Sold to a Laird Page 25

  “Douglas, you really have to start wearing clothes more often.”

  “Really?”

  He allowed her to stare for several moments, his only response a growing smile and something else growing as well.

  “Come here, Sarah,” he said gently.

  She shook her head. It was better if she was on the other side of the room.

  He began to walk toward her, and she would have been wiser if she’d gone back out to the terrace and closed the door between them. But he was so beautiful and she was so transfixed by that hard and jutting part of him.

  “How can you think I’d want to dissolve our marriage?”

  She looked up at him. “I thought you didn’t want to couple with me anymore. That what happened in Scotland wouldn’t happen at Chavensworth.”

  “Where in hell did you get that idea? I want you every hour of every day, Sarah.”

  Her eyes widened.

  “Shall I show you what I learned as an adventurer?”

  “From all your women?” She frowned at him.

  “From the pleasure palaces,” he said. “From books and drawings.”

  A wiser woman would have held up her hand to forestall him, or left the room, perhaps. But a wiser woman would have had to be blind not to be captivated by the sight of Douglas, naked. Douglas, with what made him male rigid and reddened, and altogether fascinating.

  She turned again, forced herself to breathe deeply.

  He moved to stand behind her, so close that she could feel his instrument against the curve of her bottom. His hands slid around her waist and pressed against her stomach, pulling her back against him as if he wanted to impale her.

  He bent his head and whispered in her ear. “My mouth could bring you indescribable delight, Lady Sarah.”

  She shivered.

  “Shall I show you?”

  “You already have,” she said.

  “I don’t mean on your beautiful breasts,” he said, stroking his thumb against a nipple, barely covered by the sheer fabric of her nightgown.

  “Douglas.”

  “It’s all right, Sarah. Passion isn’t forbidden.”

  She sighed. She’d never be able to explain. Even if it had been forbidden, she wouldn’t have been able to prevent it. Being around him was magic. She trembled inside. She quaked with it.

  She turned and reached up, pulled his head down for a kiss.

  When she pulled away, she was breathless, and delighted to see that Douglas was as well. She walked toward her bed, dropping her wrapper on the floor. She’d never had the freedom to be as naked as he. She’d never had the confidence or the courage. Tonight, with the lamplight spreading through the room with a golden glow, she would simply have to be brave.

  She grabbed her nightgown with both hands and pulled it over her head.

  He didn’t say a word as his gaze traveled over her body. She straightened her shoulders, kept her hands flat against her thighs, then without a word, turned and climbed onto her bed.

  He was suddenly there beside her.

  She laughed, excitement racing through her blood.

  They were tumbling among the sheets, tangled in heat and desperation. Turning, hands sliding over skin, palms curving over shoulders, elbows, buttocks, knees. Her fingernails gently trailed across the skin of his back, and he responded by curving over her.

  She was the one to deepen their next kiss, tasting the contours of his lips, rubbing her palms over the bristles on his cheeks.

  His skin was hot, and she warmed herself on it, exposing herself to the air when her own heat threatened to engulf her. She rose onto her knees, brushing her hair back from her shoulders, swooping down on him like a siren of need and want, nipping at his chest, the muscles of his arms, hearing his laughter and knowing it was in praise of her boldness.

  She was mad for him.

  She sat astride him, pressing both hands against his instrument, holding it possessively against her palms, She loved the feel of it, soft, and hot and hard. Her fingers measured its length, burrowed in the nest of hair at its base, and palmed the sac there.

  Even when he rose and strained against her, even when he made a low, groaning sound in the back of his throat, she wouldn’t let him inside. Instead, she placed both hands on the mattress behind her and arched back, exposing herself to the cooling air, to his hands, to his glittering gaze. He touched her everywhere, fingers trailing along her neck, thumbs brushing against her nipples, and there, where he sought out her swollen folds, playing amid the dampness, causing delight with his talented fingers.

