Surrender

  William hoped for the latter.

  Chapter 23

  Annie sat before the fire in her shift, combing her nearly dry hair, trying to pull the pieces of herself together—or keep them from falling apart. Though she’d taken a bath—thanks to Brendan, who’d carried water for her—she could not seem to feel clean again. She could still mark the soldier’s hands upon her, smell his rancid breath, hear his hate-filled voice in her mind.

  I don’t think a cup of tea will help me quite as much as your tight little cunnie.

  She’d been through far worse, hadn’t she? Aye, she had. But perhaps that was part of it. Since the night Uncle Bain had killed her mother, there’d been no solid ground beneath her feet, no safe haven. Nothing had been certain. There’d been nothing upon which she could depend.

  Except for Iain and his Rangers.

  She’d already lost Iain. And now she was going to lose the friendship of his men. Either the soldier who’d attacked her would reveal her secret to Lord William or Iain would. Word of her true name would spread, and the same men who’d been so kind to her these past weeks would scorn her. She would lose the few friends she had. She would be alone again.

  She’d been afraid Lord William would use the incident as an example of why she could not work in the hospital or stay at Fort Edward. She’d been more afraid the redcoat who’d attacked her would immediately reveal what he’d seen, leading Lord William to question her or perhaps even call for Dr. Blake to examine her. But so far, neither of these calamities had come to pass. Lord William had been the perfect gentleman, showing her every courtesy as she’d recounted the horrible ordeal to him, assuring her the soldier who’d attacked her would receive his just reward, even insisting she rest awhile in the guest chambers upstairs. And, seemingly, her attacker had said nothing, perhaps because he didn’t know her brand was a secret or perhaps because he knew admitting he’d seen it would confirm his guilt and lead to the gallows.

  And so she’d gotten to the end of this day. But how was she to live with this for the rest of her life—this constant dread, this uncertainty, this loneliness? Could she truly hope to escape forever the fate Uncle Bain had thrust upon her?

  It gave her some comfort to be in Iain’s cabin, surrounded by his belongings, his scent. Brendan had told her that most scouting trips to Ticonderoga lasted six days. That meant there was a chance Iain would be back tonight. Though she knew she could not expect his affection, at least she would know he was safe.

  The door flew open with a crash, swinging back so hard it hit the wall.

  Annie gasped, leapt to her feet, heart thudding.

  He filled the doorway.

  “Iain!” The rush of joy she felt at seeing him alive and safe drove her fears and sorrows away. “You’re back! You’re safe!”

  His hair was damp, his face clean-shaven, his eyes dark as his gaze raked over her.

  She shivered.

  Without looking away, he shouted over his shoulder to a Ranger passing by. “McHugh, tell Morgan he’s in command. There’s a lead ball in my pistol for any man who disturbs me tonight.”

  “Aye, Mack.”

  Then he shut the door behind him and drew in the string.

  ’Twas then she noticed the expression on his face—hard, brooding, angry.

  A bolt of fear quivered through her. “I-Iain?”

  Had six days in the wild not even taken the edge off his anger with her?

  He strode slowly toward her, lifting his shirt over his head and tossing it aside as he walked. “Do you ken the ancient history of the Highlands, Annie?”

  She felt a fluttering in her belly and took an involuntary step backward, afraid but helpless to tear her gaze away from his wine-red nipples or the dark curls of his chest. “Aye.”

  His hands dropped to his waist, and quickly he removed his weapons and set them on the table—two pistols and a hunting knife. “Then you’ve heard the stories of Highland lairds and what they did when the woman they wanted was claimed by another.”

  She looked into his eyes, wondered why he was saying this. “Aye.”

  “What did they do, lass?” He stood before her now, overpowering her with his presence.

  “Iain, why . . . ?” But her words died when his hands moved to the fall of his breeches.

  “They took them by force and claimed them for themselves.”

  In a single, deft motion, he loosed the ties, peeled the soft leather from his hips, and slid it down his corded thighs. His sex was huge, rising thick and hard from a nest of dark curls to stand against the ridges of his belly. Beneath, his stones hung, full and heavy.

