Trapped with the Devil of the Highlands (Falling for Highland Villains #3)

Chapter 18

CHAPTER 18

“Would ye stop? Ye’re quicker than I thought for someone who cannae endure the stairs in this castle,” Camden called to the hasty figure up ahead, emerald-green skirts hissing her fury across the flagstones.

If he could just make her laugh, he could get himself off the hook that pierced his chest.

Paisley shot him a cold glare over her shoulder, reminiscent of their first encounter—the kind of glare that suggested he might be getting another bruise on his chest if he was not careful.

“Ye’ll start walkin’ in circles soon. Ye dinnae ken where ye’re goin’,” he tried again.

“Aye, I do,” she retorted with her back to him, not stopping. “I’m goin’ as far away from ye as these inferior legs can carry me.”

“Och, there’s nothin’ inferior about yer legs, sweetlin’. If I can kiss yer sore knee better, I’d wager I can kiss this better too.”

He could have caught up to her easily, but something told him he should not push her or spook her. She was mad, that was evident. He just hoped she’d tire out some of her anger by the time she finally stopped and let him explain.

“I should never have come here with ye,” she rasped, shaking her head as she strode faster. “I should have kicked ye harder while I had the chance and continued on by meself. Aye, I might have ended up goin’ a hundred miles in the wrong direction, but at least I’d be a hundred miles away from ye!”

All right, she’s madder than I thought.

It was not his first time talking a woman out of rage, but it was the first time he had ever truly cared about appeasing a woman. Whatever she currently thought of him, he wanted to end the night with her thinking the opposite.

At that moment, Paisley veered off the path she had been following, heading down an all-too-familiar stairwell. Maybe she thought it led to dungeons, where she could lock herself away from him or lock him away from her, but it was not somewhere he wanted her to be.

“Nay, dinnae go down there,” he said, picking up the pace.

“How about ye leave me be?” she snapped back.

She hurried on stubbornly, reaching his study door by the amber glow of the torchlight. If he had waited a moment longer to stretch his gait into a sprint, he would not have gotten to the door before she slammed it in his face. As it happened, his shoulder bore the brunt of the impact, his muscular arm sending it bouncing back.

“Look, ye’re livid with me,” Camden began cautiously, following her into his warm study. “I understand that ye think ye’ve been fooled, but ye havenae. So, what do ye say we have a nip of whiskey, we sit by the fire, and we cool the steam blowin’ out of yer ears, eh?”

She rounded on him with an inferno in her beautiful green eyes, jabbing an accusatory finger in his direction. “Ye did fool me, Camden! Ye put me in a position where I didnae have any choice but to help ye, and then ye lied about the very important details!”

“I didnae lie.”

“Omission is a lie in sheep’s clothin’!” she barked. “I didnae ken I was here to hurt someone else’s feelings—more than that, to set two bloody clans against each other! I saw Laird MacLean’s face, Camden, so dinnae try to deny what this will turn into.”

She heaved in every sawing breath, her chest rising and falling frantically as she kept her trembling finger pointed at him. Any other time, Camden might have found the scene infinitely stirring, but where that roguish ardor should have been, he found a twinge of guilt. A sensation he did not like one bit.

“I thought I was helpin’ ye,” she added, her voice trembling. “It isnae fair to that… beautiful woman! Ye’ve made a fool of her, too. And her faither. Her maither and yer maither, while we’re at it.”

Camden moved toward her, aware that he was risking a knee to his groin. “Kenna isnae hurt by what just happened. She doesnae want a marriage to me any more than I want one to her. We have discussed it—she and I—so what ye’ve actually done tonight is spare her a union that would’ve made her miserable. It’s everyone else makin’ decisions without consent that has caused hurt feelings. But nay trouble will come out of this, I promise ye.”

“Yer promises arenae worth a thing,” she replied, her eyes glistening. “At any moment, ye could’ve informed me of what I needed to ken, but ye didnae.”

“In me—admittedly weak—defense, I didnae think ye’d mention the betrothal.”

“Dinnae dare blame this on me!” she warned, showing the strength he doubted she ever got to show in the convent.

He admired it, relished the fire in her, even if he was the target of it. Thinking of her returning to the quiet, stuffy cloisters when she had so much verve and vitality made him feel angry. She was never supposed to be in a place like that. She was supposed to be a laird’s daughter, enjoying life, attending gatherings, having fun, choosing her own path for herself.

I wonder if we’d have met one day, had things been different.

“So, now ye ken how to be quiet?” Paisley rolled her eyes, and Camden realized he had been lost in his thoughts for a moment too long.

“I’d planned to tell ye after the feast, before the dancin’, probably with Kenna to confirm the truth of the matter.” He put up his hands in a gesture of peace. “But say Kenna was hurt—which she’s nae, but there’s a point to this—would it be fair for her to marry me when I cannae stop thinkin’ about ye?”

Paisley flinched, her mouth moving as if she were uncertain what she should say. “Pardon?”

