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He gazed down at her bosom where it swelled from her bodice, while he stroked his hands around her hips as if measuring her. “Tell me, Morag, are you wed?”
Morag shook her head, startled. It was not at all what she had expected him to say.
“Does a man warm your bed for you?”
“Not presently.”
He seemed pleased about that.
Morag had been about to query him about the nature of his question, but her words vanished when he ducked his head and she felt that handsome mouth of his claiming hers. It was so sudden and unexpected that she tensed then melted as his lips moved over hers, softly at first, then more persuasively. Her own lips parted and she welcomed him, returning the kiss. Her hands clutched at his coat.
With one hand pressed to the small of her back, holding her lower body to his, he chuckled softly. “You look as if you were made to be bedded. I have always thought as much.”
He had noticed her before now? Her heart raced. “I will not deny it is in my nature to be bold about such things.”
He nodded, as if the confirmation was pleasing. All the while he squeezed her breasts through her bodice and stays, watching her face as he did so. Morag liked his hands on her, and pressed her hips more firmly to his, inviting that most manly part of him to bed against her belly.
He was hardening by the moment and his expression took on a hungry, possessive look. “I had my suspicions that you would be a lusty lass.” He squeezed her flesh again. “You enjoy a firm touch?”
She nodded and put her hand over his and demonstrated, forcing his hand roughly against her. Duggan gave a husky laugh as he manipulated her breasts, discovering her quickly. The firm grip on her paps made her wriggle. Her puss responded in kind, tingling and throbbing expectantly.
His gaze dropped to her chest, where the breasts he had teased had swelled up from her stays, and one nipple poked free. That nipple was tight and hard as a pebble. With a callused thumb, he stroked it firmly.
The tight peak stung, his touch sending a wild thread through her, a thread that lit between her legs and burned fiercely there. How she wanted him to touch her there, too.
In the distance, someone called her name.
“’Tis the alewife,” she whispered. “I need to be on my way.”
When he gave a disapproving growl and tightened his grasp on her, a dangerous thrill ran through Morag.
“Aye,” she shouted over his shoulder. “I am seeing to my chores. I am busy taking Mr. Grant his supper.”
Duggan stepped away, but all the while he eyed her hungrily as she pulled her bodice into place, covering herself.
“Mr. Grant has requested a tray for the pair of you.” She walked out onto the landing and when he followed, she nodded over at the tray that rested on a tabletop there.
His arms enclosed her again, and he tugged her hips against his, briefly and possessively. “We will continue this another time, in that case.”
That promise made her smile. His attention had warmed her nicely, and she would enjoy more
of the same if he wanted it too. It was a long time that she’d had an eye for Duggan Moore. Morag could not think of a more pleasing thing to begin the day with than sight of him at work in the fields, and no better way to end each day than have him handle her as he just had. It was only caution and duty that made her step free of his enclosing arms and collect the tray. Duggan reacted as she hoped he might and held the door open before he followed her in.
As she entered Mr. Grant’s chambers, she saw him standing close to the fireplace. He was staring over at the door expectantly. He was a slighter, fairer man than Duggan, and wore a finely made frock coat over his clothing. If it was true about these two—that they shared physical congress—did that mean they both enjoyed women as well? Morag found her thoughts run wild with curiosity on the matter, and it was only with great effort that she managed not to stare directly at Mr. Grant as she wondered on it. She carried the tray to the table, dropped him a curtsy and then went on her way.
Duggan had stayed by the doorway with his elbow resting on the frame so that she had to pass close to him as she left. She could not keep a smile from her lips, and gave him her most beguiling glance as she left the room. As she did, he smacked her playfully on the rump.
“Until next time,” he whispered.
After that, Morag went about her duties with a lighter step and a constant smile. The expectant simmer in her loins was both a merry and welcome companion.
James Grant watched the exchange with curiosity, keenly aware of some deeper exchange between Duggan and the serving girl. It might have been nothing but a teasing manner on Duggan’s behalf, but James had a feeling there was more to it, and it left him somewhat concerned. Was Duggan tiring of him? Had he set his sights elsewhere?
He and Duggan had known each other for several months, slowly stoking their mutual desire each time they met, until passion had taken control of them and they had tumbled together in a lusty embrace. There was no denying the nature of their friendship, from that moment on. They had been intimate lovers for only a matter weeks now, and each time Duggan left his side, James prayed he would return. The forbidden nature of their encounters sometimes made Duggan uneasy, and James often feared the land worker would stay away. To see Duggan with his eyes on the girl made James ache with uncertainty. Such things mattered to him greatly. Duggan stirred him as no other human soul ever had, and the thought that he might lose him to another haunted him.
As Duggan closed the door, he rested his hand on the wood, as if he had wanted to touch the serving girl instead. When he turned to James he smiled, but there was a thoughtful look in his eye nonetheless.
“You desire the wench?” James asked. They had known each other long enough now that they kept few secrets. In fact they shared deep and meaningful discussions about the difficulties of their nature.
