Alec Mackenzie's Art of Seduction: Mackenzies (Mackenzies Series Book 9)

by Jennifer Ashley

  “There now,” he said softly. “I’ll let you grow used to it.”

  He held himself rigid as Celia stiffened, then her face softened. She was tight, squeezing his tip, fanning his hot desire.

  The same desire flushed her as she bent her head to kiss him. When her teeth latched onto Alec’s lip, he lost his tight control and slipped another inch inside her.

  Celia gasped, and Alec froze. His body was on fire, the need to bury himself inside her strong.

  “All right?” he asked. “Am I hurting ye?” It would kill him to pull out, but he’d do it if she felt any pain. He had no intention of Celia looking at him in fear every time she remembered this day.

  “No.” She drew a breath. “Not really. It feels odd.”

  “Odd? Put a man in his place, why don’t ye, lass?”

  Celia gave him a sudden grin. “I rather like the place you are in, my husband.”

  “Ah, damn.” Alec shuddered, flashing hot at the same time. “Why do ye say things like that?”

  He balled his fists as he slid ever so slowly in the rest of the way, watching Celia’s eyes soften, her thoughts scatter. Alec held her there, letting her feel full, waiting for her to understand what it meant for him to be inside her.

  Celia braced herself over him, shaking her head as though trying to comprehend what was happening to her.

  She made a soft moan that nearly undid him. Still, Alec held himself in check, determined not to make this beautiful moment a horror for her.

  Outside, the city continued to wake, the rising voices of the vendors who strolled the streets coming to them. Their chants rang out, offering strawberries or coffee, or to take rags or grind knives, blending with the rumble of carts, the shouts of drovers, the clank of chains as a boat was unleashed from the strand and pushed into the river. London was always alive.

  Inside the room with Celia was quiet. The fire snapped on the hearth, and the ropes that held the mattress in place creaked. Celia let out a sigh that blended with a groan, and Alec stroked her hair again.

  “What do I do?” she whispered. “I feel strange … and wonderful.”

  “Ye don’t have to do anything, love.” Alec’s hand drifted down her back. “Ye can do all, or nothing. That’s the beauty of loving.”

  “It’s not what I thought it would be.”

  Alec grinned. “It never is.”

  He gradually raised her until she was straddling him, on her knees. Celia’s eyes widened again, another new sensation flooding her.

  Alec lifted his hips, sliding deeper into her. Making love in this position was always a challenge but his reward was Celia swaying on him, a cry issuing from her throat as she relaxed onto him.

  Her long braid snaked down to him, smooth against his side. Celia rocked on him, letting out another cry, her fingers biting his chest. Her breasts moved, her nipples dark and tight, the beauty of her no longer hidden.

  “Alec,” she whispered. “I love—”

  She closed her mouth over the word, as though she hadn’t meant to let it slip out, and Alec’s self-control splintered. He drove into her, his hips coming off the bed, his own shouts blending with hers.

  Celia arched back, and Alec caught her hands to steady her. He twined his fingers through hers, holding tight as she rode him, the two locked together—hands, legs, bodies.

  Alec let out a growl. He clasped her around the waist and rolled them so he was on top of her. Celia looked at him in bewilderment, then her smile returned as he thrust into her.

  A few quick moments, and it was done. Alec’s seed left him, but his hips continued to move, Alec wanting to stay with her, in her, she around him, forever.

  Celia’s smile dissolved into soft cries of delight, which melded with his groans until their voices at last wound into silence.

  Alec crashed next to Celia and pulled her close, surrendering himself to peace.

  Celia lay awake for a long time, watching Alec sleep. His face was quiet, his dark red-brown hair falling into his eyes, his lips slack. Unshaved whiskers darkened his jaw but burnished red in the firelight.

  Her Highlander. Celia brushed his shoulder, feeling strength beneath smooth skin. Alec was one of the barbarians who’d charged at her brother’s regiment, screaming insanely, and cut down all in their path. They’d followed Charles Stuart far into England, threatening all she knew.

  And she couldn’t be afraid of him.

  Alec’s eyes flickered. In the next moment, she looked into the golden depths of them, his slow smile lifting the corners of his mouth.

