by Gwyn Cready
He pursed his lips. “Somehow, I don’t think you mean that as a compliment.”
“’Tis neither a compliment nor a fling. ’Tis an observation. Is it… Well, I mean to say, is it quite easy to seduce a woman? You seem a deft hand.” She thought of Edward and how easily she’d fallen.
“Well…”
“I dinna mean against her will, of course.”
“Thank you for the distinction.” He turned and rested against one of the dome’s ribs. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll make you a deal. I’ll answer your question if you answer mine: What does a woman like you have to confess?”
She flinched internally, but the look on his face was one of gentle concern, not censure. “Everyone has something to confess, don’t you think?”
“No.”
She made a skeptical noise but could see he was wasn’t jesting.
“I think there are a few people who have a lot to confess,” he said, “and a whole lot of people who need to be nicer to their spouses or lovers, more attentive to their kids, more patient with the people in their lives, but in general, no, I don’t think everyone has something to confess, and I certainly doubt you do.”
She scraped the metal of one of the steeple’s intricate ribs with her thumbnail, afraid to meet his eye. “You were no’ raised in my church.”
“I was raised in your church. That doesn’t mean I believe everything I was told. Did you kill someone or do them irreparable harm?”
She shook her head.
“And if you harmed someone in a reparable way, did you apologize and mean it?”
She thought of her father and the look of despair on his face when she told him she was placing herself under Edward’s protection. “Aye. Many times.”
“Then forgive yourself, Sera. God, I think, wants us concentrating on the good—in ourselves and others—not fixating on the bad.”
“Do you think?”
He touched her cheek. “Believe it.”
She wanted to. The soft light in his eyes made it seem so easy. And where had he gotten “Sera”? No one had called her that since her father died. Edward had used it once or twice, but he’d done it when chiding her. She found she very much liked the sound of “Sera” when Gerard said it.
“Now ye must answer my question,” she said.
“You do realize you didn’t answer mine.”
Now the light danced. She fumbled for a response. He laughed.
“Seduction implies undue influence,” he said, rescuing her. “It’s like pushing someone off the side of a ship when she doesn’t know how to swim. It can be done, I suppose, though I have a pretty low opinion of the men who do it.”
“Not an arrow in your quiver, then.”
“No, but I wouldn’t make me out to be a hero for it. I like to think of myself as the sparkling blue into which a woman is unafraid to fall—safe, warm, buoyant. But the best experiences—the absolute best—are when a woman knows what she wants and dives in to get it.”
He took the bottle from under his arm and uncorked it. The scents of smoke and malted barley wafted through the air. “One of the perks of letting this space.” He wiped the mouth of the bottle with his sleeve and handed it to her.
She was thirsty and the whiskey was good. When she handed it back, he drank deeply too, his mouth firm and pink across the opening, and for an instant, she wondered what it would be like to feel that mouth on her bud.
He pulled the bottle away and gazed at the swirling liquid. “Given what’s already gone on, I should probably be more cautious when it comes to whiskey, but honestly, what more could happen?”
She took his face in her hands and kissed him.
“Whoa,” he said with a breathless exhale when she released him. “I wasn’t expecting that.”
She buried her hands in the thick silk of his hair. “Could you seduce me?”
“I’m wondering if I could even stop you.”
She kissed him again, just as intently. This time, he reached for her and opened his mouth. Her blood in her ears roared.
“What if I said no?” she asked.
“I’m getting some very mixed signals here,” he said. “I’d stop, of course. Are you going to say no?”
Everything about him felt solid under her touch—his shoulders, his chest, the long muscles in his thighs—fixed, dependable, unchanging. He had stayed at St. Giles to watch over her. She hadn’t thought such concern was possible in a man. The act would have never crossed Edward’s mind. He would have reprimanded her for her recklessness. Gerard was different. But Gerard was also leaving. Don’t be a fool!
“Why would I make love to you?” she demanded. “Why would I risk such a thing?”
Gerard looked behind him. “Am I part of this debate?”
“You canna deny it would be foolish indeed to involve myself with a man whom I need but for one act and who, by our mutual desires, will return to his own time as quickly as he is able.”
“One act?” His eyes burned bright.
“’Tis not the act you imagine.”
“What act do you imagine?” he said in a low voice. “Command me.”
“I want your mouth,” she said.
He kissed her.
“Not there.”
He swept her into his arms, and in a moment she was on her back, on his unbelted plaid on the rugs. She wanted him badly, to sweep away the worry, to reassure herself she could feel something again, to experience desire in the arms of a man whose goal was not to strip her away piece by piece until she barely recognized the woman she’d become.
Gerard lifted her skirts and stroked her thighs. The long-hidden flesh tingled.
“I’m so afraid I’ll regret this,” she said.
“Don’t be.” His face disappeared between her legs. She gasped, the familiar warmth flooding her limbs, and she bit her wrist to keep from moaning. The plaid, still warm from his body, caressed her. The end came violently, her boot on his shoulder, and the wrist flung away.
