With This Kiss: A First-In Series Romance Collection

by Kerrigan Byrne

  “You will?” She grinned up at him. “Thank you.”

  He released a breath he didn’t even know he’d been holding. “Are you sure you removed that spell?”

  “Cross my heart. There is no love spell on you.”

  He saw no deception there, which frustrated him even more.

  “Do you think we could borrow a few of these books, too?”

  “Fine.” He took his cape from the peg and shrugged into it. “Just put aside the ones you want while I take the trunk in.”

  “And the tub?”

  “What tub?” He turned back, fastening the cape.

  “That one.” She pointed to another corner where an old tin hip bath was filled with hay.

  “And the tub,” he said, walking over to close the lid on the trunk.

  He lifted the trunk and had to stifle a groan. The bloody thing weighed a ton. He moved toward the barn door, his thighs and arms feeling every pound. He felt a small hand on his arm. He stopped, taking a breath in the hope that he wouldn’t drop the damned thing.

  Joy stared up at him. “You do that well, too.”

  “Do what?”

  “Carry things,” she said with pride in her voice. She gave his arm a pat and ran back to the corner.

  Alec stood there for a moment, the muscles in his arms taut and straining from the weight of the trunk and his shoulders and back quivering with the strain. He took another deep breath, searching for extra strength, and found it from some miraculous place. Head high, shoulders back, and face unchanged, he strode through the doors, bloody well determined to haul the damned trunk to the inn.

  “The dark and dangerous Duke of Dryden reined in his huge frothing stallion and searched the foggy marsh for a sign of the Gypsy girl. He spotted a flash of red and slowly edged his mount toward a misty pile of rocks. He intended to find her, by God! The wench was destined to be his! The shadowy mist suited his black mood, for she had pricked his pride, and he would exact revenge by taking her to his bed ….”

  “Oh, my goodness.” Joy slammed the book shut and stared at the title: The Dastardly Duke. “I think I need this one, too,” she muttered and placed it on the stack of books that seemed to grow with each volume she touched. She looked at the other titles— Tom Jones, Moll Flanders, Fanny Hill, Robinson Crusoe—novels she had never read.

  Then she turned to her discard stack—Shakespeare. The MacLean had forbidden her to read his plays, calling him an upstart Sassenach who didn’t know the first thing about Scottish witches.

  Joy shrugged and walked over to the tin tub. She tipped it over, emptying the hay, then dragged it over to her stack of books. She stood back and dusted off her hands.

  Alec came back inside and looked at the smaller stack of books. “I see you like Shakespeare.” He began to put the wrong books in the hip bath.

  “Oh, no. Those are the ones I don’t want. The other stack is what I want.”

  He scanned the spines, frowning. He picked up the top book. “Tom Jones? I think not.” He tossed the book into the corner.

  “But I looked through it. It’s about a poor foundling.”

  He ignored her and picked up another. “Moll Flanders?”

  “Her mother was imprisoned for stealing food, before she was even born. Poor wee thing. She was sold to the Gypsies. It was her first recollection.” That too went the way of the others.

  His voice grew louder. “Fanny Hill?”

  She blushed. “That one looked . . . very intriguing.”

  And louder. “The Dastardly Duke?” He all but choked on the title.

  She winced, but wisely remained silent.

  “You will not read these.” He picked up the last book and read the title. “You may read this one.” He handed her Robinson Crusoe. “And the plays of Shakespeare.” He picked up the books from her discard pile and put them in the tub. He straightened, then said something about retrieving the milk and crossed over to the cow.

  Joy stared at the one book in her hand. She glanced at him, seeing he was behind the cow. Quickly she picked up The Dastardly Duke, rammed it under the stack of Shakespeare, and placed the sanctioned book on top. Just for good measure she put the small basket of eggs atop that, then scooted away and stood there, hands behind her back, waiting and humming and trying to look innocent.

