The Taming of Malcolm Grant

by Paula Quinn

  “And now?” she asked, slipping down him.

  “I…” He stopped and clenched his jaw to keep from releasing himself when she swallowed up the tip of him in her fiery cavern. “Now.” He spread her a little more and pushed, knowing she was still new to this. “Now, I feel filled to bursting.”

  He stretched her farther and set her down with his hands. She was tight and hot around him. He lifted her up and down, slowly, taking more of her each time. Another thrust and he lifted her completely off and shot his seed over her opening. Wet enough to take him farther, he buried himself in her and tossed back his head with the urge to let loose some victorious roar. He watched her through hooded, passionate eyes as she took him again and again, draining him of his strength and all logic. He pushed her back up against the nearest tree, bent his knees, and drove himself into her until she grew slicker and tighter.

  He wanted to tell her what she meant to him. He wanted to promise to be faithful to her till the end of his days. He’d bring her to Camlochlin, if she’d go. Harry could come too. Malcolm didn’t care; as long as Emma stayed with him, he’d be happy.

  But when he opened his mouth to tell her, only a tight moan escaped him. He thrust harder, faster, making her grunt when she breathed. She reached for his face and spread her fingers over his clenched jaw and beguiling dimple when he smiled at her.

  “I didn’t know ’twould feel so good,” she told him, and then took a succession of short shallow breaths and quaked in his arms. Her body caressed him, lit him on fire. He watched her climax, tightening his grip on her rump and slowing his movements while she came on him. He followed shortly after, filling her with himself while she covered his face with her fingers and watched.

  Afterward, they rested for a little while, laying in each other’s arms in the grass beneath the trees.

  “I like making love to you in the woods,” Emma told him softly, finally sitting up.

  “Then I shall make certain to bring ye there often when we get home.”

  Did he…? Did she hear him right…? She turned on her rump and threw herself on him. “Are you asking me to go home with you?”

  “Aye.” He laughed when she squealed in his ear. Once. Twice. “Will ye come?”

  “Oui!” She kissed his face over and over. “Oui, I will.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Bess’s teeth along his shaft enticed Sebastian to release himself in her hot mouth, but how the hell was he going to get Emma away from Malcolm? He had to bring her to Oliver as ordered or else his brother would come to Hebburn himself and kill anyone who came against him.

  Bess’s tongue licked its way down his shaft like a velvet flame.

  One for the sake of many. And if he found out that the Grants were responsible for Andrew’s death, he’d kill them. With his duty to his dead brother done, he’d leave Newcastle and go find his boat.

  Why was he thinking of sailing away when a beautiful woman was snuggling deeper between his thighs and sucking him harder? He closed his eyes and groaned with sheer delight. Bess was an experienced whore who knew how to please a man. She was good at it because it pleased her too. He enjoyed her and even paid more for longer hours with her.

  She used her tongue to lick and revel in the taste of him, her lips to caress him, and her teeth to drive him to the edge of oblivion. He promised while he pulled her up over his wet cock, straddled her legs around him, and impaled her to the hilt to be a loyal customer, seeking her out first when he visited and wanted a woman who could match his fervor.

  She liked hearing that and drove herself up and down on him, tossing back her head, her full, round breasts poised just above his hungry mouth.

  He came. Hard and full—then continued, relishing the searing flame of her claws down his back when he flipped her over and took her from on top. The hellcat didn’t like his dominant position and gave him some fight, which made him full to bursting once again.

  She’d been with many men and didn’t peak often. Sebastian was here to change that.

  Oliver would have laughed at him and his concerns about a woman’s pleasure, but there were many things Oliver didn’t know about him. Sebastian liked it that way. It was safer for all concerned.

  He dipped his head and drank from her swollen breasts until she bucked like a mare beneath him. He withdrew and reclaimed in long, smooth strides, closing his arms around her waist, his hands over her silky buttocks to drive her to him closer.

  “Tell me, Bess, my scintillating seductress, what do you think of Malcolm Grant?”

