Defiant

  Overwhelmed by the pain in her chest, Sarah wept.

  Struggling to master his rage, Connor drew Sarah into his arms, led her to the bed, and held her. She pressed her face against his chest, her hands fisting in the cloth of his shirt, her body trembling and racked by sobs. He held her tight, kissed her hair, wishing he could tell her that all would be well. But that would be a lie.

  Her life would never be the same.

  Though a man could sire bastards, break the bonds of marriage, and pay whores to service his lust, the world did not easily forgive such transgressions in women. And yet fornication, adultery, and harlotry were nothing compared to the wrong of which Sarah’s parents and all of London seemed to believe her guilty. Connor knew little about London society, but men who were found to lie with men were hanged for it. The matrons of London were right. If her father did manage to find her a nobleman willing to take her to wife—and there was surely little chance of that—the man would be so desperate for coin that his greed overthrew his desire for a respectable wife.

  Rage, dark and venomous, surged through Connor to think of a woman as beautiful, passionate, and gifted as Sarah forced to live out her life either childless and alone or locked in a loveless marriage with some feckless lord who’d wed her only for her father’s wealth. She deserved the love of a good man and the joy of children. The poor lass had been condemned for something she hadn’t done, while Lady Margaret…

  Connor felt pity for her. She’d fallen in love with Sarah and kept her longing to herself, knowing that Sarah did not share her desire. But her most private thoughts and yearnings had been stolen and exposed to the world, bringing about Sarah’s utter ruination.

  ’Twas no wonder she’d ended her life.

  But who had stolen the journal? Whoever it was, man or woman, Connor condemned that person to the darkest reaches of hell.

  The only wrong that Sarah had done in all of this was to deceive her parents, but Connor could not fault her for that. Her father was a weak man who didn’t know how to protect his own daughter, her mother a vain, self-righteous bitch. Both of them had believed the worst about their daughter, the accusations against her wounding their overweening pride, blinding them to the truth of her innocence.

  Oh, how Connor would like to take a leather strap to their hides!

  Sarah was no tribade. Even if she had been, Connor would not have scorned her. But Sarah’s only unusual passion was for music. For that she had already suffered so much—the disdain of her family, beatings, exile. Yet fate had been no kinder to her here. She’d been taken captive by the Shawnee, beaten again, forced to trade her virginity for her freedom.

  And Connor found himself wishing he could take it all away.

  In his arms, Sarah had begun to quieten, sobs turning to sniffs and hiccups. He pressed his lips to her hair, breathed in the sweet, clean scent of her, ignoring the heat in his blood.

  “You…You do not despise me?” She looked up at him, her cheeks wet, her eyes glittering and filled with doubt.

  “Nay, Princess.” He wiped the tears from her cheeks with his thumb. “I am sorry for all you have suffered—and for Lady Margaret’s sufferin’, too.”

  “And you believe me? I swear I did not pose naked, nor am I…whatever they say I am.”

  “Aye, I believe you.” A woman who’d lain with another woman would ken more about her own body than Sarah did, and when she kissed him, Sarah’s passion was real. “You and Margaret were both betrayed—she by the thief who stole her journal, and you by your parents.”

  Anger flashed in Sarah’s eyes. “My parents are good, Christian people.”

  “They dinnae deserve a daughter such as you, Sarah. Your father is a marquess. He has the power to shape men’s opinions. Had he but had the cods for it, he could have taken your part in this, declaring your innocence before all of London and telling those gabbie matrons that his daughter was so fair and gifted that even women desired her. There’d have been suitors aplenty at your door. And your mother…” Connor gave a snort. “’Tis vanity, not righteousness, that drives her to control her daughters so, your piety merely a way to flaunt her own.”

  Sarah stared up at him through wide eyes, clearly shocked by his words. She hopped to her feet, took several quick steps. “You should not presume to judge them, Major.”

  “Major” again.

  Connor rose, crossed the short distance between them. “Now I’ve gone and made you angry, when I’d hoped to give you comfort. Och, Sarah.”

