Beauty and the Brute Read online

  Her legs felt weak again, but she clung to her displeasure. "Release me. I wish to return to my room."

  "First, here's something to take back to your lonely bed."

  His dark head swooped down and the heated pressure of his mouth met hers, his tongue nudging apart her lips. The surprise of it held her motionless; her mind resisted his appeal. But her body thought otherwise. Her arms slipped around his neck and she gave herself up into the deep pleasure of his kiss. He tasted of the wine they'd drunk at dinner, and she could feel herself growing warm and giddy. All the while he caressed her in loving strokes that caused her skin to tingle and her blood to surge. She touched him tentatively at first, then with bolder forays over his chest and shoulders. His strength awed her, the muscle and sinew beneath the roughness of male skin. She loved the differences between them, the way they complemented each other, man and woman. This was what she had dreamed of, being kissed with passion and tenderness, held as if he could not bear to let her go.

  He slid his mouth to her ear. His hand kneaded her breast and stroked the aching tip. "Tell me to stop, lass, fell me lest I do more."

  A small shuddering sigh eased from Helen. She arched up on tiptoe and nuzzled his throat. "Do more, please. Do whatever you like."

  His breath hissed out through his teeth. His arm tightened in a fierce grip. For a moment he didn't speak; then he muttered, "As m'lady wishes."

  Taking her by the waist, he drew her into his chamber and kicked the door shut. A fire burned low on the stone hearth, casting a glow over the stately four-poster with us tall canopy and tattered silk hangings. Rather than lead her to-the bed, he brought her to a pallet of blankets he'd laid out before the fire. He released her, went to the woodpile, and tossed several logs onto the hearth. The flames leapt, biting and hissing in a shower of sparks.

  Despite the radiant heat and her enveloping cloak, Helen trembled. She felt awkward and uncertain without the reassurance of his arms. It was not that she regretted her decision. It was that she did not know what to do. Should she undress? Should she lie down?

  MacBrut unwound his plaid and cast it onto the blankets. His coarse linen shirt outlined the solidity of his shoulders and chest. As he kicked off his boots, her gaze was riveted to the long, bare legs leading up to his kilt and she wondered what—if anything—he wore beneath. "Having second thoughts, m'lady?"

  That mocking note was back in his voice. She lifted her chin and decided to be honest. "No. I. . . just don't know how to seduce a man."

  His lips quirked to the verge of a smile—but not quite. Yet it was enough to soften the fierce angles of his face. "Aye, lass, that you do."

  Striding to her, he undid the fastening of her cloak and let the garment fall to the floor. His hand lingered a moment on the curve of her neck, beneath the curtain of her hair. Then his moody blue gaze moved lower, and she felt the brush of his fingertips as he let down the sleeves of her shift. The loose fabric clung protectively until he peeled it to her waist and bared her breasts.

  Flushed with embarrassment and desire, she lifted her hand to her bosom,, but he caught her arm before she could cover herself. His thumb caressed the tender inner skin of her wrist while he gazed at her. How strange to let a man look at her so. It made her feel wicked and wonderful. The frank admiration on his face was gratifying, especially when he slid an arm around her waist and pulled her close against him, using his other hand to stroke her.

  Sighing, she leaned her head onto his wide shoulder and closed her eyes. Her self-consciousness faded as she focused on the tactile sensations aroused by his callused fingertips. Then something wet and warm closed over her nipple. His mouth.

  "Oh ... I never dreamed ..."

  " 'Tis no dream. Remember that." And he blew on her dampened flesh.

  While she whimpered from the rush of delight, he untied the tapes of her petticoats, pushed his hands inside, and found the curve of her bottom. He squeezed gently, setting off a reactionary tightening deep within her, and he caught her up in another long, openmouthed kiss.

  Sweet heaven, she had been right. So right about him. Despite all his gruffness, MacBrut could be tender and loving and oh so exciting.

