Chapter 19 IN YER THRALL
BACK AGAINST rough wood, Fiona bit down on her lower lip to stop herself from crying out.
This was folly. Madness.
And yet, she didn’t want him to stop.
Ailean was taking her up against the wall, grinding his hips against her with each stroke. And the sensations he was rousing—the way he made her tremble and shudder against him—were slowly making her forget her own name.
He’d followed her in here and closed the door behind him.
She’d straightened up from stacking the last of the pails and turned to face him.
They’d stared at each other for a few long moments, and then both had moved at the same time. They’d flown at each other, mouths colliding.
He was already half-naked. His skin was sticky with cooled sweat. He tasted of smoke; she likely did too.
Christ … this feels good.
Gasping, Fiona bucked up against him, urging him on.
“I can’t get enough of ye, woman,” His voice was gravelly with lust in her ear. “Ye are sweeter than honey.”
She whimpered, resting her head back on the wall as pleasure pulsed through her loins. She couldn’t get enough of him either.
She should have been outraged at him cornering her in here, taking such liberties. Instead, giddy excitement had unfurled, like flames quickened by a dry wind.
“I can’t keep my mind from ye,” he ground out as he circled his hips once more. “All I want is to seek ye out, to sink into ye … lose myself in ye … to come home.”
And with that, he caught hold of her right leg and lifted it high, encouraging her to wrap it around his waist.
She did, clinging on as he rode her even harder against the wall.
And with each thrust, she met him, encouraging him deeper.
Pleasure bloomed, pulsing low in her belly. And all the while, their mouths savaged each other. Hungry. Desperate. Each kiss, each touch—it all stoked this tide of need.
And now, he was plowing her with such vigor that she thought she might lose her wits altogether. This was magic. Surely, it wasn’t like this for all couples? Surely, not everyone was so consumed by this act?
“Ye have me in yer thrall,” he growled, driving into her once more. “Yer tight quim clutches my prick now … do ye feel it?”
“Aye,” she gasped, inflamed by his lewd words. And she did. She was rising to her peak, the walls of her core fluttering against his strength. “Plow me, Ailean. Hard! Don’t stop!”
He groaned then, the sound almost pained, and then he grabbed her by the hips and started to thrust wildly. It was a beautiful thing to watch the arrogant Ailean Maclean unravel. Until now, he’d always been the one leading, and she following.
But now they were equals. Their difference in rank didn’t matter. Nothing did but this.
She’d brought a lantern into the dye-house with her to see by while she put away the pails. Its lambent glow highlighted the harsh angles of his face. His expression had turned feral, his eyes now savage and dark.
And as he speared his rod into her yet again, she went over the edge, twisting and writhing against him, digging her heel into his naked buttock, urging him on.
He should have ceased then, should have reared back and spilled his seed over the packed-dirt floor, but she didn’t let him. Instead, she canted her hips up, bringing him so deep that her womb ached, bracing herself against his broad shoulders as he pounded into her.
He drove into her once more and then stiffened, his spine arching, his head snapping back.
She watched, fascinated, through the haze of her own pleasure, as ecstasy rippled over his face. His eyelids fluttered, a nerve jumped on his cheek, and his deep, masculine moan reverberated through the dye-house.
Heat flushed through Fiona.
What a sight he was.
They clung together in the aftermath, sweat-slicked and panting.
Whispering an endearment, he buried his face in her neck, while she reached up, threading her trembling fingers through his sweat-damp hair.
And there, they remained, too shaken by what they’d just shared to speak.
Fiona closed her eyes and tried to catch hold of the moment. Somehow, she just knew that they’d reached a crossroads. Something subtle had shifted. Nothing would be the same between them after tonight.
All good things had to come to an end, even tumbling Fiona Mackinnon.
And so, it was with reluctance that Ailean withdrew from her. And as he did so, her breathy groan made his belly tighten.
Christ spare him. The sounds she made. They turned him into a beast.
However, as he hauled up his braies and did them up, refusing to let his stiffening rod rule him this time, a chill feathered across his skin.
He’d spilled inside her—that was a mistake. A foolish, reckless one.
He wasn’t usually so careless. The last thing he wanted was to get her with bairn; that would cause huge problems for them both. Especially since, in just a few days, he was due to sail to the Isle of Lismore to meet Sorcha MacDougall.
And despite the languid pleasure that still pulsed through him, anger twisted in his belly. He was sick of his father’s heavy-handed behavior.
He can’t force me to wed the lass.
What if he refused to go to Castle Coeffin? The laird couldn’t oblige him to do anything he didn’t wish to.
All the same, whether or not he toed the line, he needed to rein himself in. There was a fine line between recklessness and idiocy, and he was straying toward it.
“I’d better let ye return to yer bed,” he said huskily.
She nodded, watching him under heavy-lidded eyes, and the sensuality on her face made hunger quicken once more. “I suppose so,” she whispered. “Although it can’t be long now until dawn.”
“A few more hours at least,” he replied, reaching up and brushing a curl off her forehead.
With his other hand, he readjusted her skirts, letting them fall around her ankles. He then helped her pull up her bodice, obscuring those magnificent breasts from view. “Go on,” he murmured. “Ye leave first … I’ll wait and then follow.”
She nodded, even as her gaze roamed his face. She stepped into him, lifting up onto her toes to brush her lips across his. “Good night, Ailean.”
“Good night, Fi.” He drew her close then, wrapping his arms around her soft body and burying his face in her smoke-scented hair. The urge to apologize boiled up, and his chest clenched.
