The Pride of Lions (36 page)

An instant, no more, and the pain subsided.

An instant more and she felt him slide forward, her smothered gasp acknowledging the warm, throbbing presence that marked the end of one identity and the beginning of another.

It was with a sense of wonder that she felt him start to move within her, for she had truly not expected more. Her hands were still molded to the iron sinews of his hips
and she left them there, lightly riding the slow and deliberate thrusts that were her introduction to the moist, sensual friction of flesh on flesh. He coaxed her limbs wider and lifted them higher, and she gasped to feel him stroke even deeper. She tried to choke back the unbidden cries of pleasure each measured thrust produced, but it was impossible, and when he lowered his mouth to her breast again, the combined sensations made her arch up beneath him, again and again, meeting each plunge of his hips with an eagerness that took her breath away. A groan lifted him up on outstretched arms, and she knew she had never seen anything so beautiful as the gleaming, sculpted perfection of his body; her gaze moved lower and she saw how her hands grasped him, how her own body arched and strained to pull him closer with each bold thrust.

Now not even the commanding power of his obsidian eyes could hold her. Her head thrashed side to side, fanning her hair in a fine-spun web beneath them. Her nails ribboned his flesh with tiny white scratches and she began to shiver, to quake uncontrollably as a mindless urgency overtook her, an urgency born of blood and fire and consuming desire. His hands were there to lift her and support her as his thrusts came harder, deeper, faster. She sobbed disbelievingly as she neared the edge of some incredible precipice, and her long slender legs twined frantically around his, fusing their bodies together as she rushed headlong over the brink of erupting passion.

She was not aware of crying out his name, but Alex heard it. He heard it through a flood of pleasure that surged through every cord and sinew in his body, that clouded his senses to everything but the lithe, supple body shuddering violently beneath him. Each muscle, each nerve, each pulsing vein screamed for release, yet he forced himself to wait, to resist the lure of the clenching velvet sheath until the spasms grew so intense they robbed him of both reason and sanity. He plunged
his hands beneath her hips and thrust himself as deep as life and breath would take him, and as one they soared beyond rapture into the stunning brilliance of ecstasy.

Lauren Cameron pressed herself against the rough stone wall, her eyes closed, her cheeks flushed, her fists curling and uncurling as hatred seethed green and evil within her. Her feet had become rooted to the floor, her nerves singed raw as she listened to the choked cries of unimaginable joy coming from the other side of the fireroom door.

How dare he humiliate her this way! How dare he scorn and dismiss her, then run straight into the arms of his
Sassenach
wife!

Lauren had
not
mistaken the glances and half-smiles he had cast sidelong at her throughout dinner. She had
not
imagined the pressure of his thigh leaning against hers or the riveting suggestiveness in the long, tapered fingers as they stroked and caressed the curved sides of his wine goblet. These actions had been as deliberate and seductive as the knowing glimmer in his eyes each time they sought her reaction. Her reaction? She had felt naked and weak with anticipation through the better part of the meal.

Not invite her? He had practically ravaged her right there at the dinner table. What game was he playing? What game were they both playing—he, the stalwart and untarnished husband, she, the prim and virginal bride so quick with her blushes of modesty. Yet at a moment’s notice they were sprawled on the floor, naked and grappling together like dogs in heat.

Lauren had heard them arguing as she had been leaving Alasdair’s room. Perhaps he had been boasting about her visit, using it to rouse the yellow-haired bitch into a jealous rage. Perhaps the whole thing—the glances, the touches, the subtle innuendos throughout the evening—had been staged for that very reason.

Lauren backed slowly away from the door, the fury
darkening her eyes. No man used her like that. She was no man’s vehicle for winning the attentions of another woman … not unless she willed it to be so!

She whirled around and descended the stone spiral with no thought or care for the sound her leather heels made on the steps. Flushed and wild-eyed, she paused at the bottom and glanced along the deserted corridor, hearing the distant strains of laughter and music. She had thrown her clothes on in haste and anger, not troubling herself with laces or bows, and she was in no mood to have to explain her dishevelment to anyone she might meet in the main wing of the house.

Rape, she thought blackly. She could say he tried to rape her before he crossed the hall to ease his frustrations on his simpering wife.

No. That story was only good one time. A second, similar incident would only cast further doubt on the mishap with the MacGregor boy, and if the first charge was questioned, Lochiel might begin to wonder if he had hanged an innocent man. The blame for the theft of his gold and jewels might then shift onto Lauren’s shoulders—where it rightfully belonged—and she would be lucky if she could escape with the clothes on her back!

She felt like screaming. Her body was still throbbing, aching, burning with jealousy, and she hurried along the gloomy corridor until she came to a narrow stairwell used mainly by the servants. She fled silently down into the bowels of the castle, pausing now and then to listen for footsteps. She ran the length of the vaulted stone undercroft, and at the northernmost end of the vast storage rooms turned up a well-worn flight of steps that fed tributaries to the pantry, the kitchens, and of immediate interest to Lauren, the guardhouse.

She went unerringly to the third door from the stairwell and tested the latch with a trembling hand. It was not locked, and taking a deep breath, she eased the door open and slipped inside. The room was small and dark, the only light coming from a high slitted window that
overlooked the courtyard. It took a few moments for her eyes to adjust, and when they did she saw the shape of a cot emerge from the shadows, and on it, the outline of a male body. He was lying there, one arm folded beneath his head as a pillow, the other draped across his chest.

“Ye should know better than tae creep up on a mon when he’s asleep. It’s that dark ye could have a dirk atween yer eyes afore they finished blinkin’.”

