Pleasured (8 page)

Damon tore his mouth from hers, kissing her cheek, her jaw, her throat, his breath hot upon her trembling flesh, until he came to her ear and took the lobe teasingly between his teeth. Surprised, she could not hold back a little moan, and at that, the heat in his body flared. He murmured something low and throaty, her name, she thought, and his
tongue traced the delicate whorls of her ear. She shivered, fueling the throbbing ache deep within her.

“No . . .” she murmured weakly, though she could not have said whether the remark was intended for him or for herself.

“Yes.” His voice was as low and shaken as her own. “Oh, yes.”

He cupped her breast, a movement so unexpected, so tantalizing, it brought a gasp from her. His thumb stroked across her sensitive nipple, separated from his touch by only a layer of wet cloth. She might as well have been naked to him, she thought, and somehow that idea, too, sent shivers through her.

As if he knew what she was thinking, his fingers slipped beneath the neckline of her dress, gliding down across her bare skin, delving beneath her chemise. Light as a feather, his fingertips eased over her until they found the hard button of her nipple. His forefinger circled it, so gently she could almost believe she imagined it. But she was certain she could never have imagined anything so piercing and sweet, so elemental. His mouth moved downward, taking its delightful teasing over her neck and onto her chest until at last his lips reached the swell of her breast. His breath came hard and fast, and she could feel the tension in his body, taut as a bowstring though his mouth moved so leisurely, softly, as if he had all the time in the world and was willing to spend it all on just this. He nuzzled aside the neckline of her dress, nudging it downward, skimming it over her breast, until at last the nipple popped free. He let out an odd little noise, faint and indistinct, half sigh, half groan, and his tongue delicately circled the tip.

Meg jerked, startled by the intensity of the sensation that shot through her. She felt too hot, too breathless. Her head swam, and she thought that at any moment she might simply break apart and fly off in all directions. It was exhilarating. Terrifying.

With a small, strangled cry, Meg pushed away. Whirling around, she ran from him.

7

S
cooping up the lantern, Meg
threw herself back into the low tunnel. Behind her she heard Mardoun let out a low curse. She did not pause or look back, just crossed as fast as she could and swung herself over the ledge to the path below. She slowed then, for she could not run away, leaving the man alone in the dark. But she did not turn to look for him, only loitered until she heard him jump down from the ledge behind her.

“Meg, wait.”

She ignored him, too rattled and embarrassed to even look at him. All she wanted was to leave behind this tangle of heat, confusion, and desire.

“The devil! Stop running away.”

“I dinna run away!” That pierced her pride, even more so because his aim was far too accurate, and she stopped to face him.

“You did a bloody good imitation of it.”

“I am trying to get us out of here. I thought that was what you wanted.”

“Of course it is, but”—he took a step forward—“back there—”

“This is scarcely the time for dalliance,” she said sharply. “Now I’m going home. I suggest you follow me.”

He looked as if he would like to say more, but he swallowed his words. “Of course. Lead on, Miss Munro.” He gave her a sardonic bow, sweeping his arm out as if ushering her through a doorway.

Meg made her way unhesitatingly through a series of caves, each one dropping farther below the last one, in reverse of the rising path they had climbed earlier. At last she could detect the glimmer of light before her, and she ducked under a rock overhang to emerge into a vaulted cave. A slice of sunlight from a high, narrow split in the rock brightened the chamber. Boulders of varying sizes dotted the floor, and Meg went straight to a tumble of rocks at the foot of the cave wall. Dousing the lantern and setting it aside, she climbed up the rocks until she reached a point where only the sheer cave wall rose above her. There, a thick, knotted rope dangled from the narrow entrance near the top of the cavern.

Mardoun followed her. “You mean to climb that rope?”

“Of course. It’s the way out.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “Are you unable to do it?”

“I believe I can manage it,” he told her drily. “It was you I was wondering about. A lady’s skirts would scarcely—”

“We have already established that I am not a lady.” She reached down and swept up her skirts, knotting them as she had earlier. Grasping the rope with both hands, Meg planted
her feet flat against the cliff wall and began to scramble up, hand over hand.

Below her, Mardoun grasped the rope, holding it steady. As Meg crawled over the lip of the cave, she heard Mardoun start up the rope behind her. Standing up, Meg pulled in a lungful of air and looked around her with the faint sense of relief she always experienced when she left the caves. She had never feared them, but she far preferred the sun and earth and trees.

“My home is not far,” Meg said as Mardoun came up behind her. She realized belatedly that her words sounded too much like an invitation, so she added quickly, “The way to Duncally is easy after that.”

Meg wound through the trees, coming out on a path so faint that few but she would have recognized it as such. Mardoun kept pace beside her, not saying anything—for which she was grateful, as she was far too jangled and edgy to speak. Really, what was there to say?

