by Fiona Faris
It feels so empty without him, she thought, then winced. Those were the same words that had run through her head the first time she tried to sleep without James. How preposterous that she would think the same phrase about a man she’d known for less than a day.
The fatigue, she reasoned. It must be getting to me. Sleep will set me and my mind to rights, she told herself as she began to undo the buttons of her jacket. Sleep is what will make me feel like myself again. Like the Beatrice that James knew.
Chapter Eight
Brodie was halfway to the stables when he stopped, the thoughts in his mind so overwhelming that he couldn’t move.
He’d done the right thing, he thought, by leaving the lass alone. Though he might have wanted to kiss her, to spend the night with her, he knew it was not what she needed. She needed rest. And he didn’t need it either. He had only just started to feel the grief leaving him, the heaviness of those emotions lifting off his shoulders. He was not ready to dally with a woman who made him feel so many new things, all over, in his soul and in his body.
Yet, he could not help but feel the urge to retrace his steps back into the tavern and go to her. He’d been about to lie down for the night after checking on Maggie’s horses, who were now safely in their own stalls after he’d greased the palms of three stable lads, two to ride the horses back and a third to transport the body to a nearby barn for safekeeping overnight. But he wasn’t tired, and the horses were asleep. They didn’t need him. But he couldn’t help wondering if the lass still did. There had been a desire in her eyes when he bid her goodnight, a look that told him she needed something from him. And he had to help her, didn’t he? It was his duty as a gentleman.
Ye’ll just knock an’ make sure she has all she needs, he told himself as he walked back through the tavern’s entrance. Tis the right thing tae dae.
His steps were hurried as he made his way through the main room and up the stairs, counting three doors before finally stopping in front of the fourth on the left.
Leaning in, he could hear the rustle of fabric.
She’s gettin’ undressed, he realized with a start that made his cheeks blush, and his cock stiffen anew. The poor appendage was having a right time of it this evening—hours of torture with no sign of release.
But he could not think with his cock. He had to think with his mind, and his mind told him that interrupting a lady when she was desnude was the very farthest thing from proper.
Brodie turned around, wincing at the loud creak his feet made on the old wooden floorboards below him. He halted, waiting to see if the lass heard, but when the door did not open, he thought himself saved, and began to turn back toward the staircase.
He was stopped, however, by a voice.
“Brodie? Is that you?”
The lass was calling for him. It only made sense, then, for him to throw open the door and see what she needed. He had to answer her call. He had to be there when she needed him. It was an urge he was powerless to stop.
What she needed became very apparent a moment later, when Brodie’s planned question of “What’s wrong, lass?” was swallowed by her lips pressing themselves against his.
Brodie’s body responded before his brain, planting his hands on her hips and kicked the door closed with his foot. He felt rough, stiff fabric beneath his hands, belatedly realizing that he was gripping the lass by her stays.
Which meant that she wasn’t fully dressed.
Unable to resist seeing what did, in fact, lie beneath that thick cotton dress of hers, Brodie pulled his lips away and looked down, where he was treated to a sensational view of her breasts heaving with shallow breaths, the pale pink of her chemise making her skin looked tinged with the barest pink.
“Yer…ye were undressin’,” he whispered, his brain unable to process anything but the most simple of observations.
Beatrice laughed uncertainly and nodded. “Yes, I was. But I thought I heard you in the hallway and, well…” she trailed off.
“Well? Well, what, lass?” Brodie asked, wondering just what it was that was making her look like she had a secret to tell.
“Well, I thought maybe you had come back.”
“An’ why would ye want me tae dae such a thing?” Brodie asked, needing her to say it, to tell him what she wanted. He would give her whatever it was, he knew that already. Whatever the lass desired, he would gift to her. She was a goddess, and he was her servant.
“So I can kiss you. So I can touch you, too. So I can…undress you,” she said, biting her lip. “If…if that is something you would like me to do, of course,” she added with a sheepish laugh.
Choruses of hallelujah broke out in Brodie’s mind as he leaned down and kissed the lass—this time deepening the kiss, letting his tongue snake in and explore the cavernous, sweet depths of her mouth. His mind was conflicted, still unsure if this was right for him or her, but his body was certain. It craved her form, her shape, the feel of her skin on his. And at that moment, it was far easier for Brodie to listen to his mind than his body.
The girl seemed to like the kiss, for she mewled; a small, sweet sound that nonetheless made Brodie feel dizzy with desire.
He groaned in response, moving his hands from her hips down the back of her dress to cup her bottom, which was perfectly round and pert, the two cheeks fitting perfectly in the palm of each hand.
“Should we…” Beatrice began, breaking away from the kiss to nod towards the bed. She still looked shy and uncertain, and it made Brodie pause, wondering if she really did want to do this.
“Dae ye want tae?” Brodie asked, needing to hear the lass be explicit in her desires. He would do nothing without her consent; he would leave if she asked, stay if she needed. He would do whatever her heart desired.
