by Karen Ranney
She closed her eyes, pretending he wasn’t there.
“Was it very painful?”
The question surprised her, enough that she opened her eyes and looked at him. Did he honestly care?
“Not very,” she lied.
“I’m sorry. I hear it’s like that for a virgin. At least it’s over.”
Dear God, did he want to do it again? She closed her legs tightly.
He placed a wet cloth against the juncture of her legs, surprising her again.
“Morgan . . .” she began, then faded to a stop as he began to bathe her. The warm cloth was oddly comforting as he insinuated it between her legs.
“Next time will be better,” he said.
Next time? When did he plan to do it again?
His head dipped and he kissed her stomach. She flinched, tried to draw away, but he simply placed one large hand on her hip to keep her in place.
Then Morgan MacCraig did something she’d never expected, had never prepared for, had never imagined. He kissed her in a place she’d never thought to be kissed. She raised up, a hand fisting in his hair, but he calmly reached out and entwined his fingers with hers.
She lay back, closing her eyes, feeling the most incredible heat throughout her body. Embarrassment of a certainty, mixed with another sensation.
She pulled her hand free.
“Morgan,” she whispered.
He did something with his fingers, gently stretching her.
She tensed, expecting him to enter her again, but all he did was use his tongue to stroke against her, long, lingering touches that made her shiver.
Grabbing the sheet with both hands, she tried not to move. Was it allowable to move? He was using his tongue in magical ways, stealing her breath.
Time narrowed. Slowed. Stopped.
Her heart pounded as a bubble of pleasure traveled from her center throughout her body.
Morgan’s hand stroked her hip, gripped her buttock, claiming her as his mouth drove her insane.
She began to make inarticulate noises. Pleading with him, begging him either to stop or never to stop, she wasn’t certain. Her hands left the sheets and flailed in the air. Then he pursed his lips, pulling gently on one particular spot, and her hips arched upward, her eyes closing at the surge of feeling. She bit her lip, held captive by the sensations. She was surrounded by colors, bright, wicked shards of light dancing in her mind.
Her hands gripped his shoulders. She moaned, and he murmured against her, the sound tipping her over into bliss.
Jean woke, to find herself alone in the earl’s bed. Morgan, she corrected.
She sat on the edge of the bed, her legs dangling.
Once again she saw herself in the mirror on the opposite wall, and this time she winced. Her hair was a cloud around her head; her face was pink. Her lips were too full, and her eyes wide.
She should’ve drawn up the sheet around her, but instead she sat looking down at her own naked body as if it was a sight she’d never seen. In a way, she hadn’t. She was as surprised by her body’s reactions as by the events of the night before.
Where was Morgan? Was he avoiding her? Had he arisen early on purpose? Was he wanting to be away from her?
What was she to do now? Her days as a maid had been carefully orchestrated and scheduled. She woke, she washed, she dressed, then went to an early breakfast before inspection and being assigned her chores.
Very well, she could dress and find breakfast. As to her chores, that was a mystery, wasn’t it?
Morgan returned to the Laird’s Tower, knowing if he didn’t, Jean might very well go in search of him.
Besides, he had visions of waking his surprising bride up in the most delightful way. But when he entered his bedchamber, she was sitting on the edge of the bed, a frown on her face.
Before he could greet her, she looked up, saw him, and grabbed for the sheet and wrapped it around her nakedness.
He wished she hadn’t done that. But he could always strip it from her.
“Leave your hair down,” he said.
Her hand went to the length of her hair, falling below her shoulders.
“It’s not proper,” she said.
“Who decides what’s proper and what’s not?” he asked, coming to stand in front of her. His fingers threaded through her hair.
A flush began in her chest and traveled up her neck to bloom in her cheeks.
“Do I embarrass you?” he asked. When she didn’t answer, he merely asked her again.
“Is it entirely proper, everything we’ve done?”
