Autumn in Scotland

by Karen Ranney

  There hadn’t been a moment when he’d been free of his desire.

  She stepped back, pressing her fingers against her lips and staring at him wide eyed. As if she’d never been kissed before, or so thoroughly.

  He wanted to kiss her again and show her how it could be. A deep, invasive kiss that stunned the senses and numbed the mind. If she remained here, he would. And more.

  She was the only one who could stop him.

  “Why did you come home?” she asked. “Why did you come back?”

  Not the question he’d expected, and he didn’t know how to answer it.

  She looked away, tucking her hands around her waist and then in front of her. She traced the pattern of the buttons up her wrapper and down again while one hand trailed to the end of the sash that belted it closed.

  “To make amends,” he said, and in a way it was true.

  Her fear hadn’t eased, but she didn’t retreat. Instead, she stood there in front of him, brave and dauntless, as courageous as she must have been five years ago.

  He wanted to kiss her again, in reparation, in a sheer and selfish need to touch her. Instead, he bent and picked up the broadsword.

  “Shall I return this to where it belongs?”

  “I keep it in my chamber,” she said.

  He looked at her quizzically.

  “For a year I lived here with just the servants.”

  “And you were their protector?” he asked.

  “Someone had to be.”

  He hefted the sword easily, deciding it wouldn’t be wise of him to comment further. She’d undergone privations and sacrifices for what she had now. A great deal more than George had ever endured. Dixon wished his cousin well, but he also wished him far away. There was one thing worse than Charlotte being without a husband—being burdened with George.

  She turned and began walking down the corridor. It wasn’t wise of him to watch her walk because she did so in a thoroughly feminine way, a motion that made him focus on her hips. There were only two layers of fabric hiding her body, the nightgown and the wrapper, both of a sheer material that didn’t protect her from either the draft or his gaze.

  The oh-so-proper headmistress of the Caledonia School for the Advancement of Females was roaming through the halls of Balfurin barefoot. He couldn’t help but smile at that revelation.

  He followed her, carrying the broadsword. They were at her chamber too quickly. She glanced at his door and then back at him.

  “Thank you,” she said, and reached out to grab the sword with both hands. Her fingers brushed against his, and for a moment he thought she might speak. But she said nothing, just retrieved the sword from his grip and held it so that the point pierced the carpet.

  He wanted to tell her that such a venerable instrument of war should not be treated in such a fashion, but instead he took one more step back, away from her, and bowed slightly. Her gaze focused on his dressing gown, at the open V at his neck. Did she know he was naked beneath the garment?

  God, don’t let the last of my honor falter. Let me forget that she is as lonely as I, as wounded, perhaps. She was a woman of delicacy, firm in her resolve but tentative in her emotions. He could hurt her too easily, bruise when he only meant to touch.

  He’d come home to find himself and instead had discovered her, a complication of immense proportions, a temptation, a trial, a test that he was on the verge of failing.

  Dear God but he wanted her. In his arms, in his bed, beneath him, his mouth smothering her screams of pleasure.

  Run, Charlotte. Run as quickly as you can, because I’m too close to forgetting I have any honor at all.

  She only faced him, innocent that she was, unaware of her danger.

  Chapter 14

  T here was an expression in his eyes that she’d never before seen, something heated and alarming. She should have run from that look, but instead, she wanted him to touch her, wanted him to stroke his fingers along her arm, cup her shoulders in his hands. She wanted to feel his thumb against the base of her throat, the pads of his fingers as they stole up to her chin, and his palms on her face, holding her still for another kiss.

  She wanted to weep, the heaviness filling her, reminding her of those rare moments when she felt overwhelmed by grief and loss and uncertain why. She felt a pulse beat deep inside her, as if her core were coming alive, as if the ice wall inside her was melting.

  Slowly, carefully, she took one step toward him, the broadsword still at her side.

  “Come to my bed,” he said, startling her. “Come with me.” He turned and faced his door, and then opened it and stepped inside. Only then did he turn and look at her again.

  A good five feet separated them. She could flee to her chamber now and he wouldn’t follow. How strange that she somehow knew she could leave her door open and yet he wouldn’t bother her.

  This capitulation must be all hers.

  “Come,” he said, stretching out his hand to her.

  If she did, if she allowed him to lure her into the Laird’s Chamber, nothing would ever be the same again. She would no longer be simply the headmistress of a soon to be profitable school. She would be a wife in more than name. She would have a husband, someone whose duty it was to protect her, defend her, care for her.

  Someone whose bed she was compelled to share.

  Should she go? Or stay? Either way, this night would change her. Regardless of her decision, she would never again look at him in the same way. She would forever recall the tenderness of his kiss, and the possibility of it.

  To make amends, that’s why he’d returned, why he’d come back to her. By turning now and walking away, she could pay him back in kind for those five years. Doing so would forever alter their tentative friendship and destroy whatever insisted on blossoming between them.

  How much did she hate him? How badly did she want him punished?

  And by punishing him, did she not also punish herself?

