Читать книгу Underneath The Mistletoe Collection - Джанис Мейнард, Marguerite Kaye - Страница 17
ОглавлениеIt was dark, but the party was only just hotting up, thanks to the fiddlers. A bundle of bairns slept snuggled together like a litter of puppies, some of them still clutching their sugar candy. In the recess at the far end of the room, in front of Robert Alexander’s model of the pier, Mhairi was holding court with a group of local wives. Miss Blair was dancing a wild reel with Eoin. This, Innes decided, was as good a time as any for them to make their getaway unobserved.
The night air was cool. He wrapped a soft shawl around Ainsley’s shoulders and led her down to her favourite spot, overlooking the Kyles. Above them, the stars formed a carpet of twinkling lights in the unusually clear sky. ‘It went well, didn’t it?’ she asked. ‘Save for that curse Mhairi’s brother made.’
‘Stupid man. If he really was so ashamed, he should have done something about it when my father was alive.’
‘From what you’ve told me about your father, Mr McIntosh would then have found himself homeless.’
Innes considered this for a few moments. ‘No. More likely my father despised Dodds McIntosh for not challenging him. His sense of honour was twisted, but he did have one.’
‘Perhaps he did love Mhairi, in his own way.’
‘My father never loved anyone, save himself.’
‘Not even your brother?’
Ainsley spoke so tentatively, Innes could not but realise she knew perfectly well how sensitive was the subject. He hesitated on the brink of a dismissive shrug, but she had done so much for him today, he felt he wanted to give her something back. ‘You’re thinking that my father’s wilful neglect of Strone Bridge is evidence of his grief for my brother, is that it?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m not so sure. My brother loved this place. If my father really cared, why would he destroy the thing Malcolm loved the most? Besides, Eoin said it was a gradual thing, the neglect.’
‘A slow realisation of what he’d lost?’
Innes shook his head. ‘A slow realisation that I was not coming back, more like. He destroyed it so that I would be left with nothing.’
‘And you are determined to prove him wrong?’
‘I’d prefer to say that I’m determined to put things right.’
‘How will you do that?’
‘I have no idea, and at the moment I have better things to think about.’
He kissed her in the moonlight, underneath the stars, to the accompaniment of the scrape of fiddles and the stomping of feet in the distance. She was not really his wife, but she understood him in a way that no one else did. He kissed her, telling her with his lips and his tongue and his hands not only of his desire, but that he wanted her here, like this.
‘Are you sure someone won’t come chasing after us to come back to the party?’ Ainsley whispered.
‘If they do, I’ll tell them they’re in danger of incurring a year of bad luck for interfering with the ancient and revered tradition of the Bonding,’ Innes replied.
He felt the soft tremor of her laughter. ‘Will you run up a special flag to declare it over, in the morning?’
‘I haven’t thought that far ahead. You know that you can change your mind if you don’t want to do this, don’t you? You must be tired.’
‘I’m not the least bit tired, and I don’t want to change my mind,’ she answered. ‘I think we’ve waited long enough.’
He kissed her again. She tasted so sweet. Her skin was luminous in the moonlight, her eyes dark. He kissed her, and she wrapped herself around him and kissed him back, and their kisses moved from sweet to urgent. Panting, Innes tore his mouth from hers. ‘I meant it,’ he said. ‘I am not expecting you to— We don’t have to...’
‘But you want to?’ she asked, with that smile of hers that seemed to connect straight to his groin.
‘I don’t think there can be any mistaking that.’
And she laughed, that other sound that connected up to his groin. ‘Good,’ she said, ‘because I want you, too.’
It was the way she said it, with confidence, unprompted, that delighted him most. He grabbed her hand, not trusting himself to kiss her again, and began to walk, as quickly as he could, towards the Home Farm. Ten minutes. It felt like an hour.
‘Does this Bonding take place in the laird’s bed or his lady’s?’ Ainsley asked as Innes opened the front door.
He kicked it shut, locking it securely, before he swept her up into his arms. ‘Right now, I’m not even sure we’ll make it to the bed.’
* * *
They did at least make it to her bedchamber. A fire burned in the cast-iron grate. Mhairi must have sent someone down from the castle to tend it. The curtains were drawn. A lamp stood on the hearth, another one on the nightstand, lending the room a pleasant glow. Ainsley stood, clasping her hands and wondering what she ought to do now. The excitement that had bubbled inside her dissipated as she eyed the bed, and memories of that other first night tried to poke their way into this one. She shivered, though it was not at all cold.
