Rogue with a Brogue (23 page)

In other circumstances, with another woman, he might have tossed her onto the bed, shoved up her dress, and buried himself in her. The moment was the goal. This—she—was different. Whether she felt comfortable admitting it yet or not, Mary Campbell was going to be his bride. The goal was to give her pleasure, to make her crave him as much as he already craved her, and to claim her as his own. Forever.

Slowly he kissed and licked and nipped his way down her throat to her shoulders. Looking up at her to see her head raised just enough to watch him, he licked one sweet, pink nipple.

With a gasp she dug her fingers into his hair, pulling him closer against her. “Arran,” she said breathily, the sound deepening to a moan when he put his mouth over her breast and sucked.

God's sake, he wanted her. And he needed her to want him. Shifting a little to rest his weight on one elbow, he slid the fingers of his free hand down her stomach, danced lightly across her thighs and then parted her nether lips and slipped inside her. She jumped, but he kept his mouth on her breast and his fingers down below moving in the same tempo. And sweet Saint Bridget, she was warm and wet—for him.

Her breath came faster and shallower, and she writhed deliciously beneath his hands until with a shuddering groan she climaxed. With her hands clawed into his scalp he thought she might have drawn blood, but he didn't care.

“I'm sorry,” she rasped after a moment of panting. “Did I hurt you?”

“Nae,” he returned, finally lifting his head again. “Ye liked that, I assume?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Good. And there's more, as well.”

“I … My goodness. More?”

“Aye. We're only just beginning.”

“Then you should remove the rest of your clothes, too.” Her smile matched his. “I feel very naughty.”

He kneeled again, pulling her into a sitting position in front of him. “Come here,” he said, taking her hands and moving them to his waist.

She hesitated for a bit as if she didn't quite know what to do. Then, blowing out her breath in a soft O, she unbuttoned the fastenings of his trousers. The tug as she worked at unfamiliar buttons had him clenching his jaw. “I want to do this correctly,” she said, her face setting into grim lines as she wrestled another button open.

“I dunnae think ye need to worry over that,” he responded, carefully keeping any amusement from his voice and expression.

“I don't like not knowing what to do.”

“Well, that's one of the lovely things aboot sex, lass. If ye stop thinking so much, yer body knows what to do. Sex has been aboot fer a fair amount longer than ye and me.”

Her hands paused, and she lifted her face to look at him. “How can anyone simply stop thinking?”

“I'll have to introduce ye to my brother Munro. He's a prime example.”

“Arran.”

He covered her hands with his. “Just do what feels good to ye, Mary. We're here, and we're together; naught else matters.” Drawing her arms up around his shoulders, he lowered his head and kissed her upturned face again. Tonight she tasted like sin, sweet and spicy and far too enticing for his peace of mind.

Reaching between them, he opened the last button of his trousers himself and pushed them down his thighs. Thank God. For a moment there he thought he might be permanently bent.

Mary, her arms still around his shoulders, looked down between them. “So that's what that does.”

“It does more than that.”

She reached one hand down to stroke the length of him. “I think you should show me, Mr. Fox,” she murmured.

“With pleasure, Mrs. Fox.” He scooted backward to sit on his backside. “Help me with my boots, will ye?”

She tossed her own dancing slippers aside, then knelt to grab his heel and pull. After doing the same with the other boot, she set them both aside and stripped his trousers down his legs and off. Now
that
felt better. And this was where they belonged—together. And whatever awkwardness she'd felt seemed to have vanished, because with a curious, aroused glance at his face she reached between his legs to curl her fingers around his cock and touch his balls. “All this goes in your trousers,” she mused. “It doesn't seem comfortable at all.”

“Well, in its resting state it's nae as impressive,” he commented, beginning to wonder just how much a man could stand before he let loose and ruined the rest of the evening. “But if ye kick a man there, he'll definitely feel it. It'll drop him to his knees faster than a punch to the jaw.”

“But how—”

“If ye dunnae mind, my lass, might ye save the anatomy questions till after I've had ye? I feel like I've been waiting a day past forever fer this.”

