Page 3 of My Scot, My Surrender
Before she could pull back, strong arms lashed around her, the corded sinews she’d admired earlier holding her flush against him. Every bold, bracingly hard inch of him.
Sorcha gasped, and the stranger took full advantage, his mouth breaching her lips for a sultry flick of his tongue. A shock of pure sensation rioted through her. Everything went soft…every muscle, every thought in her brain, every bone in her body,everything.
With fumbling inexperience, she mimicked his teasing stroke, licking lightly. A strangled sound echoed between them—hers, his, she didn’t know—and the kiss took a dangerous turn. Growling low in his throat, the gentleman’s mouth angled persuasively over hers, coaxing it to open wider before he delved deep, and heaven help her, she gave in, parting her wicked lips wide for his pleasure. Glutton that she was, she wanted more. More of the pulsations skittering over her skin. More of his clever mouth, more of his hands. More ofhim.
Sorcha was dimly aware of the murmurs from the dwindling crowd, but that had been her plan. She’d hoped to provoke gossip with the scandalous embrace. The fact that her quarry was well-appointed in expensive tailored clothing that hugged his broad frame to perfection, and the fact that he was remarkably handsome, had made her decision only slightly less deranged.
In the moments before she’d lost hold of her senses, she’d taken in the deep, reddish bronze tones of his hair. He had a square jaw, a nose that looked like it had been broken a time or two, and a stern but sensuous mouth that seemed like it smiled more than it scolded. His hazel eyes had been hypnotic, changing color like a crystal when held to the light.
The idea to kiss him had come to her like a bolt of demented lightning. He was clearly an English nobleman visiting Selkirk for the common lands festival, and once he rode off, she would likely never see him again. She’d only been desperate…desperate enough to try what she imagined any young woman in her situation would do to escape an unwanted betrothal—cause a scandal. And getting caught in the arms of another man seemed the best way to do it.
Not that she was entirely adroit at seducing strange men. The Beast of Maclaren was far better suited to swinging a sword than kissing.
She’d intended the kiss to be brief and chaste…not whateverthiswas.
Chaste would be the last word she’d have used to describe the sublime onslaught of his lips, teeth, and tongue. It made her want things she’d never dreamed of wanting…like his body, stripped of all its clothes, and his mouth on other smoldering, aching parts of her.Diah, Lord knew only a loose woman would have such lewd thoughts.
His mouth left hers to travel down her neck, and desire spiked, making her weak-kneed. Moaning incoherently, her hands fisted in the fine fabric of his coat as she fought to stay upright. His hands moved, one rounding over the indent of her waist, while the other skimmed over the torn fabric of her tunic. Gentle fingers brushed against the lace of her chemise and across the swell of one breast.
Pressed to an entire length of aroused male, his heated mouth and hands touching her so intimately, her dependable, sensible mind went gloriously blank. Sorcha couldn’t think. Her breath, along with what was left of her brain, fizzled and died.
“What the bloody hell are ye doing, ye rotten knave?”
Slowly, Sorcha became aware of angry shouts as rough hands separated them.
“Explain yerself before I castrate ye,” her brother, Finlay, yelled. “Ye’ve ruined our sister.”
She blinked as her other brother, Evan, yanked the stranger by the arm, though, unlike the man’s earlier savagery with Craig and his friends, he did not fight back. Instead, his hot stare met hers, dark and intent. The greenish-brown irises flecked with gold seemed stormier now than they had before, when they’d reflected the clear afternoon sunlight. His lips were swollen. She’d bitten and sucked them like a brazen hussy. Flushing, her gaze fell away.
“It’s not what you think, Finlay,” she muttered in a hoarse voice, clenching her hands. “I competed with the sword in the ring, and then Craig and his cousins started a fight when he lost, and this man beat them all—”
“I dunnae care who Craig fights,” Finlay snarled. “This bounder had his bloody hands on ye…on yerchest. Kissing ye in the middle of the street like some doxy. Our sister, a lady of Maclaren,” he said, advancing on the man. “Ye’ve brought dishonor to her and our clan.”
“Her tunic is ripped,” Evan hissed. “Ye right bastard.”
Sorcha glanced down, absurdly grateful that it was the right side, and not the left, that had been exposed. Not that she wished to be exposed at all, but the left side of her body would incite quite the opposite of desire. Revulsion, in fact.
Feeling the stranger’s eyes on her, she snatched the torn ends together. “He didn’t rip it. Craig did, during the fight.”
“He was fondling ye, ye daft lass,” Finley said. “In the middle of bloody Selkirk. What will the marquess think? He’ll cry off, and then where will ye be?”
Yes.
Sorcha couldn’t help the tiny burst of triumph that flared inside. Perhaps success was within her grasp, after all.
“There’s naught to be said for it; they’ll have to be married at once,” a new voice proclaimed.
To Sorcha’s horror, she noticed that their cousin Gavin, the one who had spoken, and a vicar of all things, was standing behind Evan and Finlay. The look on his face was one of devout determination. Her stomach sank.
No, no, no.This was not what she intended at all. She could see her fate stretching before her like a hangman’s noose…wedlock to a complete stranger.
Surely Gavin couldn’t be serious?
But a new expression was overtaking Finlay’s face, one she’d seen time and time again, especially when he and Evan dueled, and he was already scenting victory.
“What if the bounder’s already married?” Evan asked, glaring at him. “Are ye?”
The surge of relief Sorcha felt at the notion that he could be married slipped away as the gentleman shook his head and squared his wide shoulders. With a quick shake, he shrugged out of Evan’s grip and straightened his cuffs. His face was oddly serene, but it sent a frisson of dread through Sorcha.
