Hurst 02 - Scandal in Scotland

by Karen Hawkins

  Marcail stepped back and surveyed her reflection with satisfaction as the maid repacked the portmanteau, and then they went downstairs and out to the inn yard.

  Marcail tucked her gloves into her pelisse pocket; she still couldn’t bear the touch of gloves stretched across her hands. “Betsy, please ask one of the footmen to tie the portmanteau back onto the coach.”

  The maid didn’t move.

  Marcail turned. “Betsy?”

  The maid’s gaze seemed frozen on something over Marcail’s shoulder.

  She looked—and froze also.

  William stood by the pump, stripped down to his breeches and boots. He reached into a bucket, removed a large soapy sponge, and lathered his broad, powerful arms and chest. Marcail’s fascinated gaze followed every stroke. His body was solid muscle, that rippled with every move he made.

  “Gor’!” Betsy cooed.

  Marcail could only nod, her heart pounding. Seeing him shirtless and bronzed brought back a flood of memories—of his warm hands caressing her, of the feel of his lips tracing a line from her shoulder to her breast, of the strength of his muscular arm as he slipped it about her waist and pulled her close—

  She had to close her eyes to keep from moaning aloud, her body aching for what it had once welcomed. It has been so long. So very, very long.

  The jingling sound of a harness announced the arrival of Poston and the coach. Two saddled mares were now tied to the back, and someone had attempted to clean the muddy exterior of the coach.

  Her hands shaking, Marcail opened her reticule, found a coin and held it out to Betsy. “Thank you for your assistance.”

  The girl forced her attention away from William and brightened on seeing that it was a shilling, not a penny. “Thank ’ee, miss!”

  “Of course. Just be sure to give that portmanteau to a footman.” And with that, Marcail gathered her skirts and hurried to the safety of the waiting coach.

  William caught sight of Marcail as she stepped into the bright sunshine that filled the inn yard. Under her silky gray pelisse she now wore a blue gown that made her violet eyes darker. But it was her exotic coloring—her black hair, violet eyes, and pink skin—so sensually offset by her prim clothing and neatly pinned hair that made his breath catch.

  She never failed to fascinate, this tempting, tasty armful of pure trouble.

  As she neared the coach she sent him a quick look, then flushed.

  For the love of God, she’d seen him naked plenty of times! Still, something about her unease made him feel as daring as a pirate. He threw a towel over his shoulder and gave her a mocking bow.

  She dipped into a jerky curtsy, but just before she turned away he caught her expression. The pure lust he read in her eyes almost sent him reeling.

  He knew that look and reacted to it immediately. Perhaps not everything has changed, after all.

  As if she knew his thoughts, she whipped away and climbed into the coach, barely waiting for the footman to open the door.

  William grinned, watching her trim figure and how her skirts clung in a manner unlike other ladies of society.

  Bloody hell, she was a hot little piece. Somehow he’d pushed aside all memories of her provocative nature. “Probably because you didn’t want to go mad dreaming of her, you fool,” he murmured to himself.

  A sane man would avoid her at all costs. A sane man would ride up on top with the coachman, or ride one of the extra mounts. A brisk ride would clear the lust from his brain.

  But William couldn’t forget the stark longing he’d seen in Marcail’s eyes.

  The fresh team pawed the ground, ready to go.

  William swiftly rubbed his hair dry with the towel, yanked a clean shirt over his head, and pulled on his coat. He tossed two clean cravats over one shoulder, fastened his portmanteau, and tossed it to the footman who was tying Marcail’s bag on the roof of the coach. “Tie that down, too,” William ordered.

  Poston, who’d been talking to the postboys, came forward. “Almost ready, Cap’n?”

  “Almost. Let’s find that woman and end this. Don’t stop until you see her coach.” With that, William climbed inside the coach and shut the door.

  In no time, the coach started forward with a jolt that made Marcail clutch the edge of her seat. “Goodness, we’re in a hurry.”