He knew exactly what part of their lovemaking she was talking about, and although he wished to smile, doing so might hurt her feelings. Her innocence was charming and something to be guarded.
He placed his hands on her shoulders, gently smoothing them down to her wrists.
“Nothing we do together, Jean, is wrong.”
She wouldn’t look at him. Instead, she stared at her knees, covered by the sheet.
“It felt wrong,” she said softly, shaking her head from side to side.
“You didn’t like it?”
Her face flamed as she raised her eyes. “I liked it very much. It just felt wicked.”
He smiled. “I restrained myself a great deal last night,” he said. “I promise you, the next time I enter you, you’ll feel only pleasure. No more discomfort.”
She nodded, as if understanding. “That’s why you wished I wasn’t a virgin,” she said.
Was she going to remember everything he said?
Perhaps her directness was part of her appeal. She didn’t pose, and she didn’t flirt, and she didn’t do so many other things he was accustomed to women doing. Or perhaps it would be fairer to say: Lillian doing.
He leaned in to kiss her, smiling when she made a sound in the back of her throat.
The day was still early, and he was a new bridegroom. He began to remove his clothes. When he was done, he tumbled his wife back on the bed.
Perhaps he could show her, by example, just how wicked they could be.
Chapter 21
RULES FOR STAFF: No relative or friend shall be allowed in the house at any time.
“You need to settle yourself,” Andrew said. “This isn’t painful.”
He smiled reassuringly at the young maid seated on the overstuffed burgundy chair near the fireplace. The juxtaposition of her dark blue uniform against the richness of the upholstery interested him creatively.
The girl had knocked on the door to clean his room, and instead became the perfect subject.
“What’s your name, my dear?” he asked, more in an effort to reassure her than because he cared.
“Donalda, sir,” she said, her voice trembling. “Please sir, I need to be about my duties. Mrs. MacDonald knows how long it takes to clean each room. She’ll be looking for me now.”
He waved his hand in the air, dismissing the housekeeper.
“I shall just tell her I’ve absconded with you because I needed a subject for a portrait.”
He wouldn’t begin with his oils until the sketch was perfect. Besides, he’d only brought a few canvasses along with him, never thinking he would stay this long in Scotland.
But the entertainment value here was priceless. Not only was Morgan’s behavior fascinating, but the new countess was proving to be vastly amusing as well. As for the other recreation, he smiled, thinking of Catriona. Poor puss, she didn’t know how to handle her elevation in rank.
She was ignoring him, and the give and take of their play was engaging.
All in all, he was enjoying himself a great deal more than he’d expected.
The little maid—what was her name again?—perched on the edge of the chair, wringing her hands nervously despite his admonition for her to remain still. If she wasn’t going to cooperate any better than that, he might as well dismiss her. But he never liked to lose, especially when the battle was joined with a woman.
He put down the stick of charcoal, turning away
from his sketch to smile at her.
“I shall speak to the housekeeper on your behalf, my dear. Please, don’t concern yourself with anything.”
“But, sir,” she said, “it’s not proper.”
She glanced toward the open door. She’d insisted on that. Nothing would come of it if someone objected to her being in the room alone with him.
He wasn’t about to be shamed into a union with a maid. He was happily married and not likely to change. His wife suited him well, and she was an excellent mother to their brood.
Not once had she complained about his frequent absences, even when he informed her he was going to Scotland. Over the years, she’d learned there were two matters that captured his attention: the health of his children and the funds required to maintain his home. Beyond those subjects, he didn’t involve himself with domestic drama. She, in turn, remained silent about his activities.
“Shall I call for one of your companions, then?” he asked.
She looked terrified at the idea. “Oh no, sir, that would bring Mrs. MacDonald up here for certain.”
He wanted to finish the damn sketch, and if the woman was going to give him a problem, after he’d already completed half of it, then the entire day would be a waste.
Ignoring her protest, he stood and went to the bellpull, tugging on it once.
