Stealing Moirra's Heart Part 8

There was something in the way she smiled at him, adoringly, sweetly, that made his groin ache with want. It was getting excruciatingly difficult to hold back his desire for her. He wondered how she would respond if he stepped forward and kissed her, as he'd been wanting to for days.

John was about to step forward and broach the topic when Moirra turned to face him. "We need to talk."

Past experience told him that no good ever came from a moment that began with the words we need to talk. Nay, he looked at that statement as a warning, a harbinger of bad things to come. The words acted like a slap in the face and they quelled any desire he may have had. He pulled his own smile in, clenched his jaw, and readied himself for what he was certain would be a blow to his ego as well as his heart.

Giving Moirra a nod, he spread his feet apart and crossed his arms over his chest and braced himself.

Moirra had learned long ago, that words often were not enough to convey the message one might desire another person to understand. In those moments, actions speak louder than words. This was one of those moments.

Without permission or warning, flinging all good and common sense aside, Moirra rushed to him and wrapped her arms around his neck. Standing on her toes, she leaned up and looked into his eyes. Surprise flickered momentarily behind his green eyes before understanding finally set in.

Slowly, John bent, wrapped her more tightly in his arms and brought his lips to hers. She thought it a sweet, tender kiss, but that was not what she needed or wanted at that particular moment. For days she had been daydreaming about the moment when he would finally realize that he wanted her just as much as she wanted him. He'd been doing his best to be an honorable gentleman, and for that, she applauded him.

But now, pressed against him in the dimly lit barn, she did not want an honorable gentleman. She wanted a pa.s.sionate and virile man. She wanted to feel his bare skin against hers. On top of her, under her, sideways, she didn't care as long as he was inside her, slaking her want and desperation and physical desires. He smelled like hay, earth, soap and leather to the point she nearly felt intoxicated. She could not remember ever having such a heady and exhilarating feeling before, not with any of her previous husbands.

Moirra urged him on by nibbling on his lower lip. He responded by deepening the kiss before running his tongue between her lips. Her heart pounded against her breastbone; her blood ran hot through her veins; warm sensations began to swim deep in her belly. Rather zealously, she ran her fingers through his hair, pulling him closer. Soon she realized she was breathing hard, like an animal that had been chased through the woods. John's breathing was not any steadier than her own.

Pressed so closely to him, she could feel his arousal and that flamed her own. Leaving his hair, she started to undo his plaid, when his hands stopped her.

She opened her eyes and looked at him. He had an odd expression on his face and she did not know what to make of it.

"What be the matter?" she asked breathlessly.

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Moirra, I do no' ken how much more of yer kisses I can take without hauling ye up to the loft and havin' me way with ye."

Gently, she placed her palm on his cheek. "John, ye sweet, stupid man." Though her tone was playful and her words meant in jest, he still raised a surprised brow. "Why do ye think I kissed ye?"

He stammered, trying to find a good answer.

Moirra giggled and headed toward the ladder that led to the loft. She took the first rung before turning back to him. "Ye best hurry, or I'll have to start without ye."

He'd never known such a beguiling, intriguing, bold woman. Momentarily surprised by her apparent challenge, he watched as she climbed the ladder. Her skirts swished and swayed as she made her way up and disappeared into the dark loft.

Start without me? He contemplated her statement for a long moment, his mind conjuring up all sorts of provocative images, which brought a smile to his face. b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l ye'll start without me!

Moirra had removed her dress by the time he made his way up to the loft. The small window was open, letting in a sliver of moonlight and a soft breeze. But it wasn't the cool air that brought goose pimples to her skin. Nay, 'twas her own wicked mind. Trembling with antic.i.p.ation, she waited for him, wearing only her chemise and a smile.

John couldn't stand to his full height in the tiny loft. Bent at the waist, he came to her and fell to his knees. In short order, he unclasped his brooch, removed his plaid and tunic and tossed them aside.