‘You can still change your mind,’ Innes said gently.
He meant it, too. A few days ago, Ainsley would have assumed that what he meant was that he had changed his mind. Even now, despite the fact that she knew how much he wanted her, she had to work to believe it. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to change my mind. I don’t.’ She looked at the lamps, wondering.
‘Do you want me to put them out?’
Like the last time. Like all of the last times. She shook her head. She would not have it like any other time.
‘Do you want me to leave you to undress?’ Innes asked.
‘I want...’ She studied him, focusing on him, drinking him in so that he was the only one there in the room with her. ‘I want you inside me,’ she said, meaning in her head, not meaning it how it sounded, though when she saw the results, the leap of desire in his eyes, the way he looked at her, with such passion, she meant that, too. ‘I want you,’ she said, closing the space between them, ‘and I want you to show me just how much you want me. That’s what I want.’
Innes pulled her tight up against him, lifting her off her feet. ‘I think I can manage that,’ he said, and kissed her, and she realised that he already had.
He picked her up, but instead of laying her down on the bed, he pulled the quilt onto the floor and laid her down by the fire. Quickly divesting himself of his jacket, his waistcoat, his boots and stockings, he stood over her wearing just his plaid and his shirt. The firelight flickered over the naked flesh of his legs. She caught a glimpse of muscled thighs as he knelt down beside her, pulling her into his arms again to kiss her. There was heat inside her. There was heat on her skin from the fire. There were little trails of heat where he touched her. Her face. Her neck. His mouth on her throat. Kissing his way along the curve of her décolletage, his tongue licking the swell of her breasts, his hands splayed on her back, feathering over the exposed skin of her nape, the knot at the top of her spine, then down to pick open the buttons of her gown.
He kissed the tender spot behind her ears. He slid her gown over her arms, kissing her shoulders, the crook of her elbow, her wrists, tilting her gently back to work her gown down, over her legs. When he took off her shoes, he kissed her ankles through the silk of her stockings. And her calves. The backs of her knees. His mouth, thin silk, her skin. She watched him, her eyes wide open, not wanting to miss a moment, enthralled, astonished that simply watching could be so stimulating. His cheeks were flushed. His blue-black hair, grown longer since he came to Strone Bridge, was ruffled. She ran her fingers through it. Soft as silk. She pulled him down towards her, wanting the weight of him on her, and claimed his mouth. Hot, his mouth was. ‘Sinful,’ she murmured, lips against lips. ‘I want to be sinful.’
Innes laughed, rolling to his knees again, pulling her with him to work at the ties of her stays. His eyes were dark in this light, midnight blue, his pupils dilated. His shirt was open at the neck. The firelight danced over it, showing her shadows of muscle, making her ache to touch him. While he worked on her corsets, cursing under his breath at the time it was taking, she tugged at the shirt, pulling it free from the leather belt, sighing as her palms found his flesh, sighing again when he flexed and his muscles tensed. Flesh. Heated flesh. She pressed her mouth to his throat and licked his skin, feeling the vibration of his response. Then his triumphant growl as he finally cast her corsets aside and tore at her shift, leaving her in just her pantaloons and her stockings, the bright pink of her garters, which perfectly matched the flowers on her gown.
A fleeting urge to cover up her breasts faded as Innes devoured her with his eyes and then feasted on her with his mouth. Sucking. Nipping. Stroking. Setting up paths of heat, making her blood pulse and the muscles inside her contract. She fell back onto the quilt, tensing, heating, watching him kiss her, touch her, watching his hands on her skin, tanned, rough hands, covering her breasts, flattened over her belly, then pulling at the drawstring of her last undergarment. She looked so pale in the firelight. Her skin milky. The curls between her thighs seemed tinged with autumn colours.
Innes smiled at her. She smiled back. Sinful. Sure. He pulled his shirt over his head, and she watched, clenching inside, the revelation of flesh and muscle, the smattering of dark hair on his chest, the thinner line from his navel to the belt of his kilt. The plaid tickled her thighs and her belly as he knelt over to kiss her. She could feel the tip of his shaft nudging between her legs. She tilted towards him, her fingers gripping into the muscles of his shoulders, and it touched her, the tensest part of her. ‘Yes,’ she said, not meaning to, not quite sure what she meant.
He sat up, still straddling her, and reached under his kilt, which was spread over the two of them. She could not see what he did, but she could see the intent in his eyes. Stroking, up and down, slick sliding, unmistakably not his hand, sliding. He was watching her. ‘Yes,’ she said, quite deliberately, ‘again.’
