Samantha James (18 page)

“I would.” Hungrily he eyed the graceful sweep of her throat. He would have availed himself of a greedy taste, but already the tip of the spoon was poised before him.

“Open,” she whispered.

Egan complied.

The spoon dipped within the crock, then returned, again and again, faster and faster, until his lips had barely parted and more tart was dumped into his mouth.

He coughed. “I’m choking—”

“What, on your own words? Then chew, my lord, do not speak.”

“Glenda, please—”

“Please? Do you not know your own mind, husband?”

She was on her feet like an arrow shooting high through the air. Dumbfounded, Egan could only watch as the remainder of the contents of the crock was overturned in his lap. It began to ooze over his thighs, a thick, gooey mess.

“Glenda! What the devil…sweet, why are you so angry?”

“You tell me, sirrah.” Her smile was sweet, but her eyes flashed fire. “A man knows best, does he not?” In a swirl of skirts, she was gone.

Egan stumbled to his feet and flung out a hand. The sticky mess dripped to the floor, beneath his boots. He slipped and nearly fell. Curses spewed
from his mouth, along with the crumbs of the tart.

“Glenda. Glenda, wait!”

It was only later that they both were able to laugh about it. Like the quarrel between Alfred and Annabelle, it was a quarrel that did not last the night. Arrogant though he was, Glenda could neither deplore nor argue his logic, particularly once she permitted him the chance to expound upon it.

“’Tis far more than providing Alfred the chance to lay with his wife!” he had said. “If I seemed cruel to her, I did not mean to be. Annabelle must understand that marriage is a bond, an alliance that is not to be taken lightly. ’Tis an alliance that should be neither entered into nor broken with capricious whimsy, as she would have done had I allowed it!”

Glenda listened intently. And in so doing, she gained a deeper glimpse of the emotions that resided deep within her husband, of the feelings that drove him. Not for the first time, she realized…

He was not a man to take his own so lightly. But then, she’d known it for a long, long time. She had only to think of his loyalty to Niall. To Cameron and the clan MacKay…to Blackstone…and its people. His determination to keep them safe from all harm…

He did tease her unmercifully, though, when they spied Alfred and Annabelle a fortnight later—for now the pair strolled hand in hand.

He lay in bed one night, propped on an elbow, watching her as she brushed her hair. He’d drawn the sheet up to the jutting ridge of his hip, but it barely covered his maleness. Even unaroused, she
could see the long, ridged shape of him outlined beneath the cloth, the impressive fullness beneath. Under the dense layer of dark, curling hair, his chest was thick with muscle. His shoulders and arms were as hard as they looked, gleaming like oiled walnut, bronzed from the summer sun. Just the sight of him made an odd little quiver run through her.

Aware that his eyes never left her, she rose and walked barefoot to the bed, sliding in beside him. He slept naked and somehow always saw to it that she did as well. Now she no longer bothered with a bedgown.

Easing back on the pillows, she discovered that he had yet to relieve her of his regard. “What is it?” she said breathlessly. “Why do you watch me so?”

“I am speculating.”

“About what?”

“About whether you have fantasies.”

“Fantasies!”

“Aye, fantasies. Surely you know…the kind like women have.”

She glowered. “You mean the kind like men have,” she said crossly.

His lips quirked. “What would you know of men’s fantasies?”

“I heard two of my father’s men talking in the stables once. Long ago, when I was a girl.”

“What! And who was more wicked? The men, for talking so frankly…or you, for listening?”

His teasing quickly earned him a jab in the ribs. “I was in the stall with my mare, just after she’d birthed a foal! They didn’t know I was there, and obviously I couldn’t leave without calling attention to the fact
that I was there! It would have embarrassed all of us.”

“I see your point. But tell me—what did they say?”

“They seemed to have quite a fascination with the breasts of the miller’s eldest daughter.” Her mouth turned down. “In particular, their…abundant size, and what they would do if they had her alone.”

“A fascination I can well understand.” Beneath the sheet, an impudent finger traced a taunting circle around an equally impudent nipple.

“Stop that.” She slapped at his hand.

There was an unholy glimmer in his eyes. “Continue. What about this girl’s breasts?”

