He unlocked a side door to the house and they crept into a dimly lit narrow passageway running alongside a set of stairs leading up. ‘I see I’m one of the first home tonight,’ he murmured softly, picking up an unlit candlestick from a collection set out on a table and lighting it from the wall sconce above. ‘This way.’
Half-turning as he walked up, he guided her up the stairs and along another hallway with an array of closed doors, each one with a polished brass knob and a number. He stopped at number four, pulled out a key and let her in.
She stepped into what was obviously a single man’s domain. Heavy comfortable furniture in front of a hearth equipped with a crane for boiling a pot, a griddle and an array of toasting forks.
‘Let me take your wrap.’ He relieved her of her coat and bonnet and gloves and hung them on a stand near the door.
She looked around. There was a small table by the window with two chairs facing across it. Idly crossing the room, she pulled back the closed curtain a fraction and glanced out. The dying sun threw dark shadows into the street. She could see nothing but the houses opposite and the dusky sky. The street itself looked much like the one where his brother lived.
‘Where are we?’ she asked.
‘At my chambers.’ He was kneeling at the hearth making a fire.
‘No, I mean where in the city are we?’
He looked up then, his eyes hooded. ‘Thinking of running off, are you?’ He cast her a roguish smile to soften his words and she realised he was teasing. Did he have any idea how close he was to the truth of what was in her mind? ‘We are a few minutes from the palace, aye?’ he said. ‘And not far from your hotel.’
Was he being deliberately mysterious? Somehow she must get the address out of him before she left. She looked around. There were two other doors leading out of the room, in addition to the one through which they had entered. ‘What is through there?’ she asked, pointing, although she could guess.
‘Sanford sleeps in there and me there,’ he said, pointing to each door in turn. ‘He invited me to stay wi’ him the while.’
Sanford was a smiling nobleman with world-weary eyes. She’d run across his sort before in Jack’s hell. A shiver passed across her shoulders. ‘Is he likely to return soon?’
‘Not him.’ He turned back to the fire where he had got a flame among the kindling and began blowing gently. The flame caught and soon the fire was burning merrily. He added coal one lump at a time. ‘Poor chap,’ he continued. ‘Old Georgie keeps all his gentleman dancing in attendance until the wee hours. I wouldna be in his shoes for all the whisky in Scotland.’ He stood up. ‘Talking of which, would you like a dram? Or would you prefer tea?’ He pointed to the fire. ‘It won’t take long to make.’
Now the shock of their mad dash had worn off, she was aware of the unsteady beat of her heart. It resonated through her body. Drummed in her bones. The knowledge of why she was here and how far she would go making her nervous. ‘Whisky.’
But it was excitement, not fear, making her tremble. She was nervous because she liked him and wanted him to like her. The fact that she was attracted to him on so many levels would mean that tonight could be something special.
He went to a cupboard tucked neatly against the side of the chimney breast and pulled out a decanter and two glasses. There were cups in there, too, and a tea canister.
‘You have no servant to help you?’
‘Not me. Sanford does. His man has a room on the top floor. A bell lets him know when he’s needed.’
‘He lives in London, you said.’
‘He has chambers at the Albany. I stayed with him when I was there last time. Sir Walter arranged these lodgings. Tossed some poor chap out, I’m understanding. There are other members of the household residing here and elsewhere around the city. Sanford insisted I take the extra bedroom. There was another chap who wanted it, but he’s no’ so keen on his company.’
Carrying his hoard to the table, he carefully measured out the whisky. She could not help watching his broad back. The easy confident way he moved within his skin. The litheness, the grace of him. It was like watching a large and magnificent, though dangerous, cat.
The trembles inside her changed to something else. A low sensual hum in her blood. Her skin felt warm, her senses alive. It was years since she’d felt this way.
Resolutely she turned her face away from the intriguing sight of his body and was gazing into the glow of the coals when he sat beside her, handed her the whisky and clinked her glass with his. ‘Slàinte.’