Stroking. Sliding. She must be wet. She was tight. She was getting tighter. Stroking and sliding. And then more stroking. And more sliding. And she came. Suddenly. What she now knew was a climax, though it felt like an explosion. He lifted her, his hands under her, cupping the bare flesh of her bottom as she cried out, and the pulsing took her over, and he pushed his way inside her, thick, hard, pushing her apart, finding his way higher as her muscles pulsed around him, pulling him in, tighter, and higher and tighter.
He paused, his face tense, his breathing heavy. ‘Ainsley?’
‘Yes. Oh, yes.’ She dug her fingers into his shoulder, remembering just in time Felicity’s caution. ‘But, Innes, be careful.’
‘Of course. I promise. Always.’ It pained her that he believed there was a need, then he tilted her farther, his hands cupping her bottom, and she forgot about it. She wrapped her legs around him, anxious, feeling anxious, not nervous, but like a runner, wanting to run, wanting to be off, wanting.
And then she was. Not running but better. He thrust inside her, and she met him, held him, thrust back. He thrust again, and she met him again. Not a race. But like a race. Inside her, tensing again, pooling, holding him tight. His chest was slick with sweat. The firelight danced over the planes of his chest. His eyes, midnight-dark eyes, were on her, watching her. She did not look away. She looked down at their bodies. At the dark, hard peaks of her nipples, at the shudder of her breasts as he thrust, and the entity that they were beneath his kilt, joined, flesh melding into flesh, heat and sweat. And then it happened, different but the same, a climax pulsing, and she heard him cry out, and pull away from her, chest heaving, as his climax took him, too.
* * *
Afterwards, she wanted to laugh with the sheer delight of it. Fun and pleasure, Felicity had said, and she had been right. ‘Astonishing,’ she said to Innes, and he laughed. ‘I had no idea,’ she said, and he laughed again, only it was a different kind of laugh. There was pride in it, and something proprietary. She would have minded that, under any other circumstances. Tonight, on what Madame Hera would no doubt call a voyage of discovery, Ainsley found that there was something rather exciting about a man in a kilt who looked as if he would like to mark every bit of her body as his own. She wanted to do the same to him herself.
She kissed him, tangling her tongue with his, pressing her breasts into the still-damp skin of his chest, relishing the frisson that the contact made, the roughness of his hair on the sensitive skin of her nipples. She straddled him in the firelight, as he had straddled her, and felt the stirrings of his member against her. Deciding that this time she wanted to see for herself, she undid the ornate buckle of his belt. The kilt fell open. She watched, fascinated, as he thickened and hardened before her eyes. She wanted to touch him, but this was quite new territory for her. Even the wanting was new.
Innes was leaning up on his elbows. She could see the ripple of his belly muscles as he breathed. His eyes on her. Waiting for her. ‘Tell me what you want,’ she said, an echo of what he had said, wanting to know, sure that what he wanted so too would she.
‘Touch me.’ She reached for him, running a tentative finger down the sleek length of him. He shuddered. She did it again. A finger, from the thick base of him, to the tip.
Innes’s chest rose and fell. ‘More,’ he said.
She could guess what he wanted now, but she would not. ‘Tell me,’ she said.
He knew she was playing. She could see he liked it. ‘Stroke me,’ he said.
She did, feathering her fingers up and down the length of him. ‘Like that?’
‘No. You know what I want.’
She leaned forward again, brushing her breasts against his chest. Her nipples ached. ‘Then tell me, Innes,’ she said, nipping his earlobe. ‘Tell me exactly what you want.’
‘Put your hands around me, Ainsley.’
She was shocked, not by what he asked, but by the effect it had on her. She sat up, sliding against him so that the soft folds of her sex touched his body, enjoying the separate frisson of pleasure this sent through her. Then she did what he asked. She wrapped her hand around his girth, and stroked. ‘Like that?’
He groaned.
She did it again. ‘Like that, Innes?’
‘Yes. Oh, Ainsley, yes.’
‘Not like this,’ she said, squeezing him lightly.
He swore.
‘Or like this?’ She slid herself against him. Her skin on his, her hand, her sex. Different textures. Same heat. She stroked. ‘Do you mean like this, Innes?’ she persisted.
‘You are a witch.’
‘A white witch, or a black witch?’ she asked, her fingers tightening and releasing, tightening and releasing.
