He leaned forward. “When you are in my home, you will stay in my bed.”
She couldn’t swallow. Or breathe. Or even make a sound. She could only nod.
“Furthermore,” he continued, his gaze traveling down to her lips, “you will do so with appropriate enthusiasm.”
She found her voice. “You would have me pretend to feel something I do not?”
His hand cupped her breast, and Fiona jerked, her skin aflame, her breathing ragged as pure lust shot through her.
He smiled, a satisfied look on his face. “You won’t have to pretend with me, love.”
Fiona wished she could leave, run away as fast as she could and never look back. But if she returned home without Jack, her brothers would be furious. She would never make them believe that she’d walked away of her own free will; they’d think Jack had left her, which would be an unforgivable insult.
She took a deep breath. “Very well. You are right that we cannot do this halfway. We—we must do this with ‘enthusiasm.’”
The fire crackled and popped. Jack cupped her chin in his large, warm hand and turned her face to his. She almost gasped at the burning expression in his eyes; if she was aflame, he was afire. He wanted her, desired her passionately.
Fiona’s body quivered with answered need.
He slowly lowered his lips to hers, and Fiona was lost in a flood of heat and sensation. Without another thought, she gave herself over to the passion that Jack’s kiss stirred.
He felt her body soften into his, and he slid his hands up and down her body, cupping her to him, pressing his manhood to her.
He burned with lust and passion, seasoned with the faintest hint of anger. Distasteful as it was, marriage was now his lot in life. But if he had to be married, he might as well get something from it.
He ran his hand down her back to her hip, then her thigh. She moved restlessly, pressing against him, her mouth seeking his with increasing desperation. “Is this what you want?” he murmured against her lips. He pressed his hand between her thighs. “Or this?”
She moaned, shuddering with need, and Jack’s body tightened in response. He wanted her so badly, ached with a lust that burned so hotly and so deeply, he feared it might destroy them both.
She was fumbling with her gown. “Let me,” he said, his voice thick even to his own ears.
She nodded, her cheeks flushed, her lips swollen from their kiss. He quickly undid the remaining ties. He wanted to see her naked, her hair spread about her, her arms and legs open for him—him and no one else.
The thought gave him pause. He was not given to possessiveness; his liaisons were entertainments to be taken as they came, enjoyed, and then left. The freedom of the encounters gave spice to it all.
But with Fiona, it was different. Perhaps it was because she was the only woman he’d ever lost before he’d tired of her. Perhaps it was because she was the only woman who’d ever sent him away. Or perhaps it was something as simple as ownership. She was his wife. The word sent a possessive thrill through him. His chest expanded at the thought, his body quickening.
The last tie of her gown came free.
With a simple tug at her neckline, Fiona loosened her gown, pushed it wide, and it slid down to her waist, a discarded froth of lace and silk and innocence. She shimmied a bit, kicking away the sheets as she pulled the gown free, and tossed it off the bed.
All she wore was a thin chemise, and the rosebud circles of her breasts pressed wantonly against the material and made his mouth water.
She sat upright and reached down to undo her boot laces, her chemise pulling lushly over her rounded ass.
Jack admired the curve, his fingers curling at the thought of cupping her to him.
“The laces are knotted,” she muttered, bending down farther to examine the problem. Her hair fell to one shoulder, pins pinging to the floor as the heavy strands fell loose. She sighed with exasperation, then took out the remaining pins and tucked her hair behind her ears.
Jack watched, his heart pounding a bit harder. Her hair was silken and thick, gleaming rich sable in the firelight. He wanted to slide his hands through her hair, sink into the clinging softness.
God, she was beautiful.
Unaware of his barely held control, she pulled and tugged on the knot. “Blast it!” she fumed. “I can’t untie them; the laces are in knots.”
He caught her wrist. “Leave them. I cannot wait.” He pulled her against him hard and took her mouth once more, kissing her deeply as he slid her chemise from her shoulders, pushing it down her arms, to her waist, and over her boots.