“Ye’re right, in a way, that me promises dinnae mean anythin’ because I promised meself that I’d keep a distance from ye,” he replied, moving ever closer. “I promised meself that I wouldnae torture meself with ye, that I wouldnae think of ye as anythin’ but a lass to protect, that I wouldnae desire to sway ye from yer path—that I wouldnae want ye so much I couldnae stand it. And lass, I’ve broken every last one of those promises.”

Her eyes widened, her hand flying to her chest, though it could not hide the rise and fall of her bosom.

“Ye… want me?” she whispered.

Those three words were the undoing of him.

He had her in his arms in an instant, his lips seeking hers like a mortal sought paradise. The first fierce graze was a thing of magic, the give of her soft lips an enchantment on his soul, pouring fuel on the curse of his unyielding desire for her.

His arm encircled her shapely waist, made narrower by the stays hiding beneath that glorious bodice. She gasped against his mouth as he pulled her closer, his other hand sliding up the curve of her neck until his fingers delved into her wild curls, his thumb brushing her cheek as he kissed her again.

For a moment, she was a statue in his embrace, frozen with the decade of lectures on sin and discipline and abstinence that had undoubtedly been hammered into the fiber of her being. For a moment, he thought she would never kiss him back.

The air shifted, and Paisley shifted with it, like a rope pulled too tight that had finally been given its longed-for slack. She melted into him, shaping her body to his, her hands running up the muscles of his broad chest and over his shoulders, tugging him to her.

She kissed him with a tremble in her lips, the press of her mouth tentative—the kiss of someone who had never kissed before. The realization charmed him, his lips guiding hers, teaching her, savoring every second.

Soon enough, her confidence grew; he felt it in the exploration of her hands, running through his hair, skimming over the sensitive skin at the nape of his neck. He felt it in the way she pulled him closer, though there was nothing but fabric between them. It was in the eager ebb and flow of her kiss, fierce and frenzied one moment, slow and sensual the next.

She seemed surprised when he rolled his tongue against hers, and he smiled as she returned the motion, for that was the very least he could do with his tongue.

He let her set the pace, encouraging her confidence to bloom until he could not hold back any longer.

Kissing her hard on the mouth, he wound his arm underneath her pert backside and hoisted her up, his other hand drawing her leg around his waist. Not once pausing their kiss, he carried her over to his desk and swept a stack of papers aside, setting her down on the edge. An echo of the moment he had thought about the previous night, cursing Marcus’s interruption over and over again.

She was breathless when he pulled back, her eyes shining with a hunger that stoked his own.

“I told ye I could kiss it better,” he purred, dipping his head to steal one more kiss before he sank down to his knees. “But there’s so much more I can do, sweetlin’. So many ways I can show ye how repentant I am.”

He pushed up the hem of her skirts, gazing at her all the while, watching for any sign of unease. Her eyes closed, her breathing ragged. As he leaned in to kiss the inside of her thigh, a shiver ran through her, coaxing a gasp from the back of her throat.

I’ll have ye screamin’ how much ye forgive me.

He tasted that sweet flesh with his tongue, wondering if he ought to leave his mark on her soft, pale skin. It would not look out of place among the other marks she had acquired in the forest and would fade long before she had to leave him.

Deciding against it for now, he slid his hands higher, gathering her skirts at her hips. His fingertips settled on the bow that held the fastening of her drawers closed, though the dirk in his boot would have made quicker work of it.

He kissed her inner thigh and her hipbone and the softest skin above the waistband as he loosened the fastening, reveling in her panting breaths.

Slowly, he began to ease her drawers down, but he had barely managed to pull them past her hips when she uttered a faint, “Nay.”

He stopped at once, peering up at her. “Ye dinnae want me to?”

“I… just…” Her throat bobbed. “I dinnae think ye should be touchin’ me. I shouldnae have allowed it. I?—”

“I willnae touch ye.” He smiled, swallowing his desire as he stood up and leaned forward to whisper in her ear, “But tell me, are ye allowed to touch yerself?”

This was not about him; this was about showing her what she would be missing out on if she returned to the convent. And he had no problem watching a woman pleasure herself. He had no problem with that at all.

“What do ye mean?” Paisley gasped, tilting her head slightly to bring her neck closer to his lips despite what she had said. As if his voice had control of her body if not her mind.

He reached behind her, and she wished she had not said anything, craving his embrace.

Nay, I must keep me wits about me.

She had already ignored Olivia’s warning about being alone in a room with Camden, but she could hardly be blamed when he had followed her . What she could still control was what happened when they were alone. She intended to maintain her virtue, though it might have been the most difficult challenge she had ever faced.

Camden brandished a sleek, white feather, a mischievous grin curving his lips. “If ye willnae allow me to give ye pleasure, I want ye to take it for yerself. There cannae be any rule against that. A body wouldnae be created to feel that particular bliss if ye werenae meant to enjoy it.”

“But… I dinnae ken what ye mean,” she repeated, suddenly shy.

He laughed softly. “I ken, which is why I’m goin’ to show ye what to do. I might want to be a more involved tutor, teachin’ ye every bit of knowledge that has been kept from ye, but I’ll settle for bein’ yer guide instead.”

