She chuckled, taking one of the tin mugs from the tray. ‘I can live without it.’
Picking up his own mug, Grayson Maddox touched it to hers. ‘Here’s to chance encounters. Can I help you to some of this fine repast?’
‘Please.’
She watched as he cut the cheese with a fine silver knife that he produced from his pocket, making delicate slivers of it, arranging it neatly on the pewter plate with some bread, producing an apple from his pocket, peeling it and making a little fan of the segments. He worked quickly and efficiently, a task he’d obviously carried out many times before. For his wife? She banished the thought. His hands were tanned, the nails neatly trimmed and very clean, though the backs of them were covered in scars and the skin on the right one was puckered.
‘Never get into an argument with a steam engine,’ he said, noticing her interest as he handed her the plate, ‘not even a model one.’
He made no effort to finesse his own meal, cutting a slab of cheese and dumping it on to an equally thick slab of bread, though he ate with slow pleasure. The bench they sat on faced on to the Newhaven harbour. The tide was making headway, waves rocking the grounded fishing boats, making the seaweed-encrusted ropes that tethered them to the harbour creak and strain. Above them, the sky was light blue with barely a cloud in sight, the sun for once determinedly shining.
‘Another couple of days of this and we’ll be able to claim we’ve had a great summer,’ Mr Maddox said when they had finished, stacking the empty plates on the tray and setting it on to the ground under the bench. ‘Though it’s probably raining over on the west coast, for it almost always is. There’s times I wonder that we’re not born with fins instead of limbs.’
‘Is that why you build boats for a living?’
‘I build ships, Miss Grant. Those wee things moored in the harbour, those are boats.’
‘I do beg your pardon. What pray, is the difference?’
‘There is a saying. A ship can carry a boat, but a boat can’t carry a ship. Oh, and as far as I am concerned, any vessel powered by steam is a ship.’
‘Are the ones that you build steam powered?’
‘Most of them, though we’ve one yard still dedicated to building clippers, since it’s currently the most profitable line of business, until someone comes up with a way to power a steam ship clear across the oceans.’
‘You don’t dream of being that person, Mr Maddox?’
He angled himself towards her, stretching an arm along the back of the bench. ‘Grayson. If you don’t mind.’
Grrrrayson.
‘Grayson,’ Constance repeated. Her voice sounded strangled to her own ears, but it made heat flare in his eyes. ‘Then you must call me Constance.’
‘I will, gladly.’
Good heavens, that smile! Surely hers was not so—so wicked? She leaned back just a tiny bit, so that her shoulders rested against his arm. ‘Do you have plans to build an ocean-going ship?’
‘If someone comes up with a practical design for one. I’m no engineer, I’m a business man, and happy to leave others to do the inventing. I specialise in putting inventions to practical use.’
Prrrractical use.
There it was again. Rough and yet smooth, like a—dear Lord, Constance, stop behaving like a schoolgirl. ‘As a confirmed landlubber I am woefully ignorant when it comes to boats. What is the advantage of steam over sail—besides speed, that is?’
‘The biggest advantage is that you don’t need to rely on the vagaries of the weather. Even on a flat calm day like today—not that we have many of them, mind—my ships can go about their business while sailboats are becalmed. They are great wee workhorses, my steam ships, and sturdy too. What’s more, we’re experimenting with iron hulls at the moment, which will mean they will be even more robust. You’d be surprised, even out on the Clyde estuary, just how rough the weather can get. But my steamers can work year-round, taking cargo and passengers doon the watter.’
Her shawl had fallen down the back of the bench. His fingers had found the nape of her neck. A butterfly touch, it could almost be mistaken for a breeze. Though her body knew different. She shifted on the bench so that her knee brushed his thigh through her skirts. ‘Doon the watter?’
‘That’s the journey from Glasgow by paddle steamer to the towns and the islands at the far reaches of the Clyde.’
