Chapter 10

With a happy sigh, Madeline toed off her favorite pair of boots, wiggling her toes and savoring the pleasure of no longer having her feet constrained tightly within the impractical footwear. When she had settled on wearing them for traveling, she hadn't taken into consideration how much walking she would need to engage in at the train stations.

"What a relief to be freed from those torture devices," she said, flexing her stockinged toes at Lachlan, who had removed his outerwear as well and was watching her from across the chamber with an inscrutable look.

He'd been as skittish as a newborn colt on the train ride, leaping to fetch her sherry and making certain to keep a polite distance between them after his return. If she didn't know better, she would have thought her new husband disliked her.

"Yer feet are sore, lass?" he asked.

"Terribly." She winced as she padded across the luxuriously thick carpet toward a chair in the sitting area of their room. "I'm afraid I only have myself to blame, however. I should have known better than to wear those boots."

He met her halfway across the room, a concerned expression on his face, and swept her into his arms without warning. Madeline gave out a small whoop of startlement, clinging to his broad shoulders. She should be accustomed to Lachlan's formidable size and strength by now, but the truth was, he was something of a gentle giant. She often forgot how tall and brawny he was until moments like this one and that day at the castle ruins when he'd single-handedly saved her life by blocking her from the falling stone wall with his body.

"I can walk," she protested breathlessly as he carried her the rest of the way to the divan she'd been intent upon occupying.

"Of course ye ken, but yer feet are aching, and ye've a husband tae carry ye now," he said smoothly. "Ye should have told me ye were in pain."

For a foolish moment, she wondered if he would carry her about thusly every day if she wore her boots. "Why, would you have carried me through the train station and the hotel?"

"Aye," he said without hesitation. "I would have gladly done so."

"I suspect that may have been the cause of some shock and surprise from our fellow travelers," she teased, smiling.

He sank into the divan, arranging Madeline so that she was comfortably seated at one end, with her feet in his lap. "I wouldnae have given a damn."

And she knew he wouldn't have. He didn't care much about what others thought of him, which was quite refreshing. He couldn't have been further from Mother and her social grasping and Charles the confidence man. Madeline was relieved.

Lachlan took her feet in his big hands and began gently pressing his thumbs into her arches. Wondrous sensation stole over her.

She couldn't stifle her moan of appreciation. "Oh, Lachlan, that's lovely. Never stop."

He chuckled, gently squeezing her sore feet. "I'll rub yer feet all night long if I must."

"I might like for you to rub elsewhere after a bit," she dared cheekily.

The look he sent in her direction was nothing short of scorching. The raw yearning in his expression made her heart beat faster. But he continued massaging her aching feet just the same, and she watched him wrestle the same desire burning within her into submission.

"My dear wife, I do believe ye're trying tae tempt me," he said with soft, deliberate intent.

She bit her lip, watching him from beneath lowered lashes, struggling with the longing that never seemed to stray far whenever she was in his presence. "Am I succeeding?"

"I'm a weak man where ye're concerned. Surely the last few weeks have proven that."

His Scots burr fell over her like a caress. She had thought that perhaps every Scottish accent would leave her so moved. However, now that they had decamped from the train and crossed paths with any number of Scots along the way, she had her answer. It was not the accent itself that affected her. It was the man. Lachlan's deep tones filled her with an ache as surely as his kisses and touch did.

She was falling deeper and deeper under her new husband's spell. And while the knowledge terrified her, Madeline was powerless to stop it.

"Actually, the last few weeks have proven the opposite," she told him, forcing herself to think of anything other than the way she felt for Lachlan. "You're a very strong man, physically and when it comes to your principles. Regimented and determined. I admire that greatly."

She admired him. Full stop.

"Ye best watch yer tongue, lass. I'll start tae get a heid so large it willnae fit through the doorways," he teased lightly, continuing his tender ministrations on her feet.

It felt wonderful, his hands on her, kneading the tension and pain from her aching soles. But as lovely as it was, it wasn't enough. She wanted more. Needed more. They hadn't yet dined, having only just arrived at their hotel and settling in. But it wasn't food she was hungry for just now.

"We can't have that, can we?" she asked, and then she slid her feet from his lap and went to stand before him, presenting him with her back. "Will you assist me? I find I'd like to be freed of some of my layers for a spell."

