When the Laird Returns (16 page)

He knelt and leisurely rolled her stockings down, her legs as smooth as the silk that covered them. One garter, then another, each adorned with fabric roses and embroidered stems.

Finally, only her wrapping remained between them.

Standing, Alisdair placed both hands at her waist, moving closer until his erection brushed her naked skin. Her eyes widened even as he felt himself growing harder.

Now, now, now,
a primeval need that echoed his heartbeat. A carnal whisper that urged him to fulfillment rather than prudence.

“Are you certain you’re not in pain?” he asked again. As much as he wanted her, as desperate as he was beginning to feel, Alisdair vowed he would not touch her if the act would bring her discomfort.

“No,” she whispered, her attention directed downward to where his erection lay momentarily quiescent against her belly.

He bent his head, his fingers trembling, and began unwrapping her bandage. Once around the back, and she was
rewarded with a light, almost teasing kiss. Around to the front, and he kissed the tip of her breast, dampening it with his tongue. Another pass and the kiss deepened, his mouth opening around a tightening nipple, gently sucking.

She moaned, and the sound nearly drove him to his knees.

Now, please God, now.

“I wanted to touch you that first night,” he said, the words muffled against her warm skin. Alisdair closed his eyes, praying for restraint.

“I wish you had,” came her whispered confession.

An oath escaped him, and he pulled her forward, his shaft slipping between her thighs like a ship finding a berth.
Almost home,
was his last cogent thought before sensation overtook him. He kissed her again, his tutelage finding an apt pupil. Iseabal was artless in her skill, rendering him breathless as her tongue found his.

He wanted to be inside her, the urge so powerful that he tugged the rest of the wrapping from her with trembling fingers, uncaring that it dropped to the floor. Tomorrow he would tear up silken sheets to treat her, biting the threads apart with his teeth if need be.

But now, dear God, don’t let her be frightened of me
. He would never last for hours. Or even for the next few moments, he thought as she moved closer, the gentle friction of her body leaving him awash in a feeling so painfully perfect that it weakened him.

He moved away from her, needing the time to calm himself. His body was heated and aching with a yearning he’d never before felt.

“Is it time?” she asked, the innocence of her question inflaming him further.

“Yes,” he said tightly, wondering if a man could spill his seed at the sound of a woman’s voice.

Iseabal turned, mounting the pedestal and then the bed. Her body gleamed with the luminescence of a pearl as she rose to her hands and knees, pert derriere in the air, the globes of her breasts hanging down, nipples pointing the way to the mattress.

“I’m ready,” she said, looking at him. She glanced at his naked body once more, taking a deep breath before lowering her head between braced arms.

He closed his eyes at the temptation of her pose, wanting feverishly to position himself behind her, entering her deeply and fully until she could not tell where he left off and she began. He could almost feel the curve of her buttocks against his thighs.

And nearly lost his resolve at that moment.

Alisdair climbed up beside her on the mattress, gently pulling her from that enticing position to lie on her back at his side.

“Have I done something wrong?” she asked, looking up at him.

“Who taught you that a man and woman love like that?” he replied, the words coming with great difficulty. Conversation didn’t rank high on his list of priorities at the moment.

Her hands were clutched together and nestled between her breasts in a penitent’s pose. Placing a light kiss on her knuckles, Alisdair felt torn between lust and tenderness.

“They don’t?”

“Although the position is one I certainly wish to experience with you,” he managed to say calmly, “it isn’t appropri
ate for your first experience, Iseabal.” He drew his finger over her knuckles, up the swell of her breast to capture a nipple against his palm.

She closed her eyes at the sensation, and he felt the same, brimming with feelings that were new and startling but too fascinating not to explore.

“I would enter you too deeply,” he said, rubbing his palm slowly across her nipple, feeling it tighten even more against his skin. “We’ll have to leave it for another time.”
When you’re used to me
. The thought nearly had the power to unman him, as needy as he was.

