Or so he hoped.

His own pulse hammering in his ears, Marmaduke stood, relief flooding him that he'd pleased her so. Watching her eddy down from her bliss, hearing her gasping breaths, proved a sweet enough victory to keep his demons silent for a good long while.

But not his heart.

It thumped hard against his ribs, irrevocably lost.

And wanting so much more than sated sighs and passions spent.

Indulging himself in a tilting, roguish smile, content with what they'd shared, he looked down at her and savored the depth of his triumph mirrored in her passion-clouded eyes.

Sated eyes.

Never had he seen a woman more beautiful in her release, and never had his own need pounded with such urgency.

"So," he said, trailing his fingers back and forth over her damp curls. "Are you pleased, my sweet?"

She reached for his hand, laced her fingers with his. "I am well pleased," she said, her voice still thick with her passion, her honest admission of her pleasure warming his heart.

Her brow knitted. "But you, my lord..."

Marmaduke followed her troubled gaze. Not that he needed to look down to know his manhood still rode hard against his abdomen.

He drew a long breath. "See you, I have waited many years for such a night as this," he said, catching her hand to his lips for a kiss. "A bit longer will not be my death. It would please me to give you a special gift now ... something your sister and her husband sent along for you."

Releasing her hand, he trailed a finger down the side of her face. "Someone left us a ewer of hippocras." He indicated a moisture-beaded jug on the nearby table. "Why don't you draw on your bed robe so you won't chill, and we can enjoy the wine while you admire Linnet's gift."

Turning away, Marmaduke sought the shadow-cast shelter of the little ante-room... but not merely to fetch the be-jeweled chalices Linnet had sent along as a wedding gift for her sister.

With a weary sigh, he dragged his large, leather satchel beneath the bluish-silver light slanting through the two narrow window slits, then rummaged through the bag until he

found the goblets.

But rather than hasten back to his sweet wife's side, he stood unmoving in the pale bands of moonlight... and willed his passion to ebb.

Clenching his hands, he thought hard on all the shriveled faces of every crone he'd happened across on his long journey across Scotland, recalled with a shudder the odious task of securing the latrine chute, and other sundry unpleasantries, until, at last, the fire left his blood.

When it did, he snatched his fur-lined cloak off its peg, swirled it around his shoulders, and cursed himself for, once again, bowing to his dark side.

The beast in him he couldn't seem to tame. Frowning into the shadows, he rained a parade of invectives on the foolhardiness of trusting his skilled hands and practiced lips to bestow the sheerest of bliss upon his lady, but being too much of a coward to risk seeing revulsion cloud her lovely eyes in the instant he plunged his need into her.

But, practiced champion that he was, he ran a hand down over his face to smooth the cares from his brow, retrieved the two chalices, then left the ante-room's darkness.

And his own.

Confident he'd face down his most grievous dragon on the morrow ... and be bold enough—next time—to see the battle through to the very end.

**

She'd seen the chalices before.
                             

Caterine peered at the magnificently jeweled chalice in her hand. The multi-colored gemstones adorning the elaborately worked wine goblet gleamed in the soft light of the hanging cresset lamp, winking at her ... teasing her with the chalice's familiarity.

She glanced at her husband, but found no answers. He sat in the heavy oaken chair near the hearth, one powerfully muscled leg resting casually over the side of the chair, his fur-lined cloak gaping just enough to reveal a tantalizing glimpse of the hard-muscled planes of his chest and abdomen.

And a titillating hint of his bold masculinity, now fully relaxed and resting against his thigh. Though only partly visible, its length and thickness, even at ease, quickened her blood.

Very conscious of the proximity of his maleness, she smoothed her dampening palms on her bed-robe, a fine liquid heat winding steadily through her... and pulsing hotly across her womanhood.

Again.

And simply from stealing a wee peek at his dark virility through a shadowed gap in his cloak.

Lifting her gaze at once, her heart near stilled, for his casual expression had fled, and he now watched her with a look of infinite adoration.

A look of love.

Shining, pure, and true.

The same look she'd seen him wear the day she'd imagined him sprawled in Mali's chair so many weeks ago... holding the very same jeweled chalice in his hand.

Only that time, she hadn't known who he'd been looking at.

Now she did.

And the meaning of that look sent her heart climbing clear to her throat, set her pulse to racing.

"You are pleased, my lady?" his sonorous voice flowed around her, tightening his hold on her as soundly as if he'd reached out, grasped her arms beneath her bed-robe and pulled her into a hard embrace.

