Free At The Laird's Command (Sword and Thistle Book 3) by Laurel Adams

an ocean of bitter resistance to this.  
    I couldn’t let anyone see it. That’s what harlots were meant to do.  
    Hide their feelings, and pretend at pleasure, was it not?
    He appraised me carefully, as if sensing the artifice. “I want you to find pleasure in his body as you do with mine.”
    That I cannot do , said the rebel within. But I would pretend, so I nodded.
    I must have been convincing, because the laird then insisted, “And I want him to find pleasure in you, too, lass. Great pleasure. Very great pleasure.”
    An arrow of doubt pierced me. I could pretend at my own pleasure to obey the laird, but Ian Macrae’s pleasure was outside of my control. I didn’t even think Ian liked me. And I wasn’t sure I liked him either.  
    Maybe that would make it easier. To think only of bodies and blushes and base needs. Animal pleasures. If it could be only that…
    “Undress then,” the laird commanded. “Wear only your pearls.”

Chapter Six

    THE LAIRD

    John watched Heather undress, slowly, with a stately dignity that a crofter’s girl should not be capable of. But she had found some way of mantling herself in her shame, proud as any queen. He loved her fiercely for that. That and the way she looked in his mother’s pearls, as they draped down between her upturned breasts, trailing a shimmering line to the fur of her mound.  
    She was a Venus.
    “Let down your hair,” he said, his voice husky to his own ears.
    He was aroused, but must not allow himself to become more so. Not yet.
    Thankfully, a knock came at the chamber door.
    “Answer it,” was the laird’s command.
    Heather’s violet eyes met his, still a bit teary, and he held her gaze. Was it challenge he saw there? No. It was something else. She was steeling herself. She understood perfectly well what he wanted from her; it was something he had always wanted. Her shame. And so, on bare feet, without a stitch of clothes on her beautiful nude body, she went to the door and opened it wide.
    On the other side of it, of course, was Ian Macrae.
    Ian’s mouth fell slightly open at the sight of Heather’s nudity; there was a slight intake of breath. A perceptible widening of the eyes. A much more noticeable sweep of his gaze down to her breasts before he jerked his head up and got his bearings and looked past her shoulder to the man he’d come to see. Swallowing, he said, “You asked for me, laird.”
    “Come,” the laird said, with a quick summoning motion. “Sit with me before the fire.”  
    It was a bitter cold night, with a howling wind, and a full moon that shone in through the windows. As Ian made his way to his seat, the laird hoped to warm them all and make them forget about the world outside. “Pour us some wine, lass.”
    It would be watered wine, unfortunately. The laird didn’t indulge himself when his people were going without. But he doubted Ian would mind the quality of refreshment; he was too busy trying to keep his gaze anywhere but on the beautiful backside of the girl who went to fetch his drink.
    “Davy’s gone missing,” Ian finally said, fist clenching at his side.
    Damn . The laird hadn’t intended for Davy’s absence to be noticed so soon, so he tried to keep his expression even, for his own sake, if not Heather’s. “What can you mean, missing?”
    “I mean he didn’t report to his station on the wall,” Ian said. “Nor to the guardroom. Nor to anywhere he’s been expected. Malcolm doesn’t know where he is, and I’ve searched the castle. He’s gone , I tell you. Which can only mean one thing.”
    The laird swallowed, avoiding meeting his kinsman’s eyes. “What’s that?”
    “Davy was the traitor in our midsts. He’s gone over to the enemy.”
    Knowing that wasn’t true—and not wanting it to be said in Heather’s presence—the laird hastened to disagree. “Not Davy. There is another explanation.”
    “Well, I’d like to hear it!” Ian cried, nearly knocking the goblet from Heather’s hand