Chapter Twenty-Seven

"[Maternal Impression] phenomenon describes a belief that birthmarks result from the marked child's mother having some sort of strange or frightening encounter during her pregnancy… Japanese tradition held that a pregnant woman who gazed into a fire would give birth to a child with a ‘burn mark.'"

TheList.com

Sara's lovely lips parted as she looked down at the board, and he watched her inhale. Her gaze slid up to him again. "You don't think I poisoned him?"

He shook his head. "Nay." It wasn't a lie. The timing didn't work unless she had help and despite what Jamie said about her tricking them into trusting her, she'd pulled Jamie out of a burning church, thus barring her safe return to her home. Rory might not trust his own abilities to read duplicity in others, but facts spoke louder than guesses.

"Well," she said, gathering herself, "I'm glad for that because I didn't poison Jamie. I think someone is trying to make me look guilty."

"Another indication ye're innocent," he said. He'd said as much to Jok when he'd insisted that Rory interrogate Sara for the good of the clan . Rory had agreed but would do it his own way, giving Sara a chance to do the same to him.

Rory tipped his head toward the board. "We occupy the same spot."

She dropped her gaze to see both animals pushed together, half in the square and half out. "Since you chose to move that way, I say that I make you do something." She flapped her hand at him.

"We both do something," he countered.

"Like what? We both stand on one foot while we move next?"

He remained back in his seat in the most nonthreatening posture he could put on. "Show me yer back, Sara."

Her spine straightened as if it realized it would be on display and sought to stand at attention. "My back?"

"The mark ye've hidden from me." He did lean forward then, his head tilting slightly. "I wish to know every inch of ye." His words were smooth like the whisky he sipped, and he didn't even blink, not wanting to give her a chance to break the tether between them. He hadn't started this concocted game to ask to see the mark. But he'd decided to trust her despite Jamie, Jok, and a village full of people who remembered him being duped by Madeline. And he wanted her to trust him.

"I want to kiss every part," he said, his voice low and even. "Kiss, and lick, and nibble."

A flush rose into her cheeks, and those lush lips parted again. "I don't believe anyone has ever said something so…lustful to me before."

His grin turned into a smile. "I seem to remember some lustful words between us in the tower."

Her flush intensified. Och, but she remembered. Words, wicked and tantalizing, spoken between them as their bodies moved together, sliding and grinding. "You remember?" she asked. "From the coolness you've displayed since our return, I thought you'd pushed it from your mind." Her words were soft, just above the crackle from the flames in the hearth.

"Despite everything bombarding us, those words are etched inside my skull." In truth, they played through his mind every night when he'd taken himself in his own hand. Her breathy commands to touch her inside, to tease her into moaning.

She shifted in her seat as if the glorious crux of her legs ached, too.

"And what, would ye have me surrender to ye?" He nodded to the two pieces on the board. "Now that ye know my price." Would she ask him to make her moan again? To tease her until she exploded with passion?

"Then I would see your back, Ror," she said, using his shortened name.

He tipped his head. "Ye already have."

"I would see it here, now."

Rory stood and pulled his sash from his shoulder, letting it hang from the wrap around his hips. Keeping his gaze locked on Sara's eyes, he yanked his tunic off over his head. Her gaze slid down his chest like a caress against his skin until it fell on his jack jutting forward under the wrap. With her gaze still on him, his hand cupped it, and he slowly adjusted it through the wool. He saw her swallow.

He turned around, letting her see the two lash marks that had scarred over. They weren't the type of scars a man could boast, so Rory stood there rigidly. Three of the four Skye prisoners had the two lash marks, given by the captain in charge of Carlisle dungeon. Only Ash had been practically deformed by the flaying he'd received when captured trying to escape on his own.

Would Sara actually let him see whatever was on her back? Of course, he wouldn't force her. He heard the scrape of wood and looked over his shoulder.

Sara slid the bar over the door, locking it against anyone trying to enter. When she turned back to him, she nodded to it. "So no one walks in to find you half naked."

He didn't care what people saw but Sara would if she complied. She walked up to him. "Do they hurt?" She lifted her hand, and he turned his face back to gaze unseeing at the wall of books opposite him.

"The ridges can get irritated and scratched open easily, but they don't really." His inhale caught as he felt her cool finger touch the rough, raised lines across his back where he knew her own fingernails had left light score marks.

"You're fortunate they didn't become infected."

He pushed the thought of Ash's bloody slices away and concentrated on the feel of Sara's fingers on his skin. His most imperfect part of him. "Fortunate? Aye. Fortunate we were given a means to escape when we worked together."

