“Say please,” Harry said.
Mary Elizabeth laughed and grabbed for the glass. Harry kept it out of her reach, pouring a bit of the wine down the front of her, then licking it away, spending a bit of extra time lapping at her nipples, even when she was sure that all the champagne was long since gone. Mary Elizabeth lost herself for a moment in the motion of his tongue, but when he pulled away at last, she remembered her wine.
“Please,” she said.
Harry did not hand her the glass as she thought he might, but raised it to her lips and tipped it back, that she might take a drink. She sipped at it, and he held the glass for her as delicately as any lady’s maid might have spooned broth into her when she was ill. He was nothing like a lady’s maid, however, and nothing like a nurse. His great body, which did not seem that large when he was talking, now seemed to dwarf her as she sat beside him.
Mary Elizabeth did not find herself troubled by her nakedness, nor embarrassed, which she supposed did mean she was a bit of a wanton. That did not worry her, for Harry would keep her secret. Whatever game he was playing at, he loved her and would defend her against all comers.
Of course, that did not change the fact that she did not know the rules to this game, and she was getting tired of waiting for him to touch her in earnest.
So Mary Elizabeth did as she always did in any situation in her life and took matters into her own hands. She pushed him back against the sofa cushions so that he was sitting a bit reclined, and she rose up over his lap, swinging one leg over him as she would a horse.
“There now,” she said. “That’s better.”
Harry did not bat an eyelash nor did he drop what was left of their wine, but his voice was a bit strangled when he answered her. “Is it, now?”
Mary Elizabeth wriggled against his manhood, the open, wet warmth of her pressing into the fine wool of his trousers, filling her with the approach of the bliss that Harry had given her in the library. His eyes filled with blue fire as she did it, and when she leaned down to kiss him, he dodged her mouth.
“Mary, you are baiting the bear,” he said.
“No,” she answered. “I am baiting you.”
She could not reach his mouth, so she trailed her lips along the side of his neck. She felt his hot breath next to the softness of her breasts, and she wriggled again, this time not to tease him, but to find his manhood beneath his clothes.
Before she could begin to unfasten his falls, Harry caught her hand in his. He set the wine down and caught her other hand, too, drawing her wrists behind her so that she could not touch him at all.
“Mary,” he said, his voice calm and his eyes blazing. “I am the man here. As on the dance floor, I will lead, and you will follow.”
Mary Elizabeth shivered at the way his voice changed. She looked into the blue of his eyes, wishing he might touch her, but not certain that she had the courage to ask.
“I want you, Harry. Show me what to do, and I will do it.”
He smiled then, and pressed a kiss to her breast where it rose higher with her arms behind her back. He held both her wrists easily in one hand, loosely, for she did not try to get away. His lips trailed across to her other breast and suckled there, but only a little, not drawing deep, not giving her even a glimpse of satisfaction, but making her lust rise higher.
“Harry,” she said. She did not sound polite to her own ears, but demanding, and he laughed a little against her breast. She wriggled then, and he stopped laughing, beginning to suckle her in earnest.
He still did not touch her in any other way, and with her hands behind her back, she could not touch him. Mary rose up, trying to brush herself against him. When she did, her breasts made contact with the buttons of his waistcoat, and she shuddered. She had forgotten that he was still fully dressed. Somehow, his clothes made her nakedness seem even more erotic. She was sure that if he did not touch her soon, she would die.
But she did not die. Harry’s free hand slipped between her body and his, caressing first the tops of her thighs and then the juncture between them. He found what he was seeking almost at once, and he did not make her wait, nor did he play at wooing her. Harry’s callused fingertips found the place between her thighs that was the fountain of all bliss, and he pressed there, hard, while one of his fingers slipped inside her body and did something else that made her come apart completely.
Mary Elizabeth screamed then, the pleasure was so great. Harry caught her scream with his mouth to muffle the sound, but she did not care if the whole house heard her. There was no one else in that house, nothing else on earth, but Harry and herself, and the music their bodies made together.
