Unlacing the Lady in Waiting Read online

  But it was gone, vanishing into the mists as all dreams did, and she was alone again.

  Slowly she became aware of other things—the slight chill in the air that touched her bare skin, the faint smell of candle smoke. The feel of a fur-lined blanket under her hands. She frowned and turned her head, trying to burrow down deeply into sleep again. If she could just sleep a little longer before attending on the queen…

  She ran her fingers over the blanket beneath her again, and frowned. This didn’t feel like her own bed, and she couldn’t hear the whispers of the other ladies-in-waiting. Usually they never shut up at all.

  Suddenly cold panic broke over her, driving away the last delicious remnants of the dream. She sat up so fast her head spun. Her loosened hair fell over her eyes, blinding her, and she remembered. The palace garden, James McKerrigan’s hands on her, his mouth on her skin—the ties around her wrists, binding her.

  She pushed back her hair and her stare flew around the room. It was a small, rough space, with whitewashed walls and a flagstone floor, the low ceiling crisscrossed by dark beams. One small window let in a beam of moonlight, and there was only the low bed she lay on and one table, holding the candles.

  She held her hands out before her. They were no longer tied, but the movement made her realize her sleeves were gone and her bodice was loose. As she pressed it back to her breasts, she saw James sitting half in the shadows by the bed.

  He had discarded his black doublet and wore a loose white linen shirt, the sleeves folded back and the lacings halfway undone to reveal the glistening skin of his bare chest. His arms were folded over that chest, and he watched her with no expression on his hard face. His eyes were cold as they swept over her bare shoulders and tumbled hair.

  Helen’s shoulders stiffened, and she made herself stare back steadily despite the strong urge to turn away. He had brought her here, by force! If he was angry now, that was his own doing.

  “Where am I?” she demanded.

  “Somewhere safe,” he answered, his low voice infuriatingly calm.

  “I insist you take me back to the palace now,” she said. “It was bad enough what you did in the garden, but to…to kidnap me…” Her voice broke and she cried out, “You are a villain!”

  That cold mask broke and he grinned. A wide, white slash in his dark face, and to her horror the most alluring dimple appeared low in his cheek. She suddenly longed to touch it, taste it with the tip of her tongue.

  She sharply turned her head away to stare at the wall.

  “I think you like it that I’m such a villain, Helen,” he said. In one smooth, swift move he left the chair to kneel beside the low bed. Before she could turn, he braced his arms on either side of her and held her still.

  “I—I prefer men with more poetry and polish,” she said, struggling to hold on to her bodice. And on to her emotions. That feeling of “rightness” came over her too strongly as she looked at him, even amid her uncertainty. She still longed for him.

  “Ah, yes, your beloved Frenchmen,” he said, that teasing tone in his voice. But a darkness flickered behind his eyes. “You’ll just have to forget them now. You’re mine, Helen. You’ll not escape me again.”

  “When the queen finds out what you’ve done…”

  “By the time morning comes you won’t want to tell her, Helen,” he said. “You won’t want your husband to be clapped in irons.”

  Helen’s stare swung back to him in horror. What did he mean? In irons?

  “There’s a Highland tradition of a man kidnapping his chosen bride, you know,” James said, still so infuriatingly calm. As if they conversed about the weather. “He carries her away from all she knows so they can be truly joined as one.”

  Helen swallowed hard. “Is that what this is? One of your barbaric customs?”

  “Helen. What do you think?”

  His arms tightened around her, and as he lowered her back to the bed his mouth closed over hers—hot and hungry.

  Helen opened her mouth to protest—and his tongue thrust inside. That intoxication she felt when he kissed her in the garden rushed through her veins all over again, only warmer, stronger. She knew James’s taste so well now, his scent. One whiff of it sent her head into a sensual spin and she remembered all her foolish old dreams.

  She had lifted her hands to push him back from her, but somehow her hard little fists unwound and her fingers coiled into the soft linen of his shirt instead. She grabbed handfuls of it, flattening the thin fabric tight against his body. She could feel every hard ridge and plane of his chest, the light dusting of curling hair there a shadow behind the thin white cloth.

