Kingslayer's Daughter Page 13

  She struggled with indecision. Giles would assume they’d slept together. But did she care? The boy wouldn’t censure them for it. She’d had enough loneliness to last a lifetime. “It’s not very comfortable,” she said, “but I’ll fetch a blanket for you.”

  * * *

  Munro took off his tunic and waistcoat, very aware Sarah was watching as she stood beside him with the blanket. She’d been married so must understand what the bulge at his groin meant. “I’d best keep my trews on,” he quipped. “Then I can hold to my promise to be a gentleman.”

  Her blush only intensified his growing need.

  “And in case you need to pay a visit during the night,” she whispered shyly.

  He knew exactly what kind of visit he’d like to make, but sensed she wasn’t ready for lovemaking. Still, a kiss might not go amiss. He took her into his arms, grudgingly grateful for the blanket wedged between them. He wanted to devour her but forced himself to go slowly, nibbling her lower lip, then teasing with his tongue. Her gasp of surprise was a sure sign she liked it. Emboldened, he coaxed her to open for him. Her response was more than he could have hoped for. She allowed him entry. Their tongues mated, testing his resolve. He tasted cider and filled his nostrils with the intoxicating aroma of female arousal. His heart leapt when she entwined her arms around his neck and surrendered to him, breathing his name.

  When they broke apart, he looked into eyes full of need. It was tempting to suggest they share the bed, but it was too soon. “I crave ye, Sarah,” he rasped. “But nay on a night when ye’re grieving. I want ye to be thinking only of me when we join our bodies.”

  She nodded, but averted her gaze. “I’m not much good at that,” she confessed.

  Cursing the late, unlamented Reginald, he settled into the chair and took the blanket. “But ye will be,” he assured her with a wink.

  Come To Bed

  Sarah blew out the candles, sat on the bed and took off her shoes and stockings. Only the dying embers of the fire glowed in the hearth. She glanced at Munro, not dwelling on the reasons she didn’t care if he watched her disrobe.

  His promise of sexual delights nurtured a desire to be wanton, to be bold, to be a different Sarah North.

  It seemed scandalous; her mother had died scant hours before. Yet, Mary Ward and Henry Marten had obviously enjoyed a relationship that included carnal pleasure. Perhaps her mother might approve of the Sarah who admitted her need for a man she loved.

  She licked her lips, remembering the warm, masculine taste of Munro Pendray. The invasion of Reginald’s gin-soaked tongue had always made her gag. She’d suckled Munro’s tongue like a ravenous babe.

  She reached for the hem of her frock and peeled it off slowly, savoring the caress of the wool on her skin. For the first time in her life, she smoothed her hands over her breasts, taking pleasure in feeling the nipples pout against the linen of the shift. Stretching up, she removed the pins from her hair, then shook her head, relishing the freedom of long tresses cascading over her shoulders.

  She wondered what it would be like to sleep naked, but her courage failed and she slipped between the sheets.

  She lay looking up at the ceiling for several minutes, tempted to smile. Thoughts of Munro’s hands on her body had banished Mary’s ghost from the bed.

  That was all well and good, but it wasn’t likely the desire seething within would allow her to sleep.

  * * *

  Munro’s shaft didn’t need much light. Indeed, the shadowed outline of Sarah’s body as she disrobed provided more than enough grist for the mill. He supposed he shouldn’t be watching her through hooded eyes, but got the feeling as she ran her hands over her breasts that she wanted him to watch.

  He wiggled his toes and inhaled deeply, elated by the expectation that his Sarah would prove to be a woman of long buried passions.

  For a brief moment, he thought she was going to peel off the shift in the same sensuous way she’d lifted the frock over her head. But, alas, it was a forlorn hope.

  When she slid between the sheets, he cupped his sac to ease the fullness, reluctantly reconciled to a sleepless night.

  * * *

  Sarah’s mind refused to be still.