He put his hands around her waist and lifted her, pulling her swiftly back down on top of him, entering her in one long, hard thrust. ‘A very, very bad witch,’ he said, pulling her down towards him and kissing her hard.
His kisses matched his thrusts. She matched his kisses first, and then dragged her mouth away to push back, to force him to match his thrusts to hers as she rode him, harder, faster and harder again, until they were both shouting, crying out. Hearing him, the change of note, feeling him, the thickening, feeling herself topple over the edge, she heaved herself free of him just in time to lie panting by his side on the quilt, by the fireside, utterly abandoned, utterly wanton, utterly satisfied.
‘So did you enjoy your wild Highlander?’ Innes asked her a few moments later.
‘I did not know it was expected that a lady should compliment a laird on his performance.’
‘Contrary to what you seem to think, we men like to know that we’ve pleased.’
Ainsley chuckled. ‘You definitely pleased, as you very well know.’
‘I’m glad you think so,’ Innes said with a teasing smile, ‘for I most certainly agree. In fact, it was so delightful I think we might even try it again in a wee while.’
* * *
‘I’m extremely sorry to intrude, but I could wait no longer, and your housekeeper told me she would not be the one to interrupt you, so—so here I am.’
Innes, clad only in his hastily donned plaid, sketched Felicity a bow. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’
Felicity handed the breakfast tray to Ainsley, flushing. ‘Never fear, I will not keep her long. I came only to bid you good morning and goodbye.’ As the door closed behind him, she turned towards Ainsley. ‘Not quite true, of course. I came to make sure you made it through the night unscathed. Did you?’
Ainsley, who had scrambled into the nightgown she had not worn last night, now pushed back the covers, blushing wildly, picking up her woollen wrapper from where it had fallen on the floor. ‘You can see I did.’
Felicity put her hands on her hips. ‘Well? Come on, I guessed after what you told me yesterday that it was your first time together.’
‘You were right. Again. It was both fun and pleasurable. And that’s all you’re getting,’ Ainsley said, sticking her nose in the air and trying to look smug. ‘Is that coffee? Would you like some?’
‘Yes, it is and no, I won’t, thank you. That scary housekeeper of yours produced breakfast for everyone who was left up at the Great Hall hours ago. Eoin said it’s true, her mother really was a witch.’
‘Do you mean you were there all night?’
‘Lots of people stayed. There’s not been a ceilidh at the castle for years. Did you know that the old laird stopped holding the Hogmanay celebrations when—’
‘The old laird! You’ve gone native, Felicity Blair. Was it Eoin who told you this, by chance?’
Felicity, to Ainsley’s amazement, blushed. ‘People used to look forward to the Hogmanay party for months,’ she said. ‘They’re already wondering, after yesterday, whether Innes will be holding one.’
‘And I’m wondering why you’re avoiding answering my question.’
‘Because I’m going back to Edinburgh today, and my life is complicated enough without adding a farmer who lives in the middle of nowhere into the mix,’ Felicity said tartly. ‘Sorry, Ains. Sorry.’
‘What’s wrong, Fliss?’
Her friend shook her head, blinking rapidly. ‘Nothing. I am tired from all that dancing and too much whisky, probably, and I have to go and pack, for the steamer leaves Rothesay this afternoon and I can’t afford to miss it.’
‘But...’
‘No. I’m fine.’ Felicity spoke brusquely. ‘Much more important, I can see that you are fine, so I can leave you without worrying too much. I’ve some more letters for Madame Hera. They’re on the dressing table in my room at the castle. And I’ve got the ones you’ve written to take with me. I think that Madame Hera’s latest venture is going to prove very popular. You are going to carry on with her, aren’t you?’
‘Of course I am,’ Ainsley said. ‘Why wouldn’t I? This— You know I’m only here temporarily. I’ll be back in Edinburgh soon enough.’
‘Or sooner, if you are unhappy. You promised, you remember?’
‘Yes, but...’ Ainsley stopped, on the verge of saying that she could not imagine being unhappy. She’d thought that before. ‘I remember,’ she said.
Felicity hugged her. ‘I’d better go. Just be careful, Ainsley, your Mr Drummond is a charmer. Don’t let him charm you too much. Take care of yourself, dearest. I’ll write.’
A kiss on the cheek, a flutter of her hands, the fainter sound of her bidding farewell to Innes and she was gone.