“The maid,” she said faintly, her voice sounding constricted. “She said that if I watched the rams, I would know how it was done.”

He stifled his smile, thinking that she would not appreciate his tender amusement.

Propping himself up on his elbow, he studied her, wishing that he’d left all the candles lit. Her legs were together, her feet pointed toward the ceiling, heels perfectly aligned. With her eyes closed and the position she maintained, she might have been laid out on her bier. Except that her breath came in short, measured bursts and her hands were trembling despite her convulsive grip.

“Are you cold?” he murmured, kissing the side of her breast. His nose nuzzled against her skin as he lifted her breast for his kiss. Soft and sweet and nearly his undoing.

She shook her head from side to side.

He wanted to place his mouth on her and make her moan with desire. To enter her and coax her to fulfillment with his will and his wish. Or scrape his teeth over her bottom lip in an atavistic urge to mate and conquer. But he leaned over her,
clenching his fists in the sheeting, and contented himself with kissing her.

Desire did not come in measured doses, Alisdair discovered, however much he wished it. This urge did not ebb and flow like the tides, allowing him to ride it out. Instead, this hunger was a tidal wave, threatening to drown him.

Alisdair drew away from her, lying flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling, and praying for control.

Iseabal blinked open her eyes, feeling as if she were enveloped in a thundercloud preceding lightning and wild winds.

She wanted him to touch her again, to whisper words that heated her inside and made her breath tight. But he lay beside her on his back, one arm over his eyes.

“Touch me,” he said unexpectedly. Not a command, but a request uttered in a voice unlike his own. “I want your hands on me, Iseabal. I have not tortured myself enough this evening,” he added dryly.

Startled, Iseabal studied him in the near darkness, wondering if the hunger for touch could be a contagious thing. She’d never before considered that he might wish her compliance in this act. Mating was supposed to be quickly done, and simply executed, not touching and kissing and aching in spots that felt swollen and wet.

How delightful to be wrong.

How was she supposed to touch him?

Reaching out a hand, she let her fingers feel their way across his leg. Closing her hand around his erection, she was startled to realize that he was larger than her grip. Hotter, too, as if his flesh were a living brazier.

“Not there,” he said in a choked voice as he removed her hand. “Like you did with that damnable statue.”

She flattened her palm against his stomach, fingers splaying to touch the greatest area. Iseabal had never thought of exploring a man the way she did a block of marble. Nor had she known that her imagination could sketch in details that her fingers only felt. There was the straight line that ran in the middle of his chest as if to delineate both halves. Here was the nest of hair that rested at the base of his erection, and although she wished to linger there, his indrawn breath warned her that such exploration was unwise.

His thigh was hard to the touch, the muscles bunching beneath her fingers. His knees, his elbows, the bulbs of his shoulders, were all exquisitely formed. His flat stomach and broad chest were the reason his clothes fit so impressively. She had seen the same long line of muscle beneath the fabric of his breeches, but began to measure the corded length of his legs with stroking fingers. A moment later she felt the texture of the back of his hand, the strength of his arm, the warmth of a palm.

She played her fingers lightly over his nipples, feeling them rise, surprisingly, to her touch. His breath was held in abeyance for her to continue, it seemed, and she did, delicately tracing a line from one nipple to the other, then traveling down his stomach.

In such a way she was an artist of sorts, but instead of seeing the possibilities in stone, she traced the pattern of a completed masterpiece.

“Iseabal,” he said warningly, as if divining her intent. But she could not help herself, fascinated as she’d never before been. Her hand closed around him again, measured his
length, marveling at the firmness of him, as if he were, in truth, created from marble.

“You’re the one who’s beautiful,” she said softly, remembering his earlier compliment.

He reached out and placed his hand on the back of her neck, pulling her over to him in a sudden, unexpected movement. In an instant his mouth was on hers, his tongue dancing across the seam of her lips until she gasped and welcomed him inside.

When the kiss was done, when both of them were gasping for breath, Iseabal lay at his side, whispering the words against his ear. “Touch me,” she said.