He was magnificent. Toned, well-defined muscles, broad shoulders and a flat stomach. The sight of him, with the moonlight bouncing off his tanned skin, made her s.h.i.+ver. Suddenly, she began to worry that her body, which had birthed four daughters and was not as firm as it had been in her youth might dampen his ardor.

John gave her no time to ponder that line of thinking. He slipped his hands under her chemise and caressed her calves. Slowly, he moved his hands up her legs, her thighs, and her stomach. Her skin felt hot wherever he touched, as if his hands were made of fire. Before she had time to even think to argue or warn him about her less than perfect body, he had pulled her to her knees and lifted the chemise up and over her head.

Moirra closed her eyes and held her breath. Silently, she hoped he'd not care about the stretch marks on her b.r.e.a.s.t.s or her less than flat stomach.

All fear and worry fell away with his next words. "G.o.d, yer beautiful," he said breathlessly.

He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. She heard him inhale deeply as he buried his face in her neck. "Ye smell so good."

His voice was low, deep, and smooth. She found she rather liked the sound of his voice, especially when he whispered in her ear. More s.h.i.+vers erupted up and down her spine as she sucked in a deep breath.

Caressing her skin with his rough palms, he slid them up her back, across her shoulders and down her arms, before returning to her back. Moirra continued to suck in deep breaths, surprised at how wonderful his touch made her feel.

John was not her first husband nor was he her first lover. But there was something different in how she felt and responded to his touch. Not just exciting and exhilarating, nay, there was something else, at the very edge of her mind but she could not figure out its meaning.

He left trails of kisses from her neck to her lips. Moirra melted into him like warm b.u.t.ter. There was no way to hold back sighs or moans. His hands were everywhere. Exploring, caressing, leaving her breathless and wanting more.

As his lips caressed hers, he carefully lowered her to the blanket, resting her head in the crook of his arm. His tongue sought hers again, twirling, teasing and twining together. Resting one hand on the back of his neck, she pulled him closer as she began her exploration of his body.

Her fingertips discovered smooth, hard skin at his lower back. When they trailed upward, they found a scar just below his right shoulder blade. Moirra traced the outline of the scar with her middle finger for a time. 'Twasn't too wide or garish and she was certain it had been made by a sword. Battle mayhap? Who knew, but she'd like to kill the man who marred his otherwise perfect body.

Her skin felt afire. A deep yearning and ache for more of him was growing too much to bear.

"John," she whispered into his ear.

'Twas then that everything stopped. The kisses, the caresses, all came to a far too abrupt halt and all at once, she felt abandoned.

"Nay," he said as he withdrew.

There was something in his eyes and his voice as it cracked. Sadness? Regret? Whatever it was, it left her feeling bereft.

John. Hearing that name felt like cold water against his skin, temporarily dousing his desire for her.

"What is wrong?" Moirra asked, sounding desperate and concerned.

She lay there, her eyes locked with his. d.a.m.n, she was beautiful. He wanted her. All of her. Every magnificent inch and ounce of her. As the moon bathed her in soft light, she looked so much an angel it made his chest feel tight.

He swallowed hard before taking a deep breath. "I canna do this without ye knowin' me name."

Relief washed over her, he could see it in her eyes. Her palm felt warm against his cheek. "Then tell me yer name."

Another deep breath was required before he could answer. "Me name is Alysander McCullum."

The only sound he could hear was his blood rus.h.i.+ng in his ears. There was no recognition of his name in her sparkling eyes. Only affection and peace.

"Alysander," she whispered.

He knew she had no idea who he was, had no knowledge of his past, his reputation for being a rakeh.e.l.l or layabout. Guilt rose. How could he join with her if she did not know the real him? The real and true Alysander McCullum? 'Twould be a faithless duplicity, and one in which he did not wish to partic.i.p.ate. In that moment, he realized just how important she had become to him.

"Moirra," he whispered. "Ye do no' ken me. Ye do no' ken who I really am."

