Given the course of her past relationships, so much arguing and aggravation should have pulled them apart already. Yet here she was. Ready for another round. Why?
Because they made up so nicely?
It was more than that. There was an attractive, primal masculinity in his consideration and solicitude. He was a man who cared for the women in his life, and she liked being one of them.
“You know, I think I might take your sketches and show Hannah, if you don’t mind.” Hazel took the stack of paper and slipped away with a wink.
“She’s not very subtle,” Brontë said, stretching her arms over her head.
“I don’t mind. There’s something I wanted to show you anyway.” He tweaked her chin and offered a hand to help her up from the chaise. “Come.”
The command didn’t chafe at all. She let him pull her up and slipped her arm through his with familiar ease. Depending how you looked at it, this whole escort business was merely another excuse to be close to someone without actually hugging on them.
They strolled at a leisurely pace through the crowds dotting the lawn toward the east wing of the house. Tris opened the door and followed her through after she passed him then took her hand in his. The instant they entered the gallery, her eyes were drawn up as they were each time she came into the room.
“This really is the most magnificent space.”
“Aye, I recalled you saying so and decided I needed to prove you wrong.”
“Because proving me wrong is so much fun?” She smirked at him as he pulled her to a set of double doors at the far end of the gallery.
“Absolutely.”
His smile carried her down a long hall between the morning room and drawing room she hadn’t ventured down yet. It extended past the manor with windows on both sides and ended at a pair of glass and iron doors. With a bow, he swept them open. “Voilà.”
“What...? Oh!” Wonder seized her as he towed her across the threshold. Similar to the squared tower in the central portion of the mansion that housed the main staircase, buttresses between each of the high-arching sets of windows curved up to form a quadripartite vaulted ceiling, like those often seen in gothic cathedrals. Except here, not only were the windows crafted of stained glass, the many bowed domes of the ceiling were as well. The noonday sun beamed through them splashing a kaleidoscope of color across the room. “Oh, my God! It’s amazing!”
The windows weren’t the sole source of dazzling color. The room was filled with flowering plants and fruit trees. Pots and planters covering most of the painted tile floor.
“My aunt calls it the Winter Garden. I thought you might enjoy it.”
Brontë stepped forward, tracing the spiked petal of a stargazer lily in full bloom. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”
“Nor have I ever seen anyone quite like you.”
She shook her head at his romantic nonsense and wandered farther into the room, absorbing the vibrant sights and fragrant scents. Warmth and humidity closed in on her the further she explored, until she felt like she was in the tropics. Exploring the interior of Jamaica maybe. Brontë didn’t know, she’d never been. The thought was pure fantasy. As was this place. The splash of water reached her ears, like a playful tune and she hurried toward it. A massive marble fountain sat at the far end of the room, centered beneath a massive arched window depicting fairies in a lush garden.
“It’s from A Midsummer’s Night Dream,” Tris said from behind her, pointing over her shoulder. “The one with the purple flower is Puck. He makes a juice from the flower that makes people fall in love with the next person they see.”
“Oberon’s revenge,” Brontë said. “’The course of true love never did run smooth.’”
“You know Shakespeare?”
From years of going to and working in the theater, her familiarity was in depth to say the least. She shrugged. “Doesn’t everyone to some extent? And the fountain?”
The marble sculpture bordered on erotic. Naked lovers entwined together with nary a strategically placed fig leaf to cover anything. Not that the male had been endowed with much to conceal.
“Demetrius and Helena,” he told her.
She clicked her tongue sadly. “Poor Helena.”
Tris fell silent for a moment, then his huff of amusement brushed her neck.
“Ye think he failed to satisfy his lass?”
She studied the statue again where the gods frolicked within the spring of rushing water. “I can’t see how he wouldn’t.”
Tris’s chest rose and fell a hairsbreadth away from her back, and she jumped as he grasped her hips and pulled her back against him. Swatting his hand away, she turned her head to glower at him. “What are you doing?”
