The Chief (Highland Guard #1)(55)

He couldn’t hold back much longer.

“Oh … God,” she moaned.

That was it. The moment he’d been waiting for. He dug in. Faster. Harder. Finding the perfect rhythm for her to—

She cried out and he let go, sinking deep inside her one more time and throwing back his head with a primal cry of pleasure. Blood roared in his ears as the force of his release exploded in a torrential storm of sensation, pulsing and pulsing until every ounce of pleasure was squeezed from him. For a moment he blacked out, the ecstasy too powerful.

When the last ripple had ebbed from his body, he collapsed beside her, utterly drained. He’d never felt so spent in his life. He struggled to find his breath. He felt weak; his limbs had turned to jelly.

What had she done to him?

Apparently, he wasn’t alone in his dazed lethargy. Christina’s breathing was as hard and uneven as his. He was grateful for the silence. For the first time in his life, Tor didn’t know what to say or what to think.

The confusion rattled him.

He stared into the darkness, telling himself it was nothing.

He’d just finished convincing himself that he was overreacting, exaggerating what had happened in his mind, when she curled her body to his, snuggling against him. He stilled at the contact, his chest tightening to a burn. For a moment he hesitated, instinct warring with the knowledge that he should keep his distance.

For the moment, instinct won. This one time wouldn’t hurt. He wrapped his arm around her and tried to not think about how good she felt against him. All that soft, warm skin melting against him. The silk of her hair spilling across his chest. Her dainty hand covering his heart.

He waited until he heard the soft, even sounds of sleep, then slid out of bed. He donned his clothes quickly and quietly. With one last look at the huddled figure in the bed, he closed the door firmly behind him.

Twelve

Christina was wrenched from a deep sleep by a chill at her back. Instinctively, she snuggled toward the heat of her husband, only to find emptiness and cold linen.

He was gone for some time if the icy sheets were any indication.

Her brow furrowed. Perhaps she’d slept longer than she realized? But when she dragged her eyes open, it was to find herself gazing into the early gray light of dawn filtering through the spaces in the wooden shutter.

As she could barely move, she wondered what could have caused him to wake so early. If it wasn’t for the freezing morning, Christina could have slept for another few hours. But winter was coming, and in the North it took a particularly frigid turn. Eilean a Cheo, the Isle of Mist, the Gaelic name for Skye, did not bode well. Shades of gray would probably be the only color to paint the sky for some time.

She stretched lazily, but even that took some effort. Every muscle in her body was stiff and weak with exhaustion. Heat flooded her cheeks as she remembered why.

Never could she have imagined acting with such wanton abandon. But in truth it had seemed the most natural—the only—thing to do. Her body had responded with a mind of its own.

He’d known exactly how to touch her. How to make her shake with pleasure until she soared into sensual oblivion. It was so much better than in her books!

A contented smile curled her lips. For all his cool indifference, her husband’s passion did not lie. Last night she’d seen a different side of him—a wild, passionate side, but also a gentle and considerate one. He’d not merely taken pleasure but given it.

He cared for her—he had to. She’d felt it in the tenderness of his touch, in the sounds of his pleasure, and in the frantic beating of his heart.

And when they’d collapsed in sated bliss, he’d been just as exhausted as she—the heaviness of his breathing and the boneless limbs gave proof that it had affected him.

Those long nights at the hearth seemed much closer.

But where had he gone?

She tossed the covers off and bounded out of bed, barely noticing the bracing chill in her eagerness to find him. Last night had broken down a barrier between them and she couldn’t wait to see him—to talk to him. A new day had dawned in their marriage.

She called for Mhairi, who slept in the adjoining mural chamber, and quickly washed and dressed. As she passed the lord’s solar on the way to the Great Hall, she noticed the door was slightly ajar. Hoping to find Tor there, she gently pushed it open to peek inside. Her attempts at quiet, however, were ruined by the squeak of the iron hinges.

The clerk startled, dropping the stack of parchments he’d been flipping through.

“My lady!” he exclaimed with surprise, moving back away from the table where he’d been standing.

Christina smiled, thinking that his voice squeaked louder than the door. “Good morning, Brother John,” she said cheerily. “You are up early this morning.”

He seemed to collect himself and returned her smile. “As I am every day. Matins at dawn, you know.”

She nodded, unable to prevent the wave of relief at the monotonous life she’d narrowly avoided. She hoped that Beatrix was happy. Word had arrived her first day at Dunvegan that her sister had made it safely to Iona. MacDonald’s charming scoundrel of a henchman had proved true to his word. Somehow MacSorley had caught up to the travelers and escorted Beatrix the rest of the way to the nunnery. The Islanders were reputed to be excellent seafarers, courtesy of their Viking forebearers. Her husband certainly gave proof to the characterization, but MacSorley’s extraordinary feat seemed incredible even for an Islander.