To Love a Scottish Lord Page 29

  When the search party found him, Thompson was dead, looking so utterly peaceful that he might have fallen asleep in his bed in Surrey.

  Hamish found himself now uttering a profound and fervent silent plea for forgiveness to Thompson. In his vision, the other man opened his eyes, looking at him directly as if he saw the future Hamish. Then he simply smiled and disappeared.

  Suddenly, that time at Castle Gloom seemed foolish, the act of a man mired in pity for himself. Up until this moment, he’d not realized the extent of his self absorption. In addition to learning to forgive the Atavasi, he needed to forgive himself. If he could.

  Perhaps the way he lived his life from this point forward was the only way he could make reparations for his past actions. He could be a better son to his parents, a better brother. In time, he would be a good father, the pattern for his behavior already laid down by his own father, Ian MacRae. Above all, he would be a good husband.

  Those attributes might help to balance out his sins.

  How odd that his past evaporated and his future began in that instant. How strange, too, that in this shadowed and chilled carriage, Hamish experienced the first hope and exhilaration he’d felt in years.

  Mary stirred restlessly in her sleep, and he reached out with his hand to smooth the hair back from her cheek. Her hand reached up and cupped his knee, patting him gently in her sleep as if he were a pillow.

  He shouldn’t have felt a surge of lust. The position reminded him of other times, when she teased him with her mouth and hands. Predictably, he grew hard, a not uncommon occurrence around Mary.

  Burrowing his right hand beneath her skirts, he allowed his fingers to trail up one stockinged leg and flatten against her hip. Beneath the shift her skin was warm, enticing. A moment later, she sighed again, moving a little. He let his fingers smooth against her delectably curved bottom. Her hand cupped his knee, slid down his calf and then upward again. Not the actions of a sleeper, unaware.

  Glancing down, he caught the edge of her moonlight-dusted smile.

  He moved his hand slowly up one thigh, to slip between her legs. Three fingers found her heat, gently pressing against soft folds even now moistening.

  Her face was a monochrome in the moonlight. Passing beneath the trees gave the night a lacy pattern. Her fingers brushed against her own lips, and she moved again, separating her legs to give him greater access.

  He slipped a finger into her slowly, penetrating her with great delicacy. She made a sound in the back of her throat, one of welcome or yearning, he thought. He knew she was no longer asleep, but experiencing the feeling of gentle arousal. Tenderly, he pressed his remaining fingers against her, feeling the rhythm of the wheels against the surface of the road, and wondering if the sensation added to her pleasure.

  She pressed back against his hand, answering the question. He removed his finger slowly, and her movement stopped. A moment later, he inserted his finger again, mimicking his possession of her in the actions of his hand.

  He wanted to tongue her nipples, kiss her neck, and stroke that spot just above her knees where she was especially sensitive. But he restrained himself. Anyone, seeing them, would think they presented an idyllic picture. She, innocent and demure, asleep on his lap. He, awake and watchful, the guardian of her rest. No one would know, to look at them, that his finger was buried deep inside her or that she was heated and trembling.

  Her fingernail scratched against his breeches, and he smiled.

  “You’ve always been a demanding lover,” he said tenderly.

  She blinked open her eyes, gave him a soft and sleepy smile. “I was asleep,” she said. “Dreaming of you.”

  “Were you?” He moved his finger just the slightest bit, and she closed her eyes again, making a sound deep in her throat.

  He moved the tip of one finger slightly forward, stroking it up and then down through her swollen folds. When he went faster, she shivered. Slower, and she made that sound again. He deliberately lengthened the movement, and when her hand cupped his knee, her wrist half shielding her face from view, he deepened the penetration.

  There was no hurry. No one to see them, no one to know. Feeling her was an aphrodisiac, touching her was a wish granted. He could stroke her for hours, keeping himself on a pinnacle of need and want, making the times he was satiated all the more wondrous.

  Or would he ever get his fill of her?

