She didn’t know what he was doing, but the wickedness was making it hard to breathe. She felt herself arching against his hand, welcoming the gentle rhythm that was driving out the harsh memories of her past.
Like an awakening, he was transforming her, shaping her like molten wax into a new woman. And when his hand moved faster, she convulsed against him, unable to understand the overwhelming feelings of heat and need.
She was ashamed to admit that she wanted him. She wanted to feel his driving length penetrating her, pushing her toward the aching release that held just beyond her reach.
As if in answer to her craving, he pushed two fingers inside her, slowly entering and withdrawing. She backed up against him, her hand reaching to his. But when he used her wetness to rub against her cleft, slowly intensifying the vibrant need, her fingers dug into his thigh. Every part of her needed this, wanted him to show her what she’d been missing for all these years.
She was writhing against him, her body trembling hard, and when he murmured more endearments, she felt a sudden rising from within. The wild, dormant need clenched hard, and she let out a fierce gasp as the pleasure took her in a swift wave of release. She no longer cared that they were strangers, that she was allowing him intimacies only meant for a husband. She could only surrender to the movement, taking the fulfillment he offered, until she was wet around his fingers, squeezing him hard until his hand stilled.
A racking sob overtook her, tears she couldn’t have stopped. Finian had given her sensations she’d never known were inside her, and he’d made her feel desirable.
“Gillian,” he whispered. His voice was ragged, tormented. Alys froze at the mention of another woman’s name. Was it his wife? Was he still wedded to someone else?
Oh God. Her cheeks burned with shame as she extricated herself from the bed and adjusted her gown. Swiping at her tears, she walked barefoot to the other side of the room. What had she done? Her husband had been dead for only a few hours and already she’d gone into another man’s arms.
A man who had been thinking of someone else when he’d touched her. What was the matter with her? Was she so starved for affection that she would seek comfort from a stranger? Alys lowered her head to her knees as she cried.
Finian had promised to take her wherever she wanted to go. She wished he could help her disappear, where no one would ever find her.
Chapter Three
Finian’smindtormentedhimwith visions of reality blurred with dreams. He was shaking beneath the heavy coverlet, his body so terribly cold. And yet, his body was rigid with arousal, an aching heat holding him captive. When he struggled to open his eyes, he saw Lady Harkirk staring at the fire, tears glistening against her cheeks.
He wanted to tell her not to cry, that he’d keep her safe. But his tongue was thick in his mouth, his mind unaware of his surroundings. His back ached with pain, and he gritted his teeth, not wanting to bother her.
She stood suddenly and looked at him. “You’re awake.”
He managed to nod, but delirium slipped over him until the vision of her disappeared. Darkness surrounded his mind, but on the edges of his memory, he recalled female skin beneath his hands. He imagined touching the yielding flesh, sliding his hands over large breasts with soft nipples.
The dream made little sense, for his wife had been small, her breasts barely a handful. She’d been plump, too, not slender and lean. Finian’s eyes snapped open, and he saw Lady Harkirk sitting beside the bed. He glanced at her briefly, and saw that she did indeed have generous curves with high, firm breasts and a slender dip in her waist.
He must have dreamt of her, letting his imagination replace the memories of his wife.
“Are you in pain?” she whispered, leaning in. The laces of her gown were loose, and a forbidden lust gripped him. He knew it was madness to think of the Lady in this way, but then, these dreams were in his mind. As long as he did not act upon them, he could imagine whatever he liked.
“My back . . . is a little sore,” he said. He wanted to feel her hands on him, the way she’d touched him earlier. The silken touch of her fingers against his skin had driven him towards madness. It had hurt when she’d put the healing medicine on him, but he’d been distracted by her touch.
“Turn over, and I’ll put more of the salve on your wounds.”
He obeyed her command, and when she slid back the coverlet, he couldn’t stop the involuntary trembling from the cold. She sat down on the bed beside him, and he inhaled the light scent of her skin. So faint, as though she’d lain upon rose petals, their silken blossoms surrounding her.
He felt her hands moving upon his wounds, smoothing the cool salve into them. Then she placed a linen cloth on his back and murmured, “Wait here. I’ll bring you something for the pain.”
He didn’t know how much time passed before she returned, but when she sat upon the bed, she offered him a cup of a warm tea. It tasted bitter, but he suspected it would indeed dull the pain.
“The wounds aren’t as deep as I thought they’d be,” she said. “I suppose in another day or so you won’t feel any pain.”
He managed words of thanks, but when she started to leave, he stopped her. “Don’t go. Please.”
Her face took on a shielded look, as though she didn’t trust him. “I shouldn’t stay, MacLachor.”
“Finian,” he corrected. “After all that happened between us this day, you should call me by my name.”
Her face turned scarlet, and she jerked back, holding the bowl of salve. Her reaction was so fierce, he couldn’t think of why she should be this nervous around him. He’d never done anything—
Or had he?
His gaze moved towards her body. Was it possible? He’d dreamed of touching a warm female body with curves such as hers. In his vision, he’d dipped inside moist depths, coaxing the woman into a frenzy. At the very memory, his groin hardened.
