To Tempt a Scotsman Read online

  "Please tell me you're not afraid."

  "No. No, I want it. Please."

  He'd shifted his weight as he spoke, freed a hand to smooth down her belly to cup that whole throbbing-soft place between her legs. A small shudder flew through her as his fingers pressed gently.

  "Are you tender?"

  She shook her head, frantic.

  "What about here?" One long finger eased into her body.

  "Oh!" Alex squirmed hard against the heel of his hand. "No!"

  "And this?"

  "Oh," she repeated as a second finger pressed against her, urged her flesh to give way. Her body took him snugly in with the slightest twinge of discomfort. "Just a little."

  "Mm. And here?" He smiled as he asked, smiled as he rubbed his hand in a firm circle that rolled her eyes in her skull.

  Wet heat touched her breast and her eyes popped open to find his head bent over her nipple, to see the flick of his tongue as he teased her.

  "Oh, God," she moaned as tendrils of sharp heat squeezed through her body, flickering up and down on invisible threads that linked her breasts to her womb.

  His mouth left her, his fingers too. She moaned a protest, but was held speechless by the continuing sparks of pleasure. A soft touch urged her legs apart, and when she opened her heavy eyes he was poised above her, face fierce and edged with that wildness. A firm length rubbed her, sent sparks flying again, then he was stretching her, filling her with one slow push of his hips.

  Alexandra's mouth fell open to suck in air. The pressure was tremendous, a little uncomfortable, but good in a way she couldn't have imagined. He eased something deep inside her, pushed her wide and open, making a place for himself inside her body that she hadn't known was there.

  His hips finally sat tight in the curve of her thighs. There. There. He did fit. Tears filled her eyes. She arched her head away to hide them but heard his sharp breath all the same.

  "Alex?" he started to lift up.

  "Yes," she gasped and clasped her hands behind his neck.

  His whole body heaved with a sigh before he curved into her and kissed her deeply. The tug of his body sliding out made her writhe until he thrust back in, less gently this time. Another withdrawal. He eased further up her body then, shifted his hips and this time, this time, when he thrust he rubbed against a spot that sent pleasure breaking along her skin like cracks in weakening glass.

  A high croak jumped from her throat.

  "Ah," Collin moaned, a pleased sound.

  Oh, God, he moved again, pushing and rubbing and fill­ing until she screamed. In and out and in again, so smoothly that it all blended together into one long assault of pleasure twisting her insides into knots of joy.

  Some small part of her mind felt the skin of his shoul­ders give under her nails and reveled in his hiss of pain. His hurt got tied up somehow in her pleasure and she knew she should stop and couldn't. Couldn't let go her grip on him, and the harder she clutched the harder he thrust, until the tight coil in her belly finally sprung loose, overwhelm­ing her as nothing ever had.

  Alex screamed, screamed till her throat hurt and the sound died, but she still gasped and sobbed into his neck because he didn't stop. He kept driving into her and it came again, exploding waves that jerked her hips even under his weight.

  She couldn't bear any more, almost asked him to stop, but she opened her clenched eyes and the sight of his face stilled her words. He was beautiful, strained and stark and blind with pleasure. The tendons of his neck stood out like metal under flesh. His cheekbones pushed against his skin. And then she saw it coming over him even as it built again in her. As she closed her eyes and opened herself, he quickened and roughened and shuddered. When he slipped out of her body, she wanted to weep, but clasped him to her instead, holding tight as she could while pleasure wracked him.

  The world swirled around their bed, settling and stilling as the minutes passed. Alexandra stared in disbelief at the timbers of the ceiling above.

  "You were . . ." She swallowed her hoarseness. "You were right. We fit splendidly."

  Collin's body shook above her. She took it to be laugh­ter, but he didn't make a sound. He pressed a kiss to her shoulder. "I've never fit quite so well in my life."

  "No?" A pleased warmth swept over her, coaxing a grin.

  His weight lightened as he raised to his elbows to peer at her smile. He smiled back. "No."

  Alex threw her arms around his neck and laughed aloud.

