Gently he disentangled her from about his neck, and, holding her two hands in his, he pushed her gently away. “Because I am beginning to desire the cuddling,” he told her.
“I think I am too,” she admitted boldly.
He laughed. “You are becoming a very bad wench, I fear,” he told her. “What am I to do with you, Elizabeth Meredith?”
“Kiss and cuddle me, Baen?” she suggested wickedly.
“What if we find we want more than the kissing and the cuddling, lass? I could never shame you, Elizabeth. I have not the right to you,” he told her seriously.
“Why not?” she asked defiantly. “No one else wants me.”
“My birth does not match yours, lass. You know that,” he said quietly.
“If I were one of the village lasses, Baen, would you take me further into the darkness and make love to me?” she queried him. She drew him closer, slipping her arms about his neck once more. Was she so unattractive that he could not desire her? And why did she want him to? She wasn’t a tease.
“Elizabeth,” he said helplessly, feeling his need for her rising with every passing moment. Aye, if she were anyone else he would have her on her back in a trice!
“Pretend I am one of them,” she begged him. “Do not think of me as the heiress to Friarsgate, Baen. Think of me as a pretty girl who would kiss and cuddle with you on Midsummer’s Eve. Is that so difficult?”
He wasn’t a saint, damnit! And he wasn’t some green boy who couldn’t stop when the passion flamed too high. The wench wanted to be kissed and cuddled. She was desirable, and by the rood, he wanted her! Wordlessly he led her deeper into the darkness, past several shadowed haystacks, until at the far end of the meadow he stopped before the last cone of hay. He drew her down into the pile of sweet-smelling grass and began to kiss her once more: deep, passionate kisses that left them both weak with pleasure.
The hard body pressing her down into the hay set her pulse racing wildly. His mouth demanded from her emotions so new she wasn’t certain she even understood them. His tongue pushed into the sweet cavern of her mouth, seeking, stroking, fierce with his need. She intertwined her tongue with his, moaning with a strange new need that was arising within her. She felt a sticky wetness between her thighs.
Baen cradled Elizabeth in the curve of his arm. His fingers skillfully undid her shirt, and he slipped his hand within to caress her two small, round breasts. She gasped, surprised, but she did not pull away from him. The two breasts came alive within the enclosure of his palm. They grew firm, and the dainty nipples puckered beneath the stroking of his big hand. “Sweet! Sweet!” he murmured in her ear, and she sighed with her open pleasure. “You’ve never been touched before, have you?” he whispered.
“You know I am a virgin,” she managed to say, although the actions of his hand were rendering her dizzy with enjoyment.
“Some virgins have kissed and caressed, yet not permitted their maidenheads to be plucked, lass. You, however, have never known a man’s touch, have you?”
“Nay,” she said. “Not until now. Is there more, Baen? Tell me there is more!” she pleaded with him. She had never imagined the feelings she was now experiencing, and she was certain she was going to die if he did not give her more.
In answer he opened her blouse wider and lowered his dark head, his mouth closing over one of her nipples to suck.
“Oh, God!” Elizabeth half sobbed. The hungry drawing on her breast sent a shudder of hot delight through her. She mewled with pleasure as his tongue licked at her, and with each stroke of that tongue she was drawn into a new world. “More! I want more!”
He moved to her other breast and treated it as prettily as he had the first. He could feel her heart thundering beneath his ear. Unable to help himself, he slid his hand beneath her skirt and moved it up to brush the inside of her thigh with a sensuous motion. He expected to be rebuffed, but he was not. She pressed down hungrily against his hand as he cupped and gently squeezed her plump mons within his palm. And feeling the moisture on his skin from her, he knew he had to cease this love play or there would be no stopping for either of them. What madness had made him play this game with her? He was the older, the more experienced, she but an eager virgin. He should have known better, but the truth was, he could not resist the invitation she had so freely offered.
“Elizabeth, we must stop,” he told her.
“Why? Oh, please don’t stop, Baen! ’Tis wonderful!” she told him.
Reluctantly he withdrew his hand from beneath her skirts and gave her lips a quick kiss. “Elizabeth, I want you. All of you! But I will not ruin you for the man who will one day have the incredible good fortune to be your husband, lass. This was Midsummer madness, but there is little harm done.” His strong fingers relaced her blouse shut. He stood up, pulling her with him. “Come. If we are gone much longer the worst will be thought of us. I will not have your reputation sullied, lass.” He was glad for the darkness, as walking was at first difficult.
Elizabeth was not certain that she could walk at all. Her legs felt weak. She clung to his arm as they moved back across the meadow towards the fire. Her time in Baen MacColl’s arms had been a revelation to her. She realized now that she could never give herself to just any man. It had to be a man she liked. A man she could love. Flynn Stewart had been so charming. He had briefly stolen her heart. But Elizabeth knew now, as Flynn had gently pointed out to her, that he was not a man to settle down. And she knew that only a man who could love Friarsgate as she did would be the man for her. Was it possible that Baen could be that man? She was beginning to realize that they had more in common than she had previously considered. She understood her mother and her older sisters just a little better now, she thought. But would they understand her and the decision she would make regarding a husband?
“Why do you say your breeding does not match mine?” she asked him quietly.
“You know I was born on the wrong side of the blanket,” he began.
“So were two of my great-uncles: Edmund Bolton, who is my steward, and his younger brother, Richard, the prior of St. Cuthbert’s. They are good men, and respected despite their birth. My great-grandfather recognized them both and gave them his name gladly. It was before he was wed to my great-grandmother,” Elizabeth said.
“My mother was nothing more than a cotter’s daughter,” he continued.
“Your father, who recognizes you, is the master of Grayhaven,” Elizabeth countered. “My father was a Welsh boy whose cousin, a steward in the household of Jasper Tudor, took pity on him and gained him a place as one of his master’s pages.”
“I was told your father was a knight in service of the Tudors,” Baen replied.
“It took him years of devoted and loyal service to gain his rank, and he was landless,” Elizabeth explained. “When he met my mother he possessed naught but his horse, his armor, and his weapons. He was a poor man, Baen.”
