Page 37

“Shh.” He put a finger to her lips and nearly groaned aloud at the sensation of the warm, moist pillows beneath the pad. “To my knowledge, the lasses havna done anythin’.”

Visibly relaxing, she gave him a weak smile. “Oh, good. I feared they’d managed to embroil themselves in a spot of mischief. They do so with frustrating and clever regularity. Not that they’re deliberately disobedient…”

She clamped her mouth shut as if fearing she’d said too much.

Those minxes would keep him on his toes, to be sure. But after practically raising Branwen and Bethea, he felt up to the task.

Keane turned her hand over, resting the back upon his thigh. Tracing a finger along the lines grooving her palm, he said, “There’s somethin’ ye need to ken. Somethin’ verra important.”

She studied his face, uncertainty replacing her earlier consternation. “What is it?”

Meeting her inquisitive gaze, he peered deep within those captivating, dark brown pools. A man could lose himself in them. He wanted to lose himself in them as he made love to her.

“I mean to court ye, Marjorie.”

Keane hadn’t intended to blurt his intentions, but gazing into her fathomless brown eyes, the words had wrapped around his tongue and he’d forgotten himself.

“What? What?”

Marjorie’s mouth went slack and she blinked several times, the coppery tips of her lashes fluttering. But not in the manner of a practiced flirt coyly batting her eyelashes. No, Marjorie sought to rein in her astonishment and bewilderment.

She was quite adorable in her bafflement.

“Court me? As in…?” Her bewildered gaze probing his, she cleared her throat. “Um, courtship usually leads to… That is…”

She drew a deep, quavering breath, and Keane forced his eyes to remain on her face and not the rise and fall of her bountiful bosom, which rose and fell rapidly in her agitation.

Pressing her palm to her forehead, she said, “Leads to—”

“Aye, lass. I ken what courtship leads to.” Cradling her jaw in one hand, he savored her petal-soft skin against his calloused palm. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, drawing her near. “And yes, I mean to marry ye, if ye’ll have me.”

Her lips were but an inch away, so damn sweet and so damn tempting. With a strangled groan, Keane took her mouth, gently prying her lips apart.

Marjorie didn’t object or resist but instead sighed and, like dew-touched petals, her lips opened fully. Rotating until her torso was flush with his, she wound her arms around his neck and arched into him, kissing him hungrily.

A firestorm erupted inside him, and Keane couldn’t get enough of her taste or scent: roses and lemon. Hitching her skirts up her impossibly long, shapely legs until they bunched atop her supple thighs, he nipped and kissed his way to the lush, creamy mounds balanced above her bodice which had tormented him unmercifully since she’d walked into the great hall.

In one deft movement, he delved his fingers deep into her cleavage, relishing her moan of pleasure when he captured a pebbled nipple. With his other hand, he explored her satiny thigh, moving ever closer to her sex.

Encouraged by her whimpers and guttural sounds of pleasure, he plunged his tongue deep into her sweet mouth, still tasting of the berry preserves she’d spread upon her bread at breakfast.

Marjorie rocked against him, one hand clutching his hair and the other gripping his back. She returned his kisses, matching each thrust and parry of his tongue. They breathed as one, giving and taking, seeking and finding.

He cupped the damp curls at the juncture of her thighs with his palm, and she groaned raggedly against his mouth. Slipping a finger within her moist channel, he reveled in her pleasure as his shaft pulsed demandingly against the fabric of his breeches.

His unruly member would have to wait.

This time was for Marjorie. To show her how damn good it could be between them. Keane slid another finger into her, and she buried her face in his neck.

“Keane,” she moaned throatily. “Oh, Keane.”

“That’s it, mo ghràidh, mo ghoal.” My darling. My love.

And then she was convulsing around his fingers.

He pleasured her, rapidly moving his fingers in and out of her slickness while whispering words of passion into her delicate ear. A few heartbeats later, she collapsed against him, spent, soft, and utterly feminine.

Only the tick-tocking of the ebony bracket clock atop the mantel and the fire’s occasional crackle and pop disrupted the contented silence. Several minutes passed as their breathing gradually returned to normal, though his cock continued to protest its confines.