“You taste like mango.” He crawled over her and brought his mouth to hers. She tasted it—and his tang too.
The act he had performed was not entirely new to her. Edward had performed it once, when he was quite drunk. Despite his clumsiness, she’d arched and cried out, discovering for the first time the rumored end she had never experienced during his more prosaic acts of lovemaking. But when she’d asked him to repeat it the next morning, he’d told her with disgust only whores took pleasure in riding a man’s tongue. She wondered what you called a man who took pleasure quite regularly in riding a woman’s.
Gerard eyed her hungrily. “More?”
“Oh, aye.” She rolled him onto his back and crawled on top of him.
The sark covered him and she pulled the linen free. A light dusting of gold hair ran from his chest to his mons, where it thickened and darkened around his cock. She liked the contrast between the creamy skin of his thighs and the burnished, hard brown of his belly, where Edward had been pale and soft.
“Take it off, aye?”
He put on the sark and drew the fabric over his head. “How is it I’m naked,” he asked, “and you’re fully clothed?”
“It feels safer this way.”
He gave her a gentle smile. “Safe it is.”
She adjusted her skirts and drew him inside her. He closed his eyes, allowing her to find her pleasure in peace. And she did. She hadn’t forgotten any of it—the dark hunger or the shared joy. Edward had not destroyed her ability to find succor in this, and the relief stung her eyes. She wiped away the wetness and took in Gerard’s face as she moved. The long, imperial nose, the hint of whiskers, the beating in the hollow of his throat. He opened his eyes, and she touched his cheek, signaling her approbation. When the end drew near, he threaded his fingers into hers and held her as she arched.
A
moment later, she found herself tucked against him, his plaid over both of them, while he stroked her hair.
“Safe?” he asked.
“Safe enough.”
She traced the bones of his shoulder, as intricate as fretwork, feeling both light as air and rattled as a cart full of stones. “You call yourself a seducer?” she said. “You didna even take care enough to serve yourself.”
A rumble passed through his chest. “What can I say? I’m not a very good one.”
Ha! He was an excellent one—though she’d cut out her tongue before she said it. The man’s self-importance could fill a carriage on its own. Her transformation into a boneless heap of jelly at his hands would have to be assurance enough.
He stirred, something else on his mind. “Did our liaison, by any chance, remind you at all of something else we may have done?”
She lifted her head and looked at him. “Do you think I’d forget something like that?”
“I don’t know what you’d forget.” He leaned down, dug in his sark, and pulled out a piece of paper.
“What is it?” She didn’t like the look of it nor the look on his face.
“You told me you need me to sign for the cargo as Edward.”
“Aye.”
“And that’s it?”
“Yes.” The warmth between them was receding. She sat up, pulling the plaid more tightly around her.
He gave her the paper, and she unfolded it.
She saw what it was—could read the words clearly—but her mind couldn’t quite bring itself to believe what she saw. “No.”
“Oh, yes.”
This marriage record was exactly what she needed, though how it got created or ended up in Gerard’s hands, she could only begin to guess. She realized he was watching her.
“We’re not actually married,” she said.
“Are you sure?”
The words were a challenge, not a question.
“Aye, of course. Did this come from the men downstairs?”
“Yes,” he said. “I take it it’s something you commissioned?”
She flushed. “Aye. It’s…a bit complicated.”
“Which must explain why you chose not to share anything about it with me.”
“To be fair, I hardly know you.” She regretted the words the instant they left her mouth.
“Ouch.” He sat up and began coolly buttoning his cuffs. “Let’s see if I can summarize the parts that have been shared with me. First, you would like me to claim cargo as Edward, your fiancé—”
“Edward is not my fiancé. He’s the Englishman to whom I used to be engaged.”
Gerard paused. “Englishman?”
“I say it with no pride.”
“But claiming to be Edward is not enough. You also need a wedding record that shows that you and Edward are married.”
“Aye.”
Gerard pulled the sark over his head. “If you needed his name on the record, is there any particular reason why you didn’t simply marry him?”
“I told you why,” she said, standing. “He’s a blackguard.”
“You also told me you wanted the cargo.”
“I hope you dinna think I’d marry him in order to get the cargo.”
“I don’t know what you’d do. As you pointed out, we hardly know one another.”
“Gerard—”
“Just tell me the truth, would you?”
“I wanted the marriage certificate in case you failed,” she said, squirming. “Then I could try again as his wife.”
He reached for his shoes. “I appreciate the vote of confidence.”
She had taken him to her bed out of desire, plain and simple, but if she had had any thoughts in the moments after their joining that the act might have softened his irritation with her over being summoned to Edinburgh against his will, she had been mistaken. And why should his irritation be softened?
She looked at the spread of blue water and the little barque caught her eye. A wee bit closer and she’d be able to see the color of the flag.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m determined to succeed one way or another. I act as if I’m the only person involved, and I shouldn’t. I should be more considerate of your feelings.”
