He removed his clothing, sitting beside her on the bed. “If that is your wish.”
He took her breast in his mouth, suckling hard against the taut nipple. A shocked breath escaped her, along with a sigh of pleasure. Marguerite’s face transformed into need, color rising in her cheeks. She rolled to her side, whispering against his mouth, “You’re a temptation I could never resist, Callum.” She ran her fingers over his back. “Let me touch you for a moment.”
He stilled, letting her do as she pleased. She guided him to rest upon his stomach, and she straddled him, her damp womanhood touching his lower spine. With her hands, she touched the scars of his past, trailing her fingers across his back.
“I remember the day I found you. I was so afraid you might die.” She bent and touched her mouth to his scars, and the motion grazed her breasts against him. It was torment, having to remain still and not touch her, while she caressed him. “I think somehow, I knew we would be together.”
“I thought you were an angel of mercy,” he admitted. “Perhaps you were. Because I swear, on my life, this is my Heaven.”
He rolled her over, needing to pleasure her, to worship every part of her skin. He filled his palms with her breasts and adjusted her body until he was settled between her legs. Marguerite raised her knees up, welcoming him. She gasped as he rubbed against her cleft while his fingers coaxed and fondled her breasts.
“Tell me how you want to be touched.”
Her breath caught in her lungs when he warmed her skin, awaiting her response. She guided the head of him into her moist passage, and he pressed forward within her slick flesh, filling her up.
He tasted her, nibbling the curve beneath her breast. Her nipple hardened, showing him that she liked that. “Tell me, Marguerite.”
She moved against him, pulling him deeper inside, murmuring in French as she tried to make him move.
“I don’t speak French, a ghraidh.” But he acted on instinct, thrusting within her until she cried out with shivered ecstasy. Slowly, he moved her hips to the edge of the bed, and he stood, still sheathed inside her. With her legs around his waist, he drove inside her, penetrating from a higher angle.
Her fingers dug into the bed, her eyes wild as she submitted to his thrusts, arching hard. Her walls clenched his shaft, and she trembled at the force of his lovemaking.
“I love you, my wife,” he said, filling her again.
“Je t’aime,” she responded, reaching for his hips. Callum ground himself against her, and saw the renewed look of arousal in her eyes. The intense contact made her shudder, and when he began to plunge with a rhythm, pressing his body harder against her center, she began speaking words of encouragement.
“There,” she pleaded, telling him how much she loved the touch of him deep inside her. "I want more of you."
The exquisite pleasure of watching her reach for release, her body trembling with need, was making him grow harder within her. She was so wet, so eager, he couldn’t stop the shout that roared from him when her legs wrapped around his waist, grasping him with all her strength as the release flooded through her.
He kept up the pulsing rhythm until his own satisfaction came hard and fast. And when he lay down on top of her, their bodies were merged together as one. Callum held her close, his heart beating so fast, he couldn’t believe she now belonged to him.
“You were mine since the moment I saw you,” he murmured against her hair.
She smiled up at him, and in her blue eyes, he saw the unspoken promise of every tomorrow they would spend together.
No other words were needed.
Epilogue
Four years later . . .
A group of messengers rode into Glen Arrin, wearing the insignia representing Edward of Caernarfon, the King of England. When Marguerite saw them, she clutched her young infant daughter protectively. From the serious manner of the men, she could not imagine that they bore good news.
“Stay back,” Callum warned, transferring his bow into his left hand. His three-year-old son Ailric gripped the child-sized bow in his own hand, mirroring his actions.
“Do you want me to take the children away?” Marguerite asked, unsure of why the messengers had come.
“Not yet. They didn’t come to fight.” Callum nodded behind him. “But keep your distance.” To Ailric, he warned, “Go with your mother.”
“I help,” Ailric offered, raising his miniature bow.
Callum ruffled the boy’s hair, pushing him back to Marguerite. “Obey me, my son.”
The men remained outside the gates, and Callum walked closer to them. Marguerite held the baby and gripped Ailric’s hand, her heart pounding with fear. Though they had done nothing wrong, she couldn’t guess why the king’s men were here.
A few moments later, the men entered the fortress, led by Dougal. The young adolescent had grown into a handsome young man, and Marguerite hoped that one day he would find a good woman to wed. He spent far too much time tending the animals than sharing time with people.
