by Karen Ranney
No, Your Lordship. It did not enter my mind but a fleeting second.
On step six, Shona Imrie Donegal, could you not have pulled away?
With all ease, Your Lordship. I could have fled the house, run into the storm, and known myself safe.
Then why did you not?
Oh, Your Lordship, if I could explain that, I would not be here at all, standing before an imaginary justice, while a court of righteousness decreed my fate.
At the head of the stairs, he turned left, then left again. At the end of the hall, he opened the door to a room, so small that she turned and looked at him in surprise.
“The bedroom I had as a boy,” he said.
Only a narrow bed, a ladder-back chair, and a bureau could fit in it. The curtains, deeply emerald, were castoffs from another room, since the hems obviously had been refaced.
The rooms for Gairloch’s staff were more luxurious than this monastic-like cell.
She disliked the pinch of her heart, the sudden wish to comfort him. He regarded her with a piercing stare, but the shadow of the boy was there, the son of Lieutenant General MacDermond, the father always to be addressed with military precision and bearing.
Yes sir, no sir, perhaps sir. Never Father. Never Da.
“I have a larger chamber now,” he said. He came to stand in front of her, leaned down, the words bathing her cheek. “This is the only bedroom with a view of Gairloch. I want to take you here, where I imagined you so many times.”
She could barely breathe.
“Give me the brooch,” he said.
With trembling fingers, she reached into her pocket, withdrew the brooch, barely noting when the clasp scratched her skin. She placed it on his palm, her head bent and looking at their two hands.
“Now give me your body.”
Her head jerked up.
He reached for her collar, beginning her unveiling with practiced fingers. This was not the fevered coupling in the factory. This was slow and sure. An inch of skin, then more, a steady revelation that she wasn’t quite the girl she’d been. Her body was riper, fuller, hungrier for love. She knew, now, what she’d missed.
Another few buttons, and she began to breathe harder, her skin heating, the feeling of helplessness growing. Not bending to his will but her own need. Her eyes closed slowly, savoring the sensations with trembling wonder.
She felt as if she’d imbibed too much whiskey, the strength of it mimicking what she felt at this moment. As if, even barely touching her, Gordon was rendering her sotted, drunk from him.
He smelled of clean linen, the lingering acrid scent from his explosion experiments, and soap. His fingertips were rough but gentle, and when they smoothed the skin they revealed, she shivered.
Her breasts tingled and tightened, the nipples drawn up and heated. Warmth pooled in secret crevasses; her legs trembled as if they could barely sustain her weight.
She opened her eyes to find him studying her. Too many years had passed for her to be able to decipher his look. Gently, she placed one hand on his cheek, feeling the silence press around her and into her.
He kissed the tip of her thumb, softly smiling in reassurance.
Didn’t he know that she didn’t fear the act with him? She never had. If anything, she was afraid of what she might give him beyond the pleasure they’d share with their bodies. Her heart, perhaps. Or her soul.
Would he capture it and hold it hostage? Or would he simply incinerate it, and return it along with her heart, an empty, shriveled shell?
Chapter 24
The storm made night of day, brought the wrath of God down on Invergaire Glen. Sheep scuttled to safety, hairy-faced Highland cattle steadfastly endured, and humans, depending on their experience with the weather, either looked eastward to the flash of blue and resigned themselves to a short, nasty spell or found shelter somewhere safe and dry.
At Rathmhor, Gordon was uncaring about the ferocity of the storm. As a flash of lightning illuminated the room, he realized the weather would have rendered his experiments dangerous had it occurred an hour earlier. Providence had gifted him with safety and now seduction as Shona stood in front of him with a solemn look.
His hands reached up slowly and parted her bodice, giving her a chance to step away. She only continued to look at him wide-eyed and silent. A sacrificial lamb awaiting its fate.
The idea of Shona playing the role of victim brought a smile to his face.
What a damn fool he was.
Did you ever love me? A question she’d never answered. One that held him immobile, studying her. The whites of her eyes were pink, as if she’d wept unknown to him. Her cheeks were flushed, and her lips full and slightly open. A mouth petulant for a kiss. He wanted to ask her again, demand an answer of her.
If she said no? Would he gently button her bodice, send her from Rathmhor in peace with only the memory of his chivalry? Or would he love her regardless?
If she said yes? Then he’d ask her if she could love him again. He’d humble himself, perhaps even beg.
He’d stood on a ridge at Balaklava, facing down several thousand Russian cavalry. At Lucknow and Begum Kothi, he’d fought the enemy hand to hand. As Colonel of the Regiment, he’d sent men into battle, positioning his troops to assault the enemy and protect the regiment’s flanks.
A man seemingly without fear.
But he knew it now, and was kept silent by it.
Folding back the placket of her bodice, he bent forward, gently kissed the pulse at the base of her throat.
“Is this where you put your perfume?” he asked, the mental image of her doing so this morning somehow necessary to validate. He wanted snippets of scenes in his mind, to hold there regardless of what happened between them.
She nodded.
“Where else?”
A shake of her head indicated that he’d have to find all the spots himself.
