Chapter Nine
Liam had neverstrutted for a woman. Not even when he was a randy teenager and had preened through his first Highland Games. Then he’d been drunk on his own swagger as he laughed with the other boys his age. This time, he was aware of her eyes upon him, the direction of her body as she met the people of his life, and the sound of her words so rarely heard but every moment imagined.
As the host, his father opened the games. As the only son of the laird, he competed in the grand events. It had been years since he hefted a tree, but he grunted and strained as he threw the caber a respectable distance. That was won by Connall, the golden Aberbeag heir, who’d been Liam’s rival since the day they were born. Clearly, Connall had spent his last years in Scotland while Liam was in London learning the ways of the English. The man was cheered loudly by his clan and even drew a pleased clap from Clara. That was fair-minded of her, since even he admitted that his rival had done a great toss, but he was jealous of her applause nonetheless. Which is why he put all his concentration on the open stone put. That event was more about technique than brute force, and indeed, his youthful training stood him in good stead.
He won the contest and turned immediately to her when declared the winner.
“Does that earn me a kiss, lass?”
Connall lifted his silver cup, the prize given to the caber toss winner. “Aye, lass. Come give up a kiss to the greatest Scot on this field.”
Clara looked around, obviously flustered by the attention as several Aberbeag cheered at Connall’s claim. Fortunately, her attention came back to him.
“Am I to kiss all the winners then?” she asked. He noted the flush to her cheeks and that her lips were wet with mead. The drink had softened her usually prickly exterior such that her body didn’t seem as guarded as usual. Her eyes sparkled beneath the bright sun, and her lips flashed red with her smile.
Damn, he’d never seen her so beautiful.
“Kiss me and not another,” he said firmly. “Not unless you want to start a clan war.”
She laughed at his comment as if he weren’t serious. He could tell that she had no understanding of how many people were invested in her presence here. Everyone knew her to be the English heiress brought here to be wedded and bedded by him. None of them knew her, but they all wanted her money, including every Aberbeag here. And if she showed the slightest inclination to any man but him, the lure of her money could bring on a fight which would add in old grievances until it became a war. He would like to think his people were cleverer than that, but with whisky and women came stupidity. He kept his expression serious as he looked in her eyes.
“Me alone, Clara. Do not tease about that.”
She frowned as she focused on his face, then she tilted her chin. “You have not won me yet, Lord Scot.”
She spoke loud enough for others to hear, and he winced as they chuckled at her audacity. One even said, “The Sassenach has some fire.”
That alone convinced him to claim her, though truthfully, he would have done it anyway. Until now, he’d always been restrained with her. She flinched too often when he came quick at her. She claimed to like refinement and education. But they were in Scotland now, and her gaze had feasted upon him all day since the moment he’d unclasped his tartan in the glass factory. It had fired his blood and stiffened his rod.
He caught her around her waist with one hand and he planted his mouth on hers before she could cry out. She was a tall woman, but he had a few inches more, which meant she fit well against him. He knew the curve of her hips, the swell of her breasts, and the shape of her mouth because he had kissed her before by slow degrees and with patient caresses. This time he flattened her body against his, heedless of the sweat on his body or the shock in hers. He tasted the alcohol she’d drunk and inhaled the musk of her arousal.
He invaded her mouth, taking it as a Scot storming a castle. He breeched her lips, bypassed her teeth, and then stroked his way through every part of her. She scrambled to react—faster than he expected—and suddenly they were dueling tongue to tongue. That would have been enough. It was the statement he’d meant to give every man on the field. But as he eased back, she pursued him. She thrust her tongue at him, trying to breach his walls, and the shock of that had him bending her backwards as he re-possessed her.
She tangled one hand in his hair and another on his back. Then to his surprise, she gripped his hair in a fist and yanked him back. She had more strength than he expected, and he couldn’t stop the wince of pain. But for all that she’d made his eyes water, he lifted barely an inch away from her face.
“Is that all ye’ve got?” he asked.
The men watching hooted in delight, and Liam had a moment of gratitude that her brother and Miss Rees had wandered off to see the display of herding dogs, else he might now be challenged to a duel. But what he saw most was the way Clara’s eyes narrowed and her brow knitted. Their gazes were locked together, but he could see her confusion grow even as her body seemed to mold against him.
She had fire for sure, but he was pushing her to feel the surge of lust, and in a very public way. That was not the best way to handle a sheltered English flower. And while he was thinking that—and scrambling to find a way to ease her fears—she accomplished the feat herself.
While still bent nearly halfway back, she managed to lift her leg straight into his balls. He’d had to straddle her one leg to get her into that position, and so he was exposed. Thank the God above that she was pressed tight to him or his stones would be lodged behind his eyes. As it was, her knee clapped him in the arse and her thigh merely flattened his balls to an eye-watering degree.
His breath caught in a tight wheeze, and it took all his strength not to drop her. He stumbled backwards though, or more accurately, he hopped back. She followed, showing surprising dexterity in keeping her balance. Now they stood eye to eye because he was still crumpled over his balls. And while the hooting around then grew even louder, all could hear her response.
“I’ll give my kiss when I’m ready to, Loughton, and not a moment before.”
It was a contradictory statement given that she had been the one to haul him back to her mouth, but that didn’t matter to the women who cheered at her audacity. Meanwhile, Connall pressed the silver cup into Liam’s hand, then splashed whisky into it. “Here. You need this more than I.”
He used it to toast Clara with before drinking it back. The pain was receding enough for him to straighten to his full height. And when he was done, he rasped his question.
“Who taught you that?”
She snorted. “I have a big brother, you know.”
He grinned. “My admiration grows.”
“But not your staff!” bellowed one of the Aberbeag men.
