The Saint (Highland Guard #5)(61)

A short while later, Helen had the information she needed and headed to the alehouse—more precisely, to the small storage room inside it. Like many of the larger and more modern castles, Dunrobin had an alehouse within its gates. The small wooden building adjoined the kitchens, and both buildings had vaulted floors with storage below.

In one of those rooms, Magnus was waiting.

Helen pursed her mouth, steeling herself for what was sure to be her second unpleasant conversation of the evening.

Joanna had not given up the information willingly. Helen bit her lip, feeling a tad guilty for the lies she’d told. But a “strange rash on his groin” could be completely harmless—just as she’d told her.

Her mouth twitched. Being the castle healer was not without its benefits. In any event, she didn’t think Magnus would be making any more assignations, at least not while he was at Dunrobin.

The pungent, yeasty smell of the ale hit her as soon as she entered the alehouse. A fire crackled in the brazier, and a candle flickered on a large table, but with everyone at the Hall, the room was empty. Unfamiliar with the building, it took her a moment to find the storeroom.

But no sooner had she pushed the door open than an arm reached out to snake around her waist and pull her inside. She gasped in surprise. In one smooth move, he spun her around so her back was to his chest and pushed her up against the door, closing it.

The room was nearly pitch black—only the barest hint of light from the candle outside flitted through the wooden planks of the door. The heady scent of yeast filled her nose, drowning out everything else.

For a moment her senses were cut off, blind to everything but the sheer masculine force of the body at her back. He was hot and hard. She could feel the proof of his profession in every inch of steely, ripped muscle. The years of war and training had honed him to the peak of physical strength.

His arm tightened, pulling her a little snugger, as his lips brushed against her ear and sent a shiver whispering down her spine.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” he said huskily, drink heavy in his voice.

Helen’s eyes widened. He doesn’t know it’s me—the wretch!

She opened her mouth to identify herself, but suddenly forgot how to talk when he ground his hips against her bottom. She sucked in her breath; she could feel him grow big and hard against her.

Goodness! Her eyes widened with amazement. Knowing she could do that to him made her feel somehow stronger—empowered.

He moved the thick column lower, positioning himself between her legs. The blunt tip nudged intimately at her entry.

Dear God.

She shuddered. Awareness spread over her in a hot wave, the proof of his arousal triggering her body’s response to the primitive call. She started to tingle; a flush of fevered heat spread over her skin in a shimmering wave. She felt alive in a way that she never had before.

I should tell him …

But all thoughts of telling him anything slid from her mind when his lips found her neck and his hand covered her breast. He groaned, cupping and squeezing while his mouth ravished her neck. She’d never imagined him like this. Rough. Demanding. Unabashedly sensual.

He was devouring her as if he couldn’t get enough of her, his lips and tongue trailing hot wet kisses down to the nape of her neck. The scrape of his jaw along the sensitive skin burned like a brand.

Her knees felt weak, her entire body boneless with the wonder of it. The passion she’d always dreamed of was in her grasp. She didn’t want to let go.

His body was moving against hers in a wicked dance that demanded a response. But she didn’t know the steps. When his hips moved against her she had to press back, increasing the friction. The harder he kissed her neck, the more he squeezed her breast, the faster his movements became, the more bold were her responses. She arched her back, circled her hips, and let the gasps of her pleasure fall more freely from between her lips.

Her body was not her own. It was his. It had always been his.

Magnus should have done this a long time ago. What the hell had he been waiting for? Blood pounded through his veins in anticipation. His heart hammered. He couldn’t wait to be inside her.

He felt as if a weight were being lifted off his shoulders. Despite what his brethren thought, he hadn’t lived like a saint in the years since Helen had refused him. But always before, he’d been burdened by guilt—unwarranted or not.

Tonight he would be free; he could feel it.

He was more than a little drunk, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t believe how turned on the gel was getting him with those little breathy sounds she was making. He loved the way her tight little bottom moved against his hardness, teasing him, driving him mad with the urge to thrust inside her. He loved her smooth, silky skin that tasted like honey, and the full, ripe br**sts that could almost make him forget the full, ripe br**sts that had been tormenting him for days. Those damned gowns!

Don’t think about her.

He distracted himself with her chest—Joanna, he reminded himself—squeezing the soft flesh a little more insistently, savoring the heavy weight of it, and then burying his nose in her hair with a groan as the force of his desire pounded through him. If the soft silkiness and faint scent of lavender stirred a familiar memory, he shook it off. Then, to prove the memory false, he slipped his hand below the fabric of her dress and cupped her bare breast in his hand.

He liked the way she gasped. Liked it so much, in fact, that he set about eliciting some more. He ran his thumb over the taut little tip, caressing it to a firm peak. When it was nice and hard, he rolled it between his fingers and gave it a gentle pinch. He was rewarded with another gasp.