Lost in Your Arms (14 page)

Beneath her, the rod in his trousers flexed.

She kissed his shoulder and lingered on one of the scars there. “Does that hurt?”

“No, you’ve kissed it better.”

“Oh!” She liked that. “How about here?” She kissed a scar on his chest.

“You’ve made that better, too.”

“And here?” She loitered at his nipple, circling it with her tongue.

“You could raise the dead,” he said fervently.

She kissed her way down his stomach, finding each scar and rib, treating each to her approval, until she reached his waistband. Tucking her fingers within, she glanced up at him.

He watched intently, his face still and bleak with need. “I feel as if I have waited for you forever.”

Pressing her lips to the bulge in his trousers, she breathed the scent of soap, clean flesh, and MacLean. He was her husband. She wanted to make him happy, and in the process herself happy—and she knew how. Unbuttoning his trousers, she slipped her fingers inside. His belly rippled beneath her caress; she found his hardness at once, and explored him with a tender touch.

She had forgotten so much; the firm, smooth head, the marbled rod. His size, his heat, the way his hips rolled as she stroked him.

His trousers inched downward; he was removing them.

“We have all night,” she chided.

“
I
have about five minutes before I expire from eagerness.”

As the trousers slipped lower, she captured him in her mouth. He tasted good, a clean male animal, and when she sucked, and swirled her tongue, the flavor became the slightest bit salty.

He was close, so close . . .

He sat straight up and pulled her back so that she sat on him, on his thighs, her heels tucked under her buttocks. His trousers hit the floor. She thought he would tumble her on her back and thrust into her, and she braced herself for the discomfort. Instead, he lifted her, shifted her. Her breasts touched his chest. He stared into her face, his eyes aglow with demand and desire. She felt the tip of him touch her, seeking entrance. She caught at his shoulders; her body softened, grew damp with longing.

“Enid, help me.” He held her hips. “I can’t do it all. You’ll have to do your part.”

Realization—and trepidation—struck her.

He wanted her to guide him, to take him into herself.

She was an experienced woman. A wife. MacLean’s wife. Yet she hadn’t been with a man in eight years. MacLean was so close she could feel his breath on her lips, see his pupils expand as he watched her and waited for her to decide—would she take him?

In the softest of voices, he said, “You need to assist me. I can’t do it without you. I would be lost . . . without you.”

More important—would she keep him? For that was what he demanded.

The rush toward euphoria ceased. His still features might have been cast in steel; his scars, his broken nose, his harsh jaw proclaimed him a warrior, a man of savage strength held in check.

Only his eyes were alive. His unique gold-shot green eyes commanded that she come to him of her own free will.

“I need you to come to me,” he said, “to stay with me . . . forever.”

The silence in the attic room grew to immense proportions. She wanted, so badly, to run, to hide, to never have to make this choice. For when she did, she would be his wife, not just for the night, but forever. That was the price she paid for tonight’s dissipation; if she refused, he would let her go. His character was strong enough to do that—but he would renew the assault another day.

Sooner or later, he would prevail.

She swallowed. All her fears rose in her.

No one had ever loved her. Not forever. And she could love—had loved—too many times, and been left standing on the wayside alone.

But MacLean was her husband. He had changed. He was different. He seemed honorable.

And, after all, if she was wrong about him, it didn’t matter because she didn’t love him. In the morning, as every morning, they would still be bound by the vows
they’d exchanged nine years ago, yet she would not love him.

She could take the chance tonight because she wouldn’t let herself love. She would never again be open to heartache and sorrow. She would forever be free of the ambush of love.

Slowly, she slipped her hand between them and positioned his penis in exactly the right place. She adjusted herself and pressed herself downward.

He smiled, a slight, hard, brief smile.

Then he proved the depths of his duplicity. For he didn’t need her help.

He placed her hands back on his shoulders. His hands slid around her thighs. He opened her wider, pushing up with his hips.