"Wheest," she said softy. "I do ken ye, Alysander."

He closed his eyes, relis.h.i.+ng in the way her hand caressed his cheek. "Nay, ye do no' ken me."

"But I do. Ye be a kind man, Alysander McCullum. Yer good to me daughters, even when they were less than kind to ye. I ken ye be no' used to farm work, or tending animals, or children, yet ye work hard and do no' complain. Yer always respectful of me and my daughters. Ye protected Mariote and Orabilis from the sheriff's men and for that, I shall be eternally grateful. I ken ye, Alysander, I ken ye well."

"But-" he began to protest, but Moirra placed her fingertips on his lips.

"Wheest, Alysander. Do no' fash yerself. What is past is past. I do no' care what ye may or may no' have done before ye came here. 'Tis of no import to me."

Her rea.s.surances did little to a.s.suage his guilt. Wrapping his hand around hers, he kissed her fingertips before pulling them away. "Ye might no' say that if ye knew the whole of it."

"And ye might no' want me if ye knew all me secrets," she whispered.

He almost snorted. "What secrets could ye have?" he asked disbelievingly.

"Alysander, for tonight, can we forget we have secrets? Mayhap, on the morrow, we can share them."

Her eyes pleaded with him. Would it be so terribly wrong to join with her now? Wasn't it enough that she knew his true name and that he had a past he was not proud of?

She placed her hand on his neck, gently urging him toward her. "Please?" Her husky voice and plea was all his manhood needed to spring to life once again.

His lips found hers once again, tender and teasing, he did not think he could ever get enough of her. Rolling her to her back, he cupped a hand around one of her delightfully plump b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Moirra moaned into his mouth when his fingertips caressed the soft skin of her breast. "Please, do no' stop," she whispered huskily against his lips.

Alysander smiled proudly as he left lazy trails of kisses down the side of her neck to the juncture betwixt her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Inhaling deeply he took in the scent of her. She smelled of lavender soap, smoke and woman. 'Twas intoxicating.

He took his time, exploring each breast with lips and tongue, and much to his delight, Moirra continued her pleas for him not to stop. Never, in all his years, had he ever taken his time with a woman as he was doing now. Nay, in the past, the women he had joined with had been bought and paid for, there only to please him. He'd never given much thought to pleasing them.

But now, with each sigh and moan that escaped her lips, his need to take his time, to please her, to explore every inch of her body, grew.

"Moirra," he whispered against her neck. "Ye be the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."

She answered with a sigh.

"Yer skin be as soft as silk," he told her as he kissed the tender skin betwixt her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. "Yer b.r.e.a.s.t.s beautiful and I think I could feast on them for days."

Moirra took in a deep breath and let it out with a moan. "Please, Alysander," she said as she pulled on his arms. "I canna take much more."

His heart felt near to bursting when he heard her say his name again. He didn't think he could ever tire of hearing her say it. She pulled at his arms again and let him know she needed him.

Taking her face in the palms of his hands, he kissed her thoroughly and pa.s.sionately. No honey or nectar would or could ever taste as sweet as Moirra. Deciding he'd denied her long enough, he rolled over and settled himself over her, never taking his lips from hers.

If her lips were heaven, then being inside her was beyond the realm of human understanding. Never had joining with a woman felt this good, this blissful, sensual. She wrapped her arms around his neck, her legs around his back, and urged him forward, deeper. He felt her husky sighs and pleas for more against his neck. Her touch, her breath felt like fire and lightning across his skin.

Alysander made certain that she found her pleasure first.

"Oh, good Lord," she moaned. "Alysander ... Alysander."

Nay, he'd never tire of hearing her say his name.

'Twas all she could do to keep from screaming his name over and over again. Alysander made her feel like a young, innocent maiden again, the way he took his time with his kisses and exploration of her body. Breathless, weak, excited, and then? Oh, when he joined with her, when he slowly took his time entering her with that first, slow forward movement? It was the oddest of sensations.

