She pursed her lips in mock anger. “Is my father paying extra for all this abuse or is it part of your service?”
“I like to think of it as a gratuity.”
Serena had to chuckle. She pulled the gossamer mantle closer around her shoulders, a gesture that was not lost on him.
“And I canna help but notice that ye still haven’t learnt anything about Highland dress.”
“How do you mean?” she responded, secretly tickled by the way he rolled his R’s. Not dress, but drrress. “I’ll have you know this is quite au courant.”
“Whatever ye call it, it is going to cause yer death of cold.” He slipped off his coat, revealing a white shirt and a leather holster fastened around his chest, and draped the warm garment upon her shoulders. “When will ye learn to see things with yer own eyes and not through the eyes of others?”
“Well, how could anyone have anticipated such cold weather in the middle of summer? These temperatures are fit only for Highland cattle. Or Highlanders.”
He smirked, and it made his eyes go quite boyish. “Are you equating me to a Highland coo?”
Serena shook her head. “That’s cow, not coo.”
“And now ye’re making fun of my English.”
“Ha! That’s a far cry from English.”
He laughed then. “By God, Serena, ye would ha’ made a good plague on Egypt.”
She proceeded imperiously ahead of him down the path. “And that’s another thing. I must remark that you are becoming entirely too casual. For the second time, you have used my given name.”
“Aye. So I did.”
“Do you find it proper that you should become so informal?”
“It’s one thing to become familiar. It’s another to take liberties.”
“Is there a difference?”
Serena gasped as his hand gripped her elbow and spun her around. She found herself pressed against his battle-honed body, his arm holding her tightly against him. Her eyes snapped to his face.
“Let me show you.” His voice was gravelly with heat.
His head descended slowly, and his lips pressed upon her cheek. Soft and warm on her wind-chilled cheek, she wanted to bathe in that one kiss.
“That is getting familiar. And this,” he whispered, placing a hot kiss on her exposed neck, “is taking liberties.”
His steamy breath on her neck sent shivers of pleasure skipping down her spine. She closed her eyes. Just underneath his lips, her heated blood delivered the erotic sensation throughout her body.
He slipped the coat from her shoulders, and it fell to the ground. Slowly, his mouth trailed down to her chest, the kisses dripping upon her like warm rain. As he did so, his hips curved into her imprisoned body, multiplying the heavenly sensations. Surely he was well past taking liberties … he was also taking her will to resist.
“Malcolm,” she breathed, but wasn’t certain what she wanted to say. Except that she liked the sound it made coming from her mouth.
He straightened, his silky hair caressing her cheek. A callused hand stroked the place on her neck that his lips had just savored. Tender and rough. She desired more.
Malcolm’s lips pressed against her mouth. His lips were soft and smooth, a stark contrast with the emerging roughness on his face. So delightful. She returned the affection, their lips sliding gently upon one another.
He began a slow descent to a crouch, and she held their unbroken kiss as his head lowered. His open hands glided down her back and over her bottom cheeks, squeezing their roundness. She gasped in surprise at how quickly her body responded. Her nether regions came alive at his touch, igniting each of her feminine parts. Her hands gripped his biceps in protest, but she didn’t want to stop him. And when he straightened against her, his own passion was aroused.
In the gathering darkness, she gave her other senses free rein to explore. She slid her hands up to his shoulders, reveling in the dense muscle under her fingertips. It swelled and tightened, like the sinews of a running stallion, as his hands explored the rest of her. Behind his neck, her fingers threaded through the glossy waves of his thick hair. It felt soft and strong between her fingers, like rushing water. Everything about him reminded her of something wild and untamable, and the farther along she let herself get, the more dangerous she knew it would become.
A hand slid under her arm and spun her toward the wall. She braced herself against the ancient stones, the ivy leaves crunching between her fingers. The rose-colored poplin at her shoulder edged by the dark pink ribbon collapsed in his clawed fingers as he drew it down.
A hot tongue laved at the exposed flesh of her shoulder, sending ripples throughout her body. Her breath came out in raw gasps as a large hand cupped her right breast, still imprisoned in the fabric of her dress. Her nipple tightened, rising into the warmth of his open palm. Instinctively, her back arched, pushing her bottom into the rock-hard bulge in his trousers.