A lace caught on a heel, and he yanked it free, ignoring the tearing sound. Jack slid his arm around Fiona’s waist and lifted her to the center of the bed, where she lay clothed only in her pale skin, glossy hair, silk stockings, and dark blue leather half boots.
Jack stepped back to enjoy the sight before him. There was something about the contrast of her wanton body and the prim boots that stirred him even more. Something about the way her stockings rose from those boots to caress her pale skin and travel up her legs to the middle of her bare, rounded thighs.
Her creamy skin contrasted vividly with the long sable hair fanned over his pillows and the tight curls that hid the secrets between her thighs.
Never had Jack seen anything so enticing, so lovely. She lifted her arms and pulled him to her, her naked chest against his. Jack sank into her embrace, soaking in her sweetness. He tasted her lips, her cheeks, pressing kisses to her slender throat and shoulders. Every inch of her fascinated and intrigued him. Every kiss drew a gasp from her lips and urged him on.
He found her lips again and kissed her deeply, caressing her, exploring her, inhaling her.
She moaned against his mouth, and with that one, primal sound, Jack finally lost control.
He pressed against her, her legs parting beneath his, her hands tugging at him, pulling him closer.
She was intensely aroused; he could see it, smell it, taste it. So turgid he ached, he hooked his hand beneath one of her knees and pulled it high to his waist, his manhood pressing against her soft, damp opening.
Fiona gasped, her head thrown back, her eyes closing. “Yes!” she said between panting breaths. “Please!”
Still, he held back. As crazed as he was to be inside her, he wanted her to want him even more.
Slowly, ever so slowly, he pressed himself into her, gritting his teeth as her tight wetness encircled him with the firmness of a gloved hand.
Her lips parted, and she gasped loudly, her eyes flying open to meet his. “Jack.”
She pressed against him, encouraging him to move faster, her hands tight on his shoulders.
He increased his movements, captured by the pure pleasure of her expression.
“Yes,” she gasped.
Jack moved faster, consumed with the feel of her. She stretched about him, deliciously warm and wet, gasping his name, writhing beneath him, her heels pushing against his ass, pressing him forward. Sensations spiraled through him at the touch of hard leather, at the sounds of her gasps of pleasure, at the scent of her mingled with lilac.
He hovered on the razor-sharp edge of control.
“God, yes,” she said, pressing him forward, straining to take even more of him.
One of her leather boots rubbed against his hip, and he groaned at the shock of sensation, erotic pleasure flooding him. As he took her with renewed passion, she arched against him, clinging tightly.
“Jack!” she gasped.
The sight of her face, the pleasure that suffused her skin with a flush of pink, forced him to grit his teeth and hold back.
She clutched at his shoulders, lifting her hips, pressing against him, gasping for him to go faster.
In all his life, Jack had never had to fight for control the way he fought now. He’d never before flamed with such passion, desired anyone more. It was as if she’d cast a spell on him, making him hers with each touch and gasp.
Sweat beaded on hi
s forehead, and he twined his hands in her hair, clenching his fists about the softness.
Her moans increased, and she moved frantically. He caught her shoulders and pressed deeply into her, holding himself rigidly in place.
Her eyes flew open. Her breath caught. Her lips parted, but no sound came out. Suddenly, she thrust her hips forward, her heels pressing into the backs of his thighs as she came, her waves of tightening pleasure grasping at him, tugging him, making him crazed with lust as she gasped his name over and over.
Yet she did not stop. Her orgasm over, she bucked against him again, pulling him closer with her booted heels, spurring him on.
Jack thrust forward, sinking deeply into her and sending her over the edge once more. With a cry, she arched against him, clamping her legs around his hips as wave after wave of tightness clenched him.
He fell over the pinnacle with her, falling through a tumult of ecstasy, rasping out her name as he finally allowed himself release.
Gasping, he collapsed over her, keeping his weight on his elbows. She quivered below him, her eyes closed, her mouth parted, her face flushed with passion.