Gently, he peeled the bodice from her shoulders, his thumbs trailing down her arms. How improper she looked, plump breasts hinting at freedom from their corset cage. Her skirt was next, and an array of fastenings that almost defied him. But he persisted, determined not to be stopped at this point. His fingers were clumsy, his heart thrummed in his chest, and his engorged cock was threatening to pop his trouser buttons.
What a damn eager fool he was.
He pushed the froth of petticoats, hoop, skirts down to the floor, too impatient to bother with the proper care of her clothing. Wrapping his hands around her waist, he simply lifted her up and placed her to one side, kicking at the pile of garments until it was adequately subdued.
A kiss. He needed a kiss now.
He pulled her to him, lowered himself into the abyss that was kissing Shona, the darkness behind his eyelids sparkling with their own explosions.
“I’ll name it Shona,” he murmured against her lips.
She blinked up at him, her beautiful gray eyes misty. “What?”
“My blasting powder. I’ll call it Shona powder.”
A silly idea, one she greeted with a smile.
He leaned down, his forehead against hers. “You affect me the same way,” he said softly. A confession he hadn’t meant to make.
Before she could say anything, he kissed her again, his fingers working on her laces. He wanted her naked, pliant, eager, and on his bed.
First, however, he had to get the damn corset off.
He swore, which prompted her smile again, but he didn’t care. There wasn’t any hiding his eagerness, his near desperation. The corset finally done, he almost flung it across the room, but settled for tossing it to the mound of her clothes.
Now for the shift and beneath it, pantaloons with a touch of lace, pretty little garters, stockings, and shoes.
He couldn’t wait.
Lifting her up, he deposited her on his boyhood bed, one not constructed for seduction. She rose up on her elbows, the look on her face a combination of surprise and amusement.
It was easier to get his clothes off.
/> He shouldn’t have bothered to change after the experiments, should have just bodily transported her up here and have her watch as he bathed. Naked and wet, he could have turned to her, allowed her body to dry him.
The trousers were more difficult, due to the size of his erection. His cock was pointing at her as if it were a sentient being and knew its home.
The amusement had faded from her face, her attention focused on that part of him that stood at attention and trembled in her presence.
Naked, he stood and let her look her fill, until impatience had him unfastening her shoes, dragging her stockings off, and nearly ripping her pantaloons in his haste.
She never said a word, just raised her hips to allow him to pull off her clothing, sitting up when he addressed the issue of her shift.
Finally, finally, finally she was naked, the cool air pebbling her skin. He’d warm her.
His hands smoothed up her thighs, his thumbs playing in the nest of curls. She was damp for him, eager, spreading her thighs. A temptress who needed to be kissed again.
The bed was too small. He moved to place one knee on the floor, his hands on her thighs. His lips trailed a path up each leg to her hips.
She trembled.
He rose a little, kissing her from hip to waist, lingering at her navel, then trailing a chain of kisses to the underside of each beautiful, full breast.
Her indrawn breath evoked a smile from him. So, too, did the widening of her legs.
Come to me.
A siren’s call, one he ignored for the moment.
He slid his fingers through her damp folds, pushing back his own eagerness to make her climax first. He wanted to see her, neck arched, eyes wide and wild, biting her lip to keep herself from screaming.
God, he wanted her to scream.
She lay trembling beneath his regard, unconcerned for her nakedness. But, then, any woman with her perfection of form shouldn’t be worried about displaying it. She was a Greek statue come to life, alabaster given warmth.
He was filled with her, fingers damp, nostrils flaring with the scent of her arousal.
Bending his head, he tugged at one nipple with his lips, his mouth suckling her, the taste of her beating at the door of his restraint.
“There,” he said, inhaling the scent of her skin between her breasts. “You put it there.”
Loving her in the factory had been too quick. Here, it wasn’t going to be different. Hell, it had always been that way. He saw her, he wanted her. He breathed in her perfume, he wanted her. She smiled at him, he wanted her.
Thoughts of her made him hard. Her laughter made him hard.
Her thighs widened and any thoughts of waiting were pushed aside by need.
He rose up, bracing his forearms on either side of her. Her lips were reddened, her cheeks pink, and he found it a surprising challenge to look into her eyes and not tell her how much he loved her still, perhaps always.
Instead, he surged into her.
“I’m sorry,” he said, settling himself, sliding home with a feeling of bliss so sharp he closed his eyes.
He commanded himself to restraint, but it was easier ordered than done. He kissed her, pulling gently out, hearing her soft plaintive moan and feeling the same. He thrust deep, again and again. Shona gripped his arms, hips jutting up as she planted her feet on his narrow bed and rose to meet him.
A low, keening sound escaped her lips. Her eyes closed as she turned her head.
No mortal man could withstand the sight of Shona wild and helpless with passion.
He wanted to gather her up, keep her his, love her until the earth aged and tired. He wanted to pleasure her for a thousand years, feel her lips against his, her tongue, her breath.
Suddenly, he was close, too damn close to last. When he erupted into her, his climax was an explosion of its own.
