The kiss ended on a ragged gasp, and she gazed up into his eyes. What did she see there? Desire, yes—raw hunger that matched hers. And something more, far harder to identify.
It occurred to her, the thought bright and terrifying: if she did not turn around now and go back down the hill it might be she who lost her soul.
God help her, she did not care.
“Let me stay,” she whispered, begged.
The dark, unnamed emotion in his eyes flared. Just so must the devil look, she thought, when he drove a bargain. But Finnan said only, “Nay, Jeannie, ’tis not safe. Should we be caught up here—”
Without so much as a glance behind her, she told him, “You can see for miles.”
His hands steadied her, restrained her. “And do you suppose I could spare an instant to keep watch, if I had you naked in my arms?”
For answer she took a step away from him, but only so she might raise her hands to her bodice. She saw a great breath expand his chest when she began to unlace the fabric there, but he did not move or reach for her.
She kicked off her shoes next and then took the pins from her hair one by one even as he had that other night, and scattered them on the ground.
If this keeps up I will not have a pin to my name, she thought.Please God it keeps up.
“Jeannie,” he said when she unfastened the ties on her skirt and let it fall about her ankles—only that. The warm summer air found her flesh even as she revealed it to him a bit at a time—feet, legs, and, as the loosened blouse came off, breasts.
And then she stood shameless before him—trembling with eagerness, wanton. Free.
“Now you,” she whispered. “I want to see all of you.”
The only part of him that had responded so far stood beneath his kilt—that, along with his ragged breathing, he could not hide. He remained unmoving as a stone when she unlaced his sark and pushed her hands inside to meet warm, supple skin. She dragged her palms ever downward until they encountered him through the rough wool.
He jerked to life then, seized her with hands less than gentle. “You are a witch, Jeannie MacWherter.”
She wished she were. She would weave a spell over him, make him remain always with her to do her bidding.
Perhaps she still could.
With a small smile, her eyes never leaving his, she fell to her knees.
****
Finnan struggled from the great depths of passion and tried without success to reach for his sanity. Overhead, through the branches of the pine beneath which they lay, sunlight glinted and dazzled his eyes. A thought teased at him as from a great distance—there existed some danger, and he should keep watch.
But Jeannie MacWherter, warm and completely naked, lay in his arms, and he could spare little attention for aught else. His entire body still quivered from the sensation of her mouth on him, hot and eager, so eager. He wanted it again, wanted her again, wanted nothing else.
She stirred against him, and he responded like a man in the throes of torture to a hint of pain. So aware was he of everything about her now, even her breathing felt erotic.
She laughed softly, and he nearly convulsed.
“What?” He tangled his fingers in her glorious hair and drew her head back so he could gaze into her eyes. They smiled at him. By all the holy gods, a man could lose himself in those eyes.
The corners of her luscious mouth quirked. Och, that mouth!
“It is a dragon,” she pronounced.
“What is?”
Bold and shameless, she held his gaze. “The tattoo that decorates your manhood. I confess, from first I saw you, I wondered.”
“Ah, that.”
“Did it not hurt?” She planted a small kiss at the corner of his mouth as if to assuage any lingering pain.
