And with that, he rolled onto his back and pulled her completely on top of him, clasping his hands around her at the back of her waist. Every part of her body was scandalously, disgracefully, deliciously touching his.
And then he reached one of his hands up her back and pulled her head down to his, giving her a meltingly seductive kiss.
This one was even better than the first.
Mary lifted her head. “You promised,” she said in a breathy sigh.
He smiled, and pulled her down to him again. Mary opened her lips without even thinking about it, felt his tongue enter her mouth. It was like the night before, only not; now she knew him, was aggravated by him, but also, even though she hated to admit it, charmed by him.
Alasdair held her head still so he could devour her with his lips, slanting his mouth on hers and capturing her tongue.
She heard a growl coming from one of them, and was startled when she realized it was her. He let go of her head as he flipped her over.
She was under him now. He ran his hands down her body, from her breasts to her hips. She could feel his hardness pressed up against the apex of her thighs, and she rocked her pelvis against him.
Apparently he was feeling better.
Amelia had talked about this, but Mary hadn’t realized just how good it would feel.
He growled, and reached between them with one hand, to where she was already aching with need. He stroked gently, caressing in exactly the right place, even though Mary herself hadn’t known it was exactly right. Until now.
He moved his mouth to her neck, licking and sucking on her skin. He was still gently rubbing down below, causing her to writhe and twist underneath him. “Steady, love, steady,” he soothed, bringing his other hand up to tangle in her hair.
He left soft, gentle kisses from her neck down to her chest, then made another inarticulate noise and began to lick her breast. She hadn’t even realized he’d slid her gown down off her shoulders, but now she felt the fabric bunched around her waist. He’d pulled up the bottom of her gown also, so the bulk of it was right in the middle of her body. If she thought about it at all, she’d imagine just how ridiculous she looked.
But she couldn’t think. Not now, not when he was nibbling on her tender flesh, his tongue flicking out to tantalize her, making her want … “Aah,” she moaned, when his mouth finally fastened on her nipple and sucked gently, the warm, tugging action sending waves of sensation all over her body.
She didn’t know she could feel this good. Hadn’t known, until now. She ran her hand through his hair, and then slid it gingerly across his shoulders, feeling the breadth and strength of them underneath her hand. He might be an aristocrat, but he certainly wasn’t soft. The opposite, in fact; everything about him was hard, his muscles, his body, his demeanor, his—well, everything.
Mary squeezed her eyes shut as she moved her hand lower down his back, feeling the muscles flex as he responded to her touch. He was still hot, the fabric of his shirt damp from perspiration. Did he have a fever? And if he did, could she find—but no, she didn’t want to think too much, she just wanted to feel, feel desired, and wanted, and—
“Damn,” he said, raising his head and burying it in her neck. She could feel his body start to shake.
“What is it?” she asked, her voice muffled by his shoulders.
He shook his head as though he were brushing off her question. She felt his fingers start their clever movement again between her legs, and she was lost, forgetting completely about what might be wrong.
Because everything was wrong, and yet it was also right.
Right to be here, with him, in this bed, with him touching her. Suddenly, he yanked at her gown and tried to pull it over her head. “Get this off, will you? I want to see you, all of you.” He raised himself to his knees and rested his hands on his thighs, waiting with an impatient look on his face. People do what I say, that look said.
Why did it now feel as if she should do everything he demanded, when half an hour ago she’d argued with everything he said? Never mind; she would deal with her lack of gumption later, when her body wasn’t clamoring for more. She lifted up onto her elbows, and tugged the gown over her head. A few of the buttons stuck, and she undid them quickly, twisting her hands behind her back as she unfastened each small circle. At last, it was off, and she tossed it to the floor.
“Good,” he said in satisfaction, his green eyes devouring her as much as his mouth had. He lifted his own shirt off, still staring at her, and tossed it into the corner of the room.
