The Whiskey Laird's Bed Page 23

  “I think they might be back,” Faith said. “I thought I heard a commotion downstairs in the kitchens.”

  Claire looked to Faith. “Would you mind if we just went to bed early tonight? So much has happened today that I’m quite worn out. We can talk tomorrow . . . on the train.”

  Faith looked at her strangely. “Yes, of course. If that’s what you wish.” She backed out of the room, pulling the door closed behind her.

  Claire waited a few minutes to make certain Faith didn’t come back, then she slipped on Cameron’s smoking jacket and left for the library.

  He was there with a glass of whisky, just as she thought he might be. Circles had formed under his eyes—the day had taken a toll. His shirt was open, revealing traces of the curling chest hair that hours before she’d explored in depth. Was it only hours ago? It seemed like days.

  Thick, white gauze swirled about his right palm, evidence that she’d been right about the burn. Without a word, he took her palm in his left hand and led her down the spiraling stairs to his bedroom. She wrapped her arms around him and they held each other close.

  “I’m so sorry, Cameron,” she said. There weren’t words to express the desolation in her heart for the fire—Beckmore’s loss, as well as for his own.

  “Don’t leave tomorrow,” he said. “Stay here with me awhile longer.”

  “I can’t,” she said. “I have obligations.”

  “Obligations to the Sober Society?” His tone suggested that her commitments were insignificant to his desires.

  “Yes.” The timing of her announcement couldn’t be worse. She was hesitant to tell him, but as news of the rally could well reach to Beckmore, she told him the truth. “I’m to speak at the temperance movement rally in three days. I have to prepare.”

  Cameron sank into a chair—the very chair in which he’d tried to sleep the previous night. “Is there no way we can breach this divide between us, Claire? Do you still believe I’m the Devil?”

  “No.” She smiled. “That was silly of me.” She knelt down before the chair and took his hand in hers. “I understand all that you’ve said about how the production of Scotch whisky plays a larger role in more lives than I had imagined. I was foolish to believe that the problems of the innocent would be reduced by the abolishment of whisky. But something needs to be done to protect the women and children whose lives are destroyed by a husband—”

  “Or a father?”

  “Yes, or a father. I cannot turn my eyes from that need.” She stroked the side of his face. “But neither can I turn my eyes from you.”

  He kissed her then. He pulled her into arms and onto his lap, kissing her as if his very life depended on it. She opened herself to him, taking his need, wanting his desire.

  Dressed in her thin nightgown and his silk jacket, she hadn’t layers of clothing to shield her body’s reaction to his touch, and touch he did. Bracing her with one arm, his other hand neatly separated her wrapper and found her breast. Her nipples hardened with his touch, sending waves of urgent titillation throughout her body, cumulating in her womb. It was wrong of her, she knew, but she wanted more. She desperately wanted his mouth on her breasts as it had been that afternoon, and she wanted him to fill her, make them one.

  “I need you, Claire. I can’t promise to be gentle, not tonight. I need—”

  She placed a finger to his lips . . . sweet whisky lips. “I’m yours.”

  He must have heard her thoughts. He scooped her into his arms just as she had finished opening his shirt. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, kissing every bit of skin her lips could reach while he carried her the short distance to the bed. He laid her down, then removed his shirt.

  Lord, he was beautiful and tonight, he was hers. Her eyes drank in every aspect of his body as he shed his clothes. Once he stood before her, naked as God had made him, she raised her arms in welcome. No more was needed.

  His fingers pushed the hem of her nightgown before him as they ran up her legs. Once the gown had bunched at her waist, he spread her legs wide. Even though he had seen her naked in their afternoon adventure, this was not for play. A fear crept over her. She’d witnessed his width and length and knew his obvious intent. She bit her lip and stared at the ceiling so he couldn’t see her apprehension.

  “Claire, look at me,” he commanded.

  She adjusted her glance, letting it slide down to where he hovered over her, supporting his weight with his knees pressing her legs apart. While his bandaged hand hung limp by his side, the other hand slipped to the curls at the top of her legs gently stroking the cleft there. First one, then two fingers pushed their way inside. His thumb rubbed a part of her sending tremors through her body. She had an urge to close her legs, but of course she couldn’t. She was at his mercy.

  “I know you can feel my fingers inside. Your flesh is squeezing mine.”

  She heard rather than felt moisture pooling. Was that normal? Should she be embarrassed? It didn’t bother the laird, as he withdrew his fingers and replaced them with the head of his member.

  “This may hurt. It only happens the first time.”

  Suddenly he pushed deep inside. She hadn’t time to consider that her body had accepted what she knew was no insignificant phallus, because he continued to push deep into her again and again, almost in mindless abandon. She felt the initial pull and sharp pinch, but the pain was nothing to one who had experienced the slap of a leather strap. Suddenly he stopped while deeply embedded and rose above her with a growl deep in his throat. His face contorted almost in agony before he lowered himself to lay heavily upon her.

  They were so tightly joined as to be one body. She could feel his pulse deep inside and could not imagine sharing such a deep, intimate connection with any other man.

