Page 66 of The Wrong Bride
“She didn’t tell me. If he tried to harm her—”
“You mean kidnap or seduce her?” Riona interrupted, irony lacing her words. “What should a brother do when that happens?”
Hugh sat back in his chair, the goblet dangling from his hand as he studied her. “Ye still think to make me embarrassed by what I’ve done—and I’m not. A contract was entered into in good faith.”
She waved a hand. “I know I can’t change your mind, and I didn’t mean to start in on it, not when you’re leaving tomorrow.”
“Ye don’t want to send me away with an argument?” he teased.
“No, but . . . maybe you’ll still want to argue when I tell you what else happened while you were gone.” She watched him intently.
“Go ahead,” he said, taking a fortifying swig of the wine.
“I was walking with your mother and Maggie when we met up with Brendan.”
She paused, studying his face. Instead of displaying anger, his expression smoothed out into something neutral and impassive.
“I imagine my mother was not impressed with meeting a groom,” he said.
“I don’t know about impressed, but she practically swooned.”
He rose to pour himself another goblet of wine, silently offering her one. She shook her head.
“You’ve got nothing to say, Hugh?” she asked softly.
“I’ve told ye my conditions for free and open talk between us, lass. Have you accepted that ye’ll be my bride?”
She bit her lip and turned to look at the smoldering fire. “I’ve already told you I can’t.”
He came to stand before her, tall, imposing, but not menacing. He could never be that for her again. Then he took her by the arms and raised her to her feet.
“How can ye keep denying this?” he demanded, then pulled her hard against him and kissed her.
She didn’t try to fight him—she was incapable of it, she knew that now. She could even admit to herself that she missed him, that she put her armsaround his neck to hold him to her, as if she could cling to him and push away the future where he’d suffer for choosing the wrong bride.
His body felt so right, his mouth slanting across hers was something she’d dreamed of these last few nights alone.
Against her lips, he murmured, “I’ve missed ye, lass. Say ye’ve missed me, too.”
She couldn’t say the words—it wouldn’t be fair. But she pressed kisses to his cheek, his chin, his throat, reveling in the feel of his hands sweeping her body, cupping her backside to pull him hard against her, against his erection. She shuddered at the feel of it, and then his other hand cupped her breast and kneaded it through the thin fabric of her nightclothes. Their kisses grew harsh and gasping, their hands frantic on each other. She felt feverish and dazed, her rational thoughts fading away.
She broke the kiss and whispered, “The rope. Use it. I don’t trust myself.”
She saw the triumph in his expression before he turned away, and regretted her words immediately. She was giving him exactly what he wanted—giving in to his seduction. Their roles had reversed, and she was the one leading him on now, leading him to believe she was closer and closer to being his wife. She should stop him—stop this disaster looming ever larger and larger in the near future. The closer they got, the more it would hurt when heat last had confirmation she was telling the truth. And that confirmation could come any day now—surely her uncle wouldn’t take much longer to crow about his victory over the McCallums, and how Hugh had not lived up to the terms of their agreement.
But she said nothing—did nothing as he knelt at her feet and tied the rope around her ankles. She was trapped by her own neediness. What did she think could come of this, except her own despair, when she might be completely in love with him, and he had to reject her? But he wasn’t rejecting her now—he picked her up and carried her to the bed, laid her down gently, then came over the top of her to kiss her again. She clung to him, hating herself for wanting his touch, hating that she felt betrayed by her own body. Desire had taken over, stripped her of caution and common sense.
When he slid his hand beneath her nightshift, she didn’t stop him, only moaned and writhed like some kind of wild woman at each caress along her hot, sensitive skin. She shuddered with disappointment when he teased along the outside of her hips and then across her belly—until she realized what he was doing, sliding her nightshift ever higher. She felt the draft of air across her bare breasts only a moment before he bent his head. The first kiss on her nipple was delicate and moist, but it made her cry out with gladness. He swirled his tonguearound her nipples before drawing each inside his mouth in turn. She arched, desperate for more, sounds coming from her throat she’d never imagined.
And at last he gave her what she wanted, sliding his fingers between her trembling thighs and into the wet depths of her. He knew just where to touch, just what to do. With his mouth at her breasts, and his fingers stroking and circling, she came apart in a climax more powerful than the one he’d given her just a few days before. She hadn’t imagined such pleasure could increase, but it had. And he’d given this to her more than once now, never asking anything of her in return—except that she marry him.
He rolled onto his back, breathing harshly, hands fisted.
“Hugh?”
“Nay, ’tis all right. Go to sleep. I’ll return to my own bed.”
She told herself not to touch him, but she couldn’t help it. She placed her hand over his erection where it pressed hard against his breeches.
