by Julia London
“That’s exactly the issue,” Catriona said, sitting up, her devotion to Kishorn Abbey stirring in her. “Where would they be, then, were it no’ for the abbey? They’d be selling their flesh, or dying in the streets, their children turned out to pickpocket.”
“Aye, I understand. You are passionate about your cause.”
Yes, she was passionate about the abbey and the people who had sought shelter and warmth there. “I am passionate,” she said. “I am passionate about everything for which I take interest.” Unthinkingly, her gaze slipped to his lips.
A silence followed her remark. The room felt charged, as if a bolt of lightning had struck inside. Montrose held her gaze, his fathomless eyes probing hers. He slowly released a soft breath and leaned back. Something was thrumming between them—a fire. A raging storm. Something. Catriona could not recall a single time in her life she had felt such stark, unbridled energy between herself and another person.
“I am likewise passionate about many things,” he said at last. “That’s why I seek a seat in the House of Lords, aye.”
“To help women and children?”
“To help all of Scotland. There are many in need. But it goes beyond that, aye? If we donna mind ourselves, if we donna look to the future, we will always be subservient to the English and treated like litter runts.”
“Aye,” she agreed, her voice full of wonder. Her beliefs rarely aligned with anyone else. Everyone said she was too bold, wanted too much.
His gaze darkened and moved down her body. “And like you, I am passionate about many things,” he said low.
The sizzle in her was growing, spreading through her belly and into her chest. His gaze was so potent and full of heat. Her pulse was quickening, and she glanced at the board, hiding her fluster, because there was a great passion gripping her right now. One that was so big and deep that she feared she would not be able to escape it this time. “Is it your move?”
“The move has been yours all along.”
The heat between them had leapt across the table and landed squarely in her groin. She swallowed down the thrill his words gave her. She was aware of how closely he studied her, how his eyes were peeling away her skin and muscle and bone and seeing right into her. She was too keenly aware of the duke’s presence, massive and dense, filling every bit of this room. She reached for her wine to steady her sudden case of nerves, but the glass was nearly empty. Had she drunk it already?
She finally decided her move and made it.
He smiled lopsidedly. “A queen’s gambit. That was a dangerous move, lass.”
“Aye.” She picked up her wineglass and drained the last of it.
He chuckled. He moved a knight and removed her pawn from the board. “Do you know what I find curious?”
That she was shimmering in her seat? That she could scarcely see the chessboard because she was so aware of him? She shook her head.
He smiled at her. Perhaps she’d had too much wine this evening, but she suddenly thought him the most handsome gentleman she’d ever seen. He was transformed when he smiled, a different man altogether. The dark duke became the bonny duke. “I find it curious that you are allowed to follow your ideals. Most women in your position would have been long married by now. But you, the daughter of a powerful Highland laird, are no’ married. No’ raising your brood.”
The sizzle suddenly left her. Et tu, Brute? She sighed with weary disappointment. “This again, is it?” she muttered.
“Pardon?”
“You and all of Scotland find it curious I’ve no’ married, aye? Poor Catriona Mackenzie, they say, quite on the shelf she is.”
“I never said such a thing.”
“But you are thinking it, are you no’?”
“I am—”
“Well, I tried,” she blurted before he could explain himself and humiliate her further. She was light-headed now. “God knows I’ve tried.”
“I see. I—”
“No, you donna see at all, your grace, if you will pardon me for saying so. You’ve lived a life of privilege, have you no’? You undoubtedly had any number of debutantes desperate to meet you with the hope of gaining an offer. You canna possibly know what it was like when I reached a marrying age. Everyone said, oh, but she’s so like Griselda, she’ll listen to no man, no’ that lass. Aye, it’s true, I was quite independent, that I was, but I was no’ like Auntie Zelda at all. She never wanted to marry, but I did. I wanted it verra much, to have what my brothers and sister had, to have a brood as you call it, to bring them to my father’s house and share in the moments that matter in a family. But there was a bloody rebellion brewing when I came of age, and half the men went off to fight the king, and the others fled, and those who remained, they were...they were...”
