She put her hands on his shoulders. “I cannae get my dress dirty. And that was in London.”
“I won’t get your dress dirty, I promise. Not today anyway. And only in London, you say? How about the middle of a stormy day, a fortnight ago?” His hands were on her breasts now, pinching her nipples through her dress.
“Ah-aye.” She felt her own breathing become ragged as sharp sensations from the tips of her breasts raced to her groin. “By the loch. But I had just escaped mortal danger. Is it any wonder I would fall into the arms of the man who saved me?”
“And the day after that.” His lips just barely touching hers. “And all the days between then and yesterday.”
“I dinnae need reminding that ye make me a wanton woman, Jack Pike.”
“Mmmmm.” His hands slid down from her breasts along her sides and cupped her hips. His brown eyes had a wicked gleam in them as he looked down at her. “I want you to bemywanton woman, Helen.”
“I am.” She felt herself dissolving.
“Only mine.” He lifted her leg to his waist and curled it around him.
“I am.”
“Now and forever.” Still holding her leg, he lifted her skirts with his other hand and touched her maidenhair and then his fingers were in her folds, caressing her.
“Ah, aye . . .” A finger grazed her small hardness and she inhaled sharply as all rational thought fled her mind. All resolve. “Oh, Jack, I must have ye, please.”
He grinned. “No.”
A finger at her entrance. Now inside her, stroking in and out of her, curled to hit the place that made her wild and boneless and wanting to scream.
“What are . . . ye doing?”
“I’m touching you.” The finger was joined by another and the pace of the stroking increased.
“Ye are torturing me.”
“Yes.”
“I need ye, Jack.”
“No.”
She groaned. “What are ye doing?”
“I told you. I’m touching you. And I’m torturing you.”
“Why?”
His mouth on her ear. “I want to announce our engagement now that Mags and Duncan are married. And I want a date for our wedding, Helen. You give me a day for the kirk, and I’ll give you my cock.”
She knew she wanted time for a dress. Time to lay in food for a feast for all of Dunmore and Kinmarloch, too. She knew she should be thinking of these things but somehow all she could think of were his fingers inside her, their movement, and how much better it would be if his member replaced his fingers.
His voice went on, low and purring. “It’s simple, my thistle. A date. Then cock.”
“Aye. Michaelmas then,” she gasped.
The fingers became rougher, thrusting in and out of her more vigorously, his thumb coming up to stroke her little hardness. Her head lolled.
“It’s August right now, thistle. Why are you saying Michaelmas?”
“I cannae . . . think.”
“Let me suggest next week. Three days from now. We’re in Scotland, after all. No need for banns or a license.”
