by Karen Ranney
His teeth nipped at her shoulder. She gripped his hips and pressed her hands flat on either side of his buttocks as his thrusts became longer and more rhythmic. He smiled against her mouth.
She was on a precipice, the sensation one of ice and heat and frantic desperation. Her body knew before her mind understood. Her breath caught, and she gripped McDermott tightly as a sensation like lightning began to travel through her limbs. When pleasure came to her, and the world seemed to darken, then sparkle with a thousand stars, she began to weep, startled and surprised.
McDermott gave a great shuddering gasp and stiffened in her arms.
She held him there, not a little confused, and more than a little stunned.
Margaret lay staring up at the ceiling, clutching the sheet to her chest. What had just happened? Oh, she knew what had happened only too well. She just didn’t know how it had happened. She had allowed a man into her bed. Not simply allowed, but acquiesced when he’d led her up the stairs. That wasn’t right, either, was it? She had not only acquiesced, she’d been a willing participant. What had happened to them?
She had never before felt such attraction to a man, such explosive energy. She’d never before felt anything like it, and in the aftermath, she was still shaking.
How very odd to realize that, at her age, she liked kissing.
She wanted him to kiss her again, craved the tentative exploration of it, the sensation of one person melding into another, then surrendering slowly and delicately like the unfolding of a new leaf.
But this couldn’t happen again. She’d been taken unawares, that was the reason. She’d not understood the power of passion or desire.
Had she ever felt it before?
Once or twice, perhaps, but she’d never acted on it. Nor had she done anything as foolish as couple with a man on the strength of a kiss.
McDermott sat up on the edge of the bed, his naked back as perfect as his front. She wanted to reach out with her fingers and slowly trace a path up his spine to his shoulders. Worse, she wanted to kiss him at the nape of his neck, where his hair tapered, press her cheek against his shoulder, and wrap her arms around him.
She’d allowed a man into her bed, and she’d felt nothing but tremulous delight. When he’d touched her, she’d not thought of anyone but him. Russia had been a distant memory, something that had happened to someone else.
“Miss Dalrousie,” he began.
She shook her head as she stared at the ceiling. “At what point in our relationship do you think you should begin to call me Margaret?”
He glanced over his shoulder at her. “Do we have a relationship?”
There were a dozen comments she might have made, but none of them seemed correct or proper. Not that she had acted in any way proper.
In Russia no one had looked askance at the affairs of wives and husbands. Only the most jealous husband made it known that dalliances weren’t acceptable. Of course, he was free to engage in whatever behavior he chose, but his wife was not.
But she wasn’t in Russia anymore, but Scotland, a country renowned for its conservative beliefs, for its staunch morals and upright leaders.
Men like Robert McDermott, a man no doubt suffering from an excess of guilt at this exact moment.
“Should I have fought you?” she asked, and the question was not directed solely at him, but also at herself.
Her virtue had once been tattered, but not by her own actions. But this act had been of her own volition. Was she sinful because she’d felt desire? She was not a Puritan, nor had she ever been. Nor—if the truth be told—did she want to be now. Nor did she have any desire to be a hypocrite.
She’d enjoyed him. There, a bit of honesty. She’d enjoyed the act so much that she’d forgotten herself and moaned. Thank heavens Janet and Tom hadn’t been in the cottage. Her duennas kept her chaste at night, but no one had done so this afternoon, had they?
“Margaret,” he said, and her name was an admission of sorts. She drew the sheet around her, wishing she didn’t feel as naked—no, as vulnerable—as she did.
She’d never expected to act the way she had, uncontrolled and driven by her passions instead of her logic. Had he felt the same way? She wanted to know, but the question was too intrusive. How very odd she’d felt free enough to lie with him in the middle of the day, and too constrained to ask him a simple question about it.
That would not do. That would not do at all.
“I’ve never behaved in this way,” she said, pushing past her natural restraint to offer up the truth to him. “I’ve never felt this way. Did you not notice something different between us? A certain madness?”
He stood, and her artist’s gaze scanned his skin, the broad and muscled chest with its dusting of hair growing in an arrow pattern as if to pointing the way for that lovely penis, now flaccid but still perfectly formed. Perhaps it wasn’t her artist’s eye as much as a womanly one that lingered on his hips, waist, chest, and shoulders.
All during her inspection, he returned her gaze steadily, as if he were accustomed to being studied in such a fashion.