None of her previous husbands had ever ensured she was ready for him or that she was enjoying herself. Even when she voiced her opinions on the matter, she was either looked at as though she were insane, or, as her last husband had done, a hard slap against her face, followed by a warning never to insult him again.

But this loving with Alysander was unlike anything she had experienced before. It was so much more than she had hoped it would be. Tender in his ministrations, gentle in his touch, sweet in his words, this loving was both peculiar and exhilarating. Apparently her moans and sighs were not enough a signal that she was in fact deriving great pleasure from him, for he asked more than once if she liked his touch, or the way his mouth felt against her skin. All she could do was nod her head and moan in answer.

Then when he told her he'd no stop until she found her release first, she nearly stopped to ask him if she'd heard him correctly, so stunned she was by his promise. But then she felt the sensations building up and she could do nothing but breathe and match him thrust for thrust. An explosion, unlike anything she'd ever experienced before ensued and she thought it might never end and was not sure she wanted it to.

Moments later, Alysander found his own release as he whispered her name over and over again.

How something so simple could make her feel as though her bones had melted away, yet leaving her heart alive and pounding in her chest, was amazing.

This, this was what her mother had meant when she said loving with the man you're supposed to be with is unlike anything a woman could ever dream of or imagine. For years, she thought her mother either exaggerated or flat out lied.

Now she knew the truth.

CHAPTER 11.

M oirra slept wrapped in Alysander's arms, content and sated, coveting the warmth his body provided. They slept like the dead until the c.o.c.k crowed at dawn.

Still half asleep, Alysander pulled Moirra in closer and kissed her temple. 'Twas the first time in his entire life that he slept with a woman. Aye, he'd joined with many women over the years, but his rule was to leave as soon as the rutting was over, tossing the la.s.s an extra coin or two if she did not complain about his abrupt departure.

Moirra changed his former way of thinking. If he had his druthers, they'd stay like this for the next several days, only waking long enough for loving again or to eat and replenish their bodies. Nay, holding her close, smelling her scent, enjoying the way her body fit so perfectly against his own was not something he wished to relinquish to the mundane.

When the c.o.c.k crowed again, Moirra bolted upright, her eyes as big as trenchers. Alysander thought she looked quite beautiful, with bits of straw sticking out of her unbound, tousled hair, and her beautiful body, naked save for the blanket that fell to her hips. His manhood sprung to life the instant he saw her.

Moirra cursed under her breath and began a mad scramble to find her clothing. "Och! The girls canna catch us like this!" she said as she tossed Alysander his tunic.

Alysander smiled. "Why no'? We are married, Moirra."

She looked at him as though he had sprouted a second head. "Aye, but they do no' need to ken we've spent the night together!"

Her objections made no sense to him. They were married, or, more specifically handfasted. What did it matter if they shared a bed? Where was the bold woman he'd joined with last night?

"Moirra," he said as he touched her shoulder with his fingers. "What does it matter?"

She shrugged his hand away and slipped her chemise on. "John," she began.

"Alysander," he corrected. "Do no' call me John again. I am Alysander McCallum."

Moirra found her dress and slipped into it. "Now how do ye propose to explain that to me daughters?"

Her frustration was making him angry. He had made much headway with the girls these past days. Certainly, they could find a way to explain it to them.

Moirra glared at him when he shared his thoughts with her. "They will no' understand," she began. Her shoulders slumped and she let out a long sigh. "Alysander, I fear me daughters will get too attached to ye. When ye leave, 'twill injure their feelings and I do no' want that to happen. They've lost much over the years. They've already lost three fathers and I do no' wish to see them lose a fourth."

Alysander's eyes grew wide with astonishment. "Three fathers?" he asked, uncertain he had heard her correctly. When her face flamed red, he knew he hadn't been mistaken.

"Three fathers?" he repeated, shaking his head incredulously.

"Alysander, let me explain," her voice was laced with worry.