  She swept an appreciative glance over his beautiful body before she closed her eyes to concentrate on that kiss. Ahh—that kiss. James was so good at that it must make kissing a mortal sin. His lips and tongue moved over hers, full of fire, of the desperate need to taste, to possess.

  To possess her. The fact that he desired her so much he could forget himself and all that had happened between them made Helen feel as if she had awakened to life, real life, for the very first time.

  He left her lips and she moaned softly in protest. She wanted more of that feeling, that life! She had just barely grasped it.

  But he wasn’t leaving her. He pressed hot kisses to her closed eyes, to the tiny crease between her eyes she got when she concentrated. He kissed the pulse at her temple, and swept back the heavy fall of her hair to bite lightly at her earlobe. His hot breath, rough and uneven as if he fought against his primitive urges, rushed over the sensitive skin there and she gasped.

  “Sweet Helen,” he whispered, and she felt his lips trace tiny, soft kisses over her jaw and down her arched throat. His tongue swirled in the tender hollow at its base, just as she liked. “How I have missed you.”

  Surely he was a sorcerer! He knew just where to press, lick, touch to make her cry out, make sparks dance over her skin.

  He eased her loosened bodice even lower to reveal her bare skin, marked red where the boning of the fabric had pressed against her. Her breasts looked gilded in the candlelight, the nipples achingly erect and flushed dark pink.

  James drew the gown lower, dragging away her chemise with it until she wore only her underskirt and petticoats, her stockings and shoes. Well, one shoe. It seemed she had lost the other. Her breasts were bare to him.

  With a moan, she tried to cover them with her hands, but he seized her fingers in his and held them above her head until she was stretched open to his burning gaze.

  How had she ever thought him cold? He was a god of fire.

  “Don’t make me tie them again,” he said with a warning glance.

  Helen shook her head. She couldn’t speak at all.

  He turned his attention to her bare skin, and as she watched him he lowered his head and pressed his mouth to one of those red grooves left by her stays. He licked it with the tip of his tongue, all the way from its tip just below her breast to her waist. Then he worked his way up again, his whiskers tickling her skin.

  “How you women torture yourselves,” he murmured. “The Inquisition in Spain could take lessons from fashionable ladies.”

  “It’s important to be st-stylish,” she managed to say. She wanted to reach down and plunge her fingers into his hair, hold him against her, but she lay very still, her arms above her head. She didn’t want to do anything to make him cease—whatever it was he was doing.

  “Damn fool fashion,” he said. His hand drifted over her bare abdomen, a brush as light as feathers that made her tremble. “You should wear just your chemise. Or better, nothing at all.”

  Helen choked on a laugh. “Queen Mary would banish me from her Court.”

  “All the better.” James swirled his tongue over her navel and dipped the tip of his tongue into that shallow hollow.

  Her trembles turned to shudders. And she nearly cried out when he pushed down her skirts and cast them aside in a flutter of black-and-white silk. Now she lay before him with only her white sto
ckings and black ribbon garters, bare to his eyes.

  And he looked and looked. He tilted his head back to stare down at her stretched-out body. His eyes darkened and his nostrils flared as if he could smell her arousal.

  Suddenly nervous, Helen slid her hand to cover her womanhood. James grasped her wrists again and moved them away. She froze like that, every sense alert and tense to see what he would do next.

  He reared up to stand at the foot of the bed. He was outlined in the candlelight, every tall, powerful inch of him. As Helen watched, he pulled his shirt off over his head and tossed it away with her skirts. Never taking that heated stare from her, compelling her to look only at him.

  His palms moved down over that hard, rippling abdomen to unfasten his breeches. He had already removed his boots, and that black velvet fabric was all that covered him. He eased them over his hips to the floor and kicked them away.