She didn’t know what they were, other than not suitable for her.
“I tried,” she said again. “But as the years have gone by, I’m now too old.”
“Too old!” He laughed. “You’re verra young yet.”
“But I’m no’,” she said. She suddenly sat up and said in a low voice, “Two years ago, when I was one and thirty, my mother attempted to arrange a match for me with an Englishman, a baron. But when his family discovered my age, they were uneasy. What if I was too old to bear children or to carry them to term? What if I failed to deliver them an heir? That’s all I mattered to them—I was naught more than a womb, and everyone knows a woman is most fertile a decade younger than me.”
The duke suddenly reached across the table for her hand and wrapped his fingers around hers. “I’m sorry. I didna mean to cause you distress. I’m verra sorry you’ve been hurt in this way.”
She shook her head.
Montrose brought her hand to his mouth and kissed the back of it. Her rant was forgotten, the burn for him remembered. What did it all matter now? She was not married, she’d never be married and she was here now, with this man, with voracious desire swirling through her.
“I beg your pardon, if you thought I was complaining,” she said. “I meant only to say that I tried to be married, but it eluded me. But I am a lucky one, I am—I live life as I please. My aunt taught me that is entirely possible, even for the daughter of a powerful laird. It is my great fortune that my family sustains me.”
He stroked her hand with his thumb. Such a small gesture, and yet it felt almost erotic. She swallowed and said, “It’s only fair that I, as you’ve inquired after mine, might inquire after your life, aye?”
He stroked her hand again. “All right, then. What would you know?”
Here it was, her moment of truth, her chance to inquire about the thing that had been on her mind since she’d first laid eyes on him. A shiver of anticipation raced down her spine. She sat up, gripped his hand, looked him directly in the eye and asked, “What happened to your wife, your grace?”
Montrose did not flinch. He didn’t seem angered by the question, but he looked as if he were debating what to say. “Quite a lot is said by people who know nothing of my affairs, aye? I warned you no’ to listen to gossip,” he said.
She said nothing but waited for him to say more.
“Do you believe I’ve done something to her?” he asked.
“No,” she said, and clutched his hand tighter. “No, I donna believe it. I’ve no’ ever believed it.”
He studied her a moment. “No harm has come to her,” he said at last. “But she is gone.”
Catriona’s mind leapt to all the things that might mean. Where had she gone? Was she dead? Had she taken her own life? Could that be the reason for all the secrecy?
“For what it’s worth, I tried, too,” he said, and laced his fingers with hers.
“Pardon?”
“I tried to make her happy, but it proved impossible.”
The air was buzzing around Catriona. The sensation of his touch was spreading up her arm while she
tried to imagine what had made the duchess unhappy.
“The truth is that I want, and have long wanted, the same as you. I wanted what I had been led to expect I’d have—a family, a happy life, aye? But I was no’ enough for her.” He swallowed, as if he couldn’t stomach the truth.
Catriona was stunned. Was that what had happened? She didn’t want him? Catriona knew his marriage was likely arranged, but it still seemed impossible—he was handsome, he was kind—well, at least he had been to her—and while he could be aloof, he was a duke for heaven’s sake. What woman didn’t want the affection of a duke?
“And like you, I’ve long accepted it, aye? Perhaps I could have done more. Perhaps I did too much. I donna know why things happened as it did, but I’ve accepted it.”
She didn’t know why things had happened as they had, either, but she had accepted it, like him. Catriona suddenly surged forward, leaning across the gaming table, knocking chess pieces off their squares so that her face was inches from his. “I donna know her, quite obviously, but I think the fault was no’ yours, your grace.”
He smiled sadly and cupped her face with his hand. “I’m afraid it was.”
Catriona could feel his sadness. She could feel it because she knew it—that dull ache that dwelt in her always.
