Highland Enchantment (Highland Brides) (34 page)

"You shall soon be the scourge of the Highlands again."

"Umm," he said nonsensically. They lay against the sand a bit longer, lounging in the sun-warmed waves. Gentle currents washed by, causing their thighs to brush, or their fingers to touch until they could no longer bear to be separated by even the shallowest droplet.

Reaching up to the boulder, Rachel retrieved her gourd of soap. "Tilt your head back." She leaned over him. One satin-slick breast crushed against his chest, and with that contact there was little chance he would refuse her.

He leaned back, letting his hair drag in the water. Rachel scooped her palm over the crown of his head, swept back any stray hairs then poured a bit of her extract onto his scalp.

Feelings as warm as sunlight caressed him, but there was more to come. Her fingers circulated gently against his scalp, and with each movement, her breasts slipped against his naked skin. He groaned hopelessly at the contact.

"Am I hurting you?" she asked, her eyes finding his.

"Aye. Hurt me some more."

She smiled that smile that would have made any saint pay penance each day of his life and joined her other hand with her first. Now she was leaning over him, seeming intent on washing every hair and granting him a view that all but stopped his heart.

Her breasts were round and kissed by the sun, capped with rosy puckered dollops of heaven as they bobbled and bounced so close to his face.

"Dunk."

"What?" he managed.

"Dunk your head."

He did so, though twas no mean task to take his gaze from her breasts. She smoothed her fingers through his hair again, skimming his scalp with her magical fingers.

Maybe he had been wrong all along. Maybe Hell did not await him. Maybe, in fact, his simple association with the Lady Saint had given him free admittance into heaven. Maybe, in fact, he had already passed through those hallowed gates and was even now in the hereafter. It seemed the only logical solution as her hands slid down his neck to his shoulders.

She had to reach wide to accomplish this, and thus rose to her knees to do so. Such a position granted him an even more astounding view. He made no objection when she straddled him again.

The crisp feel of her hair against his nether parts only stimulated him further. Already he was throbbing, but such a fact hardly stopped her. Instead, she leaned forward so that the tips of her nipples teased his chest.

Liam gritted his teeth and refused to move lest he awaken and find that it had all been another dream of longing. But the feel of her hands as they encircled his arm seemed too real. She washed him studiously, as if they had nothing in the world but time, as if all her life she had waited to touch him so, running her fingers, soft as a dream down his biceps, washing each finger, drawing his scathed knuckles to her mouth to kiss them gently. And with each movement her sweet bottom rasped against him. Twas almost too much to bear. Almost, but he managed.

His belly tightened as she ran her hands down its tense expanse, and when she slipped her hips off his and her hands skimmed lower still, he couldn't help but watch with breathless anticipation.

Her fingertips slipped onto the scar-smooth head of his penis. Liam rasped breath through his teeth as the sensations seared him.

She lifted her eyes to his. Their gazes met. Hot, rash desire joined and melded. He reached for her, but she pulled easily out of his grip and straightened. Reaching for her gourd again, she poured a bit into her palm then slipped her hand over his erection.

Painful ecstasy gripped him. He arched backward, pulling air through his clenched teeth in a hiss of aching need. But her hands didn't stop. Instead, they slipped up and down, caressing, washing, enlarging. It felt suddenly like his skin was too small for his body, as if there was too much need in him to be contained. But just when he felt he could bare no more, her hand slipped lower. New agony coursed through him. His legs jerked. His hips strained of their own accord, needing.

Her unsaintly hands skimmed lower still, encircling his thigh, but this new movement was only a more subtle form of the same torture, for her wrist still brushed his testicles.

His breathing escalated by the moment. True, he had loved her only minutes before, but that had done nothing to dull his need for her. Indeed, he ached now with it.

Rachel leaned forward. Her hair floated in the water, tangling over his erection. A spasm of need jerked through him. He could wait no longer. Pressing her onto the sand, he crushed his lips to hers.

She answered his kiss with a passion of her own. Her breasts, soft as a sigh, pressed against his chest, and she groaned as he entered her.

