Autumn in Scotland

by Karen Ranney

  Her mind failed her. There was not one single page floating in front of her eyes, no scrap of memory to be recalled, not one quote she could summon.

  He touched her again, pulling his finger out of her, and inserting it again, at a different angle so that it seemed to press against a magical part of her, one capable of such pleasure that her eyes flew open to meet his gaze.

  “Charlotte,” he whispered, and it seemed to be a summons to another place, a land of the mind, and soul, and perhaps heart. His eyes seemed to say: trust me. His mouth curved into a rueful smile as if he knew how very difficult it would be for her to do so.

  He smoothed his hand over her, and she wanted to come upright, to meet his fingers with every stroke. She bit back the inclination and forced herself to remain still. But it was the hardest thing she had ever done.

  He kissed her, his lips wet and hot and then stroked a thumb down her intimate folds. She bit her lips rather than make a sound.

  How very strange that what he was doing felt so absolutely wondrous. He’d never touched her before, never sounded as if he were out of breath before.

  He kissed her again, and then her breasts, and when she placed a hand on his neck and let her fingers walk to his shoulder, he pulled back and smiled at her.

  She wrapped her arms around his neck. “I’m not afraid, George. Really, I’m not.”

  Suddenly, he moved, and for a horrible, terrible moment she thought he was leaving her. She opened her eyes to find him sitting back on his thighs at the end of the bed. His gaze was solemn, and as she watched, he extended his hand to her.

  Without questioning why she did so, she reached up and placed her hand in his. She knelt in front of him, their fingers intertwined. He lowered their joined hands, still looking at her. His gaze was direct, somber, allowing no prevarication, no wilting beneath it.

  Caution rose along with the heat in her body.

  “There’s no reason to feel afraid of me, Charlotte. Not now, not ever.”

  What did she say to that?

  “I want to love you, to show you how enjoyable it can be. Not bring you discomfort.”

  She stared at him, uncertain what he wanted from her. Permission? Invitation?

  “I want you to feel as much pleasure as I do.”

  A flush traveled up her chest at his words.

  “Do you feel pleasure, George?”

  He leaned forward and placed two fingers across her lips to silence her.

  “Not now, but I will,” he said. “And so will you.” A moment later, he kissed her and she spiraled down into the sensations with delight.

  He’d bedded his share of women, but somehow Charlotte made him feel inept and untried, like a youth whose need was greater than his knowledge. Or a man out of his element, who didn’t know how to touch a woman like Charlotte the way he wanted, with skill and talent, so that she trembled as he did.

  He moved her so that she was on her stomach and then helped her rise to her knees.

  “You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, stroking his hands from the delectable curves of her buttocks down her narrow waist to her shoulders. Only then did he allow himself to cup her breasts and squeeze them lightly. She sank to her forearms, her derriere pushing back at him.

  “The pillow book says that this is the way a maiden finds her greatest pleasure.”

  She didn’t speak, only made a little wiggle that was too enticing.

  He didn’t need any persuading. Despite the fact that he was trembling, he deliberately slowed his movements. He guided himself into her, stopping when he wanted to surge deeply inside. Instead, for every forward movement, he pulled back a little.

  He took a deep, shuddering breath and gripped her hips, slowing pulling her onto his shaft and clenching his eyes shut as he felt every delectable, torturous sensation.

  He wanted her to beg him to hurry, but she didn’t make a sound. Her hands clenched at the sheets, gripping fistfuls of linen as she pushed back against him. He remained motionless, but she took up the rhythm, rising fully, bending forward on her knees, and then back, establishing a rhythm that urged him to lose his control.

  The candles flickered, the shadows deepened and sweat broke out over his body as he concentrated on the incredible pleasure where they joined.

  Her back suddenly arched like a cat and she pushed back against him as if she were a seductress, intent on pleasuring herself, and he was simply incidental to the act.

