Chapter 11 #2
“That you’d unburied an old Viking hoard and used the gold to keep your army about you, so you could drive out your neighboring clans. That your brother started schools and businesses on your land to encourage the cotters of other clans to rebel against their chiefs.”
“We’re diabolical, then. Fancy that.” He drew her a breath closer.
“But there must be something aside from rumor and myth that makes us enemies.”
“Are ye still looking fer reasons ye shouldnae marry me?”
She frowned, then quickly smoothed out her expression.
They were far from alone, after all. “I’m trying to decipher why your clan and mine are actually at odds.
If it’s merely because a MacLawry speculated that the Campbells wouldn’t like all the cotters staying put and then the Campbells saying the MacLawrys must be out to ruin other clans because they’ve kept an army in the Highlands, then …
Well, a great number of people have died for no good reason. ”
Arran started to reply that of course there were real troubles between the clans after better than two centuries of feuding, but he stopped the words unspoken.
Perhaps she was correct. Perhaps all the animosity had begun when her five-times great-grandfather had accidently stepped on the foot of his five-times great-grandfather and had then assumed there would be some kind of reprisal.
Perhaps his own father had been murdered because one of his ancestors had overlarge feet.
“Arran? You’re not angry with me, are you? I don’t mean to belittle your reasoning.”
“I’m nae angry, Mary.”
“I mean, even if this did begin because of something absurd, there are actual reasons now for mutual suspicion and anger.”
He shook his head. “Nae between us, lass. Dunnae use that fer an excuse. If ye dunnae want me, just tell me, fer God’s sake. I’ll still see ye safe to the Campbell. I gave ye my word.”
“I can’t tell you that I don’t want you, Arran, because I do. I’m merely not certain we—”
“Stop talking,” he ordered, moving them to the edge of the dance floor, firming his grip on her hand, and walking quickly for the nearest door.
“What’s wrong? What are you doing?”
“Ye say ye want to chat with me, so we chat. Ye say ye want to dance with me, and so we dance.” He pulled open the door and led the way into the cool darkness outside. “Ye say ye want me, and so we’re going back to the inn, and ye’ll have me.”
She made a sound that might have been excitement or trepidation. And he was being a damned fool to drag her off like a lunatic when it was his patience that had gotten them this far. Arran stopped at the edge of the cemetery.
“Ye can change yer mind if ye want, my bonny lass,” he made himself say. “If ye mean to turn me away, though, do it now, fer Saint Bridget’s sake. Because once I get ye into that room with me, I’ll nae let ye go.”
Mary kept her grip on his hand. “Let’s go, then. But don’t trample any dead villagers on the way. We don’t need that ill luck.”
No, they didn’t. Detouring around the church yard, they continued up the lane to the Fox and Grapes.
If he recollected his classical literature, the tale of the fox and grapes was from Aesop, something about the fox being tantalized and unable to sate his hunger.
Well, tonight he wasn’t going to be that particular fox.
They walked in through the side door and slipped as quietly as they could up the stairs. He, at least, had no intention of allowing the maid to come between them, even given the fact that she’d been surprisingly effective at it so far. Best not to awaken the old battle-axe at all.
Silently he pushed open his door, and Mary brushed past him, her silk skirts tangling around his legs as she tiptoed.
His cock twitched, but then the single-minded fellow had been on alert all night.
The moment he crossed the threshold Arran closed the door, turned the lock, and then shoved a chair beneath the door handle.
“Heavens,” Mary whispered with a chuckle. “She’s not a bear.”
“Nae. She’s worse. Ye can shoot a bear when it charges ye. Her, ye have to give a seat in yer coach.”
“It was important that she come.”
“Only if ye want yer old life back.”
Mary lifted her shoulders. “You’re the one who upended my old life.”
Arran stayed where he was in front of the door. This wasn’t the argument he wanted or the time he would choose to have it, but it needed to be said. “Aye, I am. And ye wanted it upended, or ye never would have danced with me.”
“Stop disagreeing with me,” she demanded.
“Stop trying to hold on to everything and decide what ye want to let go of,” he shot back, sending up a quick prayer that it wouldn’t be him.
Had he earned enough of her trust, though?
Was he pushing her into a situation she truly did not want?