“They did not refer to them as breasts,” she said heatedly. “And they envisioned using them for—for a use other than what God—and most men—intended!”

All at once Egan had a very good idea what she meant…her heatedness made him smother a laugh. For a woman who professed to be old, she was as innocent as a maid! He couldn’t resist teasing her further.

“Indeed,” he said gravely. “And were there…male bodily parts involved?”

“Aye.”

“Dare I ask what male bodily parts were involved?”

Her eyes flashed. “The one most men seem to regard as the one of prime importance!”

Egan chuckled. Lord, she was precious! He bent his head and kissed her, then ran his thumb over the rosy flesh of her mouth.

“That was their fantasy. But what of yours?”

“I have none.”

She was so quick he almost believed her…almost, but not quite.

“All right then. Have you ever had dreams…erotic dreams?”

Glenda’s heart lurched. She had—and all of him! The dream of the two of them in the orchard rose high aloft in her mind.

“What?” she said faintly. “Would you make me tell you that, too?”

His hand cupped the slope of one bare shoulder, then slid down. Strong brown fingers curled around her arm; his hand lightly caressed, his knuckles skimming the side of her breast, sending a ripple of sensation all through her, making her nipples stand hard and taut, ripe and straining.

“Would you?” Softly he encouraged her.

Glenda swallowed. “I cannot.”

“Why not?”

She shook her head. “’Twas not here…”

A brow arched in silent query.

“’Twas not here…in this bed.” Her face flamed. “Or indeed, in any bed.”

He kissed the corner of her mouth. “Where, then?” he whispered.

“The orchard,” she said weakly.

“Was there a man in this dream?”

“Y-yes.”

“Who?”

The world seemed to come to a halt. “You,” she whispered.

His eyes seemed to blaze. Too late she recognized
the folly of her confession. The sheet slipped down to her waist.

“You are right, sweet. I would rather you not tell me. I would rather you
showed
me.”

Blessed be, he meant it.

In the orchard the following day, he pulled her from her horse. For a time they merely walked in lazy companionship, for it was just such a day—warm, but not hot, the air pleasantly cool as it played among the treetops. Egan paused to watch a hawk as it surged high towards the clouds and was lost from sight; Glenda sank down beneath the gnarled, outstretched branches of an ancient apple tree, tucking her knees beneath her.

“I’m exhausted,” she complained. “Come sit.”

Egan shook his head. “How can you be tired? Nessa told me you slept half the morn away.”

“There’d be no need to sleep the morn away if someone did not keep me awake half the night!”

“And who would that be?” He shook his head in mock outrage. “I’ll have to find the rogue and see that it does not happen again.”

“Ho! You need not look far to find him then!” Laughing, she laced her hands on her skirts. Tipping her head to one side, she regarded him.

He advanced toward her. “You,” he accused without heat, “are a temptress.”

Her chin angled high that she might see him, revealing the long, graceful arch of her throat. She peered up at him through long, curling lashes. “And do I tempt you?”

Egan sucked in a breath. His gaze roved slowly over her features. She’d never been more beautiful to
him than she was at that moment, her lips enticingly pink, her hair unbound and streaming over her shoulders like banners of silk, the laughter turning her eyes to sheer gold.

“Lady,” he said with soft deliberation, “you do, indeed.” Without a word he knelt before her.

“You’ve yet to tell me of your dream,” he said softly. “Were we near this spot?”

“We were here”—her gaze locked helplessly on his rugged features—“beneath this very tree.”

“A good start, I should say then. What were you wearing?”

Her tongue came out to moisten her lips, darkening them to deepest rose. “Nothing. ’Twas an erotic dream, if you remember.”

“Ah. How could I forget?” Easing his hands beneath the neckline of her gown, he peeled it away from her shoulders. Full, creamy flesh spilled free. Her gown dropped in a heap about her knees.

Slowly he drew back to look at her. On her knees before him as she was, her breasts jutted forth, the dusky peaks deeply rouged, trembling before him as if in offering. The sight made the blood surge hot and heavy in his loins.

“Did I touch you here?” His palms brushed across the quivering peaks, relishing the way they surged stiff and tight against him.

