Page 49 of Love with a Scottish Outlaw
“Another example of too much curiosity.”
“It’s something you do at night,” she mused, remembering when the men had returned without any rescued children.
“There are many things I do at night.”
His voice had dropped into a deep range that seemed to slide across her skin with a promise of sin.
“You’re doing that on purpose,” she accused.
“What?”
Those dark, gleaming eyes dropped lower, and she felt as if he could see right through her fichu.
She crossed her arms over her breasts. “You’re trying to distract me.”
“Is it working?”
“Yes—no! Your men were celebrating your big secret that night when I drank too much. They were speaking in Gaelic, and Maeve is teaching me your language. It was something about the whisky we were drinking . . .” She trailed off, frowning.
Though it was near dark, the impassive expression on his face told her enough.
“It’s the whisky itself, isn’t it?” she mused. “You’re smuggling whisky to avoid the British taxes.”
He seemed to search her face. “Why is it so important for ye to know any of this?”
She opened her mouth, and nothing came out right away. Why was it so important to know everything about the Carlyles—everything about Duncan?
“Because I live here,” she said softly. “Because you and your clan are all I know.”
He reached out to cup her cheek with his warm, calloused hand. “Do not be afraid, lass. Ye’re safe here. I’ll let nothing harm ye.”
That wasn’t what she was worried about, but she forgot when he slid his hand to the back of her head and drew her toward him for a long deep kiss. She felt both desperate and overcome, frightened and at peace, all those emotions jumbled up inside her, emotions she only found in his arms. He backed her up against the vine-covered rock wall of the cliff with his body, while she explored his mouth as if she could know everything about him.
Cupping her face in his hands, he kissed her forehead, her cheeks, the curve of her jaw, the slope of her throat. Her heart raced at the intimate contact, at the groan he made when he nipped the skin beneath her ear. She dropped her head to one side as he kissed his way down her throat, then lingered at the hollow, with a lick.
To her surprise, he fell to his knees, hands on her hips, and continued his exploration of her collarbones. She clutched his head to her, gasped when he pulled the fichu away, and then his mouth was on the upper slopes of her breasts. His dark hair gleamed under the first touch of moonlight as it peaked over the mountain. When he reached the neckline of her gown and could go no farther, her regret and frustration were sudden and surprising.
Raggedly, she began, “I wish—” and then stopped. She didn’t know what she wanted.
And then he licked a gentle line into her cleavage. She shuddered.
“I want ye.”
The words were hoarse and quiet, and his breath light across the dampness of her skin.
“Duncan . . .” She didn’t know what to say.
“But I won’t take ye.”
He was right but oh, she wished he wasn’t.
“But I can make ye feel such pleasure.”
He slid his hands to the front of her hips and up over her bodice. Above her stays, her breasts were only covered by her chemise and the gown. When his hands covered there, squeezed gently, it was as if she’d been shocked by lightning. When his fingers gently squeezed her nipples, she jerked in his arms, feeling a stab of pleasure that shot down within her body.
“Duncan!” his name was an agonized whisper into the darkness. “What are you—” But she couldn’t ask, didn’t want it to stop.
For a long moment, he buried his face into her neck and kissed her skin, while his fingers played a dance across her breasts that she’d never imagined. She desperately wanted to undo the front laces of her gown, feel his touch on her bare skin, and as if he read her mind, she felt him tugging the front laces loose. She wanted this, but she was afraid to want too much, when nothing could ever be normal between them.
