My Fair Highlander (19 page)

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Authors: Mary Wine

BOOK: My Fair Highlander
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She moved her hand up and down his shaft, gaining a sort of rhythm. He growled softly, rolling slightly more onto his back to offer her access to his length. Apparently his cock was as sensitive as her clitoris. Her gaze moved to it. The head was swollen and crowned with a small slit that held a drop of fluid. Bringing her hand back up to the top, she ran her thumb over that slit, her skin slipping easily across it. Another moan rumbled up from his chest, but it was not nearly as hungry or passionate as he had driven her to.
Of course, he had been using his mouth on her, too . . .
Before she considered the idea any further, Jemma leaned down and opened her mouth and licked the head of his cock.
“Sweet virgin's tits!” His huge body jerked, bouncing on the bed and pulling his cock from her grasp.
“Gordon . . . such words will see you in the stocks.”
He snarled while glaring at her. Jemma rolled up until she was poised on her knees in the middle of the bed. “Didn't you like that? I enjoyed it when you used . . .”
“When I sucked on yer clitoris, aye, I recall it well.”
His cock looked more swollen now, the head ruby red. “Men don't enjoy the same?”
He laughed, low and deep. “They do, lass, but I don't trust my control to last if ye took to Frenching me. I'd likely spill my seed.”
There was a tone in his voice that told her he found the idea very appealing. Her pride latched on to it, craving an opportunity to be the one commanding his pleasure.
“I've heard that men can spill more than one portion of seed in a night.”
He stiffened, his eyes filling with bright hunger. “Aye, that's a truth.”
“Then I do not see any reason for you to argue against my
Frenching
you, unless you were not sincere in your claim that you have no care for a submissive bride behind closed doors.”
“That word is nearly enough to unman me, coming from yer lips, lass.”
But not enough? She grabbed the challenge and stretched out toward him on all fours, walking her hands across the surface of the bed until she lowered herself onto her stomach. The candles turned his skin crimson, and she used both her hands to cup the sac hanging below his member.
“Since we are newlywed, I believe I should confess that I have never been satisfied with being nearly good enough at anything, Gordon.” She stroked her fingers up the soft skin encasing his cock, lightly teasing it as he had done with her sex.
“I've always admired those who seek excellence, lass.”
His breath was becoming rough. Closing her hand around his thickness, she leaned forward and trailed her tongue over the top of it again. She felt him shiver. The little response fanned the flames of her determination. She licked his cock again, this time with more than just the very tip of her tongue. She leaned in closer and allowed her mouth to open wider so that more of her tongue connected with his cock. Fluid had returned to the slit, and it tasted slightly salty when she ran her tongue over it. She could hear him breathing roughly, but it wasn't anywhere near the same mindless condition he had reduced her to.
Lifting her head, she looked up at his face. “Tell me how to French you.” He snorted at her request. “Why not tell me? I don't know because bed sport was something I expected to learn from my husband, not from the local light skirts.”
His hand grasped the back of her head, and his lips thinned into an expression that was almost harsh until she recalled how tight her own emotions had been stretched when he was sucking her.
Is he on that edge?
“Open yer mouth and suck some of my length inside.”
She swallowed hard and shivered. Excitement brewed once again in her belly. It was strange how hearing the words made her quiver with anticipation. Her hands stroked his member, drawing another snort from him.
“And do that with yer hands.”
She looked back down at his cock and opened her mouth. She had already tasted him so there was no hesitation in her. Relaxing her jaw, she took the head between her lips while her hands played up and down the portion that was still outside her mouth. His hand tightened on her hair, and she heard his breathing become small pants. His hips thrust toward her mouth, driving his cock deeper and then withdrawing in shallow thrusts.
He groaned. Low and deep, it was a sound that confirmed he was as flooded with pleasure as she had been. That knowledge sent a flicker of heat through her clitoris. But she wasn't ready to allow him to reverse their roles yet. She allowed more of his cock to penetrate her mouth while her hands closed around his cock in an imitation of her passage clasping the entire length. He snarled something beneath his breath, his hips quickening their pace before the fingers in her hair tightened and his hips drove his cock into her mouth in a hard motion. She felt the warm spurt of his seed bathe her tongue and flood her mouth. His body shook while he let out a savage-sounding moan.
