Tamed By Your Desire Part 39

He looked down at her again, eyes narrowed in caution.

She'd dreamed of him holding her and kissing her. She was tired of waking, flushed and aching with want. She'd caused his people to die, knocked him unconscious, pierced him with an arrow, stolen his horse and sword, and he forgave her. Perhaps he thought it fitting payment for murdering her betrothed. Perhaps it no longer mattered. Jack. The named seemed so meaningless now. She couldn't even conjure his face before her, couldn't recall the feel of his arms, the taste of his kiss. Alex had wiped every memory away but his.

"Why shouldn't we?" she asked. The wind whipped around them, blowing hair across their faces, plastering her skirts to her thighs. She thought the wind stole her words, but he shook his head, his expression regretful.

"Fayth... you shouldn't-"

"Shouldn't! Shouldn't! I'm tired of being told what I shouldn't do." She moved closer to him, placed her hands on his chest. "I think I should... this once."

His hands went to her shoulders and squeezed gently, his gaze burning over her upturned face. "I thought you were trying to be better. To not be thoughtless... or reckless..."

Fayth sighed in disgust. "How can it be thoughtless, when all my thoughts are filled with-with..." What was she saying?

She turned away, but he caught her arm, pulling her against him. He kissed her before she could say another word. She went limp in his arms, surrendering herself to something stronger than her will, more powerful than his resolve. He used his tongue and his teeth, teasing and nipping and sucking, wringing moans of want from her. She clung to him, arms snaking around his neck, pulling his head down to kiss her deeper. She followed his lead, her tongue tracing his lips and teeth, sucking at his tongue, until he groaned and dropped to his knees, dragging her with him.

His hands slipped under her skirts, stroking her thighs and bottom. She ached and throbbed between her legs, damp with desire. She knew how a man and woman came together, had seen servants rutting in the stables and animals mating in the fields-and knew that's what she wanted.

His fingers were at her neck, fumbling with the ties of her shift. When he finally untied the knot, he spread it wide, sliding his palms beneath the collar to cover her chest and shoulders. His hands burned her, big and rough, caressing her skin reverently. He lowered his head to kiss her again, his gaze sweeping over her, devouring her. Then he stilled, his gaze on the juncture between her neck and shoulder.

Fayth had almost forgotten the flogging Ridley had administered what seemed like a lifetime ago, but now shame burned her cheeks afresh. She jerked the collar back over her shoulder, turning away from him.

"What happened?" he demanded, pulling her back and holding her fast.

She didn't try to escape him, burying her face in his shoulder. "Ridley," she said, her voice m.u.f.fled against his doublet.

His hand slid up her shoulder again, easing the collar back. His fingers traced the pink scar, then traveled to her back, where he tentatively fingered the other lash marks. She couldn't look at him, but felt him lowering his head. The shock of his lips against the scar nearly wrenched a cry from her. A sigh shuddered through her as her head fell to the side.

His mouth moved up her neck to her ear. He pulled the lobe between his teeth, his breath sending shivers through her body. "I adore even your scars," he whispered.

She captured his face between her palms, staring at him in wonder. That he was such a fine man, and she'd thought for so very long he was a monster. She kissed him, her hands slipping over the scar at his temple and into his hair, damp from the sea mist blowing over them and sleek as satin beneath her fingers.

Their tongues swirled and probed, their hands moving greedily over each other. Fayth worked at the hooks on his doublet until it was unfastened. She pulled at the ties of his shirt, slipping her hands inside to feel the hard skin of his belly. Her fingers encountered the puckered skin of scars on his ribs and chest. At his right shoulder the bandage covering his wound halted her explorations. His skin was warm, but not fevered.

She tore her mouth away from his kiss. "Is it better? Does it hurt?"

His mouth moved down her neck and chest, to the swell of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. "Aye... nay..." he murmured against her skin.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered, her fingers skimming over the clean linen.

"It doesn't matter."

He unlaced her bodice and slipped his hand inside, cupping her breast. She inhaled sharply. No one had ever touched her there. He leaned over her, one arm around her waist, supporting her. His thumb pa.s.sed gently over her nipple as his gaze traveled over her face.