  “He’s going to take me with him when he leaves Fortune’s Smile.”

  “Ah, and what will he do with you and Emma both? You don’t think he’s leaving without her, do you?”

  He hated to use Emma in his schemes to get information, but Bess knew things that she didn’t tell him because of some fancy that Grant might actually care for her.

  “Does your heart still beat for him?”

  She opened her sapphire eyes and looked him straight in his. “Who told you that it does?”

  “Your eyes told me.”

  Her luscious mouth hooked into a smile. “Then I’d rather you didn’t see my face.”

  He kissed her mouth dangling below his, then sat up and turned her over on her belly.

  He gripped Bess’s hips and in one fluid motion he hauled her rump up in the air and sank deep inside her.

  “I’ll take you with me, Bess,” he promised, kissing the back of her neck.

  “Who cares about the heart?” She turned to look over her shoulder at him. “It’s the body you want to possess, and you, dirty boy, possess mine well.”

  He wanted to possess every inch of her and make all her fantasies come to life. He moved his fingers over her tight, round arse and smiled behind her while she convulsed around his thickness, at the pinnacle of her pleasure.

  Slipping both hands around her, he rose up on his knees, their bodies still attached. She groaned and wilted against him when he ran his fingers across her swollen nub in front of him. He rubbed again while he took her from behind, kneading her between his fingers until her cries grew more urgent.

  In the perfect position to whisper in her ear, he told her that he was about to fill her again and asked her if she could take it.

  When she began to pant, he laughed, scraped her hair off her nape, and sucked on her neck. He brought her to climax and went there with her, muffling her cries with his hand. When it was over, they rested. For a little while.

  Malcolm woke before the sun rose the next day and went to his window to look out. He knew Emma would be there, traipsing about in the pre-dawn light. He smiled when he saw her, lost to the sublime beauty of her. What had she done to him? How had she done it? Emmaline Grey loved him. She wasn’t the first to say it, but she was the one who mattered because Malcolm believed her when she told him. He wanted to be a better man for her, a man like his father. Hell, he wanted to pick flowers for her the way he’d seen his father and his uncles do for the women they loved.

  He dressed quickly and left the brothel to begin his task. How does one go about picking flowers? Which flowers would do? He saw something that resembled heather growing along the side of the brothel. When he tried to pull it from the ground, he ended up yanking all the tiny petals off the stem. He tried again, with another stalk. Same result. He looked around and saw another type of pink blossoms, but they were covered in bugs. Next, he found a patch of little yellow flowers with green centers. They weren’t as pretty but they seemed sturdy enough when he pulled them from the earth. Hell, he should have paid more attention to the bouquets the men of Camlochlin handed out. Theirs always looked so well thought out; especially the bonny bunches his uncle Jamie picked for his aunt Maggie.

  When he gathered enough to make a small bouquet, he set off to find Emma. He walked behind the brothel to the woods and found her asleep in a bed of bluebells. In the pale filtered light, he felt something stir in his chest at the sight of her. He felt a tether to
her that they were both different and somehow deficient. But he was wrong. He wasn’t deficient and there was nothing lacking about Emma. She was perfect in every way.

  He gave Gascon a pat on the head and leaned down next to Emma in her flowery bed. He smoothed a strand of her hair away from her cheek and whispered her name, once, twice.

  She smiled and then opened her eyes. “Good morn, Malcolm.”

  His heart swelled. “Why are ye sleepin’ in bluebells, lass?”

  She stretched. “Because they smell good.”

  “Ah, and I thought that allurin’ fragrance was ye.” He leaned down and kissed her. He loved kissing her. He wanted to kiss her for the rest of his life.

  “What’s this?”

  He looked at her and saw his pathetic bouquet in her fingers. Her free hand explored the surface of the blooms and then each petal and a light touch across the center.

  “Dandelions.” She smiled and held them up. “From you?”

  “Aye, but they’re more like weeds compared to what ye found to sleep in. Why are ye smilin’ at me like that, Emma?”

  “Because they are weeds and I think I shall die from how sweet it is.”

