His mouth drifted from her lips to her jaw, then the soft skin beneath her ear.
“This is quite public, lass,” he muttered against her. “Half the keep could walk in and see.”
She shivered, her hand tightening in his hair.
“Let them,” she whispered.
He froze.
“What?” he rasped.
“Let them see,” she repeated, a tremor in her voice that had more to do with want than nerves. “Let them see their laird stake another claim this night.”
The words hit him low and hard.
Stake another claim.
Not on border lines. Not on land. Onher.
He pulled back just enough to see her face, to make sure he had heard right. Her cheeks were flushed, lips swollen from his kisses, eyes wide and utterly sincere.
She meant it.
She wanted to be his. Not just in vows. Not just in name.
His.
He kissed her harder, hand flexing at her hip. She gasped, clinging to him, and the small, breathy noises she made only drove him closer to the edge.
He wanted more.
He wanted all of her.
Neither the hall, the torches, nor the danger of being seen felt like enough of a deterrent anymore.
“Upstairs,” he growled softly against her mouth.
She nodded, breathless. “Aye.”
He caught her hand.
And this time, he did not let go.
They made it only halfway up the great stair before he lost patience.
The broad stone steps curved along the wall, a sturdy banister running the length of it. Torch brackets cast bars of light andshadow across the stairwell. Night air seeped in faintly from the arrow slits, cool against his overheated skin.
Ariella’s skirts swished as she climbed ahead of him, still holding his hand. She glanced back once, smiling over her shoulder—hair loosened, eyes shining, mouth still soft and kiss-bruised.
Something snapped.
In two quick strides, he caught up to her, turned, and backed her against the banister.
She squealed half in surprise, and half in delighted scandal.
“Maxwell!” she hissed, though her hands had already found his shoulders again.
“Ye wanted them to see,” he muttered, pressing his forehead to hers.
