Chapter 17
brìGHDE COULDN’T BELIEVE it.
Greig Maclean was kissing her.
Never had she thought this might happen.
And it wasn’t a brush of the lips, something tender rather than carnal, but a proper kiss. Greig’s tongue was in her mouth, exploring her.
He tasted so good.
Closing her eyes, she gave herself up to the feel of his hand cradling the back of her neck, to the gentle, sensual pressure of his mouth against hers. Tentatively, shyly, she began to kiss him back, her tongue circling his.
And the deep groan that rumbled through his chest thrilled her.
Aye, he was kissing her, and he was enjoying it; lost in the moment as much as she was.
They remained like that for a while, each teasing and exploring. They learned each other’s mouths slowly. Tongue against tongue, lip against lip, tasting each other as if they were a fine meal that had to be savored.
Brìghde’s pulse trembled as she inhaled the scent of him—leather, fresh sweat, and something vaguely spicy, like clove.
The wind buffeted them, but Brìghde ignored it. She didn’t want anything to intrude on this. She didn’t want to break the spell.
And neither, it seemed, did Greig, for he continued to kiss her, his hand sliding from her neck, his fingers caressing the line of her jaw. And then his fingertips brushed her throat, sliding down the column of her neck to the bodice of her kirtle.
She wore her usual attire—a plain grey woolen kirtle over a coarse linen lèine. She’d tucked her skirts into her belt for the climb, revealing heavy woolen hose and sturdy boots.
It wasn’t clothing for seduction. She wasn’t clad in rich damask or silks.
But he didn’t seem to care.
Indeed, she felt his breath quicken against her lips as his fingers started to unlace the front of her kirtle. He hesitated—just for a heartbeat, as if doubt had crept in—before continuing.
He then gently nipped her full lower lip.
Brìghde shuddered with delight.
How could just one kiss make her feel so much?
He tasted faintly of apple wine and virile, delicious male.
She didn’t want him to ever stop. But at that moment, he did, tracing his lips down her jaw and neck to where her kirtle now gaped open at the front.
Then, reaching out with both hands, he pushed the lèine underneath down over her arms.
Cold air feathered against her bare breasts.
Brìghde’s pulse went wild. He’d just stripped her top half naked.
Panting now, she looked down at where the pale globes of her small breasts thrust up at him. Her nipples had puckered with cold and arousal. In this light, their rose-pink tips contrasted against the paleness of her skin.
Greig sucked in a sharp breath—and when her gaze flicked up to his face, she marked the heat in his dark eyes, the way his lips parted, and the faint blush that had risen to his cheekbones.
He liked what he saw.
In truth, Brìghde had always been a bit self-conscious about her breasts. Not their size, really—large breasts could be a nuisance—but her nipples were as large and pink as two fat strawberries. She found them a little indecent.
But Greig was transfixed.
Whispering something she couldn’t quite catch under his breath, he bowed his head, drawing one of her nipples into his mouth.
Brìghde gasped. The heat of it, after the cold brush of the wind, came as a jolt, although when he began to slowly suck, all rational thought fled her mind.
Instead, she let out a low whimper and, without thinking, reached down, her fingers sliding into his hair. She gently pulled away the leather thong that held it at his nape, letting her fingers tangle in it.
God, each suck sent an aching arrow of pleasure straight through her belly and between her thighs.
Her lower belly felt as if it were melting.
Arousal quickened inside her. Something was waking up that had long lain dormant.
Reason whispered to her to stop. But her body—traitorous, hungry—did not listen.
This could only end badly.
But at that moment, she didn’t care. And when he shifted his focus to her other breast, sucking hungrily upon it, she groaned his name.
Shoving aside the remnants of their meal, Greig pushed himself up and over her, capturing her mouth with his once more.
His kisses were still slow and sensual, as if he had all the time in the world, as if he had no intention of ever leaving the summit of Ben More—or her.
It was an enchantment, though, one she knew would break.
And yet, she clung to it. Clung to him.
Her hands squeezed his shoulders before sliding down over his gambeson. His body was strong and warm underneath it, his chest impressively broad and muscular.
Excitement flickered low in her belly at the thought of being able to explore that skin with her fingertips. She wondered what it would taste like against her tongue.
Trembling under his sensual onslaught—by the Saints, this man could kiss—she slid one hand down further, past the waistband of his braies, and cupped his groin.
She hadn’t intended to be so bold, yet instinct drove her now, as it clearly did him.
God … he was hard, hot, and thick against her palm, and she slowly slid her hand down the length of him, marveling at his strength.
The tender flesh between her thighs began to ache then. She felt all wet and needy down there. The sensation was urgent, unfamiliar. Was this what other women spoke of in whispers—this heat, this reckless, unmoored wanting?
Suddenly, she craved for him to lift her skirts, free his shaft from his braies, and take her.
It would likely hurt. She was a virgin, and his member was of a goodly size.
She cared not. The desire to join with him was stronger than anything else.
Stronger than reason.
