Lady Guinevere And The Rogue With A Brogue (Scottish Scoundrels: Ensnared Hearts Book 1)

by Julie Johnstone

  It was the most perfect thing he could have said. She pressed her open lips to his, and gasped into his mouth when his hands swooped under her legs to lift her off her feet. In a breath, he had settled her on her bed on her back. He came over her on his knees, the insides of his thighs caging her at the hips, and he stared down at her before splaying his hands across her belly.

  “The things I want to do to ye, Guin—”

  “Do them,” she interrupted.

  “Ye’re certain?” he growled.

  She nodded and grinned. “We’ll be quiet.”

  He leaned forward, his hands coming to either side of her shoulders, and he gave her such a wicked grin that her heart skipped several beats. “Do not ever tell a Scot that ye’ll be able to stay quiet when he beds ye, mo ghraidh. Ye have just thrown a challenge.”

  “What?” she gasped, but his response was not with words.

  He slipped his knees backward until he was between her thighs. He deftly parted them, and then he did the unspeakable. He lowered himself, looking up only long enough to offer a smug smile. “I’ll show ye how a Scot loves a woman.”

  And good heavens, he did so with long tender strokes of his tongue to her core and to a spot she had not known she possessed. It was a revelation. It was magnificent, and it would surely be the death or discovery of them both if he did not cease tormenting her. He caressed and teased until her blood felt as if it would boil right out of her veins and her heart would explode through her rib cage.

  “Asher,” she hissed, knotting her hands in his hair, her legs trembling so terribly she could not even attempt to close them to him to get him to rise up. “Asher, please, please. I am going—” She had to pause to pant with a wave of need. “I am going to scream.”

  A few more flicks of his devilish tongue and he rose once more. But his fingers found her throbbing core and continued the torment. She thrashed her head and gripped the coverlet as one of his hands came under her bottom to lift her. He slid into her, filling her, stretching her, propelling her over some brink. There was a pinch of pain, and then he stilled. Leaning forward, he captured her mouth as he moved ever so slowly inside her.

  Heat began to build with each press of his pelvis that hit that wonderful spot. Her body was sweaty, as was his, and she stared at him in awe, his muscles glistening in the moonlight, his face locked in concentration. The tension in her built and built, and she moved her hands to his bottom, feeling his muscles flex in perfect harmony when he thrust.

  The coil inside her wound tighter, demanding release, and then everything within her clenched around him. She felt his muscles clench, as well, as warm waves swept through her. She moaned, but he captured the sound with his mouth, kissing her, taking her need in, taking her in, making her his. Both his hands came under her bottom, and he lifted her still higher. He drove fully into her, throbbing and filling her with his seed. She welcomed him as involuntary tremors went through her and a languidness unlike any she had ever known overcame her.

  Still locked together, he wrapped his arms around her and rolled them over so she was on top of him. She pressed her cheek to his chest, and the thundering of his heart resounded in her ear. They lay there for a long moment, silent, their heavy breathing mingling in the room, and then he pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “I told ye that ye would not be able to stay quiet.”

  She smiled at the boast and the pride in his voice. She looked up, and their eyes locked. “Next time,” she said, allowing a bit of arrogance to infuse her own tone, “I will be the one to make you groan.”

  His lips curled back in a smile that promised many exquisite nights to come. “I look forward to that, mo ghraidh.”

  “Now will you tell me what that means?” she asked with a yawn.

  “Not quite yet, lass. When we are wed, aye?”

  “But that will be months from now,” she protested.

  “Nay,” he said, the word ringing with finality.

  “Mama will have palpitations if you try to rush the wedding.”

  “Then yer father should have smelling salts on hand for yer Mama. We will wed in a week.”

  “A week!” she exclaimed, both pleased and worried by the prospect. “That’s not possible. We must—”

  He kissed her then, long and sweet, and she forgot all her protests, the rogue.

  “I’ll make it possible,” he said. “One of the benefits of being a duke, I would think.”

