by Karen Ranney
She smelled of roses, which was impossible in wintry Edinburgh. Her breasts were full, the nipples hard against his chest like spears of desire.
The sight of her in the firelight, naked but for a coral glow, stilled his breath. He rolled her back on his arm, then bent to place a kiss gently between her breasts.
Although he wasn’t as experienced as she probably wanted, he could muddle through well enough. First, he needed to contain his excitement, the heady surge of pure lust that hit him in that moment.
He was no longer cold.
He wanted to spend hours on her breasts. First, this pretty little nipple with its pebbly aureole. How tight it got when he licked it. Then the exquisite soft plumpness of her breast deserved a kiss and a nuzzle.
The sighs she made spurred him on, encouraged him to explore with lips and stroking fingertips. The flesh beneath her breasts received a kiss, as did the spot on each side of one breast. She rewarded him with a nearly inaudible gasp, but he was so close, so attuned to her, that he knew the exact second she began to tremble.
She was as he’d always imagined her, exquisitely and perfectly formed. He kissed the curve of her shoulder, trailing a line of kisses down her arm to her wrist. A part of him not awash in pleasure made note of the bulging scar near her elbow and the one on her leg. He put his observations away to study later, loath to do anything to change the pattern of her rapidly escalating breathing.
Raising up on his right arm, he used his left hand to measure the curve from breast to waist to hip. She must know how beautiful she was. Had other men praised her? Had her other lovers been as enthralled as he felt at this moment?
He was glad she wasn’t a virgin, but there was one responsibility he still needed to assume.
“I would not have you bear a child from this night, Catriona.”
She placed her hand on his shoulder. “I know how to protect myself,” she said.
He remained still a moment, wondering at the sudden anger he felt. Was it because she’d freely admitted to being experienced? Or because he knew he was only an interlude, one she paid to have?
If that was the case, she was damn well going to get her money’s worth.
He pulled back the blankets and sheet. Her arm lay on her hip, and for a moment, he just looked at the sight of Catriona’s nude body in the faint light from the fire.
The veil added a forbidden tinge to the picture, as if she were incognito, a woman indulging in sex against all the rules and commandments she’d been taught.
He leaned over and kissed her breast, mouthing a nipple, pulling gently, then harder, until she made a sound at the back of her throat.
With one hand, he pushed her onto her back, rising over her.
“I want to make you moan,” he whispered, the declaration almost a threat. “I want to make you scream.”
“A battle joined, is that it, footman?” she asked with a quaver in her voice.
“My name is Mark,” he said, bending to tease her breast. “Say it.”
She remained stubbornly silent as he grazed her nipple with the edge of his teeth.
“Mark,” she murmured, her body arching, demanding.
He smiled, satisfied.
She was his. Catriona Cameron, beauty, termagant, spoiled, willful, surprising, ever-changing, was his, if only for tonight.
His hand gently palmed her, fingers exploring that sweet spot between her legs. She made a soft moaning sound.
The flat of his hand pressed against her, one finger gliding through swollen folds. She widened her legs, her hands gripping his shoulders.
“Beautiful,” he whispered.
Lust harnessed his breath, made his heart pound. When she gripped him tighter, he smiled.
She was wet for him.
He placed a kiss between her breasts and in a line down her belly to the nest of soft, curly hair. His fingers explored her, parted her, grew intimate with each fold and soft indentation.
Slowly, he slipped a finger inside her, paused, withdrew, and entered her again, each time taking minutes when his own body counseled that he mount her now.
Her legs widened still farther. He smiled into a kiss on her belly, his fingers leading the way for his mouth.
“Mark!”
He broke off his amorous attack to look at her. She was supported on both elbows, and although the veil shielded her expression, he knew she was shocked.
“I thought you said you’ve had lovers.”
“I have.”
“Then you’ve had staid lovers, Miss Cameron.”
He pushed her back on the bed and went back to his task of driving her mad with passion.
Her fingers drummed a tattoo on his shoulders. Later, he would teach her to reciprocate, even though he had his suspicions she knew how to do that well enough.
Her fingernails were like talons. He spared a second of thought for the pain in his shoulder, then realized it was nothing compared to the discomfort his impatient erection was causing.
“Mark.” Her voice had changed to liquid silk, giving his name two syllables.
Drawing back, he looked at her, legs spread, arms outstretched, a rosy flush encompassing her belly and chest, right up to those fiercely standing nipples. He rose up and kissed each, then entered her in one fluid motion.
She moaned a welcome, tightening and trembling around him. Pleasure coursed through his body and danced along his spine. His toes tingled and he smiled in a wordless expression of bliss.
He’d never considered himself a sensual person, but he rode it now, entering Catriona with deliberate slowness, pulling out with the same enforced delayed pace.
She arched beneath him, then pulled him closer, her breath harsh and rasping in his ear, her grip on his buttocks demanding.
When she shuddered around him, he waited, propping himself on his forearms, nearly insensate from her pulsing grip around his erection. He needed to kiss her, wanted to praise her. Instead, he leaned forward, kissed her breasts, and slowly began to move again.