Mary gasped when she saw him. His chest was broad, strong, and muscled, but had an ugly mass of scar tissue running from just above his nipple to his collarbone.
“Were you injured?” she asked, then shook her head in annoyance. “Of course you were, I can see that. How did it happen?”
“Someone shot me,” he said, still gazing into her eyes.
“I’m not surprised,” she said with a smile. She reached her fingers out and touched the gnarled skin; it was ridged with scars, and he flinched when she trailed her fingers down to his nipple.
And then took a deep, satisfied breath as she kept working her way down.
What are you doing? her mind screamed. Feeling pleasure, she yelled back.
His chest was broad, and well muscled, with a sprinkling of dark hair on the upper part. The hair ended just where his abdomen began, and Mary could see the definition of the muscles in his stomach.
His breeches began just where another line of hair began, a tantalizing trail down toward the part that Mary had felt pressed up against her. His erection was making a tent of his trousers, and she swallowed a little as she thought about what Amelia had told her.
She’d been horrified at the time, but now she was grateful to her friend for disclosing so much.
“Stop thinking,” he commanded, lowering his body back onto hers. He reached his fingers up to play with one of the curls in her hair, apparently engrossed in watching it spring back to its spiral shape. “This is good. Doesn’t it feel good, love?” His voice was a seductive caress in her ear.
Mary stroked his back, his smooth, warm flesh, then turned her head away from him and lay still.
“You can’t stop thinking,” he said in a quiet voice. Her heart ached at how weary he sounded. He pulled himself off her and leaned his hands on his thighs again. “You’re right. I did promise, didn’t I? Well,” he said with a sardonic smile, “you can see just how much faith you can put in my promises.”
He eased off the bed and went and sat in a chair by the window. The chair was narrow, barely wide enough to fit him. He was as still as a statue, his head bowed. A casual glance might make someone believe he was staring out the window, but Mary knew he wasn’t seeing anything.
She got up slowly and walked over to where her gown lay crumpled on the floor. She raised it over her head and dropped it down, attempting to smooth the wrinkles, an impossible task. “What now?” she asked. The gown gaped open behind her, and the air was cool against her heated skin. She slowly buttoned it up, feeling a twinge of regret.
She missed his touch.
He shrugged, still not looking at her. “We go to Scotland. We forget this. It won’t happen again.” He sounded again like the bored aristocrat who’d decided they would get married without even consulting her.
“Fine,” she said, giving her gown one last pat. “And if you’ll excuse me, I am going downstairs to see what is happening with our supper.”
Almost before she stopped speaking, he leapt up from the chair and grabbed her arm. His hands were shaking again. “Not without me,” he said in a strained voice. Mary started to glare at him, but then noticed that he was clutching his stomach, and his skin looked ashen.
“You are ill,” she said. “You are going back to bed. Alone.” She lifted his arm and twisted it gently, spinning him around so that he was facing the bed.
“Go,” she added, giving him a small shove in the back.
He stumb
led to the bed and flopped down on it. As he rolled onto his back, he began to cough; not a polite clearing of the throat, but a deep, heaving cough. It lasted at least a minute, and Mary saw his stomach muscles clench from the strain.
“Are you all right?” she asked, kneeling down on the floor next to him. His eyes were glazed and unseeing, sweat pouring off his body onto the coverlet. How could he be ravishing her one minute, then so ill the next? He seemed to go into a spasm, and his stomach convulsed as more dry, laborious coughs took over his body.
“Just … a minute,” he said, shaking his head as if to clear it. She put her hand on his forehead. It was burning. She’d never encountered such a rapid onset of illness.
Perhaps it was something exclusive to Quality, she thought to herself.
“I’ll get a wet cloth,” she said, beginning to rise.
“No,” he said. “Just … touch me. Like you were.” He stretched his hands out to her and entwined his fingers in her skirts.
