by Sabrina York
“Are you no’?” The temptation to echo her brogue was strong.
“Nae.”
“Then who is the problem?”
“Why, the London lords, of course.”
“Because they are popinjays.”
“In tights and heels. Aye.”
“Have you met so many of them, then?”
She snorted. “I’ve met enough. Not one of them has been remotely interesting. And more than their share, utterly revolting.”
“As bad as all that?”
“Definitely.”
“What if you arrive in London and find they are not all like that? What if you find a man who doesn’t wear heels and tights?”
“Doona they all?”
“I cannot imagine they all would.”
She thought about this for a moment and then popped another strawberry into her mouth and shook her head. “It doesna signify. He would still be English.”
“And what’s wrong with that?” Was it childish to be peeved that she lobbed them all together into one prancing pit?
She stared at him for a moment. “If I married an Englishman, he would expect me to live in England, would he no’?”
“Probably.”
“Well, there you go.”
“There I go, what?”
“Is it no’ obvious?”
“Not really.”
She tipped back her head and rolled her eyes. “I love Scotland. My family is there. How could I leave all that behind for a man?”
The way she said it made her feelings clear. A man was of no significance to her.
And again, peevishness rose in his chest.
“What if you met a man you could not resist?”
There was no call for her to snort.
Then again, Edward Nicholas Wyeth recognized a dare when he saw one.
“For example . . .” He took her face between his palms and stared at her lips. “What if he made you feel like this?” And he kissed her. Slowly. Gently. He savored the sweetness of the fruit on her lips. He kissed her until she was breathless.
“And what if he made you feel like this?” He made his way across her cheek to the cork of her neck, which he now knew would make her sigh and moan.
“Or this?” He cupped her breast. Thumbed her nipple.
“Oh, do stop,” she breathed. But her tone was husky and inviting, and she held her hand over his so he could not pull away.
He had to touch her again, to kiss her and suckle her nipples over her chemise and stroke her soft center. He was tempted to continue, after she came again, after she came apart in his arms.
But he eased away before he did, and watched her reclaim herself. She was beautiful in her passion and he memorized each and every feature. He had no idea where he’d dredged up the strength to leave her—cursing himself as a fool and taking pride in his restraint.
If he was honest, he was able to leave her because there was always tomorrow.
And the hope that his resolve might falter.
* * *
He’d walked back to the Swofford estate after their tryst—such as it was—because he was not in any condition to ride.
His cock was hard and his mind was awhirl.
As she had done, he had surveyed the offerings of English ladies and found them wanting. He’d done his best to avoid the mousetrap because he’d never met a woman who so much as stirred his heart.
Oh, they’d stirred his lust, all right, but nothing more.
And he couldn’t bear to be married to a woman with whom he could not be himself. A woman who only wanted to discuss fashions or jewels or balls.
He needed more.
And he liked what he found in Isobel. He liked the way he felt with Isobel. He liked who he was with her. Maybe more than liked it.
It was a new experience for him, a man who’d been born into a powerful family, coddled by servants and revered by society.
He liked that she was strong enough to stand up for herself. To command her own destiny.
She was a glorious woman. Beautiful, smart, funny, strong.
In short, they would be an excellent match.
If only she weren’t a maid.
And then, of course, there was her resolve to reject each and every Englishman she met out of hand.
And he was one. Definitely. Irrefutably.
But she did undoubtedly find him attractive. In fact, she panted for him.
He took a moment, reveling in that thought. That heated memory.
Would it be wrong to lay his claim on her? Would it be wrong to acquiesce to her demands? To give her what she wanted? Here and now?
Would it be wrong to take what she was offering?
Probably not, if she was offering.
The decision that he would thoroughly seduce her on the morrow elated him.
But there was one prickly thorn in his conscience. There was something she did not know. Something he should have told her.
He was no stable hand. No poor English lad.
He was the very thing she despised, a London lord. Viscount Stirling, to be precise, the son and heir of one of the most powerful dukes in the land.
When she discovered his true identity, she might never want to speak to him again.
As much as it disheartened him, he knew what he had to do.
When she came tomorrow, he had to tell her.
He had to admit the truth.
And pray God she was too impassioned by that point to care.
Chapter Five
The next day, it rained. Isobel considered not going to meet Nick, but only for a moment.
She was a Scots lass and wouldn’t let a little drizzle keep her from a ride . . . of any kind.
Though, to be honest, it was more than just a drizzle. A downpour was more like it.
Still, she reveled in the wild weather. It matched her mood.
She did have to consider the fact that he might not come, being an Englishman and all. In her experience, they were particularly prissy about their discomforts.
So it was with great relief and delight that she spotted him, soaking wet, standing beneath their tree. He greeted her by swinging her down from her mount—which admittedly, before, she would not have allowed.
And then he kissed her.
His lips were cool and wet and delicious.
“You came,” he said.