  Memories of past hurts and sorrows resurfaced in the darkness. Loneliness—a little girl abandoned by her parents and separated from her sisters. Shame—discovering she was the daughter of a kingslayer, and illegitimate to boot. Despair—a looming lifetime of degradation and brutality with Reginald. Irritation—expected to give shelter and sustenance to a mother she didn’t know. Regret—Mary Ward had died just as Sarah was getting to know her.

  Words from her father’s letters echoed again and again.

  Buss my Poppet for me.

  She’d learned too late that the monster she’d always believed her father to be didn’t exist. He was simply a man of principle who’d admitted in hindsight to a mistake he regretted, and been severely punished for it. But he was a man who loved his wife and children.

  Just as Munro loved her. Suddenly, the unloved Sarah North was basking in the adoring glow of an honorable man. It was surely no coincidence that Munro had come into her life at this turning point.

  She’d spent too many years bound by chains of fear and resentment. It was time to be free, to enjoy every moment of life.

  She lifted the sheets. “Munro,” she whispered, aware he, too, was awake. “Come to bed.”

  Are Ye Certain?

  “Are ye certain?” Munro rasped, desperately afraid Sarah might change her mind.

  “Yes,” she whispered. “I’m cold. I need you to hold me.”

  He was hotter than Hades and definitely had enough heat to share, though, judging by the number of times she’d kicked off the sheets, he doubted she was cold.

  He pulled his shirt over his head. It took several deep breaths to dispel the idea of removing his trews. “Patience, laddie,” he reminded himself as he slipped into bed and lay facing her as she covered him.

  “I’m restless,” she whispered.

  “Me too,” he replied, feeling her warmth travel up his arm when he put a hand on her thigh.

  She snuggled into him, her face resting against his bare chest.

  He gathered her into his embrace and kissed the top of her head, praying for strength when she pressed her hips to his arousal and sifted her fingers through his chest hair.

  “Soft,” she murmured, accidentally grazing his nipple, adding to his torment.

  She was behaving like a woman seducing a man, but did she realize what she was doing? Indecision plagued him. She’d known abuse in her marriage bed. It was vital they not start off their relationship in a way she might later regret. “Turn over and I’ll spoon ye,” he said softly, hoping to douse the desire turning him inside out.

  Ten minutes later, he knew he’d made a mistake. The press of her bottom against his tarse was sheer torture, especially when she squirmed, still restless. The only way he would get relief would be to ease her restlessness.

  She mewled like a kitten when he cupped her breast and brushed his thumb over the nipple. “Do ye like that?” he whispered.

  “Aye,” she replied, arching her back, which had the unfortunate effect of pushing her bottom against his swollen manhood.

  A glutton for punishment, he squeezed the nipple gently, thickening his arousal when she leaned back against him and threw one leg over his. She’d opened herself, perhaps without meaning to, but he took it as a good omen. Easing her onto her back, he set about suckling a nipple through the shift and let his hand wander down her belly to her nether lips.

  She nigh on lifted off the bed when his fingertips touched the wet warmth in her most intimate place. “Munro…I…,” she stammered.

  “Hush,” he rasped, his heart swelling with joy at her response. “A mon loves it when a woman is wet for him.”

  Tarse throbbing, he found the swollen diamond of her desire. Suckling harder, he stroked slowly then faster, again and again, slipping in one fin
ger, then withdrawing, building the rhythm.

  The keening that began deep in her throat was music to his ears. The woman he loved was about to experience what he suspected was her first experience of sexual release—at his hand. “Come for me,” he growled, but doubted she heard him. Her hips lifted from the bed and she let out a lovely, guttural scream, her hand clamped firmly over his, driving him deeper. Afraid she might waken Giles, he kissed her hungrily, breathing for her when she stopped.

  As she drifted back to him, he thought to remove his fingers from her still-pulsating sheath, but she stayed his hand. “Not yet,” she murmured.

  “Ye liked that, I take it,” he teased, humbled and a little awed by the power this woman had over his body and heart.

  “It was glorious,” she replied breathlessly. “But what about you?”

