Some Like it Scot (Scandalous Highlanders Book 4) (25 page)

Well, thank God for that, at least, even if it didn't help explain her hurry to dress. But now that he knew she'd enjoyed being with him, finding the reason for her determination to flee became even more vital. Lifting his knee, he sent her off balance. There was no sense being a big, strong man unless he could occasionally use his height and strength to his advantage. “Then what's yer damned hurry, lass?” Twisting her to face him, he caught her up in his lap.

“Let go,” she ordered, digging a sharp elbow into his bare chest.

“Nae. I dunnae think I will.”

“But ye're naked.”

“Aye. So I am. And so were ye, five minutes ago. Ye'd best tell me what's amiss, because I'm nae a warlock who can hear yer thoughts.” He risked getting punched in the head and kissed her, long and deeply. “And however much ye argued with me before, ye're mine now, fer certain. Ye're obligated to tell me what's troubling ye.”

“Ye're a brute and a liar,” she retorted, thudding a hand against his ear. “Let me go.”

“Nae.”

She fought him for the space of another dozen heartbeats. Just as he began to think that he truly was going to have to let her go before she could hurt herself against him, she subsided. “I told ye that I dunnae know how to play this game. I didnae agree to being owned. And I dunnae ken if I'm supposed to sit at yer feet and make moon eyes at ye, or if we're to pretend naught happened, or if—”

“Maddening,” he muttered feelingly, and caught her face in his hands for a deep, plundering kiss. And to his relief and joy, she kissed him back with as much heat as he gave.

“That doesnae help,” she growled back, digging the pads of her fingers into his shoulders and seeking his mouth again.

Munro didn't lift his head again until he ran out of air. “I cannae give ye all the answers ye want, wildcat,” he panted, nibbling at her jaw, “but I'll tell ye this. If ye gazed at me with moon eyes I'd think ye'd lost yer senses. As fer the rest, I mean to recall that someaught happened between us, as much as I mean fer it to happen again. What we are together I dunnae know, because ye havenae told me yer thoughts, or yer story. I reckon, though, that I'll stay close by ye while I figure it oot. And I dunnae mean to let another man put his hands on ye.” He kissed her again. “Now. How does that sound to ye, my lass?”

It wasn't at all what he wanted to say to her, but clearly at this moment she needed to feel … safe. Telling her how tangled up in her he felt wouldn't reassure her. It didn't reassure
him.
In fact, if not for his sharp need to keep her close by, he would be having a bit of a panic, himself.

Hell's bells, he'd bedded his share of lasses, and yet he'd never felt this lingering, strengthening yearning to simply remain in the lass's company—to the point that he had repeatedly lied to his own clan chief. It wasn't simply lust, either. Touching her, chatting with her, gazing at her—all those things felt equally important. Vital, even. And seeing her trying to walk away confounded him utterly. Did she not feel the pull between them?

“I have some things to figure out, myself,” she said slowly, shifting to run a fingertip down his breastbone. Responding goose bumps lifted on his skin. “But I do know that we—together—wouldn't end well. I told ye that before.”

“Dunnae be such a pessimist.” Taking his cue from the way she kept touching him, Munro pulled the tail of her shirt free from her trousers, running a hand up beneath the material to close over her left breast. “We ended well a few moments ago.”

Her shivering moan made him hard. Having her once again seemed more vital than anything else he could conjure. Shoving her shirt up as far as he could, he bent his head and took a plump tit in his mouth. Sucking, flicking his tongue across her nipple, he pressed her arse against his cock so firmly he was somewhat surprised he didn't tear straight through the seat of her trousers to get at her.

He plunged a hand between her thighs, pressing up in rhythm with his sucking. Of course he was far stronger than she, and he had to keep that in mind always—but now he didn't have to be quite as patient, quite as gentle, or quite as slow.

“Bear, my heart's about to explode,” she groaned, arching beneath his hand.

“I'll tend ye,” he returned. Swiftly he unbuttoned her damned marvelous trousers again and yanked them down past her thighs. Then, putting his hands beneath her arse, he shifted her over him and settled her down over his reaching cock.

