He took her clothes off with ease, and she did the same. When he lowered his face between her legs, she bit down hard on her lower lip, resisting the urge to cry out. Then he rose to his feet again and climbed on top of her.
“If it hurts, ye tell me to stop, but I cannae hold back anymore.”
“Please, daenae stop. I trust ye.”
That was all he needed to hear. In one swift motion, he drove into her.
She cried out before a low groan escaped her lips. Her hands found his hair and back, and his hands held her hips in place. He thrust into her again, this time faster, each movement sending endless waves of pleasure through them.
Soon, they fell into a steady pace, his hand finding hers and pinning them above her head. The pressure broke, and her walls clenched around him. He froze as well, biting back a groan.
At the peak of her climax, she had muttered a phrase into his ear. One she was certain he heard, but was in too much of a frenzy to respond. He collapsed beside her on the bed, and for the next few minutes, there was nothing but utter silence.
Jack’s hand found hers where it lay on his chest. He kissed her hair, then her knuckles, then her wrist, where her pulse fluttered.
“Say it again,” he demanded, almost boyish.
“I love ye,” she said into the hollow at the base of his throat.
He chuckled under his breath, then went still. “I love ye,” he murmured. “And I will carry the cost.”
“Wewill carry it,” she said. “Both.”
“Aye,” he agreed. “Both.”
They lay like that, quiet, the door shut against the world, the child asleep beyond it, the morning held back for a little while. He pressed her hand to his chest and breathed her in. She closed her eyes and let the fear go.
The rest of the world could wait.
EPILOGUE
One Week Later
The seamstressunwrapped Emma’s gown, took one look at it, and made a helpless sound that was almost a prayer. Emma saw her face and exhaled. This was not going well.
The bodice sagged, and the sleeves dragged. The waist also belonged to a different woman.
“Hold still,” the seamstress begged, stabbing pins through a mouthful of thread.
“I am standing like a statue,” Emma pointed out. “And just so ye ken, the statue is judging ye.”
Ava barked a laugh and lifted the skirt to keep it off the rushes. “She will fix it. She always does.”
“Always,” the seamstress puffed, though she sounded more hopeful than confident.
Duncan and Troy argued across the hall with the focus of two men who believed chairs could start wars.
Duncan jabbed a finger at a sketch. “Clan Ross sits near the musicians.”
Troy shook his head. “Nay, they sit near the door. They leave early at every feast.”
“They willnae this time.”
“They will.”
“They willnae.”
Emma pressed two fingers to her temple. The air smelled of venison and wine. Catriona strode past with a basket of ribbons, like a general with her banner.