Long minutes later she moaned again, a long, drawn-out sound that was accompanied by his release.
For a few moments his mind was deadened by pleasure, his senses reeling.
His conscience had been silenced by satisfaction until only a small and inconsequential remnant remained.
Chapter 15
Catriona awoke later than usual, the time between dreaming and full wakefulness spent in a haze of thoughts. What day was it? What time was it? What had she dreamed?
She stretched, feeling better than she could remember for a long time. Her breasts felt full, and between her legs there was an unaccustomed ache.
It wasn’t a dream, though, was it?
Mark had left hours ago. She’d sat up, watched him dress, then reached into the drawer of her bedside table.
“Your payment,” she’d said, handing him a small drawstring bag.
He’d looked as if he wanted to speak, but he only nodded, taking the bag from her and tucking it into his jacket.
After he left, closing the door of her sitting room, she’d removed her veil, put on her nightgown, and dozed for a while.
Now she sat up, feeling the chilled air on her face. These moments after first waking were always the most liberated of her day. For these precious minutes, she needn’t don her veil and could pretend the accident hadn’t happened, that she wasn’t scarred, but the Catriona she’d always been.
The room was cold, the fire only a few orange and gray coals. Her thick flannel nightgown kept her warm, as did the memories of last night.
What a fool she’d been. What a silly, arrogant, idiotic fool. She’d played a child’s game and received an adult’s reward, enough shame to keep her cheeks hot for the whole of the day.
He’d been a magnificent lover. He touched her with delicacy, as if he’d rarely known a woman’s body. He held himself back, ensuring that she reached her peak not once, but twice. The sensations were so exquisite she’d been reduced to tears.
“Are you crying?” he asked, fitting himself next to her on the narrow bed.
“No,” she said.
“You are crying,” he said. “I can hear you.”
She abruptly sat up, pushing him away when he reached for her.
“No,” she said, carefully rearranging her veil. “I’m not crying. Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Did I please you?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said. “I’d be happy to provide any recommendations, should you require them.”
He’d placed his hand on the small of her back, trailing it up beneath the veil. His hand was so large and warm.
“Must your veil be so long? Couldn’t you use a shorter version?”
“Are you offering advice on fashion now, footman?” she asked.
“You called me Mark earlier,” he said.
She felt a tremor race through her.
“That was earlier.”
“Why were you crying?”
She bent her head. She hadn’t answered him then, and she wasn’t sure she’d be able to now.
He wouldn’t be bringing her breakfast tray, at least. She’d only have to worry about seeing him at noon and this evening. If she could make it through the day in her usual way, he’d understand that last night was an aberration, a foolish act by a woman who’d been desperately lonely.
He’d served a purpose, and one in which he performed magnificently. What a pity that she could never tell him. Or never express her gratitude toward him. He’d misunderstand, perhaps assume that she wanted to continue their liaison.
Of course she didn’t.
She was wiser now. She’d learned that society can accept a philandering man with greater alacrity than it would a woman with loose morals.
Catriona Cameron, sister-in-law of the Earl of Denbleigh, would be a ripe target for the gossips. Poor thing, she not only lost her looks, but her mind. She’s having an affair with a footman, of all things. A footman!
She could hear the tittering laughter now.
No, Mark must understand, immediately, that she had no intention of repeating last night. He must forget that she’d begun this liaison, as would she. Or perhaps she would store the memory of last night in a special spot. Where, though? In the place she put all indescribable wonders and delicious delights? Or in a spot marked “Caution, do not examine too closely”?
Last night had been truly wondrous, and she’d enjoyed every moment of her own debauchery. Enough to wish that she needn’t deny herself the pleasure of his company.
Nevertheless, she must, and he had to understand that immediately.
If she felt a rush of eagerness, it was only because she wished to explain it to him as soon as possible.
That was all it was.
He had already called himself fifty kinds of a fool today. Brody hadn’t said anything the last time he made that remark. Evidently, his driver agreed.
Because of his dislike for closed spaces, Mark lowered the windows, and even though the weather was bitterly cold, he bundled up against it, preferring a winter storm to the feeling of being buried alive.
Snow covered everything, and what wasn’t covered with snow was iced over. Brody took the roads slowly, making the distance to the home of Catriona’s sister seem interminable.
He fervently hoped the earl was in residence, and had been assured by Mrs. MacTavish that he would be.
However, people could be wrong, and since this journey had been an exercise in chaos, it wouldn’t have surprised him to encounter frustration at its destination.
They’d lost a wheel this morning, and Brody was concerned about one of the horses. No doubt they would stay at an inn tonight, and he prayed for warmth and a lot of food.
He was hungry, mildly annoyed, and cold.
Why, then, was he here?