Tight, warm heat engulfed him. Bricks fell off the far side of the pile as he held down on his thighs and thrust up into her, hard and fast. With a keening wail she came, while he plunged up into her again and again. Abruptly with a roaring surge he climaxed, spilling into her.

Sweet Saint Bridget
. He knew how to bed women, and he knew how to take precautions with them. If Ranulf had made one thing clear as they were growing up, it was that litters of MacLawry bastards would not aid in keeping the clan secure. Bastards meant resentments and tangled lines of succession and—at worst—wars and fractured alliances.

And there he was, holding a MacDonald lass as close to him as bones and skin would allow, and he'd done nothing to prevent a pregnancy. Just the opposite, in fact. Glengask would have his head—or some other body part, more likely—for it, if his oldest brother knew. Munro wasn't certain losing his head, at least, would make much difference, because he'd clearly already lost his mind.

“How much can we do that?” Cat muttered, still out of breath, her arms around his shoulders.

“I'm disinclined to give ye a number, because if we reach it ye might ask me to stop.”

She sighed. “It's easier to be naked here with ye,” she commented, her expression easing into a rueful smile, “but I do need to think about some things. And I cannae think sensibly with ye touching me and…”

“And being inside ye?” he prompted, shifting beneath her so she could feel him still filling her.

“Aye.” She flexed her bottom, and this time he was the one who groaned. “I cannae make sense of anything with yer body here, and yer eyes gazing at me.”

Munro chuckled. “Do my eyes offend ye, then?”

“Nae. They dunnae. Now release me, giant.”

“I'll let ye stand up,” he countered, helping her to her feet. “I'll nae release ye.”

Her scowl both amused and troubled him. “Stop saying that,” she ordered. “I'm taking a sandwich, and I'm going fer a walk. Dunnae follow me.”

He stopped himself before he could announce that he would gladly follow her anywhere, or that he belonged to her as much as she belonged to him, because clearly she didn't want to hear it. Whatever had troubled her since the moment they'd met continued to dog her, and until she agreed to tell him about it, all he could do was stay close by her until she decided she could trust him.

It seemed a worthy goal, even if it would please him at least as much as it pleased her. If she would simply tell him about her damned dragon, he would smash it into wee bits and slay it for her. Until then, all he could do was repair her house—because it
was
hers, whatever anyone else said—and kiss her senseless until she fell for him as hard as he'd evidently fallen for her.

*   *   *

“Nae.”

“Aye,” Bear returned, folding his arms across his chest and having the gall to look amused.

“Ye said ye had to come stay the night with me because I wouldnae be safe alone,” Catriona retorted. “Which is daft, because I'm the one who kept Elizabeth safe before ye ever knew we were in the Highlands, but me going into the village with ye? How is that safe?”

“Because I'll be with ye. And because ye've spent too much time alone.”

That, she had. She could feel the silence sometimes, heavy and very, very large, closing in on her. His solution, however, seemed like it would create more problems than it could possibly solve. “If ye want to go to the tavern with yer friends, then go. I've nae said a word aboot how ye should spend yer evenings. Ye cannae want to spend them all here on the hard floor, anyway.”

Instead of replying, he dug into the burlap sack he'd brought with him and produced her floppy straw hat. “I liberated this from Elizabeth's bedchamber. I'll help ye tuck up yer hair. In that heavy coat and this hat, with the rain outside, ye'll nae get a second glance. Drovers come through An Soadh to drink at the Bonny Bruce all the time. Ye're just a short drover with long eyelashes.”

Part of her wanted to go. The Lion's Paw, the tavern nearest MacColl House on Islay, had always been full of song and laughter. It had also been full of whispering when she and her father visited, most of the gossip aimed at her appearance. Here, though, no one knew who she was. If she could pass for a man, some stranger no one had any reason to suspect was anything other than who she—or he, rather—claimed, there couldn't be any harm in it. Could there? A mulled wine would be so nice on a cold night like this one.

“Give me the damned hat,” she finally said, and went to pull on the heavy coat Bear had stolen from the Marquis of Glengask for her.

