Some Like It Wild

by Teresa Medeiros

  He felt her graceful throat convulse in a swallow. “If this is how you greet every woman who comes to your bed, Mr. Kincaid, I can see why you might have to pay for your pleasures.”

  He carefully uncocked the weapon that was under his control, but could do nothing about the one pressed to her thigh. Nor did he relinquish his grip on her slender wrists. “You’d sleep with a loaded pistol under your pillow too, lass, if someone in this house was trying to kill you.”

  “I can assure you that I didn’t sneak in here to smother you with a pillow. Although I must confess the prospect has its merits.”

  He gazed down at her, fighting the temptation to silence her saucy little mouth with a kiss. But with her beneath him and completely at the mercy of his superior strength, he couldn’t trust himself to be satisfied with a mere kiss—no matter how delectable.

  Silently cursing himself for a fool, Connor freed her wrists and rolled off of her, dragging the sheet over his lap as he did so. Unfortunately, that only succeeded in making a rather pronounced tent. Hell, at this point even the counterpane wouldn’t have helped.

  He slipped the pistol back under his pillow, then scooted backward to lean against one of the bedposts at the foot of the bed. He figured the more distance he put between them, the sooner his boiling blood would cool.

  Pamela sat up and rubbed her wrists, giving him a reproachful look. “I must say your hospitality leaves a little to be desired.”

  “How did you get in?” he demanded. “Did you climb through the window?”

  “No. I walked through the door.”

  He scowled. “Damn that worthless valet of mine. Brodie was supposed to have locked the door when he came in. He must still be out making calf’s eyes at the cook.”

  Pamela’s eyes widened. “The squat woman with no neck and the ham hocks for hands?”

  “That would be her. She chased him out of the kitchen with a meat cleaver this afternoon when he offered to show her his tattoo, but he insisted she was just toying with his affections and will make him a bonny wife someday.”

  Pamela shook her head ruefully. “Perhaps we should be more worried about the cook mistaking you for Brodie and cleaving you to death in your sleep than Lady Astrid poisoning your tea or Crispin pushing you down a flight of stairs.”

  As Connor remembered the raw panic he had felt when the point of Crispin’s epee went whipping toward Pamela, he felt his face harden. “Oh, I think I can take care of young master Crispin. All you have to do is let me hold him down and pummel him until he confesses.”

  “I’m afraid you might enjoy that a little too much. Even if he turns out to be innocent.”

  Connor snorted. “Men like him are never innocent.”

  “Are you saying that because he’s English or because he reminds you of yourself at that age?”

  “At his age, I was still riding with my clansmen, trying to fulfill my father’s dream of reuniting Clan Kincaid.”

  “Why did you give up on that dream?” she asked softly.

  “Because I finally realized we weren’t the heroes we’d always fancied ourselves to be. That we’d become the very thing we despised—common villains preying on the weak.”

  Pamela arched one eyebrow. “So you decided to pursue the more virtuous vocation of highwayman?”

  “A highwayman doesn’t have to lie to himself to make himself believe that all of his efforts are for some noble cause when the only worthwhile cause is filling his own purse. He doesn’t have to play the hero and spend half his life pretending he can save his men and his clan when he can’t even save himself.”

  Pamela should have been alarmed by the ruthless glint in Connor’s eye, but she found herself creeping closer to him instead of fleeing. She already knew there was nowhere she could hide to escape his piercing gaze.

  “Why did you come here tonight, Pamela?” he demanded in a low growl. “What do you want?”

  No one had ever asked her that question before. Not her mother. Not Sophie. She’d been too busy tending to their wants and needs to consider her own, which was why she still had no answer for him. At least not one she could trust to words. All she could do was return his gaze and pray her heart was not in her eyes.

  He reached out and idly stroked his thumb over her lips. “I was hoping you’d come to deliver my prize.”

  His touch coaxed a smile from her lips. “If Crispin had won the fencing match, were you going to let him kiss me?”