For a moment she thought she’d shocked him in some way, because he didn’t respond.

“Please,” she said. “I want to feel your hands on me.”

He made a sound, an oath or a prayer. But he pushed her gently onto her back. His hands learned her, his soft exploration of touch a feast of the senses. Had she made him feel the same?

Fingers lingering on the inside of her elbow and wrist caused her to wonder at the sensation. Even when he touched her there, almost innocently, her heart escalated and her breath tightened.

When she’d looked at him aboard the
Fortitude
, aloft in the rigging or standing at the bow, she had felt her heart flutter. But that feeling was nothing compared to what she experienced now, her body heating until Iseabal wanted him to hurry and at the same time wished he would linger.

One hand flattened on her abdomen, fingers trailing across the surface of her skin in an evocative exploration. He leaned over her, brushing the fingers of his other hand through the hair at her temple.

She wished there were more light so that she could study the expression in his eyes, know the reason for that somber look. For a moment, heedless in its length, they stared at each other, husband and wife, lovers for the first time. Impatient and hesitant.

He kissed her again, and she felt herself open up inside. Her heart seemed to expand to hold all these new, wondrous feelings. She’d never known intimacy, but at this instant of time, Iseabal felt it.

One finger, tenderly intrusive, entered her at a leisurely pace, his thumb sliding through her intimate folds. Molten heat both marked his passage and escalated at his touch.

“You’re ready for me,” he murmured, his voice sounding amazed.

“I’ve always felt this way around you,” she confessed.

Alisdair lay his forehead down between her breasts. “Iseabal.” Only her name, but he made that one word sound like a caress.

He raised up, knelt between her knees, entering her slowly. The pain she expected to feel was no more than a dull ache. Closing her eyes, Iseabal marveled at all the various sensations she was experiencing at this moment. An almost wanton pleasure wherever he touched her, a vulnerability for being so invaded, a wish to welcome Alisdair into her embrace and her body.

Once more his hands were on her, cupping her breasts and lifting them for the delicate branding of his tongue. He suddenly surged within her, and her body, knowing instinctively what he sought, rose up to meet him. Her fingers clenched on his shoulders as he filled her, her body accepting his presence in a muted delight and awed surprise.

The discomfort eased, the pinching feeling remaining, but
not unendurable. He invaded her, surrounded her, stripping every thought but of this moment and these feelings.

She wrapped her arms around his neck tightly as a rhythm began, a thrust and capitulation. He was elemental and primitive. She was yielding and accepting.

His head arched backward as Alisdair abruptly stiffened, a guttural moan escaping him. A moment later he placed his forehead on the pillow beside her, his breath harsh, his hair damp from exertion.

Iseabal lay dazed, confused, and more than a little uncertain about what had just transpired.

“Are we finished?” she asked hesitantly.

He lifted himself up on both forearms, staring down at her. Once again Iseabal wished she could see his face.

“For at least an hour or so,” he said wryly.

She nodded as his thumbs stroked from the corners of her mouth to her temple.

He slid his arms beneath her, rolling with her until he held her tucked against his chest. Iseabal rested her cheek against his skin, hearing the booming of his heart.

Tears were oddly right at this moment, words being too much and not enough.

A
lisdair awoke to find Iseabal curled at his side, her hand curved around his body, a portion of which was fully engorged and eager.

Aboard ship, he would be up and about his duties by now, but he was a bridegroom and as such allowed, even expected, to be indolent. Lustful thoughts kept him occupied for a few moments before he reluctantly slipped from the bed.

Drawing open the curtains, Alisdair was surprised to discover a deep balcony extending the length of the room. Opening the French doors, he stepped outside, taking in the view.

An early-morning sun illuminated the rectangular lawn, neatly cropped and framed on both sides with a series of conical-shaped topiary bushes. At the end of the expanse, as if to catch the eye, was a large circular pool dominated by a fountain of bronze fish merrily spewing water into the air.

