When a Scot Loves a Lady fc-1

by Katharine Ashe

  “Kitty, ma darling, yer doing everything juist fine.” He covered her hand and curved it about his arousal. Through the fabric his stiff heat throbbed. She struggled to breathe. He took her mouth with his and his hand guided hers over his hard shaft, back and forth, as his tongue explored. It made her heady to touch him so, and needy. A sound of pleasure rumbled in his chest. His hand stole beneath her skirts, cold against her skin but she didn’t care. She wanted his hands everywhere. He stroked her and she moaned against his mouth.

  “Kitty, A want tae taste ye.” His voice was so deep, rough and beautiful.

  She didn’t know what he meant. She would allow him anything.

  “Yes.”

  He swept off his greatcoat, draped it on the ground behind her, and laid her back. But when she thought he would move atop her he pushed her skirts up over her knees and pressed her thigh aside with a firm hand. He bent to her.

  “Leam? Wh— Oh! ”

  His tongue was upon her, soft, hot, wet, a fantasy.

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  It must be wrong, so wrong, yet her body opened for him, seeking his kiss. If she had not been made for this, she knew not what purpose her woman’s flesh had. It felt right, sublime, a little overwhelming. She thrust to him for more, unable to hold her hips still, her back curving with the pleasure of it. He dipped inside her and she made sounds she had never before made. He caressed, a torment of his mouth on her, and she lost her breath, her will for anything but this, the hot, quick stroking and probing, the fluid rushing of need. She ached and he answered it and she knew there was no mercy on this earth. When she came she cried in silence, throat parched in fulfillment, choked with sobs and laughter.

  He released her and she dragged air into her lungs. Her limbs were weak. His hands slid down her thighs, then calves, the cold following, returning her to reality.

  “Wickedness,” she whispered, a claw of shame scratching at her. “Is that what men do with their mistresses?”

  “Nae. That’s whit a skellum daes wi’ a wumman he canna get out o his blood.” His voice was taut, slicing through the chill peace. “Kitty—”

  “It’s all right.” She sat up and pushed her skirts over her legs and her voice quavered. “More than all right. I should thank you.”

  He grasped her shoulders and pulled her close and spoke over her brow.

  “Kitty, A canna make love tae ye as A wish. A dinna ken why ye believe yer yeld, but A winna take the chance agin. A shoudna the first time.”

  “I believe that was my choice to make.” She should not tremble. She should not despair that his desire to avoid getting her with child and being obliged to marry her was stronger than his desire for her. “But I thank you for the consideration, again.” The achy shadow of pleasure in her body tangled with the ache elsewhere. Everywhere.

  He wrapped an arm around her waist and tugged her hard against him.

  “Dinna thank a man for using ye withoot honor, lass.” He spoke harshly, entirely unlike the poetry-

  reciting lover in the stable. Here was intensity she had only glimpsed before. It thrilled her, and alarmed.

  “I probably should not.” She searched his glittering eyes, but there was nothing she understood there now. “Still, part of me feels grateful. And since one of us should probably tell the truth, I suppose it will have to be me.”

  His hand tightened on her. He bent, captured her lips, and kissed her. He kissed her and the world halted except for his mouth on hers that seemed to urge her to give him everything she wanted to give him anyway, this stranger she knew so little of except that he had not ever truly seemed a stranger to her. There was a tension in his body that did not match the sweet lingering pleasure in hers. But she wanted to meet him where he needed her. For the first time in years she wanted to serve a man’s desires no matter what it meant to her.

  He broke away abruptly and wrapped his hand about the side of her face, forcing her gaze to his.

  “Was it anely Poole?” His voice grated. “How many men hae ye been wi’? Tell me.”

  She quailed, melting beneath the heat of his possessive jealousy. Nothing mattered now, nothing of the world in which she had hidden herself. Not even his secrets. On the edge of falling, she cared only for the arms of this most unlikely man that might catch her.

  She could not tell him the truth, that it had only been Lambert. She was not such a fool as all that.