‘It’s bad luck to frown on the morning after the Bonding,’ Innes said, closing the bedroom door behind him. ‘What has Miss Blair said to upset you?’
‘Nothing.’ Ainsley poured the coffee. ‘I don’t know where we’re going to sit for breakfast. There are no chairs.’
‘We’ll take it in bed.’ Innes placed the tray in the centre of the mattress, patting the place beside him.
‘I wonder what possessed Mhairi to send up a tray? She never has before.’
‘Second sight,’ Innes said flippantly, handing her an oatcake. ‘She knew today was a holiday.’
‘I suppose that’s part of the tradition, is it?’
Innes grinned. ‘It is now.’
Ainsley looked down at the oatcake, which was spread with a generous layer of crowdie, just exactly as she liked it. She wondered if Innes would return to his own room tonight. She took a sip of coffee. It had always been John who decided whether or not to visit her. She had never once been in his bed. He had never once slept in hers. She took another sip of coffee. Not even in the earliest days of her marriage had John made love to her twice in one night. He’d never asked her what she wanted. Never seemed to imagine that she could want something more. It had never been fun, and there had been very little pleasure. This was different in every way.
‘What are you smiling at?’
Ainsley’s smile widened. ‘You’d think, after last night, that we’d want to spend the day in bed. Sleeping,’ she clarified hastily.
Innes refilled their coffee cups, and cut into a slice of ham. ‘Tempting as it sounds, I have other plans.’
‘You’ve tired of my charms already,’ Ainsley said, through a mouthful of oatcake.
‘I said I didn’t want to spend the day in bed, I did not say that I didn’t want to experience more of your charms.’
‘The palace of pleasures. There’s more, then?’
‘Keep looking at me like that and I’ll show you more right now.’
‘No, thank you, I’m much more interested in my breakfast,’ Ainsley said primly.
Innes leaned across the tray to lick a smear of crowdie from the corner of her mouth. ‘Fibber,’ he said.
She touched the tip of her tongue to his, then pushed him away. ‘You are not irresistible, Innes Drummond.’
‘No, I’m not.’ He pulled the oatcake from her hand and put it back down on the tray. ‘But you are,’ he said.
* * *
Ainsley leaned back, tilting her face to the sky. It was a guileless blue today, with not even a trace of puffy cloud as yet, and the sun was high enough to have some real warmth in it. The boat scudded along, bumping over the white-crested waves. The breeze was just sufficient to fill the red sail, to flick spray on to her face, but not enough to chill her. ‘It’s perfect,’ she said.
Innes took her hand and placed it on the tiller on top of his. ‘You’re supposed to be helping,’ he said.
‘I am.’ She smiled at him lazily. ‘By not interfering. Besides, I want to look at the view, it’s so lovely.’
They had sailed south down the Kyles of Bute towards the Isle of Arran, whose craggy peaks were such a contrast to the gentle, greener Isle of Bute, before veering east, round the very tip of the peninsula on which Strone Bridge was built, to follow the coastline north. ‘It’s only about fifteen miles overland from the castle,’ Innes told her, ‘but there’s just the drover’s roads and sheep tracks to follow.’
‘This is much nicer.’ Innes was wearing a thick fisherman’s jumper in navy blue that made his eyes seem the colour of the sea. With his tweed trews and heavy boots, his hair wildly tumbled and his jaw blue-black, for he had not shaved that morning, he looked very different from the man she had met all those weeks, months ago, at the lawyer’s office in Edinburgh. ‘Your London friends would not recognise you,’ she said. ‘You look like a native.’
‘A wild Highlander.’
She smoothed her palm over the roughness of his stubble. ‘Is this for me, then? Is this the day you drag me off to your lair and have your wicked way with me?’
‘Wasn’t last night enough?’
‘Didn’t you say this morning that there was more?’
Innes caught her hand and kissed it. His lips cold on her palm, then his mouth warm on each of her fingers. ‘Are you going to prove insatiable?’
‘Will that be a problem?’
Innes gave a shout of laughter. ‘It’s every man’s dream. There’s plenty more,’ he said, releasing her and hauling at the tiller to straighten the dinghy, ‘but unless you want us to end up on the rocks, maybe not just yet.’
Ainsley shuffled over on the narrow bench. ‘Where are we going?’
‘Wait and see. This is Ardlamont Bay. We are headed to the next one round. You can see now that we’ve not really come that far. If you look straight across, you’ll get a glimpse of the castle’s turrets.’