  She had never seen that part of a man’s body before, not in this state. And although his carnal beauty stirred her deeply, she was astonished to think anything that big could fit inside a woman without hurting her.

  And then it struck her.

  He intended to put that inside her.

  Her heart tripped, and her mouth went dry.

  By the time he’d kicked his moccasins aside, and his breeches with them, her breath was coming in pants, and she was trembling. “Y-you . . . you mean to . . . to bed me.”

  “Clever lass.” He took a lock of her hair between his fingers, held it to his nostrils, inhaled. “You’ve washed his scent off you.”

  The soldier. He must be speaking of the soldier who’d tried to rape her. Somehow, despite the wild racing of her pulse and her breathlessness, she found the will to answer. “I—I tried.”

  “Good. I’ll be damned before I share you wi’ another man.”

  She had just enough time to wonder how he could feel jealous of the man who’d attacked her before he crushed her against him, captured her lips with his, and forced his tongue deep into her mouth.

  This was no tender lover’s kiss. It was urgent, rough, brutish.

  Somehow it was perfect.

  Oh, how she wanted him! How she needed him!

  Annie moaned into his mouth and found herself kissing him back, the turmoil of the past six days and the lingering horror of the attack burning away and leaving her with a passion every bit as desperate and demanding as his.

  Her tongue fought with his, claiming his mouth even as he claimed hers. She stole his breath, even as he took hers. Her hands searched over him, feasting on the steel of his muscles and the velvet of his skin, even as his hands roamed over her.

  “You’re mine, Annie.” His voice was ragged, his breath hot against her throat, the nip of his teeth even hotter as he tasted the sensitive skin beneath her ear.

  She reveled in the possessiveness of his words, gave up her throat to his bite, every feminine instinct inside her urging her to surrender. Then his fists bunched between her breasts. She felt a tug, heard the linen of her shift tear. The cloth fell away like a whisper, leaving her naked in his embrace.

  “Oh!” She gasped, stunned by the sweet rasp of his chest hair against her nipples, by the searing heat of his sex pressed against her belly, by the rough caress of his callused palms on her shoulders, her back, the curve of her hip. Her knees turned to water, and she sagged against him, whimpering.

  With a groan, he cupped her bare buttocks, lifted her hard against him, and carried her the few steps to his bed, following her down onto the softness of the bearskin.

  A voice in her mind wondered dimly why he was doing this now, but she brushed the question aside. She didn’t care. He made her forget. He made her feel clean again. And as he trailed scorching kisses down her throat to her breasts, she was certain she’d waited for this moment her entire life.

  Feeling every bit the Highland savage, Iain could not get enough of the woman who trembled and whimpered in his arms. He’d meant to punish her with his lust, to drive any thoughts of Wentworth from her mind, to claim her once and for all as his own. But she was more than his match. Her ardent response provoked him. Her gentle acquiescence inflamed him. The musky scent of her need drove him mad.

  He lifted his head, drank in the sight of her, and was
struck almost senseless by her beauty, his erection swelling to painful fullness. Her eyes were squeezed shut, her golden hair spread across the dark bearskin like sunlight. Her skin glowed pink with arousal. Her nipples were drawn into tight, pink crests—buds that, like the ripest fruit, demanded his mouth.

  With a hungry moan, he ducked his head, licked one, cupping and molding the fullness of her breasts with his hands. He heard her breath catch, felt her body jerk. Then he lowered his head to feed in earnest, suckling one puckered crest and then the other.

  “Oh, Iain!” Her fingers clenched in his hair, and she arched beneath him.

  He drew back his head, blew across her taut, wet buds, watched them grow tighter still.

  She gasped and shivered, and he saw her press her creamy thighs tightly together, an attempt to soothe the ache he’d caused there.

  He slipped a hand between her knees, parted them, denying her that respite. “Nay, a leannan. You’ll have no relief that doesna come from me.”