  She moaned softly, arching her hips to the side, and pressing against his hand. He closed his eyes as he felt her erupt around him, tiny little tremors milking his finger and making a mockery of his restraint.

  He hoped to God that they’d reach an inn soon.

  Mary didn’t look at him when she exited the coach. She couldn’t. Her body was still trembling inside, and her clothes felt rough, abrasive to her skin. Without truly trying, he could make her forget circumstances and place. He always had been able to do so.

  How delightful and delicious to be married to such a conjurer.

  She waited while he made arrangements with the owner, and followed a young girl up the stairs.

  “It’s our best room,” she was saying. “I put the bed warmer between the sheets just an hour ago.” She opened the door. “I put a little bouquet of flowers there,” she said, pointing to the circular table on the other side of the room.

  Mary glanced to where she indicated. Sitting in a milk vase in the middle of the table was a profusion of greenery, small flowers branching off a network of tiny vines, looking like clusters of stars.

  “It’s too late in the year for flowers, of course, but the white blooms have a scent of their own, something spicy that tickles the nose.”

  The chamber was large, roughly the same size as the tavern downstairs.

  To the left, dominating one wall, was a large red brick fireplace. To the right was a wardrobe and screened-off area. Sitting in the middle of the room, in front of the fire, was a very large, very imposing four-poster bed.

  It would be the first time that they had slept together in such a magnificent bed.

  Suddenly, Hamish was there, thanking the maid and closing the door behind her.

  She tried to remember her wedding night with Gordon, and then recalled that he’d taken a nap early in the evening. But this husband was not elderly. Not at all.

  Neither would this marriage be anything like her union with Gordon.

  Removing her cloak, she hung it on the peg by the door. She moved to Hamish’s side in front of the armoire and watched him hang up his coat, then his vest before unfastening the buttons of his shirt. Slowly, she removed her long jacket, then her scarf, hanging them both beside his shirt. A marriage of their clothing.

  She couldn’t help but glance at him out of the corner of her eye. The tattoos on his body seemed particularly vibrant tonight, as if the flickering candlelight in the wall sconces gave life to Shiva.

  They’d not spoken since entering the room, but the silence seemed charged with emotion.

  Turning, she placed her hands between the base of his throat and his navel, feeling the ripple of muscle beneath the skin.

  “You’re beautiful,” she said softly.

  He frowned at her, and she smiled at his expression.

  “I’m grotesque, but I thank you for your generosity.”

  “Silly man, you aren’t the least ugly, and the tattoos aren’t deforming. They’re evidence of what they tried to do to you. Being in prison gave me a taste of what you endured. It was less than a week, Hamish, and yet it nearly drove me mad. But I kept telling myself that if you had been strong enough, I could at least try to be brave.”

  He stood there now in the flickering candlelight, strong, virile, and handsome. Despite what he said, he was beautiful to her.

  Her other hand came up to cover a nipple. She stroked it gently, and the nipple constricted until it was tight and hard. She did the same with the other nipple, and watched in fascination at his response to her.

  “Am I that responsive to your touch?” she
asked him, already knowing the answer. He only smiled.

  “Thank you for rescuing me,” she said.

  “Thank you for marrying me,” he said.

  She smiled. Unfastening his trousers, she plunged both hands inside, hungry for the feel of him.

  An indrawn breath was his response when she found him hard. She stroked the length of his erection, her attention focused on him growing at her touch.

  “It’s like magic,” she said, fascinated. “It always gets large so quickly.”

  “Any time you’re around.”

  Her smile deepened at this evidence of his tact. It wouldn’t do for him to admit that he was like this with any other woman.

  She didn’t think that she could tolerate the idea of his loving anyone else. Pushing the thought away before her imagination could conjure up too many details, she grasped him with both hands. “You’re mine now.”

  “Am I a possession, then, Mary?”

  “Oh yes,” she said, the answer breathless and trembling.