"Of course." His voice was husky and deep, laden with desire.

She felt the light touch of his fingers skimming over fastenings, her bodice beginning to loosen and gape as he made his way down the long row of pearls. When the last button came free of its mooring, she shrugged the garment from her shoulders. The tapes of her skirt came next, untied to send them falling to the floor in a lush pool of silk. Meticulously, he undressed her, laces opening, hooks and eyes coming apart, silk and petticoats and satin giving way until she was clad in nothing more than her chemise and stockings.

Madeline turned toward him at last. Lachlan was still seated on the divan, looking like a giant perched on a piece of dollhouse furniture. His blue eyes burned into her, his large hands resting on his muscled thighs, his long legs indolently splayed before him. She stepped into the vee, drawn to him as ever.

"Are ye more comfortable now, lass?" he asked, his gaze trailing over her form in a way that made her nipples go hard.

"Not yet," she said and then settled on his lap astride him, her chemise riding up her thighs as she draped her arms around his neck. "This is an improvement, however."

"Aye." His eyes were on her mouth now, hungry and hot, his hands clamping on her waist. "Quite an improvement."

"It could be better," she said and then brought her lips to his.

She had intended to seduce him. To woo him. To turn this big man to putty in her hands. But the moment her mouth was on his, Lachlan took command of the kiss. He cupped her nape, and his tongue glided into her open mouth like a declaration that she was his. And she was his. She hadn't felt it, not so precisely, until this moment, straddling him on a hotel divan, the evidence of his desire for her rising to rigid prominence against her aching sex.

She kissed him with every ounce of desire she had, all the emotion, all the yearning, all the newfound wonder. Her fingers sifted through his soft, too-long hair, and she pressed herself nearer to him, until her breasts strained against his chest, wishing that she could be closer still. That she could somehow be cleaved to him, a part of him that would never leave.

The intensity of her emotions astounded her. Everything was Lachlan. The heady scent of him, soap and fir, the rippling strength of his corded muscles. The low groan she happily swallowed up. The hand on the small of her back, holding her to him, the fingers gently grazing the sensitive skin of her neck, the drugging play of his lips over hers. Her surroundings had become a heady blur, and she willingly surrendered herself to the burning desire that made her nipples hard and her sex throb. He had resisted taking her for weeks, and she wanted to give herself to him.

Now.

She wanted to tear down the remnants of his past and set fire to them. Wanted to love him so well that he would no longer remember the woman he'd loved, the one who had so wounded him that he had vowed to never again allow himself to be vulnerable. She wanted to erase the pain he'd suffered. She wanted to be his wife in more than name.

His lips left hers to trail in reverent adoration along the column of her throat.

"Lass," he murmured. "I cannae promise tae be regimented now. If we dinnae stop…"

As if he couldn't force his mind to complete the sentence, his words trailed away, and his mouth traveled over her bare skin, sending hot sparks of desire skittering over her in his wake. She grasped handfuls of his hair, holding him to her as he feasted on her throat.

"I don't want to stop," she murmured.

His hands moved, traveling lower until he clasped her bottom through her chemise, his fingers sinking into her willing flesh with possessive demand. "Ye undo me."

She might have said the same to him, but then Lachlan dragged more openmouthed kisses along her collarbone, robbing her of speech and thought. She was nothing but an aching, longing, lustful lump of clay in the hands of a master, being turned into something extraordinary. He found her nipple through the fine fabric of her chemise and sucked hard. Madeline writhed against him, the friction of his fabric-covered cock on her aching flesh making her nearly out of her mind.

She wanted her chemise gone. She wanted his garments on the floor. She wanted to be naked with him. She wanted his cock in her mouth. It was a pleasure she hadn't expected to enjoy so much, and she had greedily seized every opportunity she'd had to do so in stolen, furtive moments because she loved to please him and watch him become helpless but to surrender to her, even if his conscience dictated the opposite.

Captivated by the idea that she would please him again now, she disengaged from Lachlan, scooting off his lap. She sank to her knees before him and reached for the fastening on the fall of his trousers.

"By all that's holy, lass," he hissed, his voice tight with lust, his jaw taut. "What are ye doing?"

