by Karen Ranney
He shook his head. “You really don’t require anyone else’s participation in your conversations, do you?”
“No,” she said. “At Drumvagen, I often talked to the sheep. Or a goat or two. The horses were great listeners, but the cattle were less so. They made noises, while the horses only snorted from time to time.”
He stopped. “Are you jesting?”
“Why would I jest about such a thing?” she asked, stopping as well.
“Why were you talking to the livestock?”
“Because no one else wanted to hear what I had to say.”
She hadn’t meant to phrase it quite as baldly as that. But Virginia always had the children, Macrath had his inventions. Her mother and Brianag were either conspiring on their book or feuding about it. The maids were involved in their work.
He strode ahead of her to open a large glass-paneled door, then stood aside and allowed her to precede him.
She expected an anteroom or a foyer. Instead, she walked inside to find walls lined with impossibly high bookshelves. Not one space remained on any one of them. Not one more volume could be slid into those shelves.
She looked up, not at all surprised at the soaring ceiling. Huntly was graced with a dozen of these, all painted with murals to astound and amaze. This one was of men reclining on clouds, unfurled scrolls covering their nakedness. No semiclad nymphs joined them, however, making her wonder if Ross’s ancestor was inclined to believe that females didn’t read.
“I should have talked to you last night,” he said.
“Yes,” she said, still with her head tilted back. “You should have.” She’d much rather stare at the gods, if that’s what they were supposed to be, than Ross when having this conversation. “You might have spared me the embarrassment of seeking you out to rid myself of my virginity. Evidently, you had other plans for our wedding night.”
He didn’t answer, and she was forced to look at him.
His expression was one she couldn’t read, and it took her a moment to realize that’s exactly what he intended. There was no emotion in his beautiful gray eyes. Instead, they were flat, like disks of silver. His face was still, his mouth neither smiling nor turned down.
She’d changed him to stone with her words.
People would come from miles around to see the Stone Earl. They’d poke him with their fingers and get into his face to see if he blinked. He never would, of course. Nor would he act as if he saw them.
Perhaps she could charge a goodly sum, just for pin money, of course. Just think of the paper and supplies she could purchase. All without having to ask anyone for funds.
“What is the Gaelic word for stone?” she asked.
He blinked at her. “I haven’t the slightest idea.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t speak all that much Gaelic.”
“Why not?”
“Because I was educated in England.”
“Why?”
“Because it was simpler to ship me off to England.”
Perhaps he wasn’t stone at all, because there was fire behind the smoke of his eyes.
“Why did you ask?”
She waved her hand in the air. “It isn’t important.”
“You can’t be a virgin,” he said.
“I can’t?”
He shook his head.
“Why can’t I?”
He didn’t answer, only moved farther into the room. She had no choice but to follow him, stop and stare upward at the ceiling once more. In this part of the library, they were directly below the tower. She’d thought it only an ornament, an addition to the roof. But she could see the sky from here and the bright morning sun streaming into the room.
A curved iron staircase wound, snakelike, from the tile floor all the way up to the tower, passing two levels of books.
“How many books do you have?”
“Do you think I’m an idiot?”
“Not with all these books,” she said, fingering one shelf of particularly beautiful books, their gilt bindings catching the light.
“Ellice.”
She turned to look at him. No, he was definitely not stone now. Still, she was going to look up the Gaelic word.
“You can’t be a virgin,” he repeated.
“Do you want me to be experienced?”
Once again he didn’t answer.
“You really have to stop doing that,” she said.
“Doing what? Questioning you? Refusing to believe any foolishness you utter?”
She took a deep breath, released it slowly. “No, not answering when you don’t want to. It gives everyone the impression you’re autocratic and haughty.”
“You’re not making any sense.”
“Do you want me to be experienced?” she patiently asked again.
He glared at her. She’d never been the recipient of such concentrated anger. She stared right back at him, wondering why he was so enraged with her.
She just wanted to kiss him.
Was now the right time? What better time was there?
She walked to him, placed her hands on his shoulders and stood on tiptoe, pointedly ignoring his raised eyebrows.
Slowly, giving him time to move away, she placed a chaste kiss on his lips. Close-mouthed, very friendly but entirely lacking in passion.
“Do you want me to be experienced? I can pretend, I think. Shall I be an East End prostitute? Or someone more refined?”
He carefully removed her hands from his shoulders and took a step back.
“I’m a virgin, Ross, and it amazes me that you would think otherwise.”
“I’ve read your book.”
She took another deep breath.
“Have you never heard of imagination? Is every writer supposed to have done the deeds he writes about?”
“In the case of The Lustful Adventures of Lady Pamela, yes.”
“Is that why you didn’t come to my room?”
“I have no intention of raising another man’s child, Ellice. I’ve had my fill of scandal.”
That was pointed, wasn’t it? She couldn’t very well counter that she hadn’t been scandalous. After all, she’d hidden in his carriage. She’d left an undergarment behind, and even worse—at least to his mind—she’d written a book filled with passionate encounters.