  “All right, love?”

  Chapter 20

  Celia grew hot with embarrassment, remembering her unrestrained cries, but her chagrin dispersed under his gaze. She was warm and comfortable, happy in spite of it all.

  She smoothed a tumbledown lock of his dark red hair. “I don’t wonder that men and women seek to take lovers. To have that …” She gave a warm shiver, remembering the sensation of him inside her, the explosive joy of her surrender.

  “That’s only the beginning, love.” Alec kissed her fingers. “I have much more to teach you.”

  “You do?” she asked shyly. He’d already showed her so much—first that being with a husband was nothing to fear, and second, that far from being a chore or a duty, lying with Alec had been beautiful. The pain she’d expected had slid away on a wild elation, her body taking over and doing things she’d never known it could do.

  “Oh, yes.” His voice was dark. “I’ll give you all kinds of instruction, my love.”

  For answer, Celia leaned and kissed him. His lips caressed hers, the kiss leisurely, his mouth hot.

  “What sort of kiss is this?” she asked softly when they finished.

  “The after-loving kind.” Alec smoothed her hair. “When you’re warm and open, and the world doesn’t exist beyond this bed.”

  That was it exactly—nothing mattered but this, and being with him.

  Before Celia could form thoughts into words, Alec kissed her again, then came down with her into the mattress, his strong body covering hers.

  When he slid inside her this time, it was different—slow, enjoyable, not like the crazed wildness of an hour ago. Alec stretched out on her, his weight comforting, shielding.

  Celia moved with him, groaning with him as excitement built and then surged. Alec thrust into her faster and faster, their voices joining, until they collapsed together, laughing and kissing.

  Celia fell into deep slumber after that, and when she awoke, the sun was nearing its zenith, and Alec was gone.

  Celia found Alec with Josette in a small dining room on the ground floor, directed there by Glenna, who helped her dress. Glenna’s smirks and innuendo kept Celia blushing furiously, as the girl brushed out her hair and wound it into a competent knot. Really, a fifteen-year-old maiden should not know so much about the marriage bed.

  Alec was making his way through a plate piled high with eggs, sausages, and toast, with a slab of meat pie awaiting his attention at his elbow. As Celia entered, he looked up and smiled at her, his eyes full of wickedness.

  Another blush, this one scalding her. How was she to ever be in the same house with him when every look reminded her of her wantonness? She ought to be ashamed of her behavior with him, but shame couldn’t last in the face of the deep contentment in her heart.

  Josette’s breezy voice cut through her thoughts. “There you are, love. Plenty of victuals on the sideboard for you. Eat up. You’ll need your strength if you’re to be married to Alec.”

  Celia didn’t think her face could become any redder, but a glance at the mirror above the sideboard proved her wrong. She filled her plate with a shaking hand, while Alec chuckled.

  Pretending nonchalance, Celia sat across from Alec. The room was small, the table taking most of the space, with the sideboard squeezed into the corner. The table was of fine mahogany with serpentine legs ending in dainty feet, but the chairs were mismatched—some had thick spindles, some had elegant carvin
g, and two were plain chairs that looked like they came from a farmer’s kitchen.

  The crockery was mismatched too, with one or two fine pieces of porcelain interspersed with heavier stoneware.

  “How is Jenny this morning?” Celia asked Alec as she took a dainty bite of eggs mixed with cheese, finding it quite good.

  Another man might grunt something in indifference, but Alec beamed a proud smile. “Cooing and happy. Ate a large breakfast with the appetite of a Highlander. I think she likes being out of the cold mortuary of Lady Flora’s grand mansion.”

  Indeed, Lady Flora’s house, while containing the most expensive and tasteful objects of the day, was chill and empty. Josette’s boarding house, in contrast, was cozy, with its worn furniture and small rugs overlapping each other, the smell of cinnamon and coffee overcoming the stench of London outside.

  “Would you mind if I looked in on her?” Celia asked as she scooped up another forkful of eggs.

  “Why should I mind, love? She’s your stepdaughter now.”

  Celia blushed again. “Oh, yes. I suppose she is.”