Buttons popped open with ease. She had acquainted herself with his clothing and his body quite well these last few weeks. She knew how to divest him of his garments with remarkable alacrity, just as she knew how to drive him wild with need. She parted the placket in his smalls, and his cock sprang free, massive and thick and beautiful. She loved this part of him, soft and yet hard, capable of bringing him so much pleasure, deliciously sensitive to the touch while the rest of him remained strong and implacable.

"I want you in my mouth," she told him, and then, without waiting for his honorable protests to the contrary, she lowered her head and took him deep into her throat, as far as she could without gagging.

There was an art to the act, and she had begun to learn it with practice. As always, the thick glide of him in her mouth made her inner muscles clench, desire pooling between her thighs. She licked and sucked, applying herself to the task with careful determination, using her hand and her mouth on him until he was groaning above her, his hand slipping into her still-upswept hair, his hips moving restlessly beneath her.

She withdrew to the tip, holding him in a firm grip as she laved the head of his cock with her tongue, taking care to hold his gaze as she lavished him with attention. His eyes were dark with lust. He'd never looked more beautiful to her—all his powerful strength at her mercy.

He was hers.

Madeline licked up the bead of moisture seeping from the small slit, stroking him as the taste of him filled her with more fire. Words spilled from his lips in a stream from above. Her name. Tender words. Words she didn't understand.

"Madeline, mo gràidh. Ye have tae stop or I'll no' make it."

She smiled around his thick length, pleased to see him so flushed and hungry for her, to know she was able to give him pleasure. But her determination to make him completely lose control was thwarted by his own. He gently disengaged from her, tucking himself back into his trousers, before standing. He drew her to her feet, his trousers low on his hips, and took her into his arms before carrying her across the room to the high tester bed. With calm, efficient motions, he stripped away her chemise, along with her drawers and stockings. He shrugged out of his own garments as she watched, naked and reclining on the bed.

When he joined her, she reached for him, but he wasn't finished with his task. Lachlan kissed and teased his way up her bare legs, lingering on her knees and inner thighs before he parted them. Cool air washed over her intimate flesh, bared to his heated gaze.

"Bòidheach,"he proclaimed, another word that was unfamiliar to her.

But then his tongue flicked over her center, and she forgot to wonder at the meaning. Instead, she surrendered to his mouth on her. He found her clitoris and sucked, making her hips buck. Attending to him had made her desperately ready. She was wet and aching, and when he applied himself to her pleasure, Lachlan had her perilously near to finding her release already.

As he lapped at her, he sank a finger inside her sheath, the invasion making her tip her hips in welcome. He slid deeper, adding a second finger, stretching her, finding a place so sensitive that it seemed a miraculous secret only he could unlock. The first wave of release hit her like a bolt of lightning streaking through a summer sky—sudden and awe-inspiring. She came apart with complete disregard for the throaty moans emerging from her, grasping handfuls of bedclothes and arching into his handsome face. The addition of the slight abrasion of his teeth made her see stars. She cried out as more waves of delight shimmered through her, making her feel boneless and weightless.

How good it felt, and yet as wondrous as it was, she wanted more.

Lachlan understood what she needed. What they both needed. He rose over her, his powerful, massive body cloaking hers with heat and strength. He dotted worshipful kisses over her belly and breasts on his way to her mouth. And then he kissed her, his lips wet with her own desire, the taste of her mingling with the taste of him on her tongue. It was the purest commingling—the two of them coming together as he pressed his cock to her entrance.

He was large, so much larger than his fingers.

She thought of how huge he was when fully erect and wondered how she could fit that part of him inside her. He would stretch her until she broke apart, it seemed. But she wasn't fearful. Lachlan would protect her and treat her tenderly as he always did. She had unquestioning faith in this man, her husband and, soon, her lover.

The pressure began to build. Lachlan kissed a path to her ear. "Are ye ready, mo gràidh?"

"Yes," she gasped out, restless under him, until she thought past her selfish, greedy desires. "Are you sure? Your vow…"

She didn't want him to regret this. To regret her. And despite all that had happened between them thus far, all they had shared, she needed him to be utterly certain.

"My vow is tae ye now," he said, kissing her ear, her cheek.

