Beguiled

by Arnette Lamb

  Being the object of his desire filled her with joy, but Edward Napier was not for her. Gathering her robe about her, she held his probing gaze. “We were and are still newly met.”

  “Perhaps in the number of days we have known each other, but under the circumstances, that can hardly be counted. Much has occurred between us, Agnes MacKenzie, and you harbor deep feelings for me.” Gently, he touched her wound, and his voice dropped to an intimate whisper. “You spoke of trusting. I have and do trust you with my life and with the safety of my children. As for belonging—” His hand curled around her neck. “You belong to me, Agnes.”

  “No.” She turned toward the door. “I cannot, Edward.”

  “Aye, you can.” Grasping her waist, he lifted her onto the workbench.

  Her long chemise and silken robe offered little protection from the cold slate, but she couldn’t mount a protest.

  The warmth of his lips on hers burned the last of her resolve to cinders, and hands that had tended her in doctorly fashion now stroked and comforted in a way that made her heart soar and her conscience protest. When he eased her legs apart and stepped closer, she embraced him freely.

  His manly growl of approval spurred her on, and she kissed him with certainty, with freedom, and with gratitude. He had not meant those cruel words in Whitburn; he’d been preoccupied with the safety of his family.

  “The truth, Agnes,” he insisted.

  Words begged to be said. She whispered, “I do want you.”

  As if she’d given him his heart’s desire, he closed his eyes to savor the moment. Happiness wreathed his handsome features, and she couldn’t resist kissing every one. She touched her lips to his chin, his nose, his eyes, and when his lashes fluttered, Agnes sighed with satisfaction. “I shall never be happier than at this instant,” she pledged.

  “Then let me see if I can improve upon that.” He melded his mouth to hers, and she opened for him, welcomed him, savored the desire that raged between them. The kiss both drained and inspired at once, and she couldn’t get close enough, couldn’t feel enough of his skin beneath her fingers.

  Tearing his mouth from hers, he kissed her cheek, then moved to her ear. Hovering there, he whispered, “I’ve dreamed of having you here, of feeling your hands touching me just so.”

  “I want to touch more of you.”

  He pulled back and gave her a boyish grin. “You do?”

  “Aye.” To prove the point, she splayed her fingers and slid her hands up his chest.

  Boyishness fled. He removed her dagger and put it on the table. “You’ve given me an idea.” As agile as ever, and without even glancing at his hands, he freed the knot in her belt, moved her robe aside, and revealed her long chemise. “What have we here?” He encircled her breasts. “Attributes draped in black silk. My very favorite kind.”

  Lightness bubbled inside her, and she couldn’t resist saying, “You’re an expert on the subject of . . . breasts, as I recall.”

  “I’m not sure.” With a sly grin, he moved down. “I’ll need a closer look.”

  The instant his hot breath touched her nipple, Agnes gasped. When he licked her there, she shivered and clutched handfuls of his tunic. In a deliciously slow rhythm, he alternately stroked her with his tongue and bathed her in his warm breath, and as a swoon curled up her neck, he stopped. A protest died on her lips, for he moved to her other breast. Knowing what to expect made her hungry for more, and she fidgeted under the urge to twist her shoulders and shed the undergarment. She wanted no barrier between them, but he worked his magic again, and thoughts mingled with sensations.

  She felt heavy and light at once, her head spinning with anticipation and her body yearning for a respite from desire. At their own direction, her hands pushed his tunic above his waist and her fingers mapped his tautly muscled belly. He sucked in a breath, and as if answering a call, she reached into his breeches. His manliness felt like velvet against her palm. With her other hand, she moved to free the buttons.

  “Oh, no.” He jerked away, threw off his tunic, and grasped her wrists. His eyes blazed with banked need, and perspiration glistened on his brow. He moved her arms back and placed her palms flat on the table. “If you’ll stiffen your arms.”

  She locked her elbows, but her attention was fixed on the breadth of his chest and the strength of his arms. A doctor, she mused, and so much more. A teacher. A scholar. An inventor. A wonderful father. The man who owned her heart.

