Chapter Nineteen

M acInness vowed to get to the bottom of the troubles surrounding his new wife and her bitch of a mother without Genvieve finding out, if at all possible. But from the way the lass had taken to following him everywhere, he didn’t think he’d have a moment’s peace until she closed her eyes.

De Chauret approached him early the next morning. “Do you know what happened?” the older man demanded.

“Aye,” he answered. “And I know why.”

One eyebrow raised in question was all MacInness needed to reinforce his first reaction. “If I tell ye, ye’ll have to promise not to tell the lass.”

Augustin walked over to where MacInness sat before the brazier. “Not to tell her what?”

“That I know who was behind her kidnappin’.” The heaviness in his chest was spreading down to where his gut ached. The lass wouldn’t be taking the news well, and already he dreaded the telling of it.

Augustin signaled for something to drink and eat. While they broke their fast, MacInness filled him in on what he and Patrick had overheard while they were being held captive and the bits and pieces he’d heard when Genvieve was having one of her nightmares.

When Garrick walked into the room, he joined the men and then proceeded to fill MacInness in on what had happened to them and Genvieve’s revelation after identifying one of the attackers.

“It seemed to jar her memory and bring missing fragments back,” he said.

“What can we do?” MacInness knew what he wanted to do. He would kill the lying bitch for trying to bring harm to her daughter, the most loving, giving person he’d met since giving up on his quest to make Lady Jillian change her mind and marry him instead of Garrick. Although why he thought of that just now or used it as a comparison he didn’t know.

Genvieve walked into the room, her sleek midnight hair brushed against her waist as she made her way over toward them. All other thoughts flew from his mind, leaving every one he had centered on the woman slowly walking toward him.

The men rose to their feet and MacInness demanded, “Why have ye left yer sickbed?”

“I could ask the same of you, husband,” she said, coming to a stop right in front of him. With her head tilted back all the way, her hair brushed the backs of her knees, tempting him to reach out and wrap it around the both of them. That thought led to another, one that involved cream colored skin, soft as a new rose, and dewy sweet lips.

Garrick elbowed him in the ribs, getting his attention. “Why have you?”

“Have I what?” Was the man daft? Why would he be paying any attention to Garrick when Genvieve was standing right in front of him, her lips so prettily pursed, ready to receive his kiss. He reached out to her and was surprised when she took a step backward.

“What’s wrong?”

Instead of answering him, she shook her head at him. “I need to speak with you privately.”

He sensed something was wrong and needed to be corrected. She was still in pain, but not complaining. His mouth lifted on one side in a crooked smile, marveling at her fortitude. She’d make a grand Highland lass.

“A missive just arrived, milord,” a young servant announced walking toward them.

Augustin started to rise, but the young servant motioned to MacInness. “For milord MacInness.”

His gut clenched—no one but Garrick and his men knew that he couldn’t read.

Augustin nodded. “It could be from Annaliese.”

Genvieve jolted at her mother’s name, and he noticed that what little color she had drained from her face.

Pride be damned, he called out, “Garrick, read the missive for me. Genvieve, ye need to trust me, lass.”

Huge gray eyes searched MacInness’s face, but he didn’t wish to explain now. Bloody hell, she was his wife, and she would trust him. He almost said as much, but she started to sway. He had her securely wrapped in his arms a moment later.

“Come, lass, ye need to be in bed.” He cursed the fact that he needed to make love to his wife, but she was injured and needed to heal first.

“MacInness, wait,” Garrick said.

He paused in the open doorway, urging Genvieve to rest her head on his shoulder. The fit of the woman in his arms was driving him to distraction, and wreaking havoc with his control.

“Whatever it is can wait, me wife needs to rest.”

Garrick looked at him and nodded. “I’ll send Jillian to sit with her.”

MacInness was going to refuse the offer, insisting he would be the one to sit with his wife, but a hint of urgency in the other man’s eyes stopped him. “Aye.”

“Winslow,” Genvieve whispered as he strode out of the hall. “I can walk.”

He brushed his lips to her forehead and said, “I know ye can, lass,” and walked up the stairs. “But I canna risk hurtin’ ye,” he added, walking in through the open door. “Besides, I’ve a powerful need to hold ye, and ye feel like heaven in me arms.”

*

Her insides positively melted with her husband’s declaration. It wasn’t one of love, but it was one of the need they both shared.

He set her on the bed and started to back away from her. “Winslow,” she rasped, reaching out for him. “Please, don’t leave yet.”

“Lass,” he sighed. “Ye’re killin’ me.”

“I was afraid I’d lost you,” she confessed. “Why didn’t you tell me you were leaving?”

“Ye weren’t there to tell.”

“You could have left me a message.”

“I didna trust anyone to give it to ye.”

“You could have written one.”

He stared at her for so long she wondered if he was going to answer her at all. “Nay, lass. I couldna.”

She swung her legs closer to the edge and started to slide off. Winslow stopped her. “I wouldna move just yet.”

“Why?”

“Ye need to rest,” he said, looking at her as if she’d lost her mind. “And ye canna rest if ye’re on yer feet!” He threw his hands up in the air and stalked toward the door.

“I need to hold you,” she said. The need to be stripped bare and held against her husband’s broad, brawny body had her blood heating and her belly fluttering.

“Nay, lass,” he said, watching her expression change from worry to desire. “I wilna hurt ye further.”

“I don’t care if I use my hands or my mouth, but I have to touch you.” She slid off the bed and slowly walked over to where he stood with his back against the closed door.