  Josette’s eyes twinkled. “You’ve found yourself an enchanting bride, Lord Alec. From the sound of things coming from upstairs, you’re enchanted with her too. I had several complaints from my regular boarders.”

  Alec gave Celia a wink as she heated until she thought her blood would boil. “I don’t think she’s used to unseemly talk at the breakfast table,” he observed. “Or any other table.”

  “Nonsense.” Josette lifted a porcelain cup decorated with a spray of roses. “Rapport in the bedroom can lead to rapport in the rest of life. Not that I had that in my first marriage, God rot that man’s poxy soul. I married a scoundrel, my lady. One day he set off for parts unknown and managed to get himself killed. Good riddance, I say.”

  She spoke airily, but Celia saw the flash of anger, old pain buried deep.

  Celia was curious about Josette’s history, but this was not the time or place to pry. She cleared her throat.

  “After I visit with Jenny, we must turn to finding and freeing your brother,” she said to Alec. When Alec and Josette exchanged a swift glance, Celia sent them an exasperated look. “Did you suppose I’d sit in my room by the fire while your brother might be in danger? I told you I could help find him, and I will.”

  Alec scowled. “And I remember saying you should stay well out of it.”

  “Because my father might be connected to all this? I believe that is why I should involve myself. I don’t believe for a moment Papa is hiding any prisoners, which is why I will ask him straight out.”

  Alec held up a hand, which was filled with his coffee cup. “Prudence, love. Let’s not rush to make me dead in truth. The sooner you and Jenny are off to my family in France, the better.”

  Celia eyed Alec calmly, though her agitation rose. “We had this argument last night, I believe. I am your wife now. I stay with you. I have no intention of betraying you or your family—I can discover things without ever mentioning your name. As far as my father is concerned, you are Mr. Finn, the drawing master, and now I am Mrs. Finn. For the time being.”

  Alec pushed aside his empty plate. “Josette, lass, talk sense into her.”

  Josette looked wise. “It is not for me to insert myself into an argument between husband and wife. But consider, Alec. She is well placed to gain information. That is why you decided to give her the drawing lessons in the first place.”

  So Alec had implied. I leapt at the chance to have the daughter of the bloody Duke of Crenshaw in my power. Celia sipped her coffee, determined not to feel hurt that she’d been looked upon by Alec and Lady Flora as a means to an end.

  “That is before I knew her.” Alec slanted Celia a glance full of heat. “Before she stole my heart away. Now I want no one to touch her, not her mum, not Lady Flora, not her dad. My father is a difficult man, but he’ll honor you as my wife, lass. And Mal and Mary will look after ye well.”

  Celia clicked her cup into its saucer. “I am not leaving, Alec, and that is final.”

  Alec let out a sigh, but he didn’t appear very surprised. “Aye, well, I suppose this house is safe enough for now. Josette is a good sort, and not fool enough to let slip that a man such as me stays here.”

  “Thank you very much,” Josette murmured.

  “What ye need to do now, my wife, is write your old dad a letter,” Alec went on. “One that tells him you’re safe and well, so he doesn’t send the army out to tear up London to find ye.”

  Celia nodded. “Yes, I want to. I’d not like to concern him unduly.” She spoke as though indifferent, but her heart constricted. She loved her father and knew he would worry. He’d fear that Celia had been abducted—it happened, and vagabonds and thieves could turn violent. Tales of murders and other terrible crimes frequently blared from the pages of the newspapers.

  Alec watched her, his eyes quiet. She wished she could make him believe in her father’s kindness, but she conceded her father might know who was keeping his brother prisoner—if Will Mackenzie was still alive—even if the duke wasn’t aware of the significance of the information.

  When Celia finished her breakfast she asked Josette for pen, ink, paper, and jar of sand, and after Glenna brought the things, Celia composed the missive right there at the table. She wrote swiftly, sprinkled the sand onto the ink, shook it off, and handed the letter to Alec.

  He didn’t reach for it. “I don’t need to read your post, love. I trust you not to tell him ye married a traitor.”

  “Please.” Celia laid the paper before him. “I want no secrets between us.”

