Love in the Time of a Highland Laird (A Laird for All Time Book 3) by Angeline Fortin (whitelam books .TXT) 📗

Culloden had only been the last in the bid to return the Stuart line to the throne.

No Virginia. No Maryland. Or Annapolis. Charlottesville. Williamsburg or William and Mary. The entire history of her country had changed. Given the path it was following in this reality, it might never become the future she knew.

She was well and truly lost here without even a future she could count on to comfort her. She’d lost everything.

Still she wasn’t sorry for it.

She’d had him.

“I hope that someday ye might tell me what ye’re hiding from me, lass,” he said as the early morning hours gonged on the mantel clock.

There was hurt in this voice. Hurt she had put there. But she couldn’t risk alienating him entirely. Couldn’t risk losing the one good thing she had here any quicker than she already would.

He was hers. For at least a little longer and she meant to make the most of it.

*

“You know we’ve been down here for hours, talking away.” She stroked his hair back, curling it around her fingers. “Have you forgotten all the lovely things you promised to do to me tonight? Though your legs are probably asleep from me sitting here so long. In fact, all of you is probably completely numb.” She brushed her lips along the shell of his ear before whispering in what she hoped was a seductive voice. “Is that why you haven’t taken me to bed yet?”

“Ne’er tell me Allorah Maines is a prude who only does it in a bed.” He raked his teeth down her neck, chuckling at her mock outrage.

“Is that a challenge?” She laughed, looping her arms around his broad shoulders. “This time you might win. I don’t see how I’m supposed to manage anything in these skirts and with these buckets on my hips.”

“Och, so ‘tis true. My fair lass disnae ken everything.”

Picking her up, Keir turned her about in a swift motion. Lifting her skirts, he set her astride him. The broad panniers collapsing into themselves and folding up under his direction.

She was impressed by his rakish skills and told him so.

He grinned and drew her down to meet his kiss. Tender, teasing. He parted her lips with his. His tongue stroking her lips languidly, gliding across her tongue. She felt her bodice slip and noticed that while he’d been kissing her, he’d managed to tug her gown off her shoulders and loosen her it enough to bare the swell of her breasts above the corset Peigi and Ceana had insisted upon.

“My talented rake,” she sighed, holding his head to her breast as his lips whispered across her flesh, spreading goose bumps in their wake.

The same gooseflesh spread up her legs as he ran his rough palms over her thighs and around to cup her bottom and pull her closer. His long fingers parted and teased, finding her swollen nub, circling lightly. With a gasp, she shifted, giving him better access. He circled once more before sliding his fingers up inside her.

Her moan was matched by his. “Ye’re fore’er hot for me,” he growled in a thickened brogue. “Wet. Begging for me. Do ye want me, mo ghrá?”

He thrust his fingers deep inside her. “Yes!” Her response was strangled by a cry of pleasure.

Pushing aside his kilt, he lifted her, gliding her along his rigid erection, letting her feel the turgid length.

“Do ye want this?”

“Y-yes…” she stuttered hoarsely, trying to lift herself into position for him to take her but he’d not give an inch.

Instead, he thrust slowly against the juncture of her thighs, rousing her to a fever pitch. Until she was tugging at his hair and sobbing for relief. Her head was reeling, overcome by the blood pounding like the tolling of the clock through her with every slow stroke.

Their mouths met again, his tongue sliding across hers, mimicking the carnal motion of his body. Tension built low in her belly, spreading like fiery tendrils down the insides of her thighs. She gripped his hips tightly, her soft cries caught by his lips.

“Keir. Keir!”

“Let it go, mo ghrá. Mo rúnsearc. Let it take ye.”

“No.” She gazed into his flaming blue eyes and stroked his whiskered cheek tenderly. “Not without you. I want you to take me.”

His eyes flared even hotter. Turning his cheek into her hand, he kissed her palm. Then lifted her and let her slide down his thick staff. She threw back her head with a moan that shook her entire body. He held her hips, grinding her down until he was buried deep, stretching her almost painfully.

“Nay, lass. Look at me. Come wi’ me.”

Once their eyes met, he lifted her again. Driving his hips up as he pulled her down. She wasn’t about to let him do it all on his own. Holding tight to the flaring wings of the chair, she set a motion that pleased them both. Changing angles and rhythm to wrench growls and moans from him she’d never heard before.

And Gaelic, a stream of indecipherable words, roughened by his thick brogue, but tender. The tender sounds tore at her heart.

The torment building in her was getting harder to fight, but she was determined to make it last, make it the best she could. For him. For them.

The pleasure he was giving her, the pleasure she saw in his eyes was so pure, so poignant her chest tightened painfully. Tears filled her eyes.

“Ah, mo rúnsearc. Mo stór lómhara. Conas tú teagmháil liom. Come wi’ me now.”

He clasped her hips in his big hands and urged her on, faster still until he bowed beneath her. With that final surge, Al fell apart in his arms, the force of her orgasm so powerful blackness swirled before her eyes. Her head spun dizzily.

And dizzier still when he drew her to him for a tender kiss.

Lifting her in his arms, he carried her to his bedchamber. Setting her on her feet only