‘I see.’ How had they managed to become seated so close together? His head was bent towards her, as if he was confiding his deepest secrets or whispering sweet nothings, instead of talking about shipping lanes. While they spoke, their bodies were conducting another, altogether different conversation. There was a light in his eyes that she could not mistake. She was pretty sure it was reflected in her own eyes. She had forgotten what this felt like. She didn’t remember it being anything like this, truth be told. In any case, this had nothing to do with love and everything to do with lust. The word, with all its dark and sinful connotations sent a delicious frisson down her spine. She was almost forty, and she was in lust!
Constance moved a little bit closer. ‘I’ve never been on a paddle steamer,’ she said, daring to put her hand on his knee. ‘I’d love to sail on one. What’s it like?’
The sharp intake of his breath made her think, for a split second, that she’d made a huge mistake. Then his hand covered hers. ‘I’m afraid it’s not as romantic as it sounds. It can be a bit noisy. In the engine room you can’t hear yourself think, but some steamers have passenger decks and cabins that are much quieter.’ He turned her hand over and began to draw circles with his thumb on her palm. ‘Basically, the more you pay for your ticket, the more civilised your journey will be.’
She was having difficulty breathing. She couldn’t believe this was happening. That she was actually encouraging it to happen. Don’t think, Constance! The fates wanted this. Ridiculous excuse, but she didn’t care. ‘And is it dangerous?’ she asked. ‘That scar on your hand...’ The hand that was working magic on hers. ‘And that was only a model, you say?’
‘A fully working model built to scale. I shouldn’t have tampered with it. Serves me right for getting burned. Constance...’
‘Grayson?’
‘Talking of getting burned. Are we both in danger of doing just that?’
‘I don’t know. I hope so. I don’t mean burned, but—’ She broke off, unable to voice what she actually meant, not because she was mealy-mouthed but for fear of being wrong. ‘What exactly do you mean?’
‘I mean that I would like to make love to you, but I’m worried we might regret it,’ he said softly. ‘And if I’ve got it completely wrong then forgive me, but I thought...’
‘You haven’t got it wrong. And I wouldn’t regret it.’
His eyes widened. ‘You mean you want to...’
‘Make love.’ Her heart thumped. Her body thrummed. ‘Yes,’ Constance said. ‘Though I can’t believe I’ve just said that.’
‘I am very glad you did.’
Verrry.
He smiled at her in a way that made her belly flip. ‘I reckon this tavern likely has rooms to rent. Shall I go and find out?’
* * *
The bedchamber was situated at the rear of the tavern, the single window looking out into a yard where washing was strung out on a line, empty save for a dog listlessly scratching itself. Constance pulled the shutters closed. The room was sparsely furnished. A washstand. A chair. A chest of drawers. A bed. The boards were bare but neatly swept. She couldn’t believe she was here. With a man she barely knew.
Grayson closed the door. ‘I told the landlady that my wife had had too much sun.’
‘Did she believe you?’
‘I don’t look the disreputable type any more than you do. She didn’t question it.’ He leaned against the door, surveying her in the light of the sun, which was filtering through the gap in the shutters. ‘I’ve never d
one anything like this in my life.’
‘Nor have I.’
‘But you have—you are not...’
‘This is not my first time, if that’s what you’re asking.’
He didn’t move. ‘And are you truly sure, Constance, that you won’t regret this?’
‘I have no idea. I hope not. I am pretty certain that I would regret walking away now.’
He smiled at that, turning the key in the lock and joining her by the shuttered window. ‘Me too. If you change your mind at any point, you’ll tell me?’
‘I will. But I won’t.’
‘I mean it.’
‘I know.’ How could she possibly know? She’d barely met him. Yet she trusted him, implicitly. He stooped to kiss her lightly on the lips, and for the first time, nerves fluttered in her tummy. ‘It’s been a while, Grayson.’
He laughed softly, untying the ribbons of her bonnet. ‘Then you’re in good company.’