"P-pleased?" Caterine blinked, her gaze dropping to where a fold of his mantle had slipped a bit to reveal even more of his proud manhood. She could now see not only the entirety of his impressive length, but also his sizable bal-locks.

Languid warmth pooled deep in her most womanly place. "You pleased me well, milord, as I thought you—"

He held up Linnet's gift, toasting her—just as he'd done the day she'd imagined him in
Mali
's solar. "I meant are you pleased with the goblets?" he supplied, his smoldering gaze assuring her he knew full well
he'd
pleased her.

"Linnet has a complete set waiting for you at Balkenzie," he added, his words dousing the sensual heat curling in her belly. His firm conviction that she, too, would soon be at Balkenzie, squeezed her heart.

She didn't want to go to Balkenzie ... nor did she want to lose her champion.

Or the fragile stirrings of
her
convictions: that she'd finally discovered not just desire, but love, too.

Pulling her bed robe more securely around her shoulders, Caterine lifted the finely wrought chalice to her lips and took a sip of hippocras.

A sip of determination.

Steely determination.

She moved closer to his chair, rested a hand on his broad shoulder. Its muscled strength,
his warmth,
reached her even through the thickness of his cloak. "I would rather Linnet and her husband visit us here," she said, forcing a light tone. "They can bring the other goblets with them."

"Your sister will not be venturing anywhere for some while," he said, his words carefully measured, his demeanor guarded enough to make her forget her own cares for a moment.

She looked sharply at him. "Is she ill?"

Marmaduke hesitated, weighing the concern on his wife's face against the depth of his honor... the value of a promise given.

If Caterine knew her sister would soon birth her first child, she'd be certain to accompany him to Balkenzie, and even if she planned to stay only long enough to see the child born. And once he had her at Balkenzie, he knew he could persuade her to stay.

But he wanted her by his side because she
wanted
to be there.

Because she loved him.

"Linnet is well," he said at last, leveling his wife with the most neutral gaze he could summon ... and silently praying he spoke the truth. "Eilean Creag is a large and busy holding, her duties as laird's wife do not allow her to travel far."

Not a lie, but not the entire truth.

And half-truth or nay, enough to make his wife press her sweet lips into a firm line.

To his amazement, she set down the jeweled chalice and, with the artfulness of a well-skilled lady-of-pleasure, leaned against the table's edge in such a way that the front edges of her robe parted to expose one full half of each of her areolas.

The peaks of her nipples remained hidden, but enough of the largish rounds peeked at him to heat his blood anew and shoot jolts of fiery desire straight into his filling shaft.

"And when will you retrieve those other chalices, my lord?" she asked, her voice soft, the slight tremble revealing she knew exactly what she was about, knew full well the sight of her generous areolas, even just the halves of them, would stir him beyond restraint.

She meant to use her charms to keep him from leaving.

Marmaduke drew a deep breath ... and willed the pull at his loins to recede. "I shall not be retrieving them," he said, forcing himself to keep his gaze above her shoulders. "In a few days, after Sir Hugh has been dealt with, my men and I—and you—shall depart for Kintail. The goblets will await us, and remain, at Balkenzie."

I see." With one smooth movement, she unfastened her bed robe's clasp and let the voluminous robe billow to the

floor. She bent to snatch it off the rushes, purposely choosing an angle that would give him the most stirring view of her golden fleece as she did so.

"I shall retire now, my lord. I would welcome your... embrace, if you choose to join me."

Nay, my lady, you shall join me... at Balkenzie,
Marmaduke's heart amended.

His arousal roared at him to follow her, but before he could push to his feet, a small, cold nose bumped against his shin.

As if unsure of his welcome, Leo pushed up on his back legs and pawed Marmaduke's knee, the accompanying little-dog-whimper assuring Marmaduke's attention.

And the instant he gave it, the wee creature dropped back down on his rump, turned pleading brown eyes on him, and began to shiver.

A ploy if Marmaduke ever saw one.

He cast a wistful glance toward the great four-poster across the room. His lady had pulled the bed curtains and the saints knew what sultry pleasures awaited him behind their drawn folds.

But another whimper reached his ears just then and this one sounded decidedly pitiful.

Heaving a great sigh of defeat, Marmaduke pinched the bridge of his nose, and sent up a silent prayer that if he and his lady were ever blessed with a son, the lad would be spared his father's soft heart.

Then, his decision made, or, better said, made for him, he leaned down and scooped the furry little bugger onto his lap. All pretense of his oh-woe-is-me demeanor vanishing from his button-round eyes, Leo promptly nosed aside the edge of Marmaduke's cloak and swiftly disappeared beneath its warm folds.