  Chapter 12

  When Collin woke, the evening sun fell across their bodies in a hot line. Alex had thrown aside the blankets so her naked body glowed a soft peach in the light.

  Collin turned onto his back. He didn't need to watch her, couldn't bear to. A few days more, a week, that's all he had. And he'd already memorized every slow curve, every hollow.

  Her soft thigh pressed against his in a line of damp heat, so that he felt her waking long before she stretched.

  "Dinner." Her stretch ended with a tantalizing wiggle of her bottom as she burrowed into the sheets. Collin smiled at the ceiling and pressed his hip more firmly against her arse.

  "I took care of breakfast. Isn't it your turn to serve?"

  A hand emerged from the linens to wave him away. "Hungry. Food."

  He shook his head and decided to indulge her. Better to have her in his debt for the rest of the evening. There were far more tantalizing things than food she could present to him. His body pulsed to life at the idea.

  Collin slipped from the bed and padded naked to the kitchen. He gathered up food and plate, wine and water, more wine. By the time he returned to the room, Alex was smiling sleepily in his direction.

  "Good evening, Mr. Blackburn," she purred, her words a glide of satin over his bare skin. "Are you going to serve me in bed?" Her bold words were in delicious contrast to the blush that fired her cheeks. Everything about her was delicious and contrary.

  "Aye," he answered, approaching with the oak tray. "I am obedient in all things."

  "Oh, not true, sir. You are willful. Insolent, even."

  Collin filled a glass to the brim with wine and held it carefully out. "I am only looking out for your good, Mis­tress. You are known to be rash and hurried in some arenas."

  "Mm. I'll concede that. You were exceedingly instruc­tive today."

  "Perhaps you shall promote me to tutor."

  Alexandra took a long sip from her wine. Collin watched the slide and swallow of her white throat. When she licked an errant drop from her lips, her eyes fell, caught by the swelling of his body. "A tutor. I should like that very much." Collin felt his skin stretching. "Will you teach me how to please you, then?" She licked her lips again, glanced up through lashes to gauge his reaction.

  "My God," he laughed. "You are shameless." His tone and his tumescence left little doubt where he stood on the issue. Her shamelessness aroused him completely. "Eat your dinner, caitein. We'll continue this discussion later."

  She sighed as if in grief, then set to her food with an en­thusiasm that belied her acting. Her sheet fell away, ex­posing those small breasts that had branded his hands. Collin watched with sheer appreciation as he sat down on the bed, the tray a temporary barrier between them. The woman had not a stitch of modesty. She sat there, naked, and dined with him as if she attended nude dinner parties on a regular basis. Even the most experienced of women he'd bedded had always developed an odd consciousness of their bodies after the lust wore off. Not Alexandra. She but­tered her bread and raised her glass with nothing more than a friendly sparkle in his direction. Her breasts bobbed with each motion, utterly distracting him.

  "Aren't you going to eat?" she asked at one point. "Of course," he answered and fed himself without tast­ing a morsel.

  By God, she was lovely. And what was he to do with her? She'd return to Somerhart soon, and then what? Find another lover? She couldn't remain chaste. Even as a virgin, she'd been pulsing with sensuality; now that she'd discovered the workings of her body . . . His ja
w popped in the quiet room.

  Alexandra didn't notice. She'd discovered a peach tart and was biting into it, eyes closed in pleasure. Her tangled mess of curls swept against her shoulders and down over the smooth arch of her back. Her movements stirred the scent of lavender and sex that clung to her.

  Fear spiked his blood, and Collin drained his goblet in defense. He should marry her, wealth and standing be damned. He didn't want her to ever take another lover, but he did not want her waking every morning alone either. He wanted to slip between her thighs as she slept, wake her each day to the feel of his cock sliding deep and true into her body.

  She caught his gaze and her eyes widened in surprise. Collin looked away to hide the sharpness of his passion. "More wine?"

  As soon as he'd lifted the bottle, she grabbed the tray and hauled it off the bed, staggering a little under its weight. She held out her glass when she returned, watch­ing while he poured the wine.