He hadn’t answered her, and she would not ask again. Words felt forbidden, captured and caught in a locked box. The same box held delight and possibly affection and all the emotions she’d felt in this room only minutes before but that seemed strangely forbidden now.
Turning his back on her, he began to gather up his clothing.
Was it better, then, to pretend that they were back to what they’d once been, simply neighbors, accidentally so. He was a widower, and she a shocking artist. Her life was not as proscribed as his. Both of them, however, had been touched by tragedy, his more lasting and deeper.
He halted in the act of picking up his clothing, and for a moment he remained standing there, his back to her, his head bent. His hands were clenched and his back muscles rigid.
She knew, suddenly, that he was regretting what had happened between them. Before he could speak and, no doubt, annoy her—or even worse, hurt her—she propped herself up on one elbow and addressed him.
“Do you hate me or yourself, McDermott?” she asked. “If it’s me, is that entirely fair?” At his silence, she continued, “If you hate yourself, that doesn’t seem right, either. You cannot be unfaithful to a ghost.”
He glanced at her over his shoulder, his expression one of bone-deep contempt.
She sat up and faced him. “I know you loved her, McDermott. But Amelia is dead. Must you die along with her to prove that devotion?”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Or will you insist on punishing yourself each time you feel human and alive?”
He began to dress.
“I don’t regret what happened. In fact, it was the single-most-freeing experience of my life.”
He glanced at her, his expression confused again. She stared back at him defiantly.
“I wasn’t a virgin, but not because I’ve had lovers.”
He remained still, the moment frozen. All that she need do was to refute what she’d just said, he would be on his way, and her secret would remain hers. But she found herself talking again, giving him the truth, a truth she’d never thought to divulge to anyone, let alone McDermott.
“I was attacked,” she said. She turned and dropped her legs over the side of the bed, drawing up the sheet to cover herself.
He still didn’t speak, and she didn’t know whether to be grateful to him for his silence or wish he was questioning her.
She didn’t look at him, focusing her attention on the floor. “In Russia,” she said. “By a group of vile thugs all bearing titles, all with noble blood. Aristocrats, all of them, and exempt from any sort of justice.”
She forced herself to face him.
“For the last year, I couldn’t even countenance the idea of a man touching me, let alone inviting one into my bed.” She smiled. “Not only did you come into my bed, McDermott, but I liked it.”
At his silence, she continued. “B
ecause of this afternoon, I’ve been freed of terror. And for that, I thank you.”
“Margaret.” Just that, just her name.
If he meant to apologize, he didn’t continue with it. If he meant to explain, no explanations were forthcoming. What could he say?
They’d been unaware of anything but each other. It wouldn’t have mattered to her if Janet had been in the kitchen when they’d entered the cottage. She would have led him up the stairs if he hadn’t been the first up the steps. And if he hadn’t undressed her, she would have thrown her clothes off with delighted abandon.
Should she apologize for that? Probably, but she wasn’t going to do so.
She watched him don his jacket. His movements were swift, economical, and had an utterly charming flow about them. Of course, he dressed every day of his life, and he did so now unself-consciously, as if the perfect beauty of his body and the symmetry of his limbs was something he took for granted.
“You are truly magnificent, you know,” she said.
There, she’d managed to startle him again.
His cheeks were deepening in color. Now he chose to be embarrassed and not when he was naked? Sometimes, men were very strange.
She didn’t ask if he’d be in the parlor the next morning. She didn’t want to hear him refuse. Nor could she bear it if he banished her from Glengarrow again. Right or wrong, wise or idiotic, this painting would be finished. Not because she’d been commissioned by the Earl of Linnet, and not even because she was fascinated with the subject, but because it was a celebration of sorts, proof that she had not, after all, lost her talent.
People might disappoint her or even terrorize her. Circumstances—or a vengeful Fate—might alter her future. She might never make close friends, or have another lover. But if she still had her talent, her life could be an adventure, a challenge. With her talent, she had a reason to want to live.
How strange McDermott had unwittingly given her another one.
Chapter 21
The next morning, Margaret gathered up the canvas, her satchel, and wrapping herself against the cold, left the cottage for Glengarrow.
Janet had delivered a tray to her room the night before at her request, neither commenting on the fact Margaret had changed the sheets on her bed or that the kitchen had been meticulously clean when the older woman had returned to the cottage. Margaret had even mopped the kitchen floor so there were no traces of the snow and ice they had tracked in on the way to her bedroom.