Perhaps this was why the room was called the royal chamber, he thought, smiling. The scene before him was fit for a king.

The vista was not all bucolic, however. In the distance was the home farm, its fields ripening and soon to be harvested. A grove of trees hid the sight of the stables and the large enclosures where horses from Brandidge Hall were trained and run.

All details he’d learned the day before, when he’d realized exactly what being the Earl of Sherbourne truly meant.

Turning away from the scene, he entered the room once again, leaving the doors open behind him. For a few moments he watched Iseabal sleep, reassured that he hadn’t disturbed her.

His wife. She now lay on her left side, her legs drawn up beneath the sheet. Her cheek was cradled on her left arm, her right hand stretching out as if her fingers were reaching for him even in sleep.

At the moment, she looked like an innocent, yet she’d enticed him with the skill of a courtesan until he’d behaved like an untried youth. He’d taken more pleasure than he’d given, Alisdair thought.

The sudden knock on the door was peremptory, an almost dictatorial summons. Alisdair crossed the room, annoyed.

“A little less noise would be appreciated,” he said, opening the door.

Simon stood there, his expression inscrutable as usual. Beside him stood a fresh-faced young footman bearing a tray piled high with domed dishes, a large china teapot, and two cups. The vase of roses, Alisdair suspected, was Patricia’s addition.

Simon glanced at him, then away, as if he had never be
fore seen a naked man. The footman, however, began to grin before being chastised by the older man’s swift frown.

“Your breakfast, my lord,” Simon intoned in that stentorian voice of his.

“Thank you,” Alisdair said curtly, taking the tray. Without further comment, he closed the door with his foot. A sputter of sound indicated Simon’s indignation well enough, but at least the fool had the sense not to knock again.

Halfway back to the table, he glanced toward the bed. Iseabal was awake, and leaning up on one elbow. Her hair was in disarray, a cloud of ebony falling over her shoulders, her eyes lambent pools of green. A beautiful woman, rendered doubly so by the faint morning light.

“Breakfast,” he said, feeling absurdly awkward. “Would you care to join me?”

“Must I be naked?” she asked, smiling.

“It’s not a requirement,” he said. “But it might give new meaning to the word ‘appetite.’”

She sat up, modestly arranging the sheet around her. He should have told her that her efforts were too late; he could still feel the heavy curve of her breasts, and the stiffening of her nipples against his exploring thumbs.

“I have nothing to wear,” she said softly. Iseabal’s cheeks were deepening in color as she threaded her fingers through her hair. A siren, a Circe, a sorceress of the most elemental kind. One who could lure a man, seduce him from duty into pleasure.

He was willing and more than ready.

After placing the tray on the table, Alisdair walked to the armoire. Iseabal’s clothes had been placed beside his, a sleeve of her jacket brushing the cuff of his coat. Selecting the garment he wanted, Alisdair returned to her side, laying it beside her on the bed.

“If nothing else,” he said, amused at himself, “the nightshirt will keep my mind on my breakfast.”

She smiled at him in perfect accord, looking as pleased with herself as he felt.

Iseabal donned the nightshirt hurriedly, one rosy nipple peeping from beneath the sheeting. Before she could cover it with the red wool, he bent over, cupping one hand beneath her breast and placing a kiss on its tip.

“A good-morning kiss,” he said, explaining.

Her blush deepened as his smile grew. Holding out his hand for her, he pointed the way to the dressing room, leaving her some privacy for her morning ablutions.

When she returned, her face had been washed, her hair brushed. The collar of his nightshirt was neatly arranged, the laces done up and tied with a pretty bow. She walked toward him, her hands gathering up the material, her pink toes showing beneath the voluminous garment.

He would need to add to her wardrobe and soon, he thought. Even a nightshirt was not covering enough.