  He wanted to whisper her name, to caution her that he was not a god, that he could not maintain such patience for long.

  But Charlotte was in no hurry. She bent forward again, still on her knees, her forearms pressing against the mattress. He wanted to ask her how she felt, wanted to coax her to speak to him, but he knew that in this act, at least, she was shy, virginal in thought if not almost in deed.

  His hands still rested on her hips, but he’d given up any illusion of control from the moment she first moved.

  He moved one hand down to where they joined, and pressed a finger to her. She straightened her arms, her head hanging down between her shoulders. Slowly, he drew his fingers up until he found her plump and swollen and wet around his cock.

  He stroked his fingers up and down, heard her in-drawn gasp. Good. At least she was beginning to feel something of what he felt.

  “Shatter for me, Charlotte,” he whispered. “I want to feel when you find your release. I want to know what it’s like when passion blinds you and you can’t catch your breath.”

  Make it soon. Please.

  She slowly shook her head from side to side as if it were an ardent and silent battle they fought there on the bed. Did she have any idea how desperately he wanted to find his release? Did she know what it would be like for her?

  “Now,” he said gently and pressed two fingers to her, sliding them slowly up and down. “Now,” he said again, and then put both hands on her hips and pulled her toward him.

  He was as deep as he could get, and still it wasn’t enough. He pressed forward on her back until she subsided on her forearms, her forehead grinding against the mattress as a series of shuddering sobs escaped her.

  Again and again and again he pulled out and then pushed himself back gently and yet too slowly for his need and his own desire.

  Hurry. Hurry. An internal voice screamed at him that he wouldn’t be able to hold on to his restraint much longer. He wanted to erupt in her. He wanted to repeat this moment over and over. He pulled out of her and then slid into her wetness again and again, gritting his teeth when a sound like a moan threatened to escape. His hands trembled, and he gripped her hips tighter, at the mercy of his body and his craving—his need—for completion. He wanted to repeat the pleasure over and over, lock the door and refuse to let her escape for a week—a lifetime.

  “Now,” he said as he drove deeply into her. “Now.” He felt her begin to quiver around him. He pushed forward, cupped her breasts in his hands and gently squeezed her nipples. He pressed his face against her back, smelling the scent of her skin, feeling her tremble. Only then did he allow himself to surrender to the pleasure.

  Chapter 15

  D ixon rose at dawn to find that he was the only occupant of his bed. Some time in the night, Charlotte had returned to her room. Perhaps it was better that way. If he’d awakened beside her, he would have loved her again, further complicating matters.

  He’d already broken his resolve and dented his honor well enough. The ramifications would have to be addressed, including the fact that he wanted to repeat the act over and over again.

  He dressed and left the Laird’s Chamber, striding across the hall. He raised his fist to knock, but caught himself. What could he say?

  I am not George. There, a small repair to his honor. I am Dixon, his cousin, and you fascinate me too much.

  But before he spoke, perhaps he would lean forward and kiss her. Would there be a sparkle in her eyes? Would her face be flushed, her lips slightly swollen?

  Would she kiss him
back? Better, would she invite him into her chamber?

  For a moment, a fleeting inch of time, he relived the night, before he thrust the memory away. He wasn’t at all certain she would answer the door.

  Did she regret last night?

  He had never considered himself a coward, but at this moment he found his courage being tested.

  “She’s still asleep, your lordship.”

  He looked up to find Maisie walking down the hall. Her limp was pronounced this morning, as if she’d been walking too much.

  “I went in to see her just five minutes ago, sir, and she was burrowed under all the blankets all comfy like. I don’t think she’ll rouse till noon.”

  A reprieve, then.

  “Would you like me to give her a message, your lordship?”

  He shook his head. “No, I’ll not disturb her, Maisie.”

  Dixon turned and walked down the corridor, intent on the tower room. Since he couldn’t see Charlotte, he could at least visit with Nan. He knocked on the door and waited. Several moments later, he knocked again and finally heard a sound on the other side.

