Page 66 of Return of the Scot
“Is this from the cannon or their treatment of ye?”
Was it him, or did her eyes seem wetter than before? “The cannon.”
“Ye’re lucky no’ to have lost your arm.” Her face was grim, worried, and perhaps even a little relieved.
“I am.”
“I want to see the rest.”
Lorne stiffened, feeling the shock of her words down to his toes. Show her the rest… Lord help him, he wouldn’t do that. Not without an “I do” before a priest. He wanted her, both body and soul. Had been willing to give her the most delicious pleasure in the garden of her flat. But to show himself… It was a terrifying thought. Would make a woman run, he was certain. However, wouldn’t he want to know now if that was going to be her reaction, rather than find out on the wedding night that he was a battered and scarred monster?
“I can no’ show them all to ye, lass. It would no’ be proper, and I did promise Alison.” He reached for his cravat and paused, realizing that by removing this particular piece, Alison would think he’d removed them all. “If I undo this, I’ll never be able to get it back in place, and your maid will slit my throat for certain.”
Jaime laughed. “I can help.”
“Then I’ll show ye the scars on my chest, but nothing more.” He tugged at his cravat in earnest this time, irritated by the damnable garment anyway, always feeling a little bit as if he were being choked.
When at last he was free, Lorne discarded the fabric on the chair he’d vacated and then started with the buttons of his shirt. Three buttons total revealed half his chest, where the skin near his left collarbone puckered and twisted, a continuation of the wound from his arm. That was as much as he was willing to remove. It was only that side of him that had been ruined; the other remained untouched as if to mock him for the rest of his life. It was only the warmth of the whisky that kept him from shuddering.
Jaime reached forward, the light stroke of her fingertips tracing the scars from his shoulder over his collarbone to the dip in his neck. He sucked in a breath at her touch, how gentle it was, how much it lit his skin aflame. The expression on her face was not of disgust at all. Nothing like what he imagined when she gazed at his broken body.
“Does it still hurt?” she asked, flicking her gaze up toward his.
He started to shake his head and then decided to be honest. “Every once in a while, there’s a twinge of something unpleasant, but then it is quickly gone, or else whisky helps.”
She smiled up at him softly as her hand flattened right over the place where his heart battered his ribcage. He was captivated by her brown eyes, the delicate fringe of black lashes, and the deep emotion that seemed to emanate from her. Lorne placed his hand over hers where she touched him.
“The scars do no’ bother ye?”
“Bother me?” She wrinkled her nose, appearing truly confused. “Ye were fighting for your country. Wounded by the enemy. How could I ever think that your scars were anything other than marks of valor? A visible, palpable sign of your bravery and your victory. They tried to kill ye, but ye survived. If anything…” She licked her lower lip as she glanced down at their joined hands. “If anything, I think they make ye more of a man, Lorne.”
More of a man…
Good God. He wanted to kiss her. Her servants, and his promises, be damned.
Lorne bent forward and captured her mouth with his. She gasped, staggering a little at his sudden embrace, but then she wrapped her other arm around his shoulders, her fingers curling against the back of his neck. Tasting of whisky and desire, Jaime kissed him back. Hard, passionate. Her tongue dueled with his as if neither of them could control themselves any longer. Two lost souls who’d been dying of thirst and finally found an oasis in which to quench their tireless craving.
Where one part of him had been aflame, now all of him was. Desire thrummed in his veins and pooled in his groin. The need for this woman to be his. To claim her utterly and forever.
He enfolded his arm around her waist and tugged her flush against him. Heated breath fanned across his face. And then there was a jolt, and they stumbled as the ship rocked from one side to the other—the only thing that kept him from lifting her and carrying her to the captain’s bed that was through the double doors at their rear. Their kiss broke as they both staggered, tumbling backward. Lorne lost his balance, falling with Jaime on top of him. Splayed fully over him, her soft breasts pressed to his chest, her hips on his hardened arousal…
She stared down at him, eyes full of passion, her lips a rosy red. She felt good, delicious and ripe. It was entirely too tempting to have her like this. So close, and yet not be able to claim her.
Her breasts pushed against the confines of her gown and tested the limits of his control. Supple, creamy globes. Only inches from his mouth and he wanted so badly to taste her.
Again, why hadn’t he slaked his need with some willing widow or courtesan? But he knew the answer to that, and it was because the only woman he truly wanted was currently lying on top of him. Tormenting him.
Jaime stared down where their hands were still joined on his chest, and then she bent and kissed his scarred collarbone, the heat of her lips pressing to his skin almost too much. Lorne groaned, and then…he felt something in his eyes as foreign to him as weakness—tears.
He blinked rapidly to dispel the emotion, the potent reaction. And then he closed his eyes, his head leaning back against the floor, his breaths heavy. Because the alternative was to roll her over and lift her skirts.
“Why did ye do that?” he asked, his voice tight, his throat closing.
“I may own this ship, but I’ll have ye know I do no’ own the ocean, and I can no’ make it rock us onto our arses simply by wishing it so.”
Lorne opened his eyes to stare at her, face full of teasing mirth. He chuckled. “Ye’re a hoyden.”
“Perhaps. But I would no’ change who I am.”