‘Good health.’
He swallowed his drink in one gulp. Perhaps he was as nervous as she was. The idea made her want to smile. She sipped at the golden liquid. It burned her throat going down, but settled warm in her belly. She leaned back against the cushions and took another warming sip. ‘You’ve led Jack a merry dance these past few days,’ she observed.
She cast a sideways glance at his face and was pleased to see by his expression she had caught him off guard. He looked at his glass. ‘I’m for another. Do ye want one?’
‘Not yet.’ She knew better than to drink too much around a man. She just had to hope he would not drink too much either. He was a big man. Far beyond her in strength despite her height. The fear she should have felt at such a thought was not present. Not once had he acted anything but the gentleman. Not even when she had kissed him at the inn had he been anything but controlled. Unlike herself.
Her heart gave a heavy thump in her chest. A warning to be careful. To guard herself from reading too much into his gentle manners. She forced herself to remember that men changed when they drank too much. Some fell asleep, like Jack. Others became violent. Hopefully, he wouldn’t do either.
His glass refilled, he came back to the sofa, sat down beside her and stretched out his long legs towards the fire with a sigh. ‘What was it you asked me?’
‘I didn’t ask you anything. I said you had led Jack a merry dance.’
‘Jack’s men,’ he said briefly. ‘Aye, I played wi’ them a wee bit.’ He was clearly trying not to sound pleased with himself. And failing.
‘Why?’
His eyes narrowed to slits, the green of them catching the glow of the fire and reminding her of the panther again. A rather angry panther. If he had a tail, she was sure it would be twitching right about now.
The urge to stroke him, to smooth away the crease between his eyes, curled her fingers in her lap. Her breathing shortened. Her mouth dried. As it should. One did not pet a wild creature with impunity.
‘I dinna like to be treated like an idiot. I ken he’s talking with McKenzie.’ He shrugged. ‘That’s business. But where I go and what I do is no one’s concern but my own.’ He flashed her a smile as if to soften the words.
‘Shall we forget about business concerns for a while?’
He gave her a long look, before half-turning towards her and laying one arm along the back of the sofa, his fingers close enough to touch her shoulder, should he wish. The skin at the point of her shoulder tingled in anticipation. Heat spread outwards, rippling along her veins. Her heartbeat raced. The dangerous surge of warmth in her blood was a terrifying loss of control.
Shocked, she drew in a quick breath. Years had passed since she’d wanted a man’s touch. Usually, she felt as if she was enfolded in a blanket of ice. Men generally sensed that coldness. It was why the abbess, Miss Lucy, had been happy to let Jack buy her out of the brothel.
She tried to find that coolness. To reach for distance. This was her seducing him, not the other way around.
Chapter Nine
His eyes grew heated, his expression becoming beguilingly gentle. ‘What a comely lass you are.’
The sincerity in his voice was a deep thrum in her blood and her bones.
‘And it seems meeting the King has turned you into a
courtier,’ she quipped lightly. She let her gaze roam his face, the hard delineation of bones in his cheek beneath intense green eyes, the light golden fuzz on his jaw, the sculpted lips.
Slowly, she rose to her feet and he followed, as she had known he would.
Standing so close, he was a good few inches taller. It was a pleasant change to look up to meet a man’s gaze, even when those eyes searched her face so intently.
He smiled.
Such an attractive man. The epitome of virility. And she no longer cared about why she was here. He made her feel like a desirable woman, but, more importantly, he made her feel special. As if she was a real person. Why not have these next few hours for herself, and forget about the world and its petty cruelties? She could make him happy and feel good doing it.
It wouldn’t last. It couldn’t. Their paths were too different. But right now they intersected and she wanted to make the most of it.
She dropped her gaze to his beautiful broad shoulders encased in dark-blue superfine and placed her hands flat on his chest, feeling the energy. The life of him. The steady beat of his heart. The rise and fall of his chest with each indrawn breath. The heat of him crashed against her, making her own breathing jerky, and the scent, bergamot and bay, filled her every breath. Delicious. Her heart picked up speed.