Jean was certain she would be blushing for the rest of her life. Just as certain as what she’d done with Morgan hadn’t been common knowledge. If it was, how could anyone stay away from lovemaking? Everyone she knew would be seeking out partners, in order to experience what she’d felt.
Or was that kind of passion limited to marriage?
Or could it be only Morgan?
What a conundrum, to have all those questions and no one to ask.
Perhaps she’d been too hard on Catriona. After last night, this morning, and a few hours ago, she was beginning to understand why lovemaking held such an allure.
It might well be addictive. Opium was supposed to steal a man’s soul. Could passion steal a woman’s?
She’d left Morgan sleeping—he deserved his rest. Her face flamed again. She needed to bathe and change. Or brush her hair, if nothing else.
Thankfully, she didn’t pass anyone as she crept back to the Countess’s Suite. Whatever would she say to them, looking as she did? Her face was chafed in spots, and her hair a riotous mess of tangles. She’d lost her nightgown at Morgan’s hands, and beneath her cloak she was naked again.
She washed and dressed, running a brush through her hair before arranging it in a bun. There, she looked proper and decorous, if one could ignore the dancing look in her eyes. She couldn’t keep from smiling, either.
No one had ever told her she would feel so good. Oh, she was a little sore, but overall she felt wonderful, glorious, incredible, and wasn’t that a surprise?
Catriona sat at her vanity, staring at herself in the mirror, disliking what she saw. Her nose was too large for her face. Or maybe her mouth was too small.
She turned her head slightly to the side so she could view herself in a three-quarter pose. The new hairstyle she’d decided on was a great deal more flattering than the one she’d been forced to wear as a maid.
But she couldn’t say very much about the seamstress’s ability. The poor thing just needed more helpers, that was all. The woman had taken an inordinately long time to hem the dress she wore now, a rather plain thing originally planned for Jean.
“And I shall need a few more day dresses, Anne,” Catriona said, addressing the seamstress.
Her aunt stood behind her, her mouth pursed in disapproval.
“Jean will need to augment her wardrobe first, Catriona,” she said.
Catriona turned and smiled sweetly at her aunt.
“Is it not true Jean is my sister?” she asked.
Aunt Mary nodded once.
“Is it not true her husband is an earl?”
Another nod.
“Then I am the sister-in-law of an earl, am I not?”
This time her aunt didn’t nod, merely folded her arms and stared at Catriona.
“While you, dear Aunt, are still of the servant class.”
“You’ll have to wait,” Aunt Mary said after a long moment.
“This dress will do for now,” she said to the seamstress. “But you’ve finished a few more day dresses for Jean, have you not?” she asked.
The woman looked to her aunt when she’d asked the question, then nodded.
“Then I shall need another one of those,” Catriona said. “Or would you have me attired in a maid’s uniform, Aunt?”
Her aunt grudgingly nodded, and while Anne went off to do Catriona’s bidding, Mary went to stand at the window, ignoring her niece.
Perhaps it was just as well she was wearing her sister’s clothes, Catriona reflected. Once she was properly attired, no one would notice poor Jean. She’d be known as the Plain Countess.
She sent a blinding smile in her aunt’s direction, but Aunt Mary didn’t look in the mood to be charmed.
No matter, just as long as her aunt understood the situation had indeed changed. She was no longer subject to her orders. If anything, Aunt Mary would have to listen to her.
What a wonderful situation, as promising as marrying an earl without the bother of a husband. A man could be so cloying, especially once you bedded him. This way, all she had to do was appeal to Jean, and her sister would give her whatever she wanted.
But it was a pity she wouldn’t be a countess. Everyone she’d asked had agreed the earl had chosen the wrong sister.
She couldn’t help wonder how Jean’s wedding night had gone.
Would Morgan be enamored of her sister, enough to return to London? According to Andrew, Morgan had no intention of socializing again. Surely that would all change now that he’d become a bridegroom once more.