  “If I had believed Crispin had a chance in hell of winning, I wouldn’t have agreed to the wager. Because if he had kissed you,” Connor told her solemnly, “I would have had no choice but to cut off his head.”

  There it was again. That thrilling note of possessiveness that made her feel as if she belonged to him. As if she would always belong to him.

  She blew out a long-suffering sigh. “Well, you did win, so I suppose I have no choice but to honor the wager.” She leaned toward him and pressed her eyes shut, already anticipating the tantalizing brush of his mouth against hers.

  “Oh, no you don’t, lass.” Her eyes flew open to find him leaning against the bedpost with his hands folded behind his head and a lazy smile curving his lips. “The kiss is my prize. You have to give it to me.”

  “Oh!” Pamela had no idea why she suddenly felt so ridiculously shy. He had already kissed her numerous times and she had kissed him back with an alarming lack of restraint. But somehow that wasn’t the same as initiating the kiss.

  Judging from his smirk, he was probably expecting her to give him a virginal peck on the cheek. Pursing her lips into a tight little rosebud, she touched them to the very corner of his mouth. But then that rosebud flowered, her mouth going soft and inviting against his smooth, firm lips.

  Connor sucked in a hissed breath but held himself utterly still, allowing Pamela to sample him to her heart’s content. One kiss soon melted into another. And another. Until his ragged groan emboldened her to trace the seam of his lips with the tip of her pert little tongue, to lick into his mouth with a tender hunger he ached to satisfy.

  He threaded his hands through her hair, tugging her mouth away from his. Her lips were still parted, her eyes misty with longing.

  “Were you planning on kissing Crispin with such unbridled enthusiasm?” he demanded, his breath coming hard and fast.

  “You’re the one who agreed to the wager. If he had won, I was going to make you kiss him.”

  He shook his head. “I always knew the English weren’t to be trusted.”

  “Then don’t trust me,” she whispered, lifting a hand to his cheek. “Just kiss me.”

  Pamela didn’t have to ask him twice. Connor slanted his mouth over hers with a ferocity born of desperation, mating her with the warm, rough sweetness of his tongue. For a breathless eternity, she could only cling to him, could only take what he would give her and wish for more.

  It seemed he was only too eager to oblige her unspoken wishes. While continuing to lay claim to her mouth with long, lavish kisses, he cupped her bottom in his big warm hands and lifted her into his lap. Her dressing gown fell open and her nightdress rode up as her knees slid down on either side of his powerful thighs, leaving her straddling the firm ridge of flesh beneath the sheet. As he arched upward, pressing himself to the tender mound between her thighs, her head fell back and a moan of raw pleasure tore from her throat.

  That moan turned into a whimper as he shifted her again, urging her around until she sat between his sprawled legs with her back to his chest. He reached around her, his sun-bronzed hands gently smoothing the skirt of her nightdress up to her waist, exposing her threadbare drawers to the silvery kiss of the moonlight and his touch.

  Their encounter in the Highlands had given him an unfair advantage. He knew he only had to tug at her drawers and the frayed seams would give way. As he did just that, Pamela gasped a protest.

  “I’ll buy you more,” he vowed, his voice a husky whisper in her ear. “Or better yet, you can just stop wearing them alt
ogether. Then I could touch you whenever I wanted. Wherever we happened to be. You can’t tell me it wouldn’t make those long, horrid meals with the duke and his asp of a sister more bearable.”

  A wicked little shiver raked Pamela as she imagined Connor slipping his hand beneath the tablecloth and beneath her skirts to stroke her there, without their fellow diners ever suspecting a thing.

  His hands were chapped and callused from hours of riding, which only made their tenderness more impossible to resist. His large fingers parted her curls, then her delicate folds, touching her in that wild and secret place with an exquisite care that made her want to weep.

  As he stroked and petted her, she shuddered with longing, a sob of pure pleasure wrenched from her trembling lips.

  “Shhhh, lass,” he murmured in her ear, desire thickening the musical cadences of his burr. “I just want to touch you. I’ll not hurt you. I swear it.”