  If he imagined he was unsafe from permanent entanglement with her, she must convince him that he could not get her with child. She wanted him more than she had ever wanted the man to whom she had given her innocence. But she knew how to play games of falsity too.

  So it must be. Farewell grace. Farewell hoped-for joy. Grim pretense must suffice once again. Her hungry heart, it seemed, could manage nothing nobler. But at least for a short time, for perhaps only tonight, she might feel an echo of happiness.

  “Oh,” she forced through her lips, “I daresay at least a dozen.”

  She laughed, a sad, sweet sound of regret, and Leam was lost. Lost in a place he had vowed never to enter again. He pulled her tight to him, and willingly she gave him her mouth, her hands, and the soft slope of her neck dipping to her breasts. His heart, thick in his chest, pounded as her questing hands sought.

  The tip of her tongue slipped along the edge of his ear and she whispered, “Make love to me, Leam. Save me from this need.”

  Save me.

  Save me, Leam.

  He dragged her off him, thrusting her away, memories crashing to the fore. Blue eyes pleading, then weeping, tears soaking his skin, jealousy and rage tearing through him. His brother’s crumpled body, blood on the earth. Skirts clogged with river filth and a betrothal ring dulled.

  He didn’t even want me. He didn’t want me.

  Leam stumbled to his feet, pulling in breaths, and swung around. Five and a half years of impotent fury and grief surged forward.

  “No,” he choked out, his stomach cramping, head whirling. “No. Kitty, I beg—I beg your pardon for this. For all of it. I cannot.”

  Without looking back, he fled across the moonlit garden.

  Not waiting for dawn, Leam gathered his belongings and escaped Willows Hall, casting off temptation beyond his ability to withstand. Pressing his horse and the hounds, he rode east, then north.

  North to Alvamoor where his wife and brother awaited him in entombed peace, safely beyond the tumult in his soul they had created. North, where if he was very lucky he would entomb himself as well in a place where that soul could never be tempted again.

  Chapter 15

  Leam met his sisters on the terrace, the elegant mass of Alvamoor rising up behind him in crenellated red sandstone glory. The park stretched out across slopes to fallow brown fields and misty sheep pastures bordered with serpentine walls of rock. Beyond the stables below, the forest that had given name to his ancestors descended as a great dark shadow down the hill, as though mocking the formal gardens and park close to the house. It was wild Scottish nature and elegant English order combined, and he had missed it.

  Wrapped in furs and mufflers, Fiona and Isobel took tea in the brilliant sun. His younger sister leaped up from the table, a graceful sylph of pinstriped muslin, red cloak, and dark curls flying across the terrace. She flung herself upon him and he caught her up.

  “You are here!” Her slender arms squeezed. He bent to buss her upon one cheek, then the other.

  When their mother died in Leam’s fifteenth year, Fiona had been a wee one. Now on the verge of eighteen she was a beauty, tall like Isobel yet still slender as a reed. “We thought you would never come!”

  He smiled into her laughing eyes. “I began to believe I never would either.”

  “What delayed you?”

  “A snowstorm in Shropshire.” He took her hand and led her back to the table. “What are you doing out here? Haven’t you a place to enjoy tea within where it is warm?”

  “I could not resist the sunshine. It is the first
in weeks of gray, which makes perfect sense now.

  Nature knew you were coming home today.” Her smile danced.

  “What were you doing in Shropshire?” Isobel did not rise or even offer her hand. In five years she had not forgiven him as Fiona and their brother Gavin had. None of them had ever spoken of it, but Leam suspected Gavin understood, and Fiona had never cared much for James. As a child she’d made Leam her favorite, and her character was steeped in loyalty—much as Leam had pretended for years to society concerning his wife. But Fiona’s unshakable affection was real.

  She squeezed his hand and hung on his arm.

  “Yes, do tell us. I wish to know every little bit of everything you have done since we saw you last Christmas. Oh, but it is a terrible shame you missed it this year. Jamie and I made a croque-en-

  bouche.”

  “Should I know what that is?”

