The Chief (Highland Guard #1)(105)

His brother was right: She loved him. He could see it in her eyes. Feel it in her touch. Taste it in her kiss.

And he could not deny that he felt a special tenderness for the lass, which troubled him. Could he care about her and still put his clan first? He’d never thought so before. Feelings only complicated—weakened—and that was something no chief or warrior could risk. He’d had a taste of it when MacDougall had confronted them, and when he’d seen her in the village. No matter what happened, he knew he could not allow his weakness for his wife to interfere with his duty.

She made a soft, contented sound in her sleep. He sighed, pressing his cheek against her warm, silky hair and inhaling her sweet, feminine scent. Contentment washed over his exhausted limbs. She was so small and soft. Delicate and easily hurt. Not hurting her was going to be a challenge, but he vowed to do his best to make her happy.

Twenty-Two

Christina leaned back against Tor’s chest, the leather folio resting on her naked stomach and the rumpled bed linen twisted around her legs. Bright morning sunlight poured through the open shutter, giving her plenty of light from which to read.

Or at least try to read—if her infuriating husband would stop interrupting. She got to the part about Lancelot lowering himself to ride in a cart to save his lady, and she heard the unmistakable sound of a snort.

She put down the book and turned around to give him a sharp look. “If you are going to ruin the story, I’m not going to read anymore.”

“These knights and their foolish codes,” he said with unconcealed disgust. “The gravest dishonor just for consenting to ride in a cart?” He shook his head. “Hell, I’d crawl through a dung heap to save you.”

Christina’s mouth twitched. It was hard to stay angry when he said something like that. Who would have thought that a dung heap could be so romantic?

She scooted up to give him a swift kiss. “That’s sweet.”

“Sweet?” His eyes darkened. “I don’t have a sweet bone in my body.”

And to prove it he dragged her up his chest and kissed her much more thoroughly. The book fell between them as she took advantage of their position, and his sizeable erection, by rolling around on top of him.

Straddling him on her knees, she impaled herself onto him, her body sighing with pleasure as he filled her. And how he filled her! Big and thick, she loved the feeling of him inside her. Aye, she’d learned to appreciate his size, and now understood the look that maid had given her those months ago at Finlaggan.

Groaning, he cupped her br**sts in his big, rough hands, squeezing and pinching her ni**les between his fingers as she began to ride him. Slowly at first, then faster, finding her rhythm.

She arched her back into his palms, letting her head fall back as she lifted off him, pulling up as high as she could go before sinking back down on top of him with a sensual circle of her hips.

Their bodies moved together so easily—fluidly. In bed, there was nothing left between them. No awkwardness or embarrassment, just the perfect union of lovers.

When she neared her release, he reached down between them and caressed that deliciously sensitive spot with his finger, intensifying her pleasure exactly the way he knew she liked.

She shuddered, crying out, as the spasms wracked her. She was still tingling when he took her by the hips and thrust high and deep, finding his own release.

Gently, he cupped her face and kissed her again. “Was that sweet enough for you?”

“Aye, I’ll ride you over a cart any day.” She giggled and snuggled back against him, retrieving the book from the sheets. With a scolding look, as if he was a bairn who’d misbehaved, she said, “Now do you want me to finish the chapter or not?”

His mouth quirked. “I suppose you might as well.”

She wasn’t fooled by his indifferent attitude. Despite his obvious scorn for the knightly code, she knew he was enjoying the tale.

She managed to get through the rest of the chapter without any further interruptions. But when she finished, he rolled out of bed (reluctantly, she thought) to get dressed.

She watched him with unconcealed interest. Two weeks of waking up in his arms had not dimmed her eagerness any. After that first time, he’d slept beside her every night. Yule had passed a week ago, but each day felt like a gift. She didn’t think she’d ever get tired of waking up next to him or of looking at his magnificent body as he went through his morning ablutions, knowing that only minutes before she’d been in his arms.

Her husband had softened toward her—of that she had no doubt. He no longer seemed quite so distant and indifferent, and he was making an effort to open up to her more as he’d promised, though it wasn’t easy for him. Given the brutality of his life and the circumstances of his parents’ death, she understood why.

Waking up in his arms every morning gave her some of the closeness she’d yearned for, but there was something missing. The divide between them was still there. It seemed he had two lives—one with her and one with everyone else.

She was as much in the dark about what he was doing as before. But she told herself to be patient. She just needed to give him a chance.

He dressed quickly; cleaned his teeth with a wash of white wine, a fine cloth, and a mint-and-salt paste; ran a comb through his hair, splashed water on his face from the urn on the table, and dragged the drying cloth over his face to wipe away the excess. But the cool water did not wash away the signs of worry etched on his face.