Gerard bowed stiffly. “Tell me the truth then. Are we stealing the cargo?”
She made a long sigh. “According to the law, aye, but—”
“Oh, Christ.”
“The money he used was mine. He’d lost his own sizable fortune before he even met me. The man searched me out, chose me for a purpose, and used me ill.”
Gerard met her eyes. “I imagine that would make someone pretty angry.”
“I-I—” Damn him. “I said I was sorry. Shall I apologize again?”
“Let’s just get to the docks. I want to get home.”
The message was clear. Whatever had transpired here, high above Edinburgh, was done.
This time at least you can say you got as much as he did out of it. But why didn’t it feel like it was enough?
The ship they’d been watching glided into a brilliant tack, and its side came into full view. Red. The color she knew it would be. And under a Scottish flag. This was the ship with her cargo. She’d have half an hour before it reached the docks, then an hour after that before Edward swooped upon it, no more. She had the paper. She could do it without Gerard.
“Why don’t you get dressed,” she said, “and wait for me here. I’ll talk to the men below and ensure the record represents everything we did here last night. Undine will want to be sure.” She stuffed the paper into her pocket. “It should, but we canna know.”
Gerard lifted two corners of the plaid, now draped over the rugs, a look of alarm on his face. “How in the hell am I supposed to…?”
“Lay out your belt. Lay the plaid on top. Fold it lengthwise, like a fan. Buckle the belt around you. Knot the top corners. Thread your arm and head through. You watched me do it.”
“That’s like saying I watched you perform open-heart surgery.”
She descended the stairs amidst the noises of complaint.
“Belt, plaid, fan, buckle, knot,” she called. “You said you’re a Highlander, after all. ’Tis time to show it.”
Thirteen
Gerard tugged morosely at the hem of the wool, now belted into a reasonably acceptable facsimile of a kilt, and looked at his nonexistent watch.
No phone, no watch, no pockets, no underwear. It’s like Gilligan’s Island with whiskey and horseshit.
And Serafina.
That was something New York didn’t have. He could do without underwear for a long time if it meant Serafina might climb onto his lap again and warm herself on him. He thought of those fiery curls and looked at his hands. Nope, no burns there. His ego had taken a singeing though. He’d never been one to argue that making love opened the window of your soul to another person, blah, blah, blah. But for her to say she hardly knew him…
Had she used him as Edward had used her? What if she had? He could hardly argue the moral high ground here.
It dawned on him that he’d never felt used before—at least not in this way—and that it was a wretched feeling.
Ugh.
Where was she? It had been ten minutes at least.
There was no point in waiting. He could intercept her on her way up. He trotted down the stairs, opened the door, returned the key to the hook behind Donal Urqhardt’s headstone, and made his way to the office of petty larceny in the basement.
“I’m looking for Father Kincaid,” he said to a beefy-looking bald man gnawing the flesh off a chicken drumstick.
“Gone.” The man belched.
“Are you Archie, by any chance?”
The man shook his head. “Colm,” he managed to get out through the mouthful of food.
&
nbsp; “Did you happen to see a woman with red hair? Quite pretty?”
At this, the man swallowed and straightened. “Are you the man in the spire?”
There’s a title with a lot of baggage, Gerard thought. Nonetheless, he nodded.
“You liked it, I hope?” the man said eagerly. “Did ye see the candlestick? I found it at May Fair.”
“I did. Brass, shaped like a stag. It definitely caught my eye.”
“And you liked it? The candlestick, I mean,” he added hurriedly, face reddening, “nae the rest. We don’t usually get men going up there on their own.”
Gerard sighed. “Getting back to the red-haired woman—I’m hoping you might have seen her.”
“Last night? No, but I heard the stramash all the way in—” The man stopped, embarrassed. “It was, er, rather loud.”
“Not last night,” Gerard said, reddening himself. “Just now. Did you see her just now?”
Colm shook his head. “No one’s been about,” he said. “I’ve been here half an hour or more.”
“Dammit! She was supposed to be here.”
Colm’s eyes darted back and forth. “Oh, God, it’s happening again.”
“She lured me up there with the promise of—”
A pock-cheeked cleric stepped out of an attached room. “Are ye talking about the ginger-haired lass?”
Colm quieted the cleric and said to Gerard, “You’re saying she was in the steeple with you?”
“Yes,” Gerard said.
“And you two…?”
“Of course!”
“And then she left you?”
“She was supposed to be here. She made it very clear she would be here, and I was to wait and then we would go back to the inn and…” Gerard noticed the men were observing him with the sort of sympathetic faces one reserves for lost children.
“Deserted at the altar,” the pock-cheeked man said to Colm.
Colm nodded sadly. “And ruined in the process, it sounds.”
“I wasn’t ruined.”
“Was it not what you expected? Not every man can pace himself in such a way that—”
“I wasn’t ruined!” Gerard realized he was starting to sound like a lunatic. “I’ve done it before. Trust me.”
