Devil of Kilmartin (21 page)

He dipped his fingers into the wet heat between her thighs over and over again, matching the rhythm of her movements with his own. He drew his fingers out and rubbed the dampness against that most sensitive nubbin, and she exploded in his arms, throwing her head back, gasping out his name and pulsating against his hand. Slowly she subsided, resting her head against his shoulder, which was still caught in her almost painful grip. He let her skirts drop, fighting with his own need, waiting for her to decide. He wrapped his arms about her, drawing her against him, relishing the almost pain of wanting her so badly.

He smiled, well pleased with the response he had drawn from her. “You did not answer my question, sweetling.”

She blinked, focusing on his face. “What question?” she asked, her voice husky.

“Will you be my wife?”

“I don’t think—”

“Do not think. Listen to your heart. What does it say?”

“It says I trust you, Symon MacLachlan.”

Symon was humbled by the whispered admission. It was more than he had dared hope for, though not as much as he wanted. He kissed her hard.

E
lena was shocked
at the words that came from her own mouth. She trusted him. She knew the truth of her own words even as she reeled from the admission. She did not want to trust him, especially not a warrior.

But she did.

Fear tried to shake her, but the wonder of this new feeling rushed through her, layered over the heat his caresses and kisses caused, pushing fear aside like a leaf in a high wind.

Heat. She had been mortified at her own reaction to his pulsing fingers, but then a languor had overtaken her and she was lifted to a place of exquisite pleasure, the likes of which she had never before known. The likes of which she would do anything to repeat.

Heat pooled between her thighs and between her breasts. Each caress of his lips against hers tightened the coil low in her belly, preparing it for that cataclysmic release again. She could feel it building as his hands raced over her skin, weighing her breast, smoothing her hip, lifting her from her place by his side to his lap without ever relinquishing his attachment upon her lips.

Cool air wafted over her heated skin and she gasped as his hot lips enveloped her sensitive nipple, suckling, pulling, demanding, even as his other hand caressed her other naked breast. How had he done that? Her passion-muddled mind could not understand it, but her body did not care.

He stood, catching her in his arms and steadying her on her feet. His eyes on hers, he released his belt, letting his plaid fall to the floor. As he reached for his tunic, Elena stopped him. His questioning look had her blushing, but
she wanted to see if she could make him respond as she was responding. Granted, there was ample evidence of his interest, but she wanted to make him gasp her name, even as she faintly remembered gasping his.

She stepped closer, her breasts tight from his attentions, a weight in her belly growing as if feeding on the heat they generated between them, and removed his tunic.

It was not the first time Elena has seen the naked male form. She was a healer, and as such, was privy to their wounds and their body parts. But this was different.

“Am I so horrible to look at, lass?” Symon asked quietly.

Elena looked him carefully in the eye and slowly shook her head, a sudden feeling of power and wontonness surging through her at the hesitance in his voice.

“Nay, Symon, you are . . .” She could not describe the powerful feelings his body fanned to flame in her. Hesitantly she reached out and gently ran her fingers over a scar on his ribs, and another at his collarbone. Slowly she traced the evidence of his years of fighting for his clan.

Symon groaned. Elena jerked her hand back. “I didn’t mean to hurt you!”

“And you did not.” He reached for her hand and guided it back to him. “Your touch may make my knees buckle, but certainly it does not hurt.” His chuckle was eclipsed by another low, throaty groan.

Elena smiled, remembering her own groaning pleasure of a few moments before. Emboldened, she ran her hands over his chest, flickering her fingers over his own flat nipples. A sharp intake of his breath made her stop and linger there.

Her eyes locked with his, she lowered her mouth to his
nipple and suckled as he had at hers. When his eyelids flickered closed, she felt another surge of womanly power. All the pain in her life paled beside the pulsating pleasure that still echoed through her. All her fear of warriors paled when she realized that this mighty warrior quivered beneath her touch, moaned at the flick of her tongue over his nipple, trembled in his need of her. Yet he did not fling her to the bed and satisfy himself alone. He did not. Gently he laid her on the bed, taking back the lead in this dance he was teaching her.

He loomed over her, the look of a conqueror on his face, a look of exultation and expectation. She closed her eyes and tensed, knowing what would come next. Her mind circled the next step, but could not bring it into focus. Dougal had described the act in minute detail—the pain, the blood.

She felt the bed dip next to her, felt the length of Symon’s body against the side of her own. Felt his need against her thigh.

“Elena-mine, if you do not wish to finish this, we will not.”

Surprise had her opening her eyes to meet his worried look.

Tears welled in her eyes at the gentleness in his voice, the concern in his eyes. She reached up and ran her hand along his cheek. He turned into it and kissed her palm. Heat rushed through her once more, pooling between her legs, tightening her breasts. Her breath came fast and short.

“Heat,” she said wonderingly.

“Aye. Heat, lass. You are a flame.” He kissed her then, slowly, tenderly. His hand strayed over her belly, over her breasts, down to the tangle of hair between her legs. He
cupped her there and deepened the kiss. Memory tugged at her hips, reminding her urgently of the pleasure his hand could bring her. She moved against him again, feeling the scalding heat of their connection.

He moved once more to her breast, suckling, nibbling, and suckling more, stronger, harder, pulling at her until she thought she could stand it no more. His finger dipped into her heat again, and she had the sudden longing for his body deep inside her own, joining with her, bringing her this potent pleasure even as she gave him his own.