The pleasure did not recede all at once, but trickled out of her, one spasm at a time. She found herself draped across the man she loved, her cheek pressed against his heart, which was thundering as loud as if he had run a mile. He gasped, as she did, and he had not had any pleasure yet at all.
This concerned her, but only a little, as something to be dealt with as soon as she got her breath back. But before she could breathe deep, Harry had her tossed over his shoulder, one hand caressing her bum and the other bracing her legs.
“Harry, what devilry is this, then?”
“I’ll not have you on a sofa,” he said. “My wife deserves a bed.”
The word wife on his tongue thrilled her as she knew the word duchess never would. Mary Elizabeth hung down, contemplating his fine derriere before he tossed her on the bed. How they had made it into the next room so quickly, Mary Elizabeth was not sure, but the bedclothes had been turned down, and the linen sheets were cool against her heated skin. She wriggled against them, making a snow angel she could not see, as she watched the man she loved undress before her.
He was quick about it, so she could not see everything as she would have wished, but what she could see, she savored. The light was a bit dim, being only candlelight, but she could see the width of his shoulders and the smooth tapering of his hips. She followed the trail of hair from his chest down to his manhood, and when he lay down beside her on the bed and covered her body with his own, she swirled her fingers in his chest hair even as she kissed him.
He kissed her long and well, but his hands were busy, positioning her the way he wanted her, tucking a pillow beneath her hips and then a second one beneath the small of her back, until she felt a bit strange. She did not have time to feel foolish however, for he was between her thighs then, the whole beautiful, muscled Harry-ness of him, and he kissed her, his fingertips exploring her again, making her sob with need though she had only just reached the peak of pleasure.
He slid inside her just as she was beginning that climb again. He was a large man, which was a good thing, for he surrounded her on all sides, so that she could not have gotten away if she had wanted to. She did not want to, but her body was hungry for the pleasure again and seemed to want to climb him of its own accord to seek it. But Harry knew what she needed, so that even as he breached her maidenhead in one clean stroke, she felt only the smallest bite of pain before the larger wave of pleasure rose to swamp it, taking her reason with it.
He moved against her as a battering ram might take down a fortress wall. She did not stand against him, but welcomed him in. He battered her all the same, taking her step by spiraling step higher into pleasure, until she screamed again, this time saying his name. His lips clamped over hers, and he shuddered against her until he too lay still.
They lay together then. Mary Elizabeth wondered for one brief, odd moment if she was dead and he with her, for surely such pleasure could not exist anywhere on the earth.
For such a thing to be, the world was a far different place than she had ever known it to be. It made her wonder.
She lay there, wondering, until Harry raised his head and smiled down at her. He kissed her, her gentle Harry once more, the passionate barbarian asleep for the moment behind the blue of his eyes.
“And that is why you will marry me.”
Harry said that, and then nestled down beside her, his body still over hers, and promptly fell asleep.
Twenty-seven
With a big galoot laid out on top of her, Mary Elizabeth did not sleep. She did wriggle into a more convenient and comfortable pose, turning onto her side. Harry seemed obliging, even as he slept, but when she deemed it time to rise and find her clothes, his arm clamped around her like a vise, holding her fast.
Mary Elizabeth sighed and looked into his face. Harry was smiling, as he had been since they had made love, but now his hair was mussed and the strawberry blond of it had fluffed a bit around his head, making him look like a golden hedgehog. He was her hedgehog, and she loved him, but she needed to get out of that bed.
He did not wake and did not seem to wake even if she whispered to him. She tried to offer him a pillow in her place, but even sleeping, Harry was stubborn. He held on to her as he might have held on to a prize won in war. She had to wait an entire hour, until his sleep deepened and he turned over of his own accord, before she was able to slip away from him.
