His mouth was moving everywhere, over her thighs, making her feel so vulnerable. She was arching, trembling as the need for him overtook her. He sat up, guiding her to straddle him. With his mouth, he kissed her hard, rubbing her against his heavy, thick shaft.
Marguerite reached down to the blunt head of him and moved it against her slick opening. She wanted to feel him deep inside, to be taken and conquered by this man.
His face was taut with sexual need, his hands gripping her hips as she lowered herself. It was too tight to take him, and she let him rest only a fraction inside of her. But when he lifted her up, lowering her again, he moved deeper.
She understood then, what she had to do. Slowly, she raised her hips, and sheathed him a little further. She found a slow rhythm, and her body seemed to adjust to his size, stretching and growing wetter with each penetration.
But then, his hands curled beneath her bottom, forcing her to increase her pace. Though he didn’t pull her down, she found herself growing more excited, her body straining for more. Her breathing came in rapid gasps as she bounced upon him, the thrusting length of him filling her up.
And though she felt a sharpness as he took her innocence, he dulled it when he sat up and took her breast into his mouth. With his tongue, he tasted her nipple, holding still as she grew accustomed to him buried within her. Gently, she raised up again, experimenting with the sensation as his tongue gloried against her breasts.
He gripped her lower back, his hand moving between their joining. She felt his fingers caressing the sensitive flesh above her entrance, and a ripple of shock flooded through her. A moan escaped her, and he pulled his hand away.
“No, don’t stop,” she whispered. He returned his fingers to her hooded flesh, and she showed him where to touch, until she was shaking from the way he rubbed her. He was thick and hard inside of her, but he remained motionless.
The double pressure of his manhood and the movement of his fingers made her raise her hips back, seeking the rush she wanted.
“It feels good,” she admitted, and Callum never relented, keeping up the rhythmic pressure of his hand until she bucked against him, thrusting in counterpoint to his tantalizing strokes.
The heat built up inside her, a shimmering crest of pleasure, until she shattered against his hand, clenching him deep inside. He grabbed her hips and thrust hard, forcing her to ride him, the intensity of her climax convulsing her again and again.
He laid her back onto the cloak, still moving in slow penetrations, and she lifted her knees to take him deeper. He was merciless, demanding that she give every part of herself to him. And when he plunged against her, taking his own release, he groaned and continued to drive deeply inside her while she clung to him, lost in her own storm.
When he rested against her, upon her skin she heard a single whispered word, “Marguerite.”
“You spoke,” she breathed. “Callum . . . you said my name.”
He wasn’t aware of anything at all, only the immense satisfaction of his body joined with hers. Had he said anything at all? He tried to make his mouth move, to let out her name again . . . but nothing happened. Again, he struggled to bring out the words, but the invisible wall prevented him.
“You spoke. I know you did.” Her bare arms came around his neck, holding him in a tight embrace. A smile came over her, and she drew her hands up to clasp his hair. “I want to hear it again.”
He struggled to form the word, but the longer she watched him, the more awkward he felt. If what she said was true, he’d spoken without thinking. Without trying.
He withdrew from her body, angry at himself for being unable to fulfill such a simple request. Picking up her chemise, he started to bring it to her, when he spied the sail of a ship approaching on the horizon. From the speed of the wind, it would be here within half an hour, and the occupants might see him and Marguerite before then.
Callum tossed the chemise to Marguerite and heaped sand upon the fire, extinguishing it. He donned his own clothing, but she looked worried at the sudden change of his mood. “I don’t understand. What’s wrong?”
He pointed out at the approaching ship, and her expression paled. “That could be my father.” Fumbling with the linen chemise, she hurried to dress herself. Callum helped her with the cote and surcoat, handing her the veil to cover her wet hair. Marguerite barely put her shoes on before he pulled her into a run. Their horses were waiting at the top of the hill, and he gathered the reins of her mare, helping her to mount.
She started to wait on him, but he slapped the horse’s flanks, urging the animal to go on. There was no time for her to wait upon him. He could shadow her from a distance, but she had to return to the castle quickly.
If it was the Duc arriving, she needed to be safely back in her chamber before anyone discovered her gone. He didn’t know if she’d succeed, for there was so little time.
Callum urged his horse into a gallop, keeping several paces behind her. As he rode, he thought of the husband the Duc was planning to bring back for Marguerite. A cold rage drowned out reason, replacing it with jealousy. If he’d had an estate and a title, he could gain Marguerite’s hand in marriage. He could be the one to claim her as his wife, the way he’d taken her body just now.
Making love to her had been the most priceless gift she could have given him. The idea of her sharing that experience with someone else, of letting another man take her, was akin to driving a spear through his chest.
He couldn’t let her go. All he could do was pray she would make the decision to walk away from this life and leave with him.
Marguerite gave her horse over to Jean when she reached the stables. Her guards eyed her mussed hair and disheveled clothing, but said nothing. Embarrassment flooded her cheeks, and she felt as if everyone knew what she had been doing.
When Callum rode in behind her, he disappeared into the stables, presumably to care for the horses. She didn’t know what he’d thought of her actions, and inside, her body was still trembling from the fierce reaction he’d evoked.
Lady Beatrice glared at her, but Marguerite passed by the woman and spoke not a word. She went straight to her chamber and ordered a bath. Though she’d believed that her father would travel on land, the ship she’d seen was large enough to carry his entourage and horses. It was entirely possible that they had returned early, especially traveling by sea instead of on horseback.
As her maids helped her to bathe and dress during the next hour, she thought of how Callum had spoken his first word in so many years. Of all the words he could have said, he’d chosen her name.
Her heart softened at the memory, for there was no other man she could imagine sharing her life with. Yet, she was deeply afraid of defying her father. Never in a thousand years would the Duc understand why she would want to cast off the wealth she was surrounded by, in order to wed a Scottish warrior.