Both hands now squeezed her breasts, stoking her passion as well as his. Her hands flew to her breasts and flattened upon his own. She could feel the two hands now, one smooth and veined, the other scored and welted. But oh, what magic was in them that made her want to feel forever connected to him! His imperfections made him perfect for her.
He crouched low and she felt his fingers against her stockinged legs. The gentle pressure of his palm against the curve of her calf sparked a flame in her womanly parts that made her moan.
Higher his hand climbed. His callused flesh snagged at the fabric of her stockings as his hand brushed upward—across her knee, along the crest of her garter, and between her naked thighs.
The feeling of so rough a thing on her soft skin awakened a hunger long forgotten. Malcolm’s touch aroused more than her ardor—it also aroused her affection. The scars that were left upon her heart when her first and only lover cast her aside were changing, shifting … healing.
A gentle finger probed and pushed apart the folds of her whetted womanhood. A thousand pleasant things flashed through Serena’s fevered mind, but there was one warning voice loudly complaining. She had made the mistake of giving herself once to a man, and it had ended in disaster. Don’t do this again, not with this man. He’s too special to lose.
The shame of her secret was still fresh, as daily she hoped no one would find out that she had acted like a wanton. But now the man with the disfigured hand was inside her, and he was about to learn that she was scarred down there, too. Her virginity was gone, replaced by the smoothness that belonged only to she who was married.
His hand stilled, and her heart stopped. Facing away from him, she was relieved not to be able to see the expression on his face. She had expected to have this confrontation on her wedding night, and she would have an answer ready by then. But she hadn’t expected to need that answer tonight.
She tensed, bracing for an appalled pronouncement—or worse, a snide remark. But nothing came.
Instead she felt his fingers begin a slow back-and-forth motion. She expelled her breath, unaware she had been holding it. Had he even noticed she was no longer pure? It didn’t matter, she realized. Whether she had given herself to another man or just to Malcolm right now, she was no longer an innocent.
As the pleasurable sensation grew, she allowed herself the delicious oblivion of putting her shame out of her mind. Languorously, she rested her head back against his shoulder, allowing him greater ease in pleasuring her. The delirium grew as the sensation intensified. She rocked her body against the organ of his hand, her bottom bouncing against his thighs. His own arousal had grown—she could feel it—and it also cried for release. But right now, he wanted her pleasure, and she was prepared to give it to him.
His fingertip made a tight circle against one side of her nub, heating it to beyond tolerance. The pain-pleasure increased, and she grasped his hand, partly to still, partly to guide. But as he cocooned her from behind, he seemed to know precisely what would bring her to release. His hand kneaded her breast harder through her bodice, and she felt envel
oped in a sheath of eroticism. His lips nibbled on the spot just beneath her earlobe, sending her spiraling toward a weakening surrender. The place between her legs that was now joined to his hand became hotter, tighter, more insistent—until her pleasure exploded in a blinding burst.
She pulsated onto him for several moments, her hands squeezing his forearms involuntarily. She emerged from the orgasm to find him kissing her tenderly on her cheek.
Contentment flooded her, and she turned in his arms. She snaked her arms around his neck and gave him a kiss of pure delight. He breathed in the kiss, his chest swelling to enormity.
She’d give him anything at that moment, so grateful was she. His acceptance, his selflessness, his gentleness, his desire for her … she felt beholden almost, and wanted to give him the same experience.
But Malcolm broke off the kiss. He stiffened and pulled away.
Worry quaked within her. Had she displeased him? Repulsed him? Was she about to lose this man’s respect and regard? Please, dear God, not again.
His gaze focused on a spot beyond her, his ears perking. His eyes bristled with danger.
“Malcolm?”
He looked down at her and put a finger on her mouth, warning her to be quiet.
He reached over and pulled his pistol from the holster. She had no idea what had alerted him, nor even what threat he perceived. Night had stolen upon them, and she couldn’t see a thing under the moonless sky. But whatever it was, in a flash Malcolm had transformed from a lover into a warrior. He shoved her behind him, his weapon leading ahead of them.