  Somehow her undergarments fell away and she stood naked and unashamed in his arms. The world tilted as he pressed her down onto the pallet, and she felt the softness of his plaid beneath and the roughness of his clothes against her front. His kilt had ridden up, and a rodlike shape pressed into her thigh. Helen felt breathless and wanton just thinking about it, wondering why she ached to touch it, wondering what exactly he would do next. Then she could think no more when he brought his hand to her leg, smoothing up and up until his palm rested lightly at the top of her thighs, where he had handled her so crudely out in the corridor.

  She stiffened, but he showed no anger now, only finesse. The tip of one finger moved . . . and touched a place so private and sensitive that she cried out, clutching at his arm.

  "Sshh, lass. Let me stroke you. Let me prepare you."

  "Prepare me?" she asked, mystified.

  "Aye .. . I'll show you now."

  He caressed her again, and the tension inside her dissolved, generating a moist heat coaxed forth by his skilled hand. She meant to lie quietly on the blankets, but her hips moved in rhythm to the rising beat of pleasure, and MacBrut crooned encouragement, his breath hot against her ear. Never had she imagined allowing a man such intimacy ... or enjoying it so greatly. She shuddered with pleasure when he settled himself between her legs, his body comfortably heavy. Something hot and hard probed her tenderness, and before she could wonder at his intention, he entered her.

  It hurt. Especially when he plunged deeper, driving himself to the hilt. He lay still then, his arms braced on either side of her. His chest heaved, the muscles in his neck straining as if he fought for control. In the firelight, strands of black hair gleamed around the harsh beauty of his face and the midnight eyes that gazed intently at her. Helen only realized she was biting down on her lip when he leaned down and brushed his mouth over hers in a soothing gesture.

  "Steady, lass. Give yourself a moment, and you'll like it more."

  She did already. His size stretched her to a pleasant fullness, and a sense of awe enveloped her. So this was how it was done, this mysterious act of mating. Never had she dreamed of such an intimate joining, or the warm, insistent yearning that made her reach out and draw him down onto her.

  "I do like it," she whispered. "Very much."

  He nestled his face in her hair, his voice husky in her ear. "And now I'll make you love it."

  He moved slowly. In and out, commencing a rhythm that called to a primal craving buried within her. She lifted her hips to take him in deeper, but it wasn't enough. She wanted . . . something more. Something beyond her reach . . . something that wrested small moans of frustration from her as she surged with him, clinging to his shoulders, feeling the urgency build and build in her. She closed her eyes, focusing on the place where they were linked, the place that clenched to a tightness beyond belief.

  "Let go," he said, panting. "Fall into it, lass."

  "Into ... what?"

  Even as she asked, she knew. Rapture flooded her body, and she cried out with the swift plunge into paradise. She lost herself in the pulsations of pure white light, barely conscious of his final drive, his savage shout. 9

  Limp and replete, she drifted by degrees back to herself. The fire crackled into the silence, enhancing the sense of cozy well-being. She knew a contentment deeper and richer than anything she had experienced in her life. And it was all due to the massive man who lay sprawled atop her, his body still joined to hers in that wondrous way.

  MacBrut. Who would have thought she could find such incredible joy with a man she'd met only hours earlier? A man who hid his true sensitivity behind the bristly skin of a beast.

  A great tenderness washed through her, a feeling of closeness to this man who had initiated her into the secret society of womanhood. Snuggling against him
, she breathed in his scent along with that ineffable sweetness ...

  "Roses," she murmured in surprise. "These blankets smell of roses."

  He said nothing, his face turned from her, his cheek resting on her hair.

  Helen glanced past him, at the chamber with its fine mahogany furniture in contrast to the rough stone walls. "These blankets must have belonged to the lady of the castle. What happened to her?"

  The muscles of his back tensed beneath her hand. Still, he did not raise his head, though he grunted his displeasure.

  His refusal to speak only endeared him to her. He was a pussycat beneath that lion's growl. Then a horrid thought struck her: what if this room had once belonged to his wife? What if he had suffered the terrible loss of her?