The breeze began to die down as they headed into St Ostell Bay. Directly across, the Isle of Arran lay like a sleeping lion, a bank of low, pinkish cloud that looked more like mist sitting behind it and giving it a mysterious air. In front of them stretched a crescent of beach, the sand turning from golden at the water’s edge to silver where high dunes covered in rough grass formed the border. Behind, a dark forest made the bay feel completely secluded.
The waters were very shallow. Innes pulled off his boots and stockings and rolled his trews up before jumping in and hauling the boat by the prow. Seeing that the water lapped only as high as his knees, Ainsley, who was wearing a skirt made from the local tweed, pulled off her stockings and shoes and followed suit. The little boat rocked precariously as she jumped over the side, and she gasped with the cold, stumbling as her feet sank into the soft sand.
The tide was on the ebb. Leaving the boat at the water’s edge, they made their way up the beach, Innes carrying the basket that he’d had Mhairi pack. There was not a trace of a breeze. The sun blazed down on them, giving the illusion of summer. The air was heady with salt and the scent of the pine trees. Shaking out her dripping skirts, Ainsley stopped to breathe it in, gazing around her with wonder. ‘It’s just beautiful.’
‘I’m glad you like it.’
They deposited the hamper and their shoes in the shelter of a high dune before picking their way along the stretch of the sands. ‘I like your Highland outfit,’ Innes said. ‘I’m not the only one who would be unrecognisable to their friends.’
Ainsley’s skirt was cut short, the hem finishing at her calf, in the local style, which gave her considerably more freedom of movement. She wore only a thin petticoat beneath, not the layers that were required to give fullness to her usual gowns, and a simple blouse on top, with a plaid. ‘It took me hours of practice to get this right,’ she said. ‘You see how it is folded to form these pockets? The local women have their knitting tucked into them. They can knit without even looking, have you noticed?’
‘Are you planning on making me a jersey?’
‘Good grief, no. I’ll wager Mhairi knitted that one.’
‘She did.’ Innes caught her as she stumbled, and tucked her hand into his. They headed down to the shoreline where the sand was harder packed and easier to walk on, but he did not release her. The wavelets were icy on her toes. In the shallows, flounders rippled under the sand. Spoots, the long, thin razor clams, blew up giveaway bubbles. At the western tip of the beach, a river burbled into the sea. ‘The Allt Osda,’ Innes said. ‘There’s often otters here. I don’t see any today.’
It was only then that she realised he must have come here as a boy. He talked about his childhood so rarely, it was easy to forget that he must have a host of memories attached to all these beautiful places, must have sailed around that coastline countless times. It was obvious, when she thought about it. The way he handled the boat. The fact that he’d navigated almost without looking. As they followed the river upstream on banks where the sand became dotted with shale, Ainsley puzzled over this. She still had no idea what haunted him, but she was certain something did.
The river narrowed before twisting onto higher ground. They crossed it, Innes holding her close as her feet slid on the weed-covered rocks, his own grip sure. It was odd, knowing him so well in some ways yet knowing so little of his past. Strange, for they had shared so much last night, yet she had no idea whatsoever right now of what he might be thinking, no idea of the memories he associated with this place, save they could not be bad. No, definitely not bad. He was distant but not defensive, simply lost in his thoughts.
It was a different ache, she felt. Not the sharp pang of feeling excluded, but something akin to nostalgia. Like pressing her nose against a toyshop as a child and seeing all the things she could not have. Silly. Fanciful. Wrong. It was not as if Innes had any more idea of what she was thinking after all. Nor cared. She caught herself short on that thought. Last night had been a revelation, but it was fun and pleasure, nothing more. Surprising as it was, this discovery that she could be so uninhibited, that the body she had been so ashamed of could be the source of such delight, she would do well not to read anything more into it. She and Innes were, as luck would have it, extremely well matched physically. No, it was not luck. That connection had been evident right from the start. And that was all it was. She’d better remember that.
* * *
Innes left her to unpack the basket while he went into the forest in search of wood. The sun was so warm, and the dune in which they sat so sheltered, that Ainsley could see no need for a fire, but when she said so, he told her she would be glad of it when she had had her swim.
‘You were teasing me,’ she said later, watching him as he made a small pit in the sand and lined it with stones. ‘The water is freezing.’
Innes began to kindle the sticks. ‘That’s why we need the fire.’
‘I can’t swim.’
‘Do you want to learn?’