Mary released him, pressing up along his chest to kiss him again. “Have me, then,” she whispered.

She didn't need to tell him twice. Wrapping his hands around her back, he lowered them both down to the quilted bed again. Arran kissed her, running his hands along her slim, smooth body until he felt near to coming right there. That wasn't going to happen, though. He'd waited too damned long for this. He settled himself between her thighs, shifting her legs farther apart until the tip of his cock brushed against her.

“Now, Arran,” she urged him, her breath coming faster again.

“It'll hurt ye fer a minute, lass. But I'll nae hurt ye again.”

“I'm ready. Please.”

Moving as slowly and carefully as he could force himself to do, he canted his hips forward and slid inside her, hot and tight. When he met resistance he paused, holding her lovely green gaze with his own, then moved deeper. Mary gasped, and he caught the sound with a kiss. Her fingers dug into his shoulders, but he held still, fully engulfed. Now she belonged to him.

“Relax, lass. Feel me inside ye.”

Gradually her eyes half closed. “Dear heavens,” she murmured.

With her fingers still restlessly kneading at his back, he slid out, then pushed back in again. “Does it still hurt, my bonny Mary?”

She shook her head. “No. It feels … Do it again.”

That made him grin. “My pleasure.” He pumped his hips into her, slowly at first, then harder and faster as her ankles locked around his thighs. Each motion felt like a statement—that she belonged to him, that he wasn't letting her go.

“More,” she groaned, arching her back.

He obliged, again and again, then shifted his weight to free one hand so he could pinch and tug at her nipples. When she came he felt it, and with a grunt he joined her. For a long moment he held her, both of them shuddering.

Let the Campbells try to stop them now, if they would. Or the MacLawrys. Wherever this adventure took them next, it would be together.

 

Chapter Twelve

Mary gazed into fierce light blue eyes above her and tried to gather up a single thought. The only words close to reaching her mouth seemed to consist of “more,” “good God,” and a plea for him to remain precisely where he was, inside her. She'd never felt so wicked, and so deliriously … happy.

With a slight, satisfied smile, Arran lowered his head for another of his breath-stealing, heart-stopping kisses. He settled onto his elbows, the shift of his weight on her—in her—exquisite, and reached up to pull the pins from her hair one by one.

“You— Is it always like that?” she managed shakily, shivers of pleasure running down her spine as he unbraided the long tail of her hair.

“Nae,” he returned, his deep brogue rumbling through him and into her. “Ye undo me, my bonny Mary. Body and soul.”

She didn't think she'd ever heard anything so romantic. Coming from a man as self-assured as he was, it shook her to her core. “I'm undone, myself.”

His smile deepened. “Good. Ye needed some undoing.”

At the least, she knew now what he'd meant when he'd told her to stop thinking so much. Every sensation, every caress … It was all overwhelming. And at the same time she couldn't quite remember why she'd resisted him in the first place. From that first night they'd met, when he hadn't known who she was other than Lady Vixen, he'd felt exotic, forbidden, and very tantalizing.

“What's going through that mind of yers, lass?” he rumbled, sliding an arm beneath her and turning them so that he lay on his back with her looking down at him. “Ye're nae regretting this, I hope.”

Regret?
All she wanted to do was have at him again. But Crawford would know, and then everything would change. Everything
had
changed, already. But she couldn't say it was for the worse, whatever the consequences might be. “I don't believe I am,” she said aloud.

“I feel like I've been waiting forever for ye to say that, ye know,” he said with a chuckle. “Proclamation of undying love, or nae, it'll do fer tonight.” He ran his palm down from her shoulder to her backside, cupping her arse.

“I want to do it again,” Mary stated, kissing the base of his jaw as he'd done for her.

“Oh, we will.” Lifting her as if she weighed no more than a feather, he set her next to him on the bed. “But nae tonight.”

“No?” she asked, sitting up as he moved to the edge of the bed. “Why not?”

He picked up his trousers and shrugged into them, lean and well muscled and perfect. “Because ye want me.”

Mary frowned. “What the devil is the logic in that?”

