Pleasured (28 page)

No doubt he was just delayed. He could knock on her door at any moment. The problem was that she was sitting about waiting for him, as if her life depended on Damon’s whims. She glanced about, looking for something that needed doing. But she had busied herself so much this week, nothing was left to do.

She was being a goose, she thought, to be so at loose ends because a man was not here. She should just go ahead to bed, as if it did not matter. But as she started to take the pins from her hair, a knock sounded at the door, and without waiting, Damon walked in. He was smiling, and the glimmer in his
eyes sparked Meg’s curiosity. She laughed when he swooped her up and whirled her around before setting her back on her feet and kissing her.

“You are very merry.” She laughed.

“I am indeed. I have come to get you.”

“To get me?”

“Yes, where is that bag of yours? Pack up; we are taking a trip. I have been making arrangements; that is why I am so tardy.”

“What are you talking about?” Meg’s curiosity was thoroughly roused now. “Damon, you are not making sense. Why would we take a trip?”

“Does it not appeal to you? You and I alone together?” He took her hands and raised them to his lips. “For days.” He turned over her hands and kissed the palms, his lips setting up all sorts of quivery sensations.

“But Lynette—”

“I have bid her adieu. She knows what I am about—well, not all, of course—and she quite approves. It will give her aunt, who traveled so far to be with Lynette, ample time alone with her.” His eyes danced.

“But I am not ready to leave.”

“That is why you need to pack. The boat awaits us.”

“The boat!”

“Yes, we are sailing for Aberdeen.”

“Aberdeen!”

“You sound like a parrot, my love.” He kissed her on the forehead, clearly enjoying himself. “Now hurry.” He took her by the shoulders and turned her around, giving her an encouraging push.

Meg was too intrigued to argue, and she went to pack. Damon came up behind her as she pulled things out of drawers and piled them on the bed.

“Nightgowns?” He slid his arms around her waist and kissed her on the neck. “You’ll have no need for clothes in bed.” His lips trailed lazily down to her collarbone.

“Damon!” She could not hold back a giggle—or quell the sudden heat that snaked through her abdomen. “I thought you wanted me to pack.”

“I do. But now that I think on it . . .” His hand came up and slipped inside the front of her dress. “I think you have little need for any underclothes at all.” His fingers found her nipple and teased it into hardness.

“Damon!” she said again, shakily.

“Mm?” His other hand moved downward from her waist. “It would be most intriguing, knowing you were naked beneath your dress.” His fingers stroked languidly.

“Damon. Stop.” She pulled away and crossed her arms, pinning him with a stern look. It was difficult, given the way he was smiling at her, sleepy eyed and mouth heavy with desire. “I will never get this done with you ‘helping.’ Go sit down there and wait for me.” She pointed toward the kitchen table.

His laugh was low and richly suggestive, but he merely kissed her forehead and did as she said. Meg hurried about her business, and soon they were walking along the path past the standing stones to where his carriage waited on the road.

She teased him all the way to the ship to tell her the purpose of their trip, but he just smiled, clucking his tongue and saying, “Meg, darling, have you no patience?”

It was the middle of the night when they reached the wide mouth of Loch Fleet. A ship awaited them there, larger than the small fishing vessel she had imagined. As soon as they were aboard, the ship weighed anchor and slipped smoothly out to sea. It was dark save for a lantern or two, but that did not seem to impede the men on deck scampering about, raising the sails and tying off ropes.

The stars were out in the velvet, black sky, and a breeze lifted the sides of Meg’s cloak, making it billow behind her. She looked up at Damon and smiled. “I thought you might want to know that I took your words to heart.” She stretched up on tiptoe, her hand on his arm for balance, and whispered in his ear, “I am wearing nothing beneath my dress.”

25

W
ith a sweet smile, Meg
turned and sauntered away. Damon stood as if paralyzed for a moment, then hurried after her.

“What?” He took her elbow. “What did you say?”