Perhaps it was because of the notes he’d received from Catriona’s London physician. The barely legible scrawls were a masterpiece of obfuscation. Not one word about the initial injuries. Had the nerves in her arm been damaged? Why did she limp so badly? What was the extent of the injuries there? Had her leg been twisted beneath her? Or had broken glass severed a tendon or muscle? Instead, the man had whined on and on about Catriona’s color, temperature, and attitude. Evidently, she’d vented her dislike for him and he’d been surprised by her complaints.
Over the years, Mark had discovered that a patient’s will to live was as important as his physical recovery. He was treating one widow right now who concerned him greatly. Her two children had predeceased her, and she’d commented on numerous occasions how much she missed her husband. If anyone talked herself into the grave, it would be Mrs. MacRae.
He didn’t want Catriona to do the same.
But he knew this journey had less to do with being a physician than being a man.
After loving her, he’d lain beside her, waiting for her cutting remarks. Instead, she wept, then denied it. Her grief had bothered him, and gnawed at him still.
He wanted to know her, to understand her, and perhaps that was the real reason he’d decided to come to Ballindair.
A person was known by those who surrounded him. A person’s character was revealed by those he loved. What better source to learn about Catriona than her sister?
“I’m sorry, miss, but I haven’t seen him. Mrs. MacTavish says he’ll be gone several days.”
“Thank you, Elspeth,” she said.
The maid put her tray on the table, then stepped back.
“Is there anything I can do for you, miss?”
“No, thank you,” she said.
The girl looked at her strangely before leaving, closing the door softly behind her.
Catriona walked into the bedroom and stood looking at her carefully made bed.
At Ballindair, Jean fussed about the pillows, wishing the earl had spent more money for the comfort of his servants. Now that her sister was a countess, had she thought of such things?
Where was he?
Had he quit?
Her stomach clenched.
Had he been so disgusted by bedding her that he’d left? Dear God, what if he had? What if she never saw him again?
Her life would be blessed by that fact.
She’d never again be bothered by that foolish man arguing with her at her meals. She wouldn’t have to fuss with trying to eat while wearing her veil. Nor would she be distracted by his appearance.
She took a few steps toward the bed, reached out and smoothed the pillow with her left hand. He’d slept here for a few hours.
A man with his appearance had to have women lusting after him. How many women had he bedded? How many of them were foolish enough to yearn for him? How many were stupid enough to feel sadness at his absence?
Surely she wasn’t the only one?
Andrew’s secretary was an able-bodied and intelligent sort, who had the added benefit of being curiously uncurious. Not once had the man ever asked the reason for his whereabouts. His secretary merely forwarded his mail, performed his assigned duties, and kept his discreet mouth firmly shut.
Simply put, the man did as he was told.
Now, if he could only convince his wife to do the same, his life would be a great deal more enjoyable.
He studied Elizabeth’s latest letter, the third he’d received in less than a fortnight. Any of his other correspondence was of more import than this missive of complaint. He’d never known Elizabeth to be so quarrelsome, and her pettiness couldn’t come at a worse time.
The roof was leaking.
She needed a new gardener.
The children were misbehaving and neither the nurse nor the governess could discipline them.
The tutor for the oldest boy had unexpectedly quit.
Where was he? Why hadn’t he answered her letters?
Had the silly woman forgotten their last parting? Perhaps another reminder of Morgan MacCraig’s divorce might be adequate enough to silence her.
&nb
sp; He contemplated that thought while staring through the front window of his bedroom, the only chamber he’d equipped to any degree. Since he’d be selling the house soon enough, there weren’t any plans for more furnishings. The bed was comfortable, the fire adequate, the reading chair the equal of any of his furniture in London. The bench beside the window held his most prized possession, his rifle.
The fireplace was large enough to warm the room, and the wooden floors were polished to a shine. The town houses of Charlotte Square were in great demand. This house’s only drawback was that it didn’t provide a view of Catriona’s home. Even so, he’d paid half again as much as the place was worth.
His plans were firming up, his knowledge of Catriona’s schedule increasing each time he met with that insufferable maid. He knew, exactly, when the deed would be done. This time he wouldn’t miss. This time he wouldn’t have to contend with fog. This time he’d do what he set out to do nearly a year ago.
The knocking on the kitchen door was loud enough to set the neighbors to gossiping.
He bit back an oath and descended the stairs. His need for secrecy had resulted in only hiring one servant, a part-time maid with some culinary skill. She wasn’t here now, so he was forced to open the door to the artless Artis.
She thrust herself into the kitchen with the grace of a lust-ridden bull.
“She’s no better than she should be,” Artis said. “That Miss Cameron pretends to be all ladylike, but she’s in heat like the rest of the animals.”
Andrew held himself still. “What do you mean?”
“Her and the footman. I saw her leave his room the other night. She, with her airs of being better than any of us. Telling me what to do and how to treat others.”
He took a deep breath and walked across the room, the sound of his boots echoing against the floor.
“Tell me about the footman,” he said casually, opening one of the shutters over the kitchen window.
“Him, he’s as bad as she is. He comes and goes as he pleases, and Mrs. MacTavish thinks he’s better than cream.”
