Highlander of Mine (20 page)

He could hardly think straight, especially when her hands found his chest, and particularly skilled fingers flicked his own nipple. Lunging his tongue in her mouth, he reached down to her derrière, then lifted. She wrapped her legs around his waist just as he’d hoped. Finding the one solid stonewall of the house, he gently pressed her to it, hefting her a little more, so his face was even with her still covered breasts. He kissed down to her stays, when he heard Fleur’s breath accelerate. Glancing up slightly, he saw her tilt her exquisite head back on her tiny neck. Her lids fluttered closed again, and her hands channeled through his hair, pulling him closer. Adjusting his hold, he balanced her with one arm, while his free hand cupped her breast. She gave an appreciative moan, and that was welcome enough for him. Reaching over her stays, he extracted one of her breasts. The nipple contracted hard as he gently lifted it up and over her stays. The moment he caught sight of her budding berry, he fastened his lips around it, suckling her.

Her moan and the way her hips slightly bucked against him made him want to give her more pleasure. He lapped her nipple. Then tenderly, he bit the swelling bloom. She ground against him again, and he had to push her harder against the wall to keep her there. He released her breast only to do the same to her other. All the while he felt the heat from between her legs intensify. Lord, he wanted to know if she was already slick. Was he making her want him as much as he wanted her? His own erection was so engorged he knew it wouldn’t take much to make him come.

“Kiss me.”

Duncan at first couldn’t decipher the whispered words Fleur had said, he was so intoxicated with her high, round breasts.

“Kiss me, Duncan.”

Well, that finally settled into his skull. He pulled away from her nipple and looked up. She was staring down at him, her lids hooded, her eyes glassy and lusciously dark. God, he loved looking at her like this, her breasts perched above the stays, her nipples beading, her face flushing with need.

“Please, Duncan, kiss me.”

Instantly, he pulled her down his body, then planted his lips against hers. He obeyed her without thought, but as she pushed her tongue in his mouth he became aware that his plaid had somehow lifted and the only barrier between himself and she was a slight covering of one of her skirts. It was almost as if he truly touched her, he could feel her heat so thoroughly. He ground against her, moving the barrier slightly. The head of his penis was free and nestled against her love pearl.

“Oh, Jesus,” he grunted.

She rocked against him as she kept kissing his lips.

He grabbed her hips with both hands and ripped himself a few inches away from her.

“Jesus, woman.”

“What’s wrong?” she whispered and petted his cheek.

Feeling his whiskers against her soft palm was erotic enough, but add to that he’d been so close to heaven. He swallowed, trying to gain some sort of clarity. “We almost—”

“Yes.”

“But we’re—”

“But . . .?”

“But we’re outside. This can’t be right.” He huffed, wanting so badly to grind himself against her again. His cock was hard enough he knew it was pointed right at her, at her entrance. “We’re against a wall.”

She smiled and kissed along his ear, making his back arch dangerously close to her again. “Yes.”

“We can’t—against a wall.”

She stopped and looked at him. “Why not?”

He snorted. “’Tis...Well, it’d be our first time. Don’t ye want it...inside? On a bed? I should do this right. I should—”

She kissed him then, interrupting his thoughts. It was sweet and held such longing. She pulled away enough to say, “I’ve lived my whole life with shoulds. I don’t want to anymore.” One of her hands slid down his too sensitive body. In its wake, she left a trail of hot coals that ached to become inflamed.

He’d been the one to put a little distance between their bodies. Granted, it wasn’t much, but a couple inches meant he wasn’t buried inside her. However, her wicked dainty hand found his erection, putting all his best-laid plans somewhere hazy and out of reach. She descended his length.

“I want this,” she whispered. “I want this so much.”

When she ascended his hardness he pinned her to the wall, smashing his lips against hers. He had no way of fighting against her, no way to tell her that he wanted something more special for her—rose petals and silk, candlelight, and for him to lick her sex until she screamed out his name. He wanted to make her feel like a princess, to feel pampered and cared for.

Instead, he found himself beyond control as her thumb smoothed over the head of his cock. She guided him to her entrance, and he complied with only a slight annoying thought he should stop, should give her more. Slippery already, she was ready for him. But he just lingered in her opening, feeling he should do something, should say how much he already loved her, how he never wanted her to leave.

“Please, Duncan,” she whispered as she pulled on his hardness, forcing him to enter her a tiny bit more.