  “Oh yes. We’re in a great hurry now.” William latched a curtain over one window, blocking out much of the sun. Somewhere between the moment he’d looked up to catch Marcail crossing the inn yard looking like an angelic seductress and the moment he’d climbed into the coach, he had made a decision.

  Marcail placed her bonnet and cloak on the seat opposite hers, looking curious as he latched the other curtain, casting the coach into near darkness.

  Then William reached for her and her eyes widened with a flare of pure passion. “William, we shouldn’t—”

  “Hush.” He slipped an arm around her waist and pulled her onto his lap.

  She came easily, her arms slipping around his neck. “Oh, God, yes.” And then she kissed him eagerly. Her intoxicating lips were warm, her freshly washed skin fragrant against his.

  God, how he wanted her. After all these years, he desired her as he’d never desired a woman before. As if she were the last woman on earth and he the last man.

  He bent to kiss the delicate hollows of her neck and the slender line of her shoulder, all of the places that a proper lady showed in an attempt to drive a man wild with desire.

  She moaned throatily and clutched his shoulders, her fingers grasping for purchase. Hot lust consumed him. He was aflame with her, the feel of her, the scent of her, the warmth of her. He wanted to dive into her, sink into her heat and sweetness, and never again arise. She was perfection and beauty, graceful flesh and silken softness.

  She stirred him with her words, tempted him with her passion, and enslaved him with her wit and beauty. He’d tried to fight it, but couldn’t. All he could do was succumb to his desire, and protect his heart as best he could, holding tight to the old hurts and memories.

  This is just a physical moment and means nothing to either of us. Marcail was no naîve innocent. And so long as he remembered exactly who and what she was, his heart would be spared the pain he’d experienced the last time he’d opened himself to her.

  She sighed, her sweet breath brushing his neck, and suddenly nothing mattered except his desire to feel all of her, taste all of her, possess all of her.

  He cupped her ass through her skirts and swung her around so that she was straddling him. She moved with him as easily as if they’d made love in a coach a hundred times before, anticipating each other’s movements, enjoying each second of passion.

  They’d always had this instant, instinctive connection. It had been one of the many things that had tied them together. Even when they’d first met and the awkwardness of newness had been a barrier, this part of their relationship had been amazingly easy and rewarding.

  At the time, William had thought it a sign that he was truly in love. Now he realized it was something more primal, a recognition of a kindred sensuality. Emotion had nothing to do with this perfection of body, rhythm, and passion.

  She positioned her knees on either side of his hips, lifting her tempting breasts to just the right level. The coach hit a bump and William moved his hands to her lower back to steady her, then she held his shoulders as he worshipped her breasts with kisses.

  He loved her breasts. They were delightfully full but not too much, filling his hands but not spilling over them, their pink-and-white perfection begging for his attention. He untied the lacing at her neck and tugged her gown loose to reveal a thin chemise that barely concealed her luscious nipples.

  He slipped a hand inside her chemise to free one of her breasts. She had the most perfect nipples he’d ever seen; large and dusky pink, they beckoned and tempted. He pressed his mouth over her nipple and teased it to a peak, just as he’d dreamed of doing when he’d awoken to find her snuggled in his lap.


  He flicked her nipple with his tongue, then blew lightly across the moistened skin. Marcail gasped his name and arched against him, driving his passion higher still.

  The coach hit a rut in the road and Marcail gripped his shoulders tighter, pressing her breast into his mouth, demanding more.

  He obliged her, pulling her farther down so that he could tease her with his knee beneath her skirts.

  Outside, the world sped by in cold daylight, but here, nothing existed except her deliciously labored breathing, perfect breasts, and warm, pearl pink skin. He brushed her chemise aside and unhooked her skirts. “Take them off,” he growled.

  She chuckled, the sound warm and inviting as she did as he suggested. It took both of them to divest her of all of the layers society had bound her with, but soon she was naked, straddling his lap, glowing and ready, and all his.

