“Are you going to remove your clothing?” she asked. He stepped back, thinking that perhaps she felt shy at the idea of being unclothed while he was dressed. “Yes. But there is no need to feel embarrassment, Edie.”

“I don’t feel embarrassed,” she said, smiling at him.

He believed her. There was something about Edie’s straightforward manner that made him think he could trust whatever she said.

“Is that your clan colors?” she asked.

“Aye.” He bent, unlaced his brogues, threw them to the side. “I’m wearing a philabeg or, in Gaelic, feileadh beag.” He removed his hose, and unbuckled his sporran.

Edie seemed fascinated. “What’s that little packet for?”

“A few coins.” The kilt was made to be unwrapped with speed—but suddenly Gowan realized that Edie was examining him, every inch of him. He had the feeling that she liked what she was seeing, that she wasn’t hankering after a ropy Englishmen like those he’d seen in boxing saloons.

He removed his coat and pulled up his shirt rather more slowly than he ordinarily would, suppressing a grin at the silliness of it. His arm muscles flexed as he took the shirt over his head and tossed it to the side. But he figured that she might as well see it all. If Edie was put off by his body, she wouldn’t have that look in her eyes.

A desirous look. The same kind of ravenous hunger that was eating him alive.

Right. Time to return to his plan. He made certain that he had each of its points in mind.

On the bed, Edie mimicked him, pulling her chemise over her head. He forgot what he was thinking about. The generous swell of her breasts rose in the air, framed by the graceful arc of her arms, and then he looked lower and saw the curve of her inner thighs, almost hiding a small triangle of golden hair.

The sight threatened to pull him into a dark place in which he would have no control. He refused to succumb. Instead, he joined her on the bed, gently adjusted her body until he had her in just the right position, and proceeded to make love to her.

First, he kissed her until her lips were plump and dark and she was making little hungry sounds in the back of her throat. Only then did he allow his hand to drift below her collarbone. While one half of his brain gloried in the weight of her truly magnificent breasts, the other catalogued the way she writhed under his touch, her arms tightening about his neck and her breath coming shallower and faster. He gave her a little bite, just a tiny one. That made her scream, and he ticked off one of the items on his list.

Heard, learned, and understood.

After a time, he slid his hand down her body, curving around her inner thighs—God, but he thought that might be what drove him over the edge, the soft curve of her legs. He wanted to bury his face there and leave bite marks all over her, and then shift a couple of inches higher and play.

But no. He had to keep his mind on the task at hand. So he ran his hands up her thighs and touched her very core. She was so much more pink than he imagined: more beautiful, softer, wetter, a fluted flower. And she was trembling all over, her hands gliding over his shoulders, stroking him wherever she could reach.

He couldn’t permit himself to think about that, so he blocked out the signals coming from her caresses.

She felt wet and ready, but when he gently slid a finger inside her she was so small that he froze.

“Gowan!” He heard her voice through a fog. His mind scrambled, trying to imagine how this would possibly work.

Between the two of them, with him the size he was and her . . .

Presumably Englishwomen were simply smaller there, just the way Englishmen’s biceps were smaller.

Damn.

Nineteen

Edie felt as if she were living the experience and observing it at the same time. The two of them lay on the bed, but the other version of her watched them from above.

She was spread out like a feast, trembling from little erotic pulses radiating down her legs. The logical part of her supposed she should probably roll on her side so that her legs didn’t look plump. Generally speaking, she liked her legs, but her thighs . . .

Gowan lowered his head and put out his tongue and nuzzled her, very delicately, there, and she lost her train of thought. A second later, her instincts overcame an initial faint feeling of horror, and she heard herself crying, “Please,” over and over, just as Layla had demonstrated in the drawing room.

Once he was licking her, her body ignored the odd thoughts going around in her head. The logical part of her felt a bit lonely, which was stupid, because it was Gowan kissing her, in this erotic, intimate way . . .

Her legs had just begun to feel peculiarly warm when he stopped and came up above her again. “I think you’re ready, Edie.”

She frowned. The word made her feel like a loaf of rising bread, and instantly dispelled the warm fuzziness, but she nodded and pulled him closer because she still felt alone.

“I want you so much,” he said, his voice hoarse as he dropped a kiss on her lips. “But I’m afraid I will hurt you.”

She smiled at that. Now that his face was near hers, she felt better. “I have been told it doesn’t hurt very much. Layla called those rumors old wives’ tales.”

He reached down and put himself there, at the opening of her body. Edie stared down with some bemusement. He looked huge, like a giant pink mushroom stalk, which was accurate, though not a very romantic metaphor.

The first few seconds felt good. Odd, but nice. Gowan stopped and said, “How is it?”

It was so intimate that Edie could hardly bear it. His face was next to hers, closer than that of any person she could remember. Together with the fact that his body lay right on top of hers, and now part of him was actually inside her—it made her shiver all over. She wanted to push him away, and at the same time, pull him closer.

“It feels good,” she said, her breath puffing against his face.

“May I continue?”

Edie nodded. Gowan flexed his hips, and from that moment, it was not good at all. Involuntarily, she sucked in a deep breath of air, and dug her nails into his shoulders.

“Am I hurting you?” His voice had fallen an octave.

“A little,” she managed. A little? It was agony.

“Shall I stop, Edie? We could try again tomorrow.”

Edie had lost every bit of happy sensuality she felt a few minutes ago. Her body was being torn apart. But the last thing she wanted was to have to try this again the next day. The anticipation alone would kill her. “You just have to do it,” she said, her voice rasping. “Get it over with. Please.”

He dropped a kiss on her lips, a sweet, tender touch.

And then he thrust, one deep, convulsive movement that seemed to take a minute, or an hour. Her mind shuddered away from the pain, from the pressure and sense of being sliced in half.

He was stuck inside her as if she were a bottle and he a cork. Edie was completely outside the experience now. A flood of curses went through her mind, things she would say to Layla next time she saw her. This pain was no more than an old wives’ tale? Bloody hell.

“Are you done?” she whispered, when he still didn’t move. His breath was harsh in her ear.

“No.”

“Does it pain you as well?”

“Nay, it feels better than I could have imagined.” He pulled out and then pushed back inside again. The sensation was terrible.