Page 21 of The Lady's Guide to a Highlander’s Heart
He was kissing her again, his mouth drawing out a raw wildness she hadn’t known was there, making her want to open to him.
Making her want to have him within, his weight pressing and his hands securing her against his thrusts.
The discomfort was different now. No longer a stabbing pain but an ache, echoing that which usually rested about her heart, never letting her forget what had been taken from her.
But she wanted to be only here, letting this strange need overtake her.
Ragnall was looking at her, his gaze deeply blue, penetrating her as fiercely as his body. He held still a moment.
“’Tis better, lass?” Bringing one of his hands from beneath her, he brushed the hair from her cheek, then palmed her breast, grazing his thumb, warm, across her nipple, his touch feather-light. She couldn’t help but whimper.
Don’t stop.
She rocked against him, and it was sweetly, maddeningly wonderful.
She wanted him. Even if he hurt her, she wanted to feel the length of his body, red-blooded and hard. She wanted to know all that he might do to her; to know his strength and his size.
She pushed her hips upward and arched her back, wanting his hand fully upon her breast; wanting him to pinch where he teased, to touch her more forcefully.
Wanting everything.
Her muscles clenched about him and Ragnall groaned, louder this time. “Lass, ye dinnae ken what ye do tae me.” He began moving again and she clung to him as his thrusts grew swifter.
She feared she’d been wrong in what she’d wished for. Ragnall seemed beyond the control he’d first exerted, his eyes heavy with lustful need, but something drew her upon the same shameless wave, making her score her nails upon his back—as much to hurt him as to urge him on.
He threw back his head when the spasm overtook him and pulsed inside, spilling his seed deep.
* * *
A gentle snorefrom the other side of the bed told her Ragnall Dalreagh was no longer awake.
She’d done exactly as she’d planned, using his desire to place herself in his bed—and here he was, asleep beside her and vulnerable to the dirk resting beneath her pillow.
Turning on his side, the laird tucked her against his chest. His leg alongside hers, pinning her just as surely as the arm flung across her body.
Even in sleep, he was strong, but she could still reach the blade. She had only to slide it free and push it into his neck. He wouldn’t know what was happening until too late.
Ragnall shifted again, nestling his chin in the nook of her neck and sighing.
Trying to ignore the sound of his breathing, and the warmth of his hand resting upon her belly, Flora steeled herself to act.
Now that it came to it, the deed filled her with dread—not least because of the intimacy she and he had shared.
She’d known all along, hadn’t she, that it would be difficult.
It was murder.
A grievous sin.
And committed in these Yule days, honouring the Lord’s birth.
She’d knelt in the chapel with the other servants of the castle the morning before, like a true Christian, and all the while plotting an act that might send her soul to the devil.
Did God forgive such things?
Many a man killed in the name of honour, protecting his people and his lands.
Many killed for revenge as well.