His breath made no sound as he crept along the wall like a predator. Terrified, she clutched the back of his shirt, the invisible fear making her own breath falter. Though her heartbeat hammered in her chest, she tried to be as quiet as he was as he advanced toward the end of the wall.
Then she heard it. A faint rustling. Then earth-muffled footsteps, moving in quickly. The sounds seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. In panic, Serena scanned around her, every shadow a potential assassin. Her every instinct was to run from the danger. Yet Malcolm was advancing toward it. She swallowed her horror and followed him.
The footsteps—a man’s—drew closer and closer. Malcolm stopped before the end of the wall and stretched out his weapon, waiting. A shape walked by, and Malcolm cocked his pistol.
Just as the barrel of Malcolm’s pistol touched the back of the man’s head, the unknown assailant froze in his tracks.
“Ye can either kneel down, or be shot down. Which is it to be?”
Instinctively, the man raised his arms. “Slayter, it’s me, Marsh.”
Serena unclenched and ran toward him. “Father!” Malcolm exhaled and uncocked his weapon. “Ambassador. I thought ye were an enemy.”
Earlington embraced his daughter. “You were so long in returning from your walk, I came looking for you. I thought something had happened to you both.”
“I’m so sorry, Father. It was my fault. I wanted a long walk to clear my head. I just … lost count of the hour.”
“I’m just happy you’re all right. My mind began to imagine the worst.”
“Quite understandable, sir,” Malcolm said, relief straining his voice. “In future, I will give ye a report on Serena’s planned comings and goings.”
Serena glanced at Malcolm. She couldn’t help but chuckle at his unintentional double entendre.
“What’s so funny, poppet?” asked her father.
“Nothing, Father. I’m just happy you weren’t hurt.”
Earlington chuckled weakly. “I wasn’t. But with Mr. Slayter around, I pity the man who comes at you from behind.”
Her nervous laughter intensified. She reached for Malcolm’s hand. “I pity him, too.”
Embarrassed, he squeezed her hand. “Serena,” muttered Malcolm, a warning clear in his tone. “We should be getting indoors. Now.”
“Certainly, Malcolm,” she replied, unable to stop giggling. “Whatever you say. I know I’m in good hands with you.”
He narrowed his eyes on her as she walked past him, arm in arm with her father back toward the house.
TWENTY-TWO
The morning room glowed with the light of a rare sunny day. The cerulean wallpaper reflected the color of the cloudless sky, and sunbeams fell upon the landscape paintings hanging on the walls.
Zoe sat on a settee in her pretty pink frock. Promenading across the squares of light cast upon the rug from the windows was her French master, Monsieur Leveque.
Or as Zoe liked to call him when she fantasized about their wedding, Luc.
Monsieur Leveque—Luc—was reading a passage from Molière’s L’École des Femmes, a comic play that clearly brought him a great deal of pleasure. He laughed as he conveyed the madcap machinations of Arnolphe, a man in his forties, in trying to marry a girl of seventeen because he desired, above all, a virtuous wife. Luc acted out each part, and Zoe was having a great deal of fun watching him.
He was, in fact, a good actor, and his fresh masculine beauty would be welcome on any stage. He wore his hair in the style of the day, his mahogany curls feathering forward around his face. His tan tailcoat hugged his slender frame, and his white cravat was modestly arranged under his cleft chin. His eyes were the same emerald green as Mr. Slayter’s, though not nearly as fierce. In fact, they were gentle, playful eyes, and when they looked at her, her heart skipped a beat.
Luc had the pale, smooth skin common to French people, with generous lips and an aquiline nose. He looked younger than his twenty-three years, but it didn’t matter to Zoe how old he was. She wanted to marry him.
It was a blessing that her governess, Miss Tracey Archibald, did not speak French. Even though she was always present when Luc gave her lessons, she could not understand a word they said. It allowed Zoe and Luc to have the most delightful conversations. Luc spoke to her not as if she were a child, but as a woman, and she was immensely grateful to him for it. He told her all about his fruitless search for a wife—in French, of course—and Zoe dreamed of becoming that woman for him. She even practiced writing her married name … Zoe Leveque. She signed it with such a lovely flourish, she hoped it would one day become her own.