  She reached for him again, needing the touch of his manhood like it was a lodestone for her hands. The head at the end of this magical instrument wept for her, and when she circled it with tender, fascinated fingers, he emitted a low, mirthless chuckle. Raising himself again, he offered himself to her. A pagan sacrifice, and one that she received with exultation.

  He was hers.

  He would not leave her. He couldn’t. She’d lost her mother, and possibly her identity. She wouldn’t lose him as well.

  Suddenly, she was on her back and he was atop her, his knee at the apex of her thighs. She widened her legs in invitation, and he smiled at her, the lamplight giving him the appearance of a reiver, a Scottish invader.

  She placed one hand on his cheek and the other behind his neck, pulling his head down for a kiss.

  She hurt for him, a pulse beating deep in her core that could only be satisfied by him. Her body was damp, swollen. She needed him in her.

  Her fingers trembled, her breath was too tight, and her heart raced. She gripped him, but instead of being reticent and ladylike, instead of being restrained, she gripped his shoulders and pulled him to her.

  “Douglas,” she whispered, in a voice too demanding, too harsh.

  Now.

  He was suddenly in her, blocking out every thought but how he felt, how he moved. She held him by his hips, setting him in motion, the rhythm hard, strong, and fluid. He pulled one of her hands free, then the other, holding them clasped with each of his so that they were joined in all ways, in all places.

  She was making little sounds, but she didn’t care.

  He slid in and out of her, increasing his pace, pushing against the mattress as if to bury himself in her. She held on, wrapped her feet around his calves, shuddering when the pleasure overwhelmed her. A moment, an instant, a lifetime later, she watched as his head tilted back, his eyes closed, and the muscles of his throat pulled taut. His face, that wonderfully handsome face of his, stiffened and held, then relaxed in lines of pleasure.

  How had she lived without passion? How had she ever lived without him?

  Chapter 28

  Rain had fallen throughout the night, pinging against the oak leaves, falling in a gurgling melody through the downspouts of Chavensworth’s roof. A few times during the night, Sarah awakened from the sound and curled against Douglas. More than once, she’d registered that his hand was flat on her naked hip, his fingers splayed as if he claimed her in his sleep. When she awoke the last time, it was to find that it was morning, and Douglas was once again gone from their bed.

  She rang for Florie, pulled out the dress she wanted to wear, and began to comb the tangles from her hair. Dressing took less time than usual because she resolutely refused to look in the mirror. She didn’t want to see that her eyes were bloodshot, and dark circles below them made the rest of her face look much paler than usual.

  She probably looked, in the words of one very snippy young thing during her first season—like an overly powdered ghoul. Of course, the girl hadn’t been speaking of her at the time, but of a famous widow who, after discovering that her beauty was enhanced by widow’s weeds, insisted upon dressing all in black even as she rouged her lips and cheeks.

  “Just do what you can with it, Florie,” she said of her hair, not caring a whit.

  Finally, she glanced at herself in the mirror, only to see a stranger staring back at her.

  Her eyes we
re wide and not red at all. Her cheeks were the palest shade of pink, and her lips, well, they looked well kissed. A little swollen, perhaps, but the effect was charming. Her complexion wasn’t ashen but creamy, and her hair looked glossy and lovely in the way Florie arranged it.

  How very odd. Passion had made her beautiful.

  She tied on a serviceable apron—Florie delivered a fresh one every morning—grabbed her journal, and began her rounds.

  Passing the wing that housed the Duke’s Suite, she turned and glanced down the corridor, but only to ensure that the carpet was in good repair and the candelabra had been recently dusted. If she happened to look toward the double doors, it was only to verify that the brass handles had been polished.

  She was not checking to see if Douglas was inside; she knew only too well where he was.

  Diamonds captured his attention the way Douglas captured hers.

  All the way to the steward’s office, she made little mental notes of things to discuss with Mr. Beecher before realizing that she’d not done so since before her mother’s death.

