by Karen Ranney
“I haven’t brought your meal.”
“Then why are you here?”
She stood back and he entered the room, closing the door behind him.
“I understand the Duke of Linster called on you. Did you enjoy his visit?”
“What does it matter to you?”
“He’s old enough to be your father, and a lecher as well.”
She turned, made her way back to the secretary. Sitting, she continued with her correspondence.
“Are you ignoring me?”
“I heard you,” she said calmly. “I was just not paying any attention to you.” She bent and began writing.
“He’s a lecher. Don’t you care?”
“The Duke of Linster’s morals aren’t your concern.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” he said. “But yours are.”
She didn’t look at him. “Why? Because for one night I was your convenient? Perhaps the duke and I are perfect for each other.” She placed her pen carefully on the blotter. Evidently, the letter to Jean would have to wait.
“Perhaps you are,” he said. “Do you use passion as a weapon, Catriona? Do you use it to get what you want?”
Startled, she stood and approached him. “What did I want from you, footman?”
He smiled. “Perhaps you’ll tell me.”
“Do you work for the duke?”
He blinked at her in surprise, the expression real enough that she felt a weight being removed from her chest.
“Why would you ask that?”
“Why would you accuse me of using passion as a weapon?”
She desperately wanted to touch him. Or tell him the truth. That he’d overwhelmed her, that he flattened her so easily with words or that small smile he wore now.
“I’ve been talking to your coachman,” he said.
“Next, you’ll be conveying your conversation with the cook, and your quips with the maids.”
“We were talking about the accident in London,” he said.
Her breath suddenly stilled in her chest.
She looked down at the floor, now in shadow. She’d often measured the day by how shrouded the furniture and fixtures became. If she couldn’t see the floor, afternoon was well advanced. If she wasn’t able to make out the desk, night had fully descended.
When had that way of telling time become tedious?
“He told me that someone shot at the carriage, that it wasn’t an accident after all, but deliberate.”
A chill was spreading from her stomach to all of her limbs. Within seconds her fingers were icy.
She made her way to the table, but instead of sitting there, braced herself against it.
“Did you know?” he asked.
She couldn’t answer him. What could she say?
“Catriona?”
Silence was evidently not going to be a recourse.
“Mr. Johnstone told me,” she said. Before that she’d suspected. Why else would the windows have exploded as they did?
He advanced on her, one slow, stalking step at a time. She didn’t move, even when he was close.
He smelled of linseed oil and leather. Could it be that the footman had done some work?
“It was an accident,” she said firmly.
He reached out and touched her shoulder. Somehow, she could feel the warmth of his fingers through the fabric.
“Was it?”
“Of course it was.”
She placed her right hand flat against his shirt, feeling the booming beat of his heart against her palm.
“Please leave, Mark.”
“Take off your veil,” he said.
“I’ve already told you I won’t.”
“I want to kiss you.”
Her heart beat much too fast, and his was thundering as well. She dropped her hand and took a step back.
“That wouldn’t be wise.”
“Are you counseling people on wisdom now, Miss Cameron?”
When had she been wise where he was concerned? Was she expected to forget how he made her feel? Or what passion was like, especially when it had been so missing from her life?
No, what she’d experienced with him had been nothing like what she’d felt before. Not only passion, but more. Something tender and worrisome, that made her vulnerable. She was not given to tears, but he made her want to weep sometimes. Or to simply lay her head on his shoulder and ask for his protection.
Instead of saying anything, however, she backed up a few more feet. She was being wise at the moment, and she should be proud of herself.
“Is your damn duke coming back?”
“I don’t know.”
Linster had tended his farewells, albeit reluctantly. Deny Linster anything and he was suddenly captivated. Mystery, evidently, interested him more than beauty.
“What did the damn fool want?”
“Me,” she said.
“Well, he can’t have you.”
“Are you commanding people now, footman?”
“I’m jealous,” he said, “and I’ve never been jealous before. Forgive me if I’m irrational.”
Suddenly, it was difficult to swallow, or to breathe. She forced herself to calm, clasped her hands in front of her, and concentrated on taking several deep breaths.
He circled the table, coming to stand beside her. Didn’t he know that his proximity was disturbing? If he did, he was using it to his advantage.
Who was using passion as a weapon now?
“You’ve heard that before, haven’t you? Catriona Cameron and all her suitors. I imagine you’re adept at juggling all of them.”
“Are you my suitor, footman?” she whispered.
“Take off your veil. I want to kiss you.”
Heat flared through her body, reaching out to touch each separate finger, toe, and pool in the core of her. Her body wanted what he wanted and more. She wanted to kiss him, feel his mouth on hers, inhale his breath and taste him.
She moved away, going to stand behind a chair. A flimsy barricade, but at least it was something between them. Who was she shielding? Him or her?
“You need to leave.”
“Yes,” he said, surprising her. “I do.”
He remained where he was.
“What I need to do and what I’m going to do are two different things, however.”
She licked her dry lips.
