The Chief (17 page)

There it was again, Tor thought. The expectant look in her eye that made his defenses flare.

He was used to people looking at him as if they wanted something from him, but with her it was different. Christina Fraser was the only one who'd ever made him feel lacking for not giving it.

He'd never felt beholden to anyone, but this tiny girl made him feel like a churl for not saying good-bye or noticing the changes she'd made in the Hall. The first had never occurred to him and the second was something he didn't concern himself with—a warrior didn't care that the room was bright, clean and smelled fresh.

Except for the tapestry. Seeing his mother's treasured tapestry, depicting the Boyhood Deeds of Finn MacCool, had shocked the hell out of him, bringing back memories he'd thought long forgotten. Of the mother he'd adored, who'd been raped and then murdered by the men following the orders of the Earl of Ross—her own kinsman.

He bit back the reflexive surge of hatred. Thirty years ago, when the Isles became part of Scotland, Skye had been
placed under the sheriffdom of the Earl of Ross. Ten years later, Ross ordered an attack on the MacLeods that had claimed both his parents' lives and those of so many others. Not even the children had been spared. He and his sister and brothers, home for the Yule and Hogmanay celebrations, had escaped death only by hiding in the nave of the church.

It was the past. Tor didn't dwell on things he couldn't change, but seeing the tapestries had reminded him of the lesson learned from his parents' murder: the importance of keeping his own counsel. His clan's safety rested on his shoulders and his alone. He didn't like being questioned, and his young wife would have to look elsewhere for shared confidences.

The good-byes, the womanly touches, the questions. His first wife hadn't troubled him with such expectations. He knew where this was going, and it was exactly what he'd feared. He didn't have the time or inclination to navigate the dark maze of a sheltered young woman's tender feelings. He had other things to worry about, such as who was behind the attacks and how to keep his part of the bargain of training Bruce's secret army without endangering his clan or being arrested for treason.

He had no wish to hurt Christina, but neither did he want to encourage the fantasy that she was building around him. First rescuing hero, now doting husband. Neither one was a mantle he wished to don. He was a warrior chief—a man who led his clan in battle and in peace, and nothing more.

“If you'll excuse me,” he said, standing up. “My men are waiting for me.”

Her face dropped. “But you've only just returned. I thought…”

She lowered her gaze, the long, sooty lashes brushing against the pale curve of her cheek. Fragile. Delicate. Seductive beyond measure.

He steeled himself against the urge to say something to comfort her. He knew what she wanted. But he was not a man to dance attendance upon his wife, and it was better for her to learn how it would be from the start. He had duties and responsibilities, which right now included making arrangements for the arrival of the warriors who could appear at any time. “I have matters I must attend to.”

“Of course,” she said with a wobbly smile, making him feel like even more of an ass. “I understand. I will see you at the evening meal?”

She gazed up at him expectantly with those dark, entrancing eyes, and he felt the force of her plea straight in his groin.

In the space of one long heartbeat—when the blood rushed and swirled inside him—he almost changed his mind. That the lure of pleasing one woman could so easily override his duty sent a chill through his blood. If he didn't know better he would think it was something akin to fear, which was laughable. He was fearless. But this lass wielded more power in one seductive glance than an entire army did on the battlefield.

“I don't know,” he said, turning away before he saw the disappointment in her gaze.

She reached out and caught his hand. He felt as if a ball of fire was exploding in his chest. The soft press of her fingers unleashed every animal instinct inside him. He wanted to feel her hands all over him.

“And later?” she said softly.

A siren's call.

His cock and his bollocks tightened hard against his body. He felt the blast of heat as desire flooded his senses. “Aye,” he said roughly, his gaze burning into hers. “I will see you tonight.”

He would make her his. He would make her no other promises, but that she could damn well count on.

There was little to do inside the bedchamber to pass the time as she waited. Christina was tempted to pull out her book from the hiding place in her trunk, but she wasn't sure how her husband would react to the knowledge of her learning. Her father's reaction was still too fresh in her mind, and her marriage still too new. Though she did not think he would be angry, her husband was painfully difficult to read. Just when she thought she was getting a glimpse of the real man behind the fearsome warlord, the steel curtain slammed back down with a resounding
thud
.

So she tried embroidery. But after a few pricks of the needle, she realized her nervous energy was not exactly conducive to needlework, so she put it away. If she had chalk and a piece of slate—which she didn't—she could draw. If she were more like her sister, she could pray. Though for what she didn't know. Patience? Maidenly modesty? Both would be welcome at this point. She feared she was too eager for this night, and that perhaps her eagerness was unseemly. She was an innocent maid; she should be quaking in fear, not tingling with excitement in places that she should not think about.

She almost regretted sending Mhairi away so early, but
she hadn't expected to be waiting half the night. It must be near midnight by now.

She did regret refusing the bottle of the sweet wernage wine the wise serving woman had offered to fetch. Anything to take the edge off her frazzled nerves.