“You came.” She slicked back his hair with her fingers. “I’m impressed.”
“And why does that impress you?” he asked on a laugh.
“Because.” She went up on her toes and kissed his chin. “You’re an Englishman.”
“Nae doubt there’s a Scotsman in my background somewhere.”
“There must be. You’ve come out in the rain.”
“I’ll have you know, I’ve been out in the rain before.”
“Astonishing.”
He pulled her closer and growled, “Be careful, wench. I might have to give you a spanking.”
“Och, promises, promises.” Just then a particularly fat raindrop landed on his forehead and dribbled down his nose. She chuckled. “Maybe we should find some place a wee bit drier.”
“After all that talk about Scottish intrepidness?”
“Only a wee bit drier.”
He took her horse’s reins and led her deeper into the woods. “I’ve made a shelter for us.”
“A shelter?” Impressive, indeed.
“It’s not much. Just boughs and such.” They came upon it and he waved over it with a flourish. It was indeed quite nice. Nicer than lying in the rain, although she wouldn’t have minded that.
“How long have you been waiting?” she asked on a laugh.
“A while.”
“Och. I feel terrible for making you wait in the rain.”
“I’m just glad you came, or all this would have been for naught.” He threaded his fingers through hers and shot her a charming smile. “Shall we put it to use?”
“Oh, most certainly.”
>
The lean-to was large, but she still had to stoop. She loved that he’d put several blankets on the floor and there were more folded in the corner. A ragged bouquet of daisies lay on what might be construed as a pillow. “Daisies,” she sighed. “My favorite. How did you know?”
“A guess.” He grinned. “Also they were all I could find.”
Of course, she had to laugh. “This is quite nice,” she said as she sat.
“I’m glad you approve. Unfortunately, the day is not ideal for what I had planned.”
“Oh? And what did you have planned?”
His eyes glimmered. “I’m certain you know. But I’m happy if we just . . . talk.”
It surprised her that she would have been happy, doing just that—just talking to him—but to be honest, she really wanted more. More of what she’d had yesterday. And perhaps even more still.
Not that she’d spent the night imagining seducing him, urging him to forget about his nonsensical standards, but she had.
Since she didn’t know if he would consider her too forward if she just asked, she decided on another route.
She faked a shudder.
He was immediately contrite. “Oh, my goodness. You’re cold.”
“It’s probably because of these wet clothes.”
His nostrils flared. His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Probably.” A croak.
“I should take them off. Can you hand me a blanket?”
Mutely, he nodded, and did so.
“Thank you. Now turn away. No peeking.”
It was a testament to his character that he did, though Isobel could tell he really wanted to watch. That something, in fact, pained him.
It took a while to get her wet habit off, especially with all her underskirts, but she finally did, and wrapped herself in the blanket. The warmth was divine and she moaned.
His gaze snapped back to her, his eyes wide, a thread of panic in them.
“Now you,” she commanded.
“Uh, yes . . .” He ripped off his shirt and worked the buttons of his breeks, which got caught on his boots so he had to pause to undo them.
Isobel didn’t look away. She couldn’t. His chest was magnificent. Muscled and brown. A ribbon of fascinating dark hair marched toward his navel and beyond. His legs were well made, too, long and lean. There was a large bulge in his smalls, which he did not remove.
Perhaps he’d left that for her.
How thoughtful.
“Don’t forget the blanket,” she suggested helpfully.
“Oh. Right.” He wrapped it around his shoulders and then looked back at her.
“Better?”
“Yes.”
He stared at her some more and she stared at him.
So much for the conversation he had in mind.
But then, did they really need one? They both knew what they’d come for and it wasn’t a chat.
Still, he held himself as stiff as a board, as though he were the virgin here.
She rejected the thought as soon as it surfaced. He wasn’t a virgin. How could he be? But he was something she appreciated.
A gentleman. He was waiting for her to make the first move.
As though she hadn’t been the one to suggest they strip.
Ah well. Noblesse oblige.
She made another first move.
She smiled at him.
The message was undeniable, but to make sure he got the point, she let her blanket slip . . . just a little.
His gaze locked on her bared breast. His lips parted and a sigh escaped.
“Isobel,” he groaned. “You’re killing me.”
“Am I?” she said coyly.
“You know you are.”
She tipped her head to the side and peered at his lap. “Let me see.”
“What!”
She put out a lip. “I’ve never seen one before.” And then she clarified, “Not on a man, at least.”
When he didn’t respond, she reached for him. “May I?”
He tossed off his blanket in a rush. “Yes. Please.”
Och. She liked hearing him beg.
Slowly, she ran her hand down his belly, following that dark line of hair. He sucked in a breath and made a noise like a whimper and then, when her questing fingers found him, he jerked.
She pulled back, chagrined. “Does it hurt?”
His laugh held a hint of desperation. “Only in the very best way.”
