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She took a deep breath as if she had to think about it while he unconsciously held his. “I loved the idea of him. I wanted a husband. Children. A life with someone I could rely on. I thought Gordon could give me those things.”
Brendan crossed to take her hands. His fingers lacing with hers as he drew her up. She smiled, a spray of freckles across her nose, her mouth soft and full and berry red.
A beautiful woman. A quiet night.
So far nothing out of the ordinary.
A thousand times he’d done this and a thousand times he’d walked away.
“You never talk about Belfoyle,” she commented.
“As if I belong there?” he teased, wary of this conversation’s path. Home was a topic off-limits and had been since he’d left. If he didn’t think about it, it didn’t hurt.
She gave a toss of her head. “Ever. Or not as I thought you would after being away for so long.”
“I’m a second son, remember?” he answered caustically. “Pride of ownership belongs to Aidan now.”
Again there was the sense she was searching for something within him. If she wasn’t careful, she’d find more than she bargained for. “It’s not ownership I’m speaking of, but loving a place. Carrying Belfoyle and all that makes it special inside you.”
“What are you trying to do, Elisabeth? Wring a confession from me? Have me tell you that I wept for my family every day I was gone? That every night I closed my eyes and saw the towers of Belfoyle?” He grabbed her by the arms, a slow burn beginning behind his eyes. “Life boiled down to survival. Food. Shelter. Safety. There was no freedom for regrets or tears or maudlin wretchedness.”
She braved his anger. “And now?”
“You’ve seen what I face,” he
argued, his grip tightening. “My life is not my own until Máelodor is dead and the stone is secure.”
Anger became arousal. He wanted to punish her and devour her at the same time. His lips found hers in a kiss born solely of the need to shut her up. Stop her mental assault. The slow degradation of all his defenses. He didn’t want to imagine or hope or dream. He didn’t want to see Elisabeth as anything other than a hindrance. “Even if we marry tomorrow, I can’t promise you the future you want.”
Then he tasted the sweet heat of her luscious mouth. The wine-tart tang of her on his tongue. He palmed the perfect firmness of a generous breast. Inhaled the comforting scents of lemon and lavender. And he could no longer deny his body’s craving.
“Perhaps not,” she murmured, threading her hands into his hair, “but you can offer me the hope of a future. That will have to be enough.”
The swooping plunge of her stomach, the roar of blood in her ears, every muscle jumping with excitement. Elisabeth could have been riding neck-or-nothing over the rocky heath and cliff-top meadows of home. The sensations were exactly the same, including the feeling of careening out of control toward a dangerous jump.
Brendan had guided her up the stairs to her bedchamber, the darkness wrapping round them, drawing them close as conspirators. He closed the door behind them, just the snick of the latch raising gooseflesh on her body, spreading heat low across her belly.
He pulled her hair loose of its pins. She was so used to the constant fight to confine its wildness, the heavy curling weight of it against her back felt both unfamiliar and oddly sensual. As if he were seeing a secret part of her. Peeking beneath the tamed sensible woman she’d become to the hoyden tomboy she’d been when he knew her.
He ran his tongue over her bottom lip, nipping and sucking until she opened to him, her tongue darting out in naive exploration. He dipped within, teasing and tasting. Carrying her along on a river of rising need, yet spinning out every touch and every kiss in an infinite dance of discovery.
Her arms lifted to encircle his neck, the fringe of his hair against her bare skin. His lips moved over her cheek, each eyelid, behind her ear. She threw back her head as he caressed his way down her throat, along her collarbone, before lowering into the valley between her breasts.
Her heart thundered. It pounded against her ribs as his hands skimmed her sides, folding around her to stroke the length of her spine.
She shucked him free of his jacket, her trembling fingers working at the buttons of his waistcoat as he backed her toward the bed. Struggled to free her from the restraints of too many layers of clothing. Ribbons, buttons, laces. Finally, her gown slithered to the floor. Her stays following after.
She should be embarrassed or apprehensive—at the least she should mutter a few maidenly protestations to prove her virginal innocence—but Brendan didn’t make her feel innocent. He made her feel wicked and wanton and reckless and passionate. She couldn’t breathe when he was near. And forget thinking. Her brain turned to mush as soon as he locked that hungry golden gaze on her.
He encircled her waist with his hands, grazing the lines of her ribs, the curves of her torso, taking the chemise with him as he massaged his way up.
She shivered, leaning into his embrace, loving the capable strength in his work-roughened palms. The feel of every stroke upon her sensitized skin. Off went the chemise, tossed to the floor with the rest of her clothes.
He thumbed her nipples, the dark buds hardening beneath his touch. He bent to take one in his mouth, swirling the softness of it with his tongue, sucking it taut while kneading the pliant flesh of the other. No amount of dream-spinning had prepared her for this tantalizing heart-pounding hunger. Aching between her legs, she moaned, pressing herself against him, needing him closer. Skin on skin.
And then they were on the bed, Brendan above her, leaning upon one elbow, eyes scorching a path over her body, his hand following lazily after.
She’d waited seven years for this. She would memorize it. Imprint it upon her brain where nothing that followed would erase it. The curve of his wrist. The line of his jaw. The dimple at the corner of his mouth and the slash of his brows. The flop of hair over his forehead and the slow bliss of his caress.
