A Scandalous Scot Read online

  “What is?”

  “You don’t respect me.”

  A moment of silence passed. “Why would you think that?” he asked.

  “I find myself suddenly fatigued.” She moved away, lay back against the pillows and closed her eyes.

  “Am I supposed to apologize for my presence, and take myself off to the sitting room?”

  She didn’t answer him.

  “This is our bed, madam,” he said, in that insufferable tone of his.

  He left the bed. When he didn’t say anything else, she slitted her eyes open to find him removing his clothes. He smiled in her direction, which made her clench her eyes shut.

  A few moments later she heard the splash of water from the bathing chamber.

  If anyone should sleep in the sitting room, it should be her. This was his bed. No, their bed, evidently, from this point on.

  Would they grumble at each other all night long?

  She stifled her smile. Even when they disagreed, it was strangely exciting.

  When he entered the bedroom, her eyes widened.

  “I do not sleep in a nightshirt, madam. Besides, you’ve seen me naked before.”

  She only nodded, moving her gaze to the night-darkened window with some difficulty. Morgan really was beautiful.

  He moved to the other side of the bed, reached out and pulled her over.

  “You’re on my side,” he said.

  “What if that’s the side where I’m most accustomed to sleeping?”

  “I’m the husband. I choose.”

  “Now, that is autocratic,” she said. “Did Lillian simply agree to that?”

  “I didn’t sleep with Lillian. And you agreed not to bring her up again.”

  She nodded. She had.

  “Must you call me madam? It’s very off-putting.”

  “Perhaps I say it to keep reminding you that you’re married.”

  “I think it’s because you don’t remember my name,” she said. “It’s an easy name. Only one syllable. You could even make half a noise and I might think it’s my name.”

  He was laughing.

  She bit back her own smile, and frowned at him when he got into bed.

  Although she was feeling less dizzy, she was still a little weak. Was she supposed to go to sleep fully dressed?

  She had a few alternatives. Number one, she could get out of bed and undress herself. She might be a little unsteady on her feet, but it wouldn’t take long. Or she could always ring for a maid and be the Countess of Denbleigh. No, she didn’t want to do that.

  Number three, she could ask for assistance from Morgan, which might lead to other activities, and she wasn’t feeling up to it right now.

  Was a wife allowed to say no to a husband? Especially one as autocratic as Morgan?

  She might well have the opportunity to find out.

  She slid her feet out of the bed, wishing the mattress wasn’t so high. Slowly, she stood. All she had to do was unbutton her dress, remove her skirt and bodice, and place them somewhere neatly.

  Before she could even unbutton the first button, Morgan was there, standing in front of her, naked. Her eyes darted to his shoulders and stayed there, but then slid to the base of his throat and down his chest, then resolutely up to his chin.

  She must keep her gaze on his chin.

  “Is it permissible to say no to a husband?”

  He’d nearly finished with her bodice and was attempting to unfasten the button on the waistband of her skirt.

  “Are you asking me if it’s a societal rule? Or if I’m some kind of ravening beast who insists on having my husbandly rights every single night?”

  “Perhaps a bit of both,” she said.

  “I haven’t the slightest idea what the societal rule is,” he said. “As for me, I believe I have my baser needs under control. Before our marriage, I was not very ‘well-traveled.’ ”

  “I don’t believe you,” she said.

  His head jerked up and he stared at her.

  “No one who looks like you would have any difficulty coaxing a woman to your bed.”

  “I was a husband, Jean,” he said. “I was attempting—even if my wife was not—to maintain my vows.”

  “And afterward? You were divorced for some time, were you not?”

  His smile was curiously warming.

  “I’m trying to decide why you think I’ve had such success with women.”

  “If you haven’t,” she said, “I haven’t the slightest idea why not. You’re a very good lover.”

  Was he blushing? His cheekbones were oddly darker, but it could just be the shadow on the side of the bed.

  “I’m your only lover.”

  “Women just know these things,” she said airily, which only prompted his laugh.

  “You’re an innocent,” he said.

  “Of the two labels,” she said, “I prefer madam. At least it makes me sound as if I have some experience and some sense.”

  “I think you have a great deal of sense,” he said. “Except in the bedroom.”

  Her eyes widened. “Would you have preferred me to come to you educated?”

  “If anyone is going to educate you,” he said, finishing with her petticoat, “it’s going to be me.”

  “But not tonight,” she said firmly.

  His smile was challenging, but she was reassured when he nodded.

  “Do you think it’s possible I’m with child?”

  That certainly got his attention. He stepped back, his hands dropping.

  “It would be too soon, wouldn’t it?” she asked.

  He still didn’t answer.

  “Would you be happy to have a child?”

  Still, no response.

  She finished removing the rest of her garments herself, stopping only when she got to her shift. She should sleep in something. Even if he slept naked, it was no excuse for her to do so.

  She walked to the armoire where the girls had put her clothing and withdrew a nightgown. When she turned back to him, he was looking at her, his eyes following her every movement.

  “Yes,” he said slowly. “I would be happy to have a child.”

  She only nodded in return, and retreated to the bathing chamber.