  Sympathy brought tears to Helen's eyes. If he didn't wish to be questioned on the matter, then she owed him the courtesy of turning her curiosity elsewhere. And she did have so many questions. She ached to learn everything about him.

  She stroked the rough silk of his hair. Softly, she said, "I don't even know your first name."

  He mumbled something indistinct.

  "I beg your pardon?"

  He lifted his head slightly and shot her a wary glance. "Alexander."

  "Alexander." She smiled, studying his fierce features and deciding the name fit, for it reflected the blend of civilized man and wild beast. "Alexander MacBrut."

  "Nay. Alexander, the MacBrut. 'Tis the way the laird of the clan is known."

  Startled, she blinked. Of course. He was no ordinary Highlander.

  And that explained why he lived in this castle. Why he carried himself with an aura of command. "If you're the laird, then where are your people?" "They live in the village."

  "But they must have lived here once. That pitiful dining table—"

  "Enough of your bletherin'." His expression hardening, he levered himself to his feet. "Women like to natter on about matters that dinna concern them. 'Twould seem you're the worst of the lot."

  In half-naked magnificence he towered over her, and Helen could scarcely think. "I merely wondered—"

  "Then take your wondering back to your own bed." He snatched up her shift and tossed it at her. "Now."

  As she sat up, the chill of the air seeped into her, chasing away the warmth and lassitude of their lovemaking. "How can you speak so harshly after what we just shared?"

  "I had my pleasure, and you had yours. But 'tis over, and I've no stomach for useless chatter." Pivoting away, he turned his attention to adjusting the folds of his kilt.

  Despite her determination to see the good in him, his rejection hurt. How could she explain her longing for romance, for soft words and parting kisses? She hadn't anticipated this brutal ending to her night of discovery. It left her feeling vaguely used and unclean.

  With trembling fingers she donned her clothing, covering herself with the cloak. She paused a moment, looking at Alexander the MacBrut, who had shown her such ecstasy.

  He stood gazing into the fire, one of his hands braced on the stone chimneypiece. She had a hundred questions she'd like to ask him, to enable her to understand him better. But he acted as if he'd already forgotten her presence and the deeply personal experience that had seared her soul.

  After tomorrow, she would never see him again. The knot in her throat prevented her from saying good-bye. She left quietly, slipping out into the cold, dark corridor and feeling her way back to her bed, where Miss Gilbert still snored in blessed oblivion. M'lord awakened and wagged his tail, and Helen hugged him briefly before crawling beneath the covers. She closed her eyes, remembering the joy and beauty the MacBrut had shown her. No, not the MacBrut. Alexander.

  Alexander had made love to her. With his tender touch, he had transported her to paradise. Belatedly she realized the folly of believing she would be content after learning the mystery of it. Once was not enough. Already she missed the warmth of his arms and the excitement of his kisses. Already the place between her legs ached to be filled by him. Only him.

  Alexander.

  She turned restlessly, hugging her pillow. It was foolish to desire the unattainable. She would leave here on the morrow and never return. She'd had her adventure and now it was over.

  Yet as she fell asleep, Helen wished with all her heart for the chance to charm him into doing it again.

  Chapter Four

  He wanted to do it again.

  That was Alex's first thought the next morning on seeing her emerge from the stone keep, the little spotted lapdog trotting at her side. Alex was returning from the stables where he'd tended to the horse, using physical activity to block out all memory of his mistake the previous night. Now that mistake was walking straight toward him.

  Lady Helen Jeffries.

  He stopped dead in the middle of the snowy courtyard. Half of him wanted to turn and run, but not his lower half. The sight of her transfixed him: the sunshine gilding her fine blond hair, the jaunty spring to her steps, the crimson cloak skimming a figure that had haunted his dreams.

  He should never have touched her. He should have listened to logic instead of thinking with his cock. The last complication he needed in his life was a freshly deflowered female—especially when she was a fashionable English lady.

