Well, she could play this game, too. She liked this game. Releasing his shoulders, Fiona stroked a hand down his hard, muscled abdomen and curled her fingers around him again. “With this?”
“Yes,” he hissed, half closing his eyes.
Seeing his reaction to her touch felt heady. Fiona tightened her grip just a little, and he jumped again. “Then what are ye waiting for?” she whispered, sliding down the bed to meet his face and nibbling on his lip.
He drew in a hard breath between his teeth. “Put this on me. Now.”
When he pushed a French condom against her hand she would have teased him again, but the predatory glint in his eyes stopped her. He seemed to be a man who’d been pushed just about as far as he could go. Swiftly she pulled the goat bladder over his girth, tying it around the base and glad she’d done enough embroidery as a lass to be able to make a bow. This man wanted her. Badly. And she briefly wondered how long it had been since he’d had a woman. That same part of her wanted to make him forget any other lass he’d ever bedded and only remember her. “Done,” she managed shakily.
With a low growl Gabriel shoved her thighs apart, lifting one knee to open her further, and buried his cock inside her. Fiona groaned aloud, her eyes closing as she concentrated on the filling heat of him.Good God.Already ripples of convulsive pleasure shivered through her. And then he began to move.
He began a slow, deep rhythm, sinking onto his elbows so he could continue to fondle her breasts, lightly pinching her nipples. She could barely remember to breathe, all of her clinging against him, feeling the deep, tight, satisfying slide.
Almost immediately she climaxed, shivering in spasms of delight, moaning in time with his thrusts. Everything vanished but the two of them, heaving and sweating, entwined. Again and again he entered her, pushing her ecstasy past any coherent thought.
When he finally moaned and held himself inside her, she could only dig her fingers into his shoulders and gasp. He climaxed hard, then with a deep exhalation lowered his head to her shoulder.Sweet saints and sinners.Fiona didn’t think she’d ever be able to move again. She didn’t want to ever move again. Her heart pounded so hard and fast she couldn’t count the beats. “That was very bonny,” she finally sighed, half to herself.
Out of breath as he was, Gabriel chuckled at her words. “Very bonny,” he echoed, kissing the soft skin of her shoulder and neck.
The silky softness of her surprised and intrigued him. Fiona Blackstock was outspoken, practical, and very willing to help mend fences, shovel manure, or do whatever else Lattimer—MacKittrick—required. On the inside she didn’t seem to fear anything. At the same time, though, his slightest touch could make her shiver. She was soft and delicate and sensitive, and damned well gave as good as she got.
He could see himself protecting her, protecting this. In another life, this could be everything he wanted. Fiona could be everything he wanted. But twelve years ago he’d signed papers, sworn an oath, and donned a uniform. He fought when and where king and Crown needed him to fight, because that was his duty. There were people—and land and property—to be protected. This, here, at Lattimer, this was… a holiday. She was a holiday. Or so he’d thought. But nothing about this, about her, felt momentary.
Reluctant as he was to remove himself from her, neither did he want Fiona to begin pointing out again that she wasn’t his mattress. Taking a breath, he pulled out and sat on the edge of the bed to clean himself off.
She sighed luxuriously. “I ken these are from rifle or musket balls,” Fiona said, running her fingers up his back to brush the round scar just beneath his rib cage on the right side, and the new one on his forearm. “I reckon this long, straight one’s from a sword or a saber, like the one on yer face.” A finger traced the white line running down his left hip to his arse. “But what’s this one?” She tapped his right shoulder blade.
“Which one is that?” he asked, so she would continue touching him.
Her finger made three, close-together, almost horizontal strokes. “It looks like a cat got ye, almost. A very large cat.”
“Ah, that. My men and I chased some smugglers into an old fort. One of the bastards pulled an old iron mace off the wall and swung it at my head. He missed, mostly.”
Her fingers stroked the scars again. “So ye’ve nearly been killed by weapons both modern and ancient.”
“I suppose so. It keeps things interesting.”
“What would ye have done, do ye reckon, if one of these holes had stopped yer soldiering?”
“I don’t think about that.”
She sat up behind him to drape her arms loosely about his shoulders. Joined together, comfortable—it felt… new, and yet somehow like he’d found the last missing piece to something he hadn’t even realized he’d lacked until that moment.
“That’s a mite foolish, isnae?” she suggested. “To nae consider the consequences?”
He shrugged against her, a deep part of him wishing this night would go on forever. “I consider the circumstances of failure, and I plan for things as best I can. Knowing what could go wrong is one thing; dwelling on it is counterproductive. It’s… difficult to put into words. I move forward. An enemy tries to stop me or turn me aside. I stop them so I may continue forward.”
“Do ye save people, or just kill enemies?”
“I make an effort to keep civilians from harm, if that’s what you mean. I try not to send my men straight at a cannon when they could go around it—unless the task itself is to charge the cannon.”
For a moment she remained silent, her fingers idly caressing his skin. “The people ye keep from harm. Do ye see them after? Do they thank ye?”
“By the time a village is safe enough to hold a parade I’m generally far away from it, taking back the next village.” He twisted his head to look at her, her chin resting on his shoulder. “Why all the questions?”
“I was just wondering if ye’d ever stayed in one place long enough to see that what ye did somewhere made a difference. To see if any roots tried to sprout from the soles of yer boots.”
“I don’t need to see that. And roots, literal and figural, would slow me down.”