  How could she tell him he was already hurting her? That he was carving off a piece of her fragile heart with each nimble stroke of his fingertips, each deft flick of his thumb over the throbbing little bud nestled in the crux of her silky curls? As he wrapped one arm around her waist, imprisoning her in a vise of delight, she could feel his unabated desire for her, riding high and hard against the cleft of her rump.

  She stole a furtive glance downward, captivated against her will by the forbidden wonders his fingers were working in the moonlight. There was something both shocking and erotic about being in his arms while bared all the way to the waist. As she watched his longest finger glide toward the very heart of her while his thumb continued its maddening rhythm, her treacherous body betrayed her deepest secret—that she wanted him as badly as he wanted her.

  Connor groaned, nearly undone by the thick tears of nectar Pamela’s body was weeping for him. He wanted nothing more than to accept her unspoken invitation. To whisk away the sheet that separated their naked flesh and urge her forward and to her knees, where she could better accept what he was aching to give her. He wanted to rub himself in the delectable cream welling up between her legs, then bury himself so deep inside of her she would no longer be able to tell where her body ended and his began.

  But this wasn’t some stranger he had paid to couple with him. This was Pamela. Brave, bonny Pamela who was bold and foolish enough to defy an armed highwayman with a toy gun, throw herself in front of Crispin’s sword, and take the biggest risk of all by coming to his bed in the middle of the night, her feet bare and her hair unbound.

  As he dipped his finger into her, marveling at how tight and hot she was, she arched into his hand. He wished it was his mouth—wished he could sample her musky sweetness, nip that swollen little bud with his teeth and use his tongue as a whip to drive her over the edge of ecstasy. But for now he had to satisfy himself with capturing her chin in a fierce grip and tilting her face to the side so their mouths could meld in a hot, hungry kiss.

  As Connor’s finger glided in and out of her, pushing deeper with each foray, Pamela writhed against him. He was persistent yet patient, and she was terrified he was just going to leave her teetering on the cusp of bliss until she expired from anticipation.

  “There’s no rush, sweetheart,” he whispered against the corner of her mouth. “I’ve got all night to make you come.”

  But he wouldn’t need all night. All it took was a second finger added to the first and a flick of his thumb and rapture went spilling through her in shuddering waves. She opened her mouth to cry out his name, but his hand was there, muffling her broken wail before she could wake the entire household.

  As Connor felt the fevered silk of Pamela’s body grip his fingers, he arched against her bottom, clenching his teeth against a spasm of raw lust. He was on the verge of losing control and spilling his seed without even being inside of her, something he hadn’t done since he was a lad of sixteen.

  It hardly helped his predicament when she wiggled around in his lap and threw her arms around his neck. As she rubbed her smooth cheek against his beard-stubbled one, he wouldn’t have been surprised to hear the angels singing. What he heard instead was:

  Once there was a bonny cook

  With legs as stout as trees.

  One squeeze from those dimpled thighs

  Could bring me to me knees

  “Oh, hell,” Connor swore as the muffled voice came drifting through the door. He buried his face in Pamela’s throat, his own voice so hoarse with lust he barely recognized it as his own. “If Brodie walks through that door right now, I swear to God I’m going to shoot him.”

  Pamela pushed against his shoulders, her hands gentle but firm. “I should go.”

  “Oh, no, you shouldn’t. If you stay, I promise I won’t shoot him.” His mouth glided down her throat, savoring the salty sweetness of her sweat-dampened flesh. “I’ll just hit him over the head with something very heavy. Maybe an iron poker or the clock from the mantel. We can hide his body in the window seat. It’ll be days before they find him. The cook will thank us.”

  She cupped his cheeks in her hands, forcing his head up so he could meet her glowing gaze. “I don’t want him to find me in your chamber.”

  “You could hide under here.” Giving her a hopeful grin, Connor reached to lift the sheet covering his lap.