  He pulled back to admire her. She was lithe, her breasts set high, the nipples thrusting upward as if pertly demanding a kiss. Her body was a symphony of graceful curves and mysterious shadows, and he ached to taste every inch.

  He drew his fingers down her neck, across a delicately hollowed shoulder, over her breast and proud nipple, to the flat planes of her stomach.

  Marcail moaned, closing her eyes and allowing his callused fingers to roam where they would. William traced a line from her navel to her gently rounded hip and then stopped there, meeting her pleading gaze.

  Her eyes were like smoky velvet as she whispered, “I’ve missed you.”

  Those weren’t the words he’d expected to hear, and they took him aback. “You missed me? Then perhaps you shouldn’t have sent me away.” He bent forward to trace a kiss along her shoulder, noting with satisfaction how her skin goose-bumped under his touch. “This is what you’ve missed—what we’ve missed all of these years because of your foolishness.”

  “And your pride,” she added in a breathless voice.

  “Perhaps.” He raked his teeth over her collarbone and she moaned, writhing in his lap.

  “I know. Oh God, I know.” She threaded her fingers through his hair, holding him as she nipped at his bottom lip and pressed against him in a way that made him mad with lust.

  “Hold still, damn you,” he growled and captured her by cupping her bared ass. She gasped and shivered at his touch, her nipples puckering as if he’d touched them.

  God, he loved the firm curve of her ass. He’d forgotten how perfect it was, how it filled his hands and made him instantly hard with lust. “Why did you end this?” he whispered as he kissed his way up her neck to the soft, responsive spot behind her ear. “Why did you send me away?”

  She clutched him closer, her voice husky. “I had to. You cared so much, as did I, and—and it never would have worked. We were doomed from the beginning.”

  He kissed her, stopping the words he didn’t want to hear. Words he already knew in the heart of his heart, but hadn’t wanted to admit.

  He held her face between his hands and thrust his tongue into her mouth, stoking her passion until she writhed anew.

  She tugged on his lapels and then broke the kiss. “Undress. I want to see everything.” She rocked back on her heels and began tugging fiercely at his clothing. She looked like a naughty sylph with her hair primly pinned upon her head, her body unabashedly naked.

  Soon his jacket and waistcoat were on the floor, his breeches undone.

  She tugged his shirt over his head, and his breeches hit the floor next. Then he was as naked as she, the cool air teasing his cock, which was at full sail and battle ready.

  Marcail pressed him against the seat and straddled him once more, her thighs deliciously warm against his.

  He lifted his hips and stroked her with his erect cock.

  She closed her eyes, a deep, rich moan rising in her throat. “William.”

  The word, low and soft and sweetly urgent, set him afire and he grasped her by the waist, lifted her, and positioned her over his cock. Slowly, he pressed into her.

  It took a moment, for he was at full mast and she was a tight fit. But she wiggled her way into place, gasping as she did so, and causing him to moan with pleasure when she finally slipped over him.

  He couldn’t look away. Her eyes were closed, pure ecstasy on her face. “It’s been so long,” she murmured. “So, so long …”

  He knew that truth before she’d even said the words. Her breathtaking tightness wasn’t that of a woman well loved. He tried to focus on that and why it mattered, but the feel of her, so right and inviting, overwhelmed him. She wriggled against him, sending a bolt of lust through him that stole his breath.

  William held her tight and allowed the sway of the coach to do its magic, each bump an exquisite tease, each rocking sway a delicious agony. Marcail gripped his shoulders tighter and tighter … then gasped his name, and he held her shuddering body as pleasure overtook her. Afterward she lay panting against his shoulder, trembling from head to toe.

  It was all William could do not to give in to his own release; her slick heat was so perfect, so his. After she’d regained her breath, he feathered kisses over her face, slowly moving his hips against her. Soon she was moving, too, rocking against him, the intensity building. His passion answered hers, and he grasped her waist, lifting his hips to meet hers.

  God, but she was a tight piece, warm and already wet with wanting. His body surged toward hers as he firmly planted himself in her.