“But I thank you, Miss Mackenzie, for believing me. You are quite alone in that.”
“Catriona,” she said, and surged closer, bracing herself on the table to kiss him. She boldly, without a second thought, kissed the dark duke.
He caught her by the shoulders and stood, pulling her to her feet with him and then into his arms. He held her face, his eyes tender and soft and shining with undeserved reverence. He stroked her cheek, her temple, her brow. “You’ve made me mad with longing, do you know that?” he asked roughly. “I’ve thought of nothing but you these last days.”
“Me, too,” she said breathlessly.
He bent his head and kissed her. “But I’ll no’ dishonor you, Catriona. Never.”
Her name sounded like a heavenly whisper when he said it, and Catriona closed her eyes and breathed the moment in, certain she’d never desired a man quite so thoroughly. She’d confessed all to him, and he had not shunned her. He wanted her. She longed for things she had no right to know—the weight of his body on hers, the feel of him moving inside her, the warmth of his breath and his lips on her breasts.
His hand went round her waist, holding her tighter, and she realized her desire for the dark duke had made her damnably weak. Who was she at this moment? She’d held herself above her most prurient desires for thirty-three years, but she was standing on a precipice. She would abandon her chastity for this man—that was the measure of how much she desired him. There was nothing left of her but a burning craving for his touch.
Hamlin stroked her cheek, her hair. “What am I to do with you, then?” he muttered.
“Do with me what you like,” she answered honestly, and cupped his face in her hands. “Do with me what I want. You said the move had always been mine.”
He shook his head. “’Tis no’ right—”
“There is no right for me,” she said, and slipped her arms around his neck. “Did you no’ hear me, then? I spoke true, Montrose—I’ve tried. But I am three and thirty and I’ll no’ have this opportunity again.”
He groaned, grabbed her face in between his hands, kissed her hard. Then he grabbed her hand. “Come,” he said, and began to walk from the room, tugging her behind him. At the door, he held up his hand to her. “Wait.” He opened the door and looked out in the corridor. Then he pulled her along with him, striding from the room, turning right instead of left, up a flight of stairs she had not seen before this evening. They jogged up another set of steps and emerged in a wide hall where candles blazed in sconces. He quickened his step to the point she had to hurry along to keep up with him. She felt fifteen years old again, sneaking out of Balhaire and around to the stables for a kiss with Egan MacDonald. Part of her wanted to laugh like a naughty child. Part of her wanted to cry out with alarm.
All of her wanted whatever came next.
At the end of the hall, he opened a door and pushed her into a room ahead of him. An enormous bed was at the center of the room, its brocade canopy matching the drapes. A table with upholstered chairs was situated near the windows, and a settee before the hearth. The walls were bare, save a few smaller portraits of what looked like people from another time and one very large, very lovely painting of a man, his horse and a dog in a deep glen.
This was his room. The master suite. It was masculine, the colors dark and rich. Before her surroundings could sink into her, the duke put his finger to his lips, then left her, disappearing into an adjoining room. She looked down at the thick burgundy carpet at her feet. Her heart was beating wildly, her breaths coming in tiny pants. She heard a door open somewhere, the duke’s low voice, and then, before she could draw another breath, he returned.
He shut the door between his bedroom and the adjoining room and then stood there a moment, gazing at her in disbelief, as if he couldn’t believe she was here, either. His arms were at his sides, and he kept stretching the fingers of one hand, then gripping them, then stretching them again.
Catriona didn’t know what to do with herself. She held her hands at her waist, waiting. “Your grace, I—”
“Hamlin,” he said, and reached for her, drawing her close to him. He kissed the corner of her mouth. “Call me Hamlin,” he murmured, and kissed her cheek.
So many emotions began to roil in her, setting her adrift. “Hamlin,” she whispered, and let his name sink with her into a lake of warm desire. “Hamlin.”
