A Highland Duchess Page 10

  She’d never considered masculine beauty but now was in awe of it.

  Her brigand was a proud Celtic warrior who might have been frightening under other circumstances. At the moment, however, he was simply magnificent.

  Emma held her hand to her throat, thumb and forefinger splayed, as if to test the beat of her blood there. The Ice Queen was not feeling appreciably frosty. Instead, her heart was beating too quickly, her lips felt too full, her breath was rapid and shallow.

  Above all, she was not afraid.

  He walked slowly toward her, giving her time to flee. In the seconds it took for him to reach her, she could have easily reconsidered. She might have claimed idiocy, or resorted to tears, begging for his understanding.

  The Ice Queen did nothing but watch him, her body heating at his approach.

  He stopped only inches from her, bent his head and kissed her again.

  Her hands explored his chest, his shoulders, and ran down his arms to measure their strength.

  He reached out and touched her skirt, gripping the material with both hands, as if he wished to tear it from her. Before she could urge caution on him, the skirt was falling to the floor, accompanied by her lone petticoat.

  As he kissed her again, she could feel the buttons of her bodice loosening. His fingers were so infinitely talented they divested her of her clothing without her assistance.

  Brigand, Scientist, and Ravisher of Women.

  Well, she certainly hadn’t needed to seduce him.

  He began to unlace her corset. The air on her bare skin should have summoned her to reason, but she only welcomed the coolness against her heated flesh. She looked down to see her corset floating to the floor to join the rest of her clothing. A moment later he bent, grabbed the hem of her chemise, and pulled it over her head.

  Naked, she stood still as his gaze raked her.

  “Emma, you’re beautiful,” he said. “More beautiful than my poor imagination made you.”

  Dare she ask how long he’d been envisioning her naked?

  The thought vanished the moment he effortlessly lifted her, taking her to his bed, sweeping the books off the counterpane. At another time, perhaps, she might have chided him for his treatment of the volumes, but now she only wanted to kiss him again. To feel him against her, and to have him touch her with his talented hands.

  A second later she got her wish. His palms were soft, his fingertips surprisingly rough, tracing a slow and sensuous path up her thighs and hips to her rib cage.

  She trailed kisses along his jaw, his throat, reveling in the taste of his skin and the prickliness of the stubble on his face. He was so completely masculine that he made her feel small and dainty and feminine beside him.

  His chest was hard, muscled, and slightly damp. When he moved from side to side, the rough hair brushed her sensitive nipples, urging them to tighten and harden.

  Her pulse jumped as he bent his head to kiss the curve of her breast. Her muscles quivered as he trailed a line of slow kisses around the nipple, then finally licked her, his tongue hot. She arched involuntarily, needing the touch of that clever, talented mouth.

  She thought she knew everything there was to know about the coming together of men and women. She thought that the education she’d received at Anthony’s entertainments would have prepared her for any encounter. This night, however, scented with roses and touched with mystery and passion, was beyond her experience.

  The light was dim, shadows pooling around the bed, sheltering them. His touch was like a miracle, chasing away any memory or thought.

  Ian kissed his way back up her throat, and down. His hand cradled her right breast as if to ready it for his mouth.

  “You’re very experienced at this,” she managed to say between gasps.

  His eyes glittered at her in the faint light.

  “I’ve thought of nothing but this since the moment I saw you,” he said, his smile utterly wicked.

  “Have you?” she whispered, surprised that she could even speak.

  His leg was warm, muscled, insistent, slipping between hers. Her heart beat against the cavern of her chest as her breath came hot and fast.

  She let him guide her, touch her, would have begged him to do more if she knew what to ask for or how. When he spread her legs, she opened for him. When his fingers touched her, she arched her hips, and when he murmured praise, she cried aloud and crested.

  Feeling her own surrender was both intoxicating and erotic.

  There were no shadows here, no fear. Even her surrender was praised rather than mocked. There was only Ian and long, slow, drugging kisses that made her feel as if she were part of him. She felt as if she could easily drift away in a mist of sensation.

  He lowered his head, his lips near her ear, murmuring in a voice rough with need, “I’m going to come into you now, Emma. I don’t think I can wait any longer.”

  Emma shuddered. A throbbing began at the exact point where his fingers lingered. She spread her legs, making room for his hips to nestle there, gasping when she felt him hard and hot against her. He reached down and guided himself into position, entering her with single-minded determination.

  His heat flowed around her, through her, into her, spearing her.

  His hands were everywhere, his hips driving her against the mattress. She was no longer Emma but someone else, undefined and unknown. What she felt was too primitive, too powerful to be called pleasure.

  “Emma,” he said between clenched teeth, his voice harsh.

  Each time he surged into her, he lifted her with him. Her body bowed in response, his rhythm demanding surrender and submission.

  Sensations she’d never considered, nor imagined, shimmered over her skin, turned her bones to liquid, made her sigh in helpless wonder. She was poised upon a precipice, held there by a thin filament, before being catapulted into the air.

  Emma felt her entire body clench, then shudder, again and again. She clung to him, wrapped her feet around his muscled calves and held him, at the mercy of a rhythm of pleasure so intense it shattered her.