  Alec’s eyes narrowed, but he pulled the letter to him and read. Celia had kept her message simple:

  Dearest Papa,

  I am safe, dare I say happy? I am married. Mr. Finn, Lady Flora’s guest, saved me from a dire situation and protected my reputation by making me his wife last night. We were married by the Bishop of Arden, by special license.

  Mr. Finn is a gentleman, and you need have no worry for me. You once promised me you’d give me your blessing if I found a man I esteemed and liked. I ask this blessing now, and your forgiveness.

  We will withdraw for a while, until society calms from this interesting on dit, if they even notice what the eccentric Lady Celia has done now. I will miss you, dear Papa, but one day we will reunite, and I can express my fondness for you that these words are inadequate to convey.

  God keep you.

  Your loving daughter,

  Celia

  Alec’s eyes were soft as he handed the letter back to her. “I hope someday I will be worthy of what you write.”

  “You already are, else I would not have written it.” Celia folded the paper lengthwise, then in thirds and wrote her father’s direction on the outside. Josette brought her wax, which Celia melted with a candle’s flame. The signet with which she usually sealed her letters was at home in her writing table, so she simply dribbled wax over the crease to hold it closed.

  “Can someone deliver this?” she asked Josette. “I have to confess I’ve never sent anything through the post myself. My father francs all my letters and puts them on a tray for the butler. There they mysteriously disappear and find their way to their recipients.”

  “Of course,” Josette said, amused. “I’ll have a lad run it there for you.” She glanced at the direction. “Grosvenor Square. My, my.” She turned to Alec. “Trust a Mackenzie to fly so high.”

  “The flying isn’t the difficulty, lass. It’s the falling and crashing. We do that often enough.”

  “Aye, I hope Willie hasn’t done so.” Josette’s teasing fled, and she sat down heavily. “His friends have had no word?”

  Alec shook his head. “I met with a Glaswegian who’d heard of men being held in a house, and then Mrs. Reynolds, Lady Flora’s companion, told me the same story.”

  “What Glaswegian?” Josette asked quickly. “He might know more.”

  “Not this lad. We were attacked, the pair of us—b
y thieves, his enemies, who knows? And he got himself killed.”

  Celia’s gasp made both Alec and Josette jerk to look at her, as though they’d forgotten her presence. “So that is what you and Padruig were talking about,” she said to Alec. “And why you were all battered that morning. I knew it was more than a disagreement in a tavern.”

  Alec nodded, looking unhappy. “I carried the Glaswegian to a church, left him on their doorstep, and rang the bell at the vicarage. I hope they did right by him. Couldn’t have left the poor man on the bank of the Thames to be picked over by thieves.”

  Alec’s sadness caught at Celia’s heart. Here was a man who’d had to make hard decisions, and was still making them.

  “I’m certain they took care of him,” Celia said. Dead beggars were put into pauper’s graves, she knew from her charity work, but at least prayers were said for their souls. The vicar would likely assume this was another such poor vagrant. “I am sorry.”

  “Not your fault, lass. London’s full of villains. The entire world is, truth to tell. Now to wrest my brother away from them.”

  “How?” Josette asked.

  Celia noted the despair in her eyes. She was extremely worried about Will, and Celia remembered what Glenna had said the night before—It’s his brother Mum fancies. Celia regarded her with sympathy. It was also clear that Josette did not want to admit what she felt.

  Alec drew a blank sheet of paper toward him and picked up her pen. “I saw a house, east of Cambridge, with a long outbuilding, abandoned.” He sketched a rough map with London and Cambridge, and an X where the house must be. He made X’s in two other places, one in Kent, heart-stoppingly close to where Celia’s father’s estate would be, and one north and east of that, in Essex.

  Alec then drew the outline of a house, filling in windows, trees, sky, grounds, scrub, all in easy, competent lines. Celia watched the scene come alive as though she peered at it through a window.

  “This is the house Mrs. Reynolds and I drove by,” Alec said when he finished. “We didn’t see much of anyone, but there was a sentry, and that road was a lonely one. I haven’t seen the other two houses yet, but I intend to.”