His heart thumped like a drum. What honor he possessed was threadbare at the moment. Every hot pulse through his body was telling him to snatch her up and carry her off to his room. Instead, he gripped the top rail of the chair with both hands and managed one last burst of reason.
“I’m also the man who betrayed the faith of a valued friend by stealing a family jewel. The man who slit the throat of drunken sot in a dark Edinburgh wynd. The man who left his own brother to rot in a prison cell, making no attempt to save him.”
Her smile turned sad. “All tales that I hope you’ll share the truth of one day.”
He stared at her, unable to fathom her belief in him.
She pressed her lips to the corner of his mouth, soft and sweet. “Perhaps I trust too easily. I’ve certainly been disappointed by the actions of others in the past. But you’ve had numerous opportunities to take advantage and have taken none.”
“I kissed you in the cellars,” he pointed out.
“I recall that,” she said, laughing lightly in his ear. Stirring the hairs at his temple and sending a wave of molten need rushing to his loins. “Hardly what I would label as taking advantage, however. It was quite delightful, but far too short.”
Ithadbeen short. By necessity. He’d been dangerously close to losing control—but nowhere near as close as he was this moment. The lass had no idea how desperate his desire was, but if he turned to face her, she’d know in an instant.
Her hot, wet lips found his earlobe, suckling. “Would you kiss me again?”
Dear god. Only a saint would be able to resist such a plea. And he was no saint.
Bran grabbed her shoulders and hauled her against his body, relishing every soft curve and gentle mound that met his press. He claimed her mouth with a kiss that was half raw hunger, half frustration. She had driven him to the edge of reason—and beyond. All he knew was the fierce pound of blood through his body and an unrelenting need. A need that could be slaked only by Caitrina de Montfort.
He mashed his lips against hers, demanding everything she could give him.
And she gave. Willingly.
Her arms wrapped around his neck, holding him tight, inviting him to deepen the kiss. Which he did. With a sweep of his tongue, he parted her lips and drank of the nectar that was her mouth. She tasted like honey, faintly spiced with mead, and it was all too easy to imagine tasting another part of her. A low groan rumbled in his throat.
She stiffened in his arms, no doubt shocked by the intimacy, and he gentled his assault. She was a maiden, after all. And if she decided she wasn’t ready for more, then he would back away. Using every scrap of his willpower to withdraw, of course. He would need it.
But his intrepid young lass did not break off the kiss.
She thrust her fingers into his hair, angled her head to get even closer, and parried the invasion of his tongue with her own. Bran’s eyes closed. Sweet heaven. He was done for. His knees actually wobbled, which he could safely say had never happened before. All his life, he’d been the one to do the charming, the one who beguiled. Now the boot was on the other foot. Caitrina made him feel like a wee lad receiving his first kiss. And lord, what a kiss. The mating of their mouths was spurring his desire into an insatiable hunger. With one hand on her back and the other splayed over the tender curve of her rump, he pulled her even closer, determined to claim her as surely as she was claiming him.
The press of her feminine body up and down the length of his was delightful. The short, quick rasps of her breath in his ear and the perfumed scent of her heated skin drove his excitement to a fevered level.
But none of it was satisfying. Every inch of his skin craved her touch. He wanted her naked and writhing beneath him. He wanted to bury himself deep inside her and show her every delight of the flesh. But those were impossible needs. Despite her pretty pleas, Caitrina was not a woman to be used lightly. And a few days was the best he could offer. There were people in Edinburgh depending on his return.
But he wasn’t quite ready to let her go, either.
His body—and hers—still demanded some degree of satisfaction.
He lifted Caitrina off her feet and, in two broad paces, backed her against the stone wall. Grabbing both of her hands, he thrust them over her head, pinning her. Confident now that they were both fully supported, he proceeded to ravish her. He rained kisses upon her face and neck, nipped at her earlobes, devoured her sweet lips.
Had she shown even the slightest resistance, he would have pulled away. She did not. Her head lolled back on her slender neck, inviting him to take all she had to offer, and tiny whimpers of delight escaped her throat. But perhaps the most telling response was the slight rocking of her hips against his pelvis. She wanted him as much as he wanted her.
Bran struggled to keep his passions under control.
He positioned his knee between her legs, burying it deep in the folds of her gown. Visions of taking her to the floor assailed him and his arms quivered with the effort to restrain himself. She was a lady, and an innocent one at that. She did not deserve a rough introduction to the carnal arts.
Gently, oh so gently, he moved his thigh against her mons. Up and down.
Almost immediately, her faint whimpers deepened into moans. Her fingers clenched around his hands and her head thrashed from side to side. Were the lighting better, he knew he would see a rosy flush upon her cheeks and a plumper fullness to her lips. The telltale signs of excitement. It would have been an added thrill to see them, but his imagination would have to suffice, as making love to Caitrina in the light of day was a gift only some other man would enjoy.
Bran leaned his forehead against the cool stone wall and closed his eyes.
Bringing the future to mind left a hollow ache in his chest—one he dared not explore. Better to lose himself inthismoment, to slake whatever need he could, than to dream of a future he could never have. The exhilarating press and release of his body against hers, the dig of her fingernails in his flesh, and the sound of her ragged breaths were the extent of his entitlement. A man with a blackened soul could never claim a fine lass like Caitrina.
And his soul was as black as they came.