“Aye. But with…your mouth.”

His mouth slid with slow heat down the side of her neck. Guessing his intention, her ragged inhalation but aided him further. His tongue curled around the swollen tip.

Her fingers came up to tangle at the back of his
head. She pressed him against her. “Harder,” she whispered.

His mouth opened. Torrid and greedy, he feasted on honey-brown nipples, first one and then the other. Her breath began to fray.

With an effort he dragged his mouth back to hers.

“And here, lass?” His knuckles skimmed her belly. Long fingers tangled in her fleece; his fingertips traced an elusive path along her furrowed channel, coming close to but never quite touching the bud of her desire. “Did I touch you here?”

Her hands came out to grasp the binding of his arms; her eyes half-closed. “Aye,” she whispered.

Egan gritted his teeth. He could feel her liquid dew, glistening and damp. One long, strong finger plunged within her silken depths, and then another. His thumb joined the play, tormenting and evocative, circling again and again around that tiny nubbin of flesh centered deep within tight gold curls.

She began to writhe against his hand.

Against her lips, he grated out, “Did I touch you here, sweet? With my mouth? Did I touch you with my lips? With my tongue?” The words were stark and raw and wanton.

“Aye,” she cried. “Aye!”

Her soft panting excited him to a fine frenzy. His eyes burning, he nudged her to her back. She gasped aloud as he parted her knees with the width of his shoulders. He pressed his open mouth against her belly, the soft, pale inside of one slender thigh…then the other.

With his tongue he touched her swollen rosebud, her flowering core.

Her body jerked. Her hips came off the ground, again and again.

He pleasured her until his head was pounding and his blood was aboil, his manhood engorged as never before; demanding, even as he gave of himself as he’d never done before, reveling in her soft, panting breaths. He knew the moment she yielded, a whimpering cry of shivering surrender.

Flinging his clothing aside, he dragged himself over her, shaking with need of her. Freeing his rod, he guided it through, gasping as pink, creamy folds closed tight around his swollen flesh. Her eyes opened, dark and smoky with passion. He weaved his fingers through hers, clasping them together alongside her head as he plunged hard and deep, filling her with himself, with his passion.

“Kiss me,” he muttered. Her head turned. Soft lips sought his with an urgency that made him soar high as the hawk he’d glimpsed earlier. He felt his seed searing through his loins, but he did not want such blistering ecstasy to end so soon. Not yet. Not now.

Shuddering with the need that thundered through him, he rolled.

She was astride him now, seated upon his burning shaft. “I dreamed of this,” she gasped.

“So did I.”

Her eyes darkened. Bracing herself against their hands, still clasped so tightly together, she lifted her body so that she was poised on the very tip of him. Then all at once she thrust down…down. Spearing him with her velvet heat. He stared down where the two of them joined…him to her…or her to him…he cared not. It mattered not.

Encased in tightness and fire and warmth, he lunged inside her with shattering force, desperately seeking that pinnacle of pleasure.

Suddenly her back arched. She cast back her head. The walls of her passage contracted around his turgid shaft, again and again.

“Egan,” she cried. “Egan!”

The sound of his name sent him over the edge. His release was scalding. He exploded inside her, his seed hot and thick and drenching her with fire.

In the wake of such intensity, a blissful peace descended like a curtain around them both. They dozed, then woke and made love again, their caresses more mellow and leisurely this time, but with no less satisfaction.

It was late when at last they arose. Egan helped Glenda up, brushing dried grass and leaves from her form.

It happened without volition, without thought. A tug upon her heart, a chain upon her soul. It was as if a curtain of gray had parted, as if she saw the world anew…and him.

Framed before sun and sky, his teeth were very white against his skin. The squareness of his jaw was rough and dark with the day’s growth of beard. An unruly lock of hair tumbled over his forehead. All combined to lend him an air of rugged virility. Never had she seen a man more striking or arresting, and all at once, her heart seemed to stumble.

Her fingers came to rest on the plane of his cheek. They moved, the veriest caress.

“Your eyes are so blue,” she whispered. “So very, very blue. Oh, God…why did I never notice? Why
did I never see?” The stricken little cry slipped out before she could stop it.