  She’d longed for such a close connection but had never realized it. He filled her in a way she’d never expected. Tears leaked from her eyes. She would miss this once she’d returned to London.

  Cameron kissed her neck repeatedly, then rolled to one side, taking her with him until she was sprawled on top. Unfortunately, in the process he had slipped out. Already she missed him.

  “You’re crying,” he said shocked. “I’m sorry, English. The next time will be more pleasurable. I promise.”

  “The next time? Have you forgotten I’m to leave in the morning?”

  “Was it not you who scolded me this very afternoon that you hadn’t left yet?” He laughed softly, then tucked her neatly into his side. “You’ll spend the night here, and this time, I’ll no be in a chair. There’ll be time to do this again. Just not immediately, you understand.”

  She stroked his face as they lay side by side, letting her fingers memorize every detail about him: the shape of his ear, the texture of his skin, the curve of his lips. She would likely never see him again in this manner, and she wanted desperately to remember. “Cameron, about the negatives from today. I haven’t developed them, and as we’re to leave in the morning . . .”

  “Take them,” he said. “Take the frames and the chemicals, but leave the camera.”

  Disappointment tugged at her. She had no right to the camera, after all, but she had discovered a talent and an appreciation for it that she hadn’t had before she came. She’d hoped . . .

  He kissed her neck. “It’ll be here for you when you return.”

  “You believe I’ll return to this cold wilderness?” she teased.

  “I believe you must. Scotland is a part of you now, English. You will return.”

  ***

  Claire stayed very still until the rhythmic rise and fall of Cameron’s chest, accompanied by his soft snores, indicated he was asleep. She smiled, after all they’d been through this day, he could sleep. The near shooting midday, the magical time spent at the waterfall, then the sad events of the fire, and her first time with a man, yet he could still slumber. She couldn’t. The juncture
of her legs still throbbed from their coupling.

  Did she regret what she’d done? Giving the laird what so many had warned her against? Not particularly. He needed her in this fashion tonight and she’d given herself to ease his pain. She couldn’t regret that. He’d given her so much more.

  Although now that she knew what coupling was all about, she didn’t believe she’d miss it once she’d returned to London—which would occur much too soon. She slowly tried to extricate herself from his arm but instead it tightened about her.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Go back to sleep,” she whispered. “You need your rest.” She tried to get up but his hand slipped to her waist and held her in place.

  “This was your first time, Claire, and I used you badly. Did I hurt you?”

  “A little,” she conceded. “But nothing worthy of your concern. Go back to sleep.”

  He propped himself on his arm so that he gazed down on her while he stroked her hair. “But I am concerned.”

  His hand slipped the white strap of her nightgown off her shoulder. “I’m concerned that you’ll be leaving me without knowing how it truly can be between us. I’m concerned that I won’t have occasion to kiss you here.” His lips descended to her neck generating a delicious shiver. “Or here.” He kissed her shoulder, before gently pulling the nightgown down further to expose her breast.

  This afternoon such exposure would have been profoundly embarrassing, but now her senses quickened with anticipation.

  He rolled her onto her back and suckled her breast, while exposing the other for his attention. His teeth grazed her nipples causing them to pucker into tight buds.

  Dear God in Heaven! Her body instantly responded. Her breath turned shallow and her chest rose to meet him. He shifted, pulling her beneath him, then slowly made his way down her body kissing every inch of skin.

  She could not keep still. Such sweet torture! When his tongue laved her belly button, she slipped her hands in his hair and tried to bring him back up. She wanted—no needed—to kiss him in return but she couldn’t with his head by her hips.

  “No, English,” he said, glancing up at her. “I want to worship your body. This time is for your pleasure. In fact—” he pulled on her side—“roll over.”

  She complied. “What are you doing?”

  His weight pressed her buttocks to the mattress. “I want to see your scars.”

  She tried to roll back. “I’ve forgotten them, Cameron,” she lied. “There’s no need.”

  He gently pushed her back facedown toward the mattress. “I know better. You can hide them, but ye never forget.”

  She gritted her teeth. Cameron’s close scrutiny brought back painful memories. “You saw my back at the waterfall.”

  “No like this.” He kissed each shoulder blade. “What did he say to you when he made these marks?”

  “He was drunk. He didn’t know—”

  “Tell me, English. I want to hear his words.” His warm breath touched her skin a moment before his lips.

  She was trapped. His hands massaged her breasts while his lips paid homage to her back. His weight ground her into the mattress. She couldn’t escape. “He said I was ugly,” she admitted, attempting to sound casual about a truth that had haunted her everyday. “That he couldn’t have sired such an ugly child.”

  “He lied,” Cameron said simply. “There is nothing ugly about you. You’re beautiful.”

  Still, she knew better. “But my nose—”

  “Was he blind? I’ve told you before your nose is a defining feature. It’s a strong nose. A Scottish nose. A nose of character.” His voice, low and mesmerizing teased her answering smile, though she knew he couldn’t see it. “What else did he say?”

  “That I was stupid.” The admission knifed through her. “That I couldn’t mix the chemicals correctly or prepare the frames.” In spite of her attempt to be strong and unemotional, a tear tracked silently down her cheek. She swiped her hand at it before Cameron could see.