He almost woke then, and she supposed it was a good thing that his king had refused to make him a warrior, for had he been one, she never would have been able to get away. He would have woken and tied her down, or at least locked her in. But as it was, Harry had not a warrior’s instincts, and he slept on peacefully as soon as she slipped a piece of her tartan into his hand.
The sight of the blue and green muted tones tucked into the palm of her Englishman made her smile. She wondered if, by some chance, one of his marauding ancestors had gone North and plucked a Lowland woman away from her embroidery and her peat fire to make her his wife. Perhaps somewhere down the line of the lineage that he was so proud of, there was a bit of Scottish blood. She would ask him when next they met.
She hoped that would be soon.
Mary Elizabeth knew that by going home without her mother’s leave—indeed, by doing the exact opposite of what her mother said—she was stirring a hornet’s nest among the men of her family. For the most part, Da and the boys let Mother do as she pleased, in the hope that peace would be kept, at least until the next crisis. Mary Elizabeth had done her best to go along with this scheme for the last two years, but she found that she was done with that, and forever. For once, the men of her family would have to stand with her.
She had little doubt that they would. Well, perhaps a niggling doubt that ate at her heart. But if that doubt was right, and the men of her family forced her yet again to do as her mother wished, she would simply come back to Harry and hope that he would have her. He did love her, Englishman though he was.
And she loved him.
But she would not think of that now. The mail coach came into town at four in the morning, and it was closing in on three. She donned her gown, her bodice and skirt, but carried her under things in one hand. It was too early to meet a servant, and she was stealthy. If she could hunt deer in the bracken, she could avoid the ducal household.
She kissed Harry one last time before she went. His lips were soft under hers, relaxed in his sleep, and she thought for a moment he might wake, like a prince in a fairy tale. He snuffled into the blanket, but slept on, which was just as well. She had hours of riding ahead of her, and had he seen her, Harry never would have let her go.
* * *
Harry woke around seven to find that Mary Elizabeth had slipped away. He was on his feet at once, checking the sitting room and the bathing room beyond his bed, but she was nowhere to be found.
He cursed himself but did not think anything of it except that he should have hidden the key when he locked the door. He dressed with Philips’s help. He might have done a quicker job of it on his own, but his man took pride in his appearance, and he had not used him often since the Scots had come to stay.
Harry found all of them, even the married women, eating peacefully in the breakfast room. The English guests were still abed, it seemed, or perhaps they were simply afraid to break bread so early with barbarians. Harry had no such qualms, and he greeted both Mrs. Waters with a smile.
The sweet, young girl, Catherine, bowed her head to him as if in church, and the second Mrs. Waters, the former Lady Prudence Farthington, nodded to him and smiled as if he did not have a ducal coronet plastered to his temples.
Alex and Robert Waters nodded to him, caught in a discussion of London and the roads out of there. Robert and his runaway bride had just returned from Town that very morning. It seemed they were not fond of the capital city on the whole, heart of the empire or not. Harry could not fault them, for London was not his favorite spot, either.
He thought of his favorite spot—the little bit of soft skin just behind Mary Elizabeth’s left ear. The place that, when he touched it with his tongue, made her go limp with desire in his arms. He wondered how long she would sleep and when he might touch that place, among others, with his tongue again.
He supposed he should go through the formalities and ask Alex, as her eldest brother present, for her hand. Harry was about to do so when Robert Waters asked, “Where in God’s name is Mary?”
His wife gave him a look that failed to silence him.
Alex finished chewing his brioche and took a swig of tea. “I thought she was sleeping still.”
“This late?” Robert scoffed. “I doubt it.”
“Have you checked the stables, if you’re so concerned?” Lady Prudence asked. “She has a brute of a stallion that has fallen in love with her. Maybe she’s down there, giving him treats.”
The talk of stallions and treats made Harry blush, until he reminded himself that he was a duke, and dukes did not blush. And that Mary Elizabeth was marrying him as soon as he might get the license in hand.