He swallowed, the strong column of his throat rippling beneath the golden tan of his skin. Yet he remained still, waiting to be sure of her purpose.
She stroked his lapels, feeling the smooth weave of the fabric against her skin. She slid her hands up to his nape, combing the tendrils of hair there through her fingers, lifting her chin with a smile she hoped looked confident, before touching her lips to his.
Their mouths melded easily, familiarity remembered. He tasted of whisky and smelled of cologne and smoke from the fire. And something unique to him. A dark note of musky male that curled around her senses and set her adrift on a languorous current of desire. Her insides tightened and fluttered and heat pulsed through her veins. Hot little surges of heat in time to her heartbeat.
His hand, the fingers trembling faintly, curled around her nape while his thumb stroked her cheekbone. Large hands. Strong hands that could crush her on a whim. Yet as gentle as butterfly’s wings against her skin. Great strength leashed. It promised physical fulfilment without fear of harm.
Something she had not known for years. If ever. Her passion with Mark had always been edged with the danger of discovery. With Logan, it seemed different. Safer.
Only it wasn’t. They were both at risk. And for him, she was the danger.
Slowly she broke the kiss. He let her go, with many small kisses on her lips, kisses that lingered as sweet as honey. His chest rose and fell with his ragged breathing, his eyes were hazy with desire, and as foolish as it was to let emotion enter into it, she felt the ache of her heart. A twinge of regret, that this could not be more than it was.
‘Are you sure you want this?’ he asked softly. ‘You dinna have to do it.’
A pang twisted her heart, because something told her that she should trust him. But if he realised she had followed him here on Jack’s command, to seek out the information he wanted, he might turn her away. She did not dare take the risk.
‘I want to.’ Heaven help her, it was the truth.
He smiled then and clasped her hand in his, rhythmically stroking her palm with his thumb. ‘Let down your hair for me, a ghra?’
The way he said it sounded more like a breath in the back of his throat than a word. It was also incredibly sensual. ‘Agra?’
‘Ach, not Agra. A ghra. It means my dearest.’
What would it be like to be someone’s dearest? She would never know. Nor did she want to. Not really. It would only lead to disappointment in the end. She began removing the pins, until the heavy mass fell to her shoulders.
He combed his fingers through the waves. ‘So thick it is,’ he murmured. ‘And of such a colour. Like toffee threaded with gold.’
The gentle stroke of his fingers sent shivers of desire down her back and she wanted to purr like a cat and revel in his gentle, almost reverent touch.
She offered him her mouth up for a kiss.
A long slow exhalation of surrender warmed her lips and somehow touched a tender place in her heart. A gentle soothing touch.
While their lips melded in perfect harmony, she stroked one hand down over his chest and then slid upwards inside his waistcoat, boldly exploring the wide muscled back beneath the superfine of his coat, the narrowing waist beneath his ribs that rose and fell with each breath, the firm swell of his buttocks. Then moved on to find the bumps of his ribs and his nipple tight and hard beneath his linen shirt. She rolled it between thumb and forefinger. He arched into her with a hiss of indrawn breath and an arrow of pleasure darted straight to her core.
He gasped and raised his head, his eyes dazed with the onset of intense desire. Nothing angelic about his expression now. Pure seduction in the smile he gave her. Her knees felt weak.
And she wasn’t the only one losing the strength to stand upright—she could feel his thighs shake with effort. She turned within his arms, presenting him with her back. ‘The laces,’ she gasped.
He seemed to struggle a bit with the ties of her gown and her stays, while she waited, her heart thumping in her chest.
‘Done,’ he said finally.
The straps fell from her shoulders, and as she turned to face him she let the garments slide to the floor.
