Beloved Highlander

He remembered now the way in which she had licked her delicate tongue over his skin, down over his belly to his cock. He hadn’t believed she would do it; he’d hoped she would, but he hadn’t really believed…but she had. Oh God, the feel of her tongue on him—he almost groaned aloud at the memory.

Who would have thought his bossy wife would use her sharp tongue to such effect? Or those luscious pink lips?

Gregor nuzzled against her, breathing in the scent of her, trying not to sneeze when her hair made his nose twitch. She stirred a little, wriggling closer against him, causing his cock to harden even more, nudging against her bottom.

How long before Abercauldy came? As soon as that creature Lorenzo was released, he would ride for home and spill his poison into the duke’s ear. Unless Lorenzo doesn’t go home. Gregor mentally shook his head. That would be murder, and Gregor was not a man who would stick a knife in another’s back. He preferred to face his enemies and look into their eyes. And then if he had to kill them, the fight was fair and equal.

Meg murmured in her dreams, as if his grim thoughts had disturbed her sweet slumber. He drew her closer still, delicately circling one nipple with his thumb. It perked up instantly, the dark rose flesh begging for the attention of his mouth. Gregor had known his bride was sensual—he had known it since the morning at Shona’s cottage—but he had not imagined she would be so quick to find pleasure in their marriage bed. Apart from her initial, natural caution, she had been eager to learn, and partake in what he could give her.

He would like to draw her.

The urge to draw came upon him at times—a tingling sense of anticipation when he discovered something that inspired him. It had been rare enough these days, and when did he have time to sketch the scenery or the faces about him? But now Gregor longed to capture the tilt of Meg’s chin, the fall of her hair, the sweep of her lashes over those brilliant eyes. And her lips, lush and full, their sensuality disguised by that straight line she ordered them into.

Aye, he must capture all that.

“You are not asleep, Gregor Grant.”

Her accusing tone surprised him from his thoughts, and he raised himself a little to look down on her. She was smiling, her mouth reddened from his kisses, a flush along her cheekbones, her eyes dark beneath their shielding lashes, and with violet shadows beneath from weariness.

He should let her be—Gregor knew it, but he also knew that he could not.

He wanted her. And once Lorenzo was freed, who knew how much longer they would have to enjoy such delights?

Meg cuddled closer to him. “I am so glad I decided not to be a wife in name only,” she sighed.

Gregor stared at her, and then he began to laugh. “Och, Meg, so am I!”

Chapter 20

“My lady?”

Meg opened her eyes. It was morning and the room was still and quiet, as it should have been. Except that someone else was in it with her; someone else’s breathing sounded by her side. She knew if she were to turn her head, then she would see Gregor Grant, his hair unbound, his strong, handsome face relaxed in sleep.

Her husband, her man, her lover, her love…

“My lady?” Alison was standing by the bed, peering anxiously into her face.

Her love?

Meg blinked, feeling disorientated and different. Not just in her body, which was stiff and sore in places she hadn’t known she had—as she realized when she tried to sit up—[ ]but different, too, in her mind and her heart. She felt a sense of foreboding. Something fundamental had changed within her, as if her eyes had gone brown overnight, but she did not as yet understand quite what it was.

“Alison?”

“’Tis Major Litchfield, my lady. He is to leave this morning and he has expressed a wish to say good-bye to ye. He says he is going to Ireland with his regiment, and he willna be back, mabbe ever.” Alison’s dark eyes were big at the thought of such a journey.

Major Litchfield was leaving, and saying good-bye was the least she could do, and yet…Almost reluctantly, but without the will to stop herself, Meg turned her head, and looked down at the man by her side.

He lay on his back, one arm flung above his head, the other curled over his stomach. The beard shadow on his cheek was dark, as dark as his eyebrows and his lashes. His lips were slightly apart, relaxed, the lines on his face smoothed out by sleep. He looked young, but innocent? There was nothing innocent in the breadth of his chest and shoulders, the swell of muscle in his upper arms, and the dark hair that furred his golden skin.

Meg felt her breath grow faster, shallower, as she remembered the night that had been. Her wedding night. He had done things, they had done things she had never imagined enjoying with any man. He had made her feel desire and passion; she could taste them still. Her fingers twitched to stroke him, her lips burned to kiss him, and to her amazed consternation she felt her body already preparing itself for his.

The sheer strength of her feelings frightened her.

When before had she ever contemplated, even for a moment, putting her own pleasure before her duty?

That was when Meg realized just how changed she was. And he had changed her. When he had taken her body with his, he had done much more than mark her flesh with his own. While he kissed her and touched her, he had reached into her chest. And taken her heart into his keeping.

Meg closed her eyes briefly, holding her breath, and clutched the knowledge to herself. Perhaps if she kept it secret, inside herself, then she could prevent it from affecting her.