  When she returned to the bedroom, the room was darkened. Morgan had extinguished the gas lamps on the wall, and the only light was from the Highland night spilling in through the open curtains.

  He was asleep, or pretending to be, for which she was grateful.

  She crawled into the bed, stood again to gather up the material of the nightgown, then sat once more. After a great deal of moving about, she got most of the material smoothed over her legs so it wasn’t one great huge lump of fabric.

  “Are you ever going to settle down?” he asked.

  “You have the most amazing voice,” she said in response. “It makes me feel all warm inside.”

  “If you intend to spend the rest of this night celibate,” he said, “it would be better if you didn’t give me any more compliments. Or tell me my voice warms you.”

  “Am I not supposed to say things like that?”

  “Not if you don’t want me to reciprocate.”

  A few minutes of silence passed between them, her curiosity building.

  “What would you say? If you reciprocated, that is?”

  He made an impatient sound.

  “I would tell you that you have the most beautiful breasts I’ve ever seen.”

  “Oh.”

  “And, if I hadn’t known you were a virgin, I would have thought you a houri.”

  She didn’t know how to take that comment at all. “Are you calling me a whore?”

  Abruptly, his hand rested on her waist and he rolled her to her side so she was facing him. He was so close she could feel his breath on her cheek.

  “Not a whore, a houri,” he said. “An alluring woman.”

  “Have you seen very many?”

  “Houris?”

  “Breasts.”

 
“My share,” he said, his tone amused. “Before my bout of celibacy, that is.”

  “And before you were a husband.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you miss it?”

  “Being a bachelor?”

  “Yes,” she said, a sibilant whisper in the darkness.

  “Ah, but look what I’ve gotten for giving it up. A ghost hunter enchantress.”

  “You shouldn’t say things like that, Morgan.”

  “Why not? You’re my wife.”

  “Your words make my stomach flutter.”

  “And you want to be celibate tonight.”

  “I believe it’s best, don’t you?” she asked.

  “I think it’s better if I don’t answer that question,” he said.

  She only saw the dark shape of him before he kissed her cheek, then her nose, then her lips. His mouth lingered and she was the one to deepen the kiss.

  “You’re very tired,” he said.

  “Am I?

  “And still feeling the effects of your faint.”

  “I think it’s you,” she said. “Whenever you kiss me I feel a little dizzy.”

  He made another sound in the back of his throat, and she wondered if she’d offended him somehow.

  In apology, she leaned forward and kissed him some more. She should say good night now. She should turn over and attempt to sleep, although how she was going to sleep with him right next to her, all naked and warm, she didn’t know.

  He pulled her closer until she was lying next to him, her head on his arm. She placed one hand against his chest, her fingers splayed, then willfully exploring.

  “Jean,” he said. “Didn’t you want to sleep?”

  She drew her hand back. “Of course,” she said, feeling chastised.

  He followed the line of her arm down to her hand, grabbing her fist and kissing her knuckles.

  “Touch me,” he said, and it wasn’t a command as much as a request.

  They weren’t going to make love, but she could certainly touch. Perhaps she could give him as much pleasure as he did when he stroked and caressed her.

  Her hand flattened against his chest again, then slowly rubbed up and down. His abdomen was flat and muscled, inciting her touch. She wanted to go farther, but she stopped her explorations to lean forward.

  Slowly, her mouth found his in the darkness. Not strictly a touch, but something she needed to do, wanted to do. Kissing Morgan was a pleasure she felt to her toes.

  “Go to sleep, Jean,” he said, and his voice sounded harsh. The stroke of his hand along her back, however, was tender.

  She rolled over. A few minutes later she turned her head. He was on his back, one arm over his head. A rigid pose, except for that arm. As if one part of him wanted to escape the boundary he’d established for himself.

  The longer she knew him, the more he charmed her down to her toes. Were husbands supposed to do that?

  She turned again, facing away from him. A moment later he moved closer. His hand touched her shoulder, and she could feel the warmth of his palm through the thin linen of her nightgown.

  His hand trailed down to her elbow, coming to rest at her wrist. Since her hand was flat against her chest, so was his now.

  His fingers moved from her wrist to the tip of her thumb. Then they were slipping into the placket of her nightgown, gently stroking her skin as if to test if she was awake.

  She moved her hand and pressed it against his, holding it in place.

  Now was the time to speak, to again let him know she was too fatigued. But surely he could tell how fast her heart was beating. Warmth was pooling between her thighs even now. How traitorous her body was. On a hierarchy of control, Morgan was given more precedence than her own will.

  When had that happened?

  When she’d first seen him, naked and proud, a statue of a man. A work of art created by God.

  She rolled over again, annoyed at the nightgown that kept getting twisted. She still held his hand, keeping it low against her waist.

  In the darkness, she addressed him. “Can you not sleep?”

  “I find it very difficult to sleep next to you,” he said, his voice carrying a surprising note of humor. “I’m like a boy around you. Should I apologize?”

  “Morgan,” she said. Just the sound of his name, like water over river stones. Like the sigh of breeze through the trees. A name belonging to Scotland.

