“Now you try it.”
Whatever did he mean?
He took her hands, positioned them as his had been above her breasts, and began to rub her open palms over her nipples. “A woman can bring herself pleasure and sate her own desire, even when she is alone and wi’out a man.”
She wasn’t sure what shocked her more—his words or the sight of her hands touching her own breasts in such a fashion. Her insides quivered, and her nipples grew tighter, not seeming to know or care that she herself teased them now.
Behind her, Connor moaned, as if the sight of her touching herself aroused him, his lips pressing a kiss against her temple. Then he released her hands, sliding his fingertips down the length of her arms, his thumbs caressing the yellowing bruises at her wrists where Katakwa had so cruelly bound her, as if to ease the distress of that memory. Then he lifted one hand, pressed it palm to palm with hers.
His hands were not the soft, white hands of a nobleman, but dark and callused. There could be no doubt that his were the hands of a man who lived by his strength. “Your hands are so small compared to mine—so delicate.”
There was a note of awe in his voice, and some part of her reveled in the contrast, feeling intensely feminine. Then his hands sought her belly, moving in slow circles downward toward the hairless mound of her sex. And her anticipation grew.
But just when she thought he would touch her there, his hands moved off to caress her hips then her legs, his fingers tickling her inner thighs.
She whimpered, only to hear him chuckle softly.
“Patience, lass.”
He continued to caress the skin of her inner thighs until her legs parted of their own accord, the heat inside her now an ache. But still he did not touch her where she needed him most. And she realized he was teasing her, taunting her.
“Why, oh why, do you torment me?”
And it was torment, but sweet torment—excruciating and exquisite.
He chuckled. “The sharper the hunger, the more satisfyin’ the meal, aye?”
He reached down and caught her legs behind the knees, drawing her knees back and apart until her feet rested on his thighs. The only thing more shocking than the sight of herself so blatantly exposed was the pleasure she felt when, at last, he touched, her, cupping her sex with one big hand.
And Sarah realized her torment had only begun.
Connor couldn’t help but smile at Sarah’s frustration, knowing he had far more in store for her than she could imagine. He let his hand have its way with her, parting her full outer lips, gently stretching the delicate inner ones, caressing her little clitoris, until it began to swell and her hips began to move, her breathing turned to sighs.
Then he took her hand and, ignoring her shocked squeak, guided her so that she touched herself as he had touched her, the thought that she might live her life without a man to love her making him determined to teach her how to find release alone. “Can you feel how beautiful you are, Sarah? Can you feel how you swell and grow wet at my touch?”
“B-but I can’t touch—”
“You can.” He cut off her sputtered protest. “If you should find yourself in need, hungry for a man’s touch, dinnae be afraid to pleasure yourself.”
Slowly, her resistance faded. He watched her brow furrow, felt her fingers adjust beneath his, refining his motions, becoming his unwitting teacher as together they explored the secrets of her response. With his free hand, he delved deeper, found her entrance, and slid first one, then two fingers, inside her, moving them slowly in and out until he was tupping her good and hard.
Och, she was wet! So wet, so tight. Ready for him.
Her release was swift and shattering. She cried out, arched against him, the tight inner muscles clenching around his fingers. “Connor!”
He kept up the rhythm, the fingers of one hand inside her, the other twined with hers, caressing her swollen clitoris. Only when her peak had passed did he withdraw from her, trailing his sex-drenched fingers over her lower lip.
“Taste yourself.” When she hesitated, he raised them to his own mouth and sucked, unable to stifle a moan. “I love the way you taste, the way you smell.”
His hunger for her insatiable, he drew her beneath him, kissing her everywhere, marking the lush territory of her body forever as his. Her throat, the underside of her breasts, her nipples, her ticklish rib cage, her navel, her inner thighs.
She shivered, her breath coming in little gasps. But when he pressed his mouth to her sex, she froze. “Surely, you cannot mean to—”
“Aye, I do. You are so sweet, Sarah. Let me taste you.”