She walked around to the front of him, standing close as she looked up into his face. "Kenan mentioned items sewn into blankets." She shook her head. "But none of you know from where they came."

He shook his head, his fingers rising to catch a curl that slid along her cheek. It was so soft, and he knew that if he inhaled near it, he'd catch a faint whiff of twin flowers. He tucked the curl behind her delicate ear, which he remembered teasing with his teeth before. His cock remembered, too.

"I had skeleton keys which we used to open the cell door and the dungeon door and another gate."

"Kenan had gold coins," Sara said, and he watched her lips move. They were so soft. His cock twitched again as if trying to escape his woolen wrap.

"Can I see yer back?" he asked before she did something like lick her lips and make him forget everything else except the heat he knew lay between her legs.

She stared into his eyes for a long moment. "'Tis a birthmark, not a scar. No one has beaten me."

Rory was certain she'd been harmed in other ways. "Were ye told it made ye…less?"

His sister, Eleri, had been made to feel shame for her curved spine, despite having nothing to do with it.

Her gaze dipped to his throat. "By some. Most don't see it. I keep it hidden." She looked back up. "But my husband would see it, and I had hoped…"

Hoped Jamie wouldn't have condemned her for something she'd been born with? If his treatment of Eleri, ordering her to stay up in her tower, was any indication, Sara would have suffered bound to him.

She took a full inhale and slid her short jacket from her shoulders. Her fingers pulled the pins from her stomacher and plucked the ties of her blue stays, which laced down the front with white ribbon. Quickly, it dropped away, leaving her in her smock up top and her petticoats below. The neckline was tied together at the base of her throat. He itched to help her, but kept his hands fisted by his sides. The heat from the fire behind him, and the fire rising within, made him hot even though he wore only the wrap around his hips and his boots.

Her skirts swished as she turned around, and she shrugged her straight shoulders until the linen fell away from the soft skin there. He remembered kissing that rise of shoulder, inhaling at the base of her neck, and sliding his cheek along the creamy skin. But the stiffness in her stance was a barrier she'd set, one he'd respect. So, he waited as she moved those beautiful naked shoulders a bit more, widening the opening of the smock so that the white undergown fell farther down her back.

The red stain, her birthmark, stood out like fire against the paleness of her skin. It stretched downward in a swath of deep crimson that curved into the middle of her back, reaching down into the folds of fabric at her waist. It covered a third of the pale landscape of her back.

…

Sara's breath felt stuck between her ribs. The coolness of the room made chill bumps rise over her skin. Sweet Mary, the bumps would just make the mark look worse.

"Does it pain ye?" he asked, his voice soft behind her. He didn't touch her except with his gaze.

"No. Sometimes I think 'tis more sensitive, but…" She shook her head, the bun feeling wobbly like her legs. She forced herself to breathe evenly.

She felt his fingertip at the peak of the birthmark. It dragged along an edge down until the waistband stopped him. The edges weren't crisp, the patch of red-hued skin feathering into the smooth skin around it like a swath of river feeding the flanking vegetation. She'd viewed it in Morag's polished glass the night before her wedding, but it hadn't lessened or faded over time.

She looked over her shoulder at him, studying his reaction, but he kept his emotions in check. The coolness in the room reminded her of the yearly inspections her father demanded to see if it had faded, making her stomach twist. But the mark only ever darkened. "'Tis ugly. I know."

"Nay." He held her gaze. "It curves like, well like a flame." He laid his palm against the skin and followed the slightly raised patch down her spine. "'Tis as if ye are the beautiful and mysterious Celtic goddess of fire." His voice was deep, a tumbling rumble. He lowered his lips and gently kissed the peak of the flame several inches below her nape.

Sara's heart leaped at the sensation, and she felt tears swell in her eyes. Was this acceptance? Even Morag had fought to lessen the stain, to rid Sara of it.

Rory's hand slid up to grasp her shoulder, his thumb reaching inward to stroke the stretch between shoulder and base of the neck. She shivered at the sensations penetrating her skin, shooting down through her. A gentle kiss touched the spot before trailing slow feathery kisses to return to her birthmark.

"Ror," she whispered, an unspoken plea within it.

Rory bent his knees, lowering inch by inch, kissing the flame down her back. The flame born to her, etched into her, marking her as different, unworthy, and ugly. But it didn't seem to bother him.

When he reached the waist of her skirts where he could go no farther, he stood, and Sara turned to face him. Her pale, full breasts were exposed, the nipples hard. But Rory just looked into her eyes.

