Chapter Twenty
They lay there for a long time, Alec watching the sun spill through the treetops, while Maura snuggled against his side, reluctant to release the shelter of his arms.
But it was impossible for either of them to ignore the way they lay together for long. Indeed, it seemed they both became aware of it at the same moment.
Maura’s head was tucked beneath his chin. Her fist rested on his shirt, just above the buttons of his trousers. Holding her breath, she wondered what would happen if she extended her fingertips down just a wee bit—
She jumped as his rod leapt beneath her hand.
Alec’s laugh was low and full. “What can I say, Irish? You stir me”—his smile was decidedly wicked—“to great length.”
“Oh! You needn’t boast, Scotsman.”
He noticed that her hand had returned, however, stirring him to even greater length.
“Irish?”
“Aye?”
“Do you wish to see that which you touch?”
Maura flushed crimson.
“Yes, I see that you do.”
Her jaw dropped as he proceeded to strip naked before her.
“Your grace,” she stated primly, “you display a dreadful lack of modesty.”
“Perhaps you should join me, then.” He tugged her upright. Nimble male fingers began to dispense the buttons on her bodice. Her gown was soon tugged from her shoulders and deposited on the ground. Petticoats, stockings, and shoes were tossed on the pile.
She was now as naked as he. And he had dropped to his knees before her. “Alec,” she whispered. Faith, but it was difficult to talk with his tongue tracing slow, tantalizing circles around her nipples. She gulped. “We are here in the open—”
He tugged her down to her knees as well. They were face-to-face now. Her hands climbed to his naked shoulders.
His ran his tongue over the graceful arch of her throat. “So we are.”
Maura could barely think. “Perhaps,” she said weakly, “the boathouse—”
“The next time, Irish.” His mouth closed over hers.
Beneath the pleasure of his kiss, her breath began to fray. Her tongue dueled with his. Conscious thought was abandoned.
“Maura,” he said raggedly. “Touch me, love.”
He dragged her hands to his chest. Maura slid her fingers through the dark mat of hair there, then explored the binding contours of his shoulders, twining through the dark hair on his nape.
Her fingertips glided over the tautness of his skin, relishing the texture.
She didn’t want to think. All she wanted was to lose herself to the moment.
Lose herself to sensation. Lose herself in him.
She was hazily aware of Alec tugging them down. She lay on her side, as did he; the grass was warmed by the sunshine, while she was warmed by him.
His fingers tangled into dark fleece, stroked sleek, pink folds. He found her dewy, damp and ready.
He rolled to his back.
His hands caught her hips. She sucked in a breath, for now she straddled his thighs. His shaft was poised at the very heart of her, his crown embedded in sleek wet curls.
His features were taut with need, his eyes blazing and brilliantly blue.
“Tempt me,” he said thickly. “Tame me. Take me.”
He brought her down upon his swollen shaft. Impaled, her lips parted in shock. Alec’s hand closed around her hips. He lifted. Guiding. Harder, faster, until she caught the rhythm. And then she was panting. Churning.
It was heated. Blistering. Exquisite. Fever scalded her blood.
She braced her hand on his chest and rose above him.
Riveted by the sight, she couldn’t look away from the place where they joined.
Her hips tilted again and again. And again and again he pierced her, filling her with himself, driving deeper with every hungry, soul-shattering plunge.
Her sheath clung tight around his swollen flesh.
Alec gritted his teeth. She was melting him. Into him. Around him. “Yes, Irish. Oh, yes, that’s the way.”
He caught her against him, clamping her tight. Her eyes squeezed shut as she shuddered spasms of release. His…
And hers.
Later in the day, Alec closed the door to his study. Maura had declared her intention to nap before tea. He briefly entertained the notion of joining her, then thought better of it.
The rules had changed. The game had changed. Making love to her had changed everything. He didn’t want to push her. Somehow, he must convince her to stay.
He didn’t want her to leave.
Ever.
He wanted a marriage.
A true marriage this time.
For all the right reasons.
He was cautiously optimistic. Maura’s lips couldn’t disguise her feelings. No, her response to him concealed nothing in her heart. She might deny it, but he knew better. There was every chance she might prove stubborn. Indeed, he expected it. She could be stubborn and fierce, his lovely lady.