He pulled her head away from his cock, but she continued to stroke it with delicate touches while he drew in rough, rapid breaths. His face was drawn into a hard expression, but he opened his eyes and she witnessed the pleasure shimmering in them. His lips suddenly parted to display a smile at her. The expression, full of promise, sent another ripple of intense excitement through her being.
“One good Frenching deserves another, woman.”
He hooked an arm beneath her waist and flipped her onto her back in one powerful motion. The amount of strength the man had was frightening, but he controlled it expertly. The bed shook beneath her back, and Gordon lunged right over her to come up between her legs. He slid his hands up the insides of her thighs, sending pleasure through her, and then pressed her legs wide. He did it with just enough strength to allow her to feel like he was indeed reversing their roles. His hands held her thighs wide to expose her sex while he raised his head up to look at her stunned face.
“I'm going to enjoy tonguing yer pearl, lass.”
“My what?” Her voice was a croak because she'd never imagined that husbands and wives talked so much about bed sport.
His hand moved to her spread sex, gliding up the center of her folds to the top where her clitoris was unprotected now. He pressed his thumb down on top of it, gently moving the finger in a tiny circle.
“This little pearl, sweet wife. The only one that I truly care to see on ye. I'm going to enjoy giving it a great deal of attention.”
The man was not boasting idle promises. He leaned forward and captured her clitoris between his lips. She cried out because it was even more sensitive than she had thought. Arousal had seeped into her while she pleasured him, and now it was like dry tinder and his mouth the spark.
Her hands became claws, pulling at the bedding. His lips sucked, and the tip of his tongue flicked back and forth across her clitoris. She couldn't seem to pull enough breath into her lungs, her chest heaving to try to keep pace with her accelerating heart. Her hips lifted to his mouth, seeking out enough pressure to fling her into that same pleasure pool as before. This time she knew her destination, and her body was even more eager for the culmination.
“That's it, lass, raise yer hips and demand yer pleasure.”
He trailed one fingertip down the center of her spread fold to gently circle the opening to her passage.
“Take yer pleasure from me, Jemma.”
His voice was strained, as though his control was being tested. She lifted her eyelids to look at him and discovered hunger glittering in his eyes. She watched his fingers take over working her clitoris, pressing and rubbing it. She lost the ability to keep her eyes open, the pleasure becoming too much to ignore in favor of anything else. She closed her eyes and felt her body tighten, each rub from his fingers intensifying the pleasure. He leaned forward and replaced his fingers with his mouth, muttering something against her clitoris that vibrated against the sensitive point.
Pleasure ripped through her, pulling her into a moment filled with nothing but blinding delight. It raced out to the farthest points of her body and then back to her belly where it bathed the hunger gnawing at her in satisfaction. Her cries echoed off the arched ceiling and the canopy stretched over the bed. He trailed his fingers back down to the opening of her passage to gently tease it. She felt empty and as though she wasn't yet truly satisfied. He allowed one finger to penetrate her, just a small amount, but the walls of her passage instantly registered it and how good it felt. The motion recalled her to the task in front of her. That thing that had been so much talked about.
Taking his member inside me.
For certain she had heard more coarse words for it, but she could see the hunger in his eyes and feel it still glowing in the deepest part of her. She was still needy, still yearning for something more.
“Are ye ready, Jemma? Ready to become me wife?”
His voice was rough and coated with need as great as her own. She lifted her arms in invitation.
“Come to me, Gordon. Be my husband.”
He growled and pulled his fingers from her passage. Rising up, she caught a glimpse of his rigid cock and shivered. But he crawled up to cover her, and his warm skin connected with hers to send a flood of contentment through her, as though it was something she had always yearned for but never realized she needed. Her hands rose to clasp his shoulders, and she felt the first touch of his cock against the opening of her body. It slipped easily against the wet skin, nudging its way . . .
Gordon suddenly froze, his head tilting sideways. The windows all vibrated with the ringing of bells. They increased in volume as more of them joined. He let out a vicious curse, and a second later she lay alone on the bed.
“What is it?”
“Trouble.”
He cast one look back at her and snarled something else that would have gotten him locked in the stocks for cursing. He grabbed the heavy coverlet and tossed it up the bed to cover her. Someone pounded on the chamber doors a moment later.
“Enter!”
Two of his captains burst into the room. “Fire in the village.”
“Assemble the men.”
