And she did deserve it.
He shifted his hand on her breast—soft, delectable warmth—and sought her nipple with his thumb. He now had his tongue so far down her throat it was an act of copulation of itself, and he clearly felt her stiffen as pleasure shot through her. Deliberately, he slid his fingers down the neck of her gown. Ah, but for a creature of hell she was heaven to touch.
Yet Finnan did not believe in heaven—only hard-won retribution.
Jeannie arched her back and pressed herself into his palm, a willing offering. He knew then without question that he had won.
Was it too soon to push her to complete the act? He had her well on the hook now and did not want to frighten her off. Yet he ached so to plunge into her, he did not know that he could endure.
Fiercely, he reined in his impulses. He must make her want him beyond all reason, needed to play the role of protector to the hilt. He needed her to love him, not just give in.
But it would be hard to draw away now when the spell he wove held them both fast.
He stopped kissing her but left his hand inside her bodice in a blatant act of claiming. The contrast between her soft, mounded flesh and taut nipple goaded his desire. He felt wild to open the garment and replace his fingers with his mouth.
He pictured all the ways he might have her: on her knees; or on her back, spread for him like a holy offering.
He managed to say, “I am that sorry, Jeannie. I ha’ overstepped myself.” And he tried to withdraw his hand.
Her fingers flew to cover his and pressed them to her breast. She licked her lips, and a wild woman looked at him from her eyes.
“Please, Finnan.”
The first time she had spoken his given name, and said it with that sweetness she wore like a cloak—almost believable.Almost.
Chapter Seventeen
Outside the cottage a cock crowed, heralding morning. Jeannie heard it like a woman emerging from a dream, or more correctly one freeing herself from enchantment. For Finnan MacAllister had surely woven a potent spell.
She contemplated it, not sure she believed in dark magic. As a girl, she had attended the kirk, expecting it to afford her some comfort and peace. It never had, because the minister spoke only of ruination, sin, and sacrifice.
Ruination and sacrifice she had found in her own home. Sin, it seemed, found her only now.
Would it be such a sin to haul Finnan MacAllister away into her bedroom? To peel the clothing from that beautiful body of his, divest him of the rough, woolen kilt, and have him all for her own?
Unquestionably.
And she cared for her immortal soul, did she not? Of course she did. Well, perhaps.
He still held her pinioned against him, one arm hard across her back. His other hand remained thrust inside her bodice. Sweet heaven, how could she have let that happen? She looked down at her own body and saw his long fingers cupping her breast. A new, potent wave of desire assailed her.
But she was a sane, rational woman, and the cockerel had called her to herself. She released Finnan’s wrist and fought her way free.
Her dress, disconcertingly, gaped open. When had he untied the front of it? The shawl she had been wearing lay in a heap on the floor. The sheer impropriety of it brought heat over her in a rush.
Looking up, she encountered his gaze: bright with danger, hot as fire, and yet guarded. What did she see there besides admiration? Ah, but he liked what he had seen of her, and what he had felt. Triumph flared through her again.
She took another decisive step backward, out of his reach this time. “Laird MacAllister, I do not know what came over me,” she began.
“Or me.” He bent and caught up her shawl from the floor, offered it to her. When she took it, her fingers brushed his, and she recoiled as if burned, and clutched the woolen fabric to her bosom.
Earnestly, he asked, “Can you forgive me? I have no excuse save for your beauty, and the fact that I have been alone—far too alone—a long while.”
Jeannie, her thoughts scattered, did not know how to reply. The cottage seemed suddenly too small to contain both of them. She wanted to run out the door into the dawn.
Yet the remnants of his magical spell held her, and she knew, disconcertingly, if he snapped his fingers she would be in his arms again. She turned and fled to the only place she could, her bedroom. No door but only a curtain separated it from the other room. It seemed a woefully inadequate barrier now.
Outside the single window, gray light gathered, the half radiance that filled the glen at dawn. Her cockerel crowed again, and she blessed him. What would have happened but for his cry? Might she and Finnan MacAllister both be in this room by now?
