The Chief (18 page)

Her skin was hot. He knew that if he could see her face, her cheeks would be flushed with pleasure, her wide, sensual lips parted erotically.

She was so damned aroused. Her body shook with it. God, she was going to come apart the first time he touched her. His cock pulsed, beading with anticipation. It took every ounce of his restraint not to wrap her legs around his hips and thrust up high inside her, letting the hot, tight fist of her body milk him to oblivion.

Every muscle flexed as he fought for control, his own release hovering too damned close to the edge. “Tell me what you want,” he said through clenched teeth, his finger caressing achingly close to her heat.

“I don't know,” she moaned.

“Is it this?” he said, sliding his finger along her damp crease. Her body jerked as pleasure rippled through her.

“Yes,” she breathed. “Please.”

“I'm going to make you come, Christina.”

Christina didn't know what he meant, but she didn't care. All she wanted was for this restless, gnawing feeling to go away. Her entire body flooded with desire that kept building and building with nowhere to go, until the pressure felt too intense to handle. She felt poised on the edge of something cataclysmic.

How could she feel so good and yet so agitated? Every stroke, every caress of his hands on her body was torture and heaven at the same time.

All of her thoughts, all of her energy, seemed focused between her legs, concentrated. With each teasing sweep of his finger, the agony increased. She was warm and wet, the muscles coiled tight with need, clenching and pulsing in frustrated ignorance. Instinctively, she knew she needed something but didn't know how to get it. He teased her until she couldn't take it anymore. Until she thought she was going to explode.

She could never have imagined such a light, gentle touch from these big, strong hands that wielded a sword with deadly force.

But she wanted to feel their strength, their power, inside her.

And then she did. His mouth sucked her nipple deep into his warm, wet mouth right at the moment his finger plunged inside her, circling and stroking, pressing. Her body cried out in relief at the pressure she'd craved that was so long denied. Sensations collided inside her—the sucking of his mouth on her breast, the stroke of his finger, the friction of the heel of his hand cupping her. They all came together, intensifying, and then tensing for one long heartbeat, until they broke apart, splintering in thousands of directions.

She cried out as wave after wave of sensation shuddered through her, as the spasms of pleasure released their tight hold.

She felt as if she'd died and gone to heaven. All she could see was light and beauty, like a sea of shimmering stars stretched out before her in a rolling wave. Her senses heightened, her body soaring free. She had never imagined anything could feel this incredible.

It was too much. Tor lost whatever rein he had on his control, watching her body tense, then come apart, hearing the erotic cries of her release. It was more than he could take.

He'd never felt desire like this. Desire that went beyond the lust pooling in his groin and stiffened cock. It reached inside him, pulling and not letting go.

Being inside her. Making her come again. That was all that mattered.

He moved over her, positioning himself between her legs.

Teasing the last spasms of her release from her with his finger, he ground out, “I need to be inside you.”

She sighed dreamily, compliantly, and he was glad for the darkness. Glad that he couldn't see the half-lidded gaze and soft pink blush of ecstasy on her face. Because he knew he wouldn't be able to stop from touching his mouth to hers. And then she
would
be different.

Gently, he lifted her hips, spreading her legs wide to accommodate him. He planted his hands on either side of her shoulders, holding the weight of his chest off of her.

Sweat beaded from his forehead as he fought to go slow. But it wasn't easy.

He slid the plump, sensitive tip of his cock along her entry until he was slick with dampness—hers and his.

She gasped when he nudged inside. Her body tightened reflexively.

“Relax,” he soothed, every muscle straining against the primal urge.

“But you're too big,” she blurted.

And you're too incredibly tight
. “Shhh,” he whispered. “Let your body grow accustomed to me.” His finger found the sensitive spot high in her core and caressed her until she softened. Slowly, she loosened, her body relaxing as pleasure washed over her again.

The urge to thrust was almost overwhelming. But he took his time, easing into her inch by blessed inch—full hilt.

When at last he was deep inside her, he almost couldn't breathe, the effort to hold back taking all his concentration. He needed to come. Needed it so much it hurt. “How does that feel?” he managed tightly.

It took her a moment to answer. “Full,” she whispered huskily. “Wonderfully so.”

It was the perfect answer—and all the encouragement he needed. His hips started to move, driving in and out, slowly at first, then faster, her body jarring under him.