Jack rolled to his side, pulling her with him, and they lay in a tangle of legs and damp skin, hearts thundering, souls reeling.
Fiona thought she’d never be able to catch her breath, so hard was her heart pounding in her chest. But moment by moment, her heartbeat slowed, and she became aware of Jack’s broad chest against hers, the tickle of his breath in her hair, the deliciously sensual slide of his damp skin over hers.
She slid her arms around his neck and held him there, unable to move, incapable of thinking. She closed her eyes and savored the feel of him, the scent of their lovemaking, the freshness of the sheets, and the warmth of his skin.
Did Jack feel the same wonder? Had their passion surprised him as much as her? Or was it what he’d expected? Good God, what if sex was always like this for him—with every woman he’d been with?
Some of the glow began to subside. Fiona could feel his heart beating more steadily now, feel his even breaths in her hair.
She turned to look at him, at the way his lashes rested on the crests of his cheeks. Perhaps she should ask him, find out what he was thinking and feeling.
But…what if he wasn’t thinking the same things she was thinking? Of how wonderful, how special it was? Worse, what if it hadn’t been that good for him at all?
The uncertainty began to pinch at her. She had to ask him, had to know. She couldn’t just lie there and wonder. “Jack?”
He did not answer.
Oh, no, he had guessed what she was about to ask and was afraid to answer.
Fiona gathered her nerve. “Jack?” she said a bit louder.
A soft snore was her answer.
Chapter Six
The tale is a bit blurred on how MacLean came in contact with the White Witch. All we know for certain is that meet they did, and that neither of them would be the same afterward. Often that’s the way love is, sneaky and unrelenting.
OLD WOMAN NORA OF LOCH LOMOND
TO HER THREE WEE GRANDDAUGHTERS ONE COLD NIGHT
“Umhph!” A thump in Jack’s side awakened him. He blinked and struggled to focus on the face in front of him.
Full, soft lips folded in a displeased line. A pert, upturned nose was splashed with dusky freckles across the bridge, barely noticeable in the light from the fireplace. Thickly lashed eyes glowed a lovely, mossy green.
All of this surrounded by a cloud of sable hair so thick it dared a man to—
Fiona.
How did—Where had—
Oh, yes.
The scent of their recent lovemaking and the feel of her bared legs twined with his slowly stirred his memory, though his sated body struggled against the lethargic effects.
“You were snoring.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it, unsure of the accusing tone of her voice.
“Loudly.”
He supposed it was annoying being awakened in such a way, especially if she had been as sound asleep as he had been. “Sorry, love.” He yawned. “After a good romp, I always sleep deeply.”
Silence. “A good romp?”
Normally, Jack would have recognized the outrage in her quiet voice. Unfortunately, he was deep in the euphoric grip of after-sex stupor.
So he merely turned and spooned Fiona to him. She fit against him perfectly, her head tucked beneath his chin, her rounded ass pressing against him, her legs entwined with his.
Her hair tickled his nose, and he smoothed it back with his cheek, enjoying the feel of her silky skin and the faint beat of her heart. “Let’s sleep a bit, shall we?”
He closed his eyes and—
She pushed herself out of his embrace, cold air touching his skin where she and the blankets had once been. He frowned, opening one eye. “Hm?”
She had turned to face him, her expression serious. “Jack, we have things to discuss.”
He sighed. “What things?”
“Things like”—her lips tightened with distaste—“our ‘little romp.’”
There was no missing the outrage this time. Jack passed a hand over his face, struggling to push his sleepiness aside.
He had a “no talking after” rule which he zealously guarded. Any woman who didn’t adhere to the rule was never allowed back in his bed. So far, he’d been able to enjoy his after-tupping stupor luxuriously.
Perhaps he should have explained this to Fiona before they fell into bed. The problem was, he had been too angry and far too intent on getting between her thighs to manage any discussion. Being with her so many hours in the carriage had fed his lust until he could barely keep his hands on the right side of her clothing in front of the servants.