  She pushed his trousers down until they were at his hips, uncaring when he took over his own undressing. He removed his boots, then stepped free of his clothing. She’d not yet relinquished his erection, as if it were a prize she’d captured.

  Even now, wetness pooled in secret crevices as her body rushed to welcome him. He was naked, and she was ready. But there were too many layers of clothing still between them.

  She sat on the floor in a cloud of billowing skirts, reaching up to pull him down to her.

  With a quizzical expression, he sat. “We’ve a bed, Mary,” he said, but his smile didn’t reach his eyes. His gaze was as hungry as she felt.

  “Later,” she said, pushing him down to the floor. She was grateful that a rug lay beneath him since she wouldn’t want him to get splinters on that beautiful backside of his. Once he was prone, she stepped over him, lowering herself onto his body. Her bodice was still fastened and her skirts covered him nearly to his chin, billowing out behind her to reach his knees and beyond. But inside, he was hard and hot and filling her.

  She leaned back the tiniest bit, to more fully savor the sensation. Streaks of pleasure traveled from where they joined to the tips of her fingers and toes. Slowly, she began to unbutton her bodice. Hamish’s hand was helping her, and she brushed it away, taking more time at the task than he would have. He arched up beneath her impatiently, and she bent forward to press her fingers to his lips.

  “No,” she said softly, chastisement in a word. “Slowly.”

  “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

  She only smiled in response.

  He was swelling, lengthening inside her, and suddenly her fingers lost the ability to unfasten her buttons. She dropped her hands to her sides, and for long moments sat motionless, her bodice half opened and her eyes closed. Twice, she bit her lip rather than make a sound. Nothing must disturb this mindless descent into sheer, abandoned pleasure.

  Hamish opened her bodice, tearing her shift. She heard the sound of the cloth ripping, but didn’t open her eyes. Finally, his hand was on her, and she sighed aloud as he lifted first one breast, then the other from their tight restraint. They sat high above her stays, plumped into position by the constraint of them. He pressed his thumb and forefinger around a nipple until she opened her eyes.

  A spear of desire shot through her at the sight of his tanned hand against her white breast. He plucked at a nipple, elongating it, trapping it between two of his fingers.

  “You’ve beautiful breasts.”

  “Thank you.” Ever polite. “You’ve a beautiful erection.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “Indeed,” she said, smiling at him.

  He lifted his hips below her again, and this time she didn’t try to restrain him, but rode down the feeling, closing her eyes at this sudden intense sensation. She wanted to experience that delicious sensation she’d felt only a few moments earlier. Or draw out the pleasure until she felt nothing else, until the memory of this feeling would always be with her. She’d close her eyes in the midst of a mundane chore and pull it to her, or before sleep and feel herself drowning in it.

  “No,” he said.

  She glanced down at him.

  “No,” he repeated. “We’ll use the bed.”

  “Must we?” She smiled at him, feeling deliciously wicked. He was deep inside her, and they were conversing as decorously as if they were in a parlor. “I don’t want to move.”

  “You must.”

  “Must I?” She closed her eyes, ignoring him. “I’ve missed you,” she told him. “I’ve missed this. I really don’t want to move.”

  “If you don’t, I won’t pleasure you.”

  She opened her eyes, staring down into his flushed face. “You won’t be able to help yourself,” she said kindly.

  “Would you like to wager on it?”

  His eyes sparkled at her. His cheeks deepened in color, and his mouth thinned in determination. This was the man who’d faced down the Atavasi, who’d walked out of a desert. A lover with the soul of a lion.

  “Should I care?” she asked, perfectly selfish at that moment. “I can have a great deal of enjoyment without your participation.”

  He smiled, a particularly leonine expression. “I won’t move, then.”

  “That’s an interesting threat, Hamish,” she said softly. She rose just slightly and then lowered herself on him. The feeling was wondrous. “Perhaps if you stay just as you are?” she suggested.