Or was Morgan hesitant to introduce Jean to society? Perhaps he was a little bit ashamed of her since Jean had been a maid. Even worse, Jean was plain, a little gawky, definitely insecure, and lacking womanly graces.
She herself needed to be in London, Catriona thought, not stuck here at Ballindair.
She’d avoided Andrew for days, because he’d treated her with too much familiarity, expecting her to come to his bed whenever he wished it. Whenever he smiled in her direction, she’d pointedly looked away. Even at the wedding yesterday, she pretended not to see him.
Perhaps she’d been a little too rash. It was one of her failings. However, she could always charm herself out of any situation. She would just have to ensure she did it this time, too.
The seamstress knocked, and when her aunt hesitated, Catriona waved her hand toward the door. Whatever her aunt was going to say was lost when the woman knocked again.
Instead of the seamstress, however, two girls stood in the corridor, each looking panicked.
“He wants another maid in the room,” one of the girls said. “He’s got Donalda in there, and he says he’s going to paint her.”
“Andrew?” Catriona asked, standing. “He’s painting Donalda?”
After their first encounter, he’d never once asked to paint her. And now he was painting Donalda? The girl was plain, as plain as Jean, with dull black hair and a pointed nose. Why was Andrew painting Donalda?
Her aunt turned to her with a severe look. “Mr. Prender,” she corrected.
Catriona allowed herself a small smile, but she didn’t modify her comment.
She surveyed herself in the mirror, pleased with what she saw, and followed her aunt out the door.
What on earth was wrong? Jean heard the sound even through the closed door.
Someone was crying.
She left her room, hoping her aunt would not assign a maid to her suite. She could tend the rooms herself. Very well, perhaps a countess didn’t do that sort of thing, but she didn’t want to be in the awkward position of having one of her former companions intimate with all the details of her new life.
She sudden
ly realized that the staff at Ballindair had more privacy than the earl and his family.
Perhaps, if her aunt insisted on someone serving her, they could hire a woman from Inverness. Someone who hadn’t known her when she was a maid.
She stopped at the landing, staring down the corridor toward the guest rooms. Her aunt, two maids, and Catriona were congregated outside Mr. Prender’s room.
Catriona was attired in one of the new dresses made for Jean, who saw it had evidently been hemmed for her, since it wasn’t dragging on the ground.
Pushing back her annoyance, she moved toward the group.
The two maids turned and looked at her, with varying expressions on their faces. One of them—Anice—was amused by the circumstances. The other frowned at her, as if resenting her elevation and new status.
“What you’re doing isn’t proper,” Catriona said, pointing her finger inside the open doorway.
Her sister lecturing anyone on propriety was a little humorous. Aunt Mary, however, did not look at all amused.
Suddenly, Donalda burst out of the room, tears streaming down her red face.
“I’m not a slut like some,” she said, turning to Catriona.
Mr. Prender was standing in the doorway, looking carefully nonchalant.
Catriona looked from Donalda to Mr. Prender, her eyes narrowed as if trying to decide whether anything had happened between them.
Perhaps because of knowledge gleaned from her wedding night, Jean was abruptly aware of the charged atmosphere between her sister and Mr. Prender. She knew, without a doubt, they’d been lovers, and probably still were.
“Has Mr. Prender taken advantage of you, Donalda?” her aunt asked, stopping the girl in the hall.
Donalda was still crying, but she shook her head.
At least there wouldn’t be any fear of an unwanted child.
If Catriona became pregnant, what would happen to her? Did the peerage consider an unmarried pregnant woman a pariah? Was she shuffled off into obscurity? Or must she pretend to be a widow?
If her sister insisted on indulging in such reckless, abandoned behavior, she might find herself in that position.
Jean strode forward, nodding at her aunt and placing her hand on Catriona’s arm, urging her into the sitting room. She nodded to Mr. Prender, who took her lead and walked farther into the room of his own accord. Only then did she gesture toward her aunt. When the four of them were in the room, she closed the door.