“Carnal knowledge is everywhere, your lordship. Everywhere.” She was close enough to poke him in the chest with her finger. When she did, he grabbed her hand and held it still.
Pity, she liked touching him, even when she was annoyed. Would he feel the same? If she couldn’t convince him she was a virgin, she’d never know.
“Am I in quarantine?” she asked. “For how long?” She suddenly understood and nodded. “Until you’re certain I’m not with child. What a pity my little visitor hasn’t come. We could have dispensed with that foolishness.”
“I don’t share the same view as you, Ellice. I don’t think it’s foolishness.”
She blew out a breath.
“And I never thought I’d have to claim my virtue. I haven’t been locked away in a room, although I’m sure my mother would have wished it.” She smiled. “The better not to do something that shamed her.” She shook her head. “Not in your way, Ross. But in hers. I must always be perfect. I am not perfect. But I am a virgin.”
He looked as if he wished to say something, and she pulled her hand free while, with the other she pressed her fingers against his lips.
“I observe. I watch. I see,” she said. “People think no one can see them, but they do. The laundress is in love with her husband and they’re always groping each other. Hannah, Virginia’s maid, goes around with a smile on her face all the time. I’ve seen her and Jack kissing when they think no one notices. I’d have to be blind not to notice Macrath’s glances at Virginia or her smiles back to him. Take Logan and Mairi. They had a love affair that nearly scorched Edinburgh. What about all the animals at Drumvagen? Am I supposed to pretend I don’t notice them? The dogs mate and t
he males all get this look of ecstasy in their eyes. A mare might scream when a stallion mounts her but I don’t think it’s in pain.”
He drew back.
“Yes, it’s passion, your lordship,” she said, throwing her hands in the air. “I’ve written about it. So throw me in a cell. Close the door and lock it. Consign me to purgatory.”
An idea was occurring to her, one so shocking that it really should have sent her scurrying back across the courtyard.
Lady Pamela would have done it. The fact that she was as far from Lady Pamela as she could imagine wasn’t important at the moment.
She unfastened the brooch at her throat, put it in her pocket and began working on the buttons of her bodice.
“What are you doing?”
Really, what a foolish question.
“I’m undressing,” she said.
“Stop it.”
She shook her head. “There’s only one way to solve this issue. I say I’m virtuous. You would have me be Salome.” She glanced at him. “Do I need to tell you who Salome is?”
“I know who she is.”
How interesting that his eyes didn’t move from her fingers. She was down to her waist and her dress gaped open to show a very pretty corset cover embroidered with clusters of violets.
Should she be frightened? She wasn’t. Instead, she was determined. She hadn’t been frightened of him even when he’d nearly taken her over the settee. That had been the single most erotic moment of her life, in real life or in writing.
She wanted to replicate it, right this minute.
The room was bright. The air smelled of lemon and leather, or maybe that was him. His desk was large, the expanse of it nearly equal that of a bed. Granted, it might be a bit harder than a mattress but she doubted she would notice after he touched her. Was he going to touch her?
“Ellice—” he began.
“No,” she said. “I’m not going to hear any more protests from you. You would think you’re the frightened virgin, not me.”
“Are you frightened?”
She stopped in the act of removing her bodice and considered the question.
“No, actually, I’m not. I’m just annoyed.”
“Annoyed?”
She frowned at him. “If you make love the way you kiss, I doubt I’ll be disappointed. But why should I have to beg you to bed me?”
She fussed with one button on her cuff, finally got it loose, and tossed her bodice to a gilded chair sitting against the wall. When it caught, then slid to the floor, she shrugged.
“I would think a virgin would wait until it was night for me to come to your chamber.”
She sighed, removed her skirt, then began working on the tapes of her bustle and petticoat combination. She hadn’t had a maid since living in London. Her mother had refused to ask Macrath for extra servants to tend to them, so she’d learned quite well how to dress and undress herself. She’d also become adept at mending her own garments as well as turning cuffs and collars, but she’d tell Ross about those skills some other time.
“Perhaps I should,” she said, “but I doubt you would come to me. I’d wander all over Huntly trying to find you again.”
She stepped out of her skirt, letting it fall to the floor. Placing it on the chair, she wiggled out of her bustle, placing it atop the mound of her clothes.
“The sooner my virginity is gotten rid of, the better, don’t you think? I won’t wander throughout your home like a virtuous ghost, sad that she never had a chance to be wicked, and you won’t have to beat me back when I get too eager.”
He shook his head.
“Besides, it’s in our contract.”
One of his eyebrows arched.
“I don’t believe it is.”
She nodded. “It is. I have the right to refuse you three times a year. You have no right to refuse me. If you wanted to have that clause in our contract, you should have negotiated that point.”
After unfastening the busk of her corset, she moved to raise the hem of her shift. Before she could, his hands reached out and grabbed hers.
Smiling, she leaned toward him.
“Kiss me, then,” she said, wondering at the sound of her own voice. She sounded sultry, passionate, almost as if she were a purring kitten.
