One Night with the Laird. Nicola Cornick

in her voice.

      “Why not, sweetheart?” In deference to the fear, he kept his own tone light, brushing the tangled hair away from her face, his fingers a gentle caress against her cheek.

      She shifted slightly in his arms as though she was uncomfortable with both the endearment and the gentleness. He knew she was rejecting the intimacy. It was odd when they had just shared the most intimate experience possible.

      “I don’t want any light.” Now there was an unconscious command in her voice. A woman accustomed to giving orders, then. That made her all the more intriguing.

      “And what if I do?”

      “You will have to be satisfied with touch.”

      She took his hand and placed it over her breast. It was a gesture intended to stop conversation. He realized that. Yet he still succumbed. He felt her nipple harden against his palm and felt his blood heat in response. He toyed with her breasts with fingers, lips, teeth and tongue, allowing himself to be distracted, taking pleasure from her gasps and the way she arched to his touch. She urged him on in broken whispers, begging him to nip and suck harder to a point where pleasure turns to pain. He was painfully erect again by then and she spread herself for him and pleaded for him to take her hard, then harder still, her hands gripping the wooden headboard tight as he plunged into her. It was wild and wicked and he felt as though he were in a hot, dark dream, but even as he ravished her he felt the touch of a shadow on him as though something, somewhere was wrong. It almost felt as though she was asking to be punished, as though each stroke of his body into hers, each nip of his teeth at her breast, was penance.

      Through the long night she let him do whatever he wished to her; she was his plaything and it was spectacular, unimaginably exciting, and he felt exhausted, satiated, but he couldn’t quell that stubborn instinct that something was missing. The final time he made love to her slowly, languorously, trying to anchor the intimacy between them in something deeper, trying to capture and hold her. Jack had no idea why he wanted that connection when he was by nature a man who wanted only the most superficial of love affairs. Perhaps it was the challenge; he was unaccustomed to a woman who held something back. Normally they were the ones pushing him into a closeness he did not want.

      By now her skin was flushed and damp, slick against his. She moved with him on the same dark tide of desire and pleasure, she came for him when he demanded it, her body was his, and yet somehow it felt as though she still eluded him in all the ways that mattered. Afterward she slept but he lay awake listening to her breathing, his mind alert. At one point she cried out. He pulled her into his arms and held her and she calmed, but he felt tears on her cheek where it was pressed against his chest.

      Eventually the warmth of her in his arms lulled him into sleep too, only to awake hours later when the sun was high in the sky and the room was bathed in light.

      Jack knew before he opened his eyes that she would be gone.

      * * *

      IT WAS STILL dark when Mairi woke. For a moment her mind felt empty, light and free, and her body felt supremely ripe with pleasure, satiated and satisfied. A second later the desolation swept in, dark, cold and lonely as a winter’s night, banishing the light.

      It was always like this when she woke up. There was an all too brief period of blissful peace and then she fell into the dark. Grief and loss crouched in the shadows, waiting to spring. This morning the misery was sharper than usual, painful as a whetted knife. She had sought to drown her unhappiness in sensual pleasure and had only made matters worse.

      She slipped from the bed and immediately missed Jack’s warmth. He had been lying on his side, with one arm draped across her in casual possession, drawing her close in to the curve of his body. She was not sure how she had been able to sleep like that, in the arms of a stranger. It seemed wrong, impossible to accept when she rejected any sort of intimacy with anyone. Odd that she could give her body to him wholly and completely, holding nothing back, and yet the act of sleeping together afterward was something she regretted.

      Shivering, she dragged on her underclothes, then tiptoed to the chest and took out a plain gown and shawl. Her hands shook as she tried to tie the fastenings. She could not see what she was doing. She tiptoed to the door, slippers in her hand. Light was starting to creep through the shutters now. She did not want to look back, but something compelled her to turn.

      Jack was lying in the center of the big bed, in the midst of all the crumpled sheets and tumbled blankets. The covers rode low over his hips, revealing the broad expanse of his muscular chest dusted with golden hair. Tawny hair several shades darker fell over his forehead, a contrast to the stubble shadowing his chin. His eyes were closed, the lashes thick and black. The strengthening light skipped across the lean planes of his face, a long nose and resolute chin. It was a strong face, handsome enough to cause any woman to catch her breath, but that was not why Mairi gasped.

      She felt a pang of shock, then a pang of horror, sharper, stronger, almost violent in its intensity.

      Jack Rutherford.

      It could not be.

      She put out a hand and grabbed the bedpost for support. No. It was not possible. She had deliberately chosen a stranger, picked him out at a masquerade ball. She had seen him across the ballroom in his black domino and mask, and there had been something about him that captured her interest. She had thought he looked a little dangerous, a little wild, unknown to her, perfect for her purpose. They had not even spoken; they had had one dance and she had been so aware of him, burning with the need that possessed her, that at the end of it she had taken him by the hand and brought him here, to the secret little house she owned in the back streets of the Old Town of Edinburgh. She had wanted the entire experience to be a secret, but unfortunately she had chosen a man who was not a stranger at all.

      Jack Rutherford. She supposed that the clue had been in his name, but she had not even registered it last night. There were plenty of men called Jack. She had not recognized his voice either, but they had spent so little time in each other’s company of late that it was no wonder.

      She felt shaken, completely confused. She did not even like Jack Rutherford. He was arrogant, self-assured, deplorably confident, all too well aware of his charm and the effect it had on every woman he met. They had been thrown into each other’s company when her sister had married Jack’s cousin three years before. Jack had suggested they should get to know each other better, intimately, in fact. She had rejected his advances with an icy disdain. After that they had barely spoken and held fast to an intense mutual dislike.

      She tightened her grip on the wood until her fingers hurt. The blood was pounding in her ears. She simply could not understand why she had been drawn to Jack the previous night. All unknowing, she had chosen the one man she should never have gone near. They were bound by marriage and mutual acquaintance. She had no idea how she could keep her identity secret from him now.

      A cold draught scuttered across the floor, setting her shivering again. She already had regrets enough about the night. She had wanted to lose herself in a world that was entirely physical, to escape the unhappiness that clouded her mind, if only for a little while. No matter how spectacular the sex had been, she had found there was no escape.

      Jack stirred in his sleep and sighed as he turned over. Mairi felt another pang of fear. He must never find out that she was the woman he had spent the night with. Inevitably he would have questions, questions she did not want to answer. She would have to make sure she never saw him again. Yet with the ties between their two families, that would be almost impossible.

      She rubbed her forehead in frustrated fury. It was almost as though she had deliberately chosen him, and that was a thought that disturbed her very much indeed.

      She would close the door and walk away and forget all about him. She would pretend this had never happened.

      She risked one last glance. Jack was a man with a hard edge, a ruthless man, but he had shown her tenderness tonight. The thought made her feel vulnerable. It was very difficult to equate the Jack Rutherford she had thought she knew, all arrogant charm and brash swagger, with this man. She felt off-kilter as though all her assumptions about him