  He came around the cow and set the milk pail in front of her. “Do you think you can carry this?”

  She tested the weight of the pail. “Aye.”

  He helped her on with her coat, then lifted the tub of books in his brawny arms, and they left the barn.

  Joy halted the moment they stepped outside. The wind had ceased and all was silent—that utter stillness that seeps often settled in after a snowstorm. It was as if the world had stopped and there was nothing but silence within silence. Icicles dripped like white crystal beards from the steep roof of the inn, where snow lay in a thick puffy icing atop the thatch. Standing between the inn yard and the frozen silver river were tall trees that the storm had powdered with clean white snow. It was almost as if they’d been dipped in sugar.

  A rabbit hopped across the snow, its footprints the first sign of life in a white and silver world. It paused to look at them, its whiskered nose sniffing the air for a sign of danger, then twitched its long ears and darted off behind the trees in a trail of scattering white.

  “Oh . . . isn’t it lovely?” Joy said in a whisper of awe.

  “What?” Alec shifted the tub and searched the area.

  “The snow.” She couldn’t believe he didn’t see it “It’s winter’s gift.”

  “Hardly a gift. More like a coffin. We almost died in it.”

  She set the milk pail down. “But look around. Can’t you see the beauty of it? It’s almost as if we’re in a silent fairyland, all white and silver and sparkling. Do you suppose heaven could look like this?” She lifted a handful of fresh white snow and held it up. “If you hold it up and look through it—see?—the light shines through and the snow glitters like diamond dust.”

  Alec frowned.

  “Look,” she insisted.

  “All I see is water running down your arm.” He walked past her without a glance.

  She looked at the melting snow in her hand, tossed it away, and watched his back as he carried the tub down the path. “Hardheaded Englishman,” she muttered. “Thinks I cast a love spell over him.” Frustrated at his inability to be anything but rigid, she grabbed a handful of snow, packed it, and flung it right at his hard head. It felt so good.

  He stopped walking, set the tub down, and slowly turned around, brushing the snow from the back of his neck. He stared at her as if she were daft.

  She hurled another snowball. It hit him smack dab in his scowling face.

  She giggled.

  “Bloody hell! What do you think you are doing?”

  “Hitting you with snowballs.” She nailed him with another.

  “I do not find this amusing.”

  “I do.”

  “Stop. Now.”

  Her answer was to take aim and throw another, hoping he’d loosen up and throw one back.

  “Stop it.” He wiped the snow from his face.

  She remembered the cocky way he’d tossed her books aside. Her patience waning, she packed the snowball tighter, then wound back her arm, and got him right in the chest. Her magic should be so accurate.

  “I said cease, at once!”

  Then she remembered the arrogant way he’d told her to remove her love spell. She packed the snow in her hand. There hadn’t been any love spell. She wadded the snow as tight as she could. If she could have cast such a spell on him, she would have done so. That would have been a whole lot easier than trying to teach this man about love. She heaved the snowball, hard.

  He ducked. “I command you to stop this.”

  “Haven’t you ever played in the snow?” She tossed another well-packed snowball from one hand to the other, deciding which body quadrant she should aim for.

  “Dukes don�
��t play.”

  “I meant when you were a wee lad.”

  “I was never a wee lad. I was the Belmore heir.” His voice was hard, and his stance became stiffen. She could see the tension in him, but couldn’t see the child in him because he had never been one.

  She stared at his unyielding expression, knowing he had never sneaked down to the kitchens to raid the pie shelf in the pantry, never skipped stones across a lake, never played hide-and-seek or blind man’s bluff or any other child’s game. The air grew quiet and a little sad. She looked at the snow splattered on his coat, then at the snowball melting in her hand. Something told her that snow would melt a great deal sooner than her husband would.

  With a sigh of defeat, she gave up for now, dropping the snowball into the snow. She could tell by his look that he would become angrier if she continued. She picked up the milk and carried it toward the inn.