A breath of admiration left his lips and he gazed as if in awe at her breasts, covered only by the sheer fabric of her shift. An odd feeling stirred in her mind. A faint recognition of something elusive that was gone like a wisp of mist at his hot gaze.
She steeled herself for what would come next. The passion. The loss of control. The wanton desire that was already arising, making her pulse race and her body warm. It was a long time since she’d felt so abandoned.
There was something in the purity in his face that left her defenceless.
His large warm hands went to her shoulders and smoothed down her arms in a spine-tingling caress. He threaded his fingers with hers, bending his head to look into her eyes. ‘So lovely.’
‘Thank you.’ Shocked by the husky rasp in her voice, she cleared her throat. ‘And am I to have the pleasure of looking at you? Or do you prefer to keep your clothes?’
A rueful smile spread across his face as his hands went to his stock. ‘I am no’ as pretty a sight as you.’
Charity leaned against the bedpost to watch him toe off his shoes and shrug out of his coats. Such a pleasure. Like unwrapping a gift. He was as broad beneath the fine linen of his shirt as he had been beneath his coats. No padding or corsets gave him his manly shape. It was all his own. And the shirt, while it hung to mid-thigh, did not disguise his jutting arousal.
Slowly he approached her, and pulled her close and kissed her. At first hard and then more softly, as if in a struggle with himself. A struggle to maintain control. A struggle she intended him to lose.
She twined her arms around his neck, leaning into him, feeling the blunt thrust of him against her belly and the quick rise and fall of his ribs against her breasts. ‘Take me to bed, Logan,’ she said. ‘Now.’
He half-laughed, half-groaned, but lifted her easily and pulled back the sheets while he balanced her effortlessly on his other arm. Strong as an ox, this man. Yet as gentle as a lamb. He laid her on the sheet, looking down at her, lust etched deep in his expression. Her body answered with a flush of heat.
‘Take off your shirt,’ she said, the need to see him naked a pressing urge.
With a roguish smile he drew the billowing fabric off over his head.
He was lovely. Golden skinned from head to waist. Pale from there on down from lack of sunlight. His male member, dark-veined and engorged, thrust up from
a nest of crisp dark-gold curls, standing as straight and rigid as any of the soldiers they had seen on parade.
He climbed up on the bed to kneel beside her, gazing down into her face, the desire and heat between them a tangible thing.
She reached up and pulled down on his shoulders, lifting her own from the bed when he remained as solid as a rock above her. She nipped his lower lip, licked the corner of his mouth.
Shivers rippled through him as their lips connected. It was a hard kiss, full of passion and demand that went on and on until they were breathless.
His lips explored her face with small little kisses, her cheekbones, her temple, the tip of her nose, her chin and drifted to her ear. He breathed softly into its depths. Prickles raced across her body.
‘Like that, do you?’ he asked running a finger over the little bumps on her arm, his face alive with interest.
‘As do you,’ she said, her voice little more than a sigh.
He didn’t answer. His tongue was already exploring the little ridges and delving deep inside. More shivers. Accompanied by little clenches low in her abdomen.
A moan broke free of her lips.
With a smile, he moved from her ear to her neck, tasting and licking his way down to her collarbone, where he traced her clavicle with his mouth and tongue, while his hand cupped her breast.
Tingling awareness tightened her nipples. Her breasts felt full and heavy. With a swift glance up at her face, he licked the beaded tip through the fabric of her shift, then blew lightly.
Torment indeed, from such a light gentle touch. And even that film of fabric seemed too much of a barrier between them. ‘Take it off,’ she said.
Hazy eyed, he stared at her.
‘The shift,’ she said, plucking at the neck. ‘It’s in the way.’
It didn’t take him long to dispose of the garment over her head. She lay back down, naked as the day she was born, stroking the arm supporting his weight. The muscles bulged and rippled beneath the smooth skin of his upper arm. Not very hairy, she noticed. A light golden fuzz on his arm, small triangle in the centre that was coarser on his chest.
Falling for the Highland Rogue Page 14