  Helen didn’t want to look. She had seen the male rod before, of course. She lived in a crowded, licentious Court, and men did like to show off. They had all looked faintly ridiculous to her, awkward and strange. What if James did, too, and she laughed?

  She gave a cautious peek—and was not the least bit tempted to laugh.

  Nothing about James was ridiculous, least of all his long, thick penis, standing out fully erect from a neat nest of curling dark hair.

  “Mon Dieu,” she whispered, and her head fell back to the bed.

  She heard a maddeningly smug laugh. “Do you approve, my lady?”

  Helen closed her eyes and remembered all the French Court ladies, flirting so boldly with their swains. So sophisticated and knowing. So—bawdy. She had learned the Court talk well, even if she hadn’t taken on all the Court ways.

  She rolled onto her side and propped herself up on her elbow for a better view. Nay—not ridiculous at all.

  She smiled up at him. “That depends entirely on what you do with it, monsieur.”

  It was as if she had unleashed a wild beast from a cage. James growled low in his throat, and he swept down to pull her up in his arms, her body pressed against his until she could feel every hard inch of his lean form.

  Everything, she thought in awe as his erect manhood nudged the soft skin of her abdomen. She was alone with a McKerrigan and she only felt good. Right.

  A very aroused McKerrigan, her brain screamed as he pressed himself closer to her. His arms closed around her, and all fear fled. Thought was utterly banished by the hot, hard power of his body wrapping all around hers, keeping her safe.

  Safe. She had not felt safe in so very long, ever since her mother died and left the child Helen to the cold, unreasonable demands of her father. She could never be a perfect enough lady for him, never be obedient enough, never win even a crumb of his approval. And then he sent her away alone to France, to find her way in a strange land with strange people. She succeeded; she fought her way tooth and claw through the beautiful serpent pit of the French Court and became one of them.

  One of them—only not truly. Beneath her brittle laughter, her fine gowns, she was broken into a hundred pieces. Broken and alone.

  Until this moment. She didn’t feel alone at all when James held her like this, so close, so safe. As if he held her precious, a jewel, a prize beyond any hard pride. She felt like she was meant to be here.

  She rose on her knees before him and wrapped her arms around his neck, opening her mouth to his kiss. This felt like coming home, the rush of welcome she hadn’t sensed when the ship glimpsed Scotland’s rocky coast at last.

  His tongue slipped inside, tasting, pressing and stroking every sensitive spot. Helen trembled as hot, liquid pleasure flowed through her. Who knew that merely kissing could feel so good? Make her feel so hot and shivering at the same time, the curls between her legs so damp?

  He was so very good at that, at kissing her just how she wanted it, teasing her. His rough, large hands slid over her shoulders and slowly down the arch of her back. He found every soft spot that made her moan, every sensitive inch of flesh, until he cupped her bare bottom.

  Helen cried out against his mouth as he drew her up and closer to his erection, cradling her soft, moist, longing heat to his iron hardness. His fingers pressed into her tender skin and wouldn’t let her go. Not that she wanted to run away.

  Not anymore.

  She dug her nails into his shoulders and held on tighter. Held on for her very life.

  He lowered her down, her back braced to the soft bed, and came down on top of her, cradled between her spread legs. She wrapped them around his waist and dug her heels into his backside. It was as deliciously hard as the rest of him.

  He kissed her cheek, the soft underside of her jaw, nipping at it gently. Through the cloud of desire, of raw need, she felt his hand at her throat, his long fingers spread over the hollow at its base. Every part of her reached for him, her skin, her blood, her heart. Her fear and pride were gone; there was only him with her. The two of them together.

  His head tilted back, and she opened her eyes to stare up at him. He was outlined by the halo of golden candlelight, his hard harsh beauty, the tousled black silk of his hair. And what she saw in his eyes made her gasp.

  Sheer raw need, the same terrible longing and fierce connection she felt in her own heart. He had let his armor fall away, just as she had, and in that instant the past fell away and they were only James and Helen. Two people who needed each other.

  She dug her hands into his shoulders, and a wave of pure, sweet tenderness washed over her.

