Giselle was wet and sweet, her lips cool as he moved his mouth against hers. Her nails dug in harder to his shoulders at first, and then she softened in his arms. It seemed she enjoyed his attentions because she began to move her mouth against his, hesitantly, clumsily. Lyall pushed his hand into her hair and took hold of it tight, as he claimed her mouth greedily. The smooth slide of flesh on flesh as their bodies moved against one another, the tang of the soap in Giselle’s hair, the swell of those pert breasts pressed to his chest, was too much to bear.
Giselle’s breath was coming in little gasps into his mouth, between kisses, making him fearfully aroused. He knew he shouldn’t, but his hands started to roam all over her wet body. Her breasts were a delight to him, slippery and smooth under his hands. The cold water had tightened her nipples to hard little buds and, more so, when his fingers found them. It excited him, and Lyall hoped she would not be alarmed by his erection, which was pulsing, hard as rock, up against her soft belly.
‘Lyall, stop, we should not,’ she gasped, as his mouth went to her neck. But she was not pushing him away, she was digging her fingers into his hair.
‘Don’t you like it?’ he breathed, taking her mouth with his again and hoping to God she did.
‘Yes, yes, I do, but it is wrong.’
‘Aye, that’s why it feels so good,’ said Lyall. He slid his hand over her bottom, round and slick as a ripe apple, and lifted her leg around his back. It would be so easy to push inside her and rip away her virtue away. Lyall longed to take his pleasure of Giselle’s slippery, warm body and bring himself to a release.
Should he take advantage of her innocence and her sudden trust in him? What if she did want him, this gentle, sweet girl? Didn’t he deserve some reward after all the horror and brutality of these last years? Any other man would have indulged his pleasure, why shouldn’t he, for he was no bloody monk, with a shaved head and a shrivelled cock? Out here, there was no one to stop him.
His manhood was poised at the cleft between her legs, his tongue in her mouth, their bodies almost one, entwined in what Lyall hoped was mutual pleasure. The fervour of her kiss suggested she would be slick and ripe for him. There need not be much pain if he was gentle with her.
A terrifying clap of thunder sounded, right overhead, stopping him in his tracks. Lyall looked up to see dark clouds churning around a black sky. The storm had blown in and, with it, the soft pitter-patter of rain on the loch. The sky flashed bright with lightning over the tops of the trees. The horse started to snort and whinny and pull at its tether.
It was as if God was reaching down from the heavens, and admonishing him for his lust, forcing him to find his conscience.
Gently, he pushed Giselle away. ‘We cannot stay here, it is dangerous with the lightening. We must seek shelter. I will make safe the horse, and you can follow and put your clothes on.
‘Lyall?’ She looked despairing, as she crossed her arms across her breasts, shivering in the, now, black water.
‘Make haste, Giselle,’ he shouted, already ploughing through the water to the shore, putting as much distance between them as possible. It was either that or push her up against a rock and take her like an animal, storm or no storm. And if he did, would he be seducing Giselle de Villers, or merely punishing the English, pouring out his hate for them into her belly? If it came to that, he would be no better than Banan MacGregor.
As he struggled to pull his wet legs into his braies, the jingle of a bridle made him freeze in alarm. Lyall grabbed his sword.
Men on horseback, about ten of them, emerged from the trees, too many to vanquish on his own.
They were in trouble.