  “Nan? Are you feeling well enough for a visitor?”

  “I am old, child, not sick,” came the querulous reply.

  He entered the room and closed the door behind him. She was sitting beside the window, the morning sun touching the sill. In the light she looked even more drawn and more shrunken than she had a few days earlier. Time was running out for both of them, but hers was the final race.

  “Are you well, Nan?”

  She looked amused at the question. “I am well enough.”

  He reached out and adjusted her shawl. She batted his hand out of the way and he was shocked at how cold her fingers were.

  “Your hands feel like ice.”

  “It’s not the winters that make me cold, child, but my age.”

  There was only a small fire in the grate, and he stirred it with a poker before returning to her side.

  “There are warmer rooms at Balfurin.”

  “I’ll not move from here.” She looked out the window as if to dismiss him.

  “Then I’ll send up more wood for the fire.”

  “The girl keeps it burning. Ask me, instead, what I’ll do for the loneliness. Being without love brings a greater discomfort than any the flesh might feel. Longing for death is not much solace.”

  He pulled up a chair and sat beside her. He didn’t know what to say to her. Would words have any effect at all?

  After a few moments of silence, he finally spoke. “I went to the crypt,” he said. “I didn’t find anything there.”

  She only smiled.

  “But the pattern on the earl’s coffin was the same as the bricks in the library.”

  “You always were a canny lad,” she said. “I’ve often thought you the smarter one of the two of you. It took George longer to find it.”

  “There was a secret compartment in the fireplace, but it was empty. Was the treasure there? Did George find it?” He withdrew the corner of the page he’d found, and placed it on her lap.

  She smiled, and looked far out into the distance. For the longest time she didn’t speak, but neither did he, determined to match her in patience.

  “More than once George stripped Balfurin of everything he could fit into a wagon and drove off, leaving us to starve. We were too stubborn to die. Too old and too stubborn.”

  She managed a frail shrug. “Perhaps he was more desperate than he’d been before. He married an English. I never would have given him the first clue if I’d known.” She clasped her hands in her lap, looked down on them as if the presence of her fingers suddenly surprised her. “He wanted her money. There were women in Scotland he could have wed.” She glanced up at Dixon. “She doesn’t come to visit me.”

  “From what I hear,” Dixon said, “you wouldn’t receive her.”

  “What have I to say to an Englishwoman? Her people killed those I loved many years ago. I’m not too old that I can’t remember that.” She gave him a shrewd look. “Are you worried that I might tell her who you are, child?” She smiled. “Let her figure it out.”

  “Did George find the treasure?” he asked, trying to get her back to the subject.

  “He liked Edinburgh. Not as much as London, I hear. But well enough. He had too much wanderlust to remain here, Laird of Balfurin. A pity that you were not your uncle’s son.”

  “Did he find it, Nan?” he asked again, wondering if her mind was wandering. Did she even know if George had found the treasure?

  “He found the scroll. The scroll with the whole of the poem on it.”

  She smiled and began to speak:

  “Three times he’ll score his mark

  Three times a mark of grace

  A father, son, and holy ghost

  To show the sacred place.

  Beyond a river swift

  The current true and fast

  The one who seeks shall find

  The gold and jeweled cask.

  A treasure there to find

  A trunk of jewels and gold

  Placed there for sons to come

  To protect and to hold.”

  She laughed, the sound so brittle he expected the air to crack.

  Had age destroyed her wits?

  She laughed again, and he stood to leave. She held out one frail hand, her fingers trembling. “Your grandfather bid me say the first two parts to anyone. I’ve cheated a bit to give you the last. But he has five years on you, Dixon.”

  “So he did find it?”

  “If he did, he’d not stay here, child. He was the one with dust on his shoes, always wanting to be some other place. He’d spend the treasure in London or Edinburgh. Have you looked there?”

