She bit her lip again, a habit perhaps—or uncertainty—and it glistened in the faint light. It made him want to kiss her all the more, to soothe her, excite her. He heard the bucket splash in the depths of the well, gurgle as it filled, and began to wind it back up.
* * *
Gillian watched John Erly draw water for her, his muscles working under his linen shirt, his knuckles white on the handle. His eyes never left hers. The summer night was soft and warm, even with the wind coming off the sea. The salt air mixed with the scent of the roses and the damp gravel under her feet, a perfume particular to this place, this night. The half moon cast long shadows, made the dark paint on his face mysterious. His grin was all the whiter for that, and the horns on his forehead were devilish indeed.
Good sense told her to flee before it was too late, to run back inside to the safety of her father’s side, but the stars twinkled, reflected in John’s eyes, and she didn’t want to be sensible.
She wanted a kiss. His kiss. Her mouth watered for it.
This was an adventure. . .
She waited as he brought the bucket up full, lifted it to rest on the lip of the well, dripping. The water glittered, and she stared at it. He filled the dipper and held it for her to drink. She leaned over and sipped. It was cold and sweet. It dripped down her chin, splashed onto her bosom. He drank as well, then put the dipper back into the bucket and stood watching the progress of the droplets as they crept over the slope of her breast, forging tiny, icy paths across her skin. She saw his throat bob, his lips tighten, and felt an answering shiver rush through her that had more to do with him, and heat, than with the cold water.
“I want very much to kiss you. Should I?” he said.
“Do you always ask permission?”
He grinned at that, a quick flash of white teeth in the dark. “Oh, lass—I’ve learned to, just in case. Do you have a husband, or a burly protective brother perhaps?”
“Neither,” she said. She stepped toward him, coming close enough that she could feel the heat of his body, smell the scent of his skin and his soap. “You may kiss me,” she said. It sounded silly, standing inches apart, staring at each other, their hands at their sides, both of them waiting, but she had no idea how it was done, this business of stealing kisses from—or giving them away to—a handsome stranger in the moonlight.
“Take off your mask,” he said. His voice was low and it vibrated over her nerves, creating a soft hum in her veins. Her chest tightened. Would he be disappointed when he saw her, knew her for who she was, the MacLeod’s shy, dull, bookish daughter?
What would Meggie say to such a request, or Fia or Aileen? Now was the time for flirtation . . .
She tilted her head and forced a smile. “Isn’t that against the rules? Aren’t we supposed to wait until midnight?”
He put his hand to her cheek, ran one finger under the edge of her mask. “We can make our own rules.”
He reached for the ribbon ties that held the mask in place, and she felt panic swell.
She stood on her toes and slammed her mouth against his.
He grunted in surprise, but he let go of the ribbons, caught her, wrapped his arms around her, and kissed her back. “Slow, sweetheart,” he breathed against her mouth. “We have all night, if we want it. Open for me. I want to make this count if it’s just a kiss . . . Is it?”
She put her hands against his chest, felt the hard muscles under the plain linen shirt, the heat of his body, the throb of his heartbeat under her palms. How did one answer that? She had never been asked, never been given more than a furtive peck on the cheek, or a sloppy, glancing kiss on the lips. He was waiting for a reply, staring at her. “I-I don’t know,” she said honestly. “But I want to . . . make this count as well.”
So she kissed him again, softly this time, slower, thrilled by her own boldness, and by the sweetness of his mouth against hers. His lips were soft but firm, and they moved over her mouth with a skill far beyond her own, creating the most incredible sensations. She shivered and burned and pressed closer, wanting more. When he licked the seam of her lips, she opened her mouth, trusting him to know why it was important. He groaned and slid his tongue inside, past her teeth, to touch her own tongue.
Oh my. . . He tasted of sweet water and whisky. She sighed and tilted her head to a better angle, wanting more.
His hands slid over her back, drawing her closer, and she felt the heat of his touch through the silk gown. She felt his arousal against her hip, knew that for what it was, and felt a thrill of power.He wanted her.He spanned her waist with his big hands, slid them upwards, and cupped her breasts. Her body tingled, burned. She sighed, wrapped her hands around his neck, tangled them in his hair, pressed her tongue intohismouth, and heard him groan again.
He broke the kiss, nipped the lobe of her ear. “I have a cott of my own, sweeting. It isn’t far,” he murmured, his voice husky. “Come with me, stay . . .”
Suddenly there were voices in the garden, and the sound of footsteps on the path.
Gillian gasped and pushed away from him. John muttered a curse and stepped back, and she pressed herself into the shadows, suddenly cold without him as fear replaced desire. He stood in front of her, shielded her from view as the voices came closer, and footsteps crunched along the path in the dark. But then she saw the gleam of lanterns through the leaves, harsh and yellow compared to the softness of the moonlight.
Caught.What if it was her father, or Fia, looking for her? She’d been warned to stay away from John Erly, forbidden to speak to him. Her father would never forgive her, and John . . . She felt panic close her throat at the thought of what her father would do tohim.
They couldn’t catch her here. Gillian retreated into the shadows, her eyes on John’s back as he watched the intruders come, the beams of light stretching, reaching. It flared on the side of the well, then on the gravel next to it, coming closer . . .
She didn’t wait. She turned and fled down the path.
Her mask, already loose, slipped free and fell to the path, but she didn’t stop for it.
She ran all the way back to the castle, slipped through a side door, and raced up the kitchen stairs. She didn’t stop until she reached her chamber. She tore open the door with shaking fingers, burst through it, and slammed it behind her. She leaned on it, listening for the sound of pursuit, her father’s bellow of rage, but there was nothing other than her own harsh breaths.
She put her fingertips to her lips and felt the wanting still humming in her veins.
She’d kissed him.
She crossed to the mirror and looked at her face. Her cheeks were as pink as the silk of her gown, her eyes wide and shining. And her mouth—her lips were soft and red, well kissed. She licked them, could still taste him. “Oh my,” she whispered, wanting more, even now.
Had he seen her? It seemed impossible that he had not, that he hadn’t known who she was, or guessed.
She jumped in surprise when the delicate ormolu clock on the mantel began to chime, the soft sound loud in the silence of the room. She stared at it, counted the bells. What had she done?
It was midnight, and she was unmasked.