She gasped with each thrust, the erotic little sounds driving him wild.

His muscles burned with the strain of holding himself off her. The pressure built and built. He'd never felt like this. Ever. His entire body was consumed by the sensations coursing through him. Her body held him, milking him with every long drag.

He couldn't hold back much longer.

“Oh…God,” she moaned.

That was it. The moment he'd been waiting for. He dug in. Faster. Harder. Finding the perfect rhythm for her to—

She cried out and he let go, sinking deep inside her one more time and throwing back his head with a primal cry of pleasure. Blood roared in his ears as the force of his release exploded in a torrential storm of sensation, pulsing and pulsing until every ounce of pleasure was squeezed from him. For a moment he blacked out, the ecstasy too powerful.

When the last ripple had ebbed from his body, he collapsed beside her, utterly drained. He'd never felt so spent in his life. He struggled to find his breath. He felt weak; his limbs had turned to jelly.

What had she done to him?

Apparently, he wasn't alone in his dazed lethargy. Christina's breathing was as hard and uneven as his. He was grateful for the silence. For the first time in his life, Tor didn't know what to say or what to think.

The confusion rattled him.

He stared into the darkness, telling himself it was nothing.

He'd just finished convincing himself that he was overreacting, exaggerating what had happened in his mind, when she curled her body to his, snuggling against him. He stilled at the contact, his chest tightening to a burn. For a moment he hesitated, instinct warring with the knowledge that he should keep his distance.

For the moment, instinct won. This one time wouldn't hurt. He wrapped his arm around her and tried to not think about how good she felt against him. All that soft, warm skin melting against him. The silk of her hair spilling across his chest. Her dainty hand covering his heart.

He waited until he heard the soft, even sounds of sleep, then slid out of bed. He donned his clothes quickly and quietly. With one last look at the huddled figure in the bed, he closed the door firmly behind him.

Christina was wrenched from a deep sleep by a chill at her back. Instinctively, she snuggled toward the heat of her husband, only to find emptiness and cold linen.

He was gone for some time if the icy sheets were any indication.

Her brow furrowed. Perhaps she'd slept longer than she realized? But when she dragged her eyes open, it was to find herself gazing into the early gray light of dawn filtering through the spaces in the wooden shutter.

As she could barely move, she wondered what could have caused him to wake so early. If it wasn't for the freezing morning, Christina could have slept for another few hours. But winter was coming, and in the North it took a particularly frigid turn.
Eilean a Cheo
, the Isle of Mist, the Gaelic name for Skye, did not bode well. Shades of gray would probably be the only color to paint the sky for some time.

She stretched lazily, but even that took some effort. Every muscle in her body was stiff and weak with exhaustion. Heat flooded her cheeks as she remembered why.

Never could she have imagined acting with such wanton abandon. But in truth it had seemed the most natural—the only—thing to do. Her body had responded with a mind of its own.

He'd known exactly how to touch her. How to make her shake with pleasure until she soared into sensual oblivion. It was so much better than in her books!

A contented smile curled her lips. For all his cool indifference, her husband's passion did not lie. Last night she'd seen a different side of him—a wild, passionate side, but also a gentle and considerate one. He'd not merely taken pleasure but given it.

He cared for her—he had to. She'd felt it in the tenderness of his touch, in the sounds of his pleasure, and in the frantic beating of his heart.

And when they'd collapsed in sated bliss, he'd been just as exhausted as she—the heaviness of his breathing and the boneless limbs gave proof that it had affected him.

Those long nights at the hearth seemed much closer.

But where had he gone?

She tossed the covers off and bounded out of bed, barely noticing the bracing chill in her eagerness to find him. Last night had broken down a barrier between them and she couldn't wait to see him—to talk to him. A new day had dawned in their marriage.

She called for Mhairi, who slept in the adjoining mural chamber, and quickly washed and dressed. As she passed the lord's solar on the way to the Great Hall, she noticed the door was slightly ajar. Hoping to find Tor there, she gently pushed it open to peek inside. Her attempts at quiet, however, were ruined by the squeak of the iron hinges.

The clerk startled, dropping the stack of parchments he'd been flipping through.

“My lady!” he exclaimed with surprise, moving back away from the table where he'd been standing.

