Seductive Surrender

by Collette Cameron

  She caught his meaning, and heat born of sensual awareness raced through every pore. Not an unpleasant experience at all.

  “I’ll just bet you do,” she murmured, envying the fabric straining to hold his chiseled shoulders, chest, and arms.

  Her mouth suddenly dry, she swallowed, but resisted the temptation to wet her lips. What that man did to her with a glance or a chuckle; made her knees feeble and tangled her insides.

  She really must get a grip on this . . . whatever this was, before she made a complete and utter ass of herself.

  They’d reached his chamber. He pushed down the latch, then leaned a shoulder into the door, giving it a forceful shove. “It catches and won’t open or close without a push,” he offered by way of explanation.

  “Oh, you should‘ve told me.”

  “It’s a minor inconvenience, lass, and ye’ve enough on yer mind.” His tender smile held a speck of something more.

  Her resolve dipped another dangerous notch.

  “Yes, well, I’ll ask to have the door attended to at once.” She swept a glance inside the tidy chamber. “Is everything else to your satisfaction?”

  “Aye. I’m quite comfortable.”

  What a horrid hostess. She’d never inquired before. It hadn’t even crossed her mind that he might have need of anything. She’d been so wrapped up in herself, the children, her consuming, distracting lust for him, that her basic manners had deserted her. And her hospitality was something she’d been proud of in South Carolina.

  Dugall paused just inside his bedchamber. “I’ll see ye in a few minutes, lass.”

  Lord, she adored it when he called her lass, but even more so when he said leannan.

  Sweetheart.

  She had put aside her embarrassment and asked Miss Dolina what the word meant. An enigmatic smile lit the dear’s face as she’d answered. “Are ye and the lad contemplatin’ marriage then?”

  Gwendolyn had hastily reassured Aunt Dolina that wasn’t the case at all.

  “Um, of course,” Gwendolyn said, retreating a pace. She couldn’t very well follow Dugall into his room. More was the pity. “I’ll just look in on the children and meet you downstairs.”

  Gwendolyn had meant it when she determined not to be alone with Mr. Christie. She wasn’t about to enter the study unless it was on Dugall’s massive arm. She’d taken no more than a dozen steps when she faltered to a stop.

  Oh, horse feathers.

  She’d forgotten to tell Dugall not to mention the shooting incident.

  No help for it. She spun around and marched back to his bedchamber. The door stood slightly ajar, and she pushed it open and stepped inside. “Dugall, I forgot—”

  Jaw slack, she stopped so swiftly, her slippers skidded on the parquet floor.

  Chapter 17

  Upon hearing a startled feminine gasp, Dugall froze, his hair snagging on a collar button.

  Och, hell. Nae again.

  He’d told Fenella nae at least a dozen times. He wasn’t tupping the pretty maid. She’d gone too far entering his chamber without knocking after he’d warned her against doing so once already.

  He tugged at his shirt, wincing when his hair pulled against his scalp. Devil it, he refused to play the gentleman and don the damp garment again.

  He couldn’t waste the precious minutes. He’d promised Gwendolyn he’d meet her below, and nothing this side of hell would detain him. He’d not risk her encountering Christie alone.

  “Ye’ve nae right to enter my chamber without knockin’,” Dugall said, his voice muffled by the fabric around his head. He’d threaten her with dismissal if need be. He managed to untangle his hair and then wrestle the clinging shirt off his arms.

  “I’m out of patience with ye and yer forwardness. I dinna mean to be unkind, but there can never be anythin’ between us.”

  Irritated at her impudence and the delay she’d caused, he yanked the shirt the rest of the way off. Dugall tossed it onto the floor, then faced the door, prepared to put the lass in her place once and for all.

  His heart tumbled to his toes and flopped there.

  Lips parted, Gwendolyn stood statue-still three feet inside his room, the door yawning behind her. Her gorgeous eyes practically devoured him as her ravenous gaze skidded across his bare flesh.