It was scarily easy to shake his hands off. Not so easy to deny that she wanted to touch him. She turned and walked to the washstand in the corner of the room. “You have to eat.” She yanked a not-so-clean towel off it and looked helplessly around for water. That landlord needed to return quickly. “If you have a fever, you will be too weak if you don’t eat something.”
“Stop being a damn schoolteacher for once and come here.” While he had likely intended to sound authoritative, his voice sounded pleading instead. It made her turn around faster than an order would have.
She sat back down on the bed and lifted her hand to his forehead, smoothing the thick, black strands away from the damp skin. As she stroked his skin, the lines of anguish cleared from his face and his eyes closed.
After a few moments, he gave a sigh of relief and his eyes opened wide, seeming to finally take her in. “Thank you.”
Mary kept stroking his forehead, smoothing the hair back against his head. He rolled his head around and she saw his jaw clench. Then the stomach convulsions started again, and he twisted and cried out.
She shifted away to give him room, but he shook his head. “No. Please. Don’t stop,” he said in a pleading tone.
She touched him again, drawing her hand down his cheek. She curled her hand into a loose fist and grazed her knuckles across his cheek, his stubble rough against her skin. He turned his face into her hand like a kitten yearning for her touch, his lips warm against her palm.
She trailed her fingers down the side of his face, onto his neck, feeling his pulse beating rapidly against her hand. “Shh,” she whispered nonsensically; he wasn’t speaking, but she felt the need to soothe him nonetheless.
His skin was hot, sticky with sweat, and a few drops of perspiration dotted his chest.
For a moment, Mary thought about bending her head down to lick it off his skin. She could almost taste the saltiness of him, his musky essence swirling around her nose.
He was ill. Ill, and she wanted nothing more than to reach down and lick him. What had happened to her?
Just a few days ago, she’d been a vicar’s spinster daughter, teaching school and doing good works. She’d never thought about anything in the least bit salacious, not even when Mr. Hardesty, her father’s assistant, had admired her apple cobbler with enough enthusiasm as to make his point perfectly clear.
It must be the events of the last two days. Why should she be denied pleasure or gratification?
In essence, she was a good, modest person. But a person who relished life, and wanted to be happy. This made her happy, and she didn’t see the point of denying herself any longer.
And she wanted this, wanted it with a desperate urge she’d never felt before.
She shook her head at herself, but continued to slide her fingers down his skin, trying to bring some peace to his body through her hands. He was arching his back off the bed now, his hair damp with sweat. There was a line of sweat at the waistband of his breeches, and Mary wondered if she should try to get them off him so he would be more comfortable. But his comfort would be directly proportional to her discomfort, so she just pulled the linens up over his body instead.
“Please,” he begged. His eyes had the same haunted look they’d had that morning, when he’d woken from his nightmare.
“What do you want, Alasdair?” She spoke in a whisper.
“I want you,” he replied, his eyes shuttering closed.
She was opening her mouth to reply—not that she knew what she’d say—when the door flew open with a crash.
Chapter 7
Bang!
Mary twisted to look at the door as two men burst into the room.
“What can I—?” Mary rose to her feet, frantically straightening her gown to cover herself.
The first man barely glanced at her, thank goodness, focusing all of his attention on the marquess. He had the same haughty air as Alasdair, but didn’t wear the authority nearly as well. He had dark-brown hair, carefully arranged, and was wearing what even Mary could tell was fashionable clothing. He was of medium height and carried a gold-tipped cane.
What was most arresting about him, however, was the intense look of hatred on his face as he stared at the man on the bed. Mary flinched as she met his eyes, and instinctively moved so that she was shielding the marquess with her body.
“Ah, dear cousin,” the man drawled. “How fortuitous to find you here.”
“Hugh. The pleasure is mine,” Alasdair said. “I assume you’ve been having me followed?” Even though his voice was weak, Mary could hear the unconscious arrogance that was threaded through it.
She marveled to think that even horizontal, sweating, half-naked, and in pain, he could still be so much in command.