  She nodded, because he was right about that.

  “I’ll secure a special license, and we’ll wed in a week’s time.”

  She worried her lip back and forth, resting her chin on her hands as she looked at him. “It’s not that I do not want to wed you in a week’s time, but Mama will be miserable about it. I know she will somehow make it some fault of mine. I can hear her now: Guinevere,” she said, affecting her mother’s shrill tone, “this could have been the wedding of the Season, but you mucked it up in your usual style.”

  “Is yer mother why ye hate the word but?” he asked angrily.

  She bit her lip, half wishing she had not been so honest. Maybe he would see the faults in her unusual personality that her mother saw. Drat! He might not have thought them faults if she had just kept quiet. “I, well—”

  “Guin,” he said gently, pressing a kiss to her forehead and then her nose, “I don’t care what yer mother thinks, nor should ye. One week,” he said firmly. “I’ll not wait any longer than that to have ye as my wife.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  He still stroked Guinevere’s shoulder well after she had fallen asleep. He stared at her peaceful face, listening to the reassuring sound of her soft inhalations and exhalations, and cradled her as she curled against him. His fingers bent protectively against her skin.

  She was his. She would be his wife. She wanted him, had given herself to him. She belonged to him.

  Mo ghraidh… my love.

  The words had slipped out of his mouth. He didn’t regret them—they were true—but he couldn’t say it like she needed it. Not yet.

  Her confession about her mother came to his mind. Damn the small-minded woman. She would never be able to understand just how intelligent and different Guinevere was, not lacking. She was more than a beautiful face or a fancy dress. And she was a damn sight more than the dowry that came with her hand or a means to save his company.

  He stroked her silky hair, thinking about his father, Kilgore, Elizabeth, and all the lies. Kilgore had pursued Guinevere and kissed her on the terrace that night with the intent of seduction, and she had pushed Kilgore away. His sodding pride. It was a damn curse.

  Elizabeth had manipulated him. Of course she had. She had needed a husband for the child she had been carrying, and he had been an easy mark, the fool that he was. Had Elizabeth planned for them to be caught in the library that night, too? He lay there trying to recall if she had seemed shocked when they were discovered. He thought so, but hell, he honestly couldn’t remember. He would not be surprised if she had planned it, though it was astonishing to think she had possessed the wherewithal to think of such an elaborate scheme.

  Guinevere mumbled in her sleep, and he stilled, listening. “Unfortunate circumstances. Unfortunate. Unfortunate.”

  Damn. He needed to learn to choose his words with more care, especially where Guinevere was involved.

  “Kilgore’s complicated,” she muttered.

  Sodding bastard. Why was Kilgore in her dreams?

  He inhaled deeply, her flowery scent surrounding him, her body pressed warmly against his. He would not be jealous. She had chosen him, had given herself to him, was wedding him. She had explained what had happened on the terrace that night years before and tonight, and that was where he wanted to leave his doubts about her and Kilgore—in the past. He had a bone-deep certainty that those doubts would destroy them if he didn’t bury them.

  “I forbid it!” Guinevere’s mother shrieked in the early evening of the next day.

  Guinevere stood beside A
sher, who had just come to call, in the parlor. He looked especially fine this evening in dark breeches, top-boots, and a dark coat cut to fit his broad chest to perfection. So much so that she had trouble pulling her gaze away from her soon-to-be husband. She ran a smoothing hand down her green silk skirts, anticipation for their wedding rising within her. Ever since Asher had woken her that morning with a kiss and a promise to return this afternoon to tell her parents their plan, the only thing she had been able to think about was what had occurred between them the night before and all that had been revealed.

  “You cannot wed in a week!” her mother cried.

  Guinevere loved how unperturbed Asher looked by her mother, and she especially loved when he said, “I assure ye, Lady Fairfax, we can. I arranged it this morning with the Archbishop—”

  “But we did not consent,” her mother groaned.

  “I did,” Guinevere’s father said, speaking up.