  Desire, immediate and overwhelming, pummeled him with the strength of a team of draft horses. He’d longed to see her look at him that way; the way a woman does when she wants a man.

  But given the paleness of her porcelain skin, and that her refined features had shifted from rapt to stricken, she clearly heard his every word and believed he’d addressed her.

  “I beg your pardon.” She wrested her attention from his chest and focused it on the floor. “I . . .” She swallowed. “I remembered something important I needed to tell you. The door was ajar. I didn’t think—”

  “Gwendolyn.” He extended an arm in entreaty and closed the distance between them. “I dinna ken it was ye.”

  If possible, the hasty glance she cut him from beneath her ginger-tipped lashes was even more aggrieved.

  Ballocks.

  She probably thought, and rightly so, he’d mistaken her for an eager-to-please servant. A lass whose advances he’d been rebuffing for weeks, but she couldn’t know that.

  “Forgive me.” Face averted and poised to leave, she clutched her shawl tighter, chagrin radiating off her in wounded waves. “I can tell you later.”

  “But, Lloyd, ye promised me.” Miss Whitworth’s soft voice echoed in the corridor. “Ye canna go back on yer word now.”

  “Circumstances have changed, Elspeth.” Impatience riddled Hollingsworth’s response. He’d certainly been found quickly.

  “Why, because of her? Because ye’ve become a simperin’ toady in an effort to please our pretty cousin?” That was the first hint of anything other than sweet compliance Dugall had heard from timid-as-a-mouse Miss Whitworth.

  “Dinna be ridiculous,” Hollingsworth said, near Dugall’s doorway.

  A crease pulling her brows together, Gwendolyn stared at the open door.

  Just what she didn’t need. To be caught in his chamber with him half-dressed.

  In one swift movement, Dugall hauled her against his chest, and spun her away from the entrance as he kicked the door closed.

  It banged loudly, reverberating against the door frame.

  A small, alarmed squeal leached through the stout panel. He’d startled Miss Whitworth.

  Better that and have them think he was in a temper of some sort than have Gwendolyn’s reputation besmirched.

  A firm knock jarred his door. “Ferguson. Is everythin’ all right?” Hollingsworth asked.

  Och, for the love of Guid.

  Still pressed against his torso, Gwendolyn peered up at him, dread darkening her irises.

  He put a finger to his lips and shook his head.

  “Ferguson, are you in there?” Hollingsworth rapped again.

  Damn the man’s persistence.

  “Aye. Just changin’ out of my wet clothes. I’ve a window open and dinna realize my chamber door hadn’t shut all the way again. The wind must’ve caught it and slammed it closed. I really must speak to Gwendolyn about that latch.”

  She narrowed her gaze and pinched her mouth into a thin, unamused line.

  “I’ll see ye below in a few minutes then. I must change my coat and neckcloth,” Hollingsworth said, his tone suspiciously absent of any hint of gloating at being invited to the conference after all. In fact, if Dugall had to render a guess, he’d say trepidation tinged the man’s words.

  “You—”

  Dugall put a finger on Gwendolyn’s petal-soft lips and leaned down to whisper into her ear. “He might be listenin’.”

 
She gave a short nod.

  The aroma of orange blossoms met his nostrils and desire speared him. No other woman’s scent could fan his desire into a scorching blaze so swiftly.

  She relaxed, her soft curves melding with his hard angles. But her bowed head, and her breathing coming in short little puffs, revealed her tension.

  Dugall didn’t trespass easily or lightly, but to resist embracing her was futile. Holding her close, such contentment bathed him. If only they could remain thus forever.

  “Leannan, I must explain to ye.” He spoke into the soft cloud of her flaming hair.

  “I believe I understand the gist of the situation. One of the female staff—I’d guess Fenella—has made herself available to you.” Her crisp speech and imperious air revealed even more.

  Och. He had the measure of her now. She was jealous.

  Exhilaration buffeted him, and a chuckle rumbled forth.

  A mistake.

