Page 80 of Laird of Secrets
“I do not want to be alone,” she whispered.
He sighed, sat again, took her hand. Warm, solid, firm. She sensed a fine tremor there, like contained passion. “Sleep, then. I will be just here.”
She began to protest, but curled away, not quite certain if she was rejected or protected. But she felt safe. And soon slept, falling faster than she expected.
In the night, she woke, her thoughts foggy, to find Dougal lying beside her in the darkness. His breathing was deep and even. Asleep, then. She curled against him, and he looped his arm around her. As she slid back into sleep, she felt his lips touch her hair.
Much later, she woke to gray light dissolving the darkness. The air was cool, and she shivered, turning. Dougal was gone, the bed cool where he had rested. She looked around the room.
He stood in shadow by the window, parting the curtain to stare out through the old glass. Quietly, Fiona slid from the bed, drawing the robe around her, and went to him. He held out an arm silently, drawing her to him. She stood beside him looking out over the silvery fog that blurred the hills in the moments before dawn.
“The day I met you,” she whispered, “those very hills were misted over. I thought you were one of the Fey, come for me.”
He laughed softly, kissed her hair. At that moment, she felt a powerful magic stir between them, a spell she could not resist. She turned to him, set her hands on his shoulders for a kiss. Her head no longer spun, but her heart turned within, moved by a depth of emotion—of love. Caught between sleeping and waking, like the veiled and misty world outside, time suspended, she knew what she wanted.
“My head is clear now,” she whispered.
“Is it?” he murmured against her lips. “So is mine.”
“I know what I want.” She framed his face in her hands, his whiskers rough under her fingers.
“And what is that?” He leaned down, lips tracing her brow, her cheek.
“Not to think. Not to talk,” she whispered. “Not to wonder what we should do, or should not do, what is proper and what is not.”
“This is not entirely proper,” he murmured against her hair. “Highland or Lowland, you know this obligates us to marry.”
She sucked in a breath. But she could not marry MacGregor of Kinloch. This fine, strong, wonderful man would not satisfy the conditions of her grandmother’s will. If she married him, she would risk her brothers’ inheritance. But if she gave up her own share—
That might do. She ducked her head down against Dougal’s shoulder for a moment, thoughtful, heart racing. It might indeed do, if she withdrew her interest in the will. Then she would not be bound by its conditions.
She could do what she wanted. Marry whom she wanted, have the life, and the love, she wanted, not dictated by others.
“Fiona?” His voice was a deep thrill against her ear.
She looked up, smiled. “This feels good to me. Proper. It feels right, and I do not want to talk of obligations.”
“But my girl, if we—“
“Hush,” she said, pressing tightly against him. His big hands warmed her waist and back, and pulled her against him; she could feel the hard shape of him. “Hush, Kinloch.”
Her heart was beating in a strong rhythm now, her body taking on a deep, irresistible, undeniable need. When he kissed her next, sweeping his hand down over the hem of the long shirt she wore, she grabbed the hem on impulse and lifted it for him.
She gasped as the cool air hit her skin, gasped at her own boldness as she raised up the shirt and tossed it aside. She caught her breath again, hearing his own breath catch, hearing his low growl as his hands warmed over her back, her hips. He was kissing her deeply now, hard and passionately as she tugged wildly at his shirt, wanting to feel his skin against hers, wanting to feed the urges that now made her heart pound, her body throb under every grazing touch.
Under her hands now, the breadth of his back and shoulders were velvet smooth and muscled hard, and as her hand met the woolen edge of his wrapped kilt, more boldness came over her, so that she pulled at it, so that his own hand met hers, slid it aside as he tugged at his kilt, unwrapped it. She touched his taut stomach, his hip, slid further. His hand met hers again, moved it aside.
“Not yet, love,” he murmured, and his lips found hers again, sudden and swift and hungry. All the while his hands shaped, teased, discovered softness and delicacy and warm readiness. Her knees faltered, and suddenly he swept her into his arms and carried her back to the bed, to the still-warm tumble of linens there. Stretching out with him in the cozy, curtained shadows, she waited as he tugged away what he wore, the cloth a muddle on the bed. She fell back into his arms, delighted, wanton, willing. All doubt had washed away as if by magic—she had hardly thought about it and it was gone, her desire and conviction certain.
She arched, caught her breath as hands and lips touched and traced, as fingers slipped downward, he finding her ready, delving to touch, so that a swift wave of blissful sensation rippled through her. She explored him, curious and keen, shaping him, finding warm velvet sheathed over iron. Her kisses took his groan into her lips. And then he half lifted her, turned her full to her back, pausing. Not hesitation, she realized, but a question. He waited in silence, breathing hard.
“Aye,” she whispered, and she shifted to open to him, while he pressed and moved, like hand into glove. The feeling was stunning, sharp for a moment, and she surged toward him, feeling a rhythm growing, subtle and then greater, a rocking, a swirl of joy. Without words, she felt loved. She felt loving, wanting him to feel the same wild heat and deep comfort that filled her.
Then he rolled with her, parted, lay beside her, held her warmly, silently, in his arms. Nestled against him, his breath gentle on her cheek, his body solid and safe, hers now as she was his, she closed her eyes.
“Fiona,” he whispered.
“Hush.” She set her fingers to his lips. “Or the magic will be gone.”
