Page 47 of Kidnapping Cordelia

“Tha thu bòidheach,” he murmured, as he dragged his mouth from hers to kiss a path along her jawline, nipping at her ear and nuzzling the tender skin beneath. He tugged at her loosened bodice, giving a little groan of pleasure as her breasts were revealed to him. Muir bent his head, taking one rose pink tip into his mouth and suckling as she gasped and slid her hands into his hair, holding him against her. His hand sought and found the hem of her gown and the froth of petticoats and slid beneath. Her silk-covered calf was warm, and his palm slid easily up and up, his body tightening with anticipation. “Yer so lovely, Delia. Ye taste like heaven. Will ye let me touch ye?” “You are touching me,” she murmured, sounding breathless and a little confused.

Muir chuckled softly.

“And I am a greedy devil. I want more, lassie. I want to touch ye everywhere, like here,” he said, and her breath caught as she felt his fingers part the slit in her drawers, tickling the soft thatch of curls he’d discovered in that private place. “Is this all right?” he asked, his voice low in her ear.

She pressed her face into his neck, her breath a wash of damp heat over his skin.

“Delia?” he prompted, hearing the husky note of his own voice. He thought he might go mad if she did not answer him, or worse, told him no.

“Yes,” she whispered, hiding her face from him as his fingers slicked over her.

“Look at me,” he commanded, smiling as she did as he asked. Her cheeks were a ruddy pink that made him want to kiss her, so he did, gently and carefully. “Yer lovely, Delia, and there’s nothing to feel embarrassed about.”

She seemed to take his words as truth, for she closed her eyes and sighed as he caressed her. Muir kissed her again, harder and deeper, and urged her on as she squirmed beneath his touch, her breath catching and holding as her body stilled, thrumming with tension.

“That’s the way, sweetheart. Now, let go,” he murmured. “I’ve got ye.”

She did as he bid her, a soft cry leaving her mouth as her body shook with pleasure. She clung to him, convulsing in his arms. Muir watched her take her pleasure with tender amazement and held her close to him as her breath came in rapid gasps, struck to the core by the trust she had put in him, and by how much it meant to him, by how much she meant to him.

For once, however, he did not spoil things by opening his mouth and demanding he marry her. He had learned his lesson about crashing in and laying down the law, stomping all over her own thoughts and desires. Instead, he just revelled in the moment, in the certainty growing in his heart that they had a wonderful future together, that her future was with him, here at the farm, and that she belonged here in his life, forever.

Chapter 12

Dear Ash,

I’m sorry to do this to you but I must leave in the morning for Sheffield. I’ve a deal to wrap up down there and I’m likely to be away for a few weeks. I just wondered if you’d seen much of Larkin recently. He’s been burning the candle at both ends for the past two weeks and I’m worried about him. He’s either painting or drinking, or painting and drinking, and whilst I’d be the first to admit the work he’s producing is the best I’ve seen from him, I’m worried. Perhaps you could look in on him and see he eats something and gets some sleep?

―Excerpt of a letter from Mr Felix Knight (son of Lady Helena and Mr Gabriel Knight) to Mr Ashton Anson (son of The Right Hon’ble Silas and Aashini Anson, The Viscount and Viscountess Cavendish).

18th April 1850, Brabster Farm, The Highlands of Scotland.

“’Tis a fine sight,” Dugald said with a weary grin, watching the field of sheep with new lambs gambolling about in the spring sunshine.

“That it is,” Muir said, stretching and trying to unlock the knots in his back. “And I’m so glad it’s over.”

“Aye, well, it’s an excellent tally. We lost less than last year overall and we’ve more lambs, so ye ought to count ye blessings, aye? What with that pretty lass smiling at ye like ye hung the moon.”

“Does she, then?” Muir asked before he could think better of the question.

“Aye, she does, ye gowk,” Dugald said with a snort of laughter. He shook his head at Muir and sighed. “I swear youth is wasted on the young. Go put a ring on her finger, laddie, and do it quick afore she comes to her senses.”

Muir laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Aye, Dugald, it’s sound advice, I reckon.”

“It is at that, and she’ll be here any moment, so ye ought to tidy yerself, aye? A lass does nae want her beau smelling of sheep, or worse, when he goes on bended knee.”

Muir sniffed suspiciously at his armpit and pulled a face. “Ye may have a point at that,” he said ruefully, and then turned, his heart lifting as he heard a feminine voice calling him until he realised it did not sound like Delia.

“Ach, here’s trouble,” Dugald said sourly, eyeing the new arrival with disfavour.

Muir sighed, no more enthusiastic than Dugald as he saw Rona Telfer wave at him from atop a sturdy Highland pony. People hereabouts held Rona in high regard for the way she ran her father's sheep farm. She rode astride like a man and could curse and drink like one, too. Muir had knocked about with her a good deal as a lad, but had only ever considered her a friend, finding her temper too erratic and her tongue a deal too sharp for comfort. Rona, however, had made no secret of her desire for him, so in recent years he had done his best to avoid her as her pursuit of him had become a trial. She seemed not to be able to take no for an answer.

“Rona,” he said, nodding as she leapt down from the pony, giving him a good view of a pair of shapely legs before she strode over.

“Good morning, Muir,” she said, coming over to stand beside him and looking at the sheep with approval. “It is a fine healthy flock ye have.”

“Aye, ’tis. What do ye want, Rona?” he asked bluntly, long ago having learned that a direct tactic was best.

She shrugged, gazing at him with a glint in her eyes he did not mistake. “A private word,” she said, her voice softening.