Passion that seemed to have been spent was renewed. He strained against her, absorbing everything, every inch of flesh, every raspy breath. His knees sunk into the silt beneath them, but he didn't care, for now her legs encircled his hips, drawing him closer, pulling him deeper. She gripped his arms in fingers too strong for her fragile form and pulled him inside. He sheathed himself to the hilt, groaning at the agonizing ecstasy as they strove once again for release.

He knew the moment she reached climax, felt it in the tautness of her muscles. They gripped him like velvet steel. He gritted his teeth and held on a few more seconds. But there was no hope of prolonging it. No hope whatsoever, and in a Moment he spilled forth and finally fell forward, letting his elbows sink into the river's sandy bottom.

They breathed in aching unison, their hearts pumping like running steeds, their bodies finally lax.

"Sorry." She barely breathed the word, but he heard her and managed to draw back a scant fraction of an inch. She panted softly, her breasts like love against his tattered chest. "I should not have...pressed you. Your wound—"

"What wound?"

She smiled and touched his cheek. He covered her hand with his own and pulled it to his lips.

Then, reaching past her, he lifted the gourd and poured a bit of the extract into his hand.

"My turn," he whispered.

She shook her head, but he only smiled.

"Surely we cannot have you running about paradise all dirty."

"Is this paradise?" she murmured.

"Aye, lass. Tis," he said, skimming his hand up her arm. "Tis where dreams come to play."

"Dreams?" She sighed as he skimmed his fingers into her hair.

Now that the urgency of coupling was over, pain pulled at his wound, but he didn't care. Her expression was soft, her eyes closed. Night was falling softly about them, darkening the water, but she only seemed more beautiful with her bedtime hair flowing on the waves.

Pressing his fingers up her scalp, he pushed them through the seal-slick tresses. She was naught but magic, every inch of her, every breath of her, every thought, movement, moment.

"You had best return to the shelter before you get cold," she said.

"Could not happen, lass. Not when you look as you do."

It seemed unlikely that she would blush after what they had just done, but even in the darkness, he thought it was so.

"Come." She rose like a sea nymph from the water. "I'll take you to the fire, then return to wash our clothes."

"You'll be naked?"

"What?"

"You'll be naked when you wash our clothes?"

The blush again, maybe. "Nay. I'll... fetch my tunic."

He released a sigh, but all was not lost.

"I'll stay," he murmured.

"Liam—"

"A hundred fires could not warm me as much as the sight of you does."

He was certain he remembered her writhing wildly beneath him, but now she seemed strangely shy. Still, she finally rose to her feet and snatched her gown from the shore. He had a momentary glimpse of the golden moon of her buttocks and then she was gone.

The world had slipped by for only a few moments before she returned. She'd dressed in her tunic just as she had threatened. It seemed a shame, perhaps a crime to hide such loveliness, but all was not lost, for the tunic had not been intended to be worn alone.

Dropping his retrieved cape onto the shore, Rachel picked up her gown and diminished soap and approached the water. When she crouched beside the burn, Liam was afforded a brief glimpse of paradise, for she had not tied the neck of the tunic which had always been too large for her. One bonny, kitten-smooth shoulder peaked out as she bent to scrub the much-abused garment.

Never had laundry been so fascinating. Every movement of her hand was poetry, every dip of her body spoke of a magic that was all her own. Even her feet were perfect. Narrow and delicate, they seemed the epitome of who she was, the Lady Saint.

It didn't take her nearly long enough to finish the job. She wrung out the garments, draped them over her arm then rose to fetch his cape. In a moment she was stepping back into the water to assist him.

The air felt deliciously cool against his bare skin, but when she offered his cape, he realized the sacrifice he had just made. Not only could he no longer watch her from his watery Utopia, but with the tunic and the cape between them, he would not be able to touch her either.

Life was too short for such dire punishments. And he'd been hideously wounded.

It was no great feat of acting for him to shiver.

"Here." She lifted his cape, but he shook his head.

"I'd best dry off first, lest I soak me cloak."

She scowled. "I have nothing—"

"The tunic."