  He made a sound like a growl, a low rumbling sound of pleasure or approval. She buried her face against his throat and allowed herself to cry out.

  She might die of this.

  She might die of him.

  When it was over, when every muscle trembled and every nerve quivered, she simply held him. Words would have been wrong and completely unnecessary.

  This wasn’t permanent. Nothing about this interlude was anything more than temporary. But, for now, that was enough.

  This coupling was as perfect as dawn and as endless as night.

  Twice in the next hours, he took her again. Once, she was on top, the depth of his possession almost causing him to lose control before he pleasured her.

  He loved the way she looked right at that moment, her eyes heavy lidded, her cheeks flushed with passion. She bit her bottom lip, lifted up, then lowered her hips, pleasuring herself on him.

  He took up the rhythm she’d begun, surging into her, planting himself in her so deep she made a sound in the back of her throat. He raised one hand to stroke his fingers across her face, trace the fullness of her bottom lip.

  “Did I hurt you? Emma?”

  She shook her head from side to side, her nails digging into his skin. He understood then that she was adrift in sensation, lost to anything but pleasure.

  Next, she was on all fours in the middle of the mattress, and the sight of her, naked and rosy, curved and delectable, was so arousing that Ian knew that this sight would remain with him until the day he died.

  When she lay spent, he used his mouth on her, driving her up and over again. Tears wet her face when she climaxed, and he swallowed her sobs in a kiss.

  While she slept, he lay on his side, his head propped on his
hand, and watched her. Her lips were swollen from his kisses; her cheeks were flushed.

  The rumors had portrayed her incorrectly. Yet no one had said anything about Emma’s beauty or mentioned that a look of determination appeared on her face more often than not. The rumors hadn’t mentioned the fear that showed in her eyes, either. The only thing they’d gotten right was her withdrawal from society.

  She stole his breath away.

  An odd feeling, one almost momentous in its rarity, hit him then. He wanted—needed—to remember this moment for the rest of his life. He needed to remember this overwhelming surge of lust mixed with tenderness, forever remember how weak, and paradoxically strong, he felt at this moment.

  A warning too strong to ignore.

  He’d been a damn fool for attempting to procure the mirror in the first place. He’d climbed across a roof, into a woman’s boudoir, and abducted her. To make matters worse, he’d seduced Emma, without compunction, without thought, wanting her so desperately that he would have begged if she’d not acquiesced.

  She’d shocked him with the fierceness of her passion, in the freedom of it, meeting him thrust for thrust, gasp for gasp. Yet when that hunger had been sated, the hint of it was there, threatening to return.

  Even now he wanted her.

  He was due to be married. He should be thinking of Rebecca, not Emma. He should recall Rebecca’s face, her voice, her laughter. But Rebecca had never been more than a friend. Not once had he thought of her with longing. He’d never kissed her the way he’d kissed Emma, never lusted for her.

  Marriage was something that one was expected to do. He wasn’t adverse to getting married. At least his engagement had kept his mother from making not so veiled hints about his marital status. Instead of reminding him that he was still a bachelor, she’d taken to uttering comments such as, “When you are married, Ian . . . ” or, “When I have a new daughter, Ian . . . ” as if she were counting the days.

  So was he, but not in the same manner.

  Perhaps he should seek out a church and get down on his knees and pray to the Almighty to grant him some sense. Or if that wasn’t possible, some restraint.

  Ian slid from the bed, walked into the adjoining chamber and ran the taps for the tub. Twice, he went to the doorway to see if the clanking of the boiler and the rush of water had awakened Emma, but she still slept.

  He bathed—regrettably, alone—and dressed, slipping from the room without returning to the bed. A farewell kiss wasn’t wise. Kissing Emma would lead to more.

  He needed to travel to Chavensworth today. More importantly, he needed to send Emma home before he couldn’t.

  When Emma woke, Ian was gone.

  She lay there for a few moments, taking stock first of the room, then of herself. The room was curiously empty without Ian. Her body simply felt odd. Pleased, almost, if a body could be said to have sensations separate from that of the mind. She didn’t ache anywhere. Instead, it was as if she’d just created a lovely and stirring piece of music. A symphony, created by her body, a body that had never even hinted at possessing such an ability. If she were an instrument, then perhaps Ian the Brigand was the virtuoso.

  Last night she’d wanted to be the Emma of her youth, and yet this morning she’d transcended that person and become someone entirely different. She wanted to stretch, to fall back on the bed, stare up at the ceiling and marvel about the sheer deliciousness of how she felt for a few hours.

  Emma sat up, her feet dangling over the edge of the mattress. Naked, she sat in Ian’s room and wondered how she could have gone from wanting to be a pattern biscuit to being an exotic creation—a cake steeped in brandy and saved for special occasions.

  She smiled at herself and walked into the bathing chamber. All prisoners were not cared for with such regard, but she was fortunate to have found herself a gentleman jailer. In addition to providing such luxurious accommodations, there was also a new toothbrush, some tooth powder, washcloths, and towels that felt so soft as to be clouds and not towels at all.