  “A French tower of cream puffs, silly!” She pinched his arm. “I read about it in a Parisian fashion magazine and supposed with all your world traveling you must have eaten one before. So we made it for you. It remained upright for nearly an hour, until Mary put it too close to the hearth and the sugar melted. The puffs were still quite tasty, though sticky of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “We are still waiting to hear what took you to Shropshire, brother.” Isobel’s skin was pale, her cheeks too hollow, her hair severely dressed. She had done this to herself, and he had not stopped her from it.

  “Yale asked me to accompany him to the house party of some acquaintances he preferred not to meet alone.”

  Fiona’s eyes sparkled. “I wish you had brought him here with you instead.”

  “I have no doubt you wish that.” He shook his head. “What will I do with you when I must allow you to enter society this spring?”

  “Will you, Leam?” Her eyes brightened for a moment, then her visage fell. “But I will have no one to take me about, for Isa cannot, being unmarried.”

  “I shall.” He took a slow breath. “I intend to remain at Alvamoor permanently.”

  Her grip on his arm tightened. “Truly?” Hope danced in her eyes.

  “You will be eighteen.” For all he wished to remain holed up in his house, come the spring it would be his duty to escort her about the countryside around Edinburgh and make her known to the mothers with eligible sons. Their brother Gavin was too young to see to it, only five-and-twenty, the same age as Leam when he had met Miss Cornelia Cobb at the assembly rooms.

  “ I will be eighteen, and you will take me to parties and perhaps even a ball.” She hugged him again.

  “Not if you don’t learn a modicum of comportment by then,” Isobel muttered.

  Fiona’s arms unwrapped from around him and she suppressed her giggles. “I will behave, Leam. I promise.” She was all smiles. “Have you seen Jamie yet?”

  “I only now arrived.”

  “He is with his tutor, but I will run and fetch him.”

  “No. Enjoy your tea while the sunshine remains. I will go, but I fear you will take a chill if you remain here long.”

  Fiona shook her head with a smile, but Isobel offered him an even stare. “You are so rarely in residence, we suppose you don’t care one way or another how we go along in your house.”

  “It is your house too, Isobel. For as long as you wish.”

  She narrowed her eyes. Fiona fidgeted. Leam cast his youngest sister a smile, then went inside.

  He moved across the entrance hall, and the scent of lilies met him like a punch to his midsection.

  A bundle of flowers decorated a table. He strode over and snatched the hot-house bouquet from the vase. He turned about and found a footman.

  “Dispose of these.” He thrust them at a lad he did not recognize. “Who are you?”

  “That’s the new boy.” Leam’s housekeeper strode swiftly into the hall, a bustle of efficiency.

  “Come on this last muin.” She shoed away the footman and curtsied to Leam. “Welcome home, malord.”

  “Hello, Mrs. Phillips. How are you?”

  “Well, sir. A thought as ye might be wanting tae clean out milady’s personal effects so we can use that bedchamber for guests an the like. Nou that ye’ll be staying, that is.”

  “News travels swiftly, it seems.” He nodded. “Yes. I shall see to Lady Blackwood’s chambers myself.”

  He made his way toward the stair, the lingering scent of lilies sickening in his nostrils. The day of James’s funeral the church had hung thick with the fragrance. Two months later when Leam buried Cornelia, torn between grief and relief, he’d smelled them again. Within weeks of that second funeral he had joined Colin Gray in his new club, and shortly after that met young Mr. Wyn Yale in Calcutta.

  He had run away, changing his life, but he had not changed.

  Imagining Kitty with other men was enough to drive him mad. Imagining losing his heart entirely to her, only to have her reject it eventually, was even worse. He was the same passionate fool as always, unable to control the depth of his feelings when once he allowed them rein—emotions that would inevitably lead to violence against those he loved, as they had before. The burning within him would never truly be quelled, certainly not when inspired by a woman like Kitty Savege.

  Five years of avoiding his own home had not changed him in the least. But at least he had learned how to escape. Recalling Kitty’s shocked face beneath the snowy trees, he knew he was a master at that.

  He paused on the landing and looked up to meet his wife’s smiling gaze. The breath went out of him, as always. Even in oil on canvas her golden beauty dazzled. But that no longer affected him. For the past five years, each time he had come home and seen the portrait, only guilt shook him.