  His hand was suddenly there below her thigh, raising her. She slipped out of him, and was catapulted in a flurry of skirts to the floor. He stood, his erection throbbing at her, and pulled her to her feet, leading her to the bed.

  She didn’t have a chance to protest before he’d pushed her gently backward. She lay there, outwardly clothed, with him naked and masculine and very virile standing in front of her.

  The bed was high, coming to Hamish’s waist, just the right elevation. He gathered up her skirts and spread her legs.

  “Put your legs around my waist,” he said. She should refuse him, but he was very convincing, and she felt so very empty at the moment.

  An instant later, she wrapped her legs around him, and he was slipping into her again, feeling harder and larger than he ever had before.

  She gasped, being deliciously invaded, and enervated. Suddenly, it was too much effort to hold on to his shoulders. Her grasp weakened, and her arms fell back on the bed. He surged into her, and she wondered if she could die of pleasure.

  “We’ve never done this before,” she said breathlessly. She tightened her legs around him, hung on as his strokes lengthened.

  “We’ve never had a real bed before.”

  “You should have told me what we were missing,” she said, finding the energy to curl her arms around his neck and bury her face in his shoulder.

  “I wanted to show you.”

  Oh, and he did. Again, and again. She could do this forever. And feel this forever. She heard nothing but an indrawn gasp, and then suddenly her mind went blank and dark. Her body stilled, then shattered, trembling inside. The moment, silent, and terrifying, was transformed into one of pure joy that marked itself in her consciousness forever.

  She welcomed him as he lay on top of her, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. He turned his head and kissed her, and she smiled against his lips.

  “Such a wonderful bed,” she said, her eyes closed.

  “You should see what I can do with a bath,” he teased, nuzzling her neck.

  “Have they one here?” She peered over his shoulder, wondering what was behind the screen.

  “In a moment,” he said, laughing.

  Her life in Inverness had been content, a warm sort of existence she’d made for herself, filled with routine and purpose. These moments, however filled with passion and laughter, were the ones she would always remember. Although she was escaping for her life, without money or possessions, she’d never felt more alive, happy, or in l
ove.

  Chapter 25

  M r. Grant entered the house stiffly, closing the door softly behind him. He limped to his favorite chair in the parlor, smiling his thanks to Elspeth, who hurriedly arranged the ottoman for him.

  Brendan stood and greeted the older man, waiting patiently for him to be settled.

  “I believe, daughter,” Mr. Grant said finally, “that Brendan would like to speak with me.”

  Elspeth sent a flushed look in Brendan’s direction and hurriedly excused herself.

  “She’ll be lonely without Mary,” Mr. Grant said. There was an expectant expression on his face as he waited for Brendan to speak.

  The timing could be worse, Brendan supposed. Of course, he could wait until he returned from Gilmuir, but that would leave him uncertain and wondering. Better to get a thing over with. He cleared his throat and straightened his shoulders, trying not to notice Mr. Grant’s smile.

  “I come from a very old family, Mr. Grant, with a very proud name. I’ve made my fortune at sea, but I’ve been thinking, for some time, of settling down.”

  “In Inverness?” the older man asked, sipping his forbidden whiskey. His gout was worsening, but Mr. Grant refused to abstain.

  “Yes,” Brendan said.

  “Have you ever considered the distillery business, Brendan? It’s an old and honorable trade.”

  “Perhaps I should,” Brendan said, beginning to feel a little less panicked. The collar of his jacket felt as if it were strangling him. And his knees were knocking.

  “I’d be pleased to have a junior partner. It’ll be several years before Jack is old enough to join me, and none of my sons-in-law have expressed an interest in whiskey. Sometimes, I think they’re not quite Scots.”

  Brendan smiled, thinking that he would have liked the older man even if he had never met Elspeth.

  “Would you be as pleased to have me call upon your daughter?” he asked, summoning his courage. He stood with his legs braced apart, clasping his sweaty hands behind him.