Apparently, Callum and Morgan believed Grey’s threat.
They grabbed the old priest by his arms and all but carried him out of the room. Jonathan, still standing across the bed staring at her, didn’t move. It was as if he couldn’t come to terms with what he had found.
Grace watched as Grey strode to the chair by the hearth and picked up the sword. Her embarrassment forgotten, she jumped on the bed, crossed its great width, and pushed Jonathan with all her might.
“Get out,” she said, stepping down to the floor, still pushing him. “If you want to save Podly, you’ll get out now.”
The name of his precious satellite rousted him into action. He turned and walked to the door but stopped and stared first at Grace and then at the half-naked, dangerously serious man holding a sword in his hand, looking as if he knew how to use it.
“I’ll…ah…wait downstairs,” Jonathan said then, eyeing the sword as he shrugged his shoulders to straighten his shirt, smoothing down the front of it with an unsteady hand.
Grey advanced on him. Jonathan pivoted and ran out. Grace heard him bump into the end of the hall and then stumble down the stairs. And she flinched when Grey slammed the door shut with enough force to rattle the windows.
Grace could only gape as he turned and stood facing her. The man looked like a medieval warlord from the same picture book as his castle. He was impressively naked from the waist up, his broad shoulders and muscled arms rippling with tension that also shone in the taut planes of his chiseled face. His bare feet were planted wide for balance, and his sword was gripped with the surety of one who was comfortable handling it.
If he replaced his pants with the plaid hanging over the hearth and added a sporran like the one Michael had mentioned, Grey would actually look like a Scots warrior ready for battle.
Grace took a step back. He started toward her, and she turned and jumped on the bed, moving to the middle before she faced him again. He didn’t stop his advance until his thighs were touching the blankets.
“You’ve buttoned your blouse crooked,” he said, his soft voice in stark contrast to his posture.
“I…I’m not falling for that trick, MacKeage. The minute I look down, you’re going to jump me.”
The left corner of his mouth kicked up. “You aren’t afraid of me, are you, Grace?”
“N-no.”
“Then what seems to be the problem?”
“You are. You should see yourself,” she said, waving at him. “You look like a…like a…”
“A what?”
“Like a warrior.”
He puffed out his already broad chest, running a hand over it as if to smooth down a shirt he wasn’t wearing.
“You think so?” he asked. “Does the look appeal to you?”
“Appeal to me?” she whispered. Was he teasing her now? “Like an ancient warrior,” she clarified, more to test his reaction than to insult him.
He didn’t bat an eyelash. “I’m thirty-five. That’s not old.”
He was toying with her, the way a cat toyed with a mouse just before he ate it. Grace slowly inched her way further across the bed and caught her lip between her teeth to keep it from trembling. If she didn’t know better, she would think she was the one who had traveled eight hundred years through time—
backward.
Grace couldn’t get Michael’s story out of her head. Her stomach churned, and she felt dizzy in an Alice-in-Wonderland sort of way.
“Where…where did you get that sword?” she asked, slowly heading for the opposite side of the bed.
Her feet got caught up in the blankets, and she lost her balance. Grey was on her before she finished falling, covering her with his body, his sword now resting beside her head.
“It’s been in my family for generations,” he told her, continuing their conversation as if nothing had changed. “Would you like for me to straighten your blouse for you?”
She blinked at him. “N-no,” she said in a whisper, unable to look away from his amused eyes. He was laughing at her, enjoying her state of confusion.
She didn’t know which confused her more, what she was seeing or what she was feeling. He was acting like a throwback to an era long dead, yet she loved the feel of his body covering hers.
It felt natural. Right. And so very confusing.
He brushed the hair back from her forehead and kissed her there. “If you don’t get up now, I’m going to finish what we started,” he said, ignoring the fact that he had to move first, since he was on top of her.
Not that Grace wanted to move. She wanted to lose herself with this man, until all her problems ceased to exist and the old priest died so she wouldn’t have to face him ever again. She wanted to stay in bed with Greylen MacKeage until the rain stopped falling, the ice melted, and Jonathan Stanhope went home.
She also wanted to ask Grey a very important question.
But she just didn’t have the nerve, or the courage, to deal with his answer if that answer was yes—yes, he had been one of the men in Michael’s storm four years ago.
He suddenly sighed and laid his forehead on hers.
“Now what’s the matter, lass? You’re looking as if the weight of the world just dropped on your shoulders. Are ya embarrassed?”
Grace quickly grabbed the excuse he gave her. “Yes,” she blatantly lied. “Father Daar’s going to have me kneeling in a corner for nine days.”
“Nay,” he growled through a chuckle. “I have some influence with the old priest. I’ll not let him set a nine-day penance for ya.” He leaned back and grinned at her. “Two days should be enough to make ya change your ways.”
“Change my ways?”
“Aye,” he said with a nod, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “You’re a passionate woman, Grace Sutter, and I’m thinking ya need taming.”
“By a priest?”
“Nay,” he whispered, lowering his head. “By me, lass,” he breathed into her mouth, covering her lips with his.
And quietly, slowly, the storm of passion returned. Grey trailed kisses down the column of her throat, and Grace tilted her head back to give him better access. One by one, he undid the buttons on her blouse, then slowly pushed back the cloth to expose her.
The warmth of his breath caressed her naked skin, followed closely by the heat of his mouth. Grace cupped his head and guided his exploration, whimpering when he found just the right spot and mewling when he moved to another.
“Yar skin is like cream,” he said with appreciation, his tongue coaxing a shuddering response from her.
“So soft. So supple,” he continued between lavishing, savoring licks that slowly trailed down from her chest to her stomach. “And so very responsive,” he finished, nipping her lightly where her skin stopped and her pants began.
Her head thrown back on a pleasured moan, Grace felt her pants being unsnapped just before Grey’s mouth continued its journey. As his head moved lower, her hips were exposed, and then she felt her pants slide off and heard them fall to the floor.
Warm fingers, feeling like fairy kisses, trailed up her legs and came to rest on the downy-soft hair at the juncture of her thighs. Grace sat up, reaching to cup his face, and Grey moved back to her, sealing their lips in a searing kiss.
His hand, however, remained behind and continued to drive her to distraction with incredibly gentle but maddening caresses.
Grace lifted her hips as she pushed at the waistband of his pants. But he would not be distracted. Or hurried. In fact, it was as if time stood still for them. The world receded. Colors faded, blending into a glow of brilliant white.
Only Grey remained in focus for her. The look of his eyes filled with passion was forever burned in her brain. With her own eyes closed, she could see him perfectly, feel what he was doing to her, and she prayed that he didn’t stop.