  “Oh, yes,” he said. “That’s it exactly.” Involved in his lusty task, he reached around her and scraped aside a stack of books. Then he pressed an index finger into her cleavage and drew a line to her navel.

  “What are you about?” she asked.

  “A poor idea.” But the gleam in his eyes spoke of excitement.

  “Tell me.”

  “I warn you. What I’m thinking is out of the main.”

  “A place to which I aspire. Tell me.”

  “I’d very much like to rip this garment off you.”

  Agnes looked pointedly at her stiletto. “Why not cut it?”

  New interest sparkled in his eyes. “May I?”

  He could have been asking her to dance, so cordial was his tone. “You think I am serious.”

  He licked his lips. “I am as serious as sin on Sunday.”

  It was completely unexpected, but so was the man himself. “Sounds thrilling.”

  “Doesn’t it?”

  She looked at the spot where he touched her, his skin a rich golden color against the black silk. Her gaze moved to him. To her fascination, the swollen tip of his manhood peeked from the open placket of his breeches.

  Boldness invaded her. “Only if I may return the favor.” When his brows shot up, she went on. “I’m very good with a knife myself, and if you have no objections, I could rid you of what is left of your clothing.”

  “I care nothing for them. Less than nothing. These breeches are completely dispensable. Do with them what you will.”

  “Truly?”

  He realized she was teasing him. “This, my dear Agnes MacKenzie”—he kissed her nose—“is not the time to lie or tease. So I will say to you that if you use that knife to slice the breeches from my body, I will recall it fondly on the day I die.”

  A chill of pleasure rippled through her. “Cut away, my lord.”

  Unsheathing the knife, he held it gently, as if it were an instrument, rather than a weapon. Put to the sharp blade, the silk parted without a sound. He cut the cloth cleanly, precisely, in a line so straight it defied measure. A narrow gap opened between the two halves of the cut chemise. But the cloth didn’t part completely; moisture from his suckling of her breasts made the silk cling to her nipples.

  At her lap, he paused. When she’d spread her legs, the undergarment had bunched up around her hips. In deep concentration, he said, “I must be very careful here.”

  Expectation thickened her throat, and she swallowed loudly. The blade cut through the folds like a hot knife through porridge and exposed her dampened skin to the cool air. She could feel his visual exploration of her most private place, and the knowledge set her elbows to quivering.

  Lifting his head, he grinned like a man who’d accomplished a great task. “You’re beautiful everywhere.”

  Agnes choked back a moan and held out her hand for the knife.

  He looked at her askance. “Patience.”

  “But I want the knife now.”

  “You may have it in a little while.” He put the knife out of her reach and opened the chemise completely. “But for now, I’d like to bask in you.”

  Words of protest failed, and she watched him slip a hand between her legs. His graceful fingers parted her and found her feminine core. Instinctively she tried to close her legs against the delicious agony, but he was too strong and too determined. She gave up the fight.

  He worked her tenderly, touching a spot and bringing it keenly to life, then moving higher to stroke and circle the place that gave her the most pleasure.
She couldn’t bring enough air into her lungs or breathe fast enough to keep control of her wits, and as she surrendered to passion, she glimpsed true harmony. The elation crested, and she teetered on the brink of falling, until an instant later, with one touch, he brought her to rise again and again and again.

  She felt the student to his teacher, for he seemed to know her body better than she knew it herself. When the last ripple of passion flowed through her, she felt cleansed and wanton and oddly empty.

  He reached for the placket of his breeches, an apology in his eyes. “I must get inside you now, love.”

  An end to her emptiness was in the offing, but Agnes squeezed her legs together, trapping his hands. Their pleasure should be equally shared, and she knew what to do. “You dallied with me. Now I shall dally with you. Give me the knife.”

  He gazed at her lap, then looked down at himself. “You are primed, and I am at the ready.”

  “Still . . .”

