He took the time to undo the remains of her tangled braid, worked his fingers through the soft waves of her russet hair, kissed the silken curls as they slid over his hands. There was no doubt in her eyes, no fear. She wanted this—he wanted it. Did it matter what the rest of the world thought?
He cupped her breasts, rose tipped and perfect, kissed them reverently, memorized them. He regretted that they could not be fully naked, wished he could hold her body against his, flesh to flesh, with no barriers between them, but even soft fir was sharp.
She reached for his half-buttoned breeches and tugged, knowing this time how to proceed, what pleased him, and herself. He lifted her skirts and slid into her, saw the ecstasy on her face. She made soft sounds of pleasure as he moved, and he waited for her, urged her, moved slowly and let the sensations build. She bit her lip, her eyes heavy lidded, dug her nails into his shoulders.
“John,” she said as she came close to her release. He reached down between their bodies, touched her, made the pleasure all the keener for her, hotter, sweeter. He forced his own body to wait, to savor the moment, to burn every detail into his memory. She was beautiful, perfect, his.
He watched her face as her release claimed her, felt her body shimmer around his, draw his response. He let go, poured himself into her.
Mine, he thought over and over again as he held her in his arms, their hearts beating together.Mine. He lay with his head on her breast, and she stroked his hair.
But the first rays of the sun were filling their shelter, and they couldn’t stay. He kissed her once, twice, and again, slow, lingering, tender kisses, and withdrew from her reluctantly.
“The garron will need water again,” he said.
“The burn isn’t far,” she replied. She fumbled with her gown as she sat up, covered herself.
He turned away, fastened his breeches. He was half hard again just listening to the rustle of the silk and the soft sound of her breathing as she dressed. They bumped together in the small space, and every touch felt like lightning crackling through his body.
“I need—” she said, and he turned, half hopeful. She was holding the bodice of her gown to her breasts, her expression wistful.The laces.
Of course.
She turned and he looked at the white skin of her back. He ran a finger along the bumps of her spine and felt her body soften. His hand closed on her shoulder, tempted to push the silk away instead and love her again.
But there were people waiting for them, wondering if she was safe. He repaired the torn laces as best he could, drew them tight, covered her. Still, the scent of her hair, sweet from their fir bed mixed with the fragrance of sex, filled the small shelter and made him want to beg her to stay for a while longer—a week, a month, forever. He gritted his teeth and let her go.
Their moment was over.
* * *
John and Gillian crawled out of the wee shelter and into the cool mist of the Highland morning. The birds called out like gossips, and the garron stared at him like a suspicious maiden aunt.
He untied the beast, took Gillian’s hand, and they walked the short distance to the burn. He let the horse drink. “I’ll give you some privacy,” he said and turned away.
He listened to the sound of her movements, knew she walked a little way away from him, shy again. Did she regret it now? He frowned.
“I’m ready,” she said, and he turned. Her hair was still loose over her shoulders, and she reached for it, began braiding it, putting herself to rights. He wanted to tell her to leave it down, that he liked it best that way, but he stayed silent. There wasn’t a hint of shyness or regret in her eyes. Something else shimmered there, something that took his breath away. He stood mesmerized by the beauty in the pink and gold silk, standing by an icy Highland stream in the early morning sun, her face and eyes aglow. She came to him, put her hands on his chest, and kissed him gently, a lover’s kiss, a knowing kiss, and God help him, he couldn’t do anything else but kiss her back.
At last she pulled back, scanned his face. “I—” She swallowed. He could read what she wanted to say in her eyes, but she didn’t mean it, couldn’t. He was her first, her only. It wasn’t love . . .
Warning bells went off in his head. She was the one woman—theonlywoman—who’d ever come close to his heart, and he knew he could break hers, had to. He couldn’t keep her. The night was over, and she was promised to another man.
For both their sakes, he reverted to playing the rogue, the carefree philanderer. He had to put the wall back in place between them, the laird’s daughter and the disgraced wastrel, the sword for hire. “Thank you Mistress MacLeod, for a rather pleasant evening,” he drawled, giving her a wicked wink and a lusty grin before turning away. She caught his arm.
“Liar. It was more than that.”
He gritted his teeth, “Was it? Glad to be of service.” He gave her a lazy shrug to hurt her, drive her away. He checked the garron’s coat without really seeing the beast.
When he looked again, her eyes had narrowed. What did she see in him now? He hardened his gaze, but she shook her head. “Liar,” she said again.
Before he could reply, he heard the thunder of hoofbeats between the trees, the crunch of leaves and twigs.
Gillian reached for her dirk, but he took it from her, pushed her behind him, and waited.
Seven men rode up, six strangers and Callum MacLeod. Gillian cried out and rushed to her kinsman. She put her foot on Callum’s boot and climbed up onto the garron to hug him like a long-lost brother. John felt his relief at seeing the Scot war with jealousy.
He saw Callum note the bruise on Gillian’s cheek and her rumpled ball gown. “Dhia, ye look like ye’ve been through a war, Gilly.”