In her absence, he’d moved the table to the balcony, taking away the dinner dishes and replacing them with the breakfast tray. He’d also taken the precaution of donning his breeches and a shirt. He didn’t give a whit for modesty, but he wanted to restrain his physical reaction to her. Although, Alisdair thought as she smiled at him, it might well be that all he’d accomplished was to cause himself discomfort.

Pulling out the chair for her, he waited until she sat before joining her at the table. She stared out at the view before them, as entranced as he had been earlier.

“Can you truly leave all this?” she asked, awed.

“It isn’t mine,” he said, having realized that before she’d awakened. “I’m only one of the Sherbourne earls. My chief
duty, I believe, is to leave the estates in no worse condition than I found them. For our son and his son, and so on.”

Her wide-eyed stare made him want to kiss her.

“Had you not considered it?” he asked, concentrating on buttering his toast, thinking that he had been right in his prediction. The breeches were uncomfortable even now.

She shook her head, then glanced behind her in the direction of the wall of portraits. “You’ll be there,” she said, her voice sounding bemused. “And our son.”

Somehow it sounded different when she said the word, inviting. Alisdair wouldn’t mind beginning that particular son’s creation right at the moment. Perhaps practicing the endeavor over and over again until he felt less callow and more in control of his reactions to her. He’d even bring her pleasure, he vowed.

He glanced at her, wondering how Iseabal would look when passion overcame her. Would she scream and hold him tight? Or would she simply hold herself restrained, feeling all those unbearable sensations secretly?

Why was it so damn difficult to swallow a bit of toast?

“Perhaps there is a gallery of Sherbourne countesses somewhere,” he suggested, turning his thoughts to something less visceral. “We shall arrange to have your portrait painted as well.”

“I sincerely hope not,” she said, pouring more tea into her cup. She made a face at it, and he retaliated by dropping more sugar into the dark, bitter brew. “I’m not certain that I would want people to speculate on my life a hundred years from now.”

“Then it is their loss,” he said affably, considering her. “Perhaps they’ll understand you if they look in your eyes. When you’re angry, they flash with lightning. Or now, when they’re soft and seem as deep as the ocean.” He tilted his head, a smile curving his lips. “What emotion is that? I wonder. Happiness?
Or contentment? Or simply a good night’s sleep?” Not the afterglow of satiation, he thought, once again chastising himself. He’d been too quick last night, but at least he’d climaxed inside her. He’d had grave doubts about lasting that long.

Her blush deepened, but she didn’t look away.

He smiled, his hand pushing an errant lock of her hair behind her shoulder. “Perhaps my brother Brendan should paint you as you are now,” Alisdair said. “With your face lit by the sun, and the smallest smile on your lips, as if you cannot decide whether or not to smile or frown.” He continued to study her. Without warning, he leaned over and kissed his bride, surrendering to an undeniable impulse.

The sun was muted behind his eyelids, his breath cut short by the tender placement of her palm against his cheek. Once again he felt lost in her kiss, transported into desire so effortlessly it was almost magical. Finally he pulled back, the gazes they shared those of startled wonder.

She looked away, sitting back in her chair. Silence stretched between them, a thread so small as if to be invisible, but linking them all the same.

When had Iseabal’s kiss become so necessary to him? Breath and food and water and Iseabal. From the first moment he’d seen her? Or at the first flash of her irritation at him? Or when she stood in front of him last night, silently encouraging him with her tentative smile?

“Is your brother an artist?” she asked after several minutes, seemingly entranced with the view.

“Yes,” he said, grateful for the change of subject. “He sketches and sometimes works in oils. Hamish plays the pipes, and Douglas is the troublemaker,” he added, thinking of his youngest brother. “In all fairness, Douglas is still too young to have formed his habits.”

“A poet, a painter, a musician. Yet you all go to sea,” she said, glancing at him.

“A man cannot provide for his family or his future without an occupation,” he said.

“Yet you’ve given up yours,” she said. “All to rebuild a castle.”

“No,” he said, gently correcting her. “A castle and a shipyard.”

She was surprised once again. “A shipyard?”