  As she walked past him, his voice became ice and he said, “You are not some child. You are the Duchess of Belmore.”

  “Not really.” The words flew out of her mouth before she could blink. She walked by and opened the inn door.

  He followed her inside and dropped the tub with a loud thud. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “I am not truly your wife.” She set the milk down in the kitchen and turned around, hands on her hips.

  She was fed up enough to challenge him. “I think you are afraid of me.”

  It worked. She caught a quick flash of pricked pride in his face, and a second later he pulled her, none too gently, into his arms.

  He looked down at her, still angry. “What can you possibly do to me that you haven’t already done? I am not afraid of you.”

  “There was no love spell, Alec. I cannot control my magic well enough to cast one.”

  “You made me out the fool?” Suddenly something more primal than anger shone in his eyes, and his mouth closed over hers. There was fierceness in his kiss, and passion. He met her challenge, rose to the bait. But passion rose faster, and their lips did not break apart until he had carried her upstairs. He kicked open the bedroom door, and it crashed against the wall.

  “Alec,” she whispered against his stubbly jaw.

  His answer was to kick the door shut, hard.

  “Alec,” she repeated softly, and placed her hand on his heart as she looked up at him.

  He turned furious eyes on her.

  “See?” she said, patting his chest. “You do carry things well.”

  He was so quiet, didn’t move, except to close his eyes. He took deep, calming breaths. He opened his eyes and said nothing. His face was that of a man who was fighting to keep some demon down. His jaw tightened, his hands were tense, his mouth thinned.

  Don’t fight it, love, please, she prayed, please . . .

  He struggled. She could feel the rhythm of his heartbeat against the palm of her hand.

  She touched his jaw. “My Alec,” she whispered.

  All the anger drained out of his face, melting like snow-flakes in a warm spring rain. He bent over and kissed her, his lips barely touching hers. He tasted her with his mouth the way one might sip fine wine. She had known this tenderness was there, underneath that icy veneer he wore like his pride. He set her gently on the mattress before the fire, and then she was in his arms again.

  The Duke of Belmore kissed with the same command, the same confidence and assurance that had first drawn Joy to him. She adored his flavor, the erotic feel of his tongue stroking and filling her mouth. It made her want something more, made her feel as if she needed to somehow get closer to him.

  The roughness of his tongue against hers, against her lips and teeth and the roof of her mouth made her warm and tingling. Nothing in the whole wide world could have been more wonderful than being held by Alec, kissed by him, loved by him.

  After little more than one passionate kiss, his hands opened the buttons on her dress and stroked her back through the torn gap in her chemise the way a breeze might caress the leaves. His mouth moved to her ear, the rough stubble of his beard grazing her cheek and jaw and raising gooseflesh on her neck and arms. He raised one hand and touched the tender skin along the side of her neck. She opened her eyes and watched him.

  He answered the question in her gaze quietly. “So soft. Your skin is so soft. Are you as soft and sweet inside, Scottish?”

  “Alec . . . ”

  “You are my wife, my duchess, in every way but one.” He licked her ear and whispered, “Now, Scottish. I want you now.”

  She moaned a yes, and his mouth wet a path down her neck. At the same time, he pushed her dress off her shoulders. The torn chemise went with it. The air hit her bare breasts. She sucked in a breath and tried to hide her chest against his.

  “No. Let me see you.” He held her fast while his mouth and tongue moved across her collarbone and down to a breast. “Let me taste you, watch you pearl for me.”

  His mouth closed over that taut breast, sucking, his rough tongue flicking across the tip. She groaned and held his head against her while he took more of her into his warm mouth, sucking harder and harder, and with each pull of his mouth she felt something deep inside that most private part of a woman. Such unimagined ecstasy, this thing between man and woman. She closed her eyes and let sensation overtake her.