But then, as she stroked her hand back up the length of him, Greig froze. Then his hand closed firmly around her wrist. Breath rough, he dragged his mouth from hers. “We should stop,” he said huskily.
Brìghde’s belly clenched. The loss of him hit her like a blow. She wanted him to lose control, for them both to, yet his withdrawal left her feeling exposed.
Yet he was right. What did she think she was doing?
Greig pushed himself up and then gently pulled up her lèine, covering her bared breasts with a tenderness that made her throat ache.
She didn’t want tenderness now.
Damn him. She wanted passion, joy—an experience she could take with her to the grave. Something no one could ever rob her of.
But for Greig, the temporary madness that had come over him had ended, and now, sanity had returned.
His gaze shuttered, his jaw tightening, as he sat up and moved away from her.
He then started clearing up the things he’d roughly pushed aside when their kiss had caught flame. His movements were jerky and sharp.
“Greig,” she said, wishing her voice didn’t sound so breathy, so desperate. “Are ye vexed?”
He stiffened, cutting her a veiled look. “Not with ye, lass,” he rasped, “but with myself. Ye have been good to me, have given me yer time and yer patience, yer friendship. And this is how I repay ye.”
“Ye make it sound as if I wasn’t willing.” Heat rolled over her. She had never wanted anything more and wished him to know it. “But I was.”
Greig stilled, his features hardening into a bullish expression she’d come to know well. “Perhaps … but one of us should have known better. I was the one who took liberties, not ye.”
As Greig had expected, going down the mountain was even harder than climbing it.
However, it wasn’t just his leg that was bothering him, but his conscience.
Ye bastard.
Brìghde traveled a few yards behind him, silent now.
He hadn’t meant to, but he’d offended her.
Not that he’d kissed her, had half undressed the lass and sucked on those delicious tits as if they belonged to him when they didn’t—but that he’d told her it was all a mistake.
The moment the words left his lips, he’d wanted to call them back, for he’d seen the hurt that flared in her grey eyes.
Now he berated himself.
What was he thinking? Had he confused gratitude and friendship with something else?
His need for her had caught him unawares.
Now, Brìghde would pay the price.
The climb had bound them together. The descent pulled them apart.
The memory of just how soft her lips had been, just how sweet her mouth had tasted, barreled into him then, and his gut clenched. And then, to his further ire, his rod stiffened at the memory of her breasts bared to him, with those plump pink nipples begging to be sucked.
He thought he’d died and gone to heaven.
Even now, his bollocks ached at the memory of how she’d moaned and sighed under him.
And when she had palmed him, his self-control had nearly snapped.
It had been a while since he had lain with anyone, a while since he’d lost himself in a woman’s softness and heat.
And Brìghde’s hand on his prick had made hunger clench low in his gut.
His body responded to her too well—and it only made his shame burn hotter.
He’d been playing a dangerous game.
His father would have him flayed alive for swiving a local village lass or getting her with bairn. It was the kind of irresponsible behavior that his friend Ailean would have embarked on before he met his match with Fiona, the weaver who’d started work at Dounarwyse Castle.
Greig was cleverer than that.
He had self-control.
Or he had thought he had—until today.
Shame prickled his skin. A year earlier, he’d have curled his lip at the thought of laying a hand on this woman. Hadn’t he mocked Alistair about his desire to win the Forge Maiden’s heart?
But today, he’d been ready to swive her on that rock atop Ben More.
To use her.
To treat her as if she was indeed a challenge on Alistair’s list.
Win the Forge Maiden’s heart.
The one thing he’d told himself he wouldn’t do. And he hadn’t. What he’d done instead was take advantage of the lass.
What a worm he was.
Gritting his teeth, he dug his stick into the mountainside.
During the ascent, he’d been focused on one goal—reaching the top, no matter what it cost him. And Brìghde had done well to challenge him to a race. It was what he’d needed to spur himself on.
The descent was another matter.
He’d achieved his goal. But now his muscles were fatigued, weakened, and it was all too easy to lose one’s balance on the sliding scree and loose pebbles.
He tucked his stick under a strap across his back while he and Brìghde slithered over boulders, sliding down the steepest parts, before retrieving it once more to navigate the slopes below them.
He fell hard on his backside numerous times, his left thigh throbbing now, weak, only to push himself up again with a snarl and continue his progress.
They descended further, the way growing gradually easier underneath them.
And as they did, the day waned, the sun traveling west and sinking toward the horizon. They’d spent longer than anticipated at the summit. As a result, despite the long days of summer, it would be well after sunset by the time they returned to Duart.
Frustration pulsed under his ribs as he hobbled the last stretch toward where Tàirneanach and Sradag waited.
He glanced down then, at where the silver ring she’d given him glinted on his right hand.
Her gift was so beautiful, but it just made him feel even more ashamed of his behavior.
He and Brìghde hadn’t spoken once during the descent; he could almost taste the tension rippling over her.
His gut clenched.
Shite. He’d broken things between them.