Page 42 of The Highlander's Pirate Bride

Maxwell shrugged, offering her a sly grin. “I can think of worse things than being snowed in wi’ ye in a wee cottage.”

She smiled back, her green eyes sparkling. “’I’ve faced many fates worse than that.”

He reached over and brushed the hair back from her forehead. Then he leaned in and planted a soft kiss where his hand had been. She grasped his hand and pressed it to her lips for a second before releasing it.

Gazing at Aileen’s face shining in the firelight he decided it could snow for a week and he’d be happy.

Once they were certain the fire was established and glowing, Aileen fished around in her satchel and came up with the apples she’d bought at the market, a small parcel of the remaining sausages, and a large chunk of oat bread.

It was only a small feast but Maxwell savored every mouthful, leaning back against the old wooden bench as they rested their worn bodies, slowly breathing in the earthy smell of peat in the smoky air.

Aileen gave a contented sigh. “I dinnae think we have aught tae fear from Sutherland’s men this night.”

He chuckled. “They’ll never find us here. If only for tonight, we can rest easy, sleep with peace, and embrace each other without fear of discovery.”

She leaned in closer. “I like that.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Curled together, they snuggled down on Maxwell’s thick plaid cloak over the bed of bracken, with Aileen’s fur-lined cloak and the glowing embers of the fire keeping the cold at bay. This was the first time they’d been alone with each other, in comfort, since the gentle night they’d spent at the Flying Fish.

There she’d found the courage to discard the gloves she now understood had been a symbol of her captivity and her ownership by Sutherland. The moment she’d flung the discarded gloves into the fireplace had been her first taste of her freedom.

A freedom she owed to MacNeil.

She breathed in his smoky, earthy scent, feeling his breath on her cheek, reveling in the feel of him, big and powerful, holding her. Her fingers toyed with his long hair and then strayed down his strong neck and across his shoulder, outlining the inked feathers of the tattooed eagle wrapping his throat.

In response, he stroked her hand and the scars exposed on her arms, caressing her gently.

She lifted her chin and kissed his throat. With a soft moan he lowered his head to take her mouth in his in a leisurely kiss, long and unhurried, consuming her bit by bit, melding them closer. Her pulse beat faster, heating her blood and robbing her breath. The kiss deepened and she opened her lips, meeting his tongue with hers. She writhed closer into his warmth and hardness, their lips and tongues mingling with an urgent, spiraling, intensity.

Their rising sensuality flowed over her like warm syrup, igniting every part of her to his touch. He first kissed her lips until she moaned with wanting him. Then, as she lay back in his arms, willing him to take her, willing his arms to hold her, he layered kisses on her chin, the arch of her throat, and the sweet spot at the base of her neck.

Maxwell traced his fingers along her arm and across her shoulders, stretching the tabard so that her smooth skin was exposed.

“Mm, you feel like silk,” he mumbled into his kisses.

She held him close, pressing her breasts against his chest, aware of her pebbling nubs, needing his touch. As if sensing her need, he cupped her breast, working the nub with finger and thumb, sending ricochets of sweet, hot, sensation to the place between her legs. Now she ached for him to touch her there, and she wriggled against his thigh, signaling her desire.

His shaft was like an iron rod pressing against her and she stifled a giggle.

“What is it?” His voice was husky and deep, dark and rich like molasses.

“Ye’re as hard as that mighty ebony rod I belted ye with.”

“Oh, that flimsy thing?” He gave a soft laugh. “Surely I’m harder than that?”

She tweaked his nose with two fingers. “Oh, ye wish!”

He rolled over her, burying his face in the warmth of her breasts. “Is it nae ye who wish it lass?” came his muffled voice.

After that she could hardly think at all as he took hold of the hem of her gown and lifted it, so that her thighs were bare to his touch.

His big hands were surprisingly gentle. He brushed her thighs, then her mound, toying with the curly hairs there, making her gasp with pleasure. Then he raised her gown higher so that she felt the warm air on her heightened skin.

She groaned as he fondled the full, wet lips between her legs, stroking her until she raised her hips to meet his hand. He pushed with one finger, opening her, and slid a second finger between her folds.

“Aye. Ye’re good and wet. Are ye ready fer me, Aileen?”

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