  Mama gasped. “What!? Fairfax, how could you?”

  “Simple, my dear,” he replied with a surprising air of nonchalance. “Carrington called on me very early this morning.”

  Her father’s gaze landed on Guinevere, and she squirmed, feeling utterly certain he somehow knew about last night. But that was impossible. Asher had successfully slipped away unnoticed. He must have returned while she was still abed to call on her father.

  Her father smiled gently at her, and she exhaled as he focused on her mother once more. “He made a case for a special license, and I saw no reason not to consent.”

  “But it will make the scandal worse!” Mama cried. “What will people think?”

  Guinevere winced. She knew exactly what her mother meant. People would think that she was enceinte, and the fact that she well could be made a blush heat her cheeks.

  “They will think,” Asher said, surprising her when he spoke, “that I am besotted by yer daughter and do not wish to be parted from her any longer than necessary.”

  Guinevere glanced at Asher, and their gazes collided. So much happiness filled her that she almost did not trust it. She did not think she would truly feel they were going to get the future she had longed dreamed of until they were actually wed.

  “Oh. Well… Oh,” Mama said, at a rare loss for words. But then her face brightened and she nodded, giving Guinevere a scarce seen look of approval. “Well, of course you are besotted with our daughter! She is lovely! She has had many offers of marriage, so you can be assured that you have won a prize.”

  It was all Guinevere could do to hold in her groan of embarrassment.

  “I am honored she has agreed to wed me,” Asher assured her mother with just the right hint of smoothness to make her mother preen. “I am curious, though… How many offers of marriage did Lady Guinevere receive?”

  “Four,” her mother supplied before Guinevere could steer the conversation in a different direction.

  Exasperation touched her mother’s features for a moment, as it had each time Guinevere had turned down a marriage offer. Four offers, yes, but what her mother did not say, what she did not seem to care about, was they had been four offers from four men who had barely known her, nor had they cared to. They cared only that she had a sizeable dowry and was pleasant to look upon. None of those men had given her even a passing glance when she had first made her debut, when she had had yet to transform from girlhood awkwardness to womanhood.

  Guinevere slanted her father a beseeching look to intervene, but he shrugged helplessly, which was an utter sham. Since yesterday, she had come to realize that her father was perfectly content to allow her mother to rule him, but if he needed to take control, he could. He simply, for the most part, did not feel the need. For a long time, Guinevere had mistakenly thought that her mother was the stronger force of the two and bent Father to her will. But Papa allowed Mama to do so, which made him the stronger personality.

  “Was there anything in particular wrong with these other men, do you think?” Asher asked her mother, a smile tugging at his lips. It warmed Guinevere’s heart that he was kind enough to indulge her mother, but she truly did not want to stand about, allowing Mama to hash her past over in front of Asher. Lord only knew what—

  “Well, they were not Kilgore, I suppose,” Mama said with a titter.

  Guinevere heard herself gasp. “Mama!”

  Asher’s gaze went hard for a breath and then perfectly emotionless. She wasn’t sure which look concerned her more.

  Her mother had the good sense to look regretful, and then she said, “I was, of course, simply goading you, Your Grace. It was not well-done of me.”

  “I’d say it was perfectly done of ye.” Asher’s tone was easy but his posture stiff.

  Knots formed in Guinevere’s stomach. He was vexed. Of course, he was! She was partly to blame. She had made it seem, at several turns, that she and Kilgore had a tendre for each other, and Asher had admitted it was Kilgore’s stolen kiss that had started the terrible chain of events that had become their lives. And Kilgore’s behavior had not helped matters.

  “I will leave ye ladies to planning the events for the wedding day,” Asher said.

  Guinevere’s stomach dropped. “You are not going, are you?”

  His gaze came to hers, a little warmer yet still guarded and slightly troubled. “I’m afraid I must. I received word this morning of a fire at one of my distilleries. I need to travel to Scotland to check on the damage, discover what started it, and ensure my employees are all well. I’ll be gone for the week.”