“Honestly, I dinnae ken.” His rough brogue tickled the nape of her neck as he pressed behind her. “’Tis no’ what I brought ye here for. Every time I’m near ye my good intentions seem to fade away.”
“You don’t just get to touch me anytime you want, you know. You need to make sure I want you to first. You need to ask.”
“I have.” He pushed her hair aside.
“Each time.” The brush of his lips sent a quiver of longing through her and her voice wavered. “My answer might be different. Saying yes once doesn’t imply universal approval.”
“I’m listening to ye, lass. The tilt of yer head when I kiss yer neck. The hitch of yer breath when I touch ye.” He slid his hand down the curve of her hip. “The way ye’re pressing yer bonny arse against my hand as ye are. All of it says ‘Aye, I want ye, too.’”
When had he learned to read her so well? “It’s the middle of the day.”
“Ye said ye’d do anything if I saved ye from Wyndom’s company.”
“I’m pretty sure I’ve paid off that debt in full over the past week.” His hand slipped over her belly and up over her breasts. A gasp of delight swallowed further protest. It wasn’t enough. She was beginning to think it never would be.
He nipped at her earlobe. “I’ve always had a particular fantasy about making love by this fountain.”
“In it or on it?” she breathed then blinked. “Wait. You can’t be thinking of doing this right now.”
“Why no’?”
“Because!” Pulling away from his intoxicating nearness before she was too drunk on him to argue, she turned to face him. “Anyone could walk in here at any time. And...and it’s...it’s...”
A wicked grin creased that undeniable dimple into his cheek. “Why, my sweet lass is proving herself to be something of a prude.”
Her arms found their way around her waist in a defensive self-embrace. “We both know that’s not true. I’ve done things with you I never imagined.”
“If ye think what we’ve done thus far is unusual, ye’re more innocent than I believed.”
She wasn’t innocent, he had to be well aware of the fact. Granted she’d always been a little vanilla, in Aila’s vocal opinion, but it got things done pleasingly enough. For her, anyway. God, had she bored him already?
A memory stirred along with the sting of mortification. She’d been right. She should have left this place already.
“Was this your plan all along?” she asked him, hugging her arms tight. “To lure me with stained glass and flowers, and have your way with me?”
“Nay. Honestly I brought ye here wi’ the best of intentions. Now that we’re here though and the subject has...er, arisen so to speak...” He sat on the edge of the fountain and took her hand. Kissing her knuckles, he drew her between his knees. His green eyes danced with wicked desire in the summer sun. “Will ye explore the possibilities wi’ me, my love?”
He ran his hands up the back of her legs and cupped her butt. Pressing a kiss to her abdomen he smiled up at her, the personification of temptation.
Brontë traced her fingers over his cheeks and raked her nails along his roughened jawline. Heaven help her, he was gorgeous. The changing light played with the color of his hair as she buried her fingers into the thick l
ocks. Helpless against him, she bent to kiss him then jumped with a squeal when his hands slid down and his fingers slipped between her thighs. “Tris!”
“Blame yerself,” he told her. “I cannae keep my hands off of ye nae matter how I try.”
“Do you have to try?”
“Aye. Otherwise we wouldnae hae left yer bed since Tuesday.”
His words were playful, teasing, yet they struck a chord. “Then you’re not bored with me?”
The smile slipped away. “Why would ye think that?”
A shrug denied the depth of her anxiety. “I thought wanting to do it here instead of...” She rolled her eyes up with another lift of her shoulder.
“Ye barmy female,” he exclaimed. “Aye, I can think of a hundred places and ways to hae ye in this room alone. Nevertheless if I were to only hae ye beneath me in yer bed between dusk and dawn, I’d be equally content. What jackanapes ever let ye think otherwise?”