He kissed her again, then slid into her. So very wet, so very strong, and so very engulfing—that was how she felt. His whole body spasmed with relief and then desperation for more. She released such a primal noise, so raw and hungry, he thought about pumping into her, making this act fast and animalistic. But the nagging sensation came back to him. He should make this good for her. Holding still, he wanted her body to adjust to his. Her lips melded into his, her tongue in his mouth, then she pulled him with her legs. At that, he did begin to pump in and out of her. Each time a mounting pressure burdened him to continue, but something was not right, and he knew it.

He hadn’t told her what laid in his heart, that he did want to make vows with her, promising to love her the rest of his life, promising to protect her and provide for her. Promising to wind his life with hers. And he’d wanted to hear her say the same, that she would do anything to stay with him, that she would fight the muses and that god, because her heart belonged to him.

His mother might have teased about the wedding, but it was the kind of jesting where he knew his ma actually wanted the end result—for Fleur to be his, for his heart to be hers. He wanted that too.

“Fleur.” His whisper sounded crazed and too bearish.

She moaned and tilted her head back. “So good . . .”

It
was
so good. Duncan kept pumping, feeling her body tighten even more. More out of instinct than anything else, he once more adjusted his hold of her, and slid his hand between their bodies. Around the mass of his plaid and her skirts he found her sex, felt where he pounded into her and her swollen flowering bud. Swirling on it and around it, he felt her channel tighten all the more. She gripped onto his hair with one hand, with the other, her fingernails bit into his shoulder.

“Oh...Duncan . . .”

That was what he wanted. He wanted her calling out his name. So why did it feel so wrong then?

“Duncan, I...oh...I . . .”

“Aye, come for me, Fleur,” he whispered, leaning his head near hers, her breath mixed with his.

She opened her eyes and stared at him. He’d consider himself mad if he didn’t admit how much he loved the way her head swayed with every push of his hips, the way her pink cheeks glowed, the way her body clutched onto him. She did feel perfect, as if she were made for him. Only, he knew he hadn’t waited for the right moment, hadn’t made it special enough, hadn’t told her of his heart.

With her heated gaze focused on him, it was hard to keep eye contact, but he did. He should have looked away, should have stopped himself. But he kept on, feeling his own body begin to burn—too much pressure in his lungs, in his bullocks.

“I want you to come for me too.”

“Oh, I will, darlin’.”

“I love your eyes,” she whispered and feathered a fingertip around his brow.

His heart contracted, hoping she’d tell him how much she loved him too.

“Your eyes remind me of a sunrise. I love them.” Her lids fluttered closed, especially as he put a little more pressure against her clitoris. “So good. I don’t want it to stop.”

His legs were already feeling weak, and his one arm holding her was shaking. But, Lord, if she wanted it to linger, he’d give it a hell of a try.

Suddenly, her eyes bolted open once more. “Duncan?”

“Aye, my love.” Well, he’d been wanting to call her that, but the fact it had come out surprised both of them.

Her eyes widened, but flickered shut again. “Oh, God, it’s so good.”

“Aye.” It was deliciously wonderful. She kept tightening around him. He felt her stomach flutter. Lord, she was holding back, he knew it, but he didn’t blame her. Making love to her was better than...there was nothing to compare it to. It was too complete. Even with his nagging thoughts, and the sense he should have waited, he felt it too—that he was meant to make love to her.

Once more she opened her eyes and gazed at him. “Duncan...Oh . . .”

“Let go, my love. Come for me.”

“I—Promise me we’ll do this again. We’ll do it often.”

He chuckled. “I promise.” And he meant it. He could make it up to her, having their first time behind his mother’s house, against a wall. It was rather passionate, but he wanted her in silk sheets and flowers around her wee body. He wanted to tempt her, tease her, draw out the love making until they both exploded, their bodies becoming limp and twisted around each other’s, where they’d lie for hours.

Her gaze intensified, her fingers tightened in their hold of his hair and shoulder, then he felt her sex ripple with her orgasm. While still looking at him, she moaned and began to shake.

“Duncan,” she whispered, “my love.”

That was what broke his own control. He came immediately, feeling his heart expand at her words, the rush of too tight and too hot air flashed down his lungs, landing low in his stomach, until his testicles released their warm flow. He poured himself into her, thrusting himself all the way inside. His body twitched a few more times, especially when he felt her tight squeezes around him. Then his legs nearly buckled.

He released his finger from her and wrapped both hands around her pert bottom. God, one of the ways he’d love to make love to her was with her back to his front, where he could see her lovely arse the whole time. She’d turn her head and kiss him over her shoulder and...he convulsed a few more times into her, spilling himself entirely as he planned their future. Cradling her close, he spun around, leaned his own back against the wall, then slid down until he sat with her still connected to him, but where his legs could finally become boneless.