She could not explain, even to herself, why she had melted in the man’s arms. After all her anger and resentment, she had given in to him without a second’s hesitation or protest, no doubt proving to him that his low estimation of her was accurate. She despised her weakness. More than that, she was stunned by it.

Meg Munro was accustomed to being in control. She went where she wanted, she did as she pleased. She made her remedies from precise recipes; she measured, never estimating, never substituting or deviating unless she had thoroughly tested it. When she birthed a babe, she gave orders and others followed. She set the limits for her suitors with equal certainty.

But this afternoon, she had been swept away by his kisses, swamped by sensations and emotions she’d never known. She had been a stranger to herself, not a reasonable, intelligent woman, but a roiling mass of need and desire. She had wanted, she had ached, she had rushed on thoughtlessly. It was not that she had not heeded her wiser instincts—she had not even considered them. She still tingled with energy, every sense awakened, her body alive and hungry. And what she hungered for was
him
.

Meg cast a sideways glance at Mardoun. He was a handsome devil, she’d give him that. He had the sort of jaw a man should have, and long, mobile fingers that caused her insides to dance just looking at them. His thick, black hair, those dark, piercing eyes, deep set beneath fierce slashes of brows, the long torso, tapering into narrow hips. She had never posited what features in a man appealed to her, but she knew now, looking at him, that he possessed them.

She wanted him; it would be foolish to deny it. She ached to feel again the storm that had rolled over her when he kissed her: the rush of heat and excitement, the pure pleasure that had invaded every inch of her from head to toe.

But that was impossible. In those moments with his mouth on her, his heat and scent enveloping her, she had thought of nothing else. If the power of her feelings had not been so strong that they frightened her, she would have gone further, deeper, more headlong into the passion. If she kissed him again, if she let him glide his hands over her, she knew it would not end until they were in bed.

But she refused to sleep with him. She wasn’t about to give Mardoun the satisfaction of proving his assumptions right. More than that, she could not allow herself to
be
the
kind of low, loose woman he thought her—and wasn’t that exactly what she would be if she tumbled into his bed? She could not give herself to a man who clearly held her in contempt.

Her mother had raised her to be a strong woman, powerful and independent. It was the way of the Munro women, and Meg embraced the philosophy. They did not abjure men. Nor were they the sirens of some folks’ telling, luring a man just to get with child, then casting him aside. Her mother had loved her father all her life and had borne him two children. She rejected only the shackles of marriage. Meg had never expected to do any different—though, now that she was almost twenty-eight, she was beginning to wonder if such a thing would ever happen to her.

Meg wanted a man and intended to give herself to one someday. But she also wanted love. Or at least respect and affection. She would not sell herself cheap, would not squander herself on some tawdry fling with a man who desired only to relieve his boredom for a week or two.

Her cottage came into view, a low, brown, thatch-roofed house, snuggled into a curve of pines and silver birches. An ancient yew guarded the cabin, spreading its branches over the roof. In the dappled shade beneath the trees grew ferns and tall stalks of foxglove, their vivid purple, bell-shaped flowers trembling in the breeze. A neat herb garden was laid out beside the house and further sheltered by a low stone wall, rosemary, sage, and lavender lightly scenting the air. A larger vegetable garden lay in the flat, sunny glade beyond the house. Roses climbed up the dun wall on one side of the wooden door, and on the other, colorful flowers added another splash of color. In the distance, among the willow
trees, one could hear the burble of the burn that ran down to the loch.

“Is this your house?” Mardoun asked.

“Aye, it is.” Meg braced for his comment. Her home was lovely to her in every way, but she thought it must seem small and insignificant to the Earl of Mardoun. It could fit in its entirety into a drawing room at Duncally, with room to spare. But when she looked over at him, she saw nothing on his face but intent interest.

Meg opened the door and stepped inside, Damon ducking his head to follow her through the low door. She went straight to the fireplace and stirred the fire to life, adding more blocks of peat before she turned back to Damon. He was simply standing there, gazing around curiously. It occurred to her that he might never have been inside a cottage of this size, with the rough plastered walls and the well-worn furniture, everything—for eating, sitting, and sleeping—lumped together in the same room.

His eyes roamed the walls, taking in the cabinets of jars and pots and herbs, the small fireplace, and settling finally on the bed in the corner, only partially separated from the rest of the room by a folding wooden screen. Something in his face changed subtly, and Meg felt a blush rising in her cheeks, her abdomen suddenly flowering with heat.

Annoyed with both him and herself, she gestured toward the fireplace. “No doubt you’ll wish to warm yourself by the fire. If you hang your jacket on the chair, it will dry a little.”