  “Hell,” he groaned. “What do I know of flowers? And worse, I’ve never been called sweet before. I’m not certain I like it.”

  She laughed and pulled him to her.

  They were too close to the brothel to make love in the bluebells so they rose up and went back.

  “Malcolm?” Emma said, tugging his sleeve as they strolled back. “Thank you for the flowers.”

  He smiled. “’Twas nothin’ lass. I’ll learn how to pick better ones.”

  “You will?”

  Aye she was worth hours, days, learning how to pick delicate heather.

  “Aye, lass, what’s yer favorite?”

  She looked up and smiled, slaying his heart as they entered the brothel. “All of them.”

  “Malcolm,” Harry called out when he saw Malcolm entering the dining hall with his sister. “Your brother wants to take Alison from me. He is costing me much and now, with all the ingredients he uses to cook—”

  Malcolm raised his palm to quiet him. Harry was loyal and true but he was also a stingy bastard. He was serious when he complained about losing Alison. Cailean was going to have to replace her before they left. “Aye, Harry, everything will be taken care of, ’tis why we’re still here. I know ye seek recompense.”

  Hell, Malcolm needed to speak with him. Now that Emma had told her brother she didn’t love Malcolm, the task of telling him the truth about his feelings for Emma was going to be more difficult. He’d already waited too long, done too much to the lass he’d promised not to touch. Each day it grew more difficult to talk to her brother about her. His feelings for Emma would mean little to Harry, especially when Malcolm wasn’t completely sure how deep his feelings were. Of course, Malcolm could, and likely would, remind Harry that he’d abandoned her—while she was going blind! Malcolm didn’t give a damn about Harry’s need to make things right if it meant staying apart from Emma.

  He’d also have to tell him—and Emma—that he’d promised to take Bess away from this life. He wouldn’t take her to Camlochlin, but he’d help her start her life somewhere else.

  The doors opened, spilling cool, damp air into the brothel. Malcolm continued to eat while watching three men enter the brothel. He didn’t recognize any faces from the Winther fight so he stayed in his seat.

  “Who is the proprietor here?” one of the men called out.

  “I am.” Harry rose from his seat and stepped around the table to go to them. “Welcome to Fortune’s Smile. What can I do for you?”

  “We want some food,” one replied.

  “And some women,” said another.

  Harry nodded and pulled out a seat at the nearest table. “As fortune would have it”—he smiled and offered them the seat—“you’ve come to the right place… Ehm, my good man…” Harry reached out to grab the patron’s sleeve when the man started moving toward his sister’s table. But he missed.

  Malcolm watched his approach, noting the customer’s stumbling gait. These men were already drunk and looking for trouble. Malcolm knew their type well. Usually no amount of logic could talk them out of their purpose.

  “Who is this pretty little thing?”

  Gascon growled and Malcolm stood up. “Cut that curiosity aboot her from ye like ’twas a disease that will kill ye.”

  At first the patron looked terrified—Malcolm was at least two heads taller—but then his drunkenness took over and he challenged him.

  “This is a brothel. That is a whore. If I want to pay for—”

  His words were cut off abruptly when Malcolm’s fist shot out and cracked the patron’s nose in two places. Blood spurted everywhere as the man sank to his knees.

  His friends moved instantly, brandishing knives and promising Malcolm that they’d enjoy cutting him to pieces and feeding him to the rabid mongrel growling beside him. That must have been why the first one to reach the table didn’t go for the pistol tucked in his belt.

  Malcolm took possession of it a moment later when he snatched the assailant’s wrist and twisted his arm back until he heard the break and pulled the pistol from the screaming man’s belt.

  It was over before anything really began—with Malcolm aiming the pistol at the third man, who surrendered without further ado.

  He turned to see Emma, and found her crouching down and running her hands down the man’s broken arm.

  “I’ll fix you something for the pain,” she promised the stranger. “And then I’ll fix you. But if you or your friends try anything else, I’ll let him kill you. Do you understand?”

  Malcolm glared at him, proving that she spoke the truth.