“This isn’t wise.”
Ah, the words of a man who was justifying his surrender. She bit back her smile, looked up at him and told him the truth.
“I’m a virgin, husband. But an impatient one. I’ve wanted you to take me since our first kiss. If you discover that I’m not a virgin, then banish me to Ireland. Send me to America. Do anything you want.”
“What the hell do I do with you otherwise?”
Bed me. That answer sounded too stark. “Hold me in your arms every night,” she said. There, an answer that pleased her and seemed to melt the Stone Earl.
He reached for her and she smiled.
Chapter 21
He was an idiot to believe her.
He was an idiot to be captivated by her artless invitation to passion.
He was a hundred times an idiot to be thinking of bedding his wife on his desk, but that’s exactly what he was about to do.
A caution slid into his mind. If she were truly a virgin, he should be slower, gentler. If she were a virgin, then she was touched by some amazing and dangerous talent: the ability to deaden his mind, his instincts, and everything but his loins. That part of him was working quite well.
He touched his mouth to hers and it was like he was numb to everything but her.
He kissed her and reason fled from him.
She made breathy little sounds when he deepened the kiss. He framed her face with his hands to keep her still. Her lips trembled and it both surprised and aroused him.
He didn’t know what it was but for the moment he was in thrall to it. He would figure it out later when she was in another room, perhaps, or he could think again. When the smell of her perfume, something that reminded him of faint spicy blossoms and spring, wasn’t wreathed in a cloud around him.
Maybe it was magic. Was she one of the creatures from the many Scottish tales his nurse had told him as a child?
She was English so that couldn’t be it. Unless she was some kind of secret weapon they’d reared to strip the sensibilities from the Scots.
She had her hand on his chest, somehow burrowing beneath his shirt. Where had his jacket gone? One of her hands was at the nape of his neck, sliding through his hair.
When the hell had a virgin ever been this eager?
When the hell had he ever been wanted this much?
He cupped her breast on the outside of her shift, feeling the nipple pebble against his palm. He wanted to touch her skin, test whether she was as responsive in other places. Would she moan when he mouthed her breasts?
The morning sun danced on her hair, transforming the brown to gold and reddish glints. An errant sunbeam angled over her face, dusting her long lashes with light, accentuating the perfection of her nose, her cheekbones, and the beauty of her complexion.
He wanted her in that moment, but it was a need that went beyond the flesh. He wanted her to belong to him, to cleave unto him, to match her steps with his, to laugh at the same time he did. The sensation was so odd and so unexpected that he drew back.
She blinked her eyes open, arousal making her smile a tempting thing.
He wrapped his arms around her, shelved his chin on her hair, and waited out the strangeness.
Her arms reached under his, her hands pressing against his back. How small her hands were, yet she held him within her palms, if she only knew it.
He bent his head, smelling oranges in her hair, wishing he were a wiser man or a less needy one in that instant.
“Have I done something wrong?” she asked in a thin voice.
How unsure she sounded, and yet she was the most powerful woman in the world.
“No,” he said. “No, you’ve done nothing wrong.”
He pulled back and stud
ied her face, wishing he could tell her of that odd moment he’d experienced, when he suddenly and inexplicably felt bound to her in some way beyond law or ceremony.
She would be his friend, but even that explanation sounded foolish.
She, who was so quick and talented with words, might have a way to describe what he felt, but he didn’t. So he could only show her in gestures. A soft and delicate kiss, one that made her eyelids flutter down to shield her eyes. The tender touch of his fingertips on her shoulders encouraged her to wrap her arms around his neck. His palms trailing over her back caused her to sigh and press closer.
He had no choice but to pick her up in his arms, holding her encapsulated in the sun’s bright beam, her cheeks and lips pink, eyes lambent.
“I’ve no wish to bed you here,” he said softly. “But I don’t think I could walk across the courtyard in this state.”
She shook her head. “I’d much rather not wait. If you don’t mind.”
He had no control over his smile. It burst forth, along with his amusement.
What a damn fool he was over her. If he was cuckolded and shamed, it was his own fault. Let that be a lesson, then.
He could not trust himself around Ellice.
He sat her on the edge of his desk, sweeping his arm behind her to clean off the surface. He heard the alabaster inkwell fall and didn’t give a flying farthing. The blotter with its tooled Moroccan leather fell against the wall. His favorite pens rattled along the floor.
She wiggled, and it wasn’t until she was pulling off her shift that he realized what she was doing. She sat there naked but for her stockings and shoes, a picture even more erotic than anything she’d written.
Lady Pamela had nothing on the Countess of Gadsden.
He slid one garter down her shapely leg. Who knew that his wife was a curvy little thing? He wanted to palm her breasts but kept his eyes on his hands, now smoothing down her stockings. He realized he’d forgotten her shoes, then unlaced them to let them fall before finishing with the stockings.
She was gloriously naked and all she did was blink up at him, her mouth slightly swollen and needing a kiss. Her hands were at her sides, not attempting to cover up one magnificent inch of her skin.