“Yes,” she breathed, the word coming out like a confession, but relief apparent on her face. “God, yes,” she added, and Brodie responded by lifting her up so that her chest smashed against his. He walked them towards the bed and slid one hand up her back, setting her gently on the blankets below.
“Now what, lass? What dae ye want from me now?” he whispered, bracing himself on his arms over her.
“T-take off my stays, please,” she said, her stutter telling him of her nerves. He understood; he was rife with anxiety, worried about making a wrong move, of discomforting her in any way. He had not done this in some time, and he expected that it was the same for her. Which meant that this night was even more important to both of them.
“Daenae be nervous, lass,” he whispered, leaning down to press a kiss to her cheek. “Tell me when tae stop, an’ I’ll stop. Tell me tae go, an’ I’ll go.”
“I don’t want you to go!” she said, looking worried as she rose up onto her elbows. “I just…I haven’t…”
“Neither hae I,” he said, finishing her thought. “Sae we’ll go slow.”
“Y-yes, that sounds all right. Slow. I can handle slow.”
“Dae ye still want me tae take off yer stays?”
Beatrice looked up, and Brodie saw a modicum of anxiety leave her as she nodded. “Yes.”
“It’d be me pleasure, lass,” he told her, stepping back up before lowering himself to his knees at the edge of the bed. He was tall enough that the lass’s belly was still in easy reach, and he made quick work of the stay’s laces, undoing them with hurried hands, eager to see what lay beneath.
And he was not disappointed once he slid the constricting device over the lace’s legs and threw it over his head. In fact, he had half a mind to burn the thing the moment he saw what it was hiding.
A soft, slim belly curved inward at the waist, pert nipples sticking out from her chest, their rosy color visible through the sheer white of the chemise.
Brodie ran his hands reverently down the lass’s arms, standing up to bring them over her head. He slid his hands back down her arms, letting them fall to her neck, which he traced the outline of with his fingers.
Beatrice closed her eyes and breathed deeply at his to
uch, gasping when Brodie lowered his lips to her neck and did exactly what he had imagined earlier that night: he pressed his lips to her pulse point, then kissing down the length of her neck to the spot where neck met shoulder, and here he sucked, drawing in the sweetness that lingered there.
His senses were overwhelmed; the softness and scent of her skin so close to him, and the sound of her soft sighs as he continued his exploration of her, kissing down the length of her collarbone before moving his head down her chest. All thoughts of uncertainty or reticence flew from his mind as he intoxicated himself on her scent, her skin, the feel of her beneath him. How could anything that felt so right ever be wrong?
His lips slipped over her chemise, tonguing the nipple that was visible and now erect beneath it. The lass cried out, then, and Brodie felt the tension in her belly as she squeezed with pleasure.
He smiled, elated that he had made her feel so good. But good was not good enough; he wanted her keening, wanting her crying with the release. He wanted to see her eyes screwed tight as a climax overtook her, overwhelmed her.
And so Brodie doubled his efforts, switching his mouth to her other breast. His hands roamed down over the soft concave slope of her belly before they found the sweet, moist crevice between her thighs.
There was heat there, too, a heat Brodie recognized, because it was the same one that was currently driving him so mad that he couldn’t help but whisper, “Och, lass, I want tae touch ye here. Dae ye want me tae? Tell me what ye want, please.”
“Yes,” Beatrice rasped, and Brodie could see her nodding vigorously, her hair rustling beneath her rapidly moving head. “Please, touch me. Please, please me.”
So instructed, Brodie touched his finger to the center of her, smiling again when the lass gasped, though this time it sounded half-gasp, half-moan. He continued touching her there, bringing his finger back and forth against the slickness with his index finger, while his thumb searched and found the sensitive nub of her clitoris.
As he drew slow circles, the lass made sounds again—this time drawn-out groans that only increased in volume and frequency as Brodie continued to suck at her nipple and play with her sex.
When she was nearly keening and muttering, “Please, now, please,” Brodie drew himself back up and gazed down at the woman before him.
Her face and chest were flushed and dewy with sweat. There were two dots of moisture on her chemise where he’d suckled her. Her mouth was open, her lips dark from her biting them while he attended to her.
“What are ye begging fer, lass?” Brodie asked with a wicked grin.
The lass shook her head in frustration when she saw the grin. “You know what I want, Brodie.”
“Aye, I dae,” he nodded before leaning closer and whispering in her ear, “but I need tae hear ye say it.”
The lass rolled her eyes and huffed an irritated breath, but she opened her lips nonetheless and spoke the words that Brodie realized he’d been hoping she would speak from the moment he met her.
“Take me. Fill me.”
She looked more confident saying those words than Brodie had seen her all night, and it made her all the more beautiful, to see her so sure of herself and her desires.
Brodie didn’t need to be asked twice to fulfill her desires. In less than a minute, his clothes and the last of the lass’s were off, and he repositioned her on the bed so that her body was now in the center, her head resting on a soft pillow.
