An Improper Encounter (The Macalisters Book 3)

by Erica Taylor

  What he first thought was hysterical crying was in fact laughter. With water streaming around her, Sarah was lying on her back in the stream, giggling uncontrollably.

  “Why on earth is there a stream on the other side of a fence?” she laughed. “A stream is a natural barrier for livestock or a division of property! A fence beside a stream seems unusually excessive!”

  “Have you hit your head?” William asked, kneeling beside her, feeling along her skull for tenderness or injury.

  Her face was bright with humor. “I’m lying in a stream,” she laughed. “I fell off my horse!”

  He smirked. “I saw.”

  “Of course you saw!” she exclaimed, splashing her arms into the water. “You’ve seen me today at my absolute worst! Muddied and soaked. I can honestly say, I have never!” And she was doubled over in laughter again.

  William wondered if she truly had hit her head. He offered her his hand, and she took it, pulling him down toward her, catching him off-guard, and he fell to the water beside her.

  “Now you’re in the stream too!” she giggled, splashing him.

  “Oh, now you’ve done it,” he warned, fighting the smile on his face. He rolled onto her, pulling her beneath him, and watched the fire dance though her eyes as he lowered his mouth to hers.

  A charge shot through him, shocking his lust to life, knocking his world off its axis, as he kissed her, both of them drenched from the stream but not feeling the cold of the water. His attraction to her shouldn’t have been this powerful so soon after meeting her. It didn’t make sense, and the timing was awful, but he was willing to ignore all of that for the feeling of having this woman in his arms.

  “William,” she said, her voice hoarse with desire. “Get me out of this stream.”

  “As you wish, my lady,” he said. He lifted her into his arms, took a few steps onto the dry grass, and set her down gently. Both horses grazed lazily a few paces away, and Abe was sprawled out in the grass near the stream.

  His mouth found hers, and all thought of their surroundings was lost. He peeled off his coat and tossed it aside, wishing he could do the same for Sarah’s riding habit; but he knew she would be averse to lying in the meadow in just her shift, not matter the amount of desire pulsing through her. But perhaps she would permit just her coat . . .

  His lips moved over hers, tasting and teasing, nipping and sucking, his efforts much too eager for the restraint he needed to possess. Curling her hands into his wet hair, her nails scratched along his scalp, sending shivers down to his toes.

  Working quickly, he flipped each button from its loop down the front of Sarah’s habit jacket, eager to free more of her for his access. Tugging on one wrist and then the other, he managed to free her arms from the wet garment and set it aside.

  “Are you cold?” he asked as a shiver raced through her, the skin along her arms pricking up in gooseflesh, the wet fabric of her shirt almost translucent.

  She shook her head. “Not a bit.”

  Leaning down, he pressed a kiss to the hollow where her neck met her shoulder, and then another, following the line of her pulse up to just below her ear. “Sarah, tell me to stop, and I won’t touch you,” he said against her neck.

  “Do you want to touch me?” she asked.

  He nodded, not trusting his voice.

  “Then don’t stop.”

  Her shirt’s white fabric did little to hide anything beneath, and William had a riveting view of Sarah’s round, pink nipples, tight peaks pushing against the wet cloth. Bending his head, he sucked on one through her shirt, his hand caressing the other breast.

  A breathless moan escaped from Sarah’s mouth, and she arched her back, her breast pressing into his mouth. Her responsiveness almost made him rethink his position on bedding mysterious women. Besides, they were no longer in a coaching inn, and try as he might, she no longer seemed a stranger.

  Twisting one taut bud between his thumb and forefinger, he kissed her again, deeply, his tongue entwined with hers, wanting to give this proper widow a taste of pleasure and intoxicating darkness.

  Her hand reached down to stroke him over his trousers, but he pulled her hand away.

  “Let me,” she purred, but he shook his head.

  “I respect that you might have done something like this before,” he told her, pinning her hand with his free one. “But let me do this for you. You’ve nothing to prove here, Sarah.”

