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it
had come. All she could think of was that there was more. She moved her hands
to his taut buttocks as her legs clasped him tightly, urging him to move with
both actions.
    “Oh,”
she sighed, her whole body shuddering with delight as he moved with slow,
measured strokes. “So fine. ‘Tis so nice.”
    “Nice?
Sweet Mary, ‘tis heaven. Move with me, sweeting. Aye,” he gasped when she
parried his next thrust. “That is the way of it.” He encircled her hips with
his arm to press her closer as he brushed fevered kisses over her face. “Aye,
take it all. Take me in deep, lassie. God, ‘tis sweet.”
    After
kissing her hungrily, he watched her as his motions grew fiercer. He was barely
able to appreciate the way her body convulsed with her release when his own
seized him. A hoarse cry of exultation escaped him as he drove deeply within
her to spill his seed, a gift of passion that her body accepted with trembling
greed. She continued to shake and to squirm slightly with lingering pleasure
after he collapsed upon her. Parlan found her subtle movements arousing,
despite how sated he felt.
    Aimil
felt as if she drifted down from the clouds slowly and was amazed that she was
still alive. That something extraordinary had happened was evident by her
furious heartbeat and her gasping breaths. Her whole body tingled, yet she felt
heavy and langorous. It had been all she had hoped for and more. She realized
once was not enough. Since her maidenhead was now lost, she decided it would
matter little if he did it again. She found herself hoping that he would.
    Easing
himself away from her slightly, Parlan grinned at her. “There now, didnae I say
I would give ye pleasure?”
    It
struck her that he looked very much like a small boy who had found the bean in
the twelfth-night cake. She felt sure that his experience with women allowed
him to know exactly what he had stirred in her. Aimil sincerely doubted she was
the only one to gain such pleasure in his arms. There was no way she was going
to pronounce him bean-king and add to his already lofty opinion of himself, not
when he was supposed to think her there solely because of their bargain. She
gazed at her fingernails with an air of boredom.
    “I
have never suffered such a lack of entertainment in all my short life,” she
drawled.
    Parlan
roared with laughter, not in the least insulted for he knew of the pleasure he
had given her. He held her close as he laughed, and she soon joined in for it
was a contagious sound. Aimil also knew that she had not fooled him.
    As
their laughter died away, she was seized by a feeling of deep exhaustion. A
great deal had happened to her in the past twenty-four hours, indeed, in the
last week. Her body had clearly decided that, if she did not have enough sense
to rest, it would take the decision out of her hands.
    Parlan
sensed the sudden laxness in her and raised himself up on his elbows to look at
her with a crooked grin, knowing she needed to rest but wanting her again. “Are
ye betrothed, Aimil?” he asked, feeling a strong need to know if some man had a
claim to her.
    She
tried to open her eyes to look at him but gave up. “Since the cradle. I am to
be wed at summer’s end.”
    “To
whom?”
    “To
Rory Fergueson. I am going to sleep now.”
    The
quickness with which she fell asleep momentarily surprised Parlan out of his
reaction to the name of her betrothed. He nudged her but got no reaction. She
lay sprawled on her back much as if she had been felled by a blow. Shaking his
head and grinning, he lay back down to think about her betrothal for a moment,
the feelings his surprise had briefly quelled rushing to the fore.
    If
there was one man in the world he could truly say he hated, it was Rory
Fergueson. The man had no redeeming qualities at all. He had no proof but he
was sure that Rory was responsible for the brutal way Parlan’s cousin Morna,
had died. Rory Fergueson was vicious, sly, a liar, and a cheat. Each time the
MacGuins had