The darkness was soft with silence and seduction.

"I could use your tunic," he expounded.

Her sinfully red lips parted, but he was so close to her now he could feel her weakness.

"You wouldn't deny a wounded man a towel would you?" he asked.

"Methinks you have things other than warmth in mind."

"Nay," he murmured, stepping closer still. "I swear I shall share me own body's warmth with you."

He reached for her hem and she didn't stop him. It came easily away, slipping over her wet hair until he held it in his hands.

Bathed in pearlescent moonlight, her beauty snared him, and for a moment he forgot to breathe.

"Liam."

"Aye," he murmured.

"I thought you were cold."

"Oh, aye." He dried himself perfunctorily, but the ruby bright tips of her breasts were peaked.

Maybe she was cold. Maybe not. But all the options made him hurry through his toweling.

In a moment he eased his cape over his shoulders then brushed it about hers. Her arm felt as warm as midday against his. He knew he should hurry her back to their camp before she became chilled, but instead he turned inside the warmth of his cape, shivered at the feel of her breasts against him, and kissed her. The caress was slow and sweet and filled with a thousand emotions he could neither identify nor condone. But neither could he quell them.

Maybe the journey back to their temporary home should have been painful, but it was difficult to concentrate on such things, for she was beside him.

They snuggled together inside his cape as they ate their evening meal, but their utensils were neither sturdy nor dependable and soup is a tricky thing to eat without a spoon. The seaweed kept slipping off her impromptu ladle onto interesting body parts. There was nothing Liam could do but retrieve them, licking them from her belly or her hand or... wherever.

Twas the wherever that intrigued him the most, but Rachel gasped as his tongue lapped the crinkled hair between her thighs.

"Liam..." Her voice was raspy as she pulled him back up. "We mustn't. You need your rest."

"Tis not rest that I need," he assured her.

"You must be good," she reprimanded, her voice soft but firm like all her other attributes—her limbs, her breasts, the alluring curve of her buttocks. The warm, ripe thoughts enticed his fingers to stray over her shoulder and down. His kisses followed.

"Liam." She arched away, breathing hard. "I must see to your wound."

"And I must see to you."

"Nay." She pressed a hand to his chest. "I will not have you bleed to death for me own..." She paused, seeming breathless.

He watched her, fascinated. "What?"

"For me own pleasure."

It was the throaty way she said
pleasure
that left him mindless and immobilized. So that by the time he was able to move again, she'd already fled to fetch her herbs and bandages.

But even the process of tending his wound was nothing but pleasurable, for he was afforded the heavenly feel of her hands against his flesh as she smoothed on her ointments, the breath-stopping sight of her beauty as she bent or flexed or breathed.

Finally, she bandaged him with strips of her underskirt that she had washed days before, and then, cuddled in the security of their tiny enclosure, they talked of dreams and memories and happiness.

"Why did we not realize long ago that we belonged together?" Rachel asked, sleepily snuggled against his chest.

"Tis hard to know the fit if you cannot try the garment," Liam said, and kissed the top of her head. His hand played a sleepy rhythm against her arm.

The world was silent but for the crackle of the fire.

"You are happy with the fit, Liam?" she asked quietly.

"Aye. Tis like a sword in a sheath."

She sighed as she turned her face into his chest. "Tis more the size of a claymore," she murmured, and fell asleep.

The days passed in a silvery mist of make-believe, a delirium of laughter and baths and lovemaking. And with each hour Liam found his wounds improving and his strength increased.

Not for a moment did they discuss the hopelessness of their situation. Not for an instant did they think of Warwick or evil or pain. Those things were far away, lost in another world. A world they had abandoned.

Each day there were fish in Rachel's homespun net, as if they were sent from heaven to sustain them. Herbs were dried and crushed and used. Utensils were designed and laughed over.

Another evening flowed in. Supper was consumed then Rachel saw to Liam's bandage. Later, he watched her as she hummed to herself and buried fresh fish in the embers to be smoked.

With his back to the venerable oak, Liam was afforded the luxury of appreciating her every movement.