Page 69 of This Laird of Mine

“Tonight, I want to make you feel as if we are the only two people in the world.”

“We are,” she breathed and pressed back against the linen.

“Yes, we are,” he echoed, and she felt the brush of his fingers as they traced the underside of her breast, the side, the top. Moving slowly, smoothly, he palmed the fullness, then traced her nipple with his thumb. Flames leapt with each movement against her heated skin, desire flared, and yet he continued to explore first one breast, then the other, with infinite deliberation. It felt as though he were discovering her anew, claiming her for the first time.

Or making amends for all that they’d been through. With every caress of his hands, with every sweep of his fingers, with every inch of his thorough exploration, he left no doubt about his feelings. He laid his heart bare before her. Her breath caught at the realization.

“Jules . . .” His name was part prayer, part plea. “I love you,” she whispered.

He found her lips and covered them with his. She arched into him, inviting his touch. He was her valiant warrior, her husband, her laird. He loved her, she knew, even if he failed to say the words. He made her ache. He teased her senses, and took slow, unhurried possession of her body.

Her heart sang, and her body thrummed when he finally released her wrists. He moved over her and gently parted her thighs. He entered her slowly, carefully, until he filled her entirely. Her nails dug into the linen beneath her. His very slowness and deliberateness were unbearably erotic and sensual. He used his knowledge of her body to arouse and sustain her pleasure. He roused her to a frenzy of passion and then gave her an equally fiery release.

But he never allowed himself that final climax of passion, never permitted himself to lose control. The realization fueled her with a new purpose. The time for penance was over. She no longer cared about his purpose—only her own, and that was to make him relinquish that control and give himself over to her.

Jules tried to surface from the sensual plane she had driven him to with the softness of her body enveloping him. Having held himself back for too long, now he craved her touch, longed for it like she was rain and he a square of parched land.

She slid her hands over his chest, down his sides, and around him to cup his buttocks, to urge him forward. He drove inside her, deeper, thrusting to her core with swift and powerful strokes. She moaned her pleasure as she continued her silken caress across his hands, up his arms, to his shoulders, and through his hair. He leaned his head back as she worked her way back down his chest, and lower, stroking his skin as well as his soul.

She was raw passion and need, a bright flame he would never be able to live without. Opening his senses, he drank her in, soaked up every drop of pleasure until his hunger overflowed. She made no move to guide or direct; she simply urged him on with her legs around his thighs.

The hunger between them built, their bodies clenched, desire coiled tighter and tighter driving them both to that plane of total abandon. He could feel his ecstasy mounting, tried to hold back until they crested that peak together.

She cried out as she reached that pinnacle and fell into the void. Feeling her contract around him sent him reeling along with her as they fractured into bliss and floated.

In perfect sync, cocooned in golden glory, they drifted back to the here and now. Spent, he slumped upon her, then shifted to the side, taking her with him. They lay there entwined as he listened to her heart racing, matching his own.

The room was silent except for the sound of their breathing. Her arms slid around him, and she held him possessively, protectively, as though she never wanted to let him go.

He reached up and gently brushed back the hair from her temple, feeling closer to her at this moment than he had ever thought possible, and yet he still had one more thing he longed to give her—something he had denied her before. “Claire?”

“Hmmm,” she nearly purred.

He pulled back and studied her eyes, then leaned closer, gently framed her face with one hand. He lowered his head and brushed her lips with his. “Your name really is Claire, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” She brought her hand up and laid it over his.

He smiled slowly, as his chest swelled with emotion. He kissed her again—a longer kiss, one that stirred the flames between them once more. “Good,” he said against her lips. “Because suddenly it is the only name I desire.”

She grinned, and his heart felt achingly full.

“That settles it. Three days from now we will be married again.”

“Three days?”

“Two.”

She laughed. “I believe we can arrange the entire affair in two days.”

“If only it could be tomorrow.” He pressed another, more urgent kiss to her lips.

“Jules,” she said his name in a breath that was part sigh, part moan. And then, there was no talking at all.

Two days later, the morning dawned cold and bright and clear. Kildare Manor had been decorated with a sea of purple heather and white roses. The wedding was to be a small affair with Claire and Jules, the girls, David, and their servants.

Jane and Nicholas had sent word they would not be attending, as Jane had gone into labor the night before. Margaret and Hollister were staying behind with their one-month-old daughter to help Jane through her trial.

Upstairs in her chamber, Claire donned her wedding dress. She had not had a special outfit to wear for their marriage the first time. She had worn her gray gown before the minister, and despite the ceremony that had been very real, she had not felt like a bride. Not like now.