‘Guilty as charged,’ she whispered. This time she really could feel his heart thudding against hers though his elbow on the ground was lifting his torso slightly, keeping them apart. He’d landed with one leg thrown over her, but his knee was pressed firmly into the gap between her legs, holding that part she craved away from her. Everything about him spoke of coiled strength. He was afraid of hurting her.
Jennifer was no innocent. She was aware of what went on between a man and a woman, of the pleasure that could be givenand received. But she’d never felt even the slightest inclination to experience it for herself. Until she’d met Brendon Galbraith.
Deliberately, she twisted slightly, lifting her hips, to press shamelessly into … good God, he was huge. Even confined in his breeches.
‘Ye have tae stop … ma lady.’ Satisfaction radiated through her as she heard the hoarseness in his voice. If he’d hoped the use of her title would bring her to her senses, he was mistaken. Indeed, she’d never lost them. She simply knew that she wanted this man more than any other she’d laid eyes on, and, God help her, she may never get the chance to feel this way again.
He didn’t move.
Slowly, her eyes never leaving his, she slid her hands from around his neck and placed her fingertips on the neck of her dress. It took until she’d undone more than half the buttons before his eyes finally dropped. He drew in his breath at the sight of her creamy flesh covered only by the flimsiest of petticoats. Without pause, she took hold of the laces holding the delicate shift together and pulled. Mesmerised, he watched as the lace parted and she drew the fabric down until her breasts were exposed to his heated gaze. Her nipples hardened, seemingly of their own accord, and with a low groan, Brendon bent his head and took one luscious peak into his mouth.
Unable to help herself, Jennifer cried out as instant sensation slammed between her legs. Her arms fell to her side, fingers grasping and bunching at the blanket on either side of her as he transferred his attention to the other nipple. Dear God, she’d never imagined it could feel likethis. Gasping she parted her legs and thrust her breasts towards his oh so capable lips, wanting,needing… He rolled the nipple between his teeth and shifted slightly, sliding his hand down her bodice to her skirt, cuppingthatpart of her and rubbed. Arching her back, Jennifer opened her legs further. She was panting now. She needed to be flesh toflesh. To feel his hand slip under her skirts, to touch herthere, between her legs. Just where she was burning up.
But instead, he …stopped. Her eyes flew open, and she stared confused as he gently closed her petticoat. Then he bent his head and pressed his lips against hers, a featherlight touch.
‘Ah willnae take ye here, like this, where any who look can see us,’ he murmured. ‘Ah want ye more than life itself, Jennifer Sinclair, but ah cannae dae this.’
‘You think I am a lightskirt,’ Jennifer declared flatly, watching him carefully. To her surprise, he laughed.
‘Nae, lass. Ah think ye be a rare jewel an’ yer husband’ll be the luckiest man alive.’ He bent his head and kissed her softly, briefly on the lips. ‘But we both ken it willnae be me.’
With that, he climbed to his feet and walked over to the edge of the loch where Flossy and Fergus were still playing.
Fighting the urge to cry, Jennifer sat up and began doing up her buttons. It was all very well to play the wanton, but she realised she wanted what came after too. Whatshouldcome after. The touching, the teasing, the laughing. But most of all, the sense ofbelonging. She’d confused love with lust.
She wanted more than just to be bedded by Brendon Galbraith. She’d known him mere days, but despite his certainty that he would not be acceptable to her family, she knew with every fibre of her being that she wanted him for her husband.
Chapter Fifteen
By the time the lights of the MacFarlane keep came into sight, Reverend Shackleford was convinced there remained not one inch of him that hadn’t been served as either a starter, a main course or a pudding to the midges. Likely all three.
They looked like black dots, until they covered every inch of skin both outside and inside his cassock, resembling an extra black blanket. Fortunately, Dougal had shown him how to cover his nose and mouth lest the beasties start on his insides too.
When they first started to swarm, the Reverend had slapped them away, but he swiftly learned that that simply made them worse. In the end, he tucked his hands under his armpits, bent his head as close to his knees as possible and endured.
As they entered the courtyard in front of the keep, a shadow covered from head to toe in cloth, pointed them towards what looked to be a large, covered area with sheafs of hanging greenery all around the edge emitting an eye wateringly pungent smell. The horse needed no urging to get out of the writhing, biting swarm of darkness and seconds later they were through the hanging sheafs.
Once under cover, the Reverend uncurled himself and began to smack hysterically at his arms and torso until the dark blanket gradually lifted to reveal tiny red welts in its place. Clearly the beasties did not like whatever the greenery was. ‘Bog myrtle,’Dougal explained, picking a few stray midges from his teeth.
‘Wha’ business hae ye wi’ the MacFarlane?’ The voice behind them was like ice. Turning round, Reverend Shackleford felt a first spasm of fear. The man standing in front of them was clearly a warrior. He’d shed his protective covering and was wearing nothing but a kilt and vest, a sword the size of Brendon’s wolfhound slung over his back.
Fortunately, Dougal didn’t appear particularly fazed by the fearsome sight, and climbing down from the carriage, declared in a jovial voice. ‘Callum MacFarlane, ah haenae seen ye in months. Be ye well?’
The stranger, whose name was evidently Callum, narrowed his eyes and folded his arms.
‘Dougal Galbraith,’ he declared coldly. ‘What dae ye want?’
The elderly Scot limped convincingly towards the hard-faced warrior, an ingratiating smile wreathing his face. ‘Ah be lookin’ fer an audience wi’ the MacFarlane. Ah hae somethin’ o’ interest tae tell him.’
‘What kind o’ interest?’ The mountain didn’t move so much as an inch. The Reverend felt sweat begin to trickle down his cassock, inflaming the midgie bites. He fought the urge to scratch, knowing that once he started, he’d be unable to stop. Should he say something?
‘Ye ken ah cannae be tellin’ ye afore’ the Clan Chief,’ Dougal went on genially, ‘he’ll hae our bawbags fer breakfast if ah dae.’ He chuckled at his own joke, but Reverend Shackleford could see persperation begin forming on the old Scot’s forehead. Clearly the geniality was purely a façade.
The warrior stared at them for a few seconds longer, then turned on his heel. ‘Abide here,’ he ordered, throwing his protective covering over his shoulders and striding back out into the dusk.
‘Dinnae speak ‘til ah tell ye,’ Dougal hissed as soon as their welcoming committee of one was out of earshot.
‘Well, he didn’t seem to have much faith in what came out of your mouth,’ the Reverend hissed back, much more accustomed to giving orders rather than receiving them.