“I think you heard me. I took off my underthings while you were waiting for me to pack.”

He swallowed. “You tell me this now?” He glanced around. “After we are on the ship? With people about?”

“Patience, Damon, you must have patience.”

He laughed. “Vixen.” His eyes roved down her. “I never realized you had such cruelty in you.”

“Oh, aye, indeed I do. There are some who would call me heartless.” She grinned, her eyes sparkling, then turned and continued to the railing.

She stood looking out at the darker shape of the shore receding behind them, her hands on the railing before her. Damon came up behind her and placed his hands on either side of hers. She could feel his hard body against her back,
and she moved just a little against him, eliciting a choked noise from his throat.

He slipped his hand inside her cloak. His fingers went to the first few buttons of her dress, and the garment gaped open.

“Damon . . . you mustn’t. Someone will see.”

“No one can see. We are only standing together looking out at sea.”

“Are we?”

“No one knows that I am touching you like this.” His hand slipped beneath her dress and cupped her breast, his thumb circling the nipple, light as a feather. “They have no idea what it does to you. What it does to me. They don’t know that your flesh is soft as a rose petal, that you prickle and harden for me, that your breath quickens when I stroke you.”

She felt the press of his lips against her hair, heard his own breathing turn faster, harder as he caressed her. His hand left her breast and moved down the front of her dress. Beneath the cover of her cloak, he grasped her skirt in his hands, bunching it in his fingers, pulling it higher and higher. The breeze caressed her bare legs, cool and delicate as the touch of silk.

His hand delved between her legs, finding the moisture there. “Sweet heaven, you are so ready. So hot and wet and—” A groan escaped him. Meg felt the hard pulse of his manhood against her, straining for release. She widened her stance, giving his fingers freer access to her, and he let out a breathy little laugh that spoke of a pleasure dangerously close to desperation. “Like honey,” he murmured, playing with her, stroking the slick folds of her flesh until it was all she could do to keep from grinding her hips against him.

“That’s it, my sweet. You are almost there.” He eased a little, teasing her. “Shall I finish, do you think? Or perhaps I should stop. There are people around, after all.”

Her response was a low growl, and he chuckled. He pressed more firmly, his expert fingers building her arousal to a fever pitch. “Then come with me. Take your pleasure.”

Meg sank her teeth into her lower lip, muffling the cry that rose from her throat.

“That’s it,” he murmured, his touch prolonging, magnifying the pleasure that flooded through her, so that she jerked helplessly against his hand, moaning softly with her release. After a long moment, he pulled his hand away, letting her skirts fall back to her ankles.

She could feel his breath slamming through his chest, as if he had run a race, and heat fairly radiated from his body, enveloping her. His flesh prodded against her buttocks, hard and insistent.

She leaned back against him for a moment, then slipped out of his arms, looking up and down the deck. Taking his hand, she led him to a spot of deep shadow, behind the small structure that covered the steps below. Sheltered behind this low structure was a chest lashed to the deck, and on the other side of it ropes were piled high, making a small, nearly hidden spot.

“Here. Sit down.” Meg pushed him onto the chest, facing her. She straddled his legs and reached down to the front of his breeches, trailing her fingers lightly along the ridge that pushed against the material.

He sucked in a sharp breath. “Meg.”

“Damon.” She began to unbutton his breeches, her fin
gers slow and careful. He cursed in a muffled voice, and his hands clenched in her skirts.

She parted the trousers, freeing him. Her fingers slipped beneath him, stroking up the underside, so that desire surged through him, the delicate, soft skin stretched tautly over the fiercely thrusting shaft. “I think perhaps you are ready as well.” She teased up and down the length of him.

“I—can assure you—that I have never been so ready,” he panted.

