Page 70 of The Groom Wore Plaid
He gave her a little shake. “Do ye understand me, lass?”
The deep musical Scottish sound of his voice made her give a little internal moan. She didn’t even realize she’d made a sound out loud, until he drew her right up against his wet body.
“I—I understand,” she managed in a husky voice.
“I think ye need convincing.”
And then he was kissing her, putting her back up against the door and pressing his hard, wet body along hers. She moaned and slid her arms around his neck, holding on as if she never wanted him to let go.
This was wicked, leading him on when she wouldn’t marry him.
This was dangerous to her own well-being and self-respect.
And she didn’t care. She wanted this—she wanted him. She felt herself tumbling into the rising passion as if falling into a deep pond and sinking down, down . . . She lost her breath, and it was glorious. His tongue mated with hers, and she explored his mouth with equal vigor.
He left her mouth to kiss his way down her neck and she tilted her head to give him even greater access. His hands continued to move on her body, from her waist and up her torso to skim the delicate flesh above her cleavage. Every touch made her shiver; the moistness of his tongue tracing along the lace of her décolletage made her moan.
“Your stays are not so tightly laced,” he murmured against the top curve of her breast, his hands feeling her waist.
“I kept them loosened . . . in case we ate out in the grass.”
“Perfect.”
He gave a little tug down and she felt the constriction across her breasts ease. And then his hands were freeing her, her breasts indecently bare above the neckline of her gown. For a moment he lifted his head and kissed her again, while his hands cupped her breasts.He was chilled from the water, and her skin was so very hot that it made her gasp and jump.
“Forgive me,” he said, smiling against her mouth. “Let me try something warmer.”
He bent his head and took her hard nipple into his mouth. She bit back a startled cry, shocked and aroused, helpless to look away as he licked and suckled. She felt it outward into every limb of her body, and then inward, deep in her most private places.
She wanted more, and she held his head to her, burying her fingers in the silky thickness of his hair.
When his hands reached beneath her skirt, she knew she’d been waiting for this, to feel so alive and wondrous again.
But it was wrong—she knew it was wrong. She wanted completion for herself, but couldn’t offer it to him, not without ruining herself and perhaps getting with child.
“Stop, oh, Owen, we must stop,” she pleaded. “I will not be your mistress and I cannot be your wife.”
He lifted his head slowly and eyed her. Flustered and terribly sad, she didn’t know what emotion he was trying to hide, anger or disgust or sadness. Her skirts fell from his hands, and she reached to cover her aching breasts.
Recklessly, she stumbled on. “I—I’ve thought of another way to satisfy the contract.”
He took a step back from her. “I cannot believeye’re bringing this up now,” he said between clenched teeth.
“But I have to! If ye won’t have one of my cousins, then I could marry one of yours.”
His brows lowered so ominously she expected storm clouds to gather above the castle and rumble with thunder.
She rushed on. “After all, maybe they won’t mind a wife who has difficulty staying thin. Surely ye’ve noticed, and ye must be so disappointed. It runs in my family, ye know.”
She ran out of words and waited for him to berate her over her cousins or her girth, but instead, he suddenly wiped both hands down his face, then showed her an impassive expression with a touch of curiosity. As if he wasn’t angry at all.
She thought of the tenderness he’d showed her, the one he so quickly masked, just like he masked most of his deeper emotions. If she married him, it would kill her to know he would have to hide disbelief, disdain, or maybe even pity over her dreams, as if he’d assumed she would have grown out of such childhood fancy. She’d spent her whole life hiding her true self from everyone but her brother and mother, and now she’d offered her secrets, her vulnerability, to him. She didn’t want to be different, hadn’t wanted to tell him he would die—she didn’twanthim to die. Two tears slipped down her cheeks.
This time his frown showed concern rather than anger. “Maggie—”
But she tugged her clothing into place even as she whirled, opened the door, and fled from him.
MAGGIEavoided Owen as much as she could during the banquet that evening, pleading a headache instead of dancing, because she couldn’t bear to be in his arms. He was acting just as politely, giving her the same secret heated looks, as if she hadn’t just rejected him—again. Any other man would give up on her for all the trouble she was causing. But not Owen. He was stubborn, and used to getting what he wanted. That was all it could be, she told herself, trying to ignore the little pain in her heart.
