Enraptured (Mockingbird Square 2)

“I was jealous,” she said, before she could change her mind. “That was part of the reason why I was so . . . I was jealous, Rory. You’re mine and I don’t want any other woman looking at you as if she expects me to share.”

He chuckled and she was glad he couldn’t see the colour of her face in the darkness. His lips found hers, a gentle kiss. “I am yours,” he murmured, and kissed her again, deeper this time, until she forgot everything but the taste and feel of him, the heat of his mouth on hers.

His hand closed over her breast—she was wearing her nightdress, but her nipple prodded his palm through the cloth. He bent his head and sucked her until the material clung wetly, increasing her pleasure and making her arch against him.

Rory was already naked. She’d seen him strip off his clothing before climbing into the bed and closing the doors, his body sculptured against the lamplight. It had felt a little like their wedding night, and now she was desperate to cross that final intimate bridge that lay between them.

He reached to draw her nightdress over her head, and once it was gone, she wound her arms about his neck and pulled him down to her. The tips of her breasts brushed against the hairs on his chest, and she rubbed her thigh against his. He was stroking her belly and she ached for him to go lower, so that when his fingers finally found the slippery cleft between her thighs, she was more than ready for him.

Rory murmured something against her lips that sounded like “My love” and then he was above her and inside her, and all around her, and the world turned molten as she gasped out his name.

“Don’t go,” she cried out sleepily.

Rory had moved in the narrow confines of their bed, easing a cramped muscle. “I’m not going anywhere,” he assured her. He had every intention of staying with her tonight and every night from this moment forward. The feel of her under him, her soft warm breath against his skin, was something he had missed with an unbearable ache.

He was ready again, and sleepy as she was, he wasn’t going to spare her. His beautiful English wife. He tilted her face to his and claimed her mouth and heard her response. A soft groan of desire.

When Olivia had set down her rules, that they would talk and not touch, he had thought it made sense. As much as he tossed and turned at night, dreaming of making love to her, he wanted to please her. Now he was wondering if it had been such a good idea after all. Their bodies were so well attuned, it seemed a sin not to make use of their physical bond to reconnect.

His mouth followed a trail over her bare skin, the soft handful of her breasts and the way her nipples jutted up, perfect for his mouth to tease their aching tips. She gasped out his name and pulled him closer, her hands restless on his back and sides, as if she couldn’t wait any longer.

Rory smiled against her mouth and suddenly he felt as if he had all the time in the world.

He was teasing her, and frustration made her bold. Until she’d married him she had not known that the flesh could be such a wicked task master.

“Rory!” she wailed.

Hands on his chest she pushed him onto his back and he felt her soft curves as she climbed on top. Her mouth skimmed over his belly and then he almost leapt off the bed when the heat of it closed over the hard length of him. Now she was smiling; he could feel the shape of her lips.

Enough, he decided, and reaching down he lifted her into position. A moment later she was taking her own pleasure, uncaring of who heard her, while he groaned out her name.

Chapter Thirteen

1816, Summer

Scotland

Olivia stood on the rocky shoreline and breathed deep of the sea air. The wind tangled her hair and tossed her skirts, until she felt as if she might take off and fly like the seabirds hovering on the air currents above. She closed her eyes.

This was hers, this stony piece of land on the edge of the Atlantic Ocean. Her piece of Scotland.

She hadn’t expected to feel so much a part of it. That, she decided, was because of Rory. He had taught her to love this land as much as he did. She had changed from the apprehensive girl who had come with him from London with her portmanteau.

She glanced over to him and found him watching her, smiling. She smiled back. “Does anyone live here?” she called out above the wind, for the place seemed deserted.

“There’s a village,” he said. “We can stay there tonight and tomorrow we must begin our return journey.”

She opened her mouth to ask for more time but he had already looked beyond her, out to sea, and she thought she caught a glimpse of sadness in his face. He wanted to go home to Invermar, and she thought she guessed why.

The village was nothing but a few cottages but she had seen similar places on the journey here so she wasn’t dismayed. And as usual the people who lived here shared all they had in an incredible display of kindness and hospitality.

After they had eaten the fish and oats, and drunk the whiskey that had been made in one of the illegal stills so common in the Highlands, they lay down together under the one blanket. The ground beneath was hard but Rory’s arms were warm and safe, and Olivia snuggled closer.

“Will we ever come here again?” she asked, a trace of wistfulness in her voice.

“If you want to. We need to go home though, back to Invermar. My father . . .”

He didn’t say more but she knew. “He’s unwell.”