She cuddled into him immediately, wrapping her arms around his neck, settling her head on his shoulder. Her own breath was rapid, and he felt her damp brow.

“Seriously, we have to do that again soon,” she whispered.

He chuckled.

She leaned back, her dark brows furrowed. “It wasn’t just me, was it? Did that feel...was it good for you too?”

He caressed her cheek with one of his hands. “Perfect...nay, better than that, love. Heavenly.”

She smiled, leaning her head against his shoulder again. “I like it when you call me that.”

“What? Love?”

He felt her shake her head. “Well, I like that too, but I like it when you say...my love.”

He tilted his head and kissed her cheek. “Ah, sweet lass, my love, I shouldn’t have done it this way. I should have—”

She lifted her head again as she placed her fingers over his lips. “Please don’t. I wanted it this way. I like that we were here, outside.”

“But ye deserved better. We’re on the dirt. Ye deserved—”

She shook her head, her brows furrowing deeply again. “I needed you, Duncan. I hope you needed me too.”

He nodded. He needed her more than she ever could ever know. Lord, how he needed her.

Chapter 25

F
leur knitted three, pearled twice, then returned to knitting. The pattern was simple, but very pretty. Na had taught her how to knit, but it was while being around Helen that she’d remembered how the wool would feel as it slipped between her fingers, the mindless, zen place she’d find while continuing the pattern with her hands. How good it felt to check out, while she produced something as useful as a blanket.

Knit, knit, knit . . .

She glanced up at Helen in the waning evening’s light that sent shocks of orange and lavender throughout the room. Surprising Fleur, Helen’s warm hazel eyes stared back at her. She smiled slowly.

“Where’s my Duncan?”

“Rory came back from...well, wherever he’d gone. Duncan’s meeting with him, asking for more time away from training the troops.”

Helen nodded. “Ye watchin’ over me, dear?”

Fleur returned the grin and nodded. “I’m trying to finish your blanket, but I’m nowhere near the knitter you are. My stitches are too tight.”

“Ye nervous, bonny lass?” Helen lifted herself on unsure arms, looking like a newborn colt.

Fleur dropped the knitting on Helen’s canvas bag, then assisted Helen with a few fluffy pillows to sit more upright. As she did so, Helen grazed her arms with soft, warm, bony fingers.

“I make ye nervous, eh?” Helen whispered, as one of her hands found Fleur’s. “I don’ mean to. I want ye comfortable with me, in my house, around my son.”

“I—I’m comfortable.”

Helen made a gargled derisive noise. “Nay, ye aren’t. But I don’ blame ye. I’m sorry for teasin’ ye and Duncan so. What ye do in a bed together is none of my business, is it?”

Fleur squeezed Helen’s hand then returned to the wooden chair near Helen’s bed. Her heart sank. Here Helen was trying to overlook cultural dictates to make Fleur happy. As much as Fleur’s throat constricted and a part of her wanted to run from this conversation, she decided it was time to stand up against her own fears and talk.

After clearing her throat, she said, “I think it is your business. We’re in your house.”

Helen waved a hand, trying to clear the air. “Whatever makes the two of ye happy, makes me happy.”

Fleur plastered on a smile, although her eyes instantly smudged with tears, making the image of Helen blurry. Helen clucked, but Fleur spoke faster than Duncan’s ma. “I don’t remember a time when I’ve been so happy. I love being here.” Her voice had sounded so childish. An octave higher, breathier.

“Ye certain?”

Fleur nodded through her moist eyes. It was the truth. As much as she loved her work, it was similar to knitting—numbing. Granted, everyone needed to check out from time to time. But she’d been doing it for years instead of the occasional meditation. Here, in the Highlands, she felt things—and it hurt. Her body ached with forgotten emotions she’d tried to bury as soon as she landed in Texas. It was as if she had never fully grown up since then. That she’d locked tight her sense of self to avoid any further pain.

But here she couldn’t hide from it. And for that, she’d finally grown.

She also couldn’t hide from the fact that she’d just attacked Duncan. God, had she just forced him to have sex with her? She’d wanted him so much, she hadn’t thought of anything else. And he sweetly tried to stop her, tried to talk about making their first time a little more special. But, honestly, if Fleur had to do it all over again the only thing she’d change was to tell him that she wanted to make love like that, with the soil under them. Not that the way she felt about him was dirty. No. It was...primordial, new, clean. Perfect. It had to be outside, close to the ground to represent how much it meant to her.

But, again, she’d been a coward and hadn’t told him any of what lay in her heart.

That had to end.

Fleur looked up at Helen. “I love it here, Helen. You’ve made me so comfortable in your own home, with you.”

“And my son?” Instantly Helen flinched. “Don’t tell me. I don’t need to ken.”