Alasdair’s cousin moved closer to the bed, a smirk of satisfaction on his well-bred face. The second man, clutching a large, black leather bag, also advanced farther into the room. He gazed around the shabby room with a moue of distaste on his face.
“It appears you are in even more need of my assistance than I thought, Datchworth,” Hugh said. His eyes flicked up and down Mary’s body, and even though everything about him was faultlessly tidy, she felt as if he had put an unclean hand on her. He gestured to the other man. “Dr. Grimes is here to assist you.”
Alasdair struggled up to a seated position, leaning his head against the wall. He had a wild, feverish look in his eyes, which wasn’t surprising, given that the rivulets of sweat dripping down his chest had now soaked through the top part of his breeches.
He lifted his chin in a disdainful gesture. “And your doctor here thinks he can help me?”
Perhaps there really was an illness exclusive to the Quality.
The marquess reached out and grabbed Mary’s hand, squeezing it in a grip so hard she felt the blood drain from her fingers. “Help me with what? Separating me from my money? How long have you been trying the same game, cousin? It hasn’t worked yet, has it?”
Hugh raised an eyebrow—must be a family trait, Mary thought—and spoke in a voice as cold as a winter wind. “I don’t think you need help with that, Alasdair. How can you accuse me of such a thing?”
Alasdair closed his eyes. “And you’re here for my own good.” He had a sarcastic, worn-out tone to his voice.
Hugh spread his hands in a casual gesture. “There has been talk. I am here to protect you.”
Alasdair shook his head as if to clear it, then rubbed his hands over his face. “There’s always talk. Spread by you, of course,” he said in a tired voice. “Give us a minute,” he said, indicating Mary. “And then I’ll go with you.”
Hugh’s lips tightened into a thin line, and he glared at Mary, then nodded. “We’ll be just outside,” he said. It sounded like a threat.
The two men left, and Mary heard the low murmur of their voices just outside the door.
He was just going to go with them? When it was clear they meant to do him harm? What in God’s name was happening?
“You won’t sue me for breach of promis
e, will you, love?” Alasdair said, a wry smile on his lips.
He was going with them. What was really wrong with him?
“You were right after all. It wouldn’t have worked. You’ve got your long, lovely life ahead of you, whereas I—” He clamped his mouth shut and shook his head. “Never mind.”
He raised his right hand, looking like he might collapse from the effort, and pointed toward where he had dropped his jacket. “There are a few pound notes inside my pocket. I was saving them to buy you a bride gift, but you can have them now.” He began to cough, a dreadful, deep hack that seemed to resonate throughout his body. “You should leave. I wouldn’t want my cousin to get any clever ideas.”
“But … but what about you?” Mary asked. “What will you do?”
He shrugged. “Keep on as I have. Do keep in touch, won’t you?” His lips twisted in a sardonic smirk, and Mary could almost physically feel how he was pushing her away. And, even though she’d wanted nothing more than for him to do just that a mere twenty-four hours ago, it hurt now.
His eyes were clouded with pain. “Go on, take the money before Hugh barges back in here again.” His voice was rough, and she wondered what his noble gesture was costing him. How long he’d been resisting whatever it was his cousin was trying to do.
She rose and quickly found the money, sliding the few notes into her Donne book before her heart made her ask questions he wouldn’t answer. She slipped the volume into her bag, and turned to face him. “Well. Goodbye then, and thank you.” It felt like an oddly formal statement, given what had passed between them.
He nodded his head in acknowledgement, and made a casual gesture toward the door. “Be off, Miss Smith, and be grateful we weren’t married. I’d be a devil of a husband.” He bared his teeth in a rakish smile that looked forced.
Mary’s jaw clenched, and she grabbed the cloak he’d bought for her, slinging it around her shoulders as she reached for the door. Just before she opened it, however, she turned to look back at him.
His eyes had closed again, and his expression was bone-weary. Mary fought the urge to return to him, to comfort him.
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