  Naked, she surveyed herself in the mirror. The curve of her shoulders, the shape of her breasts, all these things were familiar to her, as uniquely her as her memories. She’d had a bruise once, on her left arm, an ugly thing that had spread from elbow to shoulder. A mark left by Anthony. There, on her right breast, she’d had a bruise as well, one that Anthony made during one of his entertainments. She’d screamed that night, and he’d been pleased at the show she provided his guests.

  To Anthony, she’d been a vessel, nothing more.

  To Ian, she’d been a participant in passion.

  What she’d experienced with Ian was nothing like the games Anthony played, and as far from that debauchery as the sun was from a candle’s light.

  After taking care of her morning ablutions, she returned to the bedroom. On top of the bureau was the brush the young maid had placed there yesterday. She sat on the edge of the bed, still naked, and began to brush her hair. This brush was heavier than the one she’d used the night before. Silver backed, it looked to be an heirloom, and she couldn’t help but wonder to whom it belonged. Ian’s mother? Or his sister?

  He’d caused it to be brought here, she knew that well enough. Just as she knew that the items in the bathroom had been placed there at his request. She was being surfeited with kindness and regard from the same man who’d ravished her only hours earlier.

  No, not ravished.

  She finished brushing her hair and sat in the sunlight. Today she’d return to Chavensworth, not an errand she wanted to perform. After that she’d have to return home. Perhaps only hours from now. Regardless of how strange and delightful this interlude, she would have to return to her true life and her real existence.

  She was not simply Emma Harding. As much as she might wish it, she was someone else.

  When the door opened, she didn’t move to cover herself. Somehow, she’d known he would come to her, an answer to boredom’s prayer.

  She smiled in welcome when Ian entered and closed the door.

  “We need to leave for Chavensworth,” she said, making no move to cover herself.

  “Not now,” he said, his gaze turning to the window. Morning lit the sky, light seeping in between the closed curtains. “You’re not going anywhere for hours.” He looked at her, daring her to question him, to defy his lust, to deny that hers matched his.

  In moments his clothes were flung over the bedroom floor, his enthusiasm and haste causing her to laugh in a way she hadn’t laughed in years.

  In answer, she held out her arms to him.

  Chapter 12

  They left for Chavensworth immediately after luncheon, the distance to Anthony’s ancestral home short enough that they could return to London by end of day. As they pulled away from the square, she glanced at Ian.

  “Are you not going to blindfold me?”

  He only sent her a look, and she smothered her smile.

  The closer they came to the great house, the more Emma regretted returning. She could have sent a maid or footman with detailed instructions as to the mirror’s location. But it was all too possible that the new Duke of Herridge’s staff would not admit a maid or footman. They could not, however, bar the Duchess of Herridge from the door.

  The new Duke of Herridge, Anthony’s cousin, was not in residence. He, like Anthony, preferred to live in London. Would he use Chavensworth as a place to hold his revels? Thankfully, that was none of her concern.

  For most of the journey, Ian had been reading, a paper he explained he needed to review before writing an introduction. Something to do with the effects of decaying flesh. She’d been grateful when he didn’t go into more detail.

  The air was heavy but there was no storm on the horizon. Perhaps emotion rendered the atmosphere so still.

  She and Anthony had been married in London, at Anthony
’s request. She’d only seen Chavensworth a week later. The sheer size of the house amazed her, as did the Italianesque architecture and beauty of the structure. Over the years, however, she’d ceased recognizing its beauty, only remembering the events within its walls.

  Today was no different. As they topped the rise, Chavensworth visible at last, Emma felt herself tightening, the fluttery feeling deep inside her stomach increasing until she thought she was going to be sick. Intellectually, she knew Anthony was dead. Emotionally, he lingered on, coupled with memories of Chavensworth. This journey was a test. If she could return to Chavensworth, she could do almost anything.

  “Emma?”

  She glanced across the carriage. On Ian’s face was a look of concern. They had barely spoken since London, more her inclination than his. She didn’t know quite how to address a man who was little more than a stranger to her. Yet she’d lain in his arms, and he knew her more intimately than any man had, even Anthony.

  With Anthony, she’d done her duty, docile and receptive. With Ian, she’d been a participant in the act of love.

  Perhaps that’s why she felt so shy with him now. The person she’d been last night and this morning was not the same person she was now. Had the change been precipitated by the donning of her mourning dress?

  The Duchess of Herridge had returned. The Ice Queen lived again.

  For all her resolve to remain decorous now, she didn’t regret having been Emma for a little while. At least once in her life she’d been wild and unrestrained, not because of fear or drugs, but because she’d wanted someone. She’d desired him.

  “We’re almost there,” she said, extending one finger toward Chavensworth, gratified to see that her hand did not shake. Her trembling was inside and not visible.

  “I’ve seen it before,” he said.

  Even though it was impossibly difficult to do so, she forced her gaze to his face. Had he attended one of Anthony’s infamous entertainments, and she’d not recognized him? During those gatherings, the men had all been naked, their faces sometimes covered with grotesque masks of animals—horses, bulls, goats.