A tear surfed down Fleur’s cheek, but still she looked Helen in the eye when she said, “I’m deliriously happy with him.” Another tear escaped, and Fleur wiped them away slowly.

“Then why ye cry, lass?”

Because nothing lasts. Because this isn’t my life. Nothing is my life. Because I have no control over if I stay or go.

A breeze whispered through one of Helen’s open windows, and Fleur remembered again the muses saying that she had many choices to make while here.

But it didn’t feel as if she did. Nothing ever felt as if she had a choice. The choices weren’t up to her.

Yes, she knew she’d been the one to graduate with her degrees. She’d been the one to become a genealogist, when any field of science or mathematics was open to her. She’d made that choice. But living, truly living by engaging in emotions and wanting—wanting love,
that
she hadn’t felt was one of her choices. She was so scared to want Duncan. Obviously, she did. But she wouldn’t tell him how much, too afraid that if she finally did he’d vanish. No, it wasn’t that the people she loved disappeared.
She did
. She’d been forced away, then she’d been the one to pull herself into a shell and hide from everyone and everything.

Fleur looked down at her hands. “Because I’m scared. I’ve never been this happy before, and I’m scared it will go away.”

Helen extended her arms wide. “Come here, my sweet, come to me.”

Fleur flew to her faster than she thought possible. Helen cradled her, forcing Fleur’s head on her tiny sharp shoulder, soothing her small hands around her hair and an arm.

“There, there, my lass. There, there.” Helen’s voice lowered and whispered the mothering words. “’Tis hard not to be scared. That I understand all too well. I don’ want to leave this earth. But I’m goin’ to.”

Fleur glanced up at Helen, shaking her head. “No, you’re recovering—” As the words spilled out, something in her brain rebelled, reminding her of when cancer metastasized. Words like terminal and fatal flashed through her mind, but she didn’t want to think it, didn’t want it to be the truth, and forced herself to think otherwise.

Helen had tears standing in her own eyes. “Mayhap. But one day I will leave this earth. I ken death all too well. My first husband, Patrick, left me and Duncan so long ago. It was the silliest of an accident. He was out harvestin’ the oats, walkin’ behind another man who had his scythe over his shoulder. My love Patrick waved at me while I held our big baby, Duncan, then my Patrick walked right into the scythe, cut his own neck. He was nearly bled out by the time I ran to him. Had enough time to smile once more at me and our chubby bairn. Then he passed.”

Fleur gently wiped the tears from Helen’s beautiful, gaunt face as her own spilled from her eyes.

Helen smiled down at her. “Lord, I ken death. I ken change. Everything is transitory.”

“I hate that.” Fleur’s whisper was child-like, and she felt like a kid, stating such a melodramatic thing.

Helen’s grin widened though. “Ach, me too. Me too.”

The words spilled out of Fleur then. “How—how are we supposed to . . .?”

“Live? Love?”

Yes, but Fleur had wondered more about control, about having some sense of control over her life.

“So much is out of our hands, my dear. My Patrick dyin’, it changed everything. I felt for so long that I had to submit to the change, let it roll over me. I married a pig of a man afterward, because I felt I had no choice. But that wasn’ the truth, my bonny girl. The truth is, I was too scared to do anything different. Too scared to find love, the kind of love I felt toward my Patrick. Now I cursed all my sons with half truths of what love and life could be like. I did that because I was too scared to truly live.

“I chose a silly lie for myself, tellin’ myself that marrying Albert made me safe, because he was a good provider. Nay, it was my sons who were good providers, but by doin’ so I forced them to give up their childhoods, give up the fun of life. I did so much wrong, Fleur, by being too scared, too scared to live, to love.”

Helen caressed both her hands around Fleur’s cheeks. “Please, love, don’ be scared like me. I ken how awful change is. I ken that fear. I ken what ‘tis like to feel as if nothing is in your control, that everything will be taken away from ye. And there is so much that can prove that right, ye ken? There is death and storms that can flood yer house, take it all away. But what ye hold in yer heart no one can take away. That is yers to keep forever and ever. Don’ be a fool like me. Don’ waste yer life, thinkin’ about bein’ safe, when the only thing that’s safe is what’s in yer heart. That’s it. There are no other guarantees, but what ye want to put in yer heart and keep there. Then ye do yer best to fight for that, keep it there. And that, my love, is all that matters when ye’re lyin’ in yer deathbed—the people that ye bound in yer heart.”

Clutching onto Helen, Fleur couldn’t help but think of the people bound in her heart—one brawny, tall red head with a talent for words and stories came to mind. Was she bound in his heart?