  She moaned, her white, even teeth biting down on her bottom lip as she looked straight into his eyes and met him thrust for thrust. Each upward stroke stole his breath, and every downward stroke threatened to force him over the edge of his control. But he refused to give in, tightening his hold and bringing her down more and more firmly.

  He captured her, possessed her, dominated her, just as she enthralled him with her every move. Damn it, she was his and his alone, and he was afire to brand her so.

  Almost too afire. “Hold,” he ground out, pressing her down upon his cock as deeply as he could. She gasped and arched back as he held her there, his body burning.

  She moaned and began to rock restlessly, her urgency growing. “William, please. It has been so long.”

  William stilled. That was the second time she’d said it. So long? But what about Colchester? Suddenly her urgency and tightness held new meaning.

  She moved against him, her breasts swaying erotically, and all thought left William’s brain. He relentlessly tamped down his own desire, slipped his hands under her rounded ass and lifted her again and again, directing her in when and how and how fast—

  She moaned as he lifted her up and down, thrusting into her. He increased the pace to match her breath and she gasped his name and then rocked wildly on him as she came with a gasp of wild abandon.

  He was no match for her passion; his own had built uncontrollably. At the last possible moment, he lifted her off his cock and exploded in waves of blinding passion that shook him to his core.

  For several minutes they leaned against each other, damp skin to damp skin, their mingled breaths fast and loud. Slowly their rapidly pounding hearts returned to normal, and William gradually became aware of his surroundings—of the rocking of the coach, of the creak of the leather straps, of the feel of the rug beneath his bare feet. Yet even more than those things, he was aware of the silky smoothness of Marcail’s hair beneath his cheek, her warm breath on his neck, of the way she fit against his chest, her warm thighs embracing his own.

  They sat there in the chilled carriage, their skin warmed by each other, his arms about her, her face buried in his neck, savoring and hoping … both afraid to move.

  A letter dated two years ago from Michael Hurst to his brother William, regarding a meeting.

  I fear I will not be arriving in Paris by the fourteenth as I had hoped. To my shock, my assistant, Miss Smythe-Haughton, has decided that the care of a small thief was our—which apparently means my—concern. As you know, I do not enjoy children, and I would think a bluestocking like Miss Smythe-Haughton wo
uld feel the same. But upon being faced with the choice of an informative trip to Paris or undertaking to correct the ill-bred activities of a troublesome waif, Miss Smythe-Haughton has inexplicably chosen the latter. I would leave without her, but she has our tickets and refuses to part with them until the present situation is resolved to her satisfaction.

  My dear brother, never allow a woman to hold all of the cards. You will regret it every time.

  CHAPTER 12

  In the months following the end of their relationship William had dreamed of these moments: of the warmth of her in his arms, her head upon his shoulder, of her sensual scent. Everywhere he went, he saw things that reminded him of her—the way a woman might tilt her head, or a random playbill tumbled down the street by a playful wind. It had seemed the universe was conspiring against his determination to forget her.

  Oh, he’d been a lovesick fool, one of the worst, longing for lost moments.

  It was difficult to realize that those moments were his again—his to live and to savor. But not for long, cold reality whispered in his ear.

  A prudent man would take this gift of unexpected passion for what it was, a moment’s impulse for them both. But with Marcail, he was never prudent. He couldn’t be.

  Marcail stirred and lifted her head, meeting his gaze with a faint blush, an awkward smile touching her soft, swollen lips. “That was … surprising.”

  “So it was. But it was always that way between us. One spark, instant flame.”

  She winced as if that thought pained her and he frowned. “Marcail, are you well? You winced—”

  She flushed. “I’m fine. I wasn’t expecting—” Her color deepened even more as if embarrassed by her own words. She gave an uncertain laugh. “I’m sorry. I-I’m just overwhelmed. That was lovely.” Her gaze met his and he could see the sincerity in her violet eyes. “It was perfectly lovely.”