Page 38 of A Virgin for the Vicious Highlander
He had never liked to work with his shirt on, feeling like it got in the way as he tapped the details into the sculptures.
Her throat bobbed as she backed up to the door. “She said ye were keepin’ it secret. She said ye hadnae announced it yet, then I heard her faither say he was goin’ to mention it to ye. It doesnae sound untrue to me.”
“Tara saidIwas her betrothed? She named me?” Murdoch was strangely curious to hear the answer as he moved ever closer to her.
He could not help it. He was ‘the Beast,’ and she was the little rabbit that had cornered herself. How could he resist?
Cecilia hesitated, furrowing her brow as she looked away from him. “Well… nay, but it couldnae be anyone but ye.”
“Aye, MacGill mentioned me reconsiderin’ marriage to her,” Murdoch growled, hooking his hand under her chin and raising her gaze to his. “And I kicked him out of me study with the rest of the councilmen for darin’ to suggest it.”
She blinked up at him. “But?—”
“But nothin’, lass.” He rolled his tongue across his lower lip, ravenous for her. “I’ve never cared a jot for Tara. She’s nae even a good scribe. Unfortunately for her faither, me taste in lasses has grown very specific over the past few days.”
Her breath hitched. “Oh?”
“Dinnae ‘oh’ me now, lass.” He bent his head, bringing his lips to within a breath of hers. “What was that ye were sayin’ about punishment? What wouldyesay the punishment should be for another false accusation?”
Her chest rose and fell frantically, her eyes shining with a reflected hunger. He knew it should have bothered him that she was not afraid, but her fear was not what he wanted. Yes, he wanted her screaming, but in a very different way.
“Well?” he prompted, his hand sliding down her chin to wrap around her throat.
He applied the faintest amount of pressure and relaxed his fingers again, resisting the urge to groan in the back of his throat as her breath caught—a gasp of anticipation that sank into his veins, possessing him with a madness that only the taste of her would satisfy.
She said nothing, prompting him to try something else.
Sliding his hand further down to her bosom, he grabbed the neckline of her dress and tore it without effort. Her gasp was louder this time, and as he lowered his head and took her pert nipple in her mouth, he sucked hard. She bucked away from the door, her hands shooting out to grasp his arms, her fingernails sinking into his flesh.
Better…
Releasing her nipple, he bit down on the supple flesh of her breast. Not hard enough to break the skin, but enough to strike a fragile balance between pleasure and pain. A visceral display of what he wanted to do to her—that devouring her body and soul would be the only suitable punishment for her accusation.
She cried out, her voice cracking as she murmured, “Nay, Murdoch!”
He pulled back sharply, staring at her in concern. For though his tastes were particular, he was not someone who enjoyed a woman without her consent. Certainly not a sorceress like Cecilia.
“The dress,” she panted, clutching at his shirt to pull him back to her. “It’s nae mine. Ye cannae tear it. Yer maither… lent it to me.”
He let out a sigh of relief. “A pity ye had such a mishap on yer bedchamber door. I’ll have a guard come and fix the rusty nail there tomorrow.”
She frowned, and then her eyes widened in understanding. “A pity, indeed,” she whispered. “I like… this dress.”
“I dinnae,” he grunted, sliding his arm around her waist and pulling her away from the door.
He walked backward, holding her, until the back of his calves touched the three-legged stool he had vacated. Keeping her guessing, he let go of her and quickly moved behind her.
Taking a step backward, he took in the shape of her figure and the sculpture beyond her, noting where the waist was too wide and the swell of her hips did not slope at quite the right angle. But, of course, he could not be entirely sure of the details while she still wore that dress, and he was nothing if not a perfectionist when it came to his sculptures.
“What are ye doin’?” she asked in a breathy voice.
“Thinkin’ of what to do with ye, to ensure ye never falsely accuse me again,” he replied, closing the gap between them once more.
CHAPTER 17
Cecilia gazedat the beautiful creation in front of her, so strange and ethereal and awe-inspiring that she could not believe it had been crafted with Murdoch’s hands. What had once been a solid block of marble, half her height, was transforming into a woman. Half a woman.
Murdoch’s hands rested on her hips, his body pressing lightly against hers. “Do ye remember what I said to ye in the huntin’ cabin?”
