Chapter Three
“…my soul is full of longing for the secret of the sea, and the heart of the great ocean sends a thrilling pulse through me. ”
Laria’s heart flipped about behind her rib cage, a bird desperate to flee.
Not because Cyrus Mackinnon was repulsive or because she was a meek virgin.
The finery covering the man couldn’t hide that he was built of muscle and male power.
She’d seen him unmasked at the wedding ceremony before she’d fled with Cleas, so she knew he was devilishly handsome, too.
No, her heart leaped about because she had a mission, a command she didn’t know if she could carry out.
I must. With winter coming, her people’s lives depended upon it.
With a full breath, she turned to face him. “Would you like to touch me? Love me tonight?”
She couldn’t see under his mask, but she imagined his brows rising.
A slow smile spread across his perfect lips, lips that were sure to be warm and talented.
With a face and body like his, Cyrus Mackinnon must be an experienced lover.
The thought prickled an awareness in her, something she’d thought had iced over.
“Aye,” he said, “I would like to touch ye, lass.”
Laria wanted to throw back the rest of her whisky, but she needed her wits. She set it down on a nearby table and took his hand, threading her fingers through his. With her gloves on, she couldn’t feel the calluses on his hand, but she could feel the strength in his grip.
“I’m not a whore. I don’t want your money.”
“I didn’t think ye were. Are ye a virgin, lass?”
“No.”
“Do ye have any rules I should know about?” He set his own cup down.
Rules? Were there rules about tupping? Laria’s mind flitted back to her brief marriage to Malcolm, but he’d been as inexperienced as she.
“Nothing that hurts,” she said.
“Of course not.” His smile grew thin. “Only pleasure.”
“Some confuse the two,” she said, remembering the wilder stories about Iain with his mistresses, maids hearing them cry out in pain.
When his last mistress, Winnie Mar, had flounced around Tuath Tower as if she were Iain’s wife, Laria hadn’t seen bruises on her, although she was certain Iain would know how to injure without it showing.
“One word from ye, and I stop anything,” Cyrus said.
She nodded. “And,” she held up her hands, “I keep my gloves on.”
His head tipped slightly to the side. “There are things ye can’t feel with them on.”
“They stay on.”
“And they might become ruined with—”
She leaned into his face. “You may touch every inch of my skin except my hands.”
They stared at each other through the holes cut in their masks. “Agreed,” he said.
She straightened. “Then take me to your bedchamber.” She knew which one he’d been given. Iain had cleverly assigned his prey to her old quarters, so she’d know how to exit unseen.
Get him vulnerable. The instructions were clear.
Laria picked up Cyrus’s cup and handed it to him. “I would not rush you, milord.”
He took another sip and set it back down. “And I would not disappoint ye by dulling my talents, milady.”
The carnal promise in his tone sent a rush of heat through Laria, like the one she’d felt when he’d grasped her around the waist to lift her in the volta.
It was a tensing of anticipation, a fissure of lightning spreading like a brilliant web throughout her body.
The hot contrast to the chill her assignment had poured through her veins made her tremble.
She covered it up by grabbing his hand and one of the bottles of wine from the table and striding toward the stairway.
If she must accomplish Iain’s vile purpose this eve, at least she would send Cyrus Mackinnon to heaven with a smile on his lips.
…
Cyrus opened the door to his bedchamber, and the woman walked right inside as if on a mission. She was surely hiding something. Perhaps she really was a virgin who wanted to be rid of her maidenhead, and the fates had chosen him as her instrument.
She trailed her covered fingers over the writing desk with as much grace as she’d displayed during the dance.
The door clicked shut behind him. He wouldn’t lock it, as doing so might frighten her, although she seemed to know exactly what she wanted.
A night of pleasure. His cock stiffened even more at the thought.
It had been too long since he’d given into carnal oblivion, despite his reputation.
Cyrus removed his mask and jacket. He laid the tailored garment across a chairback before poking the fire and adding several squares of dried peat to it.
The flames caught, flaring up to cast more light within the room.
When he straightened, he saw her staring at a landscape painting on the far side of the bed.
Her mask dangled from her fingers, and he walked over to her.
“’Tis a well-done view of the surrounding moor in spring, I believe,” he said.
She nodded without turning to him. “I know the artist.” The name scrawled in the bottom corner was loopy and slanted.