She shifted in embarrassment, but he wouldn’t release her. How could she tell Tris, of all people, about her failings in Jake’s eyes? The core problem in their relationship hadn’t truly been that he’d cheated on her, it was what had driven him to it. Not only her nagging, constant disapproval but her inadequacies in bed had led him to find satisfaction with someone else. The pain and humiliation born from that complaint had been more devastating than the cheating itself. She failed to satisfy.
If she were honest with herself, that was why she hadn’t given another guy a chance over the past year. Fear of failure in so many ways. Fear of not living up to another man’s expectations. Of him not living up to hers. Thus, the ideal of the perfect man. The one who’d...
Shit, she should really see a therapist someday.
“I’ve never been particularly adventuresome,” she admitted quietly, aware that Tris was waiting for an answer. All kindness and caring. Though smoldering desire lingered in his eyes and...well, his hands were still on her ass. She wiggled her hips. He held on, his fingers digging in. Her pulse accelerated a fraction. She swallowed back a smile and ran her fingers through his hair again with a thoughtful sigh. “Honestly, I suppose I’ve never really been inspired enough to venture beyond the usual three positions.”
“Three?” His expression lit with mischief once more. “I’ve counted six or more already. I’m happy to make it seven if it pleases ye. Or waiting until the clock strikes midnight again if it disnae.”
Something split deep in her chest and spread with a poignant ache. Bending over him, she kissed him. Long. Slow. Deep. Each caress of his mouth, every stroke of his tongue sent the sensation radiating outward. Down her limbs to pool into a delicious throbbing between her thighs. “Thank you,” she whispered against his lips.
“For what?”
“Inspiring me.”
“I hae a care for what is mine, lass. And ye’re my own.”
Yes. She was deeply afraid that she was.
Fighting back the panic the thought aroused, Brontë gathered her skirts around her hips and straddled Tris where he sat on the edge of the fountain. His rough hands immediately clasped her bare thighs above her stockings, thumbs tracing a path inward. Kissing him again, she reached between and ran her palm down his rampant length before finding the buttons of his trousers.
“I’m warning you,” she said, biting on his lower lip. “You better not get me wet.”
Tris rubbed a finger around her pulsing nub and slid between the damp folds. Testing her, then retreating. Teasing her again. She threw back her head with a throaty cry of surrender and his warm chuckle caressed her cheek.
“No’ get ye wet? Och, lass. I cannae make that promise.”
Chapter 24
“I DINNAE KEN WHAT ANYONE else would hae to say on the matter, but I’d say ye get fair marks for creativity.” Tris grinned down at her and kissed the back of Brontë’s hand as they walked back outside.
A pale pink flush stained her fair cheeks as she ducked her head against his shoulder. “What can I say? I’ve learned a lot from reading and never had much of a chance to put any of it to the test before.”
The curious combination of astonishment and amusement she often sparked in him reared its head once more. This time he opted for laughter. “I’d love to see what ye’ve been reading.”
“I’ve got books. Lots of books.” The mischievous glow of her smile enchanted him. And inspired him as well.
“My uncle Vin told me about a book my aunt has that’s been known to make a grown man blush,” he told her. “When we return to Edinburgh, I’ll see if I can borrow it from his library.”
Her expression dimmed and she looked away, gnawing her lower lip. “Only a few days more, I guess.”
“Aye.” He wondered where her thoughts had wandered off to. “Dorian will be off to London by the end of the week.”
“Then back to work for the rest of us?”
Tris nodded. Aye, he had projects aplenty waiting for him. Messages arrived everyday as the push to produce the advanced communications the Marconi Works contracted with the British government to develop traversed from luxury to necessity. He’d taken to tinkering in the work shed and writing long briefs of his ideas in the mornings while Brontë slept in. The overall progress was satisfying. His contribution, unfortunately, paled in comparison to the mark he hoped to have in the evolution of a changing world. But for the distraction she provided, he would have felt more at odds than he already did. Perhaps he should think again on the option he and Henry had been discussing of late.