  “Later I shall be your willing love slave, but just now . . .”

  “I insist.”

  His expression turned winsome, and his shoulders slumped. “You’re a cruel woman, Agnes MacKenzie.”

  “Will you help me down or must I jump?”

  He sighed, shaking his head. “I could make much of this moment, you know.”

  She opened her palm. “The knife, if you please.”

  “Must you?”

  “I always keep my promises.”

  “You’ll leave your robe open so I can see you?”

  It struck her as funny. “Why not? I’ve nothing left to hide from you.”

  He jiggled his eyebrows and peeked quickly at her. “A beautiful sight, and a lure that brings out the beast in me.”

  “A great beast?”

  “Does the word ravishment tell you how primitively my mind is working?”

  “Yes,” she said, as chipper as a lark. “It inspires my own. The knife, if you please, Doctor.”

  He grasped her waist, and his hands felt warm and strong. In a familiar movement, he set her on the floor. Reluctance shone in his eyes, but he retrieved the dagger and laid it across her palm.

  “Must I sit for this exquisite torture, or may I stand?”

  An idea inspired her. “Suit yourself.”

  “If I did that, you’d still be on the table and rushing toward paradise again.”

  She liked his forthrightness, among other things. “Is that the way it always feels to you, like paradise?”

  He stared at the healing wound on her shoulder, yet his thoughts were elsewhere. At length, he said, “No, I have not often found paradise, which is why I’m very eager to make love to you.”

  “You’ll have to wait. But to help you endure this exquisite torture, I could find you a stick to bite on.”

  “I’d rather bite on something of yours.”

  Feeling confident and eager to test her skills of seduction, she knelt at his feet. Starting at the hem of the breeches, she slid the blade upward. When he told her to hurry, she slowed. When she told him to relax, he stiffened. At the bulging muscles in his thighs, the soft leather stretched as tight as skin, but she worked her fingers beneath it and cut the garment away.

  At his groin she paused to look up at him. His gaze was fixed on her. At eye level with his jutting manhood, she glanced there, then at him. “I must be very careful here.”

  “And quick about it, lest we revisit that ravishment issue.”

  Holding one side of the fabric, she flicked the knife upward and sliced through to the waistband. He sucked in a breath and curled his fists around the edge of the table, but her attention was drawn to what the garment revealed.

  Bold male beauty filled her vision. She let the knife clatter to the floor and peeled the other leg down to his ankle. When he lifted his foot to step out of the breeches, he was completely exposed to her, and her hands moved to the parts of him she had not seen. He felt heavy in her palms and strangely vulnerable until her fingers crept upward to cup him fully. He came alive beneath her touch. His hips jutted forward, and his manhood swelled, filling her hands and kindling her desire.

  “No more.” With a gentle tug, he lifted her and returned her to the workbench. The slate was still warm, and when he pulled her toward the spike of his manhood, she went eagerly. He positioned himself, then stared into her eyes. Joy and deeper emotions gazed back at her.

  She smiled as he nudged inside her. He grinned and called her name. Then his lips took hers in a kiss of possession, of desire, and of soul-deep surrender. She clutched him tighter, and when he moved to join them fully, she cried out in pain.

  He stopped, his labored breathing fanning her face, indecision clouding his gaze. “Tell me that is not your maidenhead.”

  “And if it is?”

  He glanced at the cot. “You should have a soft bed the first time—”

  “Not if we have to move from here.”

  “You should have fresh linens.”

  “But I’m excited by silk and leather and you.”

  His eyes drifted shut, but his grip on her waist did not ease. Feeling his distress, she cradled his face in her hands. “I give my innocence to you freely.”

  He reached around her again and retrieved a small blue jar that contained a rose-scented salve. With a flick of his thumb, he sent the lid flying. Leaning down, he spread the folds of her womanhood and slid his longest finger inside her. Deeper he pushed. When he stopped, his smile turned to a leer. “Very nice, this maidenhead, but much too intact for our purposes.”