He kissed her again, and this time she kissed him back. He tasted of coffee, and then of himself. His arms slid around her waist, but it was she who closed the gap between them, wrapping her arms around his neck and deepening the kiss. Her senses reeled as his tongue touched hers and his hands tightened around her. The wool of his coat, a lemony tang of soap, sweat, and him, she could smell him—or was it them? She was already hot, tense, deeply aroused. She could feel it was the same for him. He was hard. Oh, dear Lord, he was so hard.
She ran her fingers through the cropped, bristly hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer, kissing him more deeply. She could feel his breath, shallow and fast, and his hands on her bottom pulling her up against him, then wrestling with the fastenings of her gown, tugging impatiently with the buttons and the ties. She slid her hands under his coat, feeling the heat of his skin through his shirt and waistcoat. He let her go to shrug himself out of it, and she reached up to untie her gown.
Kissing again. How could she have forgotten how delightful it was to kiss? Had it ever been this delightful? She couldn’t remember. She didn’t want to compare. Her gown fell to her feet and she stepped out of it. His waistcoat fell beside it on to the floor. More kisses. He was kissing her neck, her throat, down to the tops of her breasts, and her nipples were aching for his touch.
His waistcoat was added to the heap of garments on the floor, and she tugged his shirt free from his breeches, relishing the way her touch made him shudder, the way his chest expanded as he exhaled sharply, the way the muscles of his back rippled.
Her corset laced at the front. He untied the knot, loosening it, no longer fumbling but utterly intent, sliding it down over her hips, leaving her in only her chemise, drawers and stockings. Her undergarments were perfectly clean, but plain, practical and past their best, not designed to be seen by anyone other than her. Like her almost-forty-year-old body. What on earth was she doing here? But the question had barely formed when he pushed her chemise aside and took her nipple in his mouth.
Oh, dear heavens, don’t stop, she begged silently. Keep doing this! And that! And that too!
His mouth and his hands set up paths of fluttering sensations all over her body, all of them leading to the tightening, clenching knot of desire between her legs. She could hear herself panting, whimpering, as he sucked her, stroked her, kissed her, pausing only to yank his shirt over his head. His skin was pale but his physique was exactly as she had guessed, with the hard muscles of a man who used them. She clutched at him, her hands roaming frantically over the rough hair of his chest, the hard nubs of his nipples, the dip of his belly.
He lifted his head from her breasts, but her moan of protest was smothered as their mouths met again in a deeper kiss and he rucked up her petticoats, unerringly finding the gap in her drawers to slide his fingers inside her. He slipped in so easily, and she tensed around him. She was so ready for him that her climax began to build as soon as he started to stroke her. Expertly, she noticed, he knew exactly what he was doing. Then she forgot as sensations gripped her, his touch tipping her over the edge too quickly to resist, making her legs buckle, forcing her to grip his shoulders, burying her face in his shoulder to muffle her cries, arching against him.
He was so hard. And she needed him inside her. Kissing him wildly, careless, heedless of anything save her urgent need, she fell on to the bed, watching him unashamedly as he cast off the last of his clothes, her body responding to the sight of him, aroused, blatantly male.
He swore softly under his breath as he stepped between her legs, pulling her towards him, and they kissed again and she wrapped her legs around him, falling back on the bed as he entered her. Later, she would wonder at the lack of strangeness, at the way her body welcomed him, at the way they found a rhythm so quickly, urgent, without finesse but in perfect unison. But that was later. When he entered her, she was beyond thinking, beyond anything save the wild, desperate need to take him with her over the edge, to lose herself in this moment with this complete stranger and to forget who she was, who she had been, what she might become.
She had no reserve in making clear what she wanted, and he wanted it too, tilting her towards him to drive deeper, harder, until she climaxed again and he pulled himself free of her, coming with a guttural cry, falling on to his back by her side when it was over, his chest heaving, his eyes tight shut.