“Me guide in what? What do ye mean, touch—” Her words transformed into a startled gasp as Camden traced the feather between her thighs, grazing so lightly a part of her that she had not known existed. A pulsing point that crackled like a blazing hearth.

“Step out of yer undergarments,” he instructed in a sultry tone.

She slid off the edge of the desk for a moment, her drawers pooling at her feet. With nervous curiosity, she did as he asked and settled back on the desk.

“Ye’re goin’ to be the death of me,” he groaned, his black eyes feverish as they took her in.

Below the waist of his kilt, something swelled—something Paisley tried very hard not to look at, fighting against her wayward intrigue, ignoring the instinct that wanted her to reach out and touch.

She kept her eyes on his. “Starin’ is as forbidden as touchin’.”

“Forbidden? Och, ye’re a menace, sayin’ that. Makes me all the more eager to have a bite.” He grinned, slowly drawing the pristine white feather along the heat of her, pausing the tapered tip at that bundle of nerves.

Her breathing became shallow, that barely-there touch as powerful as a lightning bolt to the chest.

“Touch yerself where the feather is touchin’ ye,” he commanded in a throaty voice. “Explore that feelin’. Two fingertips.”

Closing her eyes to avoid the intensity in his, she slid her hand over her hip and down between her thighs, still uncertain of what he meant. That was until she touched that thrumming bud for the first time, a faint sensation trembling up into her abdomen and across her thighs—a whisper of what her body was actually capable of.

“Slow circles, like this,” Camden’s voice rumbled, the tapered end of the feather showing her what to do in delicate brushstrokes. “Tap gently… Now curve yer fingertips around, back and forth… Strum yerself like the divine instrument that ye are… Slow circles again. Find what feels good, what feels powerful… Aye, like that… Aye, just like that. Moan as loudly as ye want, nay one will hear ye from here.”

She followed his enchanting guidance until that initial echo of bliss became a tangle of rippling bliss, threads of liquid pleasure spooling through every limb, racing down every vein and nerve until she could not catch her breath.

The more she discovered, the more her inhibitions faded away, giving her the confidence to give voice to her bliss. She leaned back on the desk and arched her neck, imagining Camden’s fingertips touching her as she moaned and gasped and panted at the bombardment of bliss.

Something was building inside her, those threads of ecstasy all weaving toward an unknown center, creating a tapestry of something greater—a greater feeling than anything she had ever experienced. She did not know what it was, but she chased the sensation, eager to discover what it meant.

“Ye’re tremblin’, sweetlin’,” Camden purred, bracing his hands on either side of her hips, leaning in.

He did not kiss her, did not break his promise by touching her, but the tickle of his hot breath on her skin and the anticipation of a kiss that would not come was almost as powerful in unraveling her.

“I wish it were me,” he murmured. “I wish I could slide me fingers inside ye, strummin’ ye with me thumb until ye screamed me name.”

His words were a spell, woven into the threads of pleasure that already overwhelmed her, sending that unknown, building sensation to soaring heights.

“And when I’d teased out yer pleasure once, I’d taste ye with me tongue until ye were shakin’ on this desk, beggin’ for more,” he said huskily. “That’s when I’d wrap yer legs around me waist and ease meself inside ye. Slowly. So slowly ye’d lift yer hips to take all of me in at once. I’d make ye feel things ye never thought possible. I’d lose meself in ye, takin’ me time, makin’ it last ‘til dawn, pleasurin’ ye until ye were spent.”

Though Paisley did not fully understand what he meant at times, her imagination and the books Cecilia had sneaked into the convent filled in the blanks. She envisioned every word he whispered, driving herself to the point of delicious madness with the pads of her fingertips.

“Call me name, sweetlin’,” he commanded.

Before she could question why, she understood. The growing sensation of untold bliss could not soar any higher. As if his voice had demanded it, her pleasure reached its conclusion. It was a fork of euphoric lightning through her, every muscle pulled taut, her head swimming, her heart thundering in her chest, her breath lodged in her throat as it crashed through her.

“Oh, Camden!” she cried out. “Camden…”

She could form no other words, her new language one of pants and sighs and gasps as the wave of ecstasy crested in her veins, sweeping through every part of her until she was a trembling wreck of satisfaction on the edge of the desk.

But all good things had to come to an end. The intensity ebbed, and though she longed to throw her arms around Camden and let him hold her through the aftermath, she could not bear to be a hypocrite at that moment. So, she lay back on the varnished wood, her arms flopping to the side… and her hand brushed against something that fell to the floor.

Worried it might be something important, she turned over and reached down to retrieve it.

“Was that to yer likin’?” Camden asked. “I must say, I’m enjoyin’ this view as much as the other.”

But Paisley was not enjoying anything anymore, her eyes narrowing as she sat up and pushed her skirts back down over her bare legs, her attention fixed on seven words in an elegant cursive that poked out from the crumpled paper ball in her hand: Yours Sincerely, Bruce Callum, Laird of Clan Morris.