It’s a bit late to develop a conscience, isn’t it? A voice taunted him. Ye weren’t sorry when ye were buried inside her.
Pushing aside the heckling whisper, he stepped back and let her go.
Fiona smiled, turned, and carefully opened the door, slipping outside.
As soon as she was gone, Ailean lifted a hand, raking it through his hair. Shite. It was a tangled web he was weaving; he needed to extract himself before he got them both into serious trouble.
“Ailean.” Fiona’s voice reached him then. Alarmingly loud, with a brittle edge that made him tense. What was the lass up to? She’d wake the castle. “Ye’d better come out here.”
Pulse lurching, he moved forward, pulling the door open and stepping outside into the shadowed barmkin.
Fiona stood just a couple of feet in front of him, her shoulders hunched, spine stiff.
And when his gaze slid past her, he realized why.
Arms folded across his chest, legs apart, his father faced her.
Frozen to the spot, Fiona stared at the Chieftain of Dounarwyse. Lord help her. He was the last person she’d expected to see upon slipping outdoors.
Just a few moments earlier, she’d felt loose, languid with pleasure and the thrill of an illicit coupling. Despite the night’s tumultuous events, a feeling of contentment and peace had sunk deep into her bones.
But all of it fled now.
Rae Maclean stood alone in the barmkin. Smoke drifted around him, wreathing like mist and turning the night eerie.
Fiona’s heart started to pound. How did he know we were in there?
And then she spied movement to the left. A few yards behind the chieftain, another figure stepped out of the smoke. Tall. Lean. A scar bisecting one eyebrow.
Rowan.
Ice washed over her, followed by fire. The glint in his eye told her that he had seen them, that he had gone straight to Maclean. He’d betrayed his friend—and he’d betrayed her.
Queasiness churned through her.
She shouldn’t have been surprised, for if Rowan had seen Ailean disappear into the dye-house, it likely meant that he too had been loitering in the barmkin, perhaps waiting for an opportunity to get her alone, to talk to her—and instead, he’d seen his rival get there first.
A lover spurned was a dangerous thing.
Moments stretched out, and all Fiona could hear was the thundering of her own heart.
But Maclean’s attention wasn’t on Fiona. It was on his son, who’d just stepped up to her shoulder.
Fiona swallowed, glancing for the first time at Ailean.
He wasn’t looking her way. His profile was harsh in the light of the torch hanging nearby. His jaw was set, his shoulders tense as he braced himself to do battle with his father.
“I didn’t want to believe ye’d do something so foolish,” the laird spoke up finally, his voice low and rough. “Have ye forgotten that in a few days we’re due to set sail for the Isle of Lismore … that ye are about to choose a wife?”
Fiona’s pulse jolted. What?
However, oblivious to her reaction, Maclean plowed on. “I wanted to make an honest man of ye. Sorcha MacDougall could have saved ye, could have made ye into someone worthy of ruling these lands and this castle.” Rae’s lip curled. “But ye are intent on blackening our family name.”
Fiona must have made a distressed sound, for Maclean glanced her way then. “Ye didn’t know, did ye, lass?” His gaze shadowed with pity, although his expression made things worse. “I’ve arranged for Ailean to meet the MacDougall chieftain’s daughter with a view to marriage.”
Nausea bit at the back of Fiona’s throat. She wanted to think he was lying, yet Maclean didn’t appear a man to do so. She’d heard from the other servants that he was a man with a strong moral compass, someone with high expectations of others.
“I hadn’t agreed to it,” Ailean shot back, speaking for the first time.
His voice was flat and cold, quite unlike him. She was used to his warmth, the flirtatious edge in his tone. Not this brittle anger.
“No, yer attention has been elsewhere … I see that now,” the laird shot back, anger sparking in his gaze.
He was disappointed, bitterly so. And his son wasn’t making things any easier now by his lack of contrition.
The urge to apologize bubbled up inside Fiona then, yet the words stuck in her throat. She was too mortified. How long had the laird been standing outside? Had he heard them?
Heat rolled over her.
Aye, she could tell from his face that, indeed, he had listened to them coupling.
He had all the proof he needed that his son was swiving a servant.
From the day Fiona entered this castle, she’d been warned about the laird’s reckless son. But she hadn’t stayed away from him. Instead, she’d let the excitement of it all carry her away. And now, it had come to this.
“I never took ye for a half-wit, Ailean,” the laird continued, his gaze locking with his son’s once more. “I told ye I wouldn’t suffer ye messing with any who work under this roof.”
“For God’s sake … ye speak as if the end of the world is nigh,” Ailean shot back, frustrated now.
Dizziness swept over Fiona. Lord, he was making this worse.
“Fiona and I have only been doing what thousands have done before us … and many more will do so after us,” he continued.
“Enjoying each other. That’s nothing to get yer braies in a knot over. ”
A sickly sensation washed over Fiona. Enjoying each other. Aye, that was what they’d been doing. There had been no promises. No vows of love and devotion. Yet he made it sound so casual. As if she were just another notch on his belt. Another lass he’d swive and then forget.
Of course, she was. Had she expected anything else?
Her breathing grew shallow. Ye have the wits of a goose, Fiona Mackinnon.
“So, ye’ll wed the lass, then?” Maclean ground out, his eyes narrowing. “Ye’ll throw over a chieftain’s daughter and take this weaver as yer wife instead?”