Unshed tears swelled there, one overflowing to slide down her cheek. Her instinct was to wipe it away, but he leaned in, kissing it away from her cheek. He stroked her face. "I would flay everyone who has told ye ye're ugly, Sara." The flash of beast-like rage caught her breath.

She stepped into him, her peaked nipples brushing the light hair of his chest, and she captured the back of his neck. His gaze slid to the paleness of the underside of her upper arm. He took a moment to kiss it. "So soft."

"'Tis one of my best features," she said, holding her arm out.

The anger in Rory's gaze softened, and he grinned. "I think ye have many of those features, lass. Soft little secret places that I will taste." He leaned forward, his lips brushing hers. "Every. Single. One."

A shudder ran through her, sending a pulse down through her core, making it ache for his touch. She pressed into him which made the swell of her breasts rise up, the softness such a contrast to his hard chest. "May I love ye, lass?" His face came closer, his lips lightly touching her ear. "Make ye moan and thrash, my lusty fire goddess."

Sara released his neck, pulling three long pins from her bun. She let them fall to the floor as her hair tumbled down, tickling against her bare back. "Yes, Rory MacLeod, Lion of Skye. Make me moan and thrash."

With a charged groan, he grabbed her to him, his mouth descending to her lips. She opened with an immediate, wild response, the longing she'd felt over these days making her reaction urgent and intense. His hand raked upward through her mass of hair to hold her head in his palm, guiding her and holding her steady as he plundered the softness of her mouth. He tasted of whisky and desire, of heat and need. The tinge of wine on her own tongue mixed with his taste into the most delicious flavor she'd ever known.

His hands stroked down her bare back, his fingers tugging eagerly at the ties of her petticoats. She pulled the end of his thick leather belt that held his plaid pleated together. Her hand grazed his straining cock through the wool, and he growled. She loved his response to her. He'd seen her back and still responded with need. She did it again, this time cupping her hand around him through his wrap in a stroke.

Sweet Mother Mary, he was large.

His answering groan was fire to her soul, eating her up in the most pleasure-filled way possible. She was no longer a maid and was ready to explore more ways to find wanton pleasure. Her passion was already growing into an inferno, and it was glorious.

Her heavy outer petticoat dropped, leaving her in only the thin red under petticoat. With each layer lifted from her body, she felt lighter, freer. His mouth lowered to capture one of her nipples as his fingers caught the petticoat, raising it to the back of her knee.

"Oh my God, Ror," she gasped as he sucked hard on her peaked nipple.

His fingers licked a trail up her thigh, hitching the petticoat as he rose, kissing her neck. The heat from the fire behind her prickled against her bared skin. It mirrored the heat raging inside her. Sara threw her head back, giving him access to every bit of her skin.

His fingers stroked down over her backside, farther, seeking the heat between her legs. As he neared, her thighs parted, giving her silent permission. His mouth left a damp trail of kisses and nibbles to her ear. "Are ye wet for me, Sara?"

She answered with a soft moan.

"Aye," he murmured. "Och but lass, ye're all hot honey."

"Oh yessss," she hissed out when he sank two fingers into her primed, pulsing flesh.

From the sounds, she knew she was slick with desire, desire for him. She panted as he moved inside her, but then he withdrew. Before she could complain, he lifted her, carrying her to the chair, kicking the table out of the way. She heard the lion and phoenix fly off and tumble across the thick rug underneath and onto the wood floor beyond.

Rory perched her in the chair and knelt before her, a wicked smile on his lips as he watched her. Sara palmed her own breasts, pinching the nipples, her lips parted as she stared back into his eyes.

He rolled up her red smock until her legs were exposed, her thighs spread apart in the chair. "Remember this?" he said.

"Oh God." Her heart leaped in anticipation as he bowed his head.

He wrapped his arms around her hips, holding her to his face. Licking and nibbling, loving her with his mouth and fingers. She moaned as fire raked through her blood and squeezed her own breasts as he poured pleasure into her below.

She felt her body tense around his fingers.

While pleasure rolled through her, Rory lifted her from the chair, turning her to lean against it. Body contracting, her fingers curled around the back of the chair. He threw her skirts up her back, and she spread her legs, knowing the sight must be driving lust into Rory. She was open and slick with need. She glanced over her shoulder when he grasped her hips.

Rory was hard and straining, his face intense with dire need. Never before had she seen anything so primal. It sent another jolt of want through her, matching him.

"Yes, Ror, now."