  After a moment’s hesitation, she dropped the sword, reached out and placed her hand atop his. Immediately, his warm fingers curled around her hand. This was the George she remembered, impatient with his need and wants. She allowed him to pull her into the chamber, closing the door behind them. She stood silent as he lit too many candles as well as the oil lamp on the dresser. The room was soon as bright as day.

  This was new. Before, he’d wanted the act done in darkness. And she’d been grateful for it, since he wouldn’t be able to witness her reluctance. In the dark she could pretend to be willing, be nothing more than a vessel for him to fill.

  “You look terrified,” he said now. She shook her head, but from the smile on his face, she doubted if he believed her.

  He placed both hands on the sash of her wrapper. She placed her own on top of them, thinking that he meant to undress her here in the brightness, in the yellow tint of the beeswax candles.

  “Must you?” she asked.

  “No,” he said softly. “I won’t do anything you don’t wish. Tonight, let’s pretend that we don’t know each other very well. We’re new lovers, coming together for the first time. We’ll learn each other slowly and deliberately.”

  “We don’t know each other very well,” she said, forced to honesty. “There was only that one time.”

  He looked startled just before he pulled her into his arms.

  She lay her head against his shoulder, closing her eyes tight. When she was old and frail, she would remember this moment when she touched her lips to his neck, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath his skin. His scent was something exotic and foreign, yet essentially his.

  When had he changed? After leaving her? Or had the man she married been this fascinating personage all along and she’d been too young or too naive to see it?

  “Charlotte.”

  Even his voice was magic, a dark ribbon like the sight of the River Tam beneath a night sky.

  Never before had she felt this way. Not once in all her thirty-two years had she felt so desperate for th
e touch of another human being. Daring herself, she reached out and smoothed her hand against his chest. He flinched, a reaction that startled her.

  “Charlotte,” he said, and there was a note of warning now in his voice.

  “Forgive me,” she said, dropping her hands and stepping back. “I was being forward.”

  “Not so,” he said. “Dangerous, perhaps. Enticing, of a certainty. Not forward.”

  “Dangerous? I’ve never been called dangerous.”

  “I’m grateful for the blindness of my fellow countrymen, then. Otherwise, I’d be compelled to defend your honor.”

  She was unaccountably pleased by his words, but even more so for the look in his eyes. They smoldered, and she wondered what he was thinking that could heat his gaze in such a way.

  Suddenly, and without warning, he bent down and kissed her again. A kiss that captured her breath, weakened her knees and caused that odd pulsing in her lower regions.

  Her hands trailed up his chest to link at the back of his neck. She stood on tiptoe to be closer to him, startled when he cupped his hands around her buttocks and lifted her up, pressing her so close that she could feel the length of his arousal. Only a few layers of fabric separated them from each other. He raised her up and then lowered her slowly down his hardness, encouraging her to feel all of him.

  He lowered her until her feet finally touched the floor and then further shocked her by removing her arms from around his neck and placing her hand against him.

  Her fingers were at the base of the shaft, her palm along its length, and still she didn’t measure the whole of him. Good Lord, her memory had played her false. Or had she ever touched him before? She couldn’t remember doing so. George had come into her bedroom, entered her bed, and mounted her, leaving as quickly as it was done. That one night was the sum total of her experience as a wife.

  “Have you grown?” she whispered, not at all sure she should be asking such a question. “Does it keep growing?” In that case, she would never accommodate him in a year or so.

  It was a very disconcerting feeling to be kissed through laughter. She couldn’t help but smile at the sensation, all the while she had the feeling that he was ridiculing her ignorance.

  But then he pulled away and looked down at her, and in the bright light of the room she could see the expression on his face. There was tenderness there, something she’d never before seen in his gaze. As if George truly felt something for her.

  “No and yes,” he answered. “It’s the same size it has always been, but being close to you makes it seem larger.”

  “I haven’t the slightest knowledge of the subject,” she admitted.

  “I once read a book,” he said, leaning down and touching his forehead to hers, “that was written eight hundred years ago. It was called a pillow book, the diary of a maiden, I believe, who was initiated into love.”

  “Really?” She pulled back and looked at him with interest. “Would it be possible to acquire a copy?” She looked away. “Of course, there is the problem of keeping one here at the school. I can only imagine the hue and cry that would come from one of my students accidentally acquiring it. Every parent in Scotland would excoriate me.”

  “I do not have your recall, Charlotte,” he said, smiling, “but I can remember enough to be of assistance.”

  Heat rose from her big toes, up her ankles and legs to encompass her torso, shoulders, arms, neck, and then the very top of her head. The sensation was so bewildering that she could only stand there blinking at him.

  Did he expect her to answer? Blessedly, he didn’t seem to demand a response. Lucidity was beyond her. Instead, he bent and kissed her again, and this kiss was without any levity at all. Heat was traveling through her body. She was dizzy, and he was the only solid thing in the entire universe.