  He’d had the likeness painted during their first month of marriage. She sat for Ramsay—the most expensive artist Leam could find—only the best for his perfect bride, the Incomparable nobody from nowhere remarkable whose parents nevertheless disapproved of her wedding a Scot, even a titled man.

  Only minor gentry, they hadn’t even the where-withal to give their daughter a proper season, but instead had sent her off to visit a Scottish school friend during her first season in Edinburgh. Yet their English snobbery and mistrust of him, a Scot, had run deep.

  But Cornelia insisted. She had cried, weeping desperate tears, begging them to allow her to marry him because she simply could not live without him. In the end they had relented.

  He stared at the portrait. Posing for Ramsay, she had smiled at Leam just so, with her twinkling blue eyes and dimpled chin. He’d sat watching throughout the long days, glued to his chair every minute, a besotted fool, never knowing his brother’s child was growing in her womb. His brother James, who—before Leam even met her—had refused to wed her because of his own broken heart.

  “Mother was very beautiful.”

  The voice at his side was steady and young. He looked down and met his nephew’s sober eyes. At nearly six he still looked more like James than Cornelia. And so, Leam mused, he looked like him.

  Like a Blackwood.

  He returned his attention to the portrait.

  “She was.” Beautiful and selfish and manipulative. But the old anger did not rise as it always had before. Guilt still for what he had done to them after he discovered their secret, but no fury for what they had done to him.

  He breathed slowly, testing the sensation. It lasted. When had the anger gone?

  “Welcome home, Father.” Jamie extended his hand. The boy’s bones were sturdy, his grip firm.

  “It seems you have grown four inches since last Christmas.”

  “No, Father. Only two and one quarter inches. Mrs. Phillips measured me last week.”

  “Did she? Well, Mrs. Phillips must be right. I daresay she’s never wrong about anything.”

  “She was wrong about you coming home for Christmas.” He spoke so earnestly, as though he had given it great thought yet accepted this erroneous fact.

  Leam crouched down
and met the boy’s gaze on level.

  “I am sorry I did not arrive in time for Christmas. Can you forgive me?”

  “Yes, Father.” His dark eyes were so steady for one so young. “Did business keep you? Aunt Fiona says you’re very occupied with business most of the time, and on account of it you cannot remain here long.”

  “I intend to remain this time, Jamie. Would you like that?”

  The lad’s eyes widened and his collar jerked up and down with a thick swallow.

  “Yes, sir. I would like that above all things.”

  Leam nodded, his chest tight with an aching that would not cease. Despite all, he loved this boy, the son of his brother. He had been away far too long. “Good. Then it is settled.” He stood. “You must have been on your way somewhere when you encountered me here.”

  “Mr. Wadsmere says he will read to me about Hercules if I finish my letters before dinner.”

  “Hercules, hm? Then you must not delay in completing your work.” He set his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “May I accompany you up and perhaps watch? I was once something of an expert at letters, but I’m afraid I’ve gotten a bit rusty with that sort of thing. Perhaps you could refresh my memory.”

  The barest hint of a grin shaped the boy’s mouth.

  “I don’t guess that’s true. But Aunt Isobel says gentlemen often tell tales to encourage others to do as they wish. But I don’t mind it. You can come along even if you tell the truth.” The grin got full rein.

  He started up the stairs. Throat tight, Leam followed.

  Three weeks after returning home, he finally entered Cornelia’s chambers to sort through her belongings. No dust clung to surfaces in her bedchamber or dressing room. No spirit-fearing Scottish maidservant would willingly clean a dead woman’s effects for five and a half years, but his housekeeper, Mrs. Phillips, was made of stern stuff.

  The place still reflected Cornelia’s flirtatious femininity, all peach and rose to complement her ivory and golden charms. On her dressing table sat three perfume bottles on a silver tray and a set of silver-backed comb and brush. He touched his fingertips to the brush handle not an inch from where a single shining strand of guinea hair clung to the bristles.