Her shallow breath whispered between parted lips. She clutched his good shoulder, waiting. He was going to kiss her breast and the antic.i.p.ation was killing her.

"I've wanted you since I first set eyes on you."

"Even though I'm a Graham?"

"I didn't know... then..." He lowered his head, taking her nipple in his mouth and sucking at it so her back arched, her arms clasping his head and neck to bring him closer. Heat poured through her, scalding her, centering between her legs. The sensation was sharp, intense, pleasure bordering on pain. His arms circled her, embracing her and holding her close while his mouth worked wicked magic over her body.

He kissed her mouth again. "And you let me do this, even though I'm a Maxwell..."

"Well... Maxwells aren't so awful, it seems..."

He laughed against her mouth and she wanted even that inside her, so she kissed him, swallowing the rough sounds of his amus.e.m.e.nt. He responded to her ardor, his tongue thrusting, his hands stroking and kneading.

Fayth had no name for what she wanted him to do to her. She only knew the coa.r.s.e words men used-to swive, to rut-or the odd words the priests used-to fornicate or copulate. And none of those seemed appropriate, so she pressed her hand against his crotch, startled that even through his breeches she could feel the hard length of him.

"Oh b.l.o.o.d.y Christ," he moaned, gathering her against him again and burying his face in her hair-which he had loosened from its plait, though she had no recollection of him doing so. "We canna do this."

She moved her hand, stroking him, to show him they could if he would just get on with it. But his hand covered hers, bringing it to his face where he kissed her palm fervently.

"I canna debauch ye."

"You can," she breathed.

He shook his head, his eyes still burning with desire. "There are consequences to this act, love." He closed his eyes and took a deep breath as if to brace himself. When he looked at her again, his gaze was firm. "I cannot send you to Carlisle deflowered. If he discovers you're no virgin, I don't know what he'll do. I won't be responsible for harm befalling ye."

It was as if he'd tossed her into the icy sea. She grew stiff in his arms. She didn't know what she'd expected, hadn't taken the time to think of what she was doing. But she'd not expected him to throw Carlisle in her face.

"It's too late for that," she said.

She disengaged herself from him and stood, fixing her shift and bodice. Her hands shook, making the task absurdly difficult. When she had herself in order, she turned, expecting to find him similarly recovered from their impulsive pa.s.sion and ready to return to the tower. But he sat cross-legged in the sand, his head resting in his hands. His hair had come completely loose from the thong and spilled down over his shoulders, glinting like burnished metal in the sun.

The longer she stood staring at him, the angrier she became. Was it honor that kept him from lying with her? Or simple greed? He wouldn't jeopardize Gealach for a mere rut he could get from any likely la.s.s. She folded her arms under her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, staring up at the sheer cliff face. The rational, logical part of her couldn't blame him. Gealach was a treasure. But Fayth had rarely been one to operate on logic. She'd always acted on emotion, giving into it heedlessly. And right now she felt fury-and perhaps a touch of hurt-that she was no more than a tool to men. To this man, that she had expected so much more from.

Even Jack? She blinked at the thought. True, Jack had been landless... and marriage to her would bring him land and beasts, but that wasn't why he'd agreed to marry her. In fact, she'd asked him! It had never even occurred to him that Hugh Graham's daughter would consider wedding him. And she never would have, had Papa not grown ill.

Oh Jack... life would be so much simpler if you were still alive.

Sensing movement nearby, Fayth turned. Alex stood, brushing the sand off his clothes. His shirt and doublet still hung open and she could see the dark hair dusting his chest and abdomen. Desire coiled sharp and tight in her belly. She turned away, her fury mounting.

"Fayth..."

Her name on his lips made her whirl, hands fisted at her sides. "Do not address me familiar!"

He pulled up short, his face blank.

"I may be your prisoner, but that gives you no leave to maul me like a common wh.o.r.e!"

Uncertainty and confusion marred his brow.

She tried to sweep by him, retaining some dignity, but he caught her arm.

"Pardon, Mistress Graham, but I clearly recall saying we shouldn't."

That he was right was more than she could bear. She yanked her arm away, her anger and mortification galvanizing her, and marched into the cove.