Tired of watching the shadows from the flame of the candle flicker across the ceiling, Christina tossed off the bedcovers and hopped out of bed. The shock of cold air on her skin and feet from the icy stone floor felt strangely calming. She paced until the candle dwindled to nothing. Until the Hall was painfully quiet.

He wasn't coming after all.

Telling herself that it was nothing, that there was no reason for the tightness burning in her chest, she forced herself to lie back down on the bed. The tears, however, were harder to stop.

What was wrong with her? Did her husband not want her?

The numbness of sleep beckoned, hovering like an oasis just out of reach. She'd almost succumbed when the door opened.

The sound startled her fully awake. Instinctively, she grasped the cover to her chest. In the darkness, she could just make out the shadow of his massive form in the doorway. He stood stone still. Though he had yet to enter, his presence seemed to fill the room.

“You're still awake,” he said.

The edge in his voice caused the hairs on her arms to rise. “Aye,” she said softly. He was the most terrifying man she'd ever beheld, but never had she felt his danger so intensely. He seemed like a man about to do battle, rather than a man about to make love to his bride. A fierce aura surrounded him. His long, muscular limbs seemed taut and strained.

All of a sudden she felt a trickle of fear. He wouldn't hurt her, would he?

Closing the door behind him, he crossed the room in virtual darkness. Only the soft rays of moonlight streaming through the wood planks of the shutters softened the blackness.

Her senses prickled. Her heartbeat raced. After days of wondering, of waiting, the time was finally here. They were alone. And unlike before, they were both aware of the fact—and of what was coming. It crackled in the night between them.

Now that he was here, she was a little bit frightened, but even more, she was scared that she would somehow disappoint him.

Her eyes were growing accustomed to the darkness, and she could see him unclasp the large pin at his neck and unwrap the plaid from around his shoulders. He removed the rest of his clothes with equal matter-of-factness—as if he were alone in the room and not having his every move dissected by a wide-eyed, shallow-breathing, very nervous bride.

Business. Duty. The words came to her unheeded. Was that what she was to him? she thought with a pang. She wanted to make it good for him.

She swallowed when he turned and started toward the bed, the smooth outline of his muscles revealed by the shadows leaving no doubt that he was naked. She would have blushed but was too overwhelmed. Power. Strength. Vitality. His body was a fortress. Raw masculinity in its most impressive form.

A most unmaidenly thought sprang to mind: Too bad the candle had gone out.

Perhaps he heard the shortness of her breath, because when he slid in beside her, he said, “There is nothing to fear. I will be gentle. It will be nothing like last time.”

She didn't know whether that was good or bad. The last time had been quite amazing—to a point.

The bed dipped with his weight. Her heart wasn't racing
any longer because it had come to a jolting stop. He hadn't touched her, but he was close enough for her to feel the brace of cold on his skin.
Cold with wind
. “You've been outside?” she asked, surprised. She'd thought he was with his men in the solar.

He stilled. “Aye.”

“Where were you? Is something wrong?”

She could feel his eyes on her, piercing the veil of darkness. “It is nothing that concerns you,” he said.

She frowned at the non-answer. If it concerned him, it concerned her. Surely, he was the most recalcitrant man she'd ever known. But before she could question him further, he leaned down on his side to stretch out alongside her, completely erasing all other thoughts from her mind.

Gently, he pried the covers she was still clutching from her fingers and tossed them to the side. She could feel the weight of his body pressing against her side. Even through her chemise, her skin flamed at the contact.

“There's only one thing I want to think about right now.” His voice was deep and sultry, full of wicked promise.

She shuddered when she felt his finger trace the faintest line over the contour of her breast, the feathery touch making every nerve ending stand on edge. Her heart pounded in her throat. “What's that?” she managed, her voice a soft breath.

The hard pad of his finger found the taut tip of her nipple, circling it through the thin linen of her chemise. She gasped in surprise when his mouth replaced his finger. The soft wet warmth of his kiss sent shards of pleasure straight from her breast to between her legs. God, it was incredible! The sensations were like a burst of warm pleasure showering over her in an effervescent rain. But when he sucked the tight bud, drawing it gently between his teeth, her gasp became a deep moan.

He chuckled against her. “This,” he answered, “is the
only thing I want to think about.” He sucked her again, circling his tongue over the throbbing tip. “I want to suck your lovely nipples in my mouth until your body weeps with desire.” He drew his fingers down the flat of her stomach and cupped her mound gently in his big, strong hand. No hesitation. All raw sexual energy. The possessive gesture filled her with an acute sense of destiny—as if this was meant to be. “I want to touch you here,” his finger swept the seam of her womanhood through the cloth, “and make you wet until you are ready for me.” Her body answered with a rush of heat and dampness in the very place he had stroked. “And then,” he leaned his head over to kiss her neck, whispering in her ear, “and then I want to be inside you and make you come apart.” She arched and twisted at his wicked words, shivering as his tongue and lips found the sensitive part of her neck below her ear.