  Awareness came, as slowly as her footsteps at first, then in a rushing flood. Two weeks had passed. Two weeks, and in all that time, Chavensworth had subsisted without her. No servants, anxious for direction, had camped at her door. No one whispered to Florie, “When will she awake? We need answers.” No one seemed to know or notice that she’d returned from Scotland, and yet Chavensworth was being tended to, cared for, and seemed to run like a well-maintained clock.

  She clutched the journal close to her chest with both arms and walked the rest of the way to the steward’s office, trying to determine whether it was pride she felt or some sort of offense.

  As she knocked on Jeremy Beecher’s door, she decided that she would not make up her mind yet, and when he called out, she stepped into the room, a determined smile on her face.

  Jeremy stood, extending a large ledger out to her.

  “Good morning, Lady Sarah. How was your journey to Scotland?”

  “Interesting,” she said, and hoped that would end Scotland as a topic of conversation. She put her book down on the table and took Mr. Beecher’s ledger with both hands.

  Mr. Beecher had excellent instincts. He no longer referred to Scotland, but what he did say surprised her.

  “I’ve done the quarterly inventory, Lady Sarah. And, as you’ll see from the ledger, so has Mrs. Williams. I’ve received the report on the home farms, and that’s included for your perusal as well.”

  “You did all this when I was in Scotland?” she asked, amazed.

  “Indeed, Lady Sarah. With the help of my assistant.”

  She frowned. “Your assistant?”

  He nodded. “I’ve promoted one of the footmen, Lady Sarah. A smart lad with a head on his shoulders. He ciphers well, and can read better than the others.”

  As she was digesting this startling information, he continued. “It was Mr. Eston’s decree, Lady Sarah, and I must admit I was doubtful at first. But it’s proven to be a godsend.”

  “Has it?”

  “Mr. Eston made it very clear that we were responsible for our areas of expertise, and that you were to be consulted only when Chavensworth was in jeopardy.”

  “He did?”

  He nodded.

  “May I tell you, Lady Sarah, that your trust in us has had a remarkable salubrious effect. And the rekindling of the Henley Gift is a magnanimous gesture.”

  “It is?”

  Dear heavens, was she doomed to ask insipid questions for the whole of this conversation?

  “Mr. Eston has given me to understand that the Gift would be reinstated,” he said, a small frown marring the shiny radiance of his features.

  “Of course,” she said.

  Smiling brightly at Jeremy Beecher, she picked up her journal, took one step back, and managed to remember her manners.

  “Thank you, Mr. Beecher. If I have any further questions, I shall ring for you.”

  “Of course, Lady Sarah,” he said, half bowing.

  Sarah left his chamber, intent on escape. Instead of retracing her steps, she descended the steps hidden by the false wall and entered the portico that led to the garden.

  Before her mother had become ill, Morna used to spend her mornings here, tending to the roses she’d loved so much. Sarah sat on the bench near the multicolored blooms, feeling the sun on her head. She couldn’t remember the names of the roses, but she could almost hear her mother’s voice. “You must always care for those who cannot care for themselves, dearling. The strong must protect the weak.”

  Who had protected Morna? For that matter, about whom was she speaking? Had she considered herself strong? Strong enough to ignore the family that had reached out to her?

  So many things Sarah had thought were real were only real when viewed from a certain angle. If she stepped back, or to the side, another picture emerged. Her memories of her mother, how necessary she was to Chavensworth, even Sarah’s marriage, her own propriety—each of these had changed in the last weeks. She felt as if her foundations had been shaken, as if everything she knew wasn’t certain anymore.

  She stood and began walking, nodding to the occasional gardener. Once, Chavensworth had employed a staff of twelve to see to the grounds, but in the last year, they could only afford four. Each man was overworked, and there were times when she regretted the necessity for economy, especially now, when the boxwoods needed trimming, and the rosebushes needed to be replanted.