  His hand moved under her skirt, tracing a finger up the length of her leg, from ankle to knee to top of her thigh; she seemed to understand what he was after—what he was asking permission for.

  “Let me do this for you, Sarah,” he whispered against her skin.

  Her gaze was stormy as she regarded him, but eventually she nodded. Relaxing her hips, her knees drifted apart, granting him unbridled access.

  “This, Sarah, is far from your worst,” William said, nipping on her ear, the tips of his fingers trailing through her soft curls. He slipped between her secret folds, one finger cascading in and out, her entrance slick and wet, waiting for him, ready for all the things they should not be doing in a meadow. He stroked long and slow, his tongue in her mouth matching his finger inside her, a perfect torment of sensation, of pleasure.

  “Will,” Sarah whispered, breathless and throaty. Wicked. Wanton. How wonderful she was in this moment, all unrestrained and unrefined. Beautiful and needy, her eyes clouded in pleasure, distracted and disconnected from the tight control she usually held over herself, her words, her actions. Uninhibited Sarah was a sight to behold; he never wanted to look away.

  He slid a second finger inside her, his thumb paying tribute to her small nub of pleasure.

  “I far prefer you befuddled . . . flummoxed.” He emphasized each word with a kiss along her neck. “Squirming in a mud puddle rather than laced up so tight you cannot breathe. I quite like the improper sound you make as you moan my name, the way your lips look swollen from my kisses.”

  “Yes,” she whispered, her voice lost to the tremors of sensation building. “Will, don’t stop.”

  “I wouldn’t dare,” he whispered, taking her breast in his mouth again, tasting her through her wet blouse. She strained against him, wanting more, asking without words.

  The bulge beneath his trousers begged to be engaged, but now was not the time. First, he wanted to taste her, learn what made little breathless moans escape from the back of her throat, what made her breath catch. This time wasn’t for him, this was for her pleasure, her release. How long had it been since she’d found such freedom, absolution, deliverance? With all her prim and proper airs, the woman was a tightly coiled knot of respectability and control. For this one moment, he wanted her to curb her innate dispassionate disguise and let her be free.

  William bit gently onto her nipple, and Sarah gasped, her muscles clenching tightly around his fingers as her climaxed surrounded him. Her blue eyes blended with the blue sky overhead, and her breath came in short bursts as she cascaded across the meadow, to the heavens and back again.

  Slowly, he removed his fingers and replaced the length of her gown to a more modest positioning. Watching her come had been almost as rewarding as if he had climaxed himself. It was definitely something he wanted to experience with her again.

  “Better?” he asked, rising to his feet. He found her jacket and his own, helping her to her feet.

  Smiling sheepishly, Sarah nodded. “That . . .” Her voice trailed off as her gaze crashed into his, and he could see the unspent passions still bubbling beneath the surface. He could have her here, he realized, in the meadow, naked and writhing beneath him, and she would not object.

  She leaned up on her toes and pressed her lips to his, a promise of more. But what he wanted from her was impractical; it was illogical. More beyond being in her bed, more beyond their time together en route to London. More was a fairytale.

  All he had was now.

  It took Sarah longer to regain her wits co
mpletely than she wanted to admit to William. On shaky legs, he helped her onto Athena before regaining his own mount, leading them out of the meadow—at a walk—and back onto the road.

  William made her feel again, in a way she had not allowed herself to in a long time. In years. The last time she had felt such things, it had turned into a nightmare.

  Waves of warmth washed over her as she thought back to what had just happened, how deep his fingers had been inside her, how warm his lips had been on her breast.

  Goodness, what had she been thinking? In a meadow, no less!

  A low rumbling in the distance drew her eyes skyward, and she frowned in concern at the storm clouds forming and billowing overhead.

  “Your carriage should not be too far ahead of us,” William stated, taking note of the same. “We might be able to outrun it.” As he glanced back at her, she realized what he meant. They had a chance to outrun the storm—if she was willing to push Athena to a run.

  She was still soaked through from laying in the stream, but her backside was no longer caked in mud. She agreed with a nod, hoping to not disgrace herself again.