  He turned her to face him, drew her into his arms again. But rather than comforting her, as he’d intended, he found himself kissing her. It was a gentle kiss, lips brushing against lips, featherlight touches, the tip of his tongue teasing the corners of her mouth.

  She melted against him, her arms encircling his neck. “Do you not see why I wished tonight to be our wedding night once more? Once I return, I doubt I shall be with a man again.”

  Something twisted in Connor’s chest, and he understood.

  “You wish to defy your fate.” He knew only too well what it was to be bound to a fate not of one’s own choosing. Och, aye, he did. “If this is truly what you want, Sarah…”

  She drew back and looked up into his eyes. “You told me that as long as I was with you, I was free to choose. I choose you.”

  Connor’s heart gave an extra beat. “So be it.”

  Chapter 18

  Sarah stared into Connor’s eyes, watched them go dark, her pulse skipping.

  “Och, Sarah.” He brushed her lips with his, his kiss soft as a whisper. “Tonight, I’ll show you the richness of a man’s loving. I’ll make you forget London and the feckless suitors who deserted you. I’ll do my best to make tonight last a lifetime. In the years to come, when you lie alone in your bed and the night grows long and bitter, remember how it felt when I held you, kissed you, made you mine.

  “Remember this night. Remember me.”

  Then his mouth closed over hers in a slow, languorous kiss, scattering her thoughts, warming her blood, leaving her breathless and shaking. When at last he broke the kiss, she couldn’t help but whimper in protest.

  He pressed his forehead to hers. “There’s naugh’ to fear, Sarah. This willna be as it was last time.”

  “I—I’m not afraid.”

  “Then why do you tremble?” His fingers traced circles along her spine.

  “You. You make me tremble.”

  His lips curved in a slow grin that lit a fire in her belly, his fingers dropping to the buttons on her shirt, slowly unbuttoning it until it fell to the floor. “When I first saw you dressed as a Shawnee bride, I was furious, for I kent how ashamed you must feel to be walkin’ about wi’ your breasts bared. Even so, I couldna help but desire you. Your breasts are beautiful, Sarah. See how they fill my hands?”

  She felt the warmth of his touch and looked down, watching while he shaped her, squeezing and molding her gently, her skin white against his big, sun-browned hands. He teased her nipples into tight points with the thick pads of his thumbs, each flick making her womb tighten. There was something desperately intimate about watching as he brought her pleasure, sharing her body’s response with him and knowing it aroused him, too.

  “Connor.”

  But then his hands slid their way down her sides, past the hollow of her waist, to the curve of her hips. He grasped the leather ties of her doeskin skirt and gave a sharp tug. The garment fell to her feet, leaving her body bared to his gaze.

  The breath left his lungs in a rush, and he took a step back as if to give himself a better view, his gaze sliding over her like a caress. And for a moment, he stared at her. “Och, Sarah, how shall I call augh’ beautiful again unless it be the sight of you?”

  Her heart soared to hear his words. Fighting the urge to cover herself, she bore the heat of his perusal, watching the play of emotions on his face—approval, yearning, male hunger. Her breathing became more rapid, butterflies fluttering in her stomach at the thought of what she ha
d set in motion. But she did not regret having asked him to make love to her. “Now I should undress you.”

  She heard the words, but could scarce believe she’d spoken them. Where had she come by such boldness?

  His gaze met hers, and he held his arms out at his sides, leaving himself open to her. “Do as you will. I am yours.”

  Acutely conscious of the fact that she was naked and that Connor’s gaze was still upon her, she began to unbutton his shirt. But where his fingers had been skillful, hers were clumsy, her hands shaking. One by one, she loosed the buttons, the homespun cloth sliding over his broad shoulders and falling to the puncheon floor to reveal plains and ridges of muscle, dark nipples, and smooth tanned skin. The cut she’d stitched was healing, the graze on his shoulder, too, these and his other scars awakening tenderness inside her—and making her aware of him not only as a man, but also a warrior. And her desire for him grew.