Christina smiled, thinking that his voice squeaked louder than the door. “Good morning, Brother John,” she said cheerily. “You are up early this morning.”

He seemed to collect himself and returned her smile. “As I am every day. Matins at dawn, you know.”

She nodded, unable to prevent the wave of relief at the monotonous life she'd narrowly avoided. She hoped that Beatrix was happy. Word had arrived her first day at Dunvegan that her sister had made it safely to Iona. MacDonald's charming scoundrel of a henchman had proved true to his word. Somehow MacSorley had caught up to the travelers and escorted Beatrix the rest of the way to the nunnery. The Islanders were reputed to be excellent seafarers, courtesy of their Viking forebearers. Her husband certainly gave proof to the characterization, but MacSorley's extraordinary feat seemed incredible even for an Islander.

“Is there something you wanted, my lady?” the clerk asked.

Christina shook her head, bending down to pick up a piece of parchment that had landed near her feet. She glanced at it, seeing that it was a letter, and handed it back to him. “I was hoping to find my husband. Have you seen him this morning?”

“Nay, but he's probably in the Great Hall with his men, breaking his fast.” He started to put away the documents. “I was just on the way myself. Perhaps I can accompany you?”

“I would like that,” she said. “But I do not want to take you from your work?”

He shook his head, his long, straight hair cut in a semicircle around his face quickly sliding back into place. “It's nothing that can't wait. Some correspondence, that's all.”

They walked to the Hall together, chatting about the worsening weather and the long winter ahead of them. The young clerk, it turned out, had arrived at Dunvegan not much before her, and Christina was delighted to discover that he had spent quite a bit of time at a monastery near her home in Stirlingshire. Perhaps she shouldn't have been surprised to discover that the only person who'd been friendly toward her was also an outsider.

“We shall have much to talk about,” she said.

“We shall, indeed.” Echoing her thoughts, he said, “I hope you don't mind my saying that I'm glad you are here, my lady. Yours is the first smile I've seen in quite some time. The chief's marriage took the clan by surprise, but it's easy to see why he fell in love with you.”

Christina froze, stopping a few feet from the entry to the Hall. “What?” She croaked. Her breath seemed lodged in her throat.

The clerk turned as red as an overripe beet. “I'm sorry, I shouldn't repeat the servants' gossip.”

Christina didn't mind at all. But trying to appear nonchalant, she twisted the thick gold bracelet at her wrist and said idly, “What exactly are they saying?”

The clerk shuffled uncomfortably, looking down at his feet. “That the chief took one look at you and decided he had to have you. One of the lads heard it from the chief's personal privy counselor himself.”

Christina flushed to her roots with pleasure. She knew there could be no truth in the story, even if it had come from her husband's closest confidant…could there?

“There has been much speculation because it happened so suddenly,” he explained. “And the chief had given no indication that he intended to remarry. An alliance with the house of Fraser was even more unexpected, given the current climate.”

Christina was confused. “What do you mean?”

He lowered his voice. “War.”

The word stopped her heart. “Have you heard something?”

He shook his head. “Nay, but there are rumors that pockets of rebellion are springing up around Scotland with the capture of Wallace. The chief has been careful to maintain his neutrality till now. But your family is well known for being in the thick of the patriotic cause. Marriage to a Fraser…”

He didn't need to finish. Marriage to her put that neutrality in question. It was what her husband had alluded to on the boat—the reason he'd refused the marriage with her initially.

“Our marriage had nothing to do with politics,” she said adamantly. “An alliance with my father is the last thing he wanted.” She couldn't hide the wry note in her voice. “Anyone who thinks differently would be wrong. Very wrong,” she emphasized.

But a little voice at the back of her head wondered whether there was perhaps a wee bit of truth to the rumor of his caring for her. Tor MacLeod was not a man to be forced into anything. He wouldn't have married her if he didn't want to, particularly given the political objection.

The clerk's easy talk of treason concerned her. Though she did not know Edward of England personally, she knew well enough the danger of defying him. “This talk of war is dangerous. Skye is a long way from London, but King Edward has ears everywhere. I hope you'll put a stop to any rumors of this sort if you hear them. I don't want our marriage to cause my husband unnecessary trouble.”

He nodded understandingly. “Certainly, my lady. You are wise as well as beautiful.”