“The home of the finest ships in the world,” he said, smiling. “MacRae ships that can sail across the oceans faster than any others.”

“Is it true that you were an explorer?” she asked, fingering the edge of her cup. “Or that you found a continent?”

“Ames’s words,” he said. “He took a bit of knowledge and expanded it solely with the intent of goading me, I think.” He uncovered a dome to discover porridge. Frowning at the two bowls, he covered them again. “I was part of the discovery, and a small one at that.”

“Perhaps you’re too modest,” she said.

“No,” he replied, “just truthful. It was an accident that I saw the peninsula. I was overdue for a meeting with my brothers and didn’t pursue the matter. I wanted to get to port before they sailed.”

“Won’t you miss them if you live in Scotland?” she asked, tracing a delicate pattern around the rim of her plate.

“Yes,” he said honestly, lifting the cup to his lips. “But Scotland is no more difficult to reach than China, so I expect them often enough at Gilmuir.”

“And your parents? Will they come back?”

“The Raven returns?” Alisdair smiled, considering the question. “I doubt it,” he said. “The danger for my father is still too great.”

“Two more people to miss,” she murmured, studying the silverware with intensity. He wondered if there would come a time when she’d look at him with such directness. “Yet you think of Gilmuir as your birthright, not this place.”

He nodded.

“You love the
Fortitude
,” she added. “And the ocean.”

“While you love rocks and stones and Gilmuir.”

She looked startled, the expression summoning his smile.

“We’re not quite strangers after all,” he said gently.

She blushed, the rosy tint not hard to decipher. Last night they’d come to know each other well. “What is your favorite season?” he asked to ease her embarrassment.

“All of them,” she replied. “Spring is new life, the lambing season. Summer brings warm winds and the fullness of the flowers. Autumn is a long farewell, and winter only makes you grateful for the other months in the year.”

“Autumn is my favorite,” he said. “For the danger of it. Spring winds are gusty, but autumn brings gales and hurricanes.”

She glanced at him, obviously surprised. “You like danger, Alisdair?”

He fingered the hilt of his knife, wondering if he could explain. “Not foolishly so,” he said. “I like the contest of it, wondering if I can win, being willing to pit myself against a formidable foe.”

“While I would much rather be a coward in a cave,” she said ruefully.

“Women are to be protected, Iseabal,” he pointed out. “Not expected to fight.”

“But women have their own contests, Alisdair,” she said, turning directly toward him. “Or do you think birthing a child an easy thing?”

Alisdair shook his head, realizing that he’d suddenly gotten his wish. Her look was level and direct, even though her cheeks were still blossoming with color.

“The only time I’ve ever seen my father unmanned,” he admitted, “was when my mother was confined with my brother Douglas.”

The thought of his child growing in Iseabal should have been a solemn one. A serious matter, this breeding of a heritage. Instead, his body fueled his mind with another image, that of planting his seed deep inside her.

He spread his legs even farther apart, easing the constriction of his breeches.

Several moments were devoted to eating, the clinking of utensils. He sipped his tea, easily identifying the Keemun Congou blend.

A quick glance revealed Iseabal smiling faintly, her chin propped on her hand, elbow resting on the table.

“Will you be unmanned, Alisdair?” she asked, her low tone ensuring that his breeches were suddenly painfully tight. “When I’m confined with our child?” she added.

“Aren’t we being precipitous?” he said calmly, wishing that another topic of conversation would immediately come to his mind. But every memory, every thought, had been oddly expunged by her look. An awakening temptress.

“Last night you told me you always felt ready for me,” he said boldly, remembering the moment only too well when his fingers had found her wet and hot.

She nodded, her gaze not on the table but on him.

“Do you feel that way right now?” he asked, his words grating, almost harsh.

She only smiled.

His hunger for food appeased, Alisdair stood, pulling
Iseabal up to him. He might as well be wearing no clothing at all. He could feel each of her curves and indentations, and the swelling of his joyful manhood, expectantly exuberant.