Ainsley looked at the sea. Turquoise-blue, and, she had to admit, extremely alluring, with the sun sparkling on the shallows, the little wavelets making a shushing noise. Then she remembered the shock of cold on her feet when they had first landed. ‘No,’ she said decisively. ‘Perhaps another day, when it’s warmer.’
Innes, feeding bigger sticks to the small flame, shook his head. ‘It’s nearly September, the end of the summer—it doesn’t get much warmer, nor much colder, either.’ He settled a larger piece of wood on the fire, before joining her on the blanket. ‘We used to...’
The fire sparked. Innes put his arms around his knees, staring out at the sea. She waited for him to change the subject, as he always did when he stumbled on a memory, but he surprised her. ‘Malcolm and I,’ he said. ‘We used to come here the first day of the New Year to swim. It was our own personal ritual, after the Hogmanay celebrations.’
‘A cleansing?’ Ainsley joked. ‘Another form of a fresh start?’
‘Aye, the Drummonds are fond of those, aren’t they?’ Innes said ruefully. ‘Funnily enough, that’s how my brother always put it. He was an awful one for dressing things up, but the truth is, a dip in water that cold is the best cure for a whisky head that I know.’
‘Did you and your brother often have whisky heads, then?’
‘Only on special occasions, and in truth, it was mostly me. My father believed that the laird should be able to drink everyone under the table. When he gave Malcolm his first dram, he made him drink the whole lot in one swallow. Malcolm was sick. He never could hold his drink, but he became very good at pouring it down his sleeve or over his shoulder, or on one occasion into a suit of armour.’ Innes picked up a handful of soft sand, and watched as the grains trickled through his fingers. ‘Since I was not obliged to prove myself, I could drink until I was stotious.’
‘Like I was, on the sherry?’ Ainsley said, blushing faintly.
‘You were endearing. I fear that I was simply obnoxious, which is why I take good care not to drink too much these days.’ Innes wiped the last few grains of sand from his palm and pulled his jumper over his head. ‘Right, it’s now or never.’
‘You’re not really going to swim?’
‘I am.’ Innes pulled off his shirt and got to his feet. ‘I take it you’ll not be coming with me?’
‘I think this is one ritual you had better perform on your own,’ Ainsley said.
Innes paused in the act of unbuckling his belt. ‘I think I’ve told you before that you see a deal too much,’ he said. Before she could answer, he grinned and began to unfasten his trews. ‘Now, if you don’t turn your back, you’re going to see a great deal more.’
Ainsley looked up, deliberately running the tip of her tongue over her lower lip. ‘I think the view from here is going to prove even more attractive than the one out there,’ she said, waving vaguely in the direction of Arran without taking her eyes from Innes.
‘If you keep looking at me like that, the view will be considerably more defined than it is right now.’
She got to her feet, unable to resist flattening her palms over the hard breadth of his shoulders, down over his chest, grazing the hard nubs of his nipples. Innes’s eyes were beginning to glaze. Her own breathing was becoming rapid. He did not move. She slid her hands lower, to cup him through his trews. She trailed her fingers up his satisfyingly hard shaft. ‘I do believe you are my idea of perfect Highland scenery.’
Innes pulled her to him roughly. ‘Did I tell you that you’re a witch?’
She wanted him. He was more than ready. His mouth was inches away from hers. All she had to do was tilt her head. Ainsley laughed, that soft, guttural sound she knew he found arousing. ‘I think I’ll be perfectly satisfied just taking in the view,’ she said, freeing herself.
She turned away, but Innes caught her and hauled her back. His smile looked like hers felt. Teasing. Aroused. ‘I’ll be cold when I come out of the water.’
‘And wet,’ she said.
‘And wet,’ he said softly.
His hand covered her breast. Even through her corset, she felt her nipple harden in response. She shuddered. ‘I’ll keep the fire going.’
Innes nipped her ear lobe. ‘I hope so, though I suspect that I’ll need a little help with my blood flow.’
Her own blood was positively pulsing. ‘What did you have in mind?’ Ainsley whispered.
‘I am sure you’ll think of something.’ His lips found hers in the briefest of kisses. ‘Unless you’ve changed your mind and decided to swim with me?’
It was tempting, but she forced herself to wriggle free. ‘The best things come to those who wait, isn’t that what they say?’
‘I just hope it’s worth it,’ Innes said, laughing, pulling off the rest of his clothes.
He stood before her quite naked, and completely aroused. Ainsley watched him making his way down the beach, long legs, tight, muscled buttocks, and thought she had never seen such a wickedly tempting sight in her life. ‘Innes,’ she called, waiting for him to turn around. ‘It already is.’