His captains didn't waste any time delivering their laird's orders. They quit the room in a flash while Gordon stalked toward the far side of the chamber. She hadn't realized the maid had set out his clothing in case he might have to dress quickly in the middle of the night.
It was his duty to protect his people. Such was a dangerous task that was so often bathed in blood. He pulled a shirt on and stepped into a pair of boots. Bending one knee, he laced one quickly and then the other. A kilt was already pleated along a table built at an angle. The length of tartan evenly placed and a belt running beneath it. He placed his back in the center and tugged the ends of the belt around his middle.
“Stay right there, exactly as ye are.” He leaned into the bed and pressed a hard kiss against her mouth before turning and grabbing his sword on the way out of the chamber.
Jemma heard the doors close, and her eyes filled with tears. She failed to keep them from falling, the salt drops falling down her cheeks to wet the sheets. She wept for the chill that crept over the chamber and for the moment that they had been denied, but most of all she cried because of the fear that dug its claws into her.
The fear that she might become a widow before she sampled the joys of being a wife.
 
Gordon smelled the smoke the moment he set foot outside the tower. He took the stairs two at a time and gained the top quickly. Kerry was looking through a spy glass at the bright orange glare below them. It wasn't in the village but one of the farmers on the outskirts.
“I suspect that would be the work of those bloody English.”
“The ones I granted mercy to.” Gordon took a quick look through the glass before passing it back to one of the men standing nearby. “I warned them that there would be no second chance of that happening again. Mount up!”
Every lad over the age of five was already helping to saddle horses. They came running in their night shirts to lend assistance to their clan. Gordon's foot touched the ground, and his stallion was tugged toward him. He offered the animal a firm pat along its neck before swinging up onto its powerful back.
“Open the gate!”
There was a groan as the chains were wound up and the iron gate began to rise. The Barras retainers didn't wait for it to finish; they ducked their heads across the necks of their horses the moment the iron gate was high enough for them to ride beneath. The sound of the horses' hooves combined with the night. They streamed out of the castle, uncaring of the darkness. Nothing was more fearsome than they.
Chapter Eight
J
emma rubbed her eyes at dawn. Sleep had proven elusive, and she was already out of bed when Ula arrived. The housekeeper was without her customary smile this morning, her lips slightly pinched instead. But she was also not alone, for several women followed her.
“Don't bother, Ula, there is no stain on the sheet. We hadn't . . . um . . . the bells interrupted . . . us . . .”
Jemma stumbled over her words, never having imagined that she would have to explain the lack of blood on her wedding sheets. She would have laughed indeed at anyone who told her such a tale, but there was naught amusing about knowing that her bed was as clean as it had been the night before. Being English in a Scottish castle was not the place for any bride to try to explain pristine sheets on her first morning as a wife. At the very least, her marriage was unconsummated. Anne of Cleaves had found herself divorced for the same circumstance.
“I see. 'Tis nothing to fret over, Mistress. The laird will return.”
“I shall pray that he does.”
Jemma shivered, feeling the icy dread that had been her constant companion since her father died. Ula was worried; she read it off the housekeeper's face. Gordon should have returned before sunrise. Other maids came into the chamber and set to work dressing her. Jemma stood still out of shock and the dread that felt like it might stop her heart with its grasp. He would return, she had to believe that.
Why?
Was she so foolish as to have allowed affection for him into her heart?
Jemma scoffed at herself. There had been nothing allowed. That was the difficulty with tender emotions; they slipped past every defense like poison in a goblet. You never knew that an assassin had gotten close enough to snatch your life away until you felt the evil concoction eating away at your insides.
But evil was a harsh word. Jemma hugged herself and crossed the chamber to look out the windows. The maids had opened some of the glass panes just like shutters, allowing fresh air to sweep through the room. It carried the scent of fall and blew out all the traces of smoke left from the candles that had burned last night. She had never imagined sleeping in such a grand room; it was something from a tale of a palace somewhere far away. Not something she might actually step into. It was easy to see far into the distance.
The view did not ease her mind because there was no sign of the Barras retainers nor their laird.
Her heart longed to see them, and that only made her more unhappy. Dread unleashed its tension on her. Like any storm there was no way to block out the chill completely, because even standing in front of a fire you felt its icy touch on the back of your neck.
She followed the other women to church where the priest sent out prayers for the retainers and laird. But her thoughts were centered on the man she worried so much about.
