The Recruit (8 page)

“Oh, yes!” the woman cried. “God, it feels so good. You’re so big.” She was arching
her back, rocking her hips against him eagerly.

The man’s movements, by contrast, were almost lazy. He reached forward to fondle one
of her sizable breasts, and the woman’s moans and cries took on a frantic edge.

Mary couldn’t look away from his hands. Darkly tanned against the pale softness of
the woman’s skin, they were big, well formed, and as strong-looking as the rest of
him. He was a lean, perfectly honed weapon of war. Atholl had been a muscular man,
but this man defied comparison.

A blacksmith could have forged the broad shield of his chest, and not an ounce of
fat marred the steely slabs and ridges of muscle that narrowed to a V at his slim
waist and hips. Tight ropes of muscle lined his stomach like a ladder carved into
the sheer granite face of a cliffside. Even the curved flanks of his backside looked
hard and tautly muscled. And his arms … his arms were like battering rams, thick and
powerful, rippling and flexing with every movement.

Muscles like that could only be earned on the battlefield.

The sheer masculine perfection of his body might have given her the illusion of a
Greek god but for the numerous scars that gave proof of his humanity. Still, it was
a thing of beauty, something to be admired—hard and chiseled as any statue, but bronzed
and radiating warmth.

Or maybe that was her. Looking at him made her feel all hot and tingly.

“Do you like that, my sweet?” he purred.

Mary jolted at the sound of his voice. Sweet heaven! It was dark, deep, and mesmerizing,
brimming with sensual allure. It was the voice of sin, and it blanketed her body with
heat.

“Tell me what you want,” he murmured, weaving his sensual web around them both. It
was as if he were talking to her.

Mary wanted to look at his face but couldn’t seem to take her eyes off his hands.
He was rolling the woman’s nipple between his fingers as if massaging it to a point,
and then squeezing gently. Seeing those big, blunt-edged fingers work so deftly …

Her own breasts felt heavy, her nipples peaking under the thick wool of her gown.

The woman seemed incapable of speech. Her eyes were closed, her lips parted, her expression
one of total rapture.

A rush of memories hit her hard, memories that had been buried a long time ago. Feelings
and sensations that had confused her at fifteen and been blunted at eighteen now returned,
clearer, sharper, and stronger. Much stronger.

Passion, Mary realized. In that one look she saw the realization of something she’d
never known but had instinctively longed for. How she envied the woman!

“Please,” the woman begged.

She wanted something and seemed increasingly urgent to find it. The man’s strong hands
started to roam her body, touching her in ways that seemed to increase the woman’s
agony. Or pleasure; the two had seemed to have become one. He was teasing her, each
caress of his hands calculated to stoke the flames of her desire.

His hips moved at a steady beat, slow and easy, in long, deep strokes. Not the frantic,
hurry-up-and-get-it-over way Mary remembered.

He was drawing out the woman’s pleasure.

My God, he
cared
about her pleasure. All his efforts seemed to be focused on the woman. He was moving
as if he had all the time in the world.

But the woman had had enough. “Please …”

Mary took such pity on her, she almost told him to put the poor creature out of her
misery.

But she wasn’t miserable at all. The woman was in heaven.

He slid his hand down between the woman’s legs and his fingers dipped between them
in the place …

Mary gasped, feeling a rush of heat between her legs, almost as if he were touching
her there. She shifted, feeling hot and uncomfortable. The warm air of the stables
felt sultry, the small area too intimate.

She couldn’t breathe, poised on the precipice of what would happen next.

The man leaned forward, pulling the woman up against him, and put his mouth on the
nape of her neck, nuzzling, nipping, almost as if he were a stallion.

He
was
a stallion, Mary realized. A prized stallion. Sleek, lean, and hard, exuding a raw,
unharnessed strength. A creature of magnificence to look upon.

Even in profile she could tell he must be handsome. He had dark, wavy hair, just a
shade too long to be reputable, a nose that appeared to have been broken more than
once but was still nicely proportioned and reasonably straight, high cheekbones, a
wide mouth, and a strong, square jaw.