  She grabbed his wrist, the shy downward flick of her gaze and her admiring swallow softening the sting of his disappointment. “I really don’t think there would be room.”

  Connor sighed. Brodie was whistling now, the cheery sound swelling with each step. Biting off an oath, Connor tucked the sheet around his waist, swept Pamela up in his arms and went striding toward one of the windows.

  Pamela clutched at his neck, her eyes widening in alarm. “What are you going to do? Toss me out the window?”

  “Do you trust me?” he asked, balancing her weight with one arm as he shoved up the window sash with his other hand.

  “No!”

  His response to her vehement declaration was to kiss her—long and deep and hard—until she was just as dazed and limp as she had been in those moments after his deft fingers had coaxed her over the brink. Before she could clear her mind enough to protest, he had wrapped his powerful hands around her wrists and was lowering her out the window.

  For a dizzying moment, there was nothing beneath her pinwheeling feet. Then she felt her toes connect with something solid and realized he had lowered her onto a broad shelf of a ledge that jutted out over the window below his chamber. From there she could easily swing into a nearby sycamore tree—to a spot where the branches formed a broad cradle.

  “You can climb down to the garden from there,” he called softly down to her. “The branches are close together—like a ladder.”

  Clinging to his wrists for dear life, Pamela gave the distant ground a dubious look. “What if I’d rather spend the night up here?”

  “Then you might have some explaining to do to the gardeners in the morning.” He leered down at her. “Especially since you’re not wearing any drawers.”

  She clamped her knees together, having forgotten that small but important fact. Glowering up at him, she eased her wrists from his grasp, swung from ledge to tree and began to clamber toward the ground, feeling her way along each branch with painstaking care.

  When Brodie eased open the door and slipped into the chamber, Connor was still standing at the window.

  “Are you still up, lad? I thought you’d be long asleep by now.”

  “I was,” Connor said, a smile curving his lips as he watched Pamela go scampering across the dew-drenched grass like some fey creature from his boyhood fantasies. “But a dream woke me up.”

  Ignoring the gawking footmen stationed at each end of the cherry sideboard, Connor added three coddled eggs, four rashers of crisp, juicy bacon and an entire school of kippers to the already heaping portions on his plate. He hesitated, eyeing each of the silver serving dishes in turn, then topped off his plate with a pair of steaming rolls and a slab of plum cake big enough to choke
a horse.

  Breakfast was the only meal where he was allowed to load his own plate and he had every intention of making the most of it. There were also more foods he could eat with his fingers instead of having to mince off tiny portions with one of those ridiculous forks. He was beginning to understand why Esau had traded his birthright to Jacob for a mess of pottage. He’d been so famished since their arrival at Warrick Park that he would have gladly traded the duke’s wealth and title for a hearty bowl of Scotch broth or a steaming portion of tatties and neeps.

  After exchanging an amused glance with his fellow servant, one of the footmen dared to address him directly. “We were just wondering, my lord, what one eats for breakfast in Scotland.”

  “Babies,” Connor replied without cracking a smile. “Plump, juicy English babies. Oh, and haggis, of course.”

  Leaving them with horrorstruck expressions, he carried his plate to the oval table beneath the windows where the duke and Lady Astrid were breaking their own fast.

  As he sank into his chair, he stole a surreptitious glance at the mantel clock, then the door, knowing very well that he’d been doing so every three minutes since he’d entered the sunny morning room where breakfast was served.

  He should have known his vigilance wouldn’t escape the duke’s sharp eyes. “Eager to lay eyes on your charming fiancée this morning, are we? Don’t be so impatient, son. Once the two of you are wed, you can keep her abed in the morning for as long as you like.”

  Lady Astrid glanced up from buttering a roll. “Really, Archibald. There’s no need for vulgarity, is there?”

  “On the contrary, Astrid. If a man is to keep his young bride satisfied, there’s every need for it.” He waved a fork in Connor’s direction. “I recommend vigorous vulgarity, son, at least once a day and twice on Sundays.”