  “Oh, Iain, please!” She arched her hips, unknowingly teasing him with her sweet scent.

  He could not deny her without denying himself, and already his need for her was ripping him to pieces. Taking her cries into his mouth, he slid his hand slowly up the silken skin of her inner thighs. His fingers found her brand, and he felt her stiffen.

  “Easy, lass.” He deepened the kiss, stroking the inside of her mouth with his tongue even as his fingertips traced the T so cruelly burnt into her flesh.

  But her scar was not what he was seeking.

  He brushed his knuckles over the damp curls of her sex, parted her pouty outer lips, and tugged gently on the tender inner ones, letting his finger tease the tip of her swollen little bud. Then he parted her and slowly slipped a finger inside her slick heat.

  Her startled cry became a long, rolling moan, and her fingers dug into the muscles of his shoulders. “Iain! Oh, Iain!”

  “You’re so wet, lass. So wet.”

  And tight.

  Her maidenhead.

  It was intact.

  Whatever Wentworth had done, he hadn’t taken her.

  The surge of lust that flooded through Iain bordered on violence. He hadn’t realized until that moment how much it meant to him that he be her first—and only.

  Holding on to the tatters of his control, he stroked her, sliding first one finger, then two, in and out of her slippery core. Making her slick with her own dew, he rubbed circles over her swollen bud with his thumb, preparing her to take him, the thought of what her snug quim would do to his aching cock driving him insane. He could not wait much longer.

  “Savor your last moments as a virgin, mo leannan, for I’ll soon be inside you.”

  Both aroused and frightened by his words, Annie opened her eyes to find him looking down at her, his gaze gone dark, an almost feral expression on his face. “But, Iain—!”

  “Uist! I warned you this would happen. Tonight you’re mine.” Then he lowered his hot, teasing mouth to her breast.

  She heard a woman moaning in carnal abandon—and was surprised to realize the voice was hers. But then she’d never felt anything like the slick friction of his fingers inside her. Each thrust stretched her, filled her, promised to satisfy the throbbing ache inside her—but only made her more desperate. The way he teased that most sensitive part of her made her womb quiver, filled her belly with fire. Shame forgotten, she found herself spreading her thighs father apart, lifting her hips to meet him.

  He groaned, nipped her earlobe. “Aye, mo leannan, open yourself to me!”

  Frantic, desperate cries escaped her as he kept up a relentless rhythm, teasing her, penetrating her, driving her toward the edge.

  But before her peak could claim her, he stretched out above her and settled himself between her legs, forcing her thighs farther apart with his own. Then she felt the thick head of his shaft press against her aching cleft.

  She wanted him inside her, yearned for him inside her, yet she could not help the spark of fear that licked through her. “W-will it hurt?”

  “My bonnie, sweet Annie. I will try to spare you, but, och, you are so . . .”

  His voice trailed off into a rough moan. With a slight thrust of his hips, he nudged the hard tip of his sex against her core, then pulled back. Then he prodded her once more, and once more he pulled back. Again and again he pushed himself against her, stretching her a bit more each time, opening her slowly, until his motions became an erotic torment.

  She heard herself moan. “Iain, please!”

  The next thrust pinched, and she knew he was about to breach her maidenhead.

  “Oh, Annie!” For a moment he stopped, poised on the brink of her innocence, his body rippling with tension, breath hissing from between his clenched teeth. Then with one agonizing, slow thrust, he was inside her.

  The pain was knife sharp.

  Annie bit back a cry, squeezed her eyes shut, instinctively trying to pull her hips away.

  “It will soon pass, mo leannan.” He held himself still inside her, raining tender kisses on her cheeks, her eyelids, on the pulse at her throat, whispering endearments in English, in Gaelic, in a language she didn’t know, his body taut, his voice strained.

  But even as the pain faded, she realized how much more of him there was to receive. Only the head of his shaft was inside her. “Oh, Iain, I dinnae think I can—!”

  “Easy, lass. You were made to take me. Feel how your body surrenders to mine.” He withdrew and slowly, so slowly, entered her again, going deeper this time.