She crossed to the sleeping area and pulled dry clothes out of the chest of drawers. Behind her, she could hear Mardoun moving about. She stepped behind the screen and hesitated. It was incredibly awkward to change clothes not
twenty feet away from him, separated only by a screen. Even if he acted like a gentleman—not a certainty, given how he regarded her—the situation was inherently suggestive. He would know she was naked. He would hear the sounds of her undressing and could visualize her stripping off her dress and undergarments, just as easily as she could imagine him shrugging out of his jacket. Would he take off his wet shirt as well? His breeches? Surely not, despite the discomfort.

Meg skinned out of her dress and let it drop to the floor, followed by her petticoats and undergarments. She was in too much haste to don a chemise and petticoats, so she merely pulled on an old, simple sacque dress that hung straight down and was fitted to her only by pulling the sash tightly around the waist and tying it.

She stole a peek through the narrow crack where the sides of the folding screen joined. Mardoun had removed his jacket and the waistcoat beneath it as well as the sodden stock around his neck. His fine lawn shirt was plastered against his skin, practically transparent. She could see his skin and the shape of the muscles beneath it, the dark blur of the hair on his chest tapering down to his waist, the brown circles of his nipples. He tugged his shirt out of the waistband of his breeches, and Meg held her breath. He unbuttoned his shirt, though he did not take it off but opened it wide and turned to face the fire.

Meg swallowed, her hands clenching in her skirt. She was a terrible hypocrite, thinking the earl might not respect her privacy, yet here she was, staring at him avidly. Disgusted with herself, she turned to the chest and picked up her comb to untangle her wet hair. Thank heavens she had washed the sand and salt from it in the cavern waterfall.

And that, she thought, was a dangerous thing to contemplate. Better to forget altogether that moment when she had been so close to him, the warm water streaming over them, the look in his eyes, the searing touch of his hand.

Meg closed her eyes. When she opened them again, her gaze went to the mirror, and across the room she could see Damon in front of the fireplace. He stood facing her, his shirt hanging open and loose, revealing a strip of bare skin down the center of his torso. He was watching her, and the heat in his eyes was enough to take her breath away.

“Meg . . .” he said, his voice low and rasping, and the timbre of it seemed to vibrate through her. “Come stand with me. ’Tis warmer here.”

His gaze tugged at her, but she said faintly, “I am fine here.”

“Much easier to dry your hair by the fire.” A smile hovered on his lips, inviting and challenging. “I’d be happy to help you untangle it.”

“I can manage it myself,” she retorted, but started forward anyway.

“Ah, but my way is much more . . . entertaining.” He watched her walk toward him, his gaze as tangible as a caress on her breasts, her hips, her legs.

She stepped up to the fire, keeping a careful distance between them, and crossed her arms over her chest. “Lord Mardoun, you seem to have the wrong impression.”

“Have I?” Now, to her irritation, amusement tinged the sensual heat in the man’s eyes.

“I did not change my mind. I have no intention of getting into your bed.”

He reached out and took a strand of her hair, assuming a
thoughtful expression as he slid it through his fingers. “One has to wonder, then, why you invited me into the waterfall with you.”

Meg flushed. “So you could wash the sand and salt off you. That’s all.”

“Really?” He smiled into her eyes. “It had nothing to do with curiosity? With desire? With wanting to feel this?” He stroked his knuckles down her cheek. “Or this?” He leaned in and brushed his lips across hers.

She knew she should pull back. Should tell him to stop. Something, anything but stand here mutely, staring into his eyes and trembling. Yet she could not seem to move, even when he boldly plucked the comb from her to slowly work it through a handful of her hair, watching the strands separate and fall in the glow of the firelight.

“It’s like the sunset,” he said softly. “Red as fire but filled with light as well.” His gaze shifted to her face. “But it cannot match the brilliance of your eyes.” He took her chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting it upward. “Nothing could. They’re like the sun, your eyes; they could melt a man where he stood.”

He bent and pressed his lips to hers again, not briefly now, but taking his time with it, luxuriating in the pleasure of the kiss. Passion sparked in Meg, as hot and fast as it had in the waterfall—no, even more than that, for the memory of it simmered in her, flaring up now with greater fury. She felt her skin heat, and his flesh responded. His hands were on her, not pressing, not gripping, but skimming up and down her body with the lightest possible touch, bringing every nerve in her to clamoring life.

Meg moved closer to him, wanting to feel his hard, male
strength against her, yearning to have his arms wrap around her like iron, but he held back, possessing her with his lips while his caresses stayed agonizingly light upon her. With one hand, he twitched open the bow of the sash behind her back, so that the dress fell loosely about her.