Chapter Four #3
The Scotsman laughed, a low throaty sound. “That pleases you, eh, Irish?”
The boastful boor! So he thought she was pleased, did he? Shocked, was how she would have described it. Shocked speechless, in fact. Shaking, every nerve inside quivering. Did he feel it? Yet what did it matter if he did? No doubt he’d mistake it for pleasure again!
A low rumble of laughter rushed past her ear. An arm about her back, he tugged her fully onto the bed so they lay face-to-face. His fingers encroached beneath the loose neckline of her blouse, catching it and dragging the cloth down, fully baring one breast.
That same, shameless hand now shaped itself around one buttock.
Maura squirmed. Oh, but she knew it! He mistook her movements for reciprocation of his ardor.
He kissed the arch of her shoulder, brushing his lips across her collarbone clear to the hollow where it met her neck.
His fingertips grazed a blazing trail to the crown of her breast. Once.
Then again. A touch that stunned her beyond measure.
Her eyes widened in shock as his dark head bent low.
His tongue touched her nipple. Maura watched in shock as the pale peak disappeared into the wet cave of his mouth. He sucked hard, alternately swirling his tongue around the peak. Fiery sensation exploded all through her.
Her throat arched. A low moan escaped.
He raised his head. A husky, indolent whisper slid past her ear. “Patience, Irish. We have all night.”
No, Maura countered silently. Desperately.
They did not have all night. Toothless Nan, whose knowledge of herbs and the like had been passed down for generations, told her it wouldn’t take long before her concoction took hold.
Silently, Maura railed. She’d waited too long.
She should have poured the wine earlier—
The thought was obliterated.
She hadn’t noticed the Scotsman unlace his breeches.
His hand engulfed hers. As if from a distance, she saw him tuck her fingers within his and bring them down.
Down below his waist. Down until her knuckles brushed dark, wiry hair.
Down until he guided her palm—finger by finger—around a column of thick, rigid flesh.
Maura felt the pleasure that vibrated in his chest. She was stunned to the core.
It should never have progressed this far.
A few kisses. A brief, forbidden caress at most. She had prepared herself to endure his touch, no matter how much she might dread it.
Little had she realized there was pleasure to be found in it!
But the one thing she hadn’t prepared herself for was a touch of such blatant explicitness.
Her heart raced. Had Nan been wrong? she wondered frantically.
She found herself praying. Oh, lord, oh, lord, oh, lord.
She sensed something was different, even before she felt it. The Scotsman eased to his back, throwing an elbow over his eyes.
Maura froze. The clock on the night table ticked away the seconds. Still afraid to move—to hope!—she swallowed.
“Scotsman?” she whispered.
He didn’t answer. His eyes were closed.
“Scotsman?” she whispered again.
Still no reply.
Relief seeped in. Awareness crept in. Something else, Maura realized, was different as well.
Her gaze skidded down his body. Only now did she realize her hand was still in his—
With a cry she wrenched it free.
Triumph vied with disbelief. She had attained the night’s goal. But she felt as if the world had gone a little mad.
Climbing over the Scotsman’s limp form, she set to work removing his boots.
Mercy, but he was heavy! It took at least three deep breaths before she gathered the courage to peel away his pirate’s breeches.
His legs were iron-hard with muscle. Coated with the same black hair that covered his chest. As for that other part of him…
She tried. Truly she did. But she couldn’t make herself not look.
Even soft, that oh so male part of him was impressive enough to make her eyes widen.
When she was done disrobing him, she staggered back, falling into the chair. It was as if she were looking through a haze. She blinked. It took a moment for her to focus. She realized then it was the wine—so much, in so little time. She wasn’t used to it.
She divested herself of her skirt, drawers, and boots, tossing them aside. It didn’t matter where they landed. Indeed, she decided vaguely, it would be all the more convincing.
But she wasn’t yet finished. There was one more thing to be done.
She stumbled to the bureau and picked up the letter opener. Returning to the bedside, she leaned over the Scotsman and pricked her finger soundly. A thick drop of blood appeared, and she quickly smeared her bloody fingertip across the sheets.
Maura returned the letter opener to the bureau, then staggered back to the bed. Crawling over the Scotsman, she dragged the coverlet over them both, insinuated herself beneath a heavy arm, then fell back upon the pillow.
Her eyelids had closed but she couldn’t let go of the thought. She was halfway to victory. She had accomplished what she sought. She was here. With the Black Scotsman. In his arms. In his chamber.
And in his bed.