He’d have to examine it in the light of day.
Right now, he was much more interested in the woman beside him.
Her profile showed a slight tip to the end of her perfect nose and the gentle curve of her chin cutting in to her slender neck.
He wanted to trace the line, first with his finger and then with his lips.
“Shall I call ye Lamia?” he asked, his voice soft like a stroke across her skin.
“Who?” she asked, turning her face to his.
Cyrus’s lips were already parted to answer, but he paused, taking in the lass’s shadowed features. The same ones he’d seen early that morning inside the hood of a green cloak.
Recovering, he rubbed absently against his mouth. “Poseidon’s daughter, one of them. Her name was Lamia.” If he’d known the goddess of otters, he would have called her that. But then she might decide to flee, and he really wanted her to stay.
She was the woman who didn’t want Grace to marry Iain Macqueen. Why?
The slight rustling of petticoats melded with the crackle of the fire behind him as she moved to the wine bottle, opening it and taking a sip directly from its mouth. Swallowing, she glanced at the hearth. “Is the fire warm enough?” she asked.
“I’ll add another square of peat to be certain,” he said, striding over.
When he stood and turned back to the room, she was before him, her lovely face turned up to his.
He could just make out freckles along her nose and upper cheeks.
Her large, almond-shaped eyes tipped slightly downward at the inner corners, giving her the look of a pixie.
The edge of her tongue slid along her full bottom lip, and Cyrus’s questions burned away to mist.
“Take a sip,” she said. “’Tis good.”
Cyrus took a swallow of the fruity wine and set the bottle down on the floor, at a distance from them so that her petticoats wouldn’t knock the fine drink over. “I must call ye something.” He met her eyes, holding her gaze. “For when I must moan yer name.”
She smiled, following him closer to the bed. “‘Siren’ will do tonight.” She liked to tease, and he’d let her. The mood was one of intrigue and hidden identity. He’d discover her true name on the morrow when he questioned her about her note.
“Kiss me, Cyrus Mackinnon.” Her voice wrapped around him like the arms of a mermaiden.
He stepped up to her, close but without touching. “‘Siren’ is most appropriate, lass, because I will make ye sing yer pleasure tonight.” He lowered his mouth to her parted lips.
They were soft and yielding. He inhaled the sweet, spicy scent of her, his hands traveling up her gently arched spine to her hair.
She pressed her body into his, and his cock pulsed in anticipation.
It would have to be patient, because Cyrus planned to wring ecstasy out of this lass before sating his lust.
Lifting her against him, he backed them up to the chapel bed made with four carved posts and a canopy that framed the open top. Rich satin curtains in white were pulled back to show the plump mattress and pillows.
He set her there without breaking the kiss.
She wrapped her arms around his neck, clinging to him and slanting her mouth against his.
He could taste the whisky on her tongue, along with a hint of mint.
When he moved his mouth along her jaw, she let her head roll back, exposing that luscious neck.
He reached her ear and whispered, “I would taste all of ye, Siren.” Whether she knew his intent or not, he couldn’t tell, but her knees bent, lowering her backside to the bed.
She looked up at him, her hair in a soft tangle of curls, and he wanted nothing more than to dive within her, seeking out every sweet inch of her desire.
She was maiden and seducer in one. The look of innocence in her large, watchful eyes dissolved as her fingers pulled at the laces of her bodice.
Cyrus watched, his hand sliding under his plaid to stroke his rock-hard cock.
A flush had risen up her neck and across the smooth expanse of her chest. With her bodice undone, she pulled it off her arms, leaving her in a thin white smock. When she automatically went to the ties, he stopped her. “Only when ye’re desperate with need,” he said.
“Desperate?” Her brows arched.
He smiled. “Dripping with desire and so hot that ye fight to remove yer smock to cool yer skin.”
The briefest of smiles touched her lips. “That hot?”
“Scorching.” He reached around her to untie the petticoats of sewn strips of blue and green, made to resemble undulating seaweed surrounding her legs.
“Scorching sounds uncomfortable.” She eased the skirts down past her hips.
Cyrus drew off his tunic. “Yer blood will flow in a frenzy of hot lust, my siren lass. Only yer need will be uncomfortable.” His boots and hose followed, leaving him in his half-undone plaid. “But I will soothe it.”