Not waiting for her answer, he lowered his head and kissed her, groaning at his first full taste of her, his tongue teasing the lips of her sex apart, then flicking her swollen bud. Then he drew that most sensitive part of her between his lips—and suckled.
She cried out, writhing against the bearskin, her breath coming in ragged pants. Still, he gave her no quarter, his lips and tongue relentless. She fisted her fingers in his hair, her cries mingling with his deep moans, her body nearing its peak again. Then he slid a finger inside her and thrust hard.
With a cry, she came against his mouth. He took her sweet nectar down his throat, until he was filled with the taste and scent of her. Then, unable to keep himself from her any longer, he raised himself up above her, wrapped her legs around his waist, his aching cock poised at her entrance. No longer afraid he might hurt her, he drove himself home with one slow thrust.
Och, she was impossibly tight, her wet heat gripping him hard, lust shearing through his gut at the hot, slippery feel of her. His gaze dropped to where their bodies joined, his cock buried inside her, her delicate inner lips clinging to his shaft as he moved in and out of her, her entrance stretched tight and glistening.
It was a mistake, the erotic sight of their union almost making him spend. But he would not come—not yet and not inside her.
He fought to loosen his muscles, to slow his breathing, willing his body to serve her pleasure. He would give her all the time she needed for another chance at bliss. Searching for the right rhythm, he adjusted his pace and knew he’d found it when her eyes drifted shut, her lips parting on a whimper. Then, remembering how sensitive her nipples were, he lowered his mouth to her breasts and suckled her.
She gasped, moaned his name, arched beneath him, her nails digging into his shoulders, her legs tightening around his waist, her sweet quim gripping him, stroking him, making his cods draw tight. He tried to hold back, but, och, she was beautiful, the look of carnal abandon on her sweet face making it impossible to think, the perfect feel of her beneath him more than he could withstand. And his own flesh betrayed him, heat building in his groin, his peak drawing perilously near.
Needing to slow himself down, he buried himself inside her and ground himself against her sex, the root of his cock rubbing her swollen little bud. She panted his name, each motion of his hips making her moan. And then her breath caught, and she cried out once more, arching off the bed as she came, her inner muscles clenching hard around him, her bliss his salvation.
And then no force on earth could have held him back.
He reached down with one hand, grasped her hips to change the angle, and drove into her hard, words spilling from his lips in an incoherent stream of Gaelic.
Och, she was so sweet, so tight, being inside her like heaven.
“Sarah! Och, Christ!” Almost beyond control, he withdrew from her, the shock of leaving her body making him groan, a muted release stuttering through him in frustrating jolts as he finished in his fist, his seed spilling harmlessly on her belly.
They slept after that, curled in each other’s arms. When they awoke, Sarah was ravenous. Connor took her out into the rain and showed her how to dig up potatoes, then he caught two sleepy trout, which he fried with the potatoes. As they ate, Sarah found herself unable to keep her gaze off him, the play of emotions on his handsome face, his stubble-dark jaw, the gleam in his eye all warming her
blood. She allowed herself to pretend for a few precious hours that she was his wife, that this was their home, that there was nothing beyond these four walls pressing down upon them.
After they’d eaten, Connor heated pail after pail of water, and they bathed together, soap sliding over soft, wet skin. He washed her hair, and she washed his, caressing his scalp, taking extra time at his nape and temples, watching as his eyes drifted shut, his long lashes dark against his sun-browned skin, the masculine lines of his face softened in repose. And as she cradled his head against her bare breast, she felt an unexpected pang of tenderness. Such moments of unguarded ease must surely be rare for him, this warrior who defied death each day. She found herself wanting to soothe his cares, to ease his burden as he had eased hers.
And it came to her as she stroked his wet hair that she would, indeed, never forget him, for she had fallen desperately in love with him.
She, Lady Sarah Woodville, great-granddaughter of His Majesty King George II, was in love with Connor MacKinnon, colonial Ranger and son of Jacobites.