  Glass full again, she sauntered away to stand at the window, watching the coming dark. Collin devoured the sight of her, framed against the haunting blue of dusk.

  "This is my favorite time of day," she murmured. "No matter where you are, the world looks beautiful."

  "You're beautiful."

  She tossed him a surprisingly demure smile. "You don't think I look like a boy?"

  Wine stung his throat, wrenching a cough from his lungs. "A boy?" he croaked.

  "I've no breasts to speak of, no hips." She shrugged, turning to lean her back against the window sill.

  "You've perfect breasts, Alex. And precious hips." She rolled her eyes. "And your arse alone could make a man weep with joy."

  "What?"

  "Oh, yes. You've a backside like two halves of a melon, sweet and firm and tasting of nectar."

  "Ha!" She laughed at his words but glanced back as if to weigh their truth.

  "Do ye no' believe me?" He growled playfully and stood. Her eyes fell to take in his reaction.

  "I suppose I must."

  "Trobhad, caitein"

  "Oh, my tutelage begins with Gaelic. What does that mean? lCaitein,T

  "It means cat, kitten. That's what you remind me of, sleek and small and canny."

  "I like that." Her eyes roamed over him, warm with ap­proval at the sight he provided. Collin stood before her and let her look. "And what's that called?"

  Collin looked down. "Coileach. Cock."

  Alexandra slid toward him, touched one finger to the tip. He hissed and grasped her wrist.

  "I want you more than life itself, caitein, but you're surely too tender."

  "Mm. I will admit to a certain soreness."

  He held her wrist, but couldn't summon the will to move her hand. Her finger stroked, circled the ridge of his head.

  "But I was not raised in a nunnery, if you'll recall. And I've heard tell that men enjoy any number of pleasures." Her fingers danced a sizzling path up his shaft.

  "As do women," Collin growled, letting go his hold. Those fingers wrapped around him, cool against his heat, and firmed with the barest pressure.

  Alexandra leaned close, rubbed her cheek against his chest as if she were the cat he'd named her. Her breath touched his nipple. "I am obedient in all things, my lord."

  * * *

  Collin shifted in a dark haze of sleep, tried to move away from the heat that seared his side. Sweat dampened the bedsheets, and he kicked them away, twisting to lie on his stomach.

  Better. Fresh air settled over him, cooling the damp. His mind stirred a touch, waking him to frown into the pillow. He was missing something.

  Ah. His woman.

  The sheet wrapped persistently around his arm when he pulled. He untangled himself with a grumble and reached blindly for some part of her. His hand touched fire.

  "Shit," he croaked and jerked away to push himself up to his elbows. Blinking around, he tried to orient his eyes to the moonlight. There was Alex, sprawled in all her glory across the other side of the bed. He stared, afraid. His brain roused itself another notch and told him to stop acting a fool.

  Collin pushed one hand forward through the fog of his anxiety to lay a hand on her arm.

  "My God," he breathed at the feel of her skin. She burned. She burned so hot it brought his heart to his throat. "Alex?" Her name did not rouse her, even loud and edged with panic as it was. -

  His body froze, half-raised. If he didn't move, didn't rise to light a lamp, perhaps he could just go back to sleep and leave this dream to the night. He took his fingers from the hot iron of her skin and trailed them through her hair.

  "Caitein, wake up. Please." Not even a whimper touched the dark room. "Christ."

  Collin sprang from the bed, ran to her side to set match to lamp. Even as the wick sputtered, he clasped her burning face between his hands. Her skin gleamed white, grew whiter as the flame caught and grew. Even her freckles seemed gone, burned off by the heat. Two streaks of crimson scalded her cheeks, mocking the flush of good health and turning her ghastly.

  Collin held his breath and cupped her cheeks in his palms. "Oh, Alex." No one could burn like this and sur­vive, certainly not this slip of a woman. She would die.

  He surged to his feet and rushed about the room, scram­bling into clothes and boots. He wet a towel in the basin and approached her again, not wanting to, hating to see her slack face. When he stroked the water over her skin, she stirred a tiny bit, moaning against his wrist.

