And he did. Swiftly and surely. When he was fully seated, he halted, his breathing shallow and rough.
“Is all well?” he asked.
Caitrina couldn’t speak. Not for a moment. But the sting soon subsided, and she nodded. “Aye. All is well. But a wee bit more joy would be lovely.”
A short, gusty laugh broke from his lips. “I can arrange that,” he said, slipping his hand between them. “This, lass, is the better part, I assure you.”
And with a skillful thumb, ardent lips, and a series of deep strokes, Bran proceeded to take her to the stars. She discovered a myriad of new sensations, not the least of which was the slow build of excitement in her belly—the one that wound as tight as a bow string and then suddenly let fly.
Bran swallowed her scream with a kiss, and found his own release a few moments later.
He collapsed at her side, his arm across her chest, his eyes closed.
He lay so still that Caitrina wondered whether he had fallen asleep. But a moment later he opened his eyes and smiled. “Did I make you swoon?”
She grinned. “Not quite,” she said. “But very near. I’m sure you’ll improve with practice.”
“Practice?” With a low growl, he pounced on her, tickling every sensitive part of her body until she begged him to yield. Then he lay back on the mattress, tucking her close. “Consider yourself fortunate,” he said, kissing the top of her head. “I’m not a man to rest on my laurels. I will endeavor to make you swoon each and every time we are together.”
“An honorable goal,” she murmured, her eyes drifting shut.
He shook her lightly. “Nay, sweetling. Do not succumb to sleep. You must return to your pallet afore your lengthy absence is noted.”
Reluctantly, Caitrina forced her eyes open and wriggled free of his warm embrace. A valid point. The guards must already be wondering what was keeping her from her bed. She found her discarded night rail and slid it over her cooling body. Bran wet a square of linen with the pitcher of water next to his bed, then knelt before her and gently wiped her inner thighs. When he was done, he took her hand and brushed a kiss over her knuckles.
“I’ve never spent a better night,” he said, smiling.
“Nor I,” she responded honestly, flushing.
Not sure what else to say, Caitrina gave him a quick kiss on the lips and darted for the door. Daylight would return all too soon, and with it, her worries. She did not want to tarnish what had been a truly memorable night with false promises or awkward conversation.
But at the door, she paused and looked back.
Bran was watching her, a faint smile on his face. His dark blond hair was raked off his handsome face, his muscular arms crossed over his chiseled chest. She wanted to remember him just like this, for eternity.
“I love you,” she said quietly. And then she closed the door behind her.
***
Bran stared at the closed door, his gut achurn.
Dear lord. He was the worst sort of fool. He’d done exactly what he’d vowed not to a few hours earlier. He’d ruined a woman he adored, and he was about to double his crime by breaking her heart. And there was absolutely no way to redeem himself. What could he possibly offer her? Marriage?
He snorted.
That would never happen. He had no right to offer for the hand of a lady—ruined or not. If he dared, she would spurn him in an instant, and rightly so. And even if she didn’t, he was a poor choice of mate. He was destined for the gallows, just like his father.
It would be kindest to walk away now. Sneak into the queen’s room, recover his crown, and be on his way. Caitrina would mourn his loss for a time, true enough. But then she would pick up the threads of her life and go on as before.
Bran lay back on the bed and stared up at the canopy.
But he could not leave. Not while Marsailli was still lost and Giric was a threat to the queen’s bairn. Like it or not, he would have to face Caitrina in the morn and deal with her declaration.
Damn it.
What did an innocent lass like her know about love? She thought she knew him, but all she’d seen so far was a facade. A sham. She knew nothing of Bran MacLean, the thief. The life he led in Edinburgh would shock her, of that he was certain. There was nothing good or honorable in the act of stealing, no matter how well motivated. He regularly added to the troubles of drunken sots, especially jilted lovers and cuckolded grooms. Misfortune was his ally. At best, he could say that he never thieved from men so down on their luck that they couldn’t rub two deniers together.
At worst...