She pinned her heavy ponytail atop her head and jammed the hat over it. With no mirror she had to rely on Bear, but he seemed assured that she could pass for a lad. And because she already trusted him more than she likely should, already liked him more than she knew she should, she followed him out of the kitchen and into the rain where he'd left Saturn.

Before he swung onto the gelding he pulled a pistol from his pocket and stuffed it into hers. “Because I'm being cautious,” he said, flipping up the front of her hat and bending to give her a warm, openmouthed kiss. “Dunnae shoot anyone if ye can avoid it.”

Catriona swallowed, the warmth of his mouth and the cold of the rain on her face startlingly intoxicating. Perhaps a cold whisky would serve her better than a hot wine. He didn't seem to expect an answer, because he didn't wait for her to reply before he mounted the gray and held a hand to swing her up behind him.

She'd ridden astride for her entire life. That was nothing new. Far more interesting was the way she slid her arms around his hard waist and beneath his coat. It would keep her hands warmer that way, she decided. As did resting her cheek against his broad back. Going into An Soadh was of course a risk. But because it meant spending more time with him, she turned into a brainless, flighty lass and agreed to it.

It was nearly an hour later and somewhere past midnight when they pulled up beside a two-story structure made of stone and wood, the shutters closed over the windows and light and the sound of bagpipes leaking from beneath the door. Bear handed her down, and hopped to the muddy ground beside her. “Stay close, and try nae to talk.”

“And from ye, nae kissing, and nae holding my hand,” she countered. “I ken how to behave like a man, giant.”

“Nae. I doubt ye've fooled anyone into thinking ye a man. But here, they'll all think ye a lad unless ye give 'em reason to believe otherwise.” He tugged the brim of her hat forward just a shade, then turned and left her to follow him inside.

He had a point. Everyone on Islay knew she was a lass who dressed like a lad. She hadn't needed to fool anyone. Her heart stammered a little as she kept close pace on the big man's heels and entered the Bonny Bruce.

Immediately they were greeted with a chorus of “Laird Bear” in both male and female tones. Well, she knew he was charming. It made sense that she wasn't the only one to think so. In fact, from the drinks tilted in his direction and the eyelashes flitting at him, he was extremely popular. And in no need at all of additional companionship from someone as odd as her.

“Mulled rum cider fer me and this lad I found here,” Bear rumbled, putting a hand on her shoulder.

“Were ye lost, lad?” a grizzled older man asked slurrily, over a glass half filled with whisky.

“Aye,” she returned, in as low-pitched a voice as she could manage.

“Found him near half drowned in the rain,” Bear took up. “What was yer name? Porter. Aye. Porter. Up from Fort William and looking for a herd to drive.”

“Ye've come to the right place, Porter,” another man commented. “The MacLawry herds are the fattest in the Highlands.”

“More important than that, where've ye been, Laird Bear?” a female voice asked, and a hand coiled around one of his arms. “All the lasses in the valley've been wailing with missing ye.”

Munro chuckled, slipping free of the very buxom woman's grip as he made a show of guiding his new “friend” Porter to a chair at a small table to one side of the room. “I havenae heard any such thing, Bethia Peterkin. And ye know I've been listening.”

Sitting opposite him, Catriona curved her lips in what she hoped was a smile. The idea of a mulled cider didn't sound quite as bonny now that she knew how much the lasses of the valley missed Bear's company. Presumably in their beds. He sent her a glance, evidently reading her expression. “I've been where I want to be,” he murmured.

A pretty young girl brought over their drinks, the Bethia woman on her heels. “Tell me ye've missed me, Bear,” she cooed, and sat herself across his thighs. “Ye know I've missed ye.”

“I've been occupied, Bethia,” he returned, setting the woman onto her feet again with no discernible effort on his part. “Dunnae tell me ye've let yerself be lonely.”

The room laughed, and Bethia Peterkin blushed prettily. She was just the sort of lass who'd said the sharpest things about Cat, always behind her back of course. This time she at least received an assessing look. Evidently she was too short to interest the lady, because a moment later Bethia swept away to pull some other man into a dance by the fireplace.

“Did ye court her?” she asked, keeping her voice well below the level of chatting and singing around them.