“Please,” she said. His hand stilled and she moaned. She kissed him desperately, unable to voice what she wanted. He moved over her, between her thighs. Never before had she felt this need, this driving, maddening want. Never before had she understood that pain was only part of life, that pleasure was just as powerful.

Slowly he entered her with excruciating care. She wanted him to delve deeply into her, raising the inferno, in that moment incinerating all that she had ever been before. She urged him further, murmuring words of desire. He held perfectly still.

When she opened her eyes, his face, just over hers, was one of complete and total concentration. He held her look and stroked into her. A flash of pain, and then he was filling her completely, creating such a rush of fire licking through her veins she cried out in triumph, the pain forgotten.

He held her in his arms, kissed her urgently, and began to move, sliding in and out of her heat, matching the motion with his kisses. Intensity spiraled through her, centering deep in her belly, coiling, wrapping around her limbs and grasping her mind. All was pleasure, potent, tangible
pleasure. He tightened the coil with each stroke, fanning the fire, until she leapt into the abyss, flying free as he leapt with her, groaning her name even as she splintered into a thousand twinkling stars.

chapter 13

S
ymon woke her
near dawn, and they made love again, exploring each other slowly, savoring the feel of each other. Afterward he held her close in his arms, her back cradled against his chest. He nuzzled her neck and she replied with a sleepy, contented sound. He would have her like this always, content, safe, his.

He tried to pinpoint just what it was about this woman that made him so determined to claim her, body, heart, and loyalty. He searched for something more logical than the fact that she made the blood pound in his veins; that she brought him to his knees with her trust. That she humbled him with her courage, and made him fight to keep her safe with her vulnerability. But more, she believed him to be more than he thought he was, and he wanted to live up to her belief.

He wanted her because he was a better man when she was around—not because she rid him of the devil—but because he wished to see her smile, to keep her safe, to hold her close.

Because he loved her.

Wonder spread through him. He loved her! And she would come to love him, in time, he would see to it. She held some passion for him, of that he was certain. Love would follow, given time.

He realized suddenly that marrying her was everything. Without that binding her to him, he would have to live up to his word and take her away from here in only another sevenday. Impossible!

“Elena-mine,” he whispered.

“Hmm?” came her sleepy reply.

“You never answered my question.” He slid his hand along her smooth hip and was gratified when she nestled her bottom closer to him.

“What question?” she asked, turning now to face him, her eyes only half open. She ran her fingers over his stubbled cheek.

“ ’Tis clear we have some”—he cupped her breast and grinned when her breath shook—“affection for each other.” He kissed her lightly, whispering against her satiny lips, “Will you wed me?”

Her eyes were fully open now, and she pulled back from him slightly, her brow furrowed and her mouth drawn down in a frown.

“Why?”

“You are my hope, Elena-mine. You have rid me of the poison. You have resurrected my soul and shown me that I can feel aught besides anger and grief.”

“I am not any of those things,” she said, rolling away from him and climbing out of the bed. She searched about for her clothes.

Symon could not help but appreciate her long limbs and full hips, in spite of the flash of anger in her eyes.

She slid her shift over her head, pulling it until it fell about her, hiding her body, but hinting still at what lay beneath. “I am a woman. Only a woman. ’Tis all I want to be. I am not responsible for your hope. I do not want that on my shoulders.” She grabbed her gown and pulled it on.

Symon surged out of the bed, catching her hands, stilling them where she struggled with the laces he had so urgently pulled from the garment. He pulled her with him to the edge of the bed, where he sat, then silently fastened her gown. When he was done, he rose and took her face in his palms. Slowly he kissed her eyelids, her high, freckled cheekbones, nibbled on her lips until she melted against him. He folded her into his arms, grateful that she was so susceptible to his touch.

“Lass, you are a woman, first. ’Tis a certainty that I am all too aware of. But ’tis not all you are. You are also a healer. Whether you like it or not, ’tis a part of who you are.” He pulled back just far enough to look into her eyes. “And you have brought hope to me and my people, whether you like it or not.”

“Then we need not wed if I have done so much already.”

“You will make me say the words, will you not?”

“What words?”

“Lass . . . Elena-mine,” he said, raising her hands to his lips and looking deep into her eyes, “I love you.”

“Nay, you need me, you do not love me.” She slid her hands free of his and stepped back.

“Och, you’re a stubborn lass.”

“So my father often said.”

Symon laughed, then sobered. “What if we have made a bairn this night?” He could not read her face.

At last she took a deep breath. “I do not think we have. But if it comes to be, we will discuss it then.”

“If it comes to be, you will have little choice, Elena-mine. If you carry my bairn, you will be my wife.”

She nodded, and hugged him tight. “But there is no bairn.”

He smiled. Aye, there may not be one yet, but if he had his way, they would have a great many more opportunities to make one. She had given in to her body’s need for him; soon she would give in to her destiny.

E
lena led the
way down to the Great Hall, Symon following close behind. They had said nothing more, but silently finished dressing, then left the chamber that had been their sanctuary through the night.

He loved her. Nay, it could not be. He needed her. He wanted her body. He did not love her. He was grateful. He sought to bind her to him for her gift.

But a voice deep in her heart decried that lie.

Lying in his arms had been . . . miraculous. Never had she felt so free, so cared for. She would not say loved. He had been a tender lover, careful, generous, and yet she had felt he held himself back somehow, as if he was afraid to hurt her. It would not do to hurt the woman responsible for your sanity. Again the voice complained.

And then he had thought of a bairn. Her bairn, and his. His eyes had lit with a soft glow, and she found herself wishing . . .