  Unable to stop herself, she ran her hands slowly over his bare chest and belly, tracing his flat nipples with her thumb, his muscles like carven marble beneath her palms, his skin soft and warm. She reached for the leather thong that bound one of his shell armbands.

  He stopped her. “My wampum stays on. ’Tis a part of me.”

  So that’s what those bands of shells were called—wampum.

  She brushed her fingers lightly over the wampum, then knelt down, drew off his moccasins, and removed his leggings one leg at a time. Unlike her father, Connor had no need of padding to make his calves seem shapely, his muscles full and strong, the rasp of his body hair a contrast to the softness of his skin.

  Now only his breeches remained.

  Still on her knees, she looked up the length of him, her gaze passing over muscular thighs wrapped in soft leather, over the bulge at his groin, over his bare chest and belly to his face—and she felt her heart skip. His blue eyes were the color of midnight, and there was something wild in his gaze, a fire burning inside him that sent awareness skittering through her.

  Pulse tripping, she stood, took the ties of his breeches in her trembling hands, and tugged, exposing dark curls and the thick root of his sex. The butter-soft leather clung so tightly to his body that she had to peel it from his skin, pushing it down over firm buttocks and powerful thighs until he, too, stood naked.

  “If it’s the sight of me you’re after, then look your fill, lass.”

  And, almost unable to breathe, Sarah stared.

  From the hips up, he looked much like Margaret’s sketches of ancient Greek sculptures, his warrior’s body as beautifully carved, but shaped from warm, sun-browned skin and muscle, not cold, lifeless marble.

  But his sex…

  It was much larger than that of any statue she’d seen. As she watched, it lengthened, filled, rising from a thatch of dark hair, skin slowly drawing back to reveal a thick purplish tip that thrust like a crown from its blue-veined shaft, a small slit in its center. And then it stood erect, pressing against the muscles of his belly. Beneath, his stones hung, full and heavy and covered in dark curls.

  The sight of him, so primal, so fiercely male, roused her more than she could have imagined. She felt her insides clench, her breath catching when she remembered that this part of him had already been inside her. “Now I can understand why it was so painful.”

  He ran a knuckle over her cheek. “Tonight, there will be only pleasure.”

  She shivered.

  Connor took Sarah’s hand, drew her down beside him on the bearskin, determined to be the man she needed him to be. He looked down at her, saw anticipation twined with apprehension in her eyes. But he knew only one way to rid her of her fear.

  He lowered his head and kissed her, playing with her mouth, teasing her tongue with his, stroking the softness of her inner cheeks. He savored the feminine feel of her, inhaled her sweet scent, feeling a surge of satisfaction at her little gasp when he sucked her lower lip into his mouth and nipped it.

  She whimpered, arched into him, her fingers sliding into his hair to draw him closer, her lips pressing hard against his, her tongue defying him, teasing him, making its own demands. He yielded mastery of the kiss to her, then took it back, yielded, then took it back, until the kiss became a clash of lips, teeth, and tongues, their bodies rolling on the soft fur, legs tangled, eager hands seeking soft skin.

  And Connor was lost, nothing in his world but Sarah—no war, no Wentworth, nothing beyond the walls of this cabin.

  He rolled onto his back, taking her with him, settling her astride him. He chuckled at the surprise and confusion on her face as she found herself on top, then took her hands and pressed her palms against his chest. “Now we can touch each other, see each other.”

  He saw the moment she understood, her expression shifting from surprise to naked feminine hunger. Wanting her to feel at ease, he let her have her way with him, her hesitant study of his body growing bolder. She flicked his nipples with her thumbs, palmed his pectoral muscles, ran her fingers over his scars, traced the lines of his warrior marks, felt the ridges of his belly, her touch spreading fire over his skin, making his breath catch and his belly tense.

  Then she grasped his erect cock in her hand, feeling her way up the length of him to the engorged tip, caressing it with her thumb. She ran a finger over the slit, felt with one fingertip beneath the thick edges of the head, her tentative touch infuriatingly arousing.