* * *
His heart was thudding. His whole body was thrumming with pleasure. He was weightless, empty, sated. It had been so long since he’d felt like this. No, that was wrong. He’d never felt like this. Making love to his wife had been a much gentler, very different experience. A tender, loving act. This was—different. Had it really happened? Grayson opened his eyes, half expecting to wake up alone in the aftermath of a dream, only to encounter a pair of almond-shaped green eyes staring at him. Though she looked hurriedly away, rolling over on to her side, turning her back on him.
‘Constance?’
She grabbed the sheet from the dishevelled bed, wrapping it around herself, squirming out of reach. ‘I must look a sight.’
Embarrassment, not regret. He was about to tell her that she looked delightful, with her hair half out of its pins and her cheeks flushed and her breasts only barely covered, but thought better of it just in time. ‘You’re not the only one.’ Grayson grabbed his breeches from the floor and pulled them on. He barely recalled taking any of his clothes off. All he’d wanted was to feel her skin against his, to have her body pressed against his, to be inside her, to lose himself in her. He’d certainly done that!
Stooping down to pick up his shirt, slanting a glance at the unfamiliar back which was still turned to him, he was swamped by the urge to do it all again. Bloody hell, that was taking making up for lost time to new heights! Pulling his shirt quickly over his head he wondered, just for a moment, how Miss Constance Grant would react if he propositioned her. Again. Had he propositioned her the first time? No, it had been a mutual decision, that he was sure of. Entirely mutual, from beginning to end.
Her chemise and corsets were in a heap on the floor tangled up with his waistcoat and stockings. Who’d have imagined such prosaic garments clothed such a passionate creature. It had been a while, she’d said. Who, he wondered, and when? She wasn’t married. Did they have different customs when it came to that sort of thing in the Highlands? He had absolutely no idea. He had just had a passionate—extremely passionate—encounter with a woman who was more or less a complete stranger, and what’s more he would happily have another.
Which is when it hit him what was missing. Guilt. Donning his waistcoat, he examined his conscience but no, there was not a trace of it, nor regret either. Now that really was something new. Glancing over at Constance, he saw that she’d huddled deeper under the sheet. Picking up her clothes, he shook them out. ‘It’s as well the landlady keeps a clean house, or the pair of us would be head to toe in oose.’
‘Put my clothes down, for goodness sake. Leave t
hem there on the bed. I’ll get dressed when you’re gone.’
‘I’m not leaving without you.’
‘I’m most certainly not getting dressed in front of you.’
‘Aye, that might be a bad idea right enough.’
‘Oh! Well, thank you for being so understanding.’
‘I’m not being understanding.’ Grayson sat down beside her. ‘There’s nothing I would like more than to see you naked again.’
She whirled around. ‘You don’t mean—you cannot possibly mean...’
‘But I do.’ She looked so desirable, and he could just see the tip of one nipple peeking out of the sheet, and her lips were swollen with their kissing. ‘I should be embarrassed. I’m forty-two, not twenty-two, but you, Miss Constance Grant, have given me a considerable appetite for what I’ve been missing.’
‘Really?’
He risked a kiss. ‘Truly.’
‘I’m still not getting dressed in front of you.’
‘If you kiss me again, it’s my clothes that will be coming off, not yours going on.’
‘Grayson! We can’t possibly...’
‘Ah, but you want to, do you?’
She was blushing, but her smile—lord, but her smile was wicked. ‘I think I too have found an appetite for what I’ve been missing. I think...’
The tap on the door made them both jump. ‘Mr Maddox, I was wondering if your wife was recovered enough to take some tea,’ a voice said primly.
Stifling a laugh, for Constance had thrown herself under the bedclothes and pulled them over her head, Grayson went to the door, glad he had at least his shirt and waistcoat on. ‘Thank you, that would be very welcome,’ he told the tavern’s landlady. He winked over his shoulder at Constance. ‘She’s fair tuckered out, for some reason. A cup of tea will be just the job to get her back on her feet.’
Chapter Three
‘This has turned into the most unexpected day imaginable,’ Constance said as they headed back up the hill towards the city.
A Forbidden Liaison with Miss Grant Page 3