“It’s dark as the grave in here,” he said. “Will you at least light a lamp?”
“No,” she said. “I won’t. Not if I’m going to remove my veil.”
Chapter 20
Silence was another occupant in the room, breathing between them, a presence as solid as the table or the desk.
He took a cautious step toward her.
“What must I do?” he asked.
“Promise not to light the lamp,” she said, wondering at her own courage. She’d agreed to change her attire, met a duke, and now? Now, she was thinking of doing the most foolish thing of all, just because she was desperate to kiss this irritating man.
“I promise.”
“Do not build up the fire too high.”
“I promise that as well.”
She turned and walked into the bedroom. When he followed her, it was slowly.
He struck the chair, swore, then righted it.
When he entered her bedroom, closing the door behind him, she unclenched her trembling fingers and went to the vanity.
“How can you find your way in the dark?”
For months she had been as one blinded, growing gradually used to her heavy veil. She rarely lit the lamp even when alone, for fear of seeing her own scars. How did she tell him that?
“I learned where things were placed,” she said. There, the truth, watered down and acceptable.
She stood with her back to him, her hands gripping the edge of the vanity.
Slowly, before she lost her courage, she withdrew three of the pins that fastened the veil to her hair. Before she withdrew the remaining two pins, she hesitated. Wa
s this the wisest idea?
She’d gone a year without kissing. A year without the suffocating fullness of the veil in a man’s presence.
She wanted to be naked, free, unadorned by anything but her own will and wishes.
For an hour, maybe two, she wanted to pretend. Not that she wasn’t who she was, damaged and alone, but that she could have what other women had. Right now she’d have an interlude of magic. Not purchased, or arranged, but because each of them wanted it.
“Are you afraid?”
“Dear God, yes.” An unwise admission, but one that escaped before she could censor herself.
He came and stood behind her, then enfolded his arms around her waist, bending to speak softly next to her ear.
“I have a reputation for kindness,” he said. “For caring. For being gentle.”
Tears spiked her eyes. How did he know that she desperately craved all three at this moment? Would he be understanding as well?
She turned in his arms, jerking on the veil. It clung to the remaining two pins before floating to the floor.
He didn’t say anything, and the hollow feeling in her chest magnified. Could he see her? Please, don’t let him be able to see her. Give her that, at least.
Lowering her face, she rested her forehead against his chest. Her pulse was racing and every muscle was tense. For several moments he didn’t speak, move, or do anything but stand there with his arms linked around her loosely.
Other than her physicians, only two people had ever seen her: Jean and Aunt Dina. Both were generous and kind people, possessing good characters and capable of selfless love.
Mark was being kind because he wanted her body and her kisses. For that, she wanted to hold him close and thank him. For the gift of lust, she wanted to weep in joy. For passion, she wanted to respond in kind, praise his body and enjoy him.
Laughter was a strange thing to feel bubbling up from the fear.
She raised her head and kissed his shirt.
Slowly, she tilted her chin up, wishing she were taller. As it was, he would have to bend to reach her.
The hunger for kisses had been inside her for months. Now that it was soon to be appeased, she was impatient.
He lowered his head, finding her mouth with his. She sighed against his lips, feeling a flood of sensation when he opened his mouth and touched her bottom lip with his tongue. She did the same, reciprocity in seduction.
Fear had been replaced by heat.
She slid the tip of her tongue inside, touching his. He tasted of coffee and cinnamon. His mouth took hers as he pulled her to him. He kissed her as if he had her naked and on the bed. He kissed her as if the world would end in the next moment and he wanted the taste of her to last him for eternity.
Helplessly, she gripped his back, pressing him to her, standing on her tiptoes so all the places that ached and wept touched all his spots that were hard and hot.
She’d never wanted anyone as much as she wanted him now.
Without removing her lips from his, she walked him back to her bed. When the back of his legs hit the mattress, she pushed him with both hands. As soon as he landed, she was atop him and kissing him again.
Her skirts were too full; her bodice was too tight. She had entirely too many clothes on, and it seemed as if he agreed. His fingers flew over her clothing, undressing her with a skill that rang a far-off bell of warning in her mind.
Soon her bodice was off. Her left hand fumbled with his shirt. A second later he laughed into the kiss, pushing her hands away to unfasten the buttons and open his shirt.
Her fingernails scored his skin and his amusement vanished. He bucked and rolled with her until he was on top, his hands unfastening her busk, spreading the corset wide before ripping her shift with both hands.
He broke off the kiss to say, “I want you naked. If I can’t see you, then I’ll damn well feel you.”
She writhed beneath him, but he pinned her by sitting astride, stripping her of her garments and her will at the same time.
She’d always dictated the pace of lovemaking, but he just pushed her hands aside, bent, and kissed her again.
Had she ever been kissed like this?
His tongue traced her bottom lip, coaxed open her mouth, played with her, teasing and taunting.
She could barely breathe, but if she lost consciousness, it would be because of bliss. Who would call a halt to that?
