As he heatedly spread kisses over her satiny midriff, Parlan reveled in her response. She was fire beneath his hands, far more than he had dared hope for. When he began to remove her hose, his hands touched the warm silken skin of her thighs and before he bent to kiss her there, he found that he had barely skimmed the surface of her passion.
Aimil nearly flew off the bed when he touched her bare legs. Parlan took quick advantage of her sensitivity there, his hands and lips moving over her greedily, leaving no spot upon her long, slim legs untouched. The pleasure grew so intense Aimil thought he would kill her with it. His large calloused hands both caressed her legs and held them steady so that he could kiss her, lick her, and nibble her. When he finally made his slow way up her body, his hand slipping between her thighs, Aimil was too frenzied to do more than twitch when he touched her so intimately.
Feeling that faint sign of rejection, Parlan lifted his head from her breasts only to hear her make a sound much like a purr and to see her open for his touch. “God, so lovely. Ye are melting for me.” He moved his mouth greedily over her breasts as he stroked her and probed her secrets. “Aye, lass,” he groaned against her throat, “let your sweetness flow. I mean to taste it soon. Nae this night but soon.”
“Please, please,” she moaned, having no idea for what she begged but only certain that he could give her what her body now craved.
“I must hurt ye the first time but t’will pass,” he rasped as he readied himself to possess her.
She did not really hear him but moved her hips against his in a way that made him shudder. He took her with one hard thrust in the hope that quicker was better. Feeling the shield of her innocence rend before his charge, he savored the proof that he was the first, even as he flinched in sympathy with the pain he had caused her.
Aimil shuddered beneath the onslaught, but the sharp pain was gone as quickly as it had come. All she could think of was that there was more. She moved her hands to his taut buttocks as her legs clasped him tightly, urging him to move with both actions.
“Oh,” she sighed, her whole body shuddering with delight as he moved with slow, measured strokes. “So fine. ’Tis so nice.”
“Nice? Sweet Mary, ’tis heaven. Move with me, sweeting. Aye,” he gasped when she parried his next thrust. “That is the way of it.” He encircled her hips with his arm to press her closer as he brushed fevered kisses over her face. “Aye, take it all. Take me in deep, lassie. God, ’tis sweet.”
After kissing her hungrily, he watched her as his motions grew fiercer. He was barely able to appreciate the way her body convulsed with her release when his own seized him. A hoarse cry of exultation escaped him as he drove deeply within her to spill his seed, a gift of passion that her body accepted with trembling greed. She continued to shake and to squirm slightly with lingering pleasure after he collapsed upon her. Parlan found her subtle movements arousing, despite how sated he felt.
Aimil felt as if she drifted down from the clouds slowly and was amazed that she was still alive. That something extraordinary had happened was evident by her furious heartbeat and her gasping breaths. Her whole body tingled, yet she felt heavy and langorous. It had been all she had hoped for and more. She realized once was not enough. Since her maidenhead was now lost, she decided it would matter little if he did it again. She found herself hoping that he would.
Easing himself away from her slightly, Parlan grinned at her. “There now, didnae I say I would give ye pleasure?”
It struck her that he looked very much like a small boy who had found the bean in the twelfth-night cake. She felt sure that his experience with women allowed him to know exactly what he had stirred in her. Aimil sincerely doubted she was the only one to gain such pleasure in his arms. There was no way she was going to pronounce him bean-king and add to his already lofty opinion of himself, not when he was supposed to think her there solely because of their bargain. She gazed at her fingernails with an air of boredom.
“I have never suffered such a lack of entertainment in all my short life,” she drawled.
Parlan roared with laughter, not in the least insulted for he knew of the pleasure he had given her. He held her close as he laughed, and she soon joined in for it was a contagious sound. Aimil also knew that she had not fooled him.
As their laughter died away, she was seized by a feeling of deep exhaustion. A great deal had happened to her in the past twenty-four hours, indeed, in the last week. Her body had clearly decided that, if she did not have enough sense to rest, it would take the decision out of her hands.
Parlan sensed the sudden laxness in her and raised himself up on his elbows to look at her with a crooked grin, knowing she needed to rest but wanting her again. “Are ye betrothed, Aimil?” he asked, feeling a strong need to know if some man had a claim to her.
She tried to open her eyes to look at him but gave up. “Since the cradle. I am to be wed at summer’s end.”
“To whom?”
“To Rory Fergueson. I am going to sleep now.”
The quickness with which she fell asleep momentarily surprised Parlan out of his reaction to the name of her betrothed. He nudged her but got no reaction. She lay sprawled on her back much as if she had been felled by a blow. Shaking his head and grinning, he lay back down to think about her betrothal for a moment, the feelings his surprise had briefly quelled rushing to the fore.
If there was one man in the world he could truly say he hated, it was Rory Fergueson. The man had no redeeming qualities at all. He had no proof but he was sure that Rory was responsible for the brutal way Parlan’s cousin Morna, had died. Rory Fergueson was vicious, sly, a liar, and a cheat. Each time the MacGuins had raided the Ferguesons, Parlan had hoped to find Rory within his sword’s reach, but the man had always eluded him. Fondling the lush hair tangled around Aimil’s face, Parlan knew he could not let her fall into that man’s hands. Getting up, he donned his robe and strode off to Leith Mengue’s chambers.
Leith glared at the man who had awakened him and had just come from taking Aimil’s virtue. “What do ye want?”
“Is Aimil betrothed to Rory Fergueson?”
“Aye, since the cradle,” Leith answered, curious over the agitation he sensed in the larger man, “though I had forgotten the matter until the day we were captured. The wedding plans were being set and that caused me to recall the arrangement.”
“Doesnae Lachlan ken the sort of man Rory Fergueson is?”
“I cannae think he hasnae heard the rumors. ’Tis an old arrangement that cannae be broken because of rumor. Of course,” he added coldly, “Rory might weel break the betrothal now that ye have stolen Aimil’s honor. Few men want to wed another’s leavings.”
“Stolen her honor I may have, laddie, but I havenae hurt her in the doing of it. Rory Fergueson will kill her.”
The charge was made with such conviction that all of Leith’s thoughts of Parlan’s crimes fled. “Do ye have proof to back your charge?”
“Nay, curse it. Five years back he and my cousin Morna, were lovers. She thought he would wed her, told me of her hopes, for she had been a virgin when he had taken her. Then her hopes changed. She became afeard of the man though she wouldnae tell me why. When she told me she was ending the affair, I was pleased for I had never liked it, but she wasnae a verra comely lass and I felt she ought to have her moment.”
“What happened?” Leith prodded when Parlan fell into a brooding silence.
“The next morn she was found dead. If it wasnae for the ring and dress she wore, we wouldnae have kenned who she was she was beaten so badly. She had been used so harshly the women who treated her said she was torn up inside. I have no proof but each thing I have learned of the