He collapsed on her, made a mental note to shift his weight, but even that would have to wait until he was capable of moving. Her heart was racing. He bent his head, kissing her breast to soothe the thrumming beat. He laid his head beside hers. In a moment, he’d be able to breathe. His hand waved in the air as if to gain him time. Her hand weakly patted him on the back in wordless understanding.
He didn’t stand a chance with her. How could he ever deny her anything? How could he ever not love her?
“What did you mean?” she asked a moment later, her voice trembling. “Why should I forgive you?”
He smiled into the pillow. “For being rash, too quick.”
“Thank heavens you were,” she said softly.
He supported himself on his arms, looking down at her. Her eyes were closed, her face flushed, but a smile sat happily on her full lips.
What a damn ecstatic fool he was.
“Did I please you?”
Her eyes opened, and he almost called back the question, foolish that it was. He kissed her, sealing the admission on her lips.
He moved to the side, his arm across her body. Her hand curled into a fist, rested at his waist.
Outside, the storm raged, nature a petulant child intent on gaining attention. He allowed his eyes to close, drew her next to him until they made do on the narrow bed. Her perfume wafted up from behind her ear, and he smiled.
He’d found another place.
When Shona woke, Gordon was gone.
She turned her head to the right to see that the storm had passed, the window revealing a clear and cloudless afternoon. She hadn’t heard him get up, dress, and leave. At least she’d slept, something she’d not been able to do well for days now.
Sitting up, she surveyed the room. He’d put her garments in some order, folding them neatly and placing them on the chair beside the bed. How odd that she felt more embarrassed about him touching her garments than about bedding him.
Sometimes, she amused herself.
At the foot of the bed was a leather pouch. Frowning, she reached over, opened it, and stared at the contents. Inside the pouch was enough money to keep her—and the residents of Gairloch—until the castle was sold.
Only a fool would weep at this moment.
But she’d never been wise around Gordon.
Shafts of sunlight pierced the remaining gray clouds. The storm had left the air smelling of spring, a curiosity since winter was approaching with vigor. The road to the Works was strewn with fallen leaves and small branches that hadn’t been able to withstand the winds, and in the distance, the windows of Gairloch glittered like tear-filled eyes.
Gordon guided his horse around the worst of the debris, his attention only partially focused on his destination. Why had he confided in Shona? He’d vowed not to trust her, yet he’d told her his plans as well as his thoughts.
She’d always had a way of piercing his guard.
Perhaps it had something to do with her confession about finances. Her expression had been wary, as if afraid he’d ridicule her. Instead, he’d wanted to take her in his arms and promise her that he’d protect her and keep her safe. He wanted to make the world a safer place for her. He wanted to stand between her and what caused her discomfort or worry, and if that didn’t make him a besotted idiot, he didn’t know what did.
He wasn’t going to think about Shona asleep in his bed, a soft flush coloring her face even in sleep. He wasn’t going to think about how damn hard it had been to leave her.
He suspected, however, looking toward the Works, that history would repeat itself. They’d never have a future together. Shona would continue to hold on to her pride. It was part of who she was, after all. When her parents had died, she’d mourned them, but carried on. Evidently, she’d done the same when her husband died. Stalwart, brave, and arrogant—words he would forever use to describe her.
But such rigidity made it impossible for her to bend, and he wasn’t going to accept less than what he deserved. In this case, a woman who loved him wholly and completely, who would put him above all others.
He’d spent years trying to win his father’s love, only to realize t
hat his father was incapable of that emotion. He wasn’t going to make the same mistake with Shona.
He’d treated Rani badly, abruptly abandoning his partner for Shona, and he’d have to apologize for that. But the morning hadn’t been a total waste. They’d learned that the second formulation was more stable. The third, using kieselguhr, assisted in the nitration process.
The Works was proving to be ideal for the production of his new blasting powder. The supply of acid for the nitration process was obtained from a company near Edinburgh, and the kieselguhr was found in deposits along Loch Mor.
In addition, Rani was a brilliant chemist.
The carriage at the front of the main building of the Works was a curiosity. The fact that three men left it as he dismounted was only interesting, not alarming.
He remembered one of his sergeant’s favorite expressions: Don’t stand out, sir; it draws fire. Just what kind of fire were those three about to deliver?
Attired in a similar fashion—long frock coats, tall silk hats, and suits of black, respectable serge—they immediately reminded him of London bankers. The similarity didn’t end with their clothing. Each had an expression of somberness, as if they’d come to announce a death. Perhaps he’d been wrong to liken them to bankers. Undertakers would do as well.
“Sir Gordon?” the tallest of the three said. His hair was a pewter gray, marking him as the eldest of the three.
“Yes?”
Gordon halted where he was, cautious because he disliked surprises. The three of them were most definitely unplanned. He fingered the Imrie Clan brooch in his pocket as if it were a talisman, something to keep him safe.
“Might we have a moment of your time?”
“Might I inquire as to why?”
The spokesman smiled. “A matter of some urgency, sir. We’ve come to offer you a business proposition.”
Curious now, he strode to the door, opened it, and motioned the three inside. They followed him across the cavernous space in single file, mutely, a solemn procession of middle-aged men.
He’d cleared out the accounting manager’s office for his own use and stood behind an ancient wormwood-riddled desk facing them.