  “No.”

  “You’ll not find him at Balfurin.” She closed her sunken eyes, then opened them a moment later. “Go and find him, child, and bring him back to Balfurin.” She looked out the window again, staring at something he couldn’t see. The past? “Bring him back to where he belongs.”

  Charlotte awoke and stared at the ceiling and for a moment, just a moment before recognition came to her, she experienced the most blissful feeling of peace and tranquility. The term was over for the winter. The girls had left for home to experience the social rounds of Edinburgh and London. There was money in the coffers, and it looked as if the enrollment for the next year would be even greater than this term. There was nothing she needed to do that was pressing or urgent and she felt absolutely wonderful, except for a few odd twinges here and there.

  George.

  Her eyes widened. George. She rolled over cautiously, expecting to see him sleeping there beside her. No, she had left his room the night before, seeking her own chamber. Otherwise, she might have turned to him.

  Rolling over on her back, she blew out a breath, and frowned at the ceiling. She closed her eyes again, fisted her hands at her sides, and concentrated on something, anything, but last night.

  She had been full of reckless abandon last night. Thoroughly hedonistic. Almost shockingly so.

  Making a cocoon of her sheets and coverlet, she peered out of it like a frightened hedgehog.

  How would she ever face him?

  He was her husband. He had the right to be here in her bed. From the moment he’d returned to Balfurin he could have demanded that she submit to him, but instead he’d charmed her. He could have pushed his way into her chamber, but he’d kissed her so long and so ardently that she’d gone willingly into the Laird’s Chamber.

  She closed her eyes. Never mind George. Where had she gone to? Where had the cautious Charlotte, the anxious Charlotte, the determined woman disappeared? From the moment he’d returned, nothing had been quite the same.

  The Edification Society was wrong: George didn’t need any training at all. Heat traveled up her chest and bloomed on her cheeks.

  No, she was not going to think about him. A lovely Rembrandt painting she’d once viewed came to mind, and she allowed herself to e
xperience that memory, beginning to smile as she looked at the vision behind her closed eyes. All she had to do was train her mind on some pleasant, innocuous memory, and she could banish any embarrassing thought.

  A few minutes later, Charlotte slipped from the bed and crossed the floor, turning the key in the lock. She looked down at herself, only then conscious that she was naked. She grabbed her wrapper and put it on before going to the window and opening the shutters. The view overlooked rolling hills, and in the daylight she caught a glimpse of the River Tam as it meandered closer to the old castle. She stood in the window, oblivious to the chill, staring up at the morning sky. The day would be a bright one, the blue sky clear and cloudless, but it might as well rain for all she’d enjoy it.

  What in the name of all that was holy had she done?

  Had she lost all her wits?

  Her senses were reeling. Both excitement and fear started in the pit of her stomach and spread throughout her body. She’d never before felt like this, not even in the days after her marriage.

  Five years had truly made a difference, but in him or in her?

  She’d wanted to touch him, a need she’d never before experienced. Not even with Spencer. She’d wanted to take her hands and rub his strong, muscled arms. She’d linked her hands at the back of his neck and demanded that he kiss her.

  Had he thought her brazen? She closed the shutters and leaned her forehead against them. How was she to face him? Was his ardor truly directed toward her? Or simply because there were no other women he wanted to bed at Balfurin? Either the maids were matronly, or they were too young to attract his attention.

  The excitement she’d earlier felt dissipated suddenly to become a cold and clammy feeling. The greater question wasn’t why he’d wanted to bed her, but why he’d returned at all. Or even more troubling: when would he leave?

  “You look disturbed, master.”

  Dixon glanced at Matthew. He’d been so deep in thought that he hadn’t noticed the other man’s entrance.

  He placed his traveling desk on the floor, having written the poem Nan had recited. His recall might not be as perfect as Charlotte’s, but the poem was elementary, evidently designed to be easily remembered.