Raising her skirts to cover them, she sank down onto him. Damon’s breath hissed in as she slid slowly up and down, moving with a languid grace that built the passion within them both to the bursting point. He murmured her name like an incantation, hunger and heat and pleasure mingling into an almost unbearable pressure. Damon dug his fingers into her buttocks, clamping her to him as he thrust into her, and burying his hoarse cry against her breasts, he shook, exploding into his peak.

Meg sagged against him, spent, feeling the aftermath of tremors running through him. Damon took her face between his hands and brought her to him, kissing her hard and slow and long. “Meg, I think you may kill me.” He drew in a shaky breath. “But I shall die a very happy man.”

She stood up on trembling legs, and he pulled his clothes back together and joined her. “I think it’s time we went down to our cabin. I confess that I could use a bit of sleep.”

“What?” Meg turned to him, eyes widening. “Do you mean that we have a private cabin? A place to sleep downstairs?”

“Belowdecks, I believe it’s called. Yes, we do. ’Tis some distance to Aberdeen.”

“Why didn’t you tell me before . . . all this?” She gestured vaguely around them.

He grinned. “Because then I wouldn’t have had”—he copied her gesture—“all this.”

She stared at him for a moment longer, then began to laugh. He gave her his arm, and they started toward the steps.

“Do not think I have forgotten that you have not told me where we are going,” Meg said the next morning as they lay in bed, having greeted the dawn in a most pleasurable fashion.

“I would never be so foolish.”

“And you still won’t tell me?” Meg rose on her elbow to frown at him.

He shook his head, a smile playing on his lips.

“Och . . . why are you so annoying?” Meg flopped back onto the bed with a sigh.

“I believe it is one of the fundamental requirements of a man.”

Meg laughed. “You have the right of it there.”

If his silence on the purpose of their travel was an annoyance, it was the only one Meg found. The voyage was mild; Aberdeen’s gray granite buildings sparkled in the afternoon sun; and Damon was by her side every moment. Though he traveled modestly enough as Mr. Rutherford, no one took him as anything but a wealthy gentleman, and every
where they went, they were afforded the best of service and goods. It was amazingly enjoyable, Meg discovered, to be so coddled and catered to. No wonder a man such as Damon expected to have his own way.

But the respect and the luxury were not what made the journey satisfying, but that away from Loch Baille, no one knew who they were. They had no need to worry about servants’ gossip or the spread of rumors. They were assumed to be husband and wife, and no one looked askance if Damon made an affectionate gesture. Meg did not have to watch what she said. They had no need to measure their smiles or be circumspect in their gazes. Best of all, Damon did not have to leave her bed during the night. She could fall asleep in his arms and wake up beside him the next morning. It was pleasant indeed to be roused from her slumber by Damon’s soft caresses and kisses, to turn to him, still hazy from sleep, and be brought to full, sharp awareness by his lovemaking. Was this what it was like to be married? she wondered.

The most difficult thing she faced was turning away the gifts Damon tried to shower on her—the shawl with its silky fringe that caressed her bare arms; the bonnet that he pointed out was entirely practical and would not even be noticed by the women of the glen; the pair of soft kid gloves that were, he assured her, a mere trifle; the cameo or onyx ear bobs or lace fichu that she might easily have purchased herself. Had she given him the slightest encouragement, Meg knew, he would have whisked her into a dressmaker’s shop and bought an entire wardrobe of dresses too fine for her to wear. She managed to turn him down despite his engaging smile and sweetest blandishments. Still, in the end, she
could not resist the shawl of Indian silk, though she knew that it would probably reside, carefully wrapped, in the chest by her bed, too lovely to be worn anywhere except in the privacy of her own cottage.

The second morning in Aberdeen, Damon suggested they take a stroll through town. The look of suppressed enjoyment in his eyes was such that Meg knew it must be time for the unveiling of his surprise. She took his arm and set out with him, expecting—well, she did not know what, but certainly not that their steps would turn toward an area of small, neat houses, well kept but far from extravagant.