Christina accepted the gallantry with a smile, refusing to allow the black cloud of war and politics to put a damper on the day. Last night had been a dream come true—a night to build a future on—and nothing could temper the happiness in her heart.

Or so she thought.

The clerk and Christina entered the Hall unobserved. For so early in the morning, the number of people milling about surprised her. Her gaze instinctively went to the large thronelike chair on the dais, and she stilled. The happiness that she thought so entrenched drained out of her like water through a sieve.

Sitting beside her husband on the dais, in the seat that
belonged to her, was the beautiful woman she'd noticed the first night she'd arrived. Their heads were bent close together, their shoulders touching. The intimacy between them was evident in their ease with each other.

“Is something wrong, my lady?”

Knowing her emotions were far too easy to read, Christina cursed her fair complexion and willed color back to her cheeks. But she had to know. “The woman,” she said without looking, “seated next to my husband. Who is she?”

The clerk looked in the direction of the dais and his face turned as red as before. Like hers, his emotions were easy to read on his face, and right now his discomfort could not be more clear. “Lady Janet MacKinnon, my lady. The widow of the chief's former henchman.”

Widow
. Her heart sank further. “They are close?” she asked in a whisper.

The kind young churchman didn't pretend to misunderstand what she was asking. Nor did he patronize her with a lie. “Aye, I believe they were.”

Christina's newfound confidence crumbled into dust. Despair squeezed her chest. The woman had been his leman. But was she still?

Tor had just finished laying out what he wanted from her when Janet suddenly straightened. “I'd better go,” she said, nodding toward the entry.

He turned and saw Christina approaching the dais. Janet was right. He had no wish for his wife to overhear what they were talking about—she seemed prone to asking unwanted questions. He frowned, noticing the glasslike stiffness in Christina's expression and the high color on her cheeks. She looked upset about something. He quickly scanned the room to see whether there was some new womanly touch he was supposed to have noticed.

Seeing nothing, he turned back to Janet, who'd already stood up. “We will finish this later,” he said in a low voice.

She nodded and hurried away.

A moment later, his wife took the seat Janet had just vacated. She looked beautiful and regal in her blue velvet cote-hardie, but also unusually reserved. She sat down without a word.

“Good morning,” he said. “I trust you slept well?”

Though there was nothing provocative in his tone, her cheeks flushed. She peered out from under her lashes at him. “Aye, very well.” She lifted her gaze to his. “And you?” She tilted her head. “You were gone so early. I hope there wasn't something wrong?”

The concern in her gaze made him wary—as did the implication. Clearly, she expected him to sleep by her side. He didn't want to disappoint her, but that would not be happening. “Nothing wrong,” he said. “I slept in the Hall with my clansmen, as I do every night.” Where he belonged.

He steeled himself against her reaction, but it was not enough. The shimmer of hurt in her gaze pierced right through his hard-won defenses. “I see,” she said.

She looked down at her trencher to avoid his gaze, and he was glad of it. But it did not lighten the discomfort in his chest or the weight on his conscience, knowing he'd bruised her tender feelings. She couldn't help her weakness—women were emotional creatures. He felt the strangest urge to fold her hand in his and give it a comforting squeeze. But he shook off the strange thought, knowing he had no cause to feel guilty. He always slept in the hall with his men—it had nothing to do with her personally. His clan came first.

It was wrong of her to put such demands on him, of course. But she was a new bride. She would learn. Obviously, she had some illusions about this marriage, and the sooner she realized it wasn't going to be some romantic bard's tale, the better. He was a Highland chief, not a lovesick knight schooled in the art of courtly love.

He certainly wasn't going to lose his head over a lass.

He took a last swig of ale and pushed back from the
table. More of the men would be arriving today, and he wanted to be there when they did.

“You're going?” she asked.

He tried to ignore the disappointment in her voice. “Aye.” Remembering his promise, he added, “I'll be gone for a few nights, so I bid you farewell until then.”

Her face fell. “But you've only just returned. Where are you going?”

He wanted to tell her that a wife shouldn't question her husband, but she looked like a kicked kitten. And he felt like a damned beast. The discomfort in his chest grew tighter. He didn't want to lie to her, but neither could he tell her the truth. “I've many things that require my attention. I'm often away, visiting my holdings.” The broch on Waternish qualified, though he was being misleading.