  She clung to him with both hands, her fingers clutching at his shoulders as the sensations deepened. His lips were hard and then soft, and then open, demanding the same of her. His tongue was intrusive and coaxing and tender and exciting, and every sensation all at once. She felt as if she couldn’t get her breath and then felt as if she were breathing too quickly. Her heart slowed and then raced and then felt as if it liquefied as the heat in her body intensified. Her toes curled as she made a small sound in the back of her throat that sounded weak and desperate and wanting.

  His hands were on her buttocks again but this time he lifted her up in his arms and carried her some distance to the bed. He put her gently in the middle of the mattress as if she were the most precious burden he’d ever carried.

  She raised up on her elbows and watched him.

  His dressing gown was black silk, heavily embroidered in gold, silver, and crimson threads. He threw it off his shoulders, and it slid to the floor revealing him in all his nakedness.

  For the first time, she was grateful for the candles. From this moment onward, she’d be able to remember the sight of him. He was glorious, a Roman soldier of a man—though the muscles of his chest and stomach looked to be made of hammered iron, his breastplate was indeed flesh, his shoulders wide and strong. His thighs were thick and sprinkled with the same curly black hair as his chest. His calves were strong, his feet both long and wide, a firm foundation for the rest of the man.

  His erection, however, caught and held her attention. As she watched, he fisted himself, pulling back the foreskin until the whole of him emerged, a most formidable weapon.

  She could feel the heat cooling in her body. This was not going to work. This was not going to be a pleasurable interlude. She was certain of it. She remembered the sole night of her marriage bed and recalled all the pain of it. She did not want to repeat that experience.

  If anything, he’d grown harder and longer as she watched. She looked away, deliberately focusing her attention on something else.

  The four-poster hangings needed to be replaced. Bother the hangings. Could she leave? What would he do if she simply scurried to the door and left?

  “Charlotte,” he said softly. “Tonight, we’re new lovers. You’re a maiden, with all her innocence and fears.”

  “You make me sound like a child.”

  “Not a child. A beautiful woman who has never quite believed that fact. A woman who’s never been properly loved.”

  She glanced at him.

  “I’m to be your pillow book, remember? Shall we turn to the first page?”

  Reluctantly, she nodded. Never let it be said that she was a coward.

  He moved to the side of the bed and sat on the edge facing her.

  “A maiden must know her own body first before she can enjoy its gifts.”

  “I know my body.”

  “Ah, but you know only the totality of it, I suspect. Did you realize all the delightful and varied parts?”

  He moved his hand to the sash of her wrapper, slowly untying it. A small smile was playing around his lips and she wondered what he was thinking.

  “I’ve wanted to undress you for an hour,” he said, as if he’d read her mind.

  “Have you?”

  Her nightgown was a fine lawn, nearly transparent. It offered no shield from his eyes.

  “I think we need to get you out of this,” he said softly.

  Before she had a chance to protest, he scooped her up from the bed and set her on the floor beside it. When he would have grabbed the hem of her nightgown she slapped at his hands.

  He ignored her as if she were no more than a pesky mosquito.

  All too quickly she was naked, and back in the middle of the bed. But just when she thought he would mount her, he reached over and put his hand beneath her breast, his thumb gently brushing back and forth over the nipple.

  “This doesn’t feel the same when you do it as when I do it, does it?” he said.

  “I don’t touch myself there,” she said breathlessly. “When I do, it’s by accident.”

  “A woman’s breast is a wondrous thing,” he said. “Capable of a great many sensations. The softest touch can awaken de
sire.” He bent and blew against the nipple. A tiny, shivery breath, but she still felt an answering spark deep inside. He seemed to know it as well, because he smiled when he drew back. Once more his thumb strummed against the nipple and he watched his own actions with interest. She felt a tightening and looked down at herself. The nipple was now hard and pebbly and so was the other, even though he hadn’t touched it yet.

  When she would have questioned what he was about, he placed two fingers across her lips and shook his head. Evidently, she was to be as mute as her best students, attuned to listening and not to speaking. She nodded, to signify that she understood, and remained silent when he removed his hand.

  He bent and placed his lips against her nipple, drawing it into his mouth. A spear of sensation raced through her as if his lips were directly connected to another, more intimate part of her. He was not content to suckle one breast, but divided his attentions between both.

  She wanted to frame his face with her hands, feel his scratchy beard against her palms, hold him in place and force him to continue at his task. But he was too quick, and each breast was left feeling bereft.

  Then he did something she’d never thought a man—a husband—would do. He gently parted her legs and stared at her directly. All the sensations in her body seemed to coalesce where his gaze was directed.

  He smiled. “You’re very responsive, Charlotte,” he said. “It’s a very great compliment to me. A touch on your breast and your body is already readying itself for me.” He bent down and suckled on her breast again and, when she was concentrating on the sensations he evoked, he slid his hand between her legs, inserting a finger into her, nearly causing her to leap from the bed.

  She hadn’t expected it. When he made a soothing sound, she clenched her eyes shut, trapped in her muteness as if he’d demanded a promise of silence from her. But what on earth could she say?

  Stop. Don’t touch me. Don’t make me feel this way. How foolish.