Cain tweaked his thumb over the tight pearl in the center, plucking gently at it. She raised on her toes to rub herself against his jack, which strained to be released from his kilt. His lips moved from hers to trace a path along her jaw and down her neck, and he heard her heavy exhale. She gasped softly as his mouth closed around her nipple, and he swirled his tongue across it, sucking it between his lips. His teeth grazed it, and then he soothed it with a kiss. Ella arched her back with the exquisite torture. She was everything desirable, and he wanted to bring her pleasure greater than anything she could even imagine. It was his goal, his wish, and his most ardent prayer.

She pulled back, and he lifted his head. Ella stood bare to the waist, her stays catching there with her smock. Straight slender shoulders and arms framed her pale breasts. At that moment, Cain wanted nothing more out of life than to bury his face in their fragrant valley and listen to her sighs of pleasure mixed with the beat of her heart.

Her fingers plucked quickly at her ties until the whole heavy costume slid down her form. He held his breath as inch by inch, her glorious curves were exposed to his sight, her gown and smock sliding past her hips to land in a puddle on the floor.

He walked up to her, not touching her but using his eyes to caress her. “Àlainn,” he said, his voice raw with hunger. Lowering down before her, he untied her boots. Touching only her fingers, he helped her step out of them. Free of the confines of her costume, Ella stood before him, completely bare and exquisite. “Och, Ella,” he said. “Ye are a goddess before me.”

He let the fire burn in his gaze as he met hers, and her damp lips opened again as if she needed more air or his air. Stepping in to her, he spanned her back with his hands. She stiffened as his fingers touched the raised marks of scars there. He leaned in, kissing her as he tamped down the rage that rose up instantly within him. Her father was a bastard to beat this clever, brave woman, his own daughter. People whispered about Sinclairs being monsters when Alec Sutherland was worse than one.

Ella lifted fingers to his forehead, rubbing there as if lines of worry had etched into his skin. “They do not pain me any longer,” she whispered. “And my tormentor is rotting in Hell. Do not bring him into this room with your anger.” She worked the muscles of his shoulders, and he realized that he had stiffened, too. “Make me forget everything except this between us,” she whispered, her words like magic, clearing his mind of everything but the beauty of Ella.