Page 22 of Once Upon A Haunted Castle
Beiste knelt on the floor in front of her. “Nay,” he whispered.
Shocking both him and herself, Elle hauled off and punched him square in the chest. Beiste barely budged, barely made a sound, didn’t even try to stop her as she pummeled him some more. Working through the anger, the anguish. Until, finally, he grabbed hold of her, crushed her to him, her arms pinned to her sides. He stared into her eyes.
“Enough,” he said softly.
Elle wriggled to get free, tears still streaking down her face.
“Enough,” he said again, keeping one arm all the way around her to hold her own arms still. With his free hand, he wiped at the tears tracking down her cheeks. His gaze roved over her, perhaps settling a little too long on her lips. Would he kiss her? Did she want him to? Aye, she did. If only to escape the pain that gripped her chest.
“I have failed him,” she moaned, grabbing hold of hisleineshirt.
Beiste caressed her face, staring into her eyes. “Och, lass, I know what that’s like.”
“How?”
But instead of answering her, he brushed his lips over hers. Elle sighed at the sudden but gentle touch. She’d never kissed a man before and she was glad for the distraction. The sensation sent a ripple over her skin, up and down her arms, heating her middle. The same awareness she’d had when he looked at her naked intensified. How odd and, yet, how utterly spellbinding.
Just as suddenly as he’d kissed her, he stopped, frowning down at her.
She opened her mouth to say something. To say she was done crying, to say she needed to dry her hair or go for a walk, but then he was kissing her again. His mouth settled over hers, possessively. He cupped one side of her face, his arm wrapped around her loosened enough that she was able to move, to flatten her chest to his, to sink against him and pray he held her steady. He was warm, tender, not at all the usual beast that he was.
This time, when her hands started to tremble, it wasn’t from weakness or fear. Nay, it was from a new sensation and feeling altogether. An excitement. Passion. Intrigue.
Elle sighed, leaning closer, her hands fisting in his shirt. She tilted her head, wanting more of his thrilling kiss. More of the madness it brought her, the interruption from her pain. Beiste responded with an intensity that sent a shock jolting through her. He swiped his tongue over hers, nibbled at her lips until she was sighing with pleasure, a limp mass of heated flesh and desire.
“Bloody hell,” he growled, separating himself from her.
She gazed up at him in confusion, his face full of thunder.
“What…?” she asked, somewhat bemused.
“I shouldna be doing that,” he said through bared teeth. Beiste climbed to his feet, taking with him the heat, the thrill. “I failed to find your brother, to find Bjork, but I am not done. I will continue to search for him.”
Elle swallowed, feeling grateful that he wouldn’t stop his search, but also extremely confused about what had just happened. Had he enjoyed the kiss? He seemed to, but then was just so angry about it. She touched her lips as he retreated from the room. For a first kiss, she’d thought it had gone rather quite well until he’d started growling again.
The blasted man was so confusing. Och, who was she kidding? She was just as equally confused.
*
Beiste stormed outof the castle, down to the lower bailey. His blood pumped hotly, thickly, through his veins. Thank the saints for his thick plaid and sporran, else everyone in the castle would see just how hotly his blood was pumping.
One tiny kiss from Elle Cam’béal and an inexperienced kiss at that, and he’d been ready to shed his clothes. To bed her right there on the damned floor. To make love to her. To take her to the heights of pleasure she’d never experienced. And to bury himself, his pain, his past, all between her thighs, in a moment of sheer, blinding passion.
Beiste hadn’t made love to a woman since he’d lost his wife three years before. A long time for any man. And it was apparent his body was ready to get back into the game, even if his mind was not.
“Gunnar,” he bellowed. “Bring me the new recruits.”
He was going to beat the men to bloody hell in the name of training and his own sanity. Exorcise his demons. Push past the feral need that had gripped him since opening the door and letting the dripping wet vixen into his castle.
A little over two hours later, sweat covered his entire body, dripping in rivulets. He’d stripped out of his shirt, letting the cool air stroke briskly over his heated skin. Muscles tired, men lying on the ground all around him, sore, a little wounded, and all of them just as winded as he.
But, still, he kept staring up at the castle, his mind wandering back to that delicious kiss. The images of just what he wanted to teach her. He was fairly certain she’d never kissed a man before. Or else anyone she’d kissed had been just as inexperienced as she. There was something heady and powerful about that. That he could be the one to introduce her to pleasure.
Ballocks! What in bloody hell was he thinking? She wasn’t a lightskirt! She was a lady. A virgin for blood’s sake. Not a lass to be trifled with. Not a lass he could bed and forget. Nay, the only way he’d be doing anymore kissing, let alone bedding, with Lady Elle Cam’béal was if she was Lady Elle MacDougall. And that bloody well wasn’t going to happen. He wasn’t ready to marry again. And he never would be.
“Och,” he growled, shoving his way through his men. “I’m going for a swim. The lot of ye stinking bastards might as well join me.”
They followed him to the shore, diving into the chilly water and scooping up sand to scrub away the sweat from their bodies.
