He pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it aside, then undid his belt, let his plaid slide to the floor. He stood before her, scarred, battered, and fully erect, a sight to terrify any virgin lass. He waited for her lust to turn to horror, for her to recoil, run.
Her eyes slid over him, her lips formed an O, and color filled her cheeks. “Is it right to call a man beautiful?” she asked. “I’ve never seen a man fully naked before. Och, I’ve seen bare chests and bottoms aplenty, but not like this, not like you—” He held his breath as her gaze fell on his arousal, his cock standing to attention. She blushed again, and her eyes darted up to meet his, a plea in their depths. Ah, now it would come—she’d say she’d made a mistake, changed her mind . . . He braced for it.
Instead she reached for the laces of her gown, worked at them with fingers made slow by desire. He watched the ribbon unfurl from one loop after another, until her bodice parted, and the garment underneath, to reveal the white slopes of her breasts. “Show me what to do, how to please you.”
He scarcely believed what he’d heard. Her laces caught, and she struggled with them.
“Let me,” he said, and took charge of undressing her.
“You’ve probably seen dozens of women,” she babbled, nervous now. “Hundreds. Thousands.”
He slid her clothing off her shoulders, parting the silk and lace, caressing each inch of skin as it was revealed to his hungry eyes. She pulled free of the sleeves, let him tug her garments down past her breasts, her waist, her slender hips. They fell with a sigh, and she stood in a billowing, shimmering froth of blue silk, like Venus on a cloud. She did not raise her hands or shield herself. She kept her expression carefully flat as she waited for his opinion, expecting rejection, as he had. “Not thousands,” he said, his voice thick. “And none so beautiful as Fia MacLeod.” He saw tears spring to her eyes, and he took her in his arms, held her against his chest, felt her skin on his, her heart pounding against his own. She raised her face for his kiss, and he lifted her, carried her to the bed, and laid her down under the watchful eyes of Neptune and his nymphs.
Dair’s body pressed hers into the feather mattress. She reveled in the way his male angles felt against her curves, how they fit so perfectly, were made to do so. She’d heard lasses gossiping in whispers, giggling together, knew it was pleasant to lie with a man, but she had not understood how wonderful, how utterly delicious it was . . . she felt a tingle go through her limbs, peak in her nipples. There was a shiver of trepidation too. It wasn’t more than that. She’d heard enough to know that the first time a lass lay with a man there was a wee bit of pain. She could endure that, for this, for him, the man who’d told her she was beautiful, made love to her in the heather. She trusted him implicitly, with her life and her body. He was kissing her, deep, slow, sweet openmouthed kisses that set her on fire.
She must not fall in love with him—well, any deeper in love. A broken heart would hurt far longer than any slight pain the loss of her virginity might bring. He wasn’t hers to keep. This was only for now, and then they would part. His hand slid along her body, caressing her breasts, her hips, the length of her legs. His mouth followed his hands, driving all sensible thoughts from her mind. She just wanted to feel, to please him as he pleased her, to be deflowered, bedded, wanton, wild, and wicked. She touched him in all the places he touched her, learning by the sounds he made, the way his body reacted, what he liked. She could feel his hardness against her belly, and she arched against it, wanting more. It made him groan with desire. She felt powerful, bold. She reached down carefully, slid her fingers along the length of his shaft, cupped the tight, hot balls beneath. His hips jerked forward, and he put a hand over hers to show her that, too—how to thrill him with slow caresses. “Mo eudail,my treasure,” he murmured, nuzzling her ear, thrusting against her palm. He gasped and bucked as she squeezed. “Go slow,” he said, and she wondered why. She didn’t want to go slowly. She wanted—everything, all at once, in this moment and forever. He kissed her breasts, circling her tight nipples with his tongue, his breath warming her flesh. She liked that. Then his lips trailed across her belly, her hips, and lower still, and it was better still. Her body was on fire, and she reached for him, but he smiled softly. “Wait, love. Be patient. You wanted me to teach you.”