  He should stride away in the opposite direction. Better he should follow her lapdog that bounded away to examine the perimeter of the yard. But Lady Helen waved a gloved hand at Alex, and the smile brightening her face caught him with the force of a steel trap.

  "Good morning," she called gaily as she picked a path through the drifts. Her boots crunched on the snow, and a band of white bordered the hem of her cloak. Without warning, she skidded on an icy patch.

  Alex sprang to save her from a nasty tumble. His arms shot around her, and he found himself holding her close to his swiftly beating heart. Despite his resolve, he was seduced instantly by her slim, curvy form and womanly scent, her rosy face and dancing eyes.

  "Goodness," she said, laughing. "I didn't know the ground was so slippery."

  He grunted, hoping she would take the hint that he didn't want her company. But even as he stepped back, she chattered on.

  "What a fine day it is." Opening her arms wide and tilting her head back, she turned to survey the blue sky. "There isn't a cloud to be seen, and the wind has died down. Have you checked the road yet?"

  He gave a curt nod.

  "And? Is it covered in snow?"

  "Aye," he admitted grudgingly.

  "Oh, do let's have a look."

  She took hold of his elbow, and he had no choice but to walk her to the arched gate. He felt the softness of her breasts as she leaned into him for support. He glanced at her suspiciously, wondering if she were play-mi; the seductress again. But she was gazing ahead, mak-iii!', sprightly comments on the weather and the scenery.

  He had ruined her. With no more than a twinge of < on science, he had plucked England's fairest flower. Lust and a twisted need for revenge had overridden his scruples, and he had seized the chance to claim a prize from the country that had stolen so much from him. If anyone in London society were to find out, she would be shunned, ostracized.

  Never would he forget his shock on finding her standing outside his bedchamber. Or his swift, searing response to hearing her hesitant explanation: I came to see you. To be with you.

  There was no need to feel at fault. She had, after all, sought him out.

  Yet guilt sank its teeth into him. She didn't deserve to be punished. She'd had nothing to do with the pain in his past.

  "Oh, dear," she said. "You're right."

  Alex blinked, realizing they stood at the verge of the steep, downward slope. Snow sparkled on the forested mountains as far as the eye could see. "Right?" he said cautiously.

  "The road looks quite impassible. We are snowed in." She sounded cheerful, like a child freed from performing her daily chores. "We daren't transport Mr. Abbott down this slippery hill. That means we shall have to remain here for at least another day. Do
n't you agree?"

  Being stranded here in the company of Lady Helen Jeffries only made Alex more testy. Rather than admit she'd surmised correctly, he said, "The snow willna last. 'Tis beginning to melt already."

  He could hear the drip-drip of icicles from the castle walls and the surrounding trees. Gold and red leaves peeked from beneath the blanket of white. It was far too early in the season for the freezing temperatures to continue. By tomorrow, the road would be clear.

  In the meanwhile, he had no intention of enduring the company of an Englishwoman. Especially not one who posed a damnable temptation to him. He had been too long without a woman, that was all.

  "I've work to do," he muttered, and stalked away.

  "Wait," she called from behind. "Don't go yet. I wanted to tell you something. It's about last evening."

  He froze. "There's naught to tell."

  "Please, Alexander. This is important."

  The husky way she said his name made him turn uneasily to see her standing in the opening of the gate. The high stone arch and iron portcullis made her appear more dainty than ever.

  She clasped her gloved hands in front of her. The chilly breeze tugged at the tendrils of her hair. A rosy hue tinted her cheeks, and she shyly dipped her chin. "I wanted to explain why I came to you last night."

  Hell. What was it about women that made them want to analyze an act as natural as breathing or eating? "You were curious," he said bluntly. " 'Tis best forgotten."

  Helen nodded. "I was curious. I wanted to know what went on between a man and a woman. Because, you see, I shall never marry."

  She paused, gazing at him so earnestly he felt the tightening of interest in his chest. But he said nothing. If he didn't encourage her, maybe she would spare him her unwanted confidences.