Page 39 of How to Be a Scottish Mistress

Wantonly, Fiona bent her knees, then glided her fingertips over his shoulders and down his spine, resting at the base. Digging her heels into the firm mattress, she surged upward, at the same time pressing against his lower back.

Gavin’s deep-throated groan of ecstasy let her know he appreciated the resulting deep, heavy penetration. He needed no encouragement to continue the swift, sure strokes. Fiona quickly adapted the same rhythm, sending him into an even more fevered pitch.

His body surged forcefully into hers, each thrust deeper, harder, longer, setting her very flesh on fire. She could feel the ripple and tightening of his muscles as the spasms of release overcame him, and then the warm rush of liquid as his pulsing seed filled her.

They lay locked together for a long while. Fiona barely noticed when he rose from the bed. With great effort, she turned her head and watched him dip a rag into the now-cold bathwater. He wiped himself, swirled the rag through the water a second time, wrung out the rag, then approached the bed.

She lay in stunned silence as he casually cleaned her upper thighs and between her legs, feeling totally embarrassed by such an intimate gesture. The carnal haze so deliciously surrounding her vanished, replaced once more by uncertainty. Was this typical? Is this how most men treated their bed partners?

Anxious, Fiona sat up, pulling the bed linens high on her chest, waiting to see what he would do next. ’Twas almost a disappointment when he simply climbed back into the bed, until he reached over and flipped her on her side, facing away from him.

“I keep my back to the wall and my head at the door when I sleep,” he declared, pulling her into the curve of his body.

“Even in your own castle?” she asked, feeling an odd sense of pity for him for needing to take such precautions. Was his life truly in such jeopardy?

“I know I’m safe among my clansmen, but ’tis best to keep to the habit at all times.”

He wrapped his arm around her, pulling her back tighter against his chest. She wriggled to get into a more comfortable position, tucking her limbs between his, then realized exactly what the long, hard object was that was pressing so insistently against her buttocks.

“I . . . uhm . . .” She tried to pull away, but his arms were clamped so tightly she could barely move.

“Pay it no mind. Ye’ve worn me out fer now, lass,” he murmured in her ear. “Go to sleep.”

The suggestive stiffness hardly feltworn out, but Fiona was not about to argue. She, too, needed sleep, but it was not easily found. Closing her eyes, she started counting the stars, a trick Henry had often employed. It didn’t help. She next tried matching her own breathing with Gavin’s deep and even breaths, but all that did was make her light-headed.

Her thoughts began to wander, with fears and uncertainty over the future surfacing first.Did I do the right thing coming here? Will the earl keep his word and protect me and my son? I believe so—but what if he does not? What happens then? Where will I go? What will I do?

Stop!Restlessly struggling to shut down these dangerous thoughts, Fiona shifted her legs. Then her hips. And then her legs again.

Gavin’s steady breathing abruptly ceased and she felt his body tense. “Well, lass, now that ye’ve woken me, ye’ll be needing to do something about this.” Reaching for her hand, he pulled it behind her, placing it on his erect penis.

Ah, more bed sport will surely exhaust me.Fiona smiled in the darkness, wrapping her palm around him. He shuddered. She smiled again, running her hand languidly up and down the length of him, caressing the round head, marveling at the satin smooth feel of the turgid flesh.

He groaned and arched under her hand. Still holding him in her grasp, Fiona turned, nuzzling her chin in the mat of springy hair on his chest. There was comfort to be found in his strength, pleasure in his arms.

“I shall gladly handle this, my lord,” she whispered, surprised to realize she meant every word.

Ewan Gilroy stood at the top of the craggy hill and watched the sun slowly set in the valley below. The golden hue had turned to a brilliant red, bathing the scene in a crimson glow. From this distance the small cluster of thatched roof cottages were barely visible, blending cleverly into the wooded landscape. Precisely as he intended when he had selected this spot—a hideout built to keep them safe.

Now, wasn’t that a fine laugh.

Despair was an emotion Ewan rarely felt, even managing to conquer it that terrible, harsh winter when he and his mother were on the brink of starvation. But despair had crept into his voice earlier today when he informed the families of the men who had died in the raid that their loved ones had been killed. And failure had touched his soul when the newly widowed Jenny, her belly large with child, had swooned with grief at his feet.

“So, this is where ye’ve been hiding.”

Ewan didn’t need to turn his head to know who had spoken—the voice was nearly as familiar as his own. “I’m not hiding, Mother. I’m thinking.”

“Too much of that will put ye off yer food,” she replied, patting his hand awkwardly. “Best not to dwell on it.”

Ewan resisted the urge to glower at his mother, knowing she would never understand. Compassion was not a word she had ever embraced and she often mocked those who did. Life had been unkind to Lady Moira Gilroy, youngest daughter of the Laird of Gilroy, and she took her resentment out on those around her, including, at times, her only son.

“We lost four men,” Ewan said steadily. “Two of which had families.”

Lady Moira scoffed. “What about the earl? I’m sure ye gave as good as ye got.”

A creeping feeling of unease shivered through him. He had no idea if any of the earl’s men had been killed, making this loss all the more senseless. “A few were wounded, the rest . . .” Ewan’s voice trailed off and he shrugged. “I dinnae know fer sure.”

“Ye’re not gonnae allow him to get away with this, now, are ye?” Lady Moira asked, her brown eyes accusing.

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