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Jamie giggled and Abigail felt a small smile tug at her lips. They hadn’t found any badgers on their ramble, but it’d been quite fun, anyway. Miss Munroe was very stern, but she knew all kinds of interesting things, and Miss McDonald was funny.
“Ah, here we are,” Miss Munroe said as they came within sight of the castle. “I’m for tea and some muffins, I think. Who’s with me?”
“I am!” Jamie exclaimed at once.
“Excellent.” Miss Munroe beamed at Jamie.
“What shall I do with Puddles?” Abigail looked down at the sleeping puppy in her arms.
“We need to think of a better name for that dog,” Miss McDonald muttered.
“Has he a bed in the kitchen?” Miss Munroe asked.
“We’ve found an old coal box,” Jamie replied.
“Mmm. Best line it with some straw and a blanket if you have it,” Miss Munroe said.
“I’ll go look in the stables,” Abigail said.
“Good girl,” Miss Munroe said. “We’ll save a muffin for you in the sitting room.”
The others went inside the castle while Abigail continued around the side to the stables.
“Maybe we can find an old blanket or coat for you,” she whispered to the sleeping puppy in her arms. Puddles’s soft ear twitched as if he heard her even in his sleep.
e brought his mouth to her breast, sucking strongly, warmly, on her tender nipple. She arched her back in reaction, catching his head, holding it close to her breast. She stroked her fingers into his silky hair. Maybe he was right. Maybe she shouldn’t worry. Maybe she should, for this short while, merely feel.
He switched to her other breast, holding her in the curve of his left thumb and forefinger. He thumbed the damp nipple he’d just left, starting twin flickers of desire in her. She widened her legs, trying to pull him closer, but he was solid and heavy and wouldn’t move until he was ready.
A small whimper of frustration escaped her lips.
He raised his head, his cheekbones flushed, and his eye gleaming roguishly. “Is this what you want?”
He held her gaze as he trailed his hand down over her trembling belly and into the curling hair at the juncture of her thighs.
“Alistair!” she gasped. “I don’t know if—”
“Don’t you?” he murmured, his gaze growing heavy. “Don’t you know, Helen?”
And as she watched his face, mesmerized, embarrassed, and hotly aroused, he touched her there. Her lips parted in soundless wonder. His thumb rubbed her in gentle circles. His fingers softly petted her, parting, stroking, exploring.
“Oh,” she gasped.
“Look at me,” he whispered. “Keep your eyes on me.”
He entered her with his finger, slowly, smiling when her eyes widened. He withdrew the finger and thrust again, his thumb keeping up the soft circling at her center. Her eyelids drooped. She felt hot. She was afraid she might make some awful animal sound if he continued, and at the same time she didn’t want him to stop.
“Helen,” he crooned. “Bonny Helen. Come and cover my fingers with your sweet dew.”
Her head fell back, lolling restlessly on her shoulders. It was as if she were in a dream. She was a wanton, a lovely desirable wanton, and he was a man worshipping her. She felt his hot mouth on her throat, kissing, tonguing, and it began. Little tremors that built to a shaking, pounding rush of heat and pleasure—so much pleasure that for a time she lost herself entirely.
When she opened her eyes long moments later, he was watching her, his hand still softly stroking.
“Did you like that?” he asked, his voice more tender than she’d ever heard it.
She could only nod, heat rushing to her cheeks.
“Good.” He withdrew his hand and unbuttoned the flap of his breeches. “Let’s see if we can do that again, shall we?”
