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“We… we weren’t hiding,” Lucy said, and stepped back to pick up the clay pot. “I was but showing Master Buchanan all that I’ve jarred this past summer.” She held the pot out and pulled it back to her bodice, which she hoped was up and straight.
The woman looked at the pot and then back at Greer. Holy Mother Mary, was he dressed? A quick glance brought relief. Lucy had not stripped him totally bare in the larder, and he’d thrown his tunic back on.
“What are ye doing here at this late hour, Goodwife O’Brien?” Greer asked. He took the jar from Lucy’s hand and dipped the tip of his finger in it, tasting it ever so casually. But the action made Lucy’s insides clench with longing. Lord, she was incorrigibly wanton.
Mary O’Brien turned, walking quickly back to her workstation. “I freeze the jam into balls to put inside the cakes when I bake them later. I forgot to put them outside in the snow.” She pointed to the dallops of jam she’d been dropping onto a flat stone.
“Why freeze the jam?” Lucy asked.
Mary smiled. “’Tis a secret from my mum. That way the jam stays in place in the cake instead of spreading out in the batter. So there’s a concentrated surprise in the middle of each slice.”
“Clever,” Lucy said, and pulled Greer’s hand to get him moving. “I hope you find your bed soon, Goodwife.”
Mary smiled at her. “I hope you do, too, milady.”
Lucy felt her face heat as she led Greer, still holding her strawberry pot, out of the kitchen. They walked quietly up the dimly lit corridor. She looked over her shoulder at her handsome lover. “Do you think she believed us?”
“Nay,” Greer said, the corner of his mouth tipping upward. He pulled her into him, his arms cradling her back so that the stone wall didn’t bite into her as he pressed her against it. “So I think we should get all the ravishing in that we can before the whole court is whispering about us.”
She smiled as she closed her eyes against the assault of hot kisses he was plying along her neck. “Agreed.”
With a slow groan, he pulled away, tugging her after him. “I want to make ye moan my name without fear of someone walking down here.”
Lucy laughed softly as they nearly raced along the hallway. After several turns, she realized that they weren’t headed toward her room nor his. “Where are you taking me?”
He glanced back at her, and the look of intense passion in the set of his eyes and sensuous mouth sent chill bumps over her skin. It was as if he were already touching her. She shuddered slightly and didn’t care in the least where he took her.
“I found a suite that’s not being used,” he said. “Far from others.” Greer produced a key, holding it before her nose.
She smiled, letting all her yearning out with it. “Well then, Highlander, take me somewhere I can moan your name.”
*
Lucy smiled upat the ceiling where the firelight bathed the ornate spiraled design in golden light. They lay before the hearth on blankets and furs from the bed, another warm nest. Snuggled down in the layers, she faced the fire, with Greer at her back. His fingers stroked her slightly rounded belly, sliding up to her breasts and then back down. They’d finally sated themselves, at least for the time being. She sighed softly.
Greer kissed the exposed spot at the base of her skull. Her hair was swept to the side under her. Slowly, he began to rub the bunched muscles of her shoulder.
“Mmmm… that feels good,” she said. She smiled up at him. “Every time you touch me it feels good.”
“Then I believe I should touch ye all the time.”
“Then we will certainly become the talk of the court.”
He pushed her slightly forward so he could reach her other shoulder, her head held by pillows. She groaned softly at the languid feel. Her muscles were sore from loving, and the heat from the fire and Greer’s rubbing felt heavenly.
No one had ever touched her like Greer Buchanan had. No one made her feel like this. So free, so trusting. When she felt the blanket slide lower, she didn’t move. She was on her stomach, the fire warming her exposed skin. Little by little the blanket slipped lower.
He must see them. She waited, holding her breath as his hands stopped.
The silence stretched, and Lucy nearly pulled the blanket back up. She knew how horrible the scars looked. Puckered skin that lay in thick circles where her mother tried to burn off her dark marks.
She stiffened.
“Relax, Lucy,” he murmured, his hands beginning the massage again, kneading her muscles down her back, over the smooth skin and the burns. “They do not pain ye?”
“No,” she whispered.
He continued to stroke, sweeping down with his knuckles and the heels of his strong hands. Little by little, she relaxed under the pressure. The blanket slid lower, exposing her buttocks, where she knew another scar marred the flesh. But he didn’t even pause at it, stroking her. He worked the blanket down her legs, but she didn’t feel cold between the fire and the warmth of his hands.