With a grin, he caught up his shirt and pulled it on over his head. “Tomorrow while we're riding, I want to look over at ye and know that ye're longing fer my touch, my bonny lass. I want ye to crave me the way I've been craving ye since before we began this wee journey. And I want ye to think aboot tomorrow night, when I'll have ye again.”

A warm shiver ran down her spine and settled … there. “What if I've changed my mind about you by then?”

“Ye willnae.” After he stomped into his boots, he returned to the bedside to cup the nape of her neck and favor her with a long, slow kiss. “I'll have ye every night between here and Scotland. And then ye can decide if ye still want to run to yer grandfather and yer old life, or if ye want a new life with me.”

He set aside the chair that blocked the door, unlocked it, and stepped out into the hallway. With the door almost closed, he leaned back in. “Dunnae let that battle-axe say a cross word to ye aboot this. Blame me if ye wish; my shoulders are broad enough. I'll see ye in the morning, lass.”

With that, he shut the door. Surely he was only teasing; he would return in a moment and strip off his clothes again to join her in his bed. She arranged herself on one hip, pulling her loose hair over one shoulder. It felt wanton, so hopefully it looked that way rather than pitiful or comical.

His bootsteps faded toward the stairs leading to the inn's common room, and didn't return. Mary frowned. He couldn't truly mean to leave her in this state. Yes, she felt delicious and satisfied, but at the same time, a restless want ran just beneath her skin. How was she supposed to think straight now? How was she supposed to make a logical decision about her future when he was all she could think about?

Huffing out her breath, she finally rolled to the edge of the bed and stood to turn her gown right side out and step into it. With her room just across the hallway and most everyone still at the assembly she didn't bother buttoning it, or trying to tidy her hair. Crawford would be the only one worth fooling, and the maid would instantly know what she'd been about. And at this moment, she didn't even feel guilty about it.

She stepped into her shoes and then crossed over to her own room. Crawford stood from the writing desk and the book she had open there. “My lady, I didn't expect…” She trailed off, her already somber expression lowering even further. “Your parents will be so disappointed, Lady Mary. And I can only imagine what Mr. Calder's reaction will be.”

“I don't belong to Charles Calder, Crawford. Not any longer. And stop chastising me. I wish to go to bed.”

Pinching her lips together, the maid helped her back out of her gown. “You could tell your father that he forced himself on you, I suppose,” she said after a moment. “You would also have to tell them that he kidnapped the two of us. I'll vouch for that, of course. And then hope that no child comes of this. MacLawry will … Well, we don't need to discuss him, but we might still be able to salvage your repu—”

“That is enough! For heaven's sake, listening to this is like having a spider crawl across my scalp. No one but us knows anything. Nor will they. Not until I speak to my grandfather and get this mess straightened out. And no one is going to hurt Arran.”

That last part had somewhere become the most important, making certain that Charles Calder and her other cousins didn't harm a single black hair on Arran's handsome head. Of course he was quite capable of taking care of himself, but that wasn't the point. The idea that he might be hurt … It stopped her heart.

And a child? Why hadn't she considered that? All she'd wanted was Arran. To touch him, to feel his hands on her skin. Nothing else mattered. But a child? If she was pregnant, they would have to find a way to live peaceably. She would be able to have a family with him. To wake up every morning and not only see him, but see his eyes, his face, in a daughter or a son.

She shook herself. Tomorrow night seemed a very long time from now. Until then, she would settle for thinking hopefully unwanton thoughts and for praying that a fairy-tale ending could be possible for a MacLawry and a Campbell.

*   *   *

“Let me buy ye a pint, m … my dear Mr. Fox,” Peter's voice came from the depths of the nearly deserted tavern.

Arran made his way over to the table. It was a lucky thing the footman had spoken up—he'd almost forgotten he wasn't a Scot. “I'll buy you one, my good man,” he countered, signaling the tavern maid.

“Ye're a true, gentleman, y'are,” Peter returned, his words slurring just a little. For a Highlander to be that far in his cups, he must have been going at this for a time.