Such reverence. For her. He made her feel as if she were precious to him.

Beloved.

But that was a foolish fancy she mustn't entertain. Even if he surrendered to the passion flaring between them, she mustn't forget that this was a marriage of convenience. He had saved her from a marriage of Father's choosing, and she was saving his castle from ruin.

He moved, thrusting, joining with her, chasing away the unwanted thoughts crowding her mind. She forgot to think and instead turned herself over to sensation. He guided her legs around his waist, opening her to him, and the new angle provided the perfect means for him to slide deeper. It was exquisite. It was pain and pleasure all at once.

"How are ye, lass?" he wanted to know, his tone solicitous but strained.

Almost as if it aggrieved him to proceed so slowly.

"More," she said raggedly. "Give me more of you."

With a growl, he surged again, then again, until he was fully seated inside her, lodged so deep, the pleasure and sting of his possession bringing tears to her eyes. She blinked them away, and he stiffened above her, raising his head to look down, a troubled expression on his face.

"Have I hurt ye?"

He sounded horrified at the prospect.

She cupped his face in her hands. "Never. You could never hurt me."

But that wasn't true, was it? A sudden, painful realization struck her as her new husband kissed away the stray tear that had escaped the corner of her eye. He could hurt her, but not in the physical sense. It wasn't his large body and brute strength that she feared. It was her own heart, which seemed to beat for this man alone.

Whilst his had only ever beaten for another.

"I'll try tae go slowly, lass," he promised, kissing her cheek, her jaw, then lower. Down her throat until he took one of her nipples into his hot mouth.

He sucked as he began to move within her. The glide of his thickness inside her had Madeline crying out in wonder. Nothing could have prepared her for this. For him. The books failed to describe it; they were but a pale, rudimentary attempt at conveying the all-encompassing miracle of Lachlan making love to her. Slowly, with such tenderness and care, making no demands of her but only stoking the fires ever higher.

His mouth fastened on her other breast, and he slowly withdrew from her, only to sink deep inside again. All the while, desire coiled tightly within her. Tighter and tighter like a watch spring. Her hands traveled over him, moving over the bare expanse of his muscled back, over his chest. Along his arms, absorbing the flex and strength.

His lips found their way back to hers, and he kissed her deeply, giving her his tongue as he plunged into her with his cock, taking her faster and harder, some of the gentleness fading away as their mutual passions burned hotter. She clung to him, gasping out her pleasure into his mouth, and he drank up each breathy moan as if it were an elixir, his lips moving over hers as his body moved inside her.

And then there was a new sensation. His fingers were somehow between their bodies, at the place where they were joined, brushing over the bud of her sex in firm, commanding strokes that coaxed a new climax from her with scarcely any effort. She shattered beneath him, raking her nails down his back. Sheer bliss washed over her as she tightened on his length, drawing him deep as if even her body conspired to hold him there forever, the prisoner of her mad lust.

"Lass," he murmured against her lips, moving against her in more frenzied thrusts now, a sheen of sweat coating his skin. "I'm trying tae make this last, but ye feel so good wrapped around me. So tight and hot and wet. Like paradise."

That was how he felt too. Paradise in her arms, inside her. She never wanted to leave this bed. She never wanted to dress. No, she would remain here with him, naked and wanton, exploring his body every way she could.

"Yes," she cried out, scraping her nails up and down his broad back.

Her actions seemed to spur him on, because he moved faster, harder. Thrusting into her with tight, measured strokes that threatened to send her over the edge yet again. He tore his mouth from hers and rose above her, majestic and handsome, like some conqueror of old claiming her as forever his. He pumped into her twice more, the cords of his neck going taut, his eyes closing. He was beautiful in his release. Beautiful in the way he planted himself deep.

She was going to come again. It was wonderful, a golden haze filling her mind. She watched him, his body moving in fluid motions. Another tremor tore through Madeline, and then she knew the hot rush of his seed filling her. Lachlan collapsed atop her, holding her to him tightly, his breathing as ragged as hers, his heart pounding fiercely against her breast.

She held him to her, an astonishing realization hitting her in that moment as the languorous lull of sated desire licked through her. She had never felt as if she belonged somewhere more than when she was in this man's arms.