  * * *

  Reginald had made it crudely clear in no uncertain terms that when his cock was ripe with cum, a man might as well try to turn back the tide. Even during her monthlies, he’d insisted on bringing himself to completion while she watched, or expected her to take him in her mouth.

  Munro’s need was obvious. His skin was still hot. She recognized the labored breathing and the tension in his arms. He was trying hard to control his hips, but they’d taken on a life of their own. Unlike her husband, he’d thought only of her and sought no relief for himself.

  She’d come to loathe the sight and taste of Reginald’s manhood, but longed to put her hands on Munro, to bring him the same intense pleasure he’d given her. Plucking up her courage, she cupped her hand over the rigid flesh at his groin. “Let me touch you,” she whispered.

  He removed his hand from her mons and placed it atop hers. “Only if ye want to.”

  “I do,” she confirmed.

  She came to her knees as he quickly unfastened the front flap of his trews then guided her hand to grip his manhood.

  A multitude of emotions swept over her, but above all she was humbled by the awesome power she wielded. His desire for the undesirable Sarah North had brought about Munro’s arousal. The warmth, the weight, the magnificent length and thickness of his maleness fostered a lunatic urge to laugh in the face of a dead man.

  A thousand wanton notions flitted through her brain as she rocked back and forth. She wanted to inhale his scent, taste him, take him in her mouth and suck him dry.

  “Faster,” he rasped.

  He grew even thicker and harder as she moved her hand on him, wishing they’d left a candle lit so she could see the effect she had on him.

  She squealed, panicking for a moment when he abruptly came to his knees and shoved her shift up to expose her breasts. He intended to take her with the same rough brutality. She braced for the worst when he straddled her hips, but breathed again when he nestled his manhood in the cleft between her breasts. She relished his weight as he moved back and forth, growling when she pressed the sides of her breasts, tightening her grip. She clung to him as a sheen of sweat broke out on his back and his release neared. The instinct to beg him to enter her was powerful as an aching need built in her womb.

  His guttural shout echoed in her heart as sticky warmth spread across her chest and he collapsed on top of her.

  * * *

  The delicate touch of Sarah’s fingers tracing circles on his back pulled Munro from the abyss of bliss into which he’d tumbled. Spilling his seed outside Sarah’s body wasn’t the complete possession he hoped to claim eventually, but the passionate alchemy that had flared between them augured well for the future.

  When it dawned on him he was lying on top of her, he levered himself up on his elbows. “Sorry. I’m too heavy.”

  She reached up and touched his mouth. “I can bear your weight.”

  He kissed her fingertips. “’Twill be torture waiting until we marry.”

  “There’s a lot to think about and arrange,” she said, stifling a yawn. “Let’s get the funeral over with on the morrow.”

  “Aye,” he replied, feeling selfish. He came to his knees and wiped her breasts with a corner of the linens. “So much for being a gentleman. I suppose I may as well take off my breeks now. Then we’ll sleep.”

  He sat on the edge of the bed and slipped off his trews. The scent of his own essence on her body had stirred renewed interest in his greedy tarse. He considered going back to the chair, but quickly dismissed the notion.

  He got back into bed and cradled Sarah’s body with his own, listening contentedly to her steady breathing.

  Sleep claimed him quickly.

  No Laughing Matter

  Disoriented, Sarah blinked open her eyes. She’d intended to rise at dawn, but Munro was no longer abed—and he was whistling. She stretched like a contented cat, remembering the intense pleasure he’d given her.

  “Time to get up, lazybones.”

  She turned her head, stunned by the sight of Munro wearing only his shirt. It was long enough to cover his private parts, but emphasized the length of his powerful legs.

  The shirt was unbuttoned to the waist, revealing chiseled muscles she’d been unable to see in the darkness, and the soft curls she’d sifted her fingers through.

  His black hair was endearingly tousled, his smile bright.