  She exhaled a vexed huff of air and looked ready to kelp him a good one. Deep lines scoring her forehead, she averted her eyes.

  He lifted her chin with his forefinger, but her gaze glanced off his before she found something fascinating to stare at over his shoulder.

  He kissed her forehead, and then her temple.

  She trembled and sighed, but refused to meet his eyes.

  “The lass is young and enamored of me.” Another kiss to the sensitive spot where her jaw met her ear, caused a more powerful shudder to ripple through her. “But I’ve discouraged her interest, whilst tryin’ to be kind.”

  “She should have more care,” Gwendolyn muttered as she trailed her forefinger down his bicep. The flesh bunched in delicious anticipation as she traced his arm. “She told me she needs her position. I still might kick a mud hole in her hind end and stomp it dry.”

  “Pardon?” he managed around the grin splitting his face.

  “Send her packing for her untoward behavior.”

  Daring to draw Gwendolyn indecently nearer, Dugall flattened one palm against the small of her back and cradled her jaw in the other. Feathering a series of short kisses from her delicate ear, across her soft cheek, and to her sweet mouth, he breathed, “Are ye jealous, Gwenny?”

  She stiffened, all outraged femininity, then sagged against him, and nodded, her hair brushing his chest.

  “Yes.”

  “Ye needn’t be, leannan. The only lass I have any interest in kissin’ is in my arms.”

  Her eyes went soft around the edges, and she sighed, as if she’d made a momentous decision. One she might regret but had determined to plow forward with anyway. She tilted her head and offered him her mouth.

  He touched his tongue to one corner, just enough to inveigle, to entice. To make her crave more.

  “Dugall?” Sliding her arms around his waist, she closed her eyes, her lashes a few shades darker than the freckles smattering her high cheekbones.

  “Aye?”

  “You’re wasting what little time we have.”

  “Och,” he said, before capturing her lower lip between his teeth. “But I thought ye wanted to keep our relationship strictly professional. Purely platonic.”

  He bit down gently, and she gasped.

  A small sound of frustration escaping her, she moved her mouth hungrily against his.

  “Nae flirtin’.” He swept his tongue across the seam of her mouth. “Employer—employee. Completely professional.”

  “I haven’t . . . paid you . . . any wages,” she said breathlessly.

  “Ye saved my life. Remember our bargain?” He pressed his lips against hers firmer, demanding a response.

  She angled away and searched his face, her gaze amused and slightly resigned, too. “Fine. If you want to keep your position, do shut up and kiss me properly. Now.”

  A satisfied grin hauled his lips upward. Who was he to deny a direct order from his employer?

  Shifting so she lay cuddled against one arm, he brought his mouth to hers in a reverent kiss.

  She wasn’t having it slow and gentle.

  Clasping his face between her hands, she pressed her mouth to his hungrily. What he’d intended as a tender onslaught to satisfy her curiosity, instantly erupted into an uncontrollable inferno.

  He cupped her buttocks and lifted her. Speaking against her mouth, he said, “Wrap yer legs around my waist.”

  Gripping his neck, she promptly did so, groaning when his groin melded into her softness as he pushed her spine against the paneling for leverage.

  God help them both if Hollingsworth eavesdropped at the door. He’d get an earful, for certain.

  Dugall would give Gwendolyn a taste of the passion she sought, but only a taste. He’d no intention of ruining her. Besides, she didn’t have time to repair her appearance before they were to meet with Christie.

  Nuzzling her neck, he slipped two fingers inside her warm bodice in search of the lush mounds that had so mercilessly taunted him.

  Finding a peak, he gently pinched the turgid nipple.

  She jumped and moaned, arching into his hand.

  Caught up in her passion, she ran her hands up and down his bare back, scraping her nails across the flesh in her fervor.

  He’d suspected a fire simmered within Gwendolyn, but this goddess in his arms was on the cusp of igniting for want. He rocked his groin into the welcoming hollow of her hips, and she groaned.

  The mantle clock chimed the hour.