He was suddenly standing, stripping off the rest of her clothing. She didn’t have time to marvel at the sensation of cold air on her heated body before he was covering her again.
“I’m naked,” she said, “but you aren’t.”
“Give me a moment,” he said in a raspy voice.
She smiled. At least she wasn’t the only one affected by this suffocating passion.
He peeled off his shirt, and she rubbed her palms up his chest, marveling at the beauty of him felt through her hands. How magnificent he was. His duties had evidently been hard in the past, because his arms were roped with muscle. His chest was well defined, his stomach taut.
She reached out, suddenly bereft when he left her again. When he returned a moment later, she wrapped his arms around his naked shoulders to hold him there.
His body pressed against hers, warming her.
When she breathed, she inhaled his scent. His fingers skimmed along her skin, creating skeins of sensation. She felt as if he were stripping experience and knowledge from her, making her virginal, naive, and unsure at his touch.
Before, she’d tried to hold herself aloof. Now, when he bent his head to surround her nipple with his lips, she shuddered, adrift in feeling, lost but not alone. With his kiss and his hands, he urged her to come with him, as if he alone were familiar with the journey to pleasure.
No one had ever kissed her as softly and urgently. No one had ever worshiped her with his hands, or murmured praise because of the curve of her waist or the hollow of her navel. Not one man had ever spread her legs with gentleness and fervency, his fingers tenderly stroking.
“You’re trembling,” he said. “Are you afraid?”
“No.” A word breathed on a sigh.
“Are you certain?”
How could he concentrate enough to speak? She could only think of him.
“Yes,” she said. “I’m certain. I’m not afraid.”
He pulled her up with one arm, lifting her to him as if she were a sacrifice. As he thrust his tongue into her mouth, he smoothed his hand over her body, touching her everywhere, learning her in long, heated seconds.
She was helpless and wanting. Out of breath and nearly dizzy with desire, she wrapped her arms around his neck, arching her back to get closer, to feel him.
He trailed kisses down her throat, then at her shoulder. A tremor tore through her body, and she shivered.
Slowly, he lowered her to the bed, spread his knees, and straddled her. For a moment that’s all he did, as if he needed the time to calm himself. His breathing was hoarse, the match of hers. Was his heart beating as fiercely?
She pressed her palm against his chest, feeling the furious pounding. Slowly, she trailed her fingers down over his stomach to the nest of hair and below, reaching out both hands to cup him, sliding his shaft between her palms.
He groaned, a sound she’d forever remember, then kissed her again until she was light-headed.
A hand slid over her nipple, his palm gently abrading it. A burst of pleasure raced through her.
He bent and licked first one nipple then the other, leaving the cold air to pebble each. He mouthed them, gently sucking at first, then harder, until she arched off the bed, biting back her cry of surprise.
Her body trembled with her unexpected climax. Spent, she lay beneath him, as he slowly entered her.
Reaching up, she kissed him, then tasted his breath, inhaled it, and returned it. He filled her, causing her eyes to close with the piercing pleasure of it. Bliss started in her belly, wound through each limb, touching every inch with wonder. On a moan,
she surrendered to him as he entered her again with long, slow, maddening thrusts.
He took her mouth as she came again, swallowing her cries.
For long minutes her body trembled. She lay with her eyes closed, her palm against his chest, feeling the thunderous beat of his heart slow to normal.
A small smile curved her lips.
Had she ever felt as wonderful?
He picked up her hand and kissed her fingers wordlessly.
A moment later the warmth of his palm on her cheek stopped her heart.
She was off the bed as quick as a thought, stumbling backward until she hit the wall. Naked and trembling, she wrapped her arms around her waist, holding herself silent when all she wanted to do was scream.
“What is it, Catriona?” he asked, sitting up and reaching for her.
She skittered out of his way.
“You promised,” she said, hating the faint, frightened sound of her voice.
“What did I do?”
“You touched me.”
“That wasn’t one of the promises.”
It should have been. It must have been. She wouldn’t have been as foolish as to forget that. He would have felt the ridges of her scars, traced the path of them from chin to forehead. A river of remembered pain etched into her face.
If he left now, she could pretend it had never happened. Now, though, before any more time fixed this instant in her memory.
Suddenly, she was aloft, in his arms, and she’d never seen him approach. She gasped in surprise as he held her close, bending down to kiss her gently, tenderly, and so softly that it was no deeper than a breath.
“Forgive me,” he said against her lips. “Forgive me.” A chain of words he repeated as he returned to the bed, lay her down and joined her, pulling her tight against him.
“Forgive me.”
She shouldn’t. She should banish him. Instead, she raised her hand until she clutched his shoulder and rolled closer, breathing against his chest, the soft hair tickling her nose. He was so warm and she was so cold.
“Forgive me.”
He should leave. But if he left, he’d take the warmth with him, the arms surrounding her, and the wordless understanding. When had she become so attuned to him? When had she begun to need him?
“It wasn’t intentional,” he said. “My only excuse is that I forget everything around you.”