And entered her. Inch by inch, he stroked into her. She grimaced, always at the point of discomfort, determined not to engage in a fruitless wrestling match as she tried to free herself. Eight years had been too long, she had been too young, her body had healed from his early assaults and closed itself once more.

But still he came into her, an inexorable march, stretching her so that she knew she would never find pleasure.

Just like before. She would be unfulfilled.

She tried to hide her disappointment, but he saw her distress. He observed everything. He was too perceptive, and she hated that, so she closed her eyes and turned her head.

And he slipped one hand between them. He used two fingers to adjust her. He touched her, the veriest whisper of voluptuousness.

She caught her breath. Her thighs flexed, and she
lifted herself just the tiniest bit. That had been . . . enjoyable.

His finger circled and touched her again.

Everything flexed.

She opened her eyes and stared at him, hope and passion blossoming together.

“Is that better, dearling?” His voice rasped a velvet seduction. “I felt that inside. You clutched at me, and you’re already so . . . tight.”

She half rose away from his touch. Then settled back.

His voice, smooth and seductive, rumbled in her ear. “You’re like a velvet glove around me, caressing me. I’m in . . . ecstasy.”

Everything fit a little more comfortably.

She rose.

“I’m going to possess you. You’re going to know you’re mine every minute of the day. You’re going to want me inside you all night long.”

At his husky warning, her knees gave out. She sank onto him, all the way down.

Then they were moving together. Violently, intemperately, a clash of bodies. He fell back onto the pillows. She leaned forward over him, hands braced against his shoulders. He guided her with his hands beneath her thighs. Her muscles ached as she moved on him. His hips pumped beneath her. He filled her. He watched her face, forced the pace, silently demanded with his voluptuous fury that she spend herself on him.

But she would not allow him to command her. Not about this. She had chosen to give herself to him. She was his nurse, his wife. She would force him to show his excitement. She moved with his rhythm, but she
watched him in return. She ran her hands across his belly. She leaned back, placed her hands on his thighs, and proudly displayed her breasts.

His discipline failed. His eyes half-closed. His head tilted back. He breathed in great gasps, and his neck corded with the madness of passion.

She should have experienced triumph. Instead the sight of him beneath her, twisting in anguished pleasure, doubled and redoubled her own passion. She moaned with every stroke. To know that he found such ferocious delight with her—that was the true aphrodisiac.

The whole world was encapsulated in a bed with rumpled sheets, a stack of pillows, and a flushed, euphoric MacLean held captive between her legs. They moved together, more quickly, more quickly, and she could contain herself no longer. Her body, already warmed with passion, surged into orgasm. She threw her head back. Deep within her, her muscles convulsed, and she wanted . . . she sought . . . oh, God, she found.

She screamed her delight.

He held himself in check, stroking in the small, restrained movement. Then when she’d reached the crest, he released his restraint. He pounded into her, carrying her to another orgasm, and another, and at the same time, he poured his seed into her, a mighty, virile, majestic mating.

Gradually, her heart slowed. Lethargy took the place of passion, and she sank down on top of him, her head on his chest, her trembling thighs about his hips. The breath chafed in her lungs. She wondered briefly if
anyone had heard them in the room below, then decided she wouldn’t worry now. In the morning, perhaps. Then she would think about things like . . .

Like the fact that MacLean would assume she had promised him things she would never give.

The thought made her muscles tense. Lethargy fled, and she feigned a casual withdrawal. If she could just slip away and go to her own bed . . .

As if she could leave him and he would not notice.

Holding her firmly in place, he said, “You panic quickly.”

How did he know?

“But you mustn’t. You’re mine now, and I’ll take care of everything.” He skimmed his fingers down her spine, caught the edge of the covers, and drew them over them both. “I’ll take care of you.”

Closing her eyes tightly, she pretended to be asleep.

In the wee hours of the morning, a pounding at the trapdoor and the shouts of men roused her from the depths of slumber.

“Fire! For God’s sake, get out! The cottage is on fire!”

