Page 81 of A Rogue in Moonlight
“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, or what is proper or not.”
“This is not entirely proper,” he murmured against her hair. “Highland or Lowland, you know this obliges us to marry.”
She sucked in a breath. But she could not marry MacGregor of Kinloch. This fine, strong, wonderful man did not satisfy the conditions of her grandmother’s will. A wealthy Highlander he was not, nor did she care about that in the least.
But marriage to him would jeopardize her brothers’ inheritance. She could not do that. Then it struck her. If she gave up her share, withdrew from the will—that might do. She ducked her head against Dougal’s shoulder for a moment, thoughtful, heart racing.
It might indeed do to withdraw her interest in the will. Then she would not be bound by its legal conditions. Then she could do what she wanted. Marry whom she wanted, have the life, the love, she craved, 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 feelsright, and I do not want to talk of obligations.”
“But lass, if we—”
“Hush,” she said, pressing tightly against him. His big hands warmed her waist and back, pulled her against him. She could feel the hard shape of him. “Hush, Kinloch.”
Her heart was beating 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 now 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, “we—”
“Hush.” She set her fingers to his lips. “Or the magic will be gone.”
“Ah, but love makes its own magic, so I have heard.” He kissed her brow and murmured something under his breath that made her heart soar.
*
“Are you goingpast the laird’s tower this early morning? I will walk with you,” Mary MacIan said. “Perhaps we will see the Laird of Kinloch when we go by.” The old woman smiled mischievously.
Blushing, turning away, Fiona picked up her books and papers, ready to walk to the glen school for morning lessons. Two days had passed since she had lain in Dougal’s arms, two days of dreaming and remembering so that her cheeks still heated pink at the thought ofhim, the mention of his name. “I am in a hurry to get to school this morning.”
“Ah,” Mary said knowingly.
Glancing away, Fiona felt sure Mary had guessed something had happened between the teacher and the laird. She had acted cool and detached, and had deliberately avoided seeing Dougal MacGregor, afraid that her feelings might shine in her eyes, and some might realize that she loved the glen’s laird.
Because of her grandmother’s will, there could be no future with him unless she gave up her share in favor of her brothers, and even that was not certain. MacGregor was not the wealthy Highlander she had been directed to find in order to receive the inheritance and he never would be. She did not mind. But she should explain it, should be truthful with Dougal. But for now, perhaps his mention of marriage was past and done. It was unlikely for a Lowland girl to expect a marriage offer from a Highland smuggler. She had done what she had done, and would not regret it.
For now, she only wanted to treasure what was in her heart. Too soon she would more than likely lose him to circumstances. She had lost her first love, dear Archie, and never wanted to endure that pain again. But that sweet, young affection had been nothing like the passionate, soul-deep feeling that had overtaken her so recently.
Truly, she did not know what to do, what to say to MacGregor, what to expect.