  William whistled for Abe, who swiftly rejoined his master, and without further word, William nudged his heels into Fergus, and the horse leapt into a canter. Athena followed with little provocation.

  It seemed as though his plan was going to work, and for a time they managed to stay ahead of the storm. Soon Sarah’s hands were aching from clenching the reins so tightly, and her bottom was numb from the hard saddle but she remained dry—or at least, no wetter than she was already.

  Then fat rain drops fell onto Sarah’s head, and she glanced again at the sky in worry.

  “There,” came William’s voice as thunder crashed overhead, his voice gruff from exertion. She looked to where he was pointing and saw her carriage parked beside a set of trees. She silently thanked Mthunzi’s forethought in waiting for them.

  A bolt of lightning lit up the sky, immediately followed by the accompanying crack of thunder and the skies opened into heavy downpour as they came within a few yards of the shelter of the carriage. Fergus slowed, and Athena did the same, and without ceremony they came to a halt.

  Leaving William to deal with the horses, Sarah quickly pulled a gown from her trunk and ducked into the carriage. She did her best to change out of her wet habit, but her excessive skirts made the mission difficult. Finally, she handed her soiled garments out to Mthunzi, who was waiting by the door, and allowed William inside.

  He barreled into the carriage, a change of clothing wadded in his hands, though badly protected from the rain. Without a word to her he smirked and began to undo the buttons on his waistcoat.

  Alarmed, she asked, “You don’t mean to change inside the coach?” Apparently he did.

  “If it offends you, shut your eyes,” he replied, removing his sodden clothing. “But it makes no sense to put on dry clothing while standing outside in the rain.”

  Sarah refused to shut her eyes like a priggish miss, but she did turn her head away from the sight of him as he pulled his wet shirt over his head.

  “Some women would find this romantic,” he quipped. “Caught up in a rainstorm, handsome lad without a shirt on . . .”

  “You are not as handsome as you think yourself, sir,” Sarah snapped, turning to regard him. It was a mistake, as he hadn’t yet pulled on his dry shirt, and he sat smirking at her, shirtless. Her eyes skimmed over the sight, all thought in her head scattering. He was strong-muscled with lightly colored hairs scattered across his broad chest. His skin looked so soft, she ached to reach out and touch him . . .

  Turning away, she did her best to fight the rising blush on her neck and cheeks.

  “Why, anything could happen to us cooped up in this steamy carriage,” he continued, his voice muffled as he pulled the dry shirt over his head.

  “The carriage is not—” but she stopped, realizing the windows had in fact fogged up.

  “I’ve going to switch out my trousers now. Don’t look if you don’t want to be bothered beyond control.”

  His voice was laughing, but Sarah shut her eyes, ignoring the cowardly feeling creeping down her spine. She couldn’t look, would not look, knowing his most private parts could be bare before her in her carriage.

  Though, why not? she asked herself. Had she really become so prudish? She, who once ran barefoot races with her brothers, or giggled while she and Lydia sketched the nude sculptures at the museums. When had she stopped being any fun?

  She wanted to shake off her widow weeds. Even if she couldn’t shed the actual clothes, she could be rid of the dark cloud that hovered over her life.

  Peeking one eye open—really, he was too delicious, she couldn’t help herself—a small smile crept across her lips, enjoying the sight of the nice, round shape of his bum as he struggled to shed his wet trousers. She promptly averted her gaze and turned her head away.

  After a few more minutes and sounds of struggling, where she was tempted to ask if he needed help, he announced he had completed the feat, and it was safe to open her eyes.

  “I am happy to see you’ve managed to properly attire yourself,” she remarked, taking in his simple brown trousers, white shirt, and dark blue jacket. “Although, you’re missing a cravat.”