She didn’t want to be patient—and she opened her mouth to tell him, but he kissed the soft fluff of hair between her thighs, and she gasped. Then his tongue dipped between, and she cried out at the jolt of sweet, hot pleasure that went through her body. Her bones turned to water as he used his lips and teeth and tongue to pleasure her. She gripped the sheets, caught in the maelstrom, let him work magic as she stared up into the knowing eyes of the naked nymphs above her, boldly watching as she was initiated into the most precious feminine mystery of all. The sensation rose like the tide, floated her up, flooded her until she could scarcely breathe. His fingers stroked her along with his tongue, probed, drove her higher and hotter, until she sobbed, and the nymphs cried out with her, and she joined them in heaven. Pure heaven.
He held her as she returned to earth, to the joy of being held in his arms as he kissed her gently, stroked her hair. She could smell her sex on his hands, his mouth. “Is there more?” she asked, breathless.
Dair chuckled. “Yes, there’s more. Infinitely more. A lifetime more.” He frowned, realizing what he’d said, the almost-promise he’d made. She put her finger to his lips, ignored the hitch in her breast.
“Show me everything tonight,” she sighed, and slid her arms round his neck, pulled him down to her, kissing him. No more talking. Talk was dangerous. He hooked his hand under her knee, lifted her leg, and put it around his hip, and where his tongue and fingers had been, she felt the blunt heat of his erection, pressing, stroking, until she felt desperation all over again. “Please,” she begged. “Now.”
He slid in carefully, big and hard and hot, and she tensed. He murmured sweet words in her ear, in Gaelic, Italian, French, gentled her with his hand, teased her, pleasured her all over again. There were beads of sweat on his forehead from waiting, holding back. She wouldn’t have it. She took a breath, tilted her hips, and pressed hard against him, and he drove forward with a shout of surprise. She felt the sting as he sheathed himself in her, a tight fit, an invasion. She held her breath, and he began to thrust, moving within her, creating a world of sweet sensation and heat, filling her, withdrawing, filling her again. She felt complete, whole, thrilled utterly. She clasped her arms and legs around him, dug her nails into his shoulders. She threw her head back and said his name, over and over again, and this time they rose into the painted clouds together, and he poured himself into her, his growl of pleasure guttural, raw, and wonderful.
“It’s nearly dawn,” he whispered in her ear, holding her against his chest, sleepy and warm. Outside, the storm had spent itself, and he could hear the distant wash of the waves on the shore.
Fia stirred in his arms, shifted to face him, her eyes on his, and smiled sleepily. “So soon,” she murmured.
“I’m sending you home,” he said. “You and Meggie.”
Her smile faded. “Because we—because I seduced you?”
He stroked her hair, twined a red lock around his finger. “It’s not safe here, lass.”
She wriggled against him, snuggled deeper, as if his bed was the safest place possible. It wasn’t. He was instantly hard, wanted her again, but there wasn’t time. The servants would wake soon, and so would her sister. He had to let her go. She’d made him feel like a man again, whole and normal, from the very moment he met her. Had she cured him of madness? He felt like he could do anything with Fia MacLeod by his side, in his bed.
“You’ll go home, marry,” he said, his voice raw. His hands tightened on her shoulder instead of letting go—she was his, and he’d kill any man who touched her . . .
“Will I?” she asked. She drew circles on his chest with her fingernail. His balls tightened. “Perhaps Iwillmarry,” she said. She brushed her hand over his erection, driving him wild. “Take me again,” she whispered.
He didn’t need any more encouragement. This time he rolled onto his back and pulled her on top of him.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Was there no end to the interruptions? Moire looked up, sensing someone coming. Folk had started coming to her cott for salves and brews for all manner of minor ailments—all the wee things they’d asked Fia to cure until recently. Moire shaded her eyes with her hand, watched Effie Sinclair hurrying along the path, awkwardly carrying a child in her arms.
“My Robbie is sick. He was fine and fit yesterday, but he sickened in the night. He’s feverish, and his belly is swollen. He sees things that aren’t there, rants and sweats.” Effie laid her son on the grass at Moire’s feet.
The boy’s face was pale, and his limbs were slack. Moire lifted his eyelids, saw the flat, cold look of death in his eyes. She felt his belly, but the lad didn’t stir. His lower legs and hands were already cold, his nails blue.
“Please—I can pay—not just a pebble or a ribbon—a silver coin. Help my lad.”
“When did he last eat?” Moire demanded.
“Breakfast yesterday. Then he went off with Wee Alex, Angus Mor’s lad.”