He didn’t think so. “Yer family tried to shackle ye first to a dullard and then to a bloodthirsty lunatic in the space of one day. And mine wanted me to marry a pretty potato because she has family in London. Do we still owe them someaught?”
She eyed him for a long moment. Then she strode up to him. Arran braced himself on the chance she meant to punch him. Instead, she flung her arms around his neck and kissed him hungrily. “You gave me a chance to change my life,” she mumbled against his mouth.
Splaying his hands around her waist, he lifted her so he could meet her mouth more squarely. All he’d done was try to keep her from having to marry a man he knew to be cruel and unpleasant. And at the same time he’d taken her for himself. “And ye’ve changed mine.”
When she pushed at his shoulders, he set her back on the floor and shrugged out of his old, patched coat.
Half convinced she would change her mind if he gave her a single second to think, he kept his mouth on hers, teasing at her with tongue and teeth until she groaned.
Tangling tongues, hands frantically pulling at clothes, the crack of the sputtering fire in the small, drafty hearth—the sensations planted themselves in his mind so he would never forget.
He swung her up into his arms again, carrying her to the bed and sinking down over her. “Pull off my shirt, ye lovely lass,” he managed, reaching for every ounce of patience and willpower he possessed.
Laughing excitedly against his mouth, she lowered her hands to pull his shirttail free of his trousers. Arran lifted his hands over his head, parting from her until the rough cotton slid over his head and she dropped it off the side of the bed.
“Sit up,” she ordered, shoving both hands against his chest. “I want to see you.”
Narrowing one eye in a half grimace, he complied.
She might as well have been a butterfly beating her wings at him, but he’d become helpless to deny anything she requested.
Straddling her thighs, he settled upright onto his knees.
Mary lay flat on her back beneath him, her autumn-colored hair coming loose from its pins and her face flushed.
“Surely ye’ve seen a man’s bare chest before,” he drawled.
“I haven’t seen yours.” Her hand shaking a little, she ran her fingers from his throat, down his sternum and past his belly to where his trousers cut off the view. “You have scars.”
“I have two brothers. And I spent a time fighting the Frenchies.” He shrugged. “Nae anything to slow me doon. And now it’s my turn to take a look at ye, Mary.”
He bunched up handfuls of silk and pushed the dress above her knees, and as she lifted her hips he took his time gazing at her bare thighs, the brown, curling hair at the apex of her legs, her flat stomach and the goose bumps his perusal seemed to raise on her skin.
“Arms up, my lass. I want to see all of ye.”
Brief uncertainty crossed her gaze, but without a hesitation she put her arms above her head and arched her back to let the material slide from beneath her.
Once he tossed the gown aside, he sat back on his heels to take her in.
She had skin the color of fine cream, kissed here and there with a spray of freckles.
Her breasts were round and inviting, just the size to fit his hands.
With a smile he went down onto his hands and knees over her.
His cock strained at his trousers, but for the moment he ignored it—as well as any man could bear wanting a woman so much he could barely see straight.
Leaning down, he kissed her slow and deep and openmouthed.
In other circumstances, with another woman, he might have tossed her onto the bed, shoved up her dress, and buried himself in her.
The moment was the goal. This—she—was different.
Whether she felt comfortable admitting it yet or not, Mary Campbell was going to be his bride.
The goal was to give her pleasure, to make her crave him as much as he already craved her, and to claim her as his own. Forever.
Slowly he kissed and licked and nipped his way down her throat to her shoulders. Looking up at her to see her head raised just enough to watch him, he licked one sweet, pink nipple.
With a gasp she dug her fingers into his hair, pulling him closer against her. “Arran,” she said breathily, the sound deepening to a moan when he put his mouth over her breast and sucked.
God’s sake, he wanted her. And he needed her to want him.
Shifting a little to rest his weight on one elbow, he slid the fingers of his free hand down her stomach, danced lightly across her thighs and then parted her nether lips and slipped inside her.
She jumped, but he kept his mouth on her breast and his fingers down below moving in the same tempo.
And sweet Saint Bridget, she was warm and wet—for him.
Her breath came faster and shallower, and she writhed deliciously beneath his hands until with a shuddering groan she climaxed. With her hands clawed into his scalp he thought she might have drawn blood, but he didn’t care.
“I’m sorry,” she rasped after a moment of panting. “Did I hurt you?”