Lauren’s pulse quickened, his voice evoking a rush of sweet-hot sensitivity between her thighs. “Ye werena at the party tonight, Struan MacSorley. Ye were missed.”

“I’m pleased tae hear it. Did ye bring me ma supper, then?”

Her gaze was drawn to where a bold awakening was visibly and majestically reshaping the folds of the blanket. The blood flushed sluggishly into her belly, swirling there until the heat became almost unbearable.

She lifted her hands slowly and pushed the already loosened halves of her bodice off her shoulders. “I’ve brung ye somethin’ tae suckle on, aye. If ye’re hungry.”

The glint of his eyes followed the movement of her hands as she peeled away the layers of her outer clothing and left only the sheer wisp of silk clinging to her breasts. The dusky peaks were proudly defined, straining against the fabric with an impatience that caused the blanket to stir again. She moved to the side of the bed and reached down, casually lifting a corner of the wool, skinning it back inch by solemn inch. Her breath dried in her throat as she bared the hard, barrel-size chest, the coarse mat of red-gold hair that narrowed over the belly and exploded in a dark nest at his groin. Her eyes widened appreciatively, and she did not even notice the grin that welcomed her awed stare.

“I’m that hungry, lass,” he growled softly, “ye’ll not know when one course ends an’ the next begins.”

Lauren set her teeth against a fierce shiver as one of his huge, callused hands skimmed up beneath her petticoat
and without preamble delved greedily into the moist nest of silky curls. She gasped and trembled against the pressure, which only invited the blunt-tipped fingers to seek a bolder intimacy. Sobbing with the instant, mind-shaking release, she crumpled slowly to her knees beside the cot, her mouth agape, her hands clutching his broad shoulders for support.

With a deep chuckle of satisfaction, he tore the silken shield off her breasts and feasted on the voluptuous bounty, his hard body beginning to quiver with an intensity Lauren might have found amusing if not for the shattering distraction of his hands and lips. Her cries were real, her passion genuine. She gave herself willingly, eagerly to the pleasure, knowing that by morning she would be stronger for it, thinking more clearly, whereas Struan MacSorley would not be thinking at all. Not with his head, at any rate. And a man incapable of thinking clearly made mistakes, believed the unbelievable, questioned the most ingrained loyalties, abandoned the most steadfast convictions.

MacSorley had been Alexander Cameron’s friend once, almost a brother by marriage. He could not be feeling too comfortable with the idea of a
Sassenach
taking his dead sister’s place in Alasdair’s affections. His glaring absence at the party tonight suggested he was downright disgusted. And if that was the case, Lauren would play on those feelings, all night and all day if need be, doing her skillful best to acquire not only an obsessive new lover, but a potentially useful and deadly ally.

17

C
atherine drifted back to reality, her arms locked tightly around a bunched feather bolster. She stretched slowly, languidly, inwardly noting each pleasurably bruised muscle. Her body tingled with a new awareness. She felt healthy and vigorous and alive, wanting to take back every sour, accusing word she had ever said to anyone in her lifetime and replace them all with laughter and smiles.

She opened her eyes and stared dreamily at the canopy overhead. She was in her bedchamber, ensconced in a nest of fat, cozy blankets. She could not remember precisely how she had come to be here. Her last vague recollection was of curling sleepily and contentedly against Alexander Cameron’s warm body, of feeling his arms enfold her and hold her close as if she had rendered him as utterly and blissfully depleted as he had rendered her.

The immodest thought produced such a flooding of guilt to her cheeks that she sank below the line of the covers until only her eyes and the pink tip of her nose were left exposed.

What on earth had come over her last night? What had come over the pair of them—cavorting like debauched lovers, first on the hearth in the fireroom, then in the huge featherbed, carrying on until sheer exhaustion had caused them to collapse into a deep sleep. Sweet merciful heavens … the things he had done! The things she had allowed him to do! Eighteen years of propriety, of striving to learn discipline and moral turpitude … gone. Gone in the passionate heat of one reckless night.

It never should have happened
, the prickling voice of her conscience hissed.
You should have stopped it. Stopped him
.

“I did not exactly encourage him,” she whispered aloud.

Didn’t you? What do you call parading around in a flimsy nightdress in front of a naked man?

“I did not know he was naked—”

How else does one bathe?

“I certainly did not know he was bathing!” Catherine insisted.

Well, when you found him and saw what he was doing, why did you not run back to your chamber and bolt the door?

She chewed her lip in agitation. It was a logical question and deserved a logical answer. Indeed, had fleeing not been her first impulse?

But you didn’t do it. You stood there and defied him again, knowing—knowing, I say—what his reaction would be
.

Catherine had no rebuttal, no defense. There
was
no defense; her actions had been utterly irresponsible, unconscionable … and just plain
foolish
. She was
weak
, in body and in spirit. So much for the lofty Miss Catherine Augustine Ashbrooke who thought herself to be so far above such base instincts. So much for her righteous contempt for her mother’s behavior—for that matter, hadn’t Lady Caroline said it was in her blood to make the best of the situation?
What
was in her blood, though? The ability to crave and feel passion, obviously, but was there nothing more? Last night she had become a woman in every sense of the word, yet she felt more childlike, more confused, more helpless than ever before, floundering in a sea of new doubts.

Might I also remind you that last night put to rest a quick and easy annulment along with your virginity?

Catherine groaned and buried her head in the pillow, but the little voice persisted, turning tart with sarcasm.

Lieutenant Garner will not be pleased. He had reserved the honor for himself—would have had it, too, had you simply refused your father and left Rosewood Hall on your own. You could have gone to London with Damien and been Mrs. Hamilton Garner by now
.