  Running his hands through his hair, trying to dry it as best he could from the rain, he fixed her with a smirk, his blue eyes gleaming. “For now you’ll have to manage with my bare neck, my dear.” She watched as he handed his wet clothing out to Mthunzi. “But before we stop again, I promise to don one.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I suspect it will be some time before we reach a coaching inn,” William continued with a glance out the window. “It’s nearly two in the afternoon, but the dark skies would fool you into believing it was much later. The farmer who stopped while you were changing in the carriage said the nearest inn is a three-hour drive, in the best driving conditions.” Traveling in such weather was not ideal, but neither was sitting on the side of the road for what could possibly be hours until the rains let up.

  “Where is Abe?” she asked as the carriage rocked into motion.

  “With your coachman,” William explained. “Trust me, it’s better to not be cooped up with a wet dog.”

  “In the meantime, you should tell me about yourself.”

  “I’m boring,” he replied with a shrug.

  Sarah frowned. “No one is boring. Everyone has a story. Tell me yours.”

  “My name is William, I am three and thirty years old. I have blond hair and my mother’s sparkling blue eyes. What more would you like to know?”

  Scowling, Sarah did her best to ignore her twitching lips, trying not to smile at his teasing.

  “What do you do?” she asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, you must do something with your time,” she replied. “You must have some way of living or making a living.”

  “I could be a lordly fellow and do nothing at all with my time,” he replied with a shrug.

  Sarah found that doubtful. “Are you a lord?”

  He paused for half a breath, and she wondered what he would tell her. She still felt he hadn’t been entirely truthful with her, even if he did insist he was just Mr. William Gordon. “No, I am not a lord.”

  “Do you have a trade?” she asked.

  “In a fashion, I suppose,” he answered cryptically but did not elaborate.

  Sarah pursed her lips at his avoided answer. “Then I do not have to worry about leaving you at a coaching inn without means to get to London?”

  “I’m not a wealthy man by any means, Sarah, much unlike you,” he replied, glancing around the interiors of the carriage, “judging from your carriage, coachman, and quality of horse.”

  Crossing her arms across her chest, Sarah’s chin tipped up in defense. “My wealth is nothing to turn your nose up at. I will have you know,” she scolded, “there is nothing wrong w
ith being wealthy.”

  “I never said there was,” he replied. “Did you do anything to acquire it?”

  Sarah paused before answering. Could she truly claim any of her belongings, her wealth, as her own? She hadn’t done much for it but be born and be married. “I was born into a wealthy family and was then married to a wealthy man. My inheritance upon my father, mother, and husband’s death gave me a wealth I can very comfortably live on for the rest of my days. My wealth is my reward for surviving.”

  “Surviving is not the same as living, Sarah,” he added.

  Shrugging, she turned her head away. She survived the events that took her brother and father, and later her mother, essentially burdening her with raising her siblings. She survived her brutal husband and her horrible marriage. Surviving was all she seemed proficient at. Living, it seemed, was something she was working on.

  “I don’t know if I could survive nine siblings,” William continued, and she was grateful for his steering the conversation away from such serious topics. “Tell me more about them. Is all of your family in London?”

  “Not usually,” she replied. “Andrew and Clara live in West Sussex; Susana will live with her new husband once they marry. Bennett is at sea—he’s the naval captain I mentioned. Luke is on a diplomatic mission in France, whatever that means. Norah lives with Andrew and Clara mostly, unless she is visiting with cousins or friends. Nick is at Oxford, Charlie is at Eton, and Mara attends Miss Katherine’s Finishing School for Young Ladies. We are all convening in London for a masquerade ball, except for Ben and Luke.” She shot him a curious look. “Have you been to London before?”

  Sarah watched him as he took his time with a response. It was a simple question, but he seemed to be struggling with how to answer.

  “A long time ago,” he replied with a sigh. “I haven’t ventured this far south in years.”

  “But you are not Scottish,” she observed. He had enough highs and lows of the Scottish inflection, the tapping of his r’s and dropping some of the ends of his words to indicate he’d spent a great deal of time in Scotland, likely during part of his childhood for his speech to be affected. And yet… “Your accent is not strong enough to have learned to speak in Scotland, which leads me to believe you were born and partially raised elsewhere.”