A footman passed by with a tray of finger sandwiches, reminding him that they’d missed luncheon while tarrying in the conservatory. Tris stopped him, took the tray, and requested a pitcher of lemonade make its way to them as well. He led the way to a small bistro table on the terrace and held a chair for Brontë. Her smile returned and she dug into the sandwiches with gusto to challenge his own. Thankfully their drinks arrived in short order. He’d hadn’t realized how parched he was from their exercise.
“Do you enjoy your work?” she asked after a few minutes.
“Not the investments themselves precisely.” He frowned. The joy taken in the fruits of his labor wasn’t something he’d ever been asked about before. “I like being at the forefront of innovation and invention. Fostering change, nurturing growth. Supporting new ideas of what may come. That sort of thing.”
“Coming up with a few of your own?”
A provocative question. He had many unique theories on ways to change the future for the better. Not all could be boiled down to a physical manifestation to display to the world. While he toyed with mechanics, he was no engineer. Crossing the bridge from concept to reality wasn’t a solitary operation. “Maybe. I like the idea of conceiving something that might harbor change. I have but one life. I’d like to use it to its best advantage.”
“You want to save the world.” She smiled and covered his hand with hers on the table. “That’s so sweet.”
“You tease.”
“Not entirely. You have advantages others do not and never will. Something to start with and people who believe in you.” Her smile was a bit tighter now. “I’m sure you will rock the world.”
Rock the world? More of her Americanisms, he supposed. They rolled off her tongue with such ease he’d come to do no more than process and move on. “You haven’t the same advantages?”
“My granny is super supportive of everything I do. You’d think I could walk on the moon with all the encouragement she gives me.” She laughed and he joined her. Such a ridiculous notion, after all. Then she sighed. “My mom not so much. She thinks I’m too independent and impulsive. I can only imagine what she’d have to say about all of this.”
Questions once again began to cloud his thoughts. If Brontë had close family relations, why had she arrived in Edinburgh alone? Why had no one written her a letter in all the time she’d been away? Sent a message?
“What about your father?” he asked.
A huff of cynicism escaped her lip
s. “Should we find the others? They must be wondering where we are.”
Once they were again strolling arm in arm, Brontë finally chose to answer his question. “Dad likes to call me an SJW. Social justice warrior.”
“I confess I’m unfamiliar with the term.” As was the norm with her. “It sounds rather complimentary.”
“It’s not. You see, in my own way, I’ve always wanted to change the world a little, too,” she admitted. “Calling me an SJW is his way of mocking my efforts. The term itself is a derogatory one used to describe a person who uses social injustice to validate their own moral superiority.” She twisted her lips wryly. “He says it to piss me off. Says my entire generation is full of crybabies whining that life isn’t fair.”
“It isn’t,” Tris felt compelled to mention. “Never has been.”
Brontë nodded. “I know that. That’s not me. I’m not trying to fuel fires or make enemies. I’m not condescending or rude in my opinions and I never force them on anyone, though I’m willing to debate them in hopes of changing someone’s mind. I’m definitely not one of those people who think they deserve what they don’t earn and who’s offended by everything. My goal is solely to support social issues and civil rights. The world needs open, rational conversation on the issues that divide us, not more reasons to hate.”
A stab of pride in her conviction pierced him. She soldiered on even without the support of her family. He would do well to follow her example and delay no further in his desire to make a difference in the world, even if it meant disappointing—or defying—the preferences and wishes of his family.
Across the lawns, the others were playing lawn bowls. Hannah spotted them and lifted a hand, waving them over. Tris nodded and steered Brontë in their direction. “What sort of issues do you support?”
“Environmental issues mainly,” she told him. “And of course, gender equality.”
“Gender equality?” he frowned. “You mean women’s suffrage?”
“Where did you two get off to?” Hazel asked with a knowing smile. “We missed you at luncheon.”
A Scot to Remember Page 22