Chapter 15

MacLean. Enid struggled out of the covers. She had to get MacLean out of the cottage, and she didn’t know how. She couldn’t carry him, couldn’t drag him . . . perhaps the guards below . . .

But MacLean was already up. Moving toward her, holding her pink wrapper.

With a cry, she tried to catch at him.

“Sh. I’m fine.” He fed one of her arms into the sleeve. “Hurry. We’ve got to get out.”

It was a miracle. Another miracle, one as great as when he’d opened his eyes and spoken. He could walk!

And the fire was going to kill him—and her.

The pounding on the trapdoor continued. “Wake up! Wake up! Fire!”

Fire. God, fire. Smoke oozed through the cracks in the floorboards. An odd light illuminated the west side of the room.

MacLean already had his trousers on. Kneeling at her feet, he helped her with one of her shoes while she stuck her arm in the other hole and tied the belt.

“I’m all right,” she said hoarsely. “Go on!”

MacLean moved without any sign of distress, as if he saw no reason for haste, as if he dealt with crisis every day, as if he walked all the time.

She wanted to scream at him to hurry, then to be careful. This was too much for him. He might fall. His leg might break. He might die in the fire.

She pulled on her shoe while he tried to unfasten the latch of the trapdoor. Jerking his hand back, he shook it as if it had been burned.

Enid threw him a towel. He wrapped it around his fingers. He unlatched the door and tugged at it. Whoever stood below pushed at the same time. The door slammed back. Smoke rushed in. Enid heard a roaring from below as flames consumed the wooden walls on the interior of the cottage.

Holding a towel before his face, Harry bounded up the stairs and shut the door after him. “The way is blocked. We’re going to have to go out the window.”

“MacLean can’t go out the window,” Enid protested, and coughed as the smoke billowed around her face. “His leg—”

But the men weren’t listening to her. They went to work, pulling a rope out of a bag MacLean had stashed beneath his bed. Before she knew it, Enid found herself crawling into the thicket of rosebushes beside the cottage. Hands from below caught her and pulled her out of the brambles.

Men shouted encouragement as MacLean started
the descent. She wanted to shout, too, but she couldn’t. Terror closed her throat. She feared for him too much.

Then he stood beside her, grasping her arm. He led her to the picket fence, instructed, “Stay there until I come for you,” and went back to help Harry off the rope and make sure no one else remained inside the cottage.

What did he think he could do? Mount a rescue? He’d been ill. She found herself crying again, she who never cried. The stone walls of the cottage glowed from the heat inside. Lady Halifax had died. Like a fool, Enid had consummated her marriage, letting MacLean assume all sorts of wrong things. Now a fire devoured everything while he stalked about like a man capable of performing rescues, going on adventures . . . abandoning her again.

Sobs shook her every limb. When she had allowed herself to think about MacLean’s recovery, she had imagined she would lead him, slowly and carefully, back into the world of perambulation.

But he didn’t need her. He wasn’t her patient anymore. Everything had changed.

What was she going to do?

Someone gently took her arm and led her outside the gate, away from the gathering crowd who shouted and pointed at the flames shooting out of the roof. “Mrs. MacLean? Are you hurt?”

It was Mr. Throckmorton, his face illuminated in the weird, flickering light. He wore no cravat, his shirt had no collar and his hair stuck up wildly, but his tone was soothing and his gaze concerned.

She took a quivering breath. “I’m fine.”

“You’re crying.” He offered his handkerchief. “Why are you crying?”

Oh, as if she would tell him that!

“It’s all right.” Gingerly, he patted her shoulder. “Everyone is safe, and that’s all that truly matters. And I know you’ve lost all your possessions, but I promise we’ll replace everything we can.”

Her things! She hadn’t even thought . . . her clothes, her letters from Lady Halifax, the shawl she’d been painstakingly tatting for over four years . . . she sobbed harder.

With a roar, the roof caved in. Men scattered in all directions. Enid forgot her own grief and wildly looked about, trying to locate MacLean.