She had no doubt he was a lord. Even if she hadn’t seen the jeweled handle of the
sword resting against a stool beside his leather surcote, the aura of arrogance and
authority was eerily familiar.

He was undeniably attractive, but it was what he was doing to the woman that made
it impossible to turn away, that made Mary’s skin flush, her breath catch, and her
breasts heavy.

That made her want him to do that to her.

Mary couldn’t seem to turn away as the woman stilled, and then cried out, her body
shuddering with the release of something incredible. For a moment her face was filled
with such rapture it seemed divine. Oh … it was amazing!

When she was finished, the woman went completely limp, as if her limbs had lost their
bones. All that was holding her up seemed to be his hands.

Mary looked at those big hands, the thick, powerful fingers, and followed them up,
over a stomach clenched with tight bands of muscle, past the incredible chest, to
the equally incredible face that was now turned toward her.

My God, he was looking at her! She jolted, riveted to the floor by piercing blue,
feeling the shock not just at being caught, but also of awareness.

Attractive was an understatement. He was one of the most handsome men she’d ever seen.
Deep-set brilliant blue eyes in startling contrast to the darkness of his hair, a
bold, aggressively sensual mouth, a nose that had been broken (as she’d anticipated),
but the crook only seemed to enhance the pugnacious, masculine appeal. None of his
features was perfect, but together …

She almost heaved a dreamy sigh. Together they were incredible. Hard, physical, brutally
male. It was a face to stir even a heart that should know better.

But it was the way he was looking at her that sent her heart slamming to her toes.

His warrior’s heightened senses had alerted Kenneth to the woman’s presence well before
he heard her startled gasp. He wouldn’t have lasted very long in this war if someone
could sneak up on him—even while engaged in the more sensual pursuits.

Although “engaged” was probably putting it strongly. Engaged implied interest, which
he was fighting hard to
maintain. He’d been silently wishing for the woman to come already before they’d been
interrupted.

It was hardly uncommon in a crowded castle to come upon two people giving way to their
baser needs. It wasn’t common, however, to stand there and watch.

Rather than run off in shocked embarrassment as he’d expected—as she should have done—the
woman had seemed transfixed. At first, when he’d seen all that black and the wimple,
he’d thought her a nun. All she was missing was the natural wool scapular over her
gown.

Amused, given her prim, officious attire, and not wanting to frighten her off, he
hadn’t looked at her directly but watched her out of the corner of his eye.

Not that she’d seemed likely to catch his gaze, as her attention wasn’t focused on
him but on the face of the woman beneath him.

Lady Moira had seemed the wisest of the options presented him tonight. Choosing a
bedmate was becoming something of running the gauntlet, trying to avoid any connections
to the king or his important lords that might land him in trouble. As the widowed
attendant of Lady Elizabeth Lindsay, Lady Moira seemed unlikely to give him any problems.

She was also young, uncomplicated, eager to please, and lusty. A perfect combination,
to his mind.

Except he hadn’t been able to muster much enthusiasm for the task. Such interludes,
which had suited him well in the past, had started to feel rote. Stale. Interchangeable.

He’d attributed it to his focus on the task ahead of him, but maybe it was something
else. Maybe he needed a little excitement.

The wee interloper seemed to have provided it.

God knew why, as there was hardly much to her. His first impression was of a ghostlike,
colorless creature hidden behind the ugliest, most shapeless clothes he’d ever
seen on a woman who wasn’t old enough to be his grandmother or living in a convent.

She wasn’t either. The slight, pinched face, half hidden behind a pair of what he
assumed were glasses, was smooth of lines, and the rings she wore on her fingers,
along with the brooch pinned to her gown, suggested she was a lady of some position.
Perhaps, like Lady Moira, an attendant to one of the noblewomen.

When he’d first glanced at her, he thought there was something familiar about her.
But if he’d met her before he could not place her.

Not surprising, as she seemed perfectly forgettable. Almost
too
perfectly forgettable. There was something fine in her delicate features that seemed
obscured. An echo of beauty that could not be completely erased.

