Her eyes widened at that declaration. She must not let such words wheedle into her heart. This was not a matter of the heart. This was lust. Desire.
She looked down between them. Holding himself up with one hand, he fisted his manhood and guided himself to her.
She gasped as he started to slide inside her, all thoughts fleeing. Her hands flew to his arms, fingers clenching around his taut biceps as he filled her, easing in slowly, stretching her until he was buried to the hilt.
She felt her eyes widen, shocked at the unfamiliar sensation. She felt so full . . . so invaded . . . bursting with him.
“You feel perfect,” he whispered against her mouth.
“And I feel you . . . everywhere,” she returned, talking against his lips. He was all around her, over her . . . in her. She didn’t know it could be this consuming.
Then the ability to speak was lost.
He started moving, holding her hips, positioning her in a way that built the friction and made her arch and cry out. Tears burned her eyes as everything tightened inside her. Snapped. Some invisible, coiling band broke and she came undone, her muscles going limp.
Marcus didn’t stop. He didn’t slow down as shudders overtook her. His hands slid under her and gripped her bottom, pushing her to that precipice again. “It’s too . . . much.”
“Run toward it,” he panted. “Embrace it.”
She relented with a moan.
He dropped over her, his mouth on her ear as he thrust in and out of her. Fast and hard. “That’s it, sweetheart. Come again for me.”
His deep voice served as its own aphrodisiac. She flew apart again. His arms wrapped around her, holding her tightly. With a few more strokes he joined her, crying out.
Their ragged breaths fogged the air between them. For a brief moment, she worried awkwardness would instantly follow. Regret. He would look at her with cold eyes.
Except that didn’t happen.
Marcus rolled off her and left the bed, moving to the washstand. There was the splash of water and moments later he returned, sliding in the bed and pulling her against his side. He curled her leg around him, one hand splaying over her hip—and began to clean her with a damp cloth.
She made a strangling sound at the first stroke of the cloth against her and shrank away. “What are you—”
“Let me take care of you.” His eyes fastened on her face in the dark.
They were quiet for a long time. She splayed a hand over his chest, fingers fanned over his warm skin, enjoying the feel of his heart against her palm.
She nodded and relaxed. He washed her in careful swipes. His ministrations were thorough, but detached, efficient. She shouldn’t have felt anything . . . shouldn’t have made an aroused little whimper. His hand stilled and his eyes locked on her.
Embarrassment sliced through her. She really was the wanton. She wanted to bury her face.
The washcloth disappeared between them and then it was his fingers again, toying with her oversensitive folds. She grabbed on to his wrist, “Marcus, we can’t . . . not again.”
“Oh, I’ll give you some time. I won’t ill-use you,” he promised, his eyes glittering in the fire-cast room, but his fingers continued to stroke and play over her swollen mound.
Her head rolled on the pillow. “Then . . . what are you—”
He slid down between them, between her thighs. He wedged himself down there . . . his head down there.
“Marcus!” she shrieked at the first swipe of his tongue, her hands flying to his hair and gripping fistfuls. What he was doing . . . she didn’t know it was done . . . it had to be wrong. Wicked.
“I’ve dreamed of tasting you.” His voice rumbled against her most intimate flesh.
Her shriek faded into a moan as his tongue loved her thoroughly, latching on to that tiny nub that made her quake and weep. He sucked and she bucked under him, instantly flying, bursting, shattering. His lips continued to pull and his tongue rolled over the little button of pleasure. He worked her as her climax rode out, until tears streamed from her eyes and a fine sheen of perspiration coated her heaving chest.
Sated and thoroughly ruined, she went limp.
Vaguely, she felt him move and drop beside her. Felt him pull her against him, his warm arm wrapping around her waist. She opened her mouth to say something. She felt like she should. After something as profound as that, she certainly should say something.
But her eyelids drifted shut, heavy as twin stones. No words passed between them.
Chapter 22
Occasionally, in a sudden change of light, the dove imagined her cage door was opening. And then she realized it was just a play of the light.
She was still trapped.
Marcus left her asleep, curled up, spent and luscious in a bed that could sleep an army. He didn’t imagine he could sleep, so he went in search of a drink and found one in a room set off from the great hall. He poured a glass and sank down in a chair, grateful for the warmth of the fire in the hearth.
“Stealing my whisky, are ye?”
The voice startled him. Marcus’s hand jerked and whisky sloshed over his fingers and dribbled down onto the floor.
“Mind what ye do there . . . that’s fine whisky.”
He glanced over to where the young laird sat, shrouded in shadows on a corner sofa. He shrugged. “You steal my wife. I steal your whisky. Seems ye are on the winning side of this.” Tilting his head, he took a deep drink from his glass.
The laird chuckled. “It seems you reclaimed your fair bride. I’ll never reclaim that whisky sliding down your throat so I’m no’ thinking I’m the winner here, ye ken?”
Marcus shook his head in amusement. “Well, we’re to be neighbors. I’m sure over time we shall impose on each other too many times to keep count.”
The Scot propped both elbows on his knees and leaned forward, putting his face into better view. The scant firelight threw the angles of his face into stark, hard lines—all angles and hollows. He couldn’t be much over twenty years of age, and yet he looked fierce and hardened. A man already . . . a man for some years. Nothing like the young men Marcus saw about Town. Dandies with soft hands and softer middles more concerned about their diversions.
“Interesting, Lord Autenberry.” He nodded rather smugly. “Aye, I put it together after yer wife addressed ye by title. Yer family has always been in possession of Kilmarkie House and its attached lands, but never in my lifetime has anyone occupied it. Are ye saying ye plan tae stay then?” His dark eyes fixed on him with intensity.
“I might well stay awhile, yes,” Marcus replied with a slow nod.
He hadn’t yet arrived at Kilmarkie and seen it for himself, but London seemed a world away. For all the rigors of traveling, he was enjoying these lands. The Highlands agreed with him and he was eager to explore his property. The Highlands weren’t all he was enjoying. You’re enjoying Alyse, too.
He meant what he had said. She was his wife. He wouldn’t go back on his word. Perhaps they could begin forging their lives together at Kilmarkie House where they would be on more equal footing . . . both a pair of newcomers. The place would neither be his nor hers but theirs. Eventually he’d bring her to London, of course, and introduce her to his family, but for now he would take this time. For her. For them.
“This is verra unexpected—Kilmarkie House tae be alive wi’ yer noble presence. Well, that is something. I dinna ken how I feel about that.”
“I was not aware that you had any say in the matter.”
“Oh . . . ye will soon learn that I ’ave a great deal of say in what goes on in these parts. Nothing ’appens about here that is no’ my concern.”
“Perhaps,” Marcus allowed. “But that was before I got here.” Kilmarkie House sat on a large portion of land north of here. It belonged to Marcus. What occurred there was his concern. His responsibility. The land and the livelihood of the people who lived there fell to him.
The laird chuckled. “Ye’re a right arrogant bastard. But I would expect no less from an English lord.”