He thrust into her, filling her completely, her still pulsing body gripping him. Sara threw back her head, and he thrust again and again. His arm held around her stomach, arse slamming back into him. Eyes closed, she felt his fingers reach around to rub her still roused body as he continued to thunder in and out of her from behind. For long minutes, they moved as one, undulating and colliding. He slammed into her so hard, her thighs hit the chair, sliding the piece of furniture across the floor.

Suddenly, her feet left the floor as Rory's arms wrapped around her stomach, carrying her toward the wall. He set her down facing the wall, and she braced against it as he continued to thrust up into her. He bent over her back, his mouth at her ear where he growled low, and she shuddered at the intensity in his voice. "Yer body wants me. Moving inside ye."

"Yes," she answered on an exhale. "I'm so full."

His fingers moved outside her, rubbing her into a frenzy of sexual need. "Yes, yes!" she called, and her body clenched around his cock as she peaked again.

Rory's lips nibbled at her ear, his growl turned into rasping words. "Ye are mine, Sara. Mine, marked and filled. Do ye understand?"

"Yes, oh God yes," she answered, passion still wrenching through her.

With one mighty roar, he exploded within her, his mouth resting in that space between her neck and shoulder. Body tight and pulsing, he filled her, and they continued to move, riding the waves of sexual oblivion that washed away the world around them.

…

Sara woke slowly, stretching, feeling the softness of the sheets brush her naked skin. She blinked and saw she was alone, the bed beside her cool. Her gaze went to the pointed, whitewashed ceiling.

In the tower.

Tugging the blanket and sheet higher to cover her breasts, she rose on one elbow.

Alone .

From the look of the sun coming in the windows, it was well past dawn. Of course, Rory had gotten up, and probably hadn't wanted to wake her. Sara slid her hands down her sensitive body. She ached in all her well-loved parts. Even her nipples were sensitive after rubbing along the thick rug the second time they'd come together in the library.

She smiled thinking of the wickedness that had made her sink to her knees on that carpet first to take him in her mouth, giving him the same type of pleasure he'd given her. When he could stand no more, he'd pressed her down on the carpet, first face to face, and then on her stomach from behind. She'd felt him kiss her back along her birthmark before he draped over her, plunging into her willing, open body. The crux of her legs pulsed at the memory.

Rap. Rap. "Lady Sara," Margaret called through the door.

A deep flush rose up Sara's neck, and she pressed against the throbbing once more before pushing out of bed. Her fingers snatched up the fallen robe, and she threw her arms into it, tying it around her waist as she called, "One moment, Mistress Margaret." Raking fingers through her hair, Sara hoped none of Rory's passionate nibbles showed on her skin like the one she'd gotten in the tower. She clutched the collar of the robe up higher as a precaution and went to the door, opening it.

Margaret stood there with four maids behind her, and two men holding something large between them. "What is all this?" Sara asked, standing aside as Margaret lifted and carried a bucket of water into her room, walking to the hearth where only cinders remained. All seven of them breathed hard from climbing four floors with their burdens.

"Sir Rory ordered you a bath, milady. Upstairs instead of in the back of the kitchens."

Two stout men carried in a narrow wooden tub that she'd be able to sit in to wash. Setting it down, they helped the maids with the buckets of water, pouring them in.

"Let the two on the fire heat up and pour it in the cold water," Margaret said, setting the iron poker back against the hearth. She'd added two peat squares to the glowing embers.

"I…thank you," Sara said, her cheeks warm. "I told Ror…Sir Rory that I was cold yesterday morn. 'Twas considerate of him to think to send me a hot bath."

The others marched out, but Margaret turned her direct gaze on Sara. "Of course," she said, walking forward to set a bar of soap in her hand. "And he says you like essence of twin flowers in your soap." It wasn't so much the words but the inflections that told Sara the older woman knew exactly why Rory had ordered her a hot bath.

"And this liniment can be used on any sore muscles." Margaret set the small bottle in her other hand. Her brows rose. "External muscles only."

Sara's lips parted, but the only words that she could muster were "thank you."

Margaret nodded and pointed to a tray one of the maids had set on her rumpled bed. "Enjoy your bath and break your fast. The girls are already asking for you." She looked back over her shoulder at Sara. "But I told them to let you have your rest." She smiled wickedly and stepped out onto the landing.

Margaret started to pull the door shut and then bent. "A note." Without looking at it, she held it out for Sara, who set her soap and liniment down to take it.

"Thank you," she said.

Margaret nodded with a smile and shut the door while Sara broke the seal.

Come see me this morn. Jamie