On the heels of that realization came a rush of dread, for within three days at most they would reach the fort and be forever parted.
But not yet. Not yet!
Fighting panic, she forced the thought from her mind, pressed a kiss to his forehead, trying to memorize the details of his countenance, his scent, the feel of him against her, determined to make each one of those three precious days count.
All too soon, the water cooled. They rose, dried before the fire, dressed again. Sarah had just finished plaiting his warrior braids, when he stiffened, cocking his head as if he’d heard something she had not.
Heart thrumming, she watched as he reached for his musket and walked slowly toward the door, motioning for her to seek shelter near the bed. He had just set his hand upon the handle when there came a shout.
“Hallo in the house!”
Sarah watched as Connor cautiously opened the door, a look of surprise spreading across on his face when he looked outside. “So now you find us? All the fightin’ is done, lads.”
From outside she heard Joseph’s voice. “I found them encamped a few hours south of here. They passed about a mile east of us last night.”
Connor looked back over his shoulder at Sarah, a strange hollowness masking the disappointment in his eyes. “My men—the Rangers—they’ve arrived.”
And Sarah felt the bottom drop out of her heart.
The three precious days she thought she still had with him would never happen. The world had found them. Their time together was over.
Chapter 20
Feeling as if he’d just been kicked, Connor willed himself to shift his gaze from the shattered look on Sarah’s face to his men.
It was not the full strength of the Rangers that stood before him, but only about thirty men, those who’d been able to muster quickly. McHugh was there and Forbes. Killy and Dougie stood off to one side with young Jabez Fitch. Brendan had come, Conall and Angus beside him.
For the first time Connor did not feel uplifted to see their familiar faces, some part of him wanting to rage at Joseph for bringing the war to the cabin’s door. For a while today, for a few precious hours, Connor had let himself forget.
Yet, even to think such a thing felt akin to betrayal. To let the men wander needlessly through the perils of the forest would be to risk their lives to no purpose. They had come at his bidding as brothers-in-arms, ready to put their lives on the line for him once again. They were cold and hungry and tired from the march. He would not repay their loyalty with such thoughts.
Keeping his gaze off Sarah, he grabbed his bearskin coat and joined his men in the rain, shutting the door behind him. Many of them he’d not seen since before Yuletide.
“McHugh, I can see you’ve no’ gone hungry over the winter.” He eyed the wider girth of his lieutenant. A bear of a man, McHugh was the only Ranger taller than Connor.
McHugh laughed, his smile nearly hidden behind his bushy red beard. He patted his belly. “My goodwife kens how to cook, aye?”
Forbes was as lean as he was a tall, a long-limbed man who moved with astonishing gracefulness. His cool head in battle had earned him the rank of captain.
“Forbes.” Connor clapped him on the shoulder. “I’ve heard you’ve a new daughter. Felicitations! Does that make five or six bairns?”
“Two.” Forbes grinned. “Saints be praised the wee lass has her mother’s look about her and no’ mine.”
This made the men laugh.
Connor laughed, too, but there was no levity inside him, his heart still with Sarah inside the cabin.
You kent it wouldna last forever.
Aye, he had, but he hadn’t imagined their stolen time together would end so soon.
“You’re lookin’ hearty and hale, Killy.”
Killy was McHugh’s opposite, short for a man, all bone and sinew. But appearances could be deceiving, as anyone who faced Killy in battle soon learned. The Irishman was as tough as he was damnably stubborn. He’d spent much of the winter sick with fever but had clearly regained his strength.
His scarred face twisted in a wide grin at Connor’s greeting. “It seems the devil is no hurry to get his due. He refuses to take me, so he does.”
The men laughed.
Killy had more lives than a cat. He’d already survived being hanged, shot, scalped, and nearly gutted. It would take more than the griùrach—what the English called measles—to put him in his grave.
Connor pressed on. “Dougie, lad, what have you to say for yourself?”
But Dougie didn’t answer, his gaze fixed on the cabin door.
