Free The Blood of Roses by Marsha Canham

of her throat, swirling a river of warm sensations into the valley between her breasts.
    “Dae ye think I’ve forgiven ye then?” she asked, conscious of his lower body shifting deftly between her parted thighs.
    “The harm’s done, as ye said. Where’s the use O’ gratin’ at one anither?” His tongue arrived at a nipple and toyed with it a moment before hungry lips closed around the bud and suckled a tender mouthful of flesh.
    No, she thought—squirming for altogether different reasons now—he wasn’t Alasdair. But he was a virile answer for all those long, cold nights when she had lain awake, half mad to feel the vigorous thrust of male flesh within her. Struan MacSorley had been her lover at Achnacarry, but even he had seemed to abandon her, whether out of deference for Lochiel or a growing suspicion over the role she had played in Catherine’s kidnapping, she did not know. She did know she had gone too long playing the part of the innocent, wide-eyed virgin, especially when, during those same long cold nights, she could clearly hear the squeaking and creaking of wagon axles all around her.
    Lauren arched sinuously against the greedy lips, her great amber eyes fluttering closed through a shudder of purely avaricious delight. She parted her thighs wider and slid her hands up and around his buttocks, urging the hot stab of flesh to plunge where it was needed most.
    Thus preoccupied, neither one of the lovers heard or saw the three crouched figures moving stealthily toward them through the waves of long, silvery deergrass. All three wore red broadcloth tunics and blue breeches; all three exchanged cautious handsignals as they began to close the circle around the naked, writhing couple.
    The leader of the three grinned lewdly as he heard the unabashed lust in the woman’s groans as she pumped her hips into each grunted pelvic thrust. She was probably not what the captain had had in mind when he dispatched them on this foolhardy expedition, but no doubt he would find some way to make use of her, regardless of whether she provided them with military information or not.
    A final gesture for silence and caution had the corporal withdrawing his knife from its leather sheath. He carefully laid his musket aside, not wanting to risk an accidental misfire that could alert the entire rebel army, then crept the final ten paces before raising the knife and plunging it ruthlessly between the Highlander’s sweat-slicked shoulder blades.
    Alexander heard the shrill scream of a night creature somewhere out over the darkened moorland and paused momentarily to try to pinpoint its source. He had forced himself to take three complete circuits of the sprawling encampment and, thankfully, felt the better for it. His body was no longer behaving as if it were stretched on an invisible rack; his nerves no longer scraped against a jagged edge of steel. He was thinking clearly again and knew that to keep doing so, he must not think of Catherine.
    His third circuit of the camp, therefore, was undertaken with an eye toward the military action due for the morning. He was in full agreement with Lochiel’s assessment of the situation: If Cope had any warning whatsoever of the rebels’ presence in the morass, their hopes for a victory were slim. The crossing had to be made in stealth and darkness and completed before the English general had time to realign his damned artillery. Surprise was the key. Surprise and speed, both of which were the mainstay of the Highlanders’ methods of warfare.
    If only there was some way to unseat the general’s confidence in his position. If only there was some way to shatter the iron-fast discipline of his officers and infantrymen, to bring about a repeat of their startling performance at Colt’s Bridge.
    Recalling the incident, Alexander’s dark eyes narrowed against a gust of smoke-laden breeze. He had been leading a small party of Camerons along the road to Edinburgh, intending only to scout the route