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“She died long ago,” Arabella explained. “Childbirth, it was.”
Davy’s smile faded away. “Dangerous business, that. Taking up a sword and battling an enemy takes courage. But to bring forth a squalling infant into the world…” Davy shook his head as if it sounded terrifying.
And Malcolm readily agreed. “I’d have liked a bairn. A whole houseful of them. But when I think about it now, it’s of some consolation to me that Lorna and I weren’t married long enough for me to put her through such a thing.”
“Which is why I should take your maidenhead,” Davy said, to Arabella, smirking. “If you should still want to give it, that is. Less of a risk with me than with him.”
“More chance that he’ll bungle it, though,” Malcolm said, stonily. “Davy can be a clumsy clod, whereas I’m the best swordsman in the clan.”
And she knew he was not talking about swords.
While Arabella burned with embarrassment—would she ever be inured to it?—she worried that the resentment and competition between the two of them was already starting. They hadn’t even done the deed they were musing about. “Gentlemen, I can scarcely give my consent if you’re to bicker about it.”
“Look what you’ve done now,” Malcolm scolded Davy.
To which Davy’s eyes bulged. “It’s not bickering lass. It’s all in good fun.”
“I’m not so sure,” Arabella said, finding her voice though she couldn’t meet their eyes. “I know how men are. They want the pride of taking a woman’s maidenhead so they can possess her, own her, control her and always know that they were first. That’s how the laird was with my sister. That’s what he wanted from her. So even if I were to give myself to you both and be shared, I’d still have to give myself to one of you first.”
Malcolm crossed his arms.
Davy stroked his chin.
Then, at almost the same moment, they both said, “Not necessarily.”
Chapter Eight
“Do you need us to draw it for you?” Davy asked, while Arabella stared, dumbfounded at what the men described to her.
And while she sputtered, Malcolm’s hungry gaze fell upon her, and he confidently declared, “It will be a tight fit, but can be done.”
“No,” Arabella said, a denial, rather than a refusal.
Davy moved closer to her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders, his breath warm on her cheek. “Think of it, lass,” he said, peering at her intently. “We’d make you ready, very ready for it. Stroke you until you were wet and pleading. Malcolm behind you. Me in front of you. Then on your go, we’d both thrust up inside you. Together.”
Arabella’s heart skipped a beat at this kind of talk.
Her belly flip-flopped.
Her blood turned to warm syrup.
“But won’t it hurt very much?” she whispered, more of a whimper, really.
“Breaching your maidenhead will hurt anyway,” Malcolm said, matter-of-factly, putting a hand at the nape of her neck. “This will hurt much more. But we’ll make it worth it.”
She suddenly had very little doubt about that. With each of these men on either side of her, she could only remember the pleasure of the night before, laying in bed between them. And she wanted that again. She wanted it so badly. And exhilarated by the possibility, she began to see every surface in the cottage as somewhere she might like to sprawl beneath them. The table, the floor, the bed in the room beyond. She was dizzied by the possibilities.
She was so aroused, she thought she might be going a bit mad.
“Take me to bed,” she whispered, then delighted at the men’s reactions.
Davy nearly purred against her ear. And Malcolm’s hand tightened on the nape of her neck. They had her consent to it, to everything.
She didn’t quite remember how they actually got to the bed. Surely, Malcolm hobbled there, wounded as he was. And she would have remembered if Davy carried her there. And yet, it felt as if she floated to the bedroom where the two men waited for her with hungry eyes.
Reaching for her with deft fingers, they had her naked in moments, their heated gazes traveling the length of her curves, making her appreciate her own body in a way she never had before. Malcolm bent forward to kiss the small of her back while Davy stroked a hand down her belly, with a low whistle. And before she could object, he grasped her sex in the big palm of his hand—a thing so surprising that her knees nearly buckled. “Oh!”
“Easy, Davy, or you’ll send her sprawling,” Malcolm said, pulling his own shirt off and throwing it to the floor. Then his plaid went off too, as he made himself entirely naked to her. At the sight of him—his rippling muscles, the dark thatch of hair upon his chest…and that same proud spire she’d seen before, only this time throbbing and sticky with dew—her knees nearly buckled again.