His amber eyes widened a heartbeat before the fires of lust ignited, and he pushed away from the door, walking toward her.

Their bodies met three paces later. His was taut as a bowstring, but she didn’t care. He was going to give in, and she was going to make it memorable. She grabbed hold of his shirt and tugged at it.

“This has to go.” She pulled it free from where he’d wrapped his kilt around it.

“Aye,” he groaned.

While he watched, she reached down, grabbed the hem of his shirt, and yanked it up and off in one smooth movement, leaving his heavily muscled chest bare.

She licked her lips.

He moaned.

Before he could change his mind, she closed the gap between them and pressed her lips against his heart. But she wanted a true taste of him, so she flicked her tongue against the rock-hard pectoral muscles that taunted her with their beauty.

He shivered.

She moved her mouth over to the right, latching on to his nipple, and sucked for all she was worth.

“Lass, I canna—”

“Oh, I think you can,” she whispered as she moved to his other nipple, running her hands up and down his spine, then dipping lower to cup and knead the taut muscles of his buttocks.

Heaven.

“Your turn.” He pressed her hard against him and lifted her so the core of her womanhood pulsed against his shaft.

“Winslow…” she moaned, then wrapped her legs around his waist and locked them behind him.

“Ye’ll have no one to blame but yerself for fannin’ the flames, lass.” He rubbed against her until she moaned. “I’ll try not to hurt ye.”

He walked over to the bed and laid her on it, not letting her unwrap her legs from around him. Gently, carefully, he stripped her out of her clothes and pressed his mouth to her heart.

She thought she’d died when he dipped his head just a little to the side and sucked her breast into his mouth. The pain in her ribs as he put more of his weight on her faded as his clever tongue and lips played with first one breast and then the other.

Genvieve was mindless by the time he’d removed his belt and let his kilt fall to the floor. His shaft sprang to attention, but he didn’t give her time to admire the length and breadth of him. He locked gazes with her and slid home.

Her muscles tightened around him, urging him to go deeper still, until she felt him nudging her womb.

“Lass, I canna hold out…”

She lifted her lips for his kiss. “Then don’t.”

Her words triggered his release. As the warmth of his seed filled her, she stroked his back, kneaded his backside, and then ran her hands up into his shaggy red hair.

“I love the feel of you,” he rasped against her heart.

“And I love—” Her breath was cut short as he shifted, and she saw stars.

“Genvieve, lass!”

Her world slowly came back into focus. Winslow’s worried frown changed to one of outrage. “I told ye I’d hurt ye,” he ground out, his body vibrating with anger.

She reached up and traced the line of his jaw with her fingertips. “’Tis my own fault, love—I needed to feel you deep inside of me.”

Tears welled up, and she blinked them away.

“Dinna greet, lass.”

“I’m not crying,” she insisted as more tears welled up.

“Ye could have fooled me.”

“They’re happy tears.” She sniffed them back.

“Oh, aye.” He chuckled. “And I’m the King of England.” Wrapping his arms around her, he rolled until he was underneath and she on top.

She was deliriously in love with the man shooting daggers at her as he cupped her bottom in his hands, kneading her flesh until she wriggled against him. Impossibly, he pulsed inside of her, growing harder by the moment until she felt her passage grow wet with need.

Unaccustomed to the position, she tried to move with him, against him, but need was overwhelming her ability to reason, and she floundered.

Winslow took the matter out of her hands as he pinned her to him with the flat of his hand and rolled them over once again.

He slowly pulled partway out of her, and she ached with the loss. He leaned his forehead against hers and whispered, “I didna think I could love ye more than the day I first saw ye, fightin’ tooth and nail against those bastards,” he confessed, sliding back inside of her until he was snug up against her womb, his weight pinning her to the bed. “But I do, lass. I’d no’ be whole without ye.”

“Winslow,” she sobbed, “I—”

“Genvieve?” Lady Jillian called, knocking on the chamber door. “Are you all right?”

Looking up into her husband’s amber gaze and seeing everything she felt for him reflected back at her, Genvieve smiled. “Aye, Jillian.”

“Garrick said that you—” Jillian began opening the door, shrieked, then slammed it shut.

“I didna think the sight of me arse would have that effect on a female,” MacInness said, chuckling.

“She’s not woman enough for the likes of you, husband.” Genvieve grabbed said arse in both hands, bending her knees and drawing her feet back until they touched her bottom, spreading her legs as wide as they could go, taking Winslow as deep as she could.

When he was so deep, she would swear he touched her heart. He began to pump, slowly at first, until the walls of her passage tightened around him. He picked up the pace until he was thrusting hard and fast, mindless to everything except pleasing her and searching for the release just within their grasp.

Her release slammed into her, triggering his. He came inside of her, the heat of his seed warming her from the inside out.

“Well now, ’tis glad I am that I’m mon enough for the likes of ye, lass.”

Genvieve held him close and sighed. Contentment filled her as the musky scent of their lovemaking surrounded them, lulling her to sleep.

“I love ye, lass,” Winslow whispered against her ear.

“Mmm.”

Just as she was drifting off, something poked her awake. Exhausted, she grumbled, “What?”

“Ye didna give me the words back, lass.”

“Words? What words?”

His eyes were hot with temper. “Dinna tell me ye take them back already?”

Awake, she knew immediately what he wanted and gave it to him. “I love you, Winslow MacInness.”

“ Och , well, I knew that, lass.”

“Then why did you wake me up?”

“I needed to hear ye give me the words.” He pressed his lips to her forehead. “Sleep,” he ordered her.

And she did.