It didn’t matter that he had made no overtures … yet. She understood that he was trying to establish himself as a dramatist. He loved the theater, and—being equally proficient in English and in French—he dreamed of seeing one of his plays produced in either language. He spoke often of his literary models, William Shakespeare and Pierre Beaumarchais, and he dreamed of being as famous as they.
Zoe was counting down the days until his birthday. She had been feverishly embroidering a sweetheart pillow, and she couldn’t wait to give it to him. It was fate that their birthdays fell in the same month. He would turn twenty-four on the first of September, and two weeks later she would turn fifteen. Past the age of consent.
She clapped as he came to the end of the first act. “Bravo, Monsieur Leveque. Très génial.”
“Merci bien,” he replied, effecting a curt bow and smiling sheepishly at her. “Avez-vous tout compris?”
“Parfaitement. Vous avez donné une exécution magnifique.”
There it was again, that fresh, honest smile that made her feel as if she were the only one in the world he would share it with. Please, Luc, just one kiss! I will be yours forever! His lovely eyes danced across her face, with those long lashes that were too beautiful to belong to a grown man. Bashfully, she smiled, her breathing suspended in expectation of a look, a whisper, a peck—anything that would tell her that he loved her as much as she him.
Suddenly, a rap at the front door echoed across the entrance hall, turning Luc’s head. Zut! Zoe grumbled to herself. A pox on whoever it was for breaking this spell!
“Allow me,” he said to Miss Archibald, who sat nearest the door. Luc rose and went to answer it.
Zoe pouted until Luc escorted the visitor to the morning room.
“Monsieur … eu … Weston,” Luc began, his French acce
nt lifting her spirits, “may I prezent La-dee Zoe, and her governess, Miss Arsh-ee-ball. Make yourself comfortab’. I will return with Monsieur Slayter.”
Zoe curtsied before the guest. Mr. Weston was a handsome man, with a bright sparkle in his brown eyes. His sandy hair was lovely, and his finely tailored navy-colored coat exuded a fragrance of sandalwood.
“Good morning, ladies. Please forgive my unexpected visit.”
“Mr. Weston,” said Zoe, “won’t you sit down?”
“Thank you, no. I’ve come all the way from London, and after four days in that wretched carriage, I’m quite relieved to be able to stretch my legs.”
“We have some guests with us from London. Ambassador Marsh and his daughter, Serena. Do you know them?”
Mr. Weston smiled. “I have the honor of knowing them both. I know Miss Marsh quite well, in fact. I was hoping to be able to see her. Is she in?”
“That depends,” Malcolm’s voice rumbled from the doorway. “May I ask the nature of yer business?”
Mr. Weston turned to face him and extended his hand. “Yes. I’m her publisher, Archer Weston. I’ve had a letter from her. I hope I didn’t arrive at an inopportune time.”
“Archer?” Serena’s voice carried from down the hall. In a moment she shouldered past Malcolm. “Oh, Archer, I’m so glad to see you!” Serena wrapped Archer in a firm embrace, and only Zoe seemed to notice the thunderous look that stormed over Malcolm’s face. “What brings you here?”
Archer smiled and pulled a lettersheet from his coat pocket. “Your crie de cœur. You sounded quite despondent. I came as soon as I could, firmly resolved to cheer you up. Here … I’ve brought you a little gift.” Archer handed her a parcel wrapped in brown paper.
Serena put a hand on his face. “What a dear man you are! Oh, I missed you so! I can’t tell you how much it’s gladdened my heart to see you. Why didn’t you tell me you were coming so I could have it to hope for? Archer, have you met Lady Zoe? This is her governess, Miss Archibald. And this is Malcolm Slayter—” Serena was startled by the look on Malcolm’s face. Though tightly leashed, his anger was palpable. “—my … protector.”
Secrets to Seducing a Scot Page 13