  “Och, Sarah, you’re drivin’ me mad.”

  His words seemed to make her bolder still. She cupped his cods, felt the stones inside, as if testing their weight in her hands. Then she grasped his cock, and she began to move her hand in tentative rhythm up and down from the straining tip to the root. His belly jerked, his cock growing harder at her unpracticed touch.

  God’s love, she was beautiful—achingly feminine, innocently erotic. Her lips were wet and swollen from their kisses, her tangled hair all but concealing her breasts, the hairless cleft of her sex parted just enough to reveal her rosy inner lips.

  She met his gaze, a blush in her cheeks. “The way you look at me—I feel I’m being watched by a great, purring beast who suffers me to touch him only because he knows he shall soon devour me.”

  Connor grinned. “Och, but I shall devour you, Sarah.”

  He reached up, pushed her hair behind her shoulders, and cupped her breasts, her nipples like puckered velvet against his palms. He pinched them, rolled them between his fingers, tugged at them, watching as her eyes closed and her lips parted. Her head fell back on a moan, the motion forcing her breasts deeper into his hands.

  Reining in his own need, he reached down with one hand to caress her sex. He explored her slowly, watching the changing expressions on her face as his fingers worked, listening to every catch of her breath and every whimper, feeling her body’s every quiver. He’d never wanted to please a woman more than he wanted to please her.

  Fate had given him this one chance to take away the pain he’d caused her, one chance to show her loving between a man and a woman as it was meant to be, one chance to give her a lifetime’s worth of memories to comfort her on lonely nights.

  He would not fail her.

  Her core radiated heat against his cock, her wetness making him slick. Then she began to move, her hips thrusting instinctively against the pressure of his hand, seeking relief, each motion of her hips making her swollen sex grind against the head of his cock, the slippery friction nearly driving him daft. She’d been terrified on their wedding night, but she was not terrified now. Her eyes were closed, her lips parted, soft whimpers giving way to breathy moans as her passion grew, the musky scent of her arousal filling his head.

  And he knew she was ready for him.

  Slowly, he sat, drawing her against his chest so that they were face-to-face, her gaze almost even with his, her hands resting on his shoulders, her legs straddling his hips. Then he reached down to adjust his cock so that it was poised at her slick entrance.

  “Take me inside you, Sarah. Go as fast or as slow as you choose.”
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  He felt a shiver run through her, sensed her hesitation, her fear.

  She seemed to quit breathing, lowering herself slowly onto him until the head of his cock just nudged inside her, her gasp mingling with his groan. Then she withdrew, as if afraid it would hurt to take him any deeper.

  He fought the urge to thrust, holding himself still beneath her, brushing his lips over hers. “Only pleasure. I promise.”

  Again and again she lowered herself upon him, taking a bit more of him each time. It was torture to enter her like this, inch by slow, slick inch. His body shook, sweat beading on his chest as he struggled to restrain himself.

  Still, Connor couldn’t deny the masculine gratification he felt watching her, seeing the effect he had upon her—her soft moans, her body’s tremors, the hunger on her face. And just when he thought he would go daft, she lifted her hips once more, then slid down the entire length of him until he was sheathed deep inside her, the tip of his cock touching her womb.

  Connor couldn’t help but moan, the sensation staggering. But tonight was for her. He ruthlessly beat back his own need. “Does it hurt, Princess?”

  She answered with a breathless moan, her eyes drifting shut, her breasts rising and falling with each rapid breath, her nails digging into his shoulders, ten little points of pain. But it was the kind of pain Connor savored, for it signaled her delight.

  He kissed her eyelids open, cupped her face between his palms, looking deep into her eyes. “Remember this, Sarah. Remember me.”

  * * *

  Sarah’s throat grew tight, Connor’s words putting a bittersweet ache in her chest. How could she ever forget this night? How could she ever forget this man, this warrior who had risked his life to save hers, this Ranger who protected her, believed her, cared for her when her own family did not?