“Come along, Mistress, best to keep busy; that will pass the time better.”
Ula was correct, but her voice betrayed that the housekeeper was no happier about waiting than Jemma was. They began to work, racing the end of the season to make sure the castle was prepared for the ice and snow. Every work room was piled high with dried fruits, oats, and grains. Men worked on the hen houses where the birds would roost during the winter while providing eggs. The birds were still being allowed to graze on the drying hillsides, and the young girls were sent out to find their eggs with large baskets to carry them back to the cook.
The afternoon turned dark long before sunset, black clouds dominating the sky. They huddled together while the wind ripped at her skirts. Jemma climbed up onto the hillsides to call the last of the girls back. They struggled to bring their heavy baskets with them, and she reached for two that were full of fresh eggs. With abundant food, the hens were laying twice a day.
“Go on now, it's going to storm.”
The girls needed no further urging. They grabbed the front of their skirts and ran toward the side gate that led into the yard behind the curtain wall. Jemma followed but at a steady walk to ensure that she did not crack any eggs. She stopped outside the gate, hearing Ula's voice raised on the other side of the stone wall.
“Are ye mad? Allowing the mistress out without an escort? The laird will nae be pleased, mark my words.”
“The way I hear, my laird will be plenty grateful to be rid of her. The sheets were white this morning. She's a slut. An English slut that we have no need of.”
Jemma gasped. Thinking that it might be said was different from hearing it. Her face heated with a blush, and tears stung her eyes. She drew in a stiff breath and raised her chin, refusing to allow those tears to fall. She blinked them away and stepped boldly through the gate. The man arguing with Ula jerked his head around when he noticed her and his eyes narrowed in distaste. Thunder boomed in the hills above them, loud enough to make conversation impossible.
It was better that way. Kindness seemed to have abandoned her. Ula reached for one of the baskets, and they carried them both into the kitchens. The long rooms that served as kitchens were bustling with women coming in to avoid the rain. The cook snapped at them when they began to chatter, making the room an impossible place to concentrate.
Anyon stood near one of the hearths with other laundresses, all trying to dry their skirts. The girl smirked at her as she carried the basket toward a long table where the cook was laying out her ingredients.
“Better be careful that ye didna break any. The cook likes to hand out slaps.” The laundresses snickered.
Jemma raised her chin and shot a firm glance toward Anyon. “Well, I suppose that would be better than being ambushed for no reason beyond spite.”
Anyon propped her hands on her hips, and the action pushed her breasts out. “Ye see, there's the problem with the English, they never did know how to fight.”
“Enough, Anyon, I have no time for pettiness.” Jemma turned her back, but the girl raised her voice.
“Oh, yes, I forgot. Ye have to be off to think of ways to get the laird to share yer bed since he could nae stomach the sight of ye last night long enough to plow ye.”
Jemma turned to face the girl once more. If she wanted to be mistress of Barras castle, she could not hide.
“But he was in my bed when the bells rang, not seeking out yours.”
Anyon stiffened but closed her mouth when the majority of the women working at the long tables refused to cross the laird's new bride, even if the sheets had been clean this morning. They looked down at their work, abandoning Anyon to her temper.
Jemma raised her chin, casting a glance around to make it clear that she expected her words to be obeyed by all. “I was raised in England and therefore under the Protestant church. Since this is a Catholic nation, I expect that Christian values shall be used in this castle. My wedding-night celebration was interrupted. Any who claim any other reason for the lack of a stained sheet this morning will have the privilege of telling your laird that charge against me when he returns.”
Eyes widened, and several gasps made it past the hands attempting to smother them. Tension drew the muscles along her back tight, but Jemma remained firmly in place. She swept the room, aiming a hard look at anyone who did not lower their eyes when she met them. Only the cook stood up to her, the older woman staring back at her for a few moments. The woman wiped her hands on her apron before speaking.
“Aye, Mistress.”
Jemma turned around and felt everyone staring at her back. But she maintained her dignity, leaving the room with her chin level. Many a noble bride had failed to take her house in hand when she arrived. Failing to do so would earn her nothing but a staff set against her.
Jemma scoffed at herself. Her words might have ensured that the Barras staff was indeed set against her, for Anyon was one of their own. But a sharp slap came from the silent kitchens, a solid flesh-upon-flesh sound that Jemma could not mistake. The cook was clearly a woman of her word, and it would seem that Anyon was learning that the hard way. A flurry of work sounds followed, chopping and dishes connecting with the hard wood tabletop. The cook resumed issuing orders, but there was not one word in response.