He wasn’t capable of speaking right now, either—not about anything of substance—and he had a feeling that was what she wished. He wanted to savor the repleteness of his body, enjoy the worry-freeing effects of passion, and sleep the deep sleep that always came after a particularly satisfying tumble.
He slowly closed his eyes again, his thoughts melting behind images of their tryst, of her skin against his—
“Jack!”
Her insistent voice tugged his eyes back open. She was now leaning on one arm, her hair falling over it and pooling on the sheets in a thick swath of sable.
Damn, but she was beautiful. And lush. And all too tempting. Suddenly, Jack wasn’t quite as sleepy. His body was even beginning to stir, much to his delight. Smiling a bit at his own randiness, he rolled up onto his elbow to face her. “Very well, love. What shall we talk about?”
Jack kissed her heated cheek, trailing his lips to hers.
“Jack,” she said, a bit breathlessly, “we may have very different expectations, and I don’t wish that to become a problem.”
He slid his hand to her hair. It seemed to have its own energy, curling around his fingers as if to hold them there. “I agreed to get you with child, and once that is accomplished, you will go on your merry way and leave me in peace.” He shrugged. “What more is there to say?”
“Well, it will be easier for us if we have the same thoughts about”—she gestured vaguely with one hand—“this.”
What more did she want? If she was looking for some emotional promise, she was doomed to disappointment. He had no heart to give, and was glad for it.
“Fiona, I think I’ve already proven my abilities to provide what I have promised. Haven’t I?” He grinned when her cheeks pinkened more. “You may rest assured that I will fulfill my part of the bargain. Then you can fulfill yours. Although,” he drawled, “had I known marriage would be so stimulating, I might have rethought my position on never marrying.”
Her gaze was riveted on his face. “Really?”
“Oh, yes. I would have done so several times, at least. Perhaps even once a month.”
“That is not funny, Jack.”
“I think it is.”
She stirred restlessly, then sat up. “Goodness, I still
have my boots on.”
“So you do.” He sat up and slid a hand down her leg, pulling her foot into his lap. “Allow me.”
“I can untie them.”
“You already tried and made knots of them.” He deftly tugged on one knot, getting it undone fairly quickly, then tugged her foot from the boot. The warmth of the leather made him remember the feel of her boots upon his ass, an erotic moment he’d never forget.
He dropped the boot over the edge of the bed and turned to the other, which soon joined its mate on the rug. “There.” He settled back onto his pillow, pulling her against him.
She sighed, resting her cheek against his chest. “We always did well in bed.”
“Yes, we did.” Somehow, over the years, he’d forgotten how well they’d matched. He slid his fingers over her cheek and buried his fingers in her hair.
She lifted her face and met his gaze. “It was in other areas that we did not fare so well.”
He paused, his fingers still in her curls. She was right. He had two very vivid memories of Fiona from long ago. One of her lying naked upon a blanket under a warm summer sun, her peach-hued skin flushed with passion, her hair curling wildly about her, a satisfied-woman smile on her lips. He’d been young and bursting with pride that he’d been her first and had still managed to give her that glow.
The other memory was not so pleasant. He was standing in the rain, the world scented with lilac, as he read her words on an ink-smeared scrap of paper, thunder roaring in the distance.
Jack refused to remember the pain that day had caused him, the weeks and months of desolation. He’d learned his lesson well, though; he’d never again allowed himself to believe in love or anything else he couldn’t see. Since then, life had been much simpler and far less painful.
He regarded her through half-closed eyes, glad his heart was now Fiona-proofed. It was a good thing he hadn’t realized how her brothers had interfered in their relationship by letting slip Jack had a mistress. He had, of course. He couldn’t remember the woman’s name now, for there had been too many, but he’d had a mistress since he was seventeen. It was his right as a man of independence, something his parents would have regarded with disapprobation, which had made him all the more determined to enjoy it.