He wished he could see her eyes better. And her hair. Though from the light golden
brown of her softly arched brows, he suspected it was blond.

There was no reason in Hades why this slight, bland woman who looked about the farthest
thing from wicked could be inspiring him.

He’d wanted to shock her. See a flush rise to those pale cheeks. Rattle the prim and
serious from her laced-up-tight exterior. Give her a performance to remember.

She seemed entranced by Lady Moira’s pleasure, as if she’d never seen anything like
it. Realizing she probably hadn’t, he’d set out to instruct her. He always saw to
his bedmates’ pleasure, but he extended it, drew it out, purposefully touched Lady
Moira in places that were sure to shock.

And they did. But to his surprise, they also aroused.

Both
of them. When the little voyeur’s breath sharpened and started to quicken, he felt
his body respond. Everything felt a little hotter, and a hell of a lot harder.

He couldn’t believe it—the wee drab wren was turning him on.

Hell, if he’d known how much fun it would be to have
someone watching him, he would have done this a long time ago.

Anticipation built inside him. He was tempted to drag it out longer, but he couldn’t
wait to see how she reacted to what he was going to do next. She was going to like
this. Nearly as much as Lady Moira did.

He buried himself full hilt, reached down between Lady Moira’s legs, and stroked her
until she started to come. She cried out her pleasure in a soft, keening wail.

But he kept his gaze on the wicked, wee interloper the entire time. He watched her
face soften, her lips part, and her eyes fill with such naked longing he would have
given anything at that moment to be the one to give her the pleasure she craved.

Jesus
. His stomach muscles clenched, fighting against the jolt of lust. He hadn’t expected
this. Hadn’t expected it to affect him so much. But watching the sensual awakening
on her face, the combination of shock and desire—unwilling desire—was one of the most
erotic things he’d ever beheld.

He was no longer in doubt that he would be able to come.

Who would have ever thought that beneath such a dull, listless exterior lay the dormant
passion of a wanton?

The lass was completely unaware of what she was doing to him. But he wanted her to
know. He wanted her to look at him.

Finally, she did.

At first he’d been annoyed by Lady Moira’s request to take off his shirt, feeling
a little bit like a stallion at market. But he was glad for it now. Glad he could
see the open admiration and innocent hunger as the woman’s gaze roamed every inch
of his bare skin.

Aye, she wanted him. But what surprised him was that he also wanted her. How he wished
it was her that he was buried deep inside of right now.

When their eyes met, he let her see exactly what he was
thinking. Her eyes looked huge behind the two pieces of glass, and they widened even
farther when she felt the force of his lust. It wrapped around them, coiling, tightening,
drawing them together as if there were no one else in the world.

His blood was pounding hard now. He could feel the sensations gathering at the base
of his spine and knew he wasn’t going to be able to last much longer.

Without thinking about what he was doing, but knowing that he didn’t want anything—or
anyone—between them, he pulled out of the woman beneath him and fisted his hand around
himself. Holding the other woman’s gaze, he started to stroke himself. He imagined
it was her gripping him. Her tight, wet heat pulling him over the edge. The eager
expression on her face made it easy.

He groaned, his hand quickening the pace. Every muscle in his body clenched with anticipation.
He could feel it. Almost …

Her eyes hadn’t left his, but he knew she’d guessed what he was doing because her
mouth opened in shock. A perfect little O.

Her breath hitched in a shocked gasp, and the erotic sound sent him over. His arse
clenched. He let out a deep groan, jerking his pleasure in deep pulsing streams.

When he was done, their eyes met in one long, hot moment of primal awareness. He could
almost feel the frantic beat of her heart against his and hear the quickening of her
breath in his ear. He would have given nearly everything at that moment to touch her.
To slide his hand between her thighs and feel the warmth and dampness that he knew
he would find there. How many strokes would it take to push her over?

But the spell was broken by Lady Moira. “That was amazing. I’m glad to say this is
one time the rumors were not exaggerated. You’re every bit as spectacular as they
say with that long sword of yours.”