“I'm glad ye put that girl in her place.” Ula nodded with approval. “I'm ashamed to claim her as kin.”
The thunder cracked above their heads so loud it felt as if it shook the very air. Jemma shivered, something raising the hair on the back of her neck. It was more than the wind, something other than the storm raining its fury down on the towers. She could feel the hate being directed toward her. It was thick and choking, frightening her with its darkness.
“I hope it brings peace. That is all I seek, Ula.”
 
The border land . . .
“Damn miserable rain.” Curan Ramsden offered his opinion in the place of a greeting. He pushed the visor up to expose his face. “Makes a man want to seek out his home and
family
.”
There was no mistaking the barely concealed threat in his tone. Gordon turned his hand over to feel the rain pelting them and shrugged. “Ye have spent too much time in France if ye find this weather disagreeable, my brother by marriage.”
Curan held his emotions behind a tightly controlled expression. It was admirable because not every man learned to hide what he was thinking so well. The only hint was the way the man's stallion jerked its head, clearly feeling the man tightening his thighs around the saddle.
“Is that so, Barras?”
“Yer sister did me the honor of becoming my wife yesterday.”
There was a flash of something dangerous in Curan's eyes. It was something Gordon knew about the man, that he was a noble who took action rather than talking. Curan was a knight who backed up every word he spoke.
“Yesterday? And you failed to invite me to the ceremony.”
“I had yer permission.” Gordon returned the baron's stare, refusing to back down. Jemma belonged to him. “That was always my goal, and I told ye plainly.”
“But did my sister agree?” Rage edged each word.
Gordon leaned forward. “She did.”
Curan glared at him, holding his next thought while lightning flashed around them. The thunder came next, and Curan's expression looked just as fierce as the rumble sounded. “But you have no way of proving that, Barras, seeing as how you moved forwards without sending someone to inform me of your impending wedding so that I could ask Jemma that before the vows were taken.”
“I do nae send any men out without a full escort with yer English knights roaming these hills looking for me queen. They nearly ended yer sister's life, and fired one of me farms last night, dragging us both out here to enjoy the weather.”
“Your point is well founded.”
Gordon nodded, accepting the slight easing of tension between them. “Ye are welcome at Barras Castle to ask Jemma yerself.”
“That will not resolve my question now that the deed is done.” His eyes narrowed with judgment. “Nothing can.”
“Well now, lad, that's where ye're wrong.” Gordon watched his neighbor's face register surprise. Unlike most men, Curan waited for him to continue instead of blurting out another comment that would delay him gaining the answer he sought.
“I married yer sister and took her to bed, but the attack on my people took me away before I consummated the union.” Gordon felt his frustration peak once again, but he offered Curan a smirk. “Ye might recall that little challenge from yer own attempts to celebrate yer wedding with pretty Bridget.”
“And you have no issue with sending my sister to me outside your walls to tell me she is pleased to be your wife?”
“If that is what is needed.”
“Possibly.” Curan's reply lost some of its edge when his eyes lit with satisfaction. “I am pleasantly surprised, Barras. I didn't believe there was a way for you to prove the matter to me; I stand corrected.”
Gordon nodded, feeling the tension release between his shoulder blades. He valued his neighbor's goodwill even if there was little the man might do to reclaim his sister. It was a harsh fact but one he realized he'd have resorted to if it was the only way to keep Jemma.
“Then I'll leave ye now, Ryppon, for I have a bride to seek. Ye might recall the feeling.”
“I do, Barras.”
“And as much as I like ye, I'd appreciate some time alone with me bride before ye come to visit.”
“Something else I understand.” Curan considered his next words. “A few days.”
He'd never enjoyed hearing three words so much. But Gordon couldn't let her go now. Not after last night. She had come to him, cementing something inside him that refused to bend. Like mortar it was solid now, unmovable deep inside his chest. He didn't know what it was, only that the idea of not seeing her waiting for him was unendurable. It was more than the desire to bed her. He wanted to smell her hair again and taste her soft kiss when she leaned forward to press her lips against his of her own free will. That was the gift that filled him with tenderness when he'd always considered such emotions merely the stuff of sonnets, the babbling of insane men.

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