Brodie himself was resting between her thighs, about to push into what he knew would be the warmest, most enchanting place he’d ever known.
“Are ye ready, Mags?”
Beatrice looked startled for a moment, and Brodie wondered whether she didn’t like the nickname, but she quickly recovered, nodding and whispering, “Yes. Please. Now.”
Brodie slid in slowly, carefully, not wanting to rush. But only halfway in, the lass was already moaning, gripping him by the shoulders and ushering him closer.
“Faster, please,” she whispered, and he slid all the way in, burying himself completely inside her. It felt so right, their bodies connected this way. The feel of her skin as it rubbed against his stoked the heat within him, making him speed up his thrusts as he began to seek out her pleasure.
Soft kisses were placed all over her cheeks, neck, even her ears—any soft place he could find within reach.
As he moved, the lass’s breaths began to speed up, and Brodie could feel her stomach tensing, could see the flush deepening on her chest and cheeks as she journeyed toward her release.
When he had drawn himself all the way out, before thrusting fully back in, she finally came with a cry of pleasure that brought him toward his own climax moments later.
It was like no other culmination he had ever experienced. As Brodie rolled off the lass, he felt…perfect. At peace. There were no worries in his mind, no thoughts running rampant. All he felt was happiness, contentment.
Reaching over, he wordlessly curled the lass into his chest. Her head came to rest just over his heart, her hand on his belly, one of her legs bent over his. They were perfectly entwined, and for the first time all evening, they were both utterly silent. There were no words to exchange; what they had just shared was more potent than anything mere man could create with syllables and syntax.
Brodie did not need to look at the lass’ face to know she was feeling the same sense of fulfillment as he, but he did anyway, glancing down to see her eyes closed, her lashes brushing against her cheeks and her mouth open slightly, telling him that if she were not asleep, she would be soon.
Glad that his body had lulled her into a peaceful night’s rest, which she sorely needed, he curled her further into him and fell asleep. As the flames of the fire gradually died out, and the rest of the tavern retired to their beds and cots, Brodie and Beatrice continued to sleep in each other’s warm, safe embrace.
Chapter Nine
Beatrice woke with a start, shooting up into a seated position and staring at around her in bewilderment. The first thing she saw was frost on the window, through which she could just barely make out dawn lighting up the very edges of the sky.
Across from her was the hearth was filled with the remaining embers of what she now remembered had once been a roaring fire. Her jacket, bustle, and skirt were still by the fire, thankfully looking dry enough to wear.
All this Beatrice cataloged before she finally allowed herself to look next to her, where a wild-haired Scot lay sleeping peacefully, the faintest snore coming from his parted lips.
At first, Beatrice was struck again by his beauty. Had God really created so arresting a man, with long auburn lashes that rested against stubbled cheeks, his dimple almost visible in his half-smiling face? Had He really thought it fair to craft so perfect a specimen of the human species, knowing that no one and nothing could ever measure up? For surely, a more handsome man than Brodie had never existed—or at least, if he did, then Beatrice had never laid eyes on him. She most certainly would have remembered it.
But then Beatrice remembered James. Had she really just forgotten about her late husband, the man she had once described in a letter to Helena as being “crafted by the greatest of sculptors”?
You must have forgotten him, since you spent the night with another man whose hands were all over you.
It was a betrayal James most certainly did not deserve, and Beatrice could not help the tears that pooled in her eyes as she chastised herself.
One night with a Scot who does not even know your real nam,e and you’ve completely forgotten about the man you married.
The day before might have been tumultuous indeed, but it was no excuse for so wholly abandoning her principles. Beatrice was supposed to be proper, chaste. Instead, she had played the part of a reckless whore, letting a strange man make her body sing.
Looking over at the Scot, Beatrice was glad that she had not given him her real name. At least any tales he might tell of her would not make their way through the lairds and ladies in Scotland and back
down to her own circles in Yorkshire. It was a small mercy, but it was enough to quell some of her anxieties.
But Beatrice knew she needed to leave, and soon. She needed to get back to her real life, where she was a duchess on her way to visit a dear friend. A duchess who had lost two beloved servants and needed to deal with their burials. Had she really spent the night kissing and touching a stranger when Harold and Eddie were lying outside, their bodies slowly growing cold?
I am a Jezebel, and an unfeeling one at that.
Therefore, taking care not to wake the Scot, Beatrice slowly slid off the mattress, grabbing the chemise and corset that had been thrown near the edge of the bed. She purposefully avoided thoughts of just how the chemise and corset had gotten to the floor, instead focusing slipping the chemise over her head. The corset ought to have come next, but at the last second, Beatrice decided against fastening the cruel device around her. Her ribs—in fact, the whole of her body—was feeling sore; whether from the journey or the amorous activities of the previous evening, she was not sure. But no matter what the cause, a corset would not help her to feel any more comfortable.