  If they had time, he’d bring her to completion, but they didn’t. And he wouldn’t be rushed in the act, even if it wasn’t the joining his tortured body yearned for.

  Had he ever been celibate this long before?

  Mustering every ounce of self-control he possessed, and ignoring the painful pulsing in his trousers, Dugall gently lowered her to the floor.

  “What?” she mumbled, still passion-befuddled.

  “Leannan. Christie, and Hollingsworth too, no doubt await us below.” Dugall brushed a knuckle across her flushed cheek. “And as much as I’d like to continue, I dinna think we should keep them waitin’.”

  That cooled her ardor faster than a dive into icy Loch Arkaig in January.

  Licking her lower lip, she nodded. She swept the door a troubled glance. “Yes. Of course.”

  Once he was certain she could stand on her own, he swiftly retrieved a shirt from his wardrobe. He slid it over his head. “I’ll make sure no one is loiterin’ about in the corridor.”

  She’d retrieved her shawl from where it had fallen to the floor. Draping it across her shoulders, she pursed her mouth. “What if someone is out there?”

  He winked. “I’ll ask them to inform you that I’m runnin’ a trifle late.”

  “And what happens when they cannot find me?” She furrowed her brow, obviously not convinced his plan would work.

  “Ye worry too much, lass. It’s a huge house, and they canna be in two places at once, can they? And we dinna even ken if anyone is out there.” He carefully lowered the latch and cracked the door two inches, listening. Satisfied no one lurked nearby, he opened it further and stuck his head out.

  Empty.

  He glanced over his shoulder. “It’s clear. I’ll only be ten minutes more.”

  “You dress yourself? Even tie your neckcloth?” She swept into the hallway.

  “Aye. I dinna like bein’ fussed over, and I like to be self-sufficient.” A boyish smile skewed his mouth. “Truthfully, when my last valet quit, claimin’ I was a hopeless barbarian in need of shornin’, I decided to eschew the practice.”

  “This was recent?”

  He laughed and shook his head. “I was twelve.”

  “You’re hopeless.” Her mouth glowing from his kisses, she smiled. “I’m going to make sure there’s nothing untoward abou
t my appearance before I venture to the study. We don’t need any speculation or gossip-mongering.”

  “Yer always exquisite, lass.”

  “Fiddle-dee-dee. Have done with you,” she said, waving aside the compliment. Color saturated her face, but her delighted closed-lip smile belied her scold.

  He tore his gaze away from the tempting sight. “Go on with ye, then. Before I’m tempted to steal another kiss or two.”

  Her smile widened, revealing the neat row of her upper teeth. “I came to tell you not to mention the shooting incident to Mr. Christie.”

  Dugall glanced up and down the passageway and nodded. “Aye. If that’s what ye want. Especially since we dinna ken anythin’ more today about it than we did a month ago.” He gave her a little shove and dipped his head toward her door. “Now go. To dawdle is to invite calamity.”

  She hastened the short distance to her chamber, and with another sweet smile, slipped inside.

  Gwendolyn McClintock had caught him in her gilded snare, and he wasn’t altogether certain he wanted to escape.

  But what about the Diplomatic Corps? Yer appointment as a covert operative? Ye winna have another opportunity.

  Why must the two things he most wanted in the world be incompatible?

  Ewan had been an operative when he married Yvette.

  For all of three weeks, and he’d already tendered his resignation.

  Shaking his head to dispel his rueful reflections, Dugall stepped back into his chamber. As he closed his door, movement at the end of the corridor caught his eye.

  Miss Whitworth’s plaid shawl disappeared around the corner.

  Chapter 18

  I couldn’t have heard correctly.

  But Gwendolyn had. She had. Saints preserve her and the children. Kandie and Aunt Barbara, too.

  One hand resting atop the heavy desk, Mr. Christie, almost gloating in the power he commanded at the moment, relaxed into the chair, his mouth twisted in a satisfied—no, smug as the devil—smile.