“Christ God!” he uttered on a quick, indrawn breath, stunned to see his wife, naked as a newborn, cavorting beneath a waterfall.
Mesmerized by the sight that greeted his eyes, he slowly sank back into the saddle. In wanton fascination he stared, unable to tear his gaze from those lovely full breasts that gently bounced as she waded away from the cascading falls. Her nipples, rosy in hue, were hardened stubs that visibly protruded from each puckered aureole. Not unsurprisingly, his dormant cock began to stir, quickly stiffening. He’d been too long without a woman and the thought of rutting on this one had been tormenting him for the last ten days.
Oblivious to his presence on the other side of the pines, Laoghaire emerged from the pool and made her way to the disheveled pile of clothes on the bank.
She is like Venus emerging from the waters of Cythera,he thought, awestruck. In that instant, his entire body went as taut as a bowstring, Galen suddenly in the grip of a lust unlike any he’d ever known. This strangely named woman was not simply beautiful, she was fashioned for one reason—to give pleasure.
As Laoghaire bent at the waist to retrieve the plaid, his gaze followed the line of her legs. Long, shapely, and well-muscled, he could easily imagine them wrapped around his body. And her buttocks . . . Galen felt his lips curve with an appreciative smile, Laoghaire’s creamy white globes the stuff of dreams.
Christ’s blood! But I want her beneath me, clinging wildly to me as I insert my fingers, my tongue, my rod into her.Then, she will scream my name, not with disdain or anger, but in ecstasy.
Galen waited until after Laoghaire finished drying herself with the plaid before he dismounted from his horse. In the span of only a few moments, his earlier rage had transmuted into a very different sort of frenzy—a burning desire to not only couple with his wife, but to swive her senseless. Shoving a hand against the front of his leather tunic, he rearranged his woefully swollen organ, his erection pressing insistently against the front of his braies.
While he made his way toward the waterfall, Galen watched as Laoghaire, her back turned to him, pulled a voluminous white chemise over her head.
“Why did you leave the castle?” he said by way of greeting, lust lending a harsh edge to his voice.
Laoghaire, clearly startled, gasped aloud as she spun toward him. Galen came to a stop several ells from her. He then braced his hands on his hips as he waited for an answer.
Long moments passed as they wordlessly stared at one another. Laoghaire MacKinnon didn’t possess the pale, delicate beauty extolled by the troubadours. Instead, hers was a wild, sensuous sort of splendor, a beauty that was fierce rather than fragile.
As the tense interlude lengthened, Galen’s attention was drawn to his wife’s wide, expressive mouth. Unable to stop himself, he imagined those lush lips clamped around his manhood, sucking the very sap from him.
A woman is simply a vessel for a man’s seed,he told himself in the next instant, worried he was letting lust get the better of him.But, oh, what a glorious vessel she is.
“You have yet to answer my question,” he rasped, refusing to be affected by his wife’s staggering beauty.
Defiantly holding his gaze, Laoghaire’s lower lip curled into a sneer. “I left the castle to go on pilgrimage. But as ye can plainly see, my sojourn was cut short.”
“You are much like a Scottish thistle: lovely to the eye but prickly to the touch,” he countered, annoyed with her insolence. “What in God’s name are you doing here?”
“Are ye blind?” Laoghaire lifted a hank of dripping wet hair. “I came here to bathe.”
Admittedly bewildered, he made haste to point out the obvious. “Why were you bathing in a pool of cold water when you could have taken a hot bath in a proper tub?”
“I did not wish to bathe in a tub,” Laoghaire mumbled, as she abruptly broke eye contact with him.
“Who in their right mind would choose a cold bath rather than a hot one? Is that some strange Highland custom?”
“I am having my flowers and—” her cheeks stained with color, Laoghaire kept her gaze affixed to the ground—“and because of that I did not wish to bathe in a tub.”
At hearing her explanation, it was all Galen could do not to smile. “You are in your courses? I would have proof of it.”
Laoghaire’s head immediately jerked upward. “Proof?! Are ye mad?”
“Iwill notgive my name to a Highland bastard,” he informed her, lest she think otherwise. “I must have proof.”
“Had I known ye were to return today, I would have put a bloody rag on the end of a banner pole and set it atop the castle for ye!”
Galen felt his jaw tighten. This was not the homecoming he’d secretly imagined.I was a fool to think that she would welcome me with open arms and cheerful smiles.
Barely able to keep his temper in check, he stepped closer to her. Then, his voice deepening into a soft growl, he said, “Take heed, Laoghaire. I will not have a defiant wife. I can punish you any number of ways. And trust me . . . you will not like any of them.”
“The proof is in the satchel,” Laoghaire muttered, noticeably subdued. “In it ye will find the moss that I collected. It is used to—” She stopped all of a sudden, evidently too embarrassed to continue.
“It is used to absorb the flow of blood,” he finished for her as he bent over and retrieved the leather satchel. “It is used on the battlefield for the same purpose.”
After verifying that the satchel did indeed contain bunches of moss—along with strips of white linen and several sturdy twigs that had been neatly planed—he tossed the bag back onto the ground.
