Page 19

When she licked her lips, Graeme’s cock hardened, reminding him, as if he needed reminding, of what he wished. Or, more precisely, what he wished to do with her.

She shook her head. “Mayhap for you it matters. But for me—”

“Tell me, my queen.” He treaded in dangerous territory but, as usual, would not heed even his own warnings. “What do you wish?”

She opened her mouth, and from the look in her brown eyes, it was to argue with him.

“Nay, do not argue. You are a queen tonight. And a queen’s wishes do come true.” He took one more step toward her.

They stood much too close for propriety’s sake, but he could not bring himself to care.

“What”—he lowered his voice—“do you wish?”

When she pulled her hair to the front, he reached up and pushed it back. He’d done so without thinking, but that simple, intimate touch could not be reversed.

Nor did he wish it to be.

“One wish.”

He was a fool.

A fool who was being pulled into a spell stronger than his good sense.

He could see the battle in her eyes. She wanted to flee. She wanted to kiss him. It was no less intense than the war he had waged within himself, but he’d already succumbed. She had not.

He waited.

“I wish . . .”

In that moment, Graeme’s life flashed before his eyes. His clan, his family. The responsibility heaped on his shoulders so young. The raids, the battles. Catrina, Emma. In that moment, all of it seemed so insignificant and small compared to the answer this one woman would give him. For if she turned away, he’d never see her again. He knew that.

“I wish . . . for you to kiss me.”

Graeme grabbed her arm and pulled her away from the garden’s entrance, intent on granting her wish . . . and his own.

He pulled her into his arms and lowered his head. When she placed her closed mouth against his lips, a desire unlike anything he’d ever felt swept through his body.

Her kiss was so innocent, so eager. She’d never kissed a man.

He cupped her head in his hands and used his lips to open her own. It took his very proper queen the briefest of moments to understand, and when she did, she opened for him like the petals on a flower eagerly awaiting spring. When he touched his tongue to hers, she gasped against him. But instead of giving her time to be shocked, he swept it inside and showed her what to do.

When she finally responded, Graeme released her face, put her hands behind his back and did the same to her, enveloping his May Queen against him.

He would not relent.

Instead, Graeme breathed in her sweetness and passion, pressing against her and wooing her mouth as gently, and firmly, as he could. Her soft moan encouraged him, and the creamy white mounds pressed against him proved too tempting to ignore. He slipped a hand between them and cupped her breast.

When he ran a trail of kisses from her mouth to her neck, and lower, Graeme thought for sure her innocence would stop him. He counted on it. Because, God help him, if he didn’t step back from her soon, he’d take her right here in this garden.

“I . . . had no idea.”

Breathless and unsure, his English queen arched her head back, exposing even more skin below. He lifted his head, took one look at her half-closed eyes, the flower wreath, now askew . . . and he lost it.

He kissed her neck, then lower, her moans encouraging him as he pulled the fabric down to give him even greater access to—

“What the devil?”

The man’s voice behind him, so unexpected, put him immediately into a protective stance. Graeme pushed Gillian behind him and reached for his sword.