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, trying to keep the disappointment out of her voice. He had enough to be concerned with without adding her to it. Instead, she focused on the business that she knew so little about. “I’d love to learn more about your business.”

  Asher slanted her a pleased look tinged with pride. “It’s the largest distillery enterprise in Scotland.”

  Guinevere had not heard that in the whispers of the ton. The gossip had been more focused on the scandalous idea that the heir to a dukedom was working like a commoner. She grinned at the news that Asher had become so successful in his own right.

  “Oh my heaven!” her mother exclaimed, pressing a dramatic hand to her bosom. “Must we stand here and talk about the fact that you work and own distilleries that produce illegal whisky?”

  Guinevere winced as Asher’s lips pressed together in obvious annoyance. “I assure ye, my distilleries are legal. Ye have no need to vex yerself. I am, in fact, one of the suppliers for the legally consumed whisky ye find here in England.”

  “I’m certain,” her mother said haughtily, “I would not look for such a thing. I know not a soul who drinks whisky. It is not the done thing. Men of the ton drink brandy, port, and other, finer liquors.”

  “Mama!” Guinevere scolded, embarrassed and angry.

  “Georgette, I drink whisky,” her father announced to Guinevere’s shock. She looked sharply at her mother, who appeared to be close to swooning.

  “You certainly do not,” her mother said faintly. “I would know such a thing.”

  “I do,” her father replied, his tone unbending. “And you would only know ‘such a thing’ if I told you, which I am now doing.”

  “This is beyond bearing!” her mother exclaimed, fanning herself and collapsing into the chair behind her. She glanced up at Asher. “You must not talk of your distilleries amongst the ton.”

  “Mama, he shall if he wishes,” Guinevere said, irritated with her mother.

  “But if he does so, people will only gossip more! Dukes do not work, let alone own a distillery that produces whisky.”

  “I own four distilleries,” Asher corrected, to which Guinevere’s mother groaned.

  “Mama, have you forgotten that Carrington is half-Scot?” Guinevere bit out.

  “I—”

  “Never mind,” Guinevere rushed, realizing she had given her mother the opportunity to offend Asher again.

  “Surely, you will sell this business now that you have properly assumed your role as
duke?” her mother asked, her voice managing to sound both hopeful and disdainful at once.

  “I surely will not,” Asher replied pleasantly. “It’s taken me seven grueling years to build this business.”

  Guinevere bit her lip. She knew nothing of how hard it must have been for him, but she wanted to know everything. Every small detail. Every triumph. Every failure. “I’d love to go to Scotland and visit one of your distilleries,” she told him, wanting to convey to him that she was proud of him and thought it wonderful that he’d made a successful business.

  His gaze came to her soft as a caress and stirred blazing heat within her. “I intend to take ye. I have, in fact, this day bestowed upon ye one of my distilleries as part of our marriage contract.”

  “What?” Guinevere asked, astonished.

  “Can you do that?” her mother cried out, clearly dismayed.

  “He can, and he has,” her father answered. “We worked through the marriage contracts this morning. Guinevere, upon wedding Carrington, you will be the one who inherits his largest distillery, Lochmond, if he should die, so for all intents and purposes, you are the owner.”

  “That’s a lovely name for a business!” Guinevere exclaimed.

  “Bite your tongue, child,” her mother said.

  Guinevere happily ignored her as she stared at Asher. “Where is Lochmond located?”

  He grinned. “On the River Clyde, just outside of Glasgow.”

  “Papa,” Guinevere asked, “have you ever tasted the whisky from one of Carrington’s distilleries?”

  “Please,” her mother moaned, “let us not talk of whisky anymore. Let us forget the distilleries and concentrate on more acceptable pastimes. Carrington, do you hunt?” her mother asked, her voice high and hopeful while distraught.

  “Guinevere, to your question,” her father said, ignoring her mother’s plea, “I was actually introduced to whisky by Carrington’s father.”

  “What?” Asher slanted a disbelieving look at her father.