  But he arched his head away and closed his eyes against whatever he glimpsed in her. Even as he denied her another glimpse, his hips twisted against hers. Helen cried out at the way it felt, so wonderfully frightening and hot. She was sure she was about to leap blindly off a sheer precipice.

  She wouldn’t go alone, though. She would bring him with her.

  “I knew you belonged to me the first time I saw you,” he said, rougher and lower than before, his Scots accent stronger. “And now you know it, too. You can’t run from me anymore, Helen. I won’t let you.”

  “I do know it,” she answered, crying out as the hand on her throat slid down to cup her aching breast. “I won’t run.”

  “Good.” He lightly pinched the erect nipple between his fingers, and she fell over that sharp precipice into the void below. There was only darkness there, and burning sensation.

  He reached between their bodies to touch her damp, sensitized womanhood. One finger plunged deep inside, caressing, searching, until he pressed that one certain spot. He brushed it, hard then soft, and Helen moaned. Her heels stabbed into his backside, and he lightly slapped her thigh.

  “Minx,” he growled, but Helen could hear the laughter. She pressed her back up, her breasts sliding over his chest, and the laughter vanished. His open mouth came down on her neck and nipped at the soft skin. He nudged her thighs wider apart and his lean hips reared back.

  She knew how sex happened. She had seen enough couples hiding in palace corners, felt an erection against her when a man kissed her. But this was real, this was now, this was James. Fear rippled through her, a thin ribbon of ice through the heat of desire. She closed her eyes.

  “Nay, Helen,” he said, and his fingers caught her gently by the chin. She could smell herself on his skin, and it made her shiver even more.

  “Open your eyes,” he said, and she heard the command in his words. It made her look up at him.

  He wasn’t closing her out now. He watched with intense attention and steely determination mixed with tenderness. She felt the fear ebbing away.

  “I’m here with you, completely,” he said. “I’ll keep you safe.”

  Safe was surely the last thing she should feel with James McKerrigan. Befuddled, confused, furious, dizzy with desperate need. Yet as she looked up into his eyes, struggling to breathe through the storm, that was exactly how she felt—safe.

  She nodded and he closed his eyes. A fierce frown creased his brow, and she closed her own eyes.
As the fear left, she felt her body grow pliant under his touch. She opened to him in every way.

  James seemed to sense that, and his hips pressed forward. In that hot, humid darkness behind her closed eyes she felt the swollen tip of his penis ease inside of her. Her breath caught on that sensation of stretching and her muscles instinctively tightened.

  He murmured wordlessly against her ear—soft, soothing sounds that made her grow pliant again as he rocked in a little deeper. Then deeper yet, a slow, steady glide as her body welcomed his. Finally he was fully seated against her.

  She held on to his shoulders and felt the tension of his muscles, the sheen of glistening sweat over his skin. His breath was harsh against her ear, and she knew the vast effort he made to move slowly. To not hurt her.

  But it no longer hurt at all. It felt—good. Right.

  He drew back and sank forward again. Aye, very good indeed.

  “Again,” she whispered.

  “You’re so—tight,” he growled. “So wet and hot. You drive me mad.”

  “Again!” she wailed. Her need, her desire for him to build that tiny flame at her core to a roaring fire, took hold of her and she was lost. She wanted more, and only from him.

  “Greedy wench,” he said with a rough laugh. But he gave her what she longed for. He drew back until he almost left her, and then thrust back deeply again.

  They were completely joined, and it was as if he touched her very soul.

  “Tell me you want me, Helen,” he said, driving into her until she wanted to scream from the pleasure. Nay, not pleasure—whatever this was was far too intense for mere pleasure. Mere words.

  “I want you,” she panted. She arched her hips, meeting him thrust for pounding thrust and finding their rhythm together.

  “Say my name.”

  “James!” she cried. “I want you, James.”

  As if her words unleashed something in him, he twisted his head back and let out a roar. He held her tightly by the hips and drove himself into her.