Well, she didn’t understand that in the least, but she was glad he didn’t mind her touching him, because she was fascinated. He didn’t complain when she peeled back his smalls, either, which was a good thing, because then she got to see him.
His cock was beautiful. Long and thick and hard. The long vein tracing its length throbbed intriguingly. She circled the tip with her finger, reveling in its softness.
She had no idea why he closed his eyes and moaned like a man in pain.
“Do you like this?” she asked.
He fisted his hands in the blanket and said something utterly unintelligible.
“Do women ever do to men what you did to me yesterday?” she asked.
It was an honest question. She truly wanted to know, maybe even taste him now, so his reaction was a complete surprise.
Before she knew what was happening, he had her on her back and had levered over her, holding her hands by her wrists.
“Nick?”
“I’m sorry,” he huffed. “I can’t. I just . . .”
“What’s wrong?”
“I want to make love to you.”
Wasn’t that what they’d been doing? She wriggled her hand free and stroked the skin at the nape of his neck. “And?”
“And if you keep touching me like that, it will all be over too soon.”
Ah. This she understood. This was passion.
“All right. What would you like to do?”
He set his forehead on her shoulder and laughed. “God. What a question.” It took him a moment to recover himself, and then he said, “We should talk.”
Talk? Not what she’d had in mind. Not right now. “All right.” She wiggled beneath him because he was heavy, and he edged over a bit. Which put him face-to-breast.
He stared at it for a moment and then licked his lips. And then he did what she’d been wanting. He took her nipple, which was beaded and hard, into his mouth and sucked.
The contact astounded her. She knew how exciting it was to touch an aroused nipple, and how much more exciting when he had done it yesterday, but this? Skin-to-skin? His hotness against the cold of her skin? With that simple touch, she was enflamed.
“Nick,” she said, scraping her nails along his spine. She loved the feel of his body, warm now and hard against her. The scent of aroused man filled their little refuge, and it aroused her as well.
With a murmur—that might have been the full extent of the conversation he’d intended—he turned his attention to exploring her bare body. And she his.
The fire began slowly but quickly rose into a scorching conflagration, one that stole her wits. She writhed against him and he against her, both stroking, touching, kissing like wild beasts mating in the woods.
Which they were.
He found her center and stroked her until she trembled and cried out, bringing her closer and closer to completion, but holding her back as well. The frustration grew within her, her belly clenched and her muscles ached. Sweat beaded her brow.
Higher and higher he took her, closer and closer to the edge. And then he found a place that was more tender, beneath her nub, and he toyed with it until, with a feral scream, she came. Closed in on herself. Imploded.
It was resplendent.
* * *
Nick’s lungs worked like a bellows as he watched Isobel reach her peak. God, he wanted her. So much. But he had to wait. Wait until she was herself again. He still needed to have her consent. His conscience would allow nothing less.
It was hell, though, waiting.
Even if it was only second
s.
“Good?” he asked, kissing her on the forehead.
She smiled at him, her eyes dewy and sated. “Aye. Verra good. But Nick?”
“Aye, my lass?” he asked on a breath, hoping, praying that she would—
“I want you inside me.”
Jesus God.
Thank God. Thank God. Thank God.
“Are you ready?”
She laughed. “I think so.”
God knew, he was.
“Stop me if I hurt you,” he said, again, praying she did not.
He sucked in a deep breath and came over her, fisting his aching cock and setting it to her opening. She was slick with arousal and it made his mind spin but that was nothing to the insanity that took him as he eased inside.
She was tight, hot, ready. And God, he loved the way she closed around him. The way her eyes fluttered shut and her lips parted as he sank deep.
He held himself still for a moment, gritting his teeth. “All right?” he asked in a groan.
“Oh, yes. Yes.”
To his delight, she lifted and spread her knees, giving him even more access. She took him in, every inch.
It was torment to pull out, but his body demanded it.
And in.
And out.
And then, as she became used to the rhythm, she moved with him, urging him on, demanding more and more still.
He knew he could not hold out long, but he did his best, fighting oblivion as long as he could. He was glad he had—as agonizing as it had been—when she came around him in a glorious rush.
It was an all-out plummet for him then, moving faster and faster as he lost control, barreling toward fulfillment, with her at his side.
She cried out again, one last time, as his cock spasmed, his muscles locked, and he released into her waiting body. Bliss blinded him. Ecstasy descended.
He held her then, for long moments as they both recovered.
He loved that feeling. The warmth in his veins, the lazy drizzle of contentment.
How wonderful it had been. How wonderful she had been.
He rolled over and took her with him, wrapping them both in blankets. “Are you all right?” he asked.
“Mmm.” She nuzzled at his neck.
“Is that a yes?” he asked on a chuckle.
“Yes. It was amazing.” She opened her eyes and gazed at him, then kissed him on the nose. “Thank you, Nick.”
“Um, thank you.”