  The memory of what lay beneath the shirt taunted her. “I want to see you,” she said, shocking even herself. Her desire for this man was turning her into a wanton. Perhaps she’d fallen under his spell too quickly. Sarah the Frigid, who cringed at the mere thought of sexual congress, longed to impale herself on the proud lance she hadn’t even been able to see last night.

  He glanced at his groin, then shook his head. “My tarse is already clamoring for yer touch. If I let it have its way, we’ll be late for the funeral. Giles is up already.”

  Rolling the previously unknown—probably Scottish—word tarse over in her head, she noticed he’d built up the fire, and three bowls of steaming oatmeal sat on the table. Sound asleep, she hadn’t heard a thing. “You seem very capable for the son of an earl,” she teased, climbing out of bed.

  “Weel, ye ken, we Scots are hardy folk. Not like the English,” he countered.

  Smiling, she stretched, reaching for the ceiling, but grabbed her shawl when she realized his gaze was fixed on the pouting nipples that the shift did nothing to conceal.

  He blushed and looked away. “If ye keep that up…”

  The heat rose in her face and she was tempted to laugh. “We’re like a couple of adolescents.”

  “Aye,” he agreed. “I love to see ye smile, but sit down and eat. I’ll call Giles if ye promise not to seduce me.”

  Giggling, she obeyed, struck by the realization Reginald had totally lacked a sense of humor.

  * * *

  Munro managed to get his trews on and buttoned up before Giles arrived, no mean feat given his state of hard arousal. The lad greeted them heartily, still sporting the sly grin caused by Munro’s appearance downstairs wearing naught but his shirt. Assuming the boy would still be asleep had been a mistake. A brisk walk around the yard had done nothing to dampen his tarse’s enthusiasm.

  He was glad he’d made Sarah smile. However, the current situation was no laughing matter. They had to make some decisions about the future, but it would be inappropriate to broach the subject until after the funeral.

  Last night, he’d had a small taste of the joy to be experienced with Sarah. He wanted more, and he wanted it now. The Munro Pendray who’d never lusted after women was suddenly filled with sexual cravings. She was in his blood, like a drug.

  Tucking into his oatmeal after bowing his head for grace, he chuckled inwardly at the notion. After all, she was an apothecary.

  “What’s funny?” Giles asked, apparently sensing his amusement.

  “Naught,” Munro replied.

  Giles scooped up another spoonful of oatmeal and lifted it to his mouth. “Mam used to say a gentleman should button up his shirt when there’s ladies present.”

  Sarah snorted, then laughed till tears ran down h
er face.

  Giles gaped at her then shrugged. “Daddy always said it’s impossible to understand women,” he told Munro.

  It appeared the lad didn’t understand the reason for his employer’s mirth.

  Munro feigned chastened compliance with Mrs. Raincourt’s pearl of wisdom, buttoned up his shirt and handed Sarah a napkin.

  * * *

  Munro and Giles raced each other down the stairs for the chance to be first at the pump for their ablutions. Their laughter echoed even from the yard. Sarah removed her shawl and lifted the shift over her head then dipped a flannel in the warm water and sponged her face and body. It was something she did every morning, though the water was usually tepid at best. Yet, today she was acutely aware of the slide and texture of the wet cloth as she cleansed her breasts, and other intimate parts of her body. Even her hands and arms had taken on a new sensuousness.

  She supposed she should feel guilty for the happiness bubbling in her heart on the day of her mother’s funeral. “But I don’t, Mama,” she said loudly.

  Strangely reluctant to put on clothes, she wandered around the apartment naked, letting the air dry her body. Her behavior stood in sharp contrast to always taking pains never to be unclothed in front of Reginald.

  Oddly disappointed Munro didn’t appear and catch her in the act, she selected her best frock from the hook after donning the shift.

  She was ready when Munro returned, except for the cursed bonnet.

  “The same dress ye were wearing when we met,” he said with a broad smile, putting on his tunic and cloak.

  “My funeral attire,” she retorted, reaching up to tie the bow. “You forget I was coming back from Chepstow.”

  “Let me help with that,” he offered.