  She clutched her journal tighter. People weren’t always what they seemed. Look at her mother, for example. She would never have known, for all the Duchess of Herridge’s propriety, that she had been with child outside of marriage. Although it was not a situation all that uncommon, it didn’t seem right that the oh-so-proper Morna would be one of those women. But Scotland had taught her that she hadn’t known her mother as well as she’d thought.

  Suddenly, she realized that there was nothing she needed to do. She had no duties in the next several hours. No appointments needed to be kept. For the first time in a very long time, she had the freedom to do as she wished, and she owed that to Douglas.

  She left the garden, heading for her favorite place at Chavensworth, the tall and spreading oak atop a small knoll. Here, her earliest memories of her mother had been formed. She could remember countless afternoons resting against the trunk, listening while her mother read from Ivanhoe or another of her favorite books.

  For years, she’d trailed after her mother as Morna had attended to Chavensworth. Sarah had her own set of keys, for unimportant locks. Their conversation had been about necessary things: candles and lamp oil, bootblack and livery, the proper recipes for furniture wax and silver polish. They had rarely spoken of Morna’s past or, for that matter, Sarah’s future. While it was also true that her mother had made her childhood magical with tales of knights and princesses and hoary dragons, it struck Sarah as she sat there that her mother had told stories more than she had ever truly conversed.

  What secrets had she hidden with such skill?

  The truth was that she would never know.

  Sarah settled her skirts, spreading them out in an almost perfect circle around her. She opened the journal and, after retrieving the pencil from her pocket, began to write.

  When she finished, she sat back against the old trunk, thinking of Douglas.

  What had life been like for him as child growing up in Perth? For that matter, what kind of man leaves his home and changes himself to that degree? Had he expected her to repudiate him? Instead, she could only admire him.

  Her father would be horrified.

  How strange that she’d not thought of her father until now. Even though the marriage was his decision, and due to his manipulation, he would not be pleased that his only child was married to a man who’d once been poor and destitute. But was the Duke of Herridge even her father?

  There was one person at Chavensworth to whom she could tell the story of Morna and Michael, and up until now
she’d not done so. One person would listen and give her advice if she asked. Besides, she needed to thank him for funding the Henley Gift.

  Smiling, she stood and went in search of her husband.

  The morning was a bright, sunny one, with not a cloud in the sky. Nothing would interfere with the progress of curing the diamonds.

  Douglas caught a glimpse of Sarah as he turned to put more wood into the fire. He watched her walk along the graveled path, her skirts swinging.

  “Good morning,” he said pleasantly, spearing the shovel into the ground, clasping both hands on the end of the handle and leaning against it.

  She looked straight at him, then smiled slowly, sending heat straight to his groin. She took in his appearance from the top of his head to his toes. The fact that he’d shed his shirt earlier hadn’t meant much to him at the time, but it did now. He was—conveniently—halfway to undressed.

  “We have servants, Mr. Eston,” she said, her tone very measured. There was, however, a twinkle in her eye, and her voice trembled slightly.

  “Not for this, we don’t,” he said. “No one works on my diamonds.”

  She nodded, fixing her gaze on his chest. Suddenly, most of the heat he was experiencing was being generated by his body and not the furnace.

  “Can Alano not assist you?”

  “Do you think I need assistance, Sarah?” He almost flexed his muscles, then, but restrained himself.

  “I should think you would want help,” she said.

  Her gaze had not moved from his chest. She was really making this difficult.

  “Blame Mrs. Williams,” he said.

  At that, her gaze lifted to his face. “Mrs. Williams?” she asked, clearly confused.

  “I believe Alano is smitten,” Douglas said. “At least that’s my thought after seeing them together this morning.”

  “Mrs. Williams?”

  “Do you object?” Surely she wasn’t that much of a snob. In fact, he hadn’t thought her a snob at all despite the fact she was the daughter of the Duke of Herridge, a man very much impressed with his status in life. Look at how easily she’d taken the news of Douglas’s past. “Alano is a good man.”