He began to kiss her, gently at first, feathering her eyes and cheeks with kisses, moving then to her ear, nibbling at her lobe. But his tongue quickly became a flame, licking and tantalizing her beyond her ability to endure, leaving a trail of fire down her neck that burned in her groin.
He lifted his head, and with his eyes locked on hers, he began to untie the ribbons that laced her gown across her stomacher. She stood mutely, watching the pleasure he took in this single act. He pushed the gown from her shoulders, and it slid down her body, landing in a pool at her feet. She tossed her stomacher aside as he reached for the ties of her petticoat.
Catriona began to unbutton his waistcoat. His eyes were two obsidian pools, devouring her as he removed her petticoat, and the under-petticoat, until she wore nothing but her chemise.
He paused then, as if he were afraid to go any further. He yanked impatiently at his neckcloth, discarding it as quickly as he’d discarded his coat and waistcoat, all the while taking her in, his eyes lingering on every part of her body through the thin chemise.
Catriona was anxious but filled with yearning, too. She wanted to feel his hands on her. Her thoughts were wildly, uncontrollably lustful, but she couldn’t seem to stop them. She’d dived into this well and was sinking deeper and deeper into longing.
She grabbed the fabric of her chemise and pulled it over her head and tossed it aside. Hamlin drew a sharp intake of breath. His gaze raked over her body, now completely bare but her stockings, held up by two ribbon garters above her knees.
He very deliberately put his arm around her waist and cupped her bare breast. He kissed her again, but far more urgently than before, plumbing deeper into her. Catriona was instantly swept along with his ardor, her body divorcing her mind and riding along a sensuous path of pleasure.
They were moving. Or rather, with his arm around her waist, he had lifted her from her feet and was carrying her. The next thing she knew she was on the bed, and his hands were exploring her body, sliding down her breasts, between her legs, around her hips. She was kissing him, too, her fingers fluttering over the hard planes and curves of his body, memorizing the beauty of the male physique.
He lifted his head, his gaze brimming with desire. “Do you know how perfect you ar
e, Catriona? How in every way you are the truest of desire?”
She sighed dreamily, pushed his hair from his face, long since come undone from its bob. With his hand on her breast and the thirst for her so clear in his eyes, Catriona felt herself slipping away from reason. She lifted a knee, stroked his face and tenderly kissed his lips.
Hamlin’s breathing turned ragged as he moved down her body. With his teeth he untied one stocking garter, and then the other, then kissed the inside of her thigh before moving in between her legs.
Catriona gasped at the explosive sensation of his tongue and grasped his shoulders, clinging desperately to him as he pleasured her with his mouth and tongue. She was crumbling, piece by piece, and then he rose up, drew her nipple into his mouth and put himself firmly between her legs. She could feel his cock hard against her leg, then pressing into her. He slowly guided himself inside her, pushing gingerly. Catriona was floating again, adrift in erotic sensations, in the sights and sounds and smells of it. She couldn’t seem to catch her breath, and when he pushed all the way into her, she scarcely noticed the moment of pain, for he had slipped his hand in between them and was stroking her as he moved inside her.
She pressed against him as he moved, her mouth on his shoulder, his throat, his chest, swimming against the current of her release. This was too surreal, too pleasurable to let go of it so soon, but in the end, she couldn’t keep her hunger from exploding in a rain of radiant light.
He was moving faster, pinning her to the bed now, his mouth on hers, then in her hair. With a groan of ecstasy, he pulled out of her just as he erupted and spilled over her bare stomach.
The sensations, the regard she had for him that felt not of this earth, left her reeling. A lush cloud surrounded them, and as she sought her breath, she wondered how could something so wildly carnal feel so right? How could every fiber in her shimmer with exquisite fever?
When his breathing had returned to normal, he rolled onto his side and picked up her hand, holding it tightly. He was stretched out, his body long and lean, the muscles in him curving into soft spaces at his knees and just below his belly.