  Instead of pain she felt an arousing sense of fullness. She whimpered with the pleasure of it, clenched her fingers against his chest.

  “Holy Jesus God!” He groaned, withdrew again, then drove himself completely into her, punctuating his heated kisses with words. “You . . . are . . . heaven—so . . . perfect!”

  She could feel him against her womb, his body joined fully to hers. It was too much, too much. It was not nearly enough. And then he began to move, his body sliding over her, against her, inside her in a sensual rhythm that scattered the last of her thoughts and set her soul aflame.

  Iain forced himself to breathe, fought his body’s urge to spend in her at once, determined to master himself and give her all the delight he could. He hadn’t meant to hurt her, had tried hard not to hurt her. She had gifted him with her maidenhood, and now he would return the gift by showing her the fullness of a man’s loving.

  He moved in her with slow, silky strokes, allowing her to grow accustomed to the feel of him, letting her hunger build. Her eyes were half closed, her lips parted as she cried out in pleasure, the sound of his name mingled with throaty moans. He nibbled kisses along the column of her throat, whorled his tongue over her ear, bit down on her earlobe, muttering endearments against her fevered, dewy skin.

  “Mo rùn-sa.” My sweet darling.

  “Mo stòr.” My treasure.

  “Mo ribhinn.” My nymph.

  Already she’d begun to tighten around him, gripping him like an eager fist. Lifting her hips, she met his thrusts, matched his rhythm stroke for stroke, her heat burning him alive. The first shimmering crest of rapture edged into his belly, brought him perilously close to his peak. But he would not let go. He would not. Not yet.

  He thrust deep, held himself inside her, then ground the root of his cock against her mound. “Take from me, Annie. I want to watch you come.”

  “Oh God, Iain!” Her cries grew frantic, her nails biting into his shoulders.

  And then her breath broke, and she arched against him—and shattered.

  He caught her scream with his mouth, felt her clench down hard upon him, and almost lost what was left of his control.

  Annie heard herself cry his name again and again, as savage pleasure exploded inside her. Delight burnt through her like a ravenous wildfire, the searing shock of it almost more than she could bear, as he fed the flames with deft, deep strokes. And then she was floating—nothing but velvety ashes on a warm breeze.
br />   The sound of his breathing drew her back to awareness. She opened her eyes, saw him watching her, his chest expanding powerfully with each breath. He was slick with sweat, beads of perspiration gathered on his furrowed brow, strands of long dark hair sticking to his chest and cheeks. His lips were swollen from kissing her, his jaw clenched and dark with the day’s growth of beard. His body almost shook with tension, muscles drawn tight across his chest, in his shoulders, beneath the Indian markings on his arms.

  He seemed the very essence of primal male—fierce, potent, aggressive.

  A warrior. A Highland barbarian.

  Her barbarian.

  And he was joined to her, his body still inside hers and still hard.

  The breath left her lungs in a rush. “Iain!”

  He began to move again, rekindling flames inside her she’d thought extinguished. But his rhythm was different this time, his thrusts more forceful. And even as her pleasure began to build anew, she realized how much he’d been holding back.

  He had known her passion. Now she would know his.

  “You’d drive a man mad, lass.” He shifted his weight to one arm, reached between them, found her sensitive bud, and caressed her.

  In a heartbeat, she was on the brink again, bliss shivering inside her like sunlight on water. And then it spilled over, sensations too good to be real washing through her in wave after bright, trembling wave.

  The sound of her cries seemed to push him over the edge. With a growl, he shifted, moved his hand to grasp her buttocks, and pulled her tight against him, angling her hips to receive him deeply. Then he drove into her with fast, powerful strokes, spearing her with his heat, his passion at last unleashed.

  His pleasure feeding hers, Annie found herself clinging to him, gasping in surprise and delight, as another wave of bliss overtook her and sent her flying. But this time he went with her. She felt his body shudder, heard his deep groan, as he at last let himself go and spilled his seed deep inside her.