He lifted his head to look into her eyes. The handsome, hard angles of his face looked even more dangerous in the shadows. “Does that frighten you?”

She shook her head. “Nay.” The fear had fled the moment he'd touched her. Her heart was fluttering like the wings of a hummingbird as she struggled to find the words. “I want that, too. I like how it feels when you touch me.”

He stilled. She swore she could feel his gaze grow hotter, more intense. She blushed, wondering if she'd said something wrong. But then he was touching her again and she forgot everything but the pressure of his mouth on her breast and the hot friction of his hands covering her body.

Tor had to keep reminding himself that the passionate woman writhing in his bed was essentially a virgin. But when she moaned and arched under his mouth and hands, silently begging him to kiss her breasts harder, it was all too easy to forget.

His naughty talk to distract her from her questions had worked—he'd been outside because a few of the men had
arrived early, necessitating a midnight trip to the broch—but it was she who'd had the last laugh when her response had distracted him.
“I like how it feels when you touch me.”
Christ, how could he not react to that?

The innocent honesty of her words only increased his hunger for her. Part of him had wondered whether he'd only imagined her responsiveness that night. He hadn't. If anything, he'd underestimated its sensual allure.

Virgin
, he reminded himself, trying to slow down the pounding in his blood, the primitive call he longed to answer.

He'd wanted to bed her since the first time he'd laid eyes on her. But he swore after his rough handling during their first encounter that he would make it good for her. Very good. Slow and gentle. Hot but controlled.

This was what he understood. In the darkness. Man to woman. Nothing but passion—primitive and raw. He knew how to make a woman ache for his touch. How to make her moan. How to make her weak with pleasure. He knew what she needed and would give it to her. And in return she would give it to him. Nothing more. Nothing less. Base needs satisfied.

In bed, Christina Fraser was no different than any other woman. His need for her was hotter. More intense, perhaps. But lust was lust, and nothing he couldn't control.

He was a passionate man. She was a passionate woman. It was as simple as that. Passion in the marriage bed was something to be grateful for—his first wife had not been so eager. It was nothing to concern him.

But he couldn't stop staring at her mouth. Even in the darkness, the lush sensuality of her plump pink lips beckoned. He rebelled against the intimacy—kissing wasn't something he usually thought about.

But he could taste the rest of her. He untied the opening of her chemise, no longer content to have a barrier between his lips and her skin. She smelled incredible.
Warm and flowery. He inhaled deeply, her delicate scent enfolding him in its sweet embrace.

She cried out at the first touch of his mouth on her bare skin, and his already rock-hard erection grew even harder.

At the first tentative touch of her hands on his back he froze. The demanding press of her fingers, kneading the taut muscles of his upper arms and shoulders, made him feel like he was jumping out of his damned skin. She liked touching him. A sharp clench of desire clouded his vision for one mindless moment as lust spiked inside him.

Control
. Forcing his blood to cool, he scooped her gorgeous breasts in his hands, holding them to his mouth, taking turns devouring each one. His cock pulsed hard against his stomach and he took relief, rubbing himself gently against her hip as he suckled, the gentle friction stoking the fires even higher.

I can do this
. But he'd never felt so aroused in his life. Her innocent responses were more erotic than the experienced moves of the women he usually bedded.

He licked her nipple, the honey-sweet taste ambrosia on his tongue. His chin scraped against the sensitive skin as he kissed her harder. Sucking and swirling his tongue around the taut little point until her hips started lifting against him.

His hands were all over her body. He couldn't stop touching her. Her skin was so soft, her body lush and sweetly feminine.

He groaned. God, she was incredible. So natural and free in her passion. But it was getting harder and harder to check his instincts, to ignore the hunger and craving burgeoning inside him. His body was on fire, his head pounding. Rationality became harder to find as the red haze of lust crashed over him.

His hands skimmed over her hips and down her legs to lift the edge of her chemise. He heard the short hitch of her breath as his fingers swept up the velvety softness of her
inner thigh. Her fingers dug into his arms. She seemed suspended, poised for his touch.

The knowledge of how much she wanted this did something to him. Something that went beyond masculine satisfaction or pride. It filled him with a heavy warmth that reached down deep inside him and tugged. At that moment, nothing had ever felt more important than giving her pleasure.

But not yet. The only thing he wanted more than release was to make it last. He teased the moment out, feeling her body quiver as he caressed the baby-soft skin near her core with a feathery circle of his fingertips, drawing near, then pulling back. Accustoming her not only to his touch, but to her own desire. He wanted her to recognize what her body wanted. What it needed.

He mimicked the movements of his finger with his tongue on her breast. Flicking out to brush against her, then pausing, allowing the warmth of his breath to blow over the damp, sensitive tip.

She moaned and whimpered, each sound making it harder and harder for him to concentrate as blood pounded in every inch of his body.