Face smudged, smelling of smoke, he appeared at her side and pulled her into his arms.

She held onto him and sobbed.

This was getting to be a habit, one she shouldn’t encourage, but she was tired and everything was horrible.

“Are you hurt?” he demanded.

She shook her head.

“She’s a little concerned about her belongings,” Mr. Throckmorton said.

MacLean hugged her, rocked her. “Don’t worry about your things. The important thing is, we’re safe.”

Sharply furious at him, at Mr. Throckmorton, at the whole stupid world, she pushed away from him. “I’m not . . . worried about my . . . possessions!” Her voice hit such a high note that dogs were howling. She didn’t care. “How can you think I’m so . . . foolish I would worry about my . . . things?”

Mr. Kinman had joined them, and Harry, and all
four of them had that distinctly uncomfortable mien of men forced to witness feminine emotion.

“It’s just . . . the fire, and . . . you walking, and—” She caught herself before she mentioned that she and MacLean had spent the evening fornicating like rabbits. But she wanted to.

MacLean realized it, too, for he pulled her back into his arms and muffled her face in his chest. “I’m sorry. Throckmorton and I were wrong to worry about you.”

“My letters from Lady Halifax.” She hiccupped a last sob.

MacLean stroked her hair and wisely didn’t answer.

Her fingers rubbed at his bare chest. She sniffled. “MacLean, why don’t you ever wear a shirt? I’m tired of dripping on you.”

Harry said, “She’s irritable.”

“I am not.” But she muttered the denial.

In an amused tone, MacLean said, “Next time we have a fire in the middle of the night, we’ll rescue her, but we won’t wake her up.”

Enid knew the men were nodding, and she wanted to slap them all. First MacLean, then Mr. Throckmorton, then Mr. Kinman, then Harry—then MacLean again. They didn’t understand.

“The men are all accounted for,” Mr. Kinman said.

Above her head, MacLean spoke in the sharp, commanding tone he usually saved for her. “So, Throckmorton, what caused the fire?”

Mr. Throckmorton answered, “We’ll find out.”

“Seems havey-cavey to me,” Harry added.

A long silence followed his comment. Enid lifted
her head and saw MacLean, Mr. Kinman, and Mr. Throckmorton all glaring at Harry.

Harry’s eyes glowed in the light of the dying flames, and he jerked his thumb toward her. “She’s not stupid, you know.”

“You think someone set the fire?”

Harry stuck his finger in his ear and jiggled it. She had hit that high note again.

“I think someone was careless, and whoever it is will be removed from his station,” Mr. Throckmorton said firmly. “There’s nothing for you to worry about, Mrs. MacLean.”

She didn’t believe him. Hadn’t believed his assurances about her and about MacLean for quite a while now. An assassin, perhaps, would finish what the bomb had started. A killer would set a fire and trap a crippled man and burn him to death.

Harry was right. She wasn’t stupid. She would be on the alert.

Mr. Throckmorton spoke gently to her. “We’ll take you to the main house. The women can take care of you there.” Then, to MacLean, he said, “I’ve sent for a carriage.”

“Good.” MacLean cleared his throat and lowered his voice so only she could hear him. “I don’t think I can walk that far.”

Guilt assaulted her. She’d been thinking of herself and her letters, for heaven’s sake, while MacLean had risen for the first time in months and walked! And of course, being a man and as stubborn as a donkey, he didn’t want to admit his fatigue in front of the other men. Enid gave a fierce scowl at Harry and Mr. Kinman,
who backed off hurriedly, then she slipped her arm around MacLean’s waist. “Come and sit on that bench.”

On the other side, Mr. Throckmorton hooked his arm through MacLean’s. “We’ll get you clothes and everything you require for your trip.”

His trip?

But MacLean sounded as if he understood. “Have you set the departure time, then?”

“As soon as possible. I don’t believe in coincidence, and this . . .” Mr. Throckmorton trailed off, and when someone hailed him, he looked relieved. “Can you make it to the bench without me? It’s not far.” At MacLean’s nod, he hurried away.