* * *
Innes began to run down the beach, forcing himself to continue as he hit the shallows, knowing that if he stopped, if he turned around, he would immediately turn back. The water was freezing. He’d forgotten. With the tide out, the shallows went on for ever. He’d forgotten that, too. It had been a joke between them, he and Malcolm, that you would reach Arran before it was deep enough to swim.
It was over his knees now, and up to his thighs. He slowed, took to wading, his feet sinking into the soft sand, the flounder scooting out from under him the merest ripple of sand. When a wave hit his groin, he gasped and looked ruefully down. It wasn’t just a whisky head the water cured. He dipped his hands into the water, and splashed water over his arms, his shoulders, then caught himself as he dipped his head down to throw more over his face. Malcolm, who always dived straight under, used to laugh at him when he did this. Innes stood up, closing his eyes and lifting his face up to the sun. It didn’t hurt here. It didn’t hurt to think of him. The memories here were all good. Looking over his shoulder, he saw that Ainsley had followed him down the beach and was standing in the shadows, clutching the blanket. He gave her a mocking salute and dived in.
* * *
When he emerged, fifteen minutes later, she was still there, holding the blanket open. Innes was shivering, and embarrassed at the effect the icy water had had on him. Instinctively, his hand moved to cover himself, but she was watching him, and her watching him was far better for his condition than the cold skin of his own hand. He waded out slowly, pushing his hair out of his eyes, relishing the rays of the sun on his back, his skin tingling from the salt. He liked to look at women naked, and he liked them to look at him, but it had always been in the privacy of a bedchamber, and it had never been like this. Ainsley found the idea of him as some sort of savage Highlander arousing, and he found that he liked playing the part. He’d never done that before.
By the time he reached her, the effect of the cold was definitely wearing off. Ainsley handed him the blanket, which he wrapped around his shoulders. ‘Well?’ he asked.
‘The scenery was most elevating,’ she said, then blushed. ‘I did not mean...’
Innes laughed. ‘Not quite, but it will be.’
‘I don’t know how it is, but when I am with you I say the most shocking things.’
‘Delightful is what I’d call them. Why is it, do you think?’
‘I will not pander to your ego by telling you.’
They had reached the dune. Innes put some wood on the fire. ‘That’s a shame, because I rather like the idea of you pandering to me.’
‘What particular kind of pandering do you have in mind?’
‘You could heat me up.’
‘It’s only fair, I suppose, since you got so cold at my request.’
‘I did.’ He made a point of shivering, and tried to look soulful. ‘You could rub me down with the blanket.’
She eyed him speculatively. ‘I could certainly rub you down,’ she said, pulling the blanket from his shoulders and shaking it out onto the sand, ‘but I don’t think we need the blanket. Lie down.’
He did as she asked, his body already stirring in anticipation. Ainsley slipped off her undergarments, then sat on top of him. She was warm and wet. His shaft thickened, eager to be inside her, but she slid away from him, spreading her skirts around them, just as he had spread his kilt over the pair of them last night. Then she touched him, her hands forming a cocoon around him, and slowly, gently, delightfully, began to stroke.
He bucked under her. She gripped him with her thighs. He closed his eyes, praying for control. It was agonising, her touch feathery, the slightest of friction, not enough but almost too much. He dug his hands into the sand. He dug his heels in, but it was unbearable. With a guttural cry and a surge of desire he would have thought impossible after the night’s exertions, Innes rolled her over onto her back, imprisoning her wrists above her head. ‘Please,’ he said, in a voice he barely recognised, ‘say that you are ready, because I don’t want to wait.’
‘Then don’t,’ she said.
He kissed her, plunging his tongue into her mouth and entering her at the same time in one long, deep thrust. She met him, pushing up underneath him, clenching hard around him. He thrust again. Her mouth was hot on his, her kisses wild. She struggled to release her arms. When he held her, she dug her heels into his behind. He thrust again, and she met him with equal force, and he felt her tense, the sudden stillness before the crash that made him contract and sent the blood rushing, and he thrust again, hard, and again, deeper, with her crying out and holding him and digging her heels in and urging him on, to pound deep, deep inside her, so that when she came, pulsing around him, it took every ounce of his resolution to pull away, spilling onto the sand, then falling down onto the blanket, gasping, slick with sweat, panting, pulling her on top of him, the frantic beat of her heart clashing with his.