  Dipping that same finger into the salve, he parted her again and anointed her maidenhead.

  “Thank you.”

  “Your sweetness unmans me,” he said.

  “You?” She stared at his engorged manhood. “If you call that unmanned, the king is a bloody Turk.”

  “Then I shall try to make you mine without too much discomfort.”

  “The thought of waiting distresses me more, Edward.”

  A lopsided grin was his reply, but the lightheartedness was short-lived. Joining their mouths again, he kissed her with purpose and claimed her for his own.

  She shifted to deepen his possession, but he would not allow it. “Go cautiously, love. We’ve time aplenty.”

  The wanton in her ruled. Holding his gaze, she slowly scooted closer, drawing him more fully inside. He sucked in a breath and a heartbeat later said, “Chivalry is much overrated, aye?”

  “Very much so.”

  He enveloped her, one arm around her back, the other tunneling beneath her bottom to lift and draw her closer. She felt wedged into his loins, pressed into a union so powered by lust that her wanton soul rose to meet him. He groaned, deep in his chest and throat, and the vibrations hummed against her breasts and belly.

  “Slowly, now,” he said into her mouth, and began a steady rhythm of thrust and withdrawal.

  From that instant on, he varied the depths of the strokes, but never the cadence, and with each movement he brought her closer and closer to ecstasy. When it danced before her, shimmering like the very essence of life, she begged him to go faster.

  He stilled and broke the kiss. “I should not, not yet.”

  Through a haze of delirious wanting, she said, “But you must.”

  His chest heaved and his eyes were glassy with need. She raked her fingernails down his chest and willed him to get on with it. Again his gaze dropped to where they were joined. His hair fell over his brow, and he swallowed hard. As if entranced, he watched himself move in and out of her in a roundabout stroke. Then he looked up at her and smiled. When she returned the smile and purred, his expression changed.

  “Lift your hips and move with me.” He clenched his jaw; his nostrils flared. He quickened the pace, and she followed his lead, pressing and pulling, gasping and moaning. Lust churned in her loins, demanding release, until she could think of nothing save the true harmony that awaited her. When she reached the rapture, she went weak with the wonder of it, gasped, and cried out her
pleasure.

  As the final wave washed over her, she felt his release begin. Sealing their bodies and the union, he pulsed within her until the last of his passion was spent. Weakness curled her spine, and she reclined on the cool slate. Equally exhausted, he rested his forehead on her breast. Her oversensitized skin tingled at the silky touch of his hair.

  When their breathing slowed, he withdrew and lay full upon her. Against her leg she felt his manhood, now sated and soft. Employing a gentle touch and tender kisses, he brought her back to the present. She stretched, feeling gloriously complete.

  “Rest awhile.” He carried her to the cot.

  Agnes closed her eyes. He extinguished the lamp nearest the cot, casting her into partial shadow. She languished, reliving every moment of his lovemaking.

  She must have dozed, but not for long. According to the clock, it was almost three, and she was alone on the cot.

  Gloriously naked, Edward Napier sat on a stool near the new engine, the leather breeches in his lap, a needle and pink thread in his hands. A stitch made, he stared at his machine. Stitch. Stare. Stitch. Stare. Then his focus turned inward.

  The clock ticked once, twice, a dozen times. He put aside the sewing and moved to the end of the workbench and the repair of her necklace. Using the tips of his fingers, he manipulated the string and the clasp, but the jewelry did not hold his attention, for he constantly gazed at the engine.

  His head came up, and he looked at Agnes’s feet, her knees, her hips. She closed her eyes. Feeling sublime, she feigned sleep and watched through slit-ted eyes. He continued the pattern of stitching his breeches, repairing her jewelry, and watching her. But through it all, she knew he was thinking about his machine. Occasionally he’d rummage through the stack of drawings and consult a particular page.

  Half an hour later, Agnes felt ignored. Still pretending sleep, she writhed languidly and rolled onto her back. Through the veil of her lashes she saw him look her way. His winsome smile pushed her to devilry.