Catherine met his eyes and smiled. “Good morning, Your Grace. I hope you enjoyed a pleasant night.”
Harry felt his skin flush again, and he cleared his throat before taking the tea a footman brought him.
“Yes,” he said, trying to sound calm and ducal. “Very pleasant.”
“You’ve something to ask me,” Alex said, his brown eyes gleaming. Mary Elizabeth’s brother smiled at him, and Catherine squeezed Alex’s hand on top of the table, a new light of joy coming into the blue of her eyes.
“I had thought to have a bite of bacon first,” Harry said. “But as it happens, I do have a question for you, when you are at leisure.”
“Let us withdraw so that you may speak freely,” Alex said, still looking pleased but also managing to look like the Wrath of God. Harry figured he had best marry his girl, and quickly, for if this one discovered their liaison, he would kill him first and bundle Mary into a carriage after.
So that her brother and his wife would not have to make a bolt for the border with Mary Elizabeth in tow, Harry nodded and began to rise as well, with only one last rueful look at the bacon and eggs even now growing cold on his plate. He stopped cold when Robert Waters spoke.
“The devil you will withdraw. Mary’s our family, too. You’ll eat your breakfasts like civilized men and ask your questions here.”
Alex Waters paused for one long moment. He looked not to his brother, but to his wife, who was dimpling at him, a picture of feminine loveliness in soft-blue muslin. Alex sighed then, and sat back down. Harry followed suit and fell to his breakfast. Thank God for the intervention of women.
“You wish to ask me for Mary Elizabeth’s hand,” Alex said.
Harry sighed, even as Lady Prudence and Catherine Waters squealed together, as if in concert. He drank another sip of tea, and this time, it was Billings who refilled his cup. Harry could not be sure, but it seemed his butler was almost smiling.
“Yes,” Harry said. “I love your sister, and I think I can safely say that she loves me—”
“Nothing’s ever safe with Mary. You’d best know that now,” Robert Wate
rs said.
Harry simply looked at his future brother-in-law, nonplussed, and Alex said, “Hold off for a bit, Robbie. Let the man speak.”
Robert leaned back in his chair, his hand going to his waist. Harry found himself wondering if he wore a dirk and who had been the one to teach Mary Elizabeth to throw knives in the first place. Motivated both by the desire to finish his breakfast and to save his skin from puncture holes, Harry spoke.
“I would marry her, with your permission, as soon as I can get a special license.”
Alex was going to say something then, but Robert spoke for him. “Well, it’s about time, lad. While I was in London, the family carrier pigeons brought nothing but letters from mother and from this one, telling me of your amour and speculating on whether or not we’d have an Englishman in the family or if we’d have to emigrate to Nova Scotia to save our skins after we shot you. I’m not fond of the English,” Robert said. His wife slapped his hand with a fan that had suddenly appeared from beneath the table, and he winced. “But, as I was saying”—he raised both brows at his wife—“I have recently come to know one or two English a bit better—”
“More than a bit, I’d say, husband,” Lady Prudence whispered loud enough for all the table to hear.
“As you say, wife.” Robert Waters kissed his woman full on the lips in front of God and the butler. Billings, used to these shenanigans since the arrival of the Scots, did not even raise one brow.
“I find,” Robert Waters continued his oration, “that not all English are half-bad. You may marry our sister, if you wish and she consents. God help you.”
Alex stood and offered Harry his hand. Harry was finished with his bacon by then, and rose with good grace to shake it. Billings did blanch at that familiarity, but Harry supposed that his butler would have to get used to that, too.
Not to be outdone, Robert Waters rose as well, and Harry shook his hand for good measure. “As for the special license, I have it here.” Robert tossed it onto the table, next to the silver butter dish. “Uncle Raymond thought you might be needing it. It seems that even the Bishop of London has heard of the romance between the Recluse Duke and the Hellion of Hyde Park.”
How to Train Your Highlander Page 20
