Page 47 of Deception of a Highlander

His mouth was dry, his blood scalded his veins, and his brain thundered—all with anticipation for what he’d put off for too long. He wrapped his shaft in his fist and nudged the tip against her, teasing her, savoring her, preparing to enter her.

He nudged against her entrance, and a primal groan tore from his chest as she gripped the sensitive head of his cock.

One slight shift of his hips, and he would be sheathed within her tight, wet heat.

CHAPTER 19

Heat raged through Kieran, consuming him in an intoxicating swirl of pleasure and tingling expectation. The blunt edge of his cock pushed gently against Mariel’s moist center. He eased his hands to her narrow waist and shifted his hips back in preparation to thrust into her.

Wet. Her waist was wet. No…her hip. His fingers spanned the damp fabric. A dark stain against the dress ripped through the fog of his desire. He stilled.

“Please, Kieran…don’t stop.” Her words were breathy, frantic. She arched against him and the stain grew larger.

Fear slammed into him. “Stop. Yer wound has reopened.”

She leaned forward and brushed her lips against his earlobe. Her breath was hot against his neck. “I don’t feel it. Please…” She rolled her hips against him, grinding with a wild need he, too, had felt only seconds before.

Kieran caught her face in his hands and gently pulled her back so he could meet her gaze. Her eyes were hazy with unmistakable desire, her cheeks still flushed. All good signs that she had not lost too much blood—yet.

“Mariel, ye’re hurt.” Carefully, he eased her from his lap and tried to ignore the gut-churning ache of his need. “I need to see how bad the injury is. Ye can look away if ye want.” He hoped she would. Seeing the torn flesh might frighten her.

He eased the gauzy silk up to inspect the wound better. Her long legs were shapely, lean and completely distracting. Kieran staunched the desire to let his hands sample the sensual curve of her thigh and fixed his attention on her hip.

Several stitches had ripped out, and half the gash had reopened. A steady trickle of blood streamed down the curve of her perfectly rounded arse.

Damn it. How could he have been so careless with her? He knew she was injured, and yet he’d pawed at her like some randy adolescent.

“The wound is going to need to be restitched. I’ll call someone to fetch the healer.” Kieran got to his feet and grabbed his kilt off the floor.

Her hand rested on his forearm. “Please don’t, Kieran.” Her brows knit together with obvious concern. “One look at us, and they will recognize why I was here. I don’t want your people to know you’ve been with me,” she lowered her eyes, “and think less of you for it.”

Kieran stared at her, unsure of what to say. Were the hurt in her voice not so apparent, he might have laughed at the thought of her marring his honor. But she did not jest, and the words she whispered bothered him far more than if someone else had said them of her. “Mariel—”

“You can sew it,” she said quickly.

Kieran frowned. “I’m no’ a healer. I’ve stitched war wounds on the battlefield, no’ the flesh of a lady.” The very thought of punching a needle through her petal-soft skin made him uneasy. Hadn’t he hurt her enough for one night?

“Need I remind you that this was a war wound obtained on a battlefield?” When he did not respond, she stuck her chin out in stubborn defiance. “If you don’t do it, I’ll do it myself.”

Needle and thread lay in his sporran should it be required after a bout of rough training, but many years had passed since he had need of it.

Blood flowed from the wound, and for all her stoicism, she was beginning to pale. Even if he wanted to get the healer, by the time she was roused and had traveled the length to his room, Mariel could very well be…

Muttering a curse under his breath, he snatched his sporran off the mantle. “Staunch that,” he snapped. Did she know nothing of wounds?

Mariel clutched the shimmering fabric of her gown in her hand and pressed it tight against her side while he threaded the needle.

He filled his discarded cup and passed it to her. “Drink this,” he commanded. The spirits would at least help dull the pain.

She would have to lie down for him to do this, and the only place she could do so was his bed. His mouth went dry.

“Get on the mattress,” he said in a gruff tone and nodded toward his bed.

He held her slender arm, bracing her as they walked to the other side of the room. She was delicate in his hand as if squeezing his fingers into a fist would shatter her bone. Apprehension knotted his stomach.

He helped lower Mariel to the bed, her wide gaze fixed on him. Did she have to look at him like that? Kieran clenched his jaw and tried to ignore the way her hair splayed over his pillow, the way her long legs lay across the sheets.

He focused on threading the needle. “Ready?”