She had been determined not to gratify him by asking more questions, but in the end, she could not keep from blurting out, “Damon, where are we going?”

“You’ll see. I believe we are almost there. Ah, yes, here it is.” He steered her toward a small house built of the ubiquitous gray stone and rapped upon the door. When a young woman opened the door and bobbed a curtsy, he swept off his hat. “I am Mr. Rutherford. I believe David MacLeod is expecting us.”

David MacLeod! Meg stared up at Damon in astonishment as they followed the trim girl across the hallway. He merely grinned and winked at her. There was no time for anything else in the few steps it took to enter a small parlor where an old man sat beside the fireplace.

Despite the heat of the room, the old man wore a woolen shawl around his shoulders, and a knitted afghan lay across his legs. If his hair had once been red, no sign of it was now in the thinning, white strands combed carefully across his head. His skin was creased with fine lines, rough and splotched with brown age spots. He looked small in the high-backed
wooden chair, though it was difficult to tell his height as his shoulders were bent under the weight of his years.

“Uncle David,” the girl said, “here are the folks coom to see you.”

The old man started awake and craned his head up and around to peer at them, looking rather like a turtle poking its head out of its shell. He frowned, squinting, and as they drew closer, his eyes widened.

“Faye!” He rose shakily, the blanket sliding down his legs onto the floor, and took a step toward Meg, then stopped, confused. He sagged in disappointment. “You’re not Faye.” He continued to gaze at her intently. “But your eyes . . . Who are you?”

“I am Meg Munro, Mr. MacLeod. Faye’s granddaughter.”

“Ah. Ah, yes.” He let out a satisfied sigh, holding out his hand to her. “Coom closer, child, let me look at you.”

Meg took his hand, and he clasped it tightly, his fingers cool and bony. He continued to gaze at her as if he could not quite believe she was there. “You are very like her. Your eyes—I’d forgotten just how bright they were.” Moisture filled his blue eyes and he put his other hand over hers, patting it. “Sit down. Sit down. Would you like a cup of tea? Molly!” he called. “Come bring these folks some tea.”

“No, no, that’s all right,” Meg demurred, but he insisted, and Molly gave another curtsy and left the room.

“She doesna hae much sense, that lass, but she makes fine shortbread, you ken,” David told Meg confidentially.

She introduced Damon to the old man. He sniffed. “English, eh? Ah, weel, welcome to you, anyway. Sit doon.” He turned his gaze back to Meg as if drawn by a magnet.
She pulled up a stool beside his chair so that she could look directly into the wizened man’s eyes. “Weel, lassie, tell me aboot your mither, then. I mind that flaming hair the wee bairn had on her head, like yours.”

“My mother’s been dead these ten years, I’m sad to say.”

“Och, I’m sorry to hear it. Faye’s mither passed on many years ago, I ken.”

“Aye. I do not remember her well.”

“Do you cure folks, too, roaming the woods and picking plants?”

“I do.” She nodded.

“Weel, best get to whit you want to know.” The old man sighed. “You’ve coom to hear aboot Faye, I expect.”

“I’d like to, yes, if you will tell me.”

“She was the bonniest lass I hae ever seen. Michty me! None could touch her. Clever, too, and such a laugh she had. The whole glen was in love with her, and no wonder.”

“Who did she love?”

“Ah, now that’s a different story. Faye guarded that secret like it was gold.”

“Was it you?” Meg asked bluntly.

“Nae.” He sighed. “I would hae been the happiest man alive if it was.” He glanced over at Damon. “You maun ken what I mean, eh?”

Meg blushed, but Damon smiled faintly. “I do.”

“I talked to Angus McKay the other day,” Meg told MacLeod.

“Angus!” David’s eyes lit with memory. “Now there was a guid lad, ayeways up for a lark.”

This description of the cantankerous old man took Meg aback. Angus must indeed have been different when he was
young. “He was of the mind that it was your brother Jamie who was father to Faye’s bairn.”