Page 63 of Laird of Twilight
“There are consequences,” he began.
“We can think about that later,” she whispered.
* * *
Elspeth drew James down with her to the soft plaids that she had spread on the floor. She knew there could be consequences, and she was stepping with him far past compromise. But for now, her pulsing, yearning body spoke most clearly, and she felt, deeply and surely, that this was right, and needed by both of them. Here in her own space, they would not be disturbed. Her grandfather would be weaving without stopping until dawn.
She knelt to face James, looped her arms around his neck. He streamed his fingers through her hair, cupped her face in his hands, then leaned to kiss her with a tenderness that made her ache with desire, with love. His lips traced along her cheek, her ear. He took her full into his arms.
“Elspeth,” he whispered. “What is this, between us?” His lips traced, touched.
She melted, closed her eyes, resisted the urge to say what came to her.I love you. I want you to love me.“I want...to feel what we felt the other night. Only that, before you leave for Struan House, and then for the south.”
“No matter where I go,” he murmured, “we can see each other when we want.”
“But not alone, as we are now,” she answered, touching his jaw, his beard like sand under her fingers. “Not where we may do as we will.”
He groaned softly, soothed a hand over her shoulder, over her braid, loosening the thick plait to spill down her back. Shivers cascaded through her. Returning his kiss, feeling the hard warmth of his body through the fabric of her nightgown, she pressed close. Her heart thudded against his as she pulled at his sleeves, urged him out of his coat. He tossed that aside, and dropped her shawl away, another plaid for the nest that cushioned them.
Kisses plummeted through her, took her breath. She fit her body to his, deliciously, savoring his smooth gliding touch down her throat, breasts. She tightened for him, tingled under his fingers, arched to ask for more. She felt as if she might do anything he asked.
Anything but marry him.
The thought made her hesitate. She ducked her head away. What was the meaning of this, then, if she would not marry him? It might be the last chance to be in his arms—he might leave, never return. Only a fool of a girl would refuse him, but she had no choice. Leave it be, then.
Surrendering to renewed kisses, she decided to find joy in this now, and give that to him. Sliding her fingers through his thick, wavy hair as he dipped down to kiss her breast, she gasped softly, and then slid her hand inside his shirt, smoothing over his warm, firm skin, finding his thundering heartbeat, resting there.
Tugging aside her gown, he touched his lips, so warm and moist, to her breast, to the tightening pearl there, and a shot like lightning went through her. She moved, melted with urgency, willing him to more as his fingers glided lower, as a raw need pulsed through her.
I love you, will marry you—the words were desperate on her lips.Yet she held back, let her body say what she dare not. If she committed to that dream, then all that she had to protect would be vulnerable.
As he sank down with her to the thick bed of plaids, breast and chest, hip to hip, as he slid his hand under her gown, she tugged at his shirt, encouraged him. She could not get enough of this, of his touch, his closeness, her body yearning. She could feel the hardness of him against her, could feel the moment when passion replaced thought, wildness displaced logic. Buttons cloth fell away, fabric was pushed aside, hands were warm and rousing and comforting beyond reason. She found the length of him, like warm velvet over iron, and she shaped him with her hand, moved boldly against him, felt him groan against her lips.
“Love me,” she said, without thought, breathing it out.
“I do,” and his voice was gruff, breath mingling with hers, hands skimming.
I do too,she thought in silence, letting her body ask as his hand skimmed, found, delved, just there, as she gasped. He covered her cry with his lips. Burning, melting, under his intimate, fiery, blissful touch, she explored his warm, wonderful length, until a spark caught within her like a flame, and she rocked in a rhythm and went shimmering into the aching, surprising magic of it.
He kissed her, guided her hand to touch him as well, stroke and rock and release. She gave a little sob against the warmth of his shoulder, feeling something blooming, and something missing, all at once. “I wanted—I thought we both—”
“My love,” he whispered, drawing back, “if we did all we wanted, we would have a wedding quick, whether or not you want it, aye so?”
He drew her gown to cover her, dabbed at moisture, kissed her simply. She felt his very spirit pull away from her, felt his solitary nature take over. Sighing, she curled under a plaid, closed her eyes, gathered herself to herself.
He was right. He was wise. But she ached, yearned, needed.
In a moment she stood, legs all trembly, feeling a mix of contentment and heartache. Dragging her rumpled arisaid around her, she turned. He was dressed now, shrugging into his coat in the darkness. He took her hand, pulled her to him.
She rested her head against his shoulder. He kissed her hair.
“I mean to marry you, Elspeth MacArthur,” he said quietly. “You know that.”
She nodded. “Leave it be, do,” she whispered. “I have my reasons.” She could not look at him for fear of surrendering. A voice inside her said this could all be resolved, she could be happy. But she could not listen to it. Not yet.
James nodded too and went to the door. “So be it. I will not ask again.”
“James,” she said quickly. He grew still. “If I ever marry, it would be to you.”