  The vibrations of his soft laughter shook the small of her back. “We both know that he was wrong about that,” Cameron said. “You were a child learning an adult’s responsibility. A child is bound to make mistakes. But the prints I saw in the croft prove your competence.” He pressed his lips to her back releasing the years of hurt captured by the scar. “You’re intelligent and smart. Your father dinna know what he was saying.” He rested his chin in the small of her back. “What else?”

  Tears flowed faster than she could wipe them away so she stopped trying. Instead, she turned her head to the side and let the pillow absorb the moisture. “He said I was unlovable. No one would ever love a child like me and that he’d see to it.” She still remembered that night, the slap of the leather and the sting of the lash.

  Cameron’s hands stilled a moment. He swore a Gaelic curse before kissing the very spot where the leather strap had struck the deepest. “Your father was a fool, Claire. A stupid drunken fool. Ye cannot believe what he said. Do ye hear me?”

  She nodded, though she didn’t really believe him. It was her father’s curse that kept her from feeling anything when Cameron had entered her before. Cameron would be better off with someone else, someone who could return his affections in bed. Tomorrow, she’d be gone and he could continue his search.

  He rolled her over so she was again on her back.

  “I’m going to make love to you again, Claire. I’m going to show you that your father was wrong.” He scooted down on the bed and pulled her legs apart as he had before. She could see that his member was once again swollen and ready to plunge into her. She braced for the assault.

  However, instead of his thick shaft, his tongue stroked her intimately.

  “What are you doing?” she whispered, afraid that she’d shriek and wake the guests in the castle.

  “Relax, English. You’re swollen from before. I want to be sure that it doesn’t hurt this time”—he kissed her sensitive inner thigh—“or ever again.”

  He stroked her most private parts with his tongue. Delicately weaving in and about the sensitive tissue. Titillation rippled through her, building higher and higher. While he held her to his mouth, he slipped his finger deep inside her, eliciting her gasp.

  This was nothing like before. His tongue swirled an area that demanded more and more until the rising peak of increasing sensation exploded, sending waves of surrendering warmth into every extremity. She felt suspended, frozen in time, while the waves lulled her into an intense sea of calm.

  She thought he was through with her, but she was mistaken.

  “Now you’re ready for me,” he said. His confidence and smug smile suggested he knew what he had done, even as waves of pleasure still ebbed through her body. While his demanding phallus pressed in the same spot as before, this time it entered slow and sure, sliding on some internal lubrication. Cameron covered her, pressing his gorgeous chest on her straining nipples, slipping his arms under her shoulders so he could hold her tight. She wrapped her arms around his scarred back and lifted her legs to his hips wanting him to press her close.

  He began to move as before only on this occasion he took his time, letting her adjust, letting her decide through the press of her hips when to take him deeper. Her body responded as if it knew what to do, moving in rhythm with his thrusts. She recognized the building sensation this time and quickened her pace. He obliged with strength, driving her higher and higher until she felt pleasure shatter and rain throughout her body sending contentment clear to her toes.

  Cameron slumped. She could hear his heart pounding just as she suspected her own raced. He lay still a moment before tumbling to her side.

  “Good Lord, Claire. A more lovable woman has never walked this earth.”

  She smiled in her sated state believing he must be right.

  Morning came much too soon, and with it the knowle
dge that she’d not likely spend another night with a man tasting every inch of her body the way Cameron had done. It made her blush to think of it. But all of her wishing and yearning could not hold back the dawn.

  “Stay,” he commanded. “The teetotalers don’t need you as much as I.”

  “I have to go,” she said, searching for her nightgown amidst the sheets and blankets. “It’s an honor, really, to be allowed to make a speech at such an important rally.” Though in truth, she wasn’t certain she could say the words she’d written. They felt hollow now that she understood so much more about Scotland and its relationship with whisky. “You have important things to do here as well. You need to rebuild the malt house.”

  “You think I should rebuild?” he asked, surprised. “I know you had nothing to do with the explosion, but I thought you might want to keep Ravenbeck closed.”

  “Beckmore needs Ravenbeck. I understand that now. What we need is something that will stop individuals from drinking too much whisky. Or perhaps something to help those who suffer from habitual drunkenness. I don’t know what, but ignoring the problem won’t see it solved.”

  “If it can be.”

  “If it can be,” she agreed. She pulled the nightgown over her head and stood. “It’s time to go.”

  “English, wait!” He pulled her back into his arms. “I shall never forget you,” he whispered in her ear.

  “Nor I you,” she admitted.

  “We’ll meet again.” It was a statement, a command.

  “I hope we do.” But in her heart she knew they would not. He was a Scottish laird—a man closely aligned with the lords and earls that currently stayed at Ravenswood Castle—while she was just the daughter of a photographer of some repute. He was a whisky distiller, while she supported temperance. Lady Macpherson did not find her acceptable, and she was probably right. The laird of a clan should have someone at his side whom his people would admire, who knew how to pander to the lords and ladies in a way that she did not.