  "Caitein, listen to me." Her eyes rolled behind their lids. "Listen. You must be strong. Please? I'll get you to a doctor." The water seemed to dry before he'd even moved the towel away. It had taken some of the heat from her though; the linen steamed in his hand. "Alex?"

  Not even her eyes stirred this time.

  Terror seized his gut. They were alone here. Alone with naught more than a tiny village to run to. There could be no doctor there, likely they went to an herb woman for care. Still, she'd only just fallen ill. Surely there was time to think. People did not die from the fever in hours. No, it took days at least.

  The thought of her death spurred him back to action. Wisps of silk fluttered through the air as he tore through the dresser drawers, searching for some garment to cover her nakedness. He had to take her with him, he couldn't run to the village and leave her here alone. What if. . . ?

  Collin looked blindly down at the frothy pile of under­garments at his feet. What could be done for a fever anyway? A doctor would check her eyes and pulse, tell him to give her broth and pray for the best. Prepare for the worst, he'd say. Pray for the best. It is in God's hands. How many times had he heard that as a child? He had to get her home to Somerhart.

  He bounded to the wardrobe, pulled out a dress and threw it on the bed. Water splashed over his hands and clothes as he hurried the basin to her side to sponge again over her pale lips and bright cheeks, down to her breasts and belly and arms. Somerhart. It was south of here, he knew that. South through the village down the road. Per­haps someone there knew the fastest way.

  Collin dressed her with as much care as he could manage, cringing at her whimpers, whispering to soothe her. When she was decently covered, he pulled the quilt from the foot of the bed and wrapped her in that too, before he carried her from the room and downstairs.

  "All right, Alex," he breathed, laying her on the couch. "All right. I need to get the horses. I'll be right back."

  He sprinted toward the door, rocked back to a halt as he glanced at the kitchen and back to her, torn. His arms ached with fear and the need to keep her close. But the horses needed to be readied and what of the tending she needed before they left?

  "Christ," he cursed, whipping open the door. Even as he lifted a foot over the threshold, he cursed again and spun around to stalk back to the kitchen.

  "Drink," he crooned to her a moment later, pressing a glass to her open lips. Her throat worked for a moment, but she swallowed no more than a teaspoon before a terrible choking cough tore from her body.

  She cried out, reaching for he
r throat as the glass shat­tered with a frightening noise against the wood floor. He started to snatch her up, thinking she was choking, but she turned her head and vomited, purging the meal they'd eaten just a few hours before.

  "Oh, Jesus," he groaned, and smoothed her hair back with a shaking hand. If she couldn't keep down even water, what was he to do for her? "Oh, God."

  He wasted no time then. He cleaned up the mess as best he could, then bounded out the door to saddle both horses, praying he could keep them from going lame if he switched them often enough. Still, dark roads and an extra rider. . . Things could go badly. The horses snorted and stomped as he brought them out, disturbed by his agitation and their strange awakening. Collin had no time to comfort them. He bundled Alex up and mounted Samson on the second try.

  "Don't worry, caitein. I'll see you safe." He did not dare to think whether his promise could be kept.

  The thick wood door boomed beneath his fist, the sound echoing like thunder through the dark lane.

  "Ach. Calm yerself!" a grizzled voice shouted from within. The door flew open to frame a portly man in a nightshirt.

  "I need assistance. Can you tell me the way to Somerhart?"

  "Summer what? Do ye know what time 'tis?"

  "Aye. Past midnight. Do you not know Somerhart? The duke's home?"

  "What the hell would I have to do with a duke?"

  Collin held back a growl. "Where does Mistress Betsy live?"

  "Who?"

  "Damn it—"

  "She's down the row, two houses in," a voice shouted from the next doorway.

  Collin raised a hand in thanks and whirled around to carry Alex into the darkness. The second house in was wide and rambling and very, very old. Betsy herself answered.

  "Betsy," Collin huffed. "The lady is ill. A fever. There is no doctor about?"