  He went on and on until there was little conscious thought left in her, yet she had never been so alive, so aware of things inside her body that she’d never experienced. She could almost feel her blood thicken and flow honeylike through her, feel the differences between them—male versus female.

  His skin was rougher, but that roughness was tempered by the stroking tickle of the thick dark hair that curled on his arms. She ran her hands up them, feeling that warm soft hair. His muscles were firm and hard, his skin darker than hers. And there was some kind of exotic thrill in those differences, and an excitement that was as old as time.

  His tongue stroked the crest of her breast sending chills skating over her skin. Her breath rushed out like the tide. His mouth created a mist of kisses over her ribs, the undersides of her breasts, her collarbone. Then, he sank into her mouth. She didn’t know what it was she wanted, but she wanted something and held him tighter, moved against him with some distant yearning.

  As if he knew her need, he ran his hand down her thigh, his teasing touches like wind-kisses, then slid up and under her skirt to stroke the length of her inner thigh with his palm, each time moving closer and closer to the heart of her.

  He touched her then, and heavens above, she found what she had craved. She buried her face in his neck and whimpered, half embarrassed and half relieved. He moved his fingers through her private hair, combing until he touched a small damp bud. That touch sent a jab of pleasure through her so sweetly that her eyes misted. She cried out.

  “Scottish. Spread for me.”

  She did, and he rubbed more, making fuller circles first, then using two fingers to press against and between her nether lips, fondling her flesh so intimately that she knew he was the only one destined to do this. After an eternal stroke of time, stroke of pleasure from his knowing touch, he cupped her and kept pressure against her most sensitive point with the heel of his hand, fingering and playing with her. Never would she have believed a touch could be so intimate, but it felt so very good that she wouldn’t have stopped him for all the magic in the world.

  “Unbutton my shirt,” he commanded in a whisper, then moved a finger deeper, massaging along and between her nether lips, flickering the point of her with each stroke.

  “Alec.” She pushed his shirt aside and down his arms. Her sensitive breasts touched the thick curly hair on his chest, and it was his turn to groan. In reaction, he pushed his finger into her inch by wet inch, pulling back, only to dip deeper the next time.

  Her knees began to quiver, and her breath came in hurried pants. Instinctively, she rubbed her breasts against his chest.

  “God Almighty.” He filled her mouth with his ravaging tongue. He used t
he arm that held her to pull her tight against him. His other hand, the one that was damp with her, tore at the buttons on his breeches. He fumbled with his clothes, kicking off his boots and pants and shrugging out of his shirt, the whole time he held her. He tossed the shirt behind her. “Stand up.”

  “I can’t. My legs won’t hold me.”

  He swore and pulled her clothes down her hips and knees until he could lift her free of them. His hands gripped her buttocks and held her against his waist. He used one hand to lift her leg around him.

  “Lock your legs around me.”

  She did, and instantly felt herself open, felt the coolness of air against the place his touch had melted. He sat back on his heels and she felt his hardness, the full length of him. He reached between their bodies and opened her flesh more, so the hardest part of him nestled along her. Then he shifted, using his male strength, the hard length of him, to caress her as his fingers had, and to rub against that tender bud.

  Her arms were linked around his neck, her mouth fused to his, his tongue filling and retreating with long, slow strokes. His hands gripped her bottom, separating and lifting her as he moved his hips, sliding up and down the length of her nether lips in the same rhythm, the same slow movements, the same thrusts as his tongue.

  She dewed against him, could feel his heartbeat, and her own sounded like drums in her ears. She strained toward him even though his hands on her bottom were controlling the movements. She wanted something more.

  “Please,” she begged against his mouth.

  He groaned a response she didn’t hear. Gone were the senses of sound and sight. She could taste and she could feel, but no more. He followed her down to the mattress, his hard length still spread against her damp womanhood. He pulled back, and she cried out, but an instant later his fingers separated her and she felt the tip of him penetrate her, enter inside her, and widen her with its thickness.

  She stilled. “It hurts.”