Son of the Morning

He was relentless, and he hadn’t missed any of the holes in her logic. She hadn’t come to this time expecting everyone to be ignorant barbarians, easily outwitted, but still she was dismayed by the sophisticated nature of his reasoning. Niall wasn’t at the disadvantage here; she was, tripped up by her own actions. He was right; simply approaching the gates and asking for him would have been far less suspicious.

She bowed her head, looking at her hands twisting together in her lap. She fingered her wedding ring, and for once deliberately tried to bring up Ford’s image in her mind. She needed him now, sitting here before the fire with Black Niall’s hands gentle in her hair. But it was difficult to concentrate, and she couldn’t pull the details together.

"I was too embarrassed," she blurted. The comb paused. "Were ye, now?" The deep voice was little more than a murmur. He slid his hand around her neck, under her hair, and she jumped in surprise. He crooned something soothing in Gaelic, and his thumb began to rub the nape of her neck. "Because I gave ye pleasure, in the dungeon? I’ll admit to a bit of surprise, but then I greatly enjoyed it. A man likes for a lass to shiver and moan in his arms."

She shivered now, in response to both the memory and the caress of his thumb on her neck. He moved his hand just a little, so that he rubbed and massaged the cords that joined neck and shoulder, and she bit back a moan. Desire pooled deep in her belly, between her legs, and her breasts tightened. It was a dangerous man who knew the sensitivity of a woman’s neck, where a caress was like a bolt of lightning through her body. A touch on her breast was more intimate – but a touch on her neck was more seductive. Niall knew well what he was doing.

She tried to control her breathing, which was coming in short, erratic spurts. "I haven’t � I mean, there’s been only… we had just met!"

He laughed, the soft sound totally male and self-confident. "That isna true. Ye’ve been in my bed many times."

She gathered herself, tried to inject a note of firmness into her tone. "Those were dreams, not reality."

"Were they not? When I wake wi’ my seed spurting from me, it feels verra damn real to me." The words were full of masculine wryness.

Her breath caught on a surge of yearning so abrupt and intense it felt like pain. She wanted to feel him come inside her, wanted to feel that powerful body surge and convulse while she held him close, wanted to watch his face.

"Ye like that thought, do ye? Your wee nipples ha’ gone as hard as berries."

She wasn’t the only one aroused; she could hear it in the slight thickening of his accent. She closed her eyes and for a moment the only sound was that of their breathing, fast and erratic.

The comb was tossed aside and he stepped over the bench to stand in front of her. His hands slid down her arms, lifting her to her feet. She stared at the pulse throbbing in the base of his strong throat.

"Come lie wi’ me on the bed," he murmured, rubbing her back now, each caress subtly urging her closer and closer to him. Her nipples tingled in anticipation. Closer… their bodies touched, and she swallowed a gasp.

"No-I… " Her disjointed refusal trailed off, lost as his arms closed around her, lifted her on her toes to bring them together more firmly.

"I willna hurt ye." His breath was hot on her ear as he nibbled the lobe, and licked the small hollow beneath.

She knew he likely would, though not deliberately. She had seen him naked, though she had tried not to dwell on it; she hadfelt him in their dreams. His size wasn’t limited to his height. To her dismay, the thought of such intimate discomfort wasn’t the deterrent she would have preferred.

Her hands were flattened against his chest, and she had to clench them into fists to keep them from sliding around his neck. Even that small a surrender would be the one step too far, because they were both trembling, Amazed, she felt the quivering of that strong body, the result of fierce need tightly leashed.

"Lass… " His mouth slid across the underside of her jaw, planting small kisses as it went. His hands knew no boundaries; they cupped her bottom, lifting her to even closer contact. His erection pushed hard against the juncture of her thighs.

Ford.In despair Grace wrenched herself away and fled to the other side of the table, a flimsy barrier he could dispose of with one flick of his hand if he chose, but she knew he wouldn’t force her. Seduce her, yes, with his devastatingly successful technique of alternating subtlety with boldness. He wasn’t a man who found force either desirable or necessary.

He was very still, watching her from beneath heavy lids. She clenched her hands together, turning her wedding ring around and around, using the small symbol to remind her of both loyalty and betrayal. The ring was so loose now she worried about losing it, and had developed the habit of checking to make certain it was still there.

He was waiting. "I’m a widow," she said, forcing out the word. Her throat constricted, and she swallowed. "My husband is the only man I’ve ever-" She stopped, and couldn’t say more. She didn’t need to.

"Did ye love him, then?" She swallowed again at his swift understanding. "Yes, I do." The words were almost inaudible.

He walked around the table. She stood her ground, though she wanted to flee. Niall cupped her face, a hint of a smile on his firmly molded lips, understanding in his dark eyes. "’Tis new to ye, wanting another man. Ye think it a betrayal of him that yer body, which has known only him, should quicken against mine."

"It is," she whispered. "And yet ye came here, knowing how it is between us. Your body is ready. Your mind needs a bit more time." He leaned down and kissed her forehead. "I’ll not force ye, lass, but I’ll no leave ye for long in an empty bed. Ye like my kisses, and my touch, while your thoughts settle."