But somehow he must find a way to convince her.
He understood her need, her duty to her clan and lands.
But she belonged to him.
She had to realize it sooner or later. And he would much prefer sooner than later. Indeed, he would prefer now.
He directed his steps toward the great hall. Afternoon sunshine splashed through the windows of the corridor, as if to light the way.
But all at once the sunlight vanished, with the suddenness of snuffing a candle flame. Alec stopped, looking up toward the sky.
A single, dark, threatening cloud obscured the sun. How curious. He could have sworn it hadn’t been there a moment earlier.
The thought scarcely flitted through his mind than the hairs on the nape of his neck prickled.
If he were given to such stuff and nonsense, he might have considered it the frosty breath of a presence that lurked directly behind him.
A distinctly ominous presence.
If he were given to such stuff and nonsense.
Which he was not, he reminded himself sternly. He lent no credence to such things. It was simply all this talk with Maura, with her curses and ancient relics.
He turned from the window to resume his way.
Only then, he realized, did he notice that the sunlight ceased before the portrait of James McBride, seventh Duke of Gleneden.
Alec stared at the portrait. It was just as he’d told Maura. He had always thought of this particular forebear as a nasty-looking chap.
No wonder Maura disliked him.
But he’d never before fancied that James, seventh Duke of Gleneden, was somehow gloating. His eyes seemed to glint.
The feeling grew stronger. With every breath. Every beat of his heart.
Alec’s gaze narrowed. He matched James McBride stare for stare.
Something gnawed at him. The feeling that something wasn’t right.
He scoured the portrait. James McBride stood next to a wide, rustic fireplace on the outer wall, one booted foot planted arrogantly on the hearth.
He and Maura had searched that room just a few days earlier; it was like a miniature version of the great hall, the ceiling and walls timbered and whitewashed. It had served as the counting room after Robert the Bruce gave title over to the first Duke of Gleneden.
It struck Alec now that in all those years, it seemed nothing had changed—since the time of Robert the Bruce and certainly not since James McBride had stood there, that smile on his lips. There was an air about the duke. Daring. Bold. Reckless.
Almost before he knew it, Alec was climbing the stairs to the third story and moving down the hallway to the room at the end. He swung the door wide and strode to the fireplace. The room had fallen into disuse long before his grandfather was alive, when the fireplace was deemed unsafe to burn.
Plagued with some strange sensation, Alec stood where James, the seventh Duke of Gleneden, had posed for his portrait. He placed his boot where James had planted his. Stood where James had stood.
The brick beneath his heel moved. Alec dropped to one knee.
His pulse quickened, drumming in his ears.
The brick was loose; what mortar remained was pitted with age.
He tried to grasp it, only to scrape his nails and fingertips.
He didn’t give up. Caught fast in the grip of some inexplicable, unseen force, he glanced around, looking for something he could use to dig away what remained of the mortar.
Seizing a remnant of brick that had fallen away from the other side, he scraped at the mortar holding the brick in place.
There! It was free. He didn’t know what possessed him. It was as if he’d been seized by some outside force. He pulled the brick away, then reached inside the hole.
There was something there.
His pulse leaped. Lord above, was Maura right? Could this possibly be her Circle of Light?
Fingers straining, he caught hold of it and pulled it out.
It was a small book, the binding tattered, the pages yellowed. He opened it with painstaking care, then sucked in a breath.
His heart stumbled. It was a diary, he realized.
The diary of James McBride, seventh Duke of Gleneden.
Maura wandered down the path that led to the wishing well.
She had tried to nap, but her mind would not quiet.
Alec filled her mind, to the exclusion of all else.
One kiss. One touch. One look from those heated blue eyes and she trembled with desire.
She despaired over her weakness, despaired over what their lovemaking meant.
Her heart twisted. It meant the world to her. Where Alec was concerned, she had no resolve—no will to resist him!
She couldn’t trust her feelings for him. They were too colored by want. By need.
By passion.
Oh, yes, her thoughts were filled with torment.
Her heart with love.
But she wouldn’t admit it. No, not to him. Despite the fact that she yielded her body, her pride was still too strong.
But she couldn’t stay here at Gleneden forever.
And she couldn’t forsake her quest for the Circle.
Her promise to her father. She was needed back in Ireland.