  Here, in the quiet of the night, with just the two of them, secure and inviolate in this great wide bed, was the perfect moment to tell him, to divulge all, to confess her duplicity.

  She released his hand and placed her palm against his cheek. Would he repudiate her?

  Speak the truth, Jean. Tell him who you are. Tell him this marriage isn’t legal. Tell him you’ve brought him as much scandal, if not more, than Lillian.

  Tell him, and he’ll send you away. Tell him, and Catriona will no longer be the sister-in-law of an earl, but a castoff. Tell him, and Aunt Mary will be punished for her silence as well.

  Tell him, and the world, so peaceful and dear at this moment, will once again be a dark and terrifying place.

  Tell him, and any feelings he might have for you, couched in lust or unwilling affection, would vanish in the blink of an eye.

  Dear God, forgive her, but she didn’t want to leave him.

  One day he’d find out. Would he forgive her then? Or would he hate her for never telling him?

  The thought lasted until his mouth touched hers. She opened her lips, inhaling his breath, tasting his tongue, deepening the kiss. A short time ago she’d never been kissed, and now she sank into the mindless pleasure with only a dim protest from her conscience.

  He touched her and all she could think of was how he would make her feel. Foolish woman, to trade scruples for pleasure. To want the fleeting joy of Morgan’s loving more than the honor of her own character.

  Was it wrong to love Morgan MacCraig? To lie with him even though she knew she wasn’t truly his wife? If so, then she was truly damned.

  Jean didn’t wear scent. Otherwise, he might think himself intoxicated by it. Nor had she mesmerized him. Not in the darkness with only the faint shape of her to be seen. But he could feel her well enough, as his palm pressed against the sheer linen of her voluminous nightgown.

  What had possessed her to wear such a thing?

  Perhaps he could convince her it was easier to come naked to their bed.

  He could imagine her look if he said that. She’d pinken up, her gaze would dance around the room, and her hands would grab at her skirt, then rest at her waist, then press against her bodice.

  Little wren indeed.

  More like a secret cardinal.

  He deepened the kiss, imagined her lips growing redder even as he felt the talent of her tongue dueling with his.

  Who would have known that beneath the plain plumage lay a woman graced by God with the most majestic body he’d ever seen?

  Her legs were a league long, ending in shapely ankles and feet. Her hips were gently curved, her abdomen flat and adorned by a strangely alluring navel. He’d kissed her there, and she’d shivered and smiled. A few minutes later she wasn’t smiling, but moaning.

  The memory of her response to him made him hard whenever he thought of it. Now, having been in that condition for more than an hour, he was ripe for her plucking.

  He sat up, pulled her to him and, grabbing the placket of her nightgown, simply ripped it from her.

  “Morgan!”

  His name, but no other protest. Nor did she think to shield herself from him as he rent the garment into pieces. She simply lay there, making him wish he’d lit the lamps. All of them, in splendid debauchery, the better to see Jean.

  He’d been celibate for a fair amount of time, that’s what it was. His condition had nothing to do with the fact her breasts lured him, sight unseen, their nipples thorny against the pad of his thumb.

  After throwing the remnants of her nightgown to the floor, he leaned over he
r and gave into another temptation, a deep and drugging kiss.

  He pulled away with difficulty, pressing a kiss against the plump curve of her breast, then licking an erect nipple. Her indrawn breath might have made him smile at another time, but right at the moment he was mindless with need.

  Her body lured him to kiss it, to suckle those magnificent breasts, to stroke his fingers between her thighs and play with her tender folds. He wanted to nibble on her buttocks, roll over on his back and have her ride him until he was gasping and covered in sweat.

  He’d never been as inflamed about a woman.

  Both hands pressed against a breast, directed her nipple to his lips. His lips ringed it, licked at it, inciting another gasp from her when he sucked hard, then bit gently.

  Her hands were beating a tattoo against his shoulders, her torso turning toward him as if to give more of herself to him.

  He rolled to his back, and with less care than he’d given any woman, he pulled her onto him.

  “Are you ready?” he asked.

  She didn’t answer. The only sound was an inarticulate murmur. A protest? Damn it, not now.

  He thrust his fingers between her thighs, felt her wetness, and almost stopped to say a prayer of thanks to a merciful God. Grabbing her waist, he raised her high enough that he could enter her.

  She moaned.

  He bit back an oath, took two deep breaths, and stilled, still gripping her waist.

  What the hell had he done?

  What words could he possible offer her? He’d been little more than a rutting animal. She hadn’t wanted to make love tonight, and he’d tried to take her anyway.

  He lifted her off him, but her hands slapped at him. Her head flew back, the mass of her hair tumbling over her shoulders.

  “I’m sorry, Jean,” he said, trying to explain.

  Then his little wren shocked him by gripping his cock with both hands. Using her knees for leverage, she rose up, seating herself on him as if she’d done this forever. As if she’d always ridden him, demanding that he surrender.

  He closed his eyes and felt her clench around him. In that instant, and with no more finesse, he erupted into her.

  The wren had taken down the eagle.

  Chapter 28

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