Connor turned and saw her.
Sarah stood in the doorway, chin high, looking every bit the English noblewoman, despite being clad in moccasins, leggings, a doeskin skirt, and his shirt. Though Connor knew she suffered every bit as much as he did, no trace of distress remained on her face, her private grief set aside. And his admiration for her grew.
He closed the distance between them, keeping his hands at his sides, afraid he’d reach out and touch her. “My lady, may I present MacKinnon’s Rangers—or some of them. They are good men and loyal-hearted and will escort us the remainder of the way to Fort Edward. If any men on earth can keep you safe, they will.”
She looked from man to man, a soft smile on her beautiful face. “Who has not heard of MacKinnon’s Rangers? My uncle has always praised you in his letters. I am grateful for your efforts on my behalf. I pray your path has not been a troubled one.”
Her words were gracious, but they were met with silence. And for a brief moment, Connor saw her through the eyes of his men. Beautiful she might be, and dressed in a way that provoked a man’s senses with her short skirt and long, unbound hair, but her bearing was undeniably aristocratic, her accent regally English. And she had just mentioned the one person on the earth the Rangers hated more than the wee German lairdie who sat upon the throne—Wentworth.
Killy bowed his head and tugged on his forelock. “Ma’am.”
The other men followed suit in twos and threes. “Ma’am.”
Connor saw the confusion on Sarah’s face and knew she sensed something was amiss.
Dougie spoke quietly in Gaelic. “She’s a sight fairer to behold than her uncle.”
And the men burst into laughter.
But Connor didn’t find it funny. Rage tangling with pity in his heart, he watched as Sarah took a step back from the doorway, knowing they were laughing about her, but not knowing why.
He turned to his men, spoke in Gaelic. “Watch your tongue, Dougie. I’ll not suffer any one of you to treat her ill. She is not to blame for the wrongs her uncle has done. She’s been through a terrible ordeal and yet shown great courage. You’ll treat her with the respect due her sex and her station—or I’ll ken the reason why.”
Some of the men had the good sense to show shame, their faces now downcast.
Killy, who’d always had a weakness for lasses, was the first to step
forward. “The name’s Killy, ma’am. God has shown you mercy this day by seein’ fit to put an Irishman in a company of ill-mannered Scots—idiots and louts every last one of them. I am sorry for your sufferin’. If there’s aught you need, call for Killy.”
Sarah’s lips curved in a hopeful smile. “You are most kind, Killy.”
From behind him Connor heard Joseph’s voice speaking in Mahican. “Do you remember how you spoke of her before you met her? Give them time. They will come to see her for who she is, just as you did.”
Connor hoped Joseph was right. “They treated Annie with respect, and she’s a hated Campbell. They doted upon Amalie, and she is French.”
“Yes, but both Iain and Morgan claimed their women. If you were to claim her as your wife, make her a MacKinnon—”
“You know I cannot do that.” Was Joseph daft?
“We will help her win their hearts. But look—some of them are already warming to her.”
Connor watched as Dougie stepped forward.
“If it please you, ma’am, I’m Dougie. Dinnae be fooled by Killy’s silver tongue. His heart’s so black, the devil willna let him die for fear he’ll defile hell.”
If Sarah was shocked by such profane speech, she hid it well.
“I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Dougie.” Her face brightened. “Are you the Ranger with the violin…the fiddle?”
“Aye.” Dougie’s stood taller. “So Connor spoke to you of my playin’, did he?”
Sarah smiled. “Yes, he did. Do you have your fiddle with you?”
“In my pack?” Dougie chuckled. “Nay! If you wish to hear me play, you’ll have to wait till we return to Ranger Island.”
Sarah smiled as if she were looking forward to this, but Connor knew she didn’t want to hear Dougie play nearly so much as she wished to play herself.
Connor took a deep breath and spoke what was in his heart, knowing Joseph would share it with no one. “I fear the hardest part of this mission is upon me, for now I must feign that she means nothing to me.”