The stone bench stood only a few steps away. She was glad, for MacLean leaned his full weight on her.

His trip?
She’d give him a trip! Dropping his arm, she shoved at him.

Off-balance, he toppled onto the bench. “Enid, be careful. My leg . . .”

She managed to keep her tone reasonable. “Your trip? Where are you going?”

“To Scotland.”

“To Scotland.” He was going to Scotland. He was leaving, and no one had said a word to her.

Of course, why would they? She was just the caretaker.

She was just his
wife.

MacLean continued, “Throckmorton hopes I’ll recover my memory at home.”

“Too bad about the fire, isn’t it?” She inveighed every word with sarcasm. “If not for the fire, you
could have sneaked out of here without ever having to face me.”

He did a good imitation of a man startled and offended. “Enid, you’ve misunderstood.”

His weighty, commiserating tone made her want to retch. “Misunderstood? Not at all. You’re abandoning me again. You can wrap it up in all the pretty words you like, but you’re abandoning me again!” She put her fists on her hips, which made her look like a fishwife, but anything was better than giving in to the temptation of hitting him. “You’ve had your way with me, and you’re running off home.”

“No, dearling, listen—”

“I know I’m not the wife you wanted. I know I’m not particularly good between the sheets. But maybe that’s because I haven’t had enough practice, and whose fault is that?”

He glanced around at the people standing about, watching the dying flames. “Hush.”

She raised her voice. “I will not hush! And what’s wrong with my methods, anyway? You certainly seemed satisfied tonight!”

“I was. Enid, you’ve misunderstood!”

“Misunderstood what? That you’re going to leave me here without a position to go to, thrust me into poverty once more, abandon me—”

“For God’s sake, woman, would you clabber your maw?” he roared.

She stopped talking, crossed her arms over her chest, and glared at him.

He looked her over, then held out his hand. “Help me up.”

She didn’t want to. She didn’t want to uncross her arms or take his hand. She suspected a trick. She suspected he would try and talk her around, and she would be forced to push him over again. But when he began to struggle to his feet on his own, she stuck out her hand. “Oh, here.”

Taking it, he hefted himself up and wrapped her in his embrace all in one motion. “You’re going with me.”

She caught her breath. “Oh.”

He rested his cheek on top of her head. “I wouldn’t go anywhere without you. Not now. Not ever.”

“Oh.” She felt vaguely foolish. She wondered how many people had overheard her tirade. She wondered if she would care in the morning.

“Throckmorton and I discussed it today while you were gone. I had no time to tell you last night.” His voice dropped to a whisper and warmed to an ember. “You know why.”

Yes, she knew why. Standing here with his arms around her and her body stirring, she knew why very well.

“So I’m going to Scotland to meet your family at last.” She wondered how they would welcome her. Whether Kiernan MacLean would disdain her. Whether Stephen MacLean would recover his memory and she would be once again alone.

MacLean tilted her chin up and smoothed the lines from between her eyebrows. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of everything. I will care for you.”

She looked at that strong, stubborn, determined face, and for the first time realized they could succeed as husband and wife. Even when MacLean got his memory back, he couldn’t return to immaturity and
selfishness. It wasn’t possible for a character to regress so profoundly, and this new MacLean was everything she’d ever dreamed of. No—he was more than she had ever allowed herself to dream of.

“You look so dazed and so . . . pretty.” He smiled at her with all the crooked charm his injured face would allow. “I was just thinking—when I was prone and you were bossing me around, I thought you a veritable giant, and you’re only a wee bit of a thing. I assumed you were taller than this.”

“Yes, well, I thought you were . . .” She caught her breath on a shard of dismay.
Shorter.
She thought he was shorter. Her husband, Stephen MacLean, was a bit under six feet tall. This man, this husband, was at least three inches taller.

“You thought I was . . . what?” He still smiled at her with his stranger’s face.