  “I understand,” the man said, sobering quickly.

  Malcolm didn’t like the fact that she would be tending to these men, but this was who she was, a lass full of compassion and concern—and, he reasoned, she’d likely smash a wooden bowl over his head and kill him dead. It wouldn’t be the first time she did it. He never told her that she’d killed a man with Gascon’s supper that first night Malcolm had arrived. She didn’t need to know. She’d never forgive herself.

  He watched her enlist Harry’s and Gunter’s aid in helping the men sit at the table, and then he turned to the staircase, feeling another set of eyes on him.

  Sebastian Fletcher looked like he just stumbled out of bed—which he likely did—and continued down the steps a moment or two after Malcolm met his steady gaze.

  “I’ve seen very few men as quick with their hands as you. I’m quite impressed with your reflexes and skill.”

  Malcolm shrugged. He knew he was a good fighter. He didn’t need flattery.

  “Cailean’s in the kitchen,” he advised, and returned to his food.

  “Who were they?” Fletcher asked him, raising his hand to a server.

  “Just trouble seekers.”

  “Seems they found it.”

  “They usually do.”

  Fletcher laughed and then beckoned again. “I remember talk of a brawl here a se’nnight or two ago. A Winther was killed, if I’m not mistaken. Were you and Cailean here for that as well?”

  Everyone at the table froze.

  “Nae,” Malcolm told him. “We were no’ here.”

  “Too bad, eh?” Fletcher asked with a wink. “I’m sure you would enjoy smashing a few Winther heads.”

  “I’ve never heard of them before this moment.”

  Fletcher smiled. “Oliver Winther deserves the misfortune that will one day come upon him. Hell, I’m hungry.”

  Malcolm shook his head. When the hell had he become so suspicious of everyone? Fletcher was as innocent as all the rest of the honor-bound lads he knew.

  “Why are you so late to dine?” Emma asked him, reaching into a pocket of her skirts and pulling out two vials.

  Forgetting the Winthers, Malcolm watched her slip the herbs into a cup and feed it to the m
an whose arm he broke. She did it so effortlessly, the patron didn’t see; neither did his friend.

  “I was occupied,” Fletcher told her, winking and doing his best to ignore Malcolm’s hard stare.

  When Bess appeared on the stairs, looking as unkempt as Fletcher, dressed in her robes, the trader smiled and called to her. “Venus has awakened! Come, goddess, sit with your lover.”

  Malcolm was stunned to hear Bess giggle. She looked happy, satisfied. She even tossed Emma a brief smile, before her warm gaze fell back to Sebastian.

  “I’d rather be—”

  He kissed her and withdrew smiling. “Say good morn to Malcolm.”

  “Good morn, Malcolm,” she drawled, and reclined in her seat without so much as a glance in Malcolm’s direction.

  Impressed with the man sitting next to him, Malcolm winked at Fletcher and patted him on the back. “Ye’ve won her.”

  Sebastian turned his smile on Bess and lifted his cup. “She’s won me.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Emma continued wrapping the patron’s broken arm, with one ear on the customer and the other on Malcolm and Sebastian laughing together at the other end of the table. She knew they’d end up becoming friends. She was glad. She liked Sebastian and his honesty.

  The wounded man was beginning to doze off, thanks to her herbs. They’d have to sit him in a chair with arms once he fell asleep or he’d end up sprawled out on the floor. There was nothing she could do for the man with the broken nose except slow the bleeding. If his nose was straight before, it wasn’t going to be in the future.

  She wasn’t angry with Malcolm for hurting them. He was protecting her and she liked it. There was a sort of freedom and comfort in knowing that she was safe, away from the brothel.

  “This is precisely why you don’t belong down here in the middle of my business. It’s too dangerous for you.”

  “Aye,” Malcolm joined in, “’tis. That’s why I want to bring her home with me, Harry.”

  “No!” Harry smashed his cup down on the table so firmly it bounced off and hit the floor hard. It had its desired effect though; all attention fell on him. “She cannot go with you!”