The two women had not spoken much at all, a fact for which Margaret was infinitely grateful. She’d come to like Janet and trust in her judgment. The very last thing she wanted to see was disapproval in the other woman’s eyes.
When had she become so attuned to the approval of others? When had she begun to care? When had she begun to care for them?
In truth, her life had begun to change the minute she’d returned from Russia, from those horrible three months in Edinburgh when she’d been unable to paint, to here in the Scottish Highlands.
She wanted to smile, but it was too cold, and her teeth would freeze. She wanted to laugh, but it was much better to stay bundled beneath the scarf. But she stopped and did a tiny little jig, knowing she probably looked the idiot.
There was a time for silliness, wasn’t there? How very odd she’d never taken much time for it before today. How very odd that she couldn’t remember the last time she’d laughed.
She stopped by the gates of Glengarrow and nodded to the lions.
Would McDermott be there? Would they carry on as before? She really should have sent him a note, but she was afraid he would cancel the commission. Yes, the money would have been a blessing, allowing her to buy more pigments and linen for canvases. But more than the commission, she wanted to know about him. Wanted to sit across from him and study him in a way few women were privileged to do.
She wanted to know about Robert McDermott, and if that were a typically feminine thought, then so be it. She was feeling typically feminine at the moment, which was why she had taken extra care with her hair, brushing it until it shone, then arranging it in one long plait arranged at the back of her head. The style was rather antiquated, but it suited her.
Today, she’d worn her favorite dress, a deep red that flattered her complexion and contrasted in a lovely way with the blackness of her hair. The bodice was snug, marked with twelve jet buttons, and she’d only worn two petticoats, one of them taffeta, causing a slight swishing sound when she walked.
She opened the door to Glengarrow’s kitchen, nodded to Janet and the two maids who were sitting at the table.
“You’re painting, then,” Janet said, a note of surprise in her voice.
“I am if the cold hasn’t frozen the paints,” Margaret said. “I’ll need to put my satchel closer to the fire, I think. At least until they’ve warmed.”
At the door to the corridor, she turned. “Will you let the earl know I’ve arrived?”
Janet nodded, her face expressionless.
She left them then, entered the main part of Glengarrow, and slowly climbed the stairs to the second floor. Without looking in the direction of Penelope’s room, she walked toward the Winter Parlor. Once there, she placed the canvas back on the easel, opened the drapes, and stood looking on the bright winter morning.
Margaret opened the window just a sliver to allow some of the cool air in to refresh the room. Once she uncapped the pigments, the smell of linseed oil would be the most prevalent odor. Now, however, the scent of Amelia’s perfume was heavy in the air. Did it never dissipate? Or were there sachets in all the drawers?
Did Amelia’s ghost linger here at night? Or worse, did McDermott come here, spray his wife’s perfume as if to summon her presence?
She pushed that thought out of her mind and went to stand behind the canvas. After arranging her brushes just so, she uncapped three jars of pigment, spreading a little on the oiled wooden palette with her knife.
Would McDermott come? Or would he avoid her because of embarrassment, or regret? What if he preferred to pretend yesterday had never happened? She would act the same. Nor would she make of the encounter more than it was.
The Earl of Linnet was a man with rich ties to their shared country of birth. He was a politician, a wealthy man with a proud heritage, a showplace of a home.
She was a painter, itinerant and landless, tied to people only in the most transitory way. She had no antecedents featured prominently in her country’s history. There was no one in her family to brag about or to point to with pride. They were simple people, making their way through life as best they could. Some had been honest and hardworking. Others had not been, but the shame they might have brought to the rest of the family was augmented by an understanding of how difficult it was simply to make it through life sometimes.
McDermott had been touched by greatness from his birth. She’d been touched by greatness because of drive and ambition and refusing to accept what the world thought she should have chosen for her destiny.
He was proper.
She was slightly scandalous, a woman painter who was autocratic enough in her way. She had a reputation, deservedly so, for being a perfectionist. Not once had she ever acted as if she were beholden to anyone, even though there were many times when she was, especially if a commission wasn’t paid in time to keep the bill collectors at bay.
But for an hour, they’d used each other, hadn’t they? For an hour, the loneliness was kept away. She’d felt closer to another being, and for that hour, she’d pretended, to herself, and perhaps to him, there was some feeling between them.
The Earl of Linnet was as autocratic in his way as she was in hers. He was dedicated, and had a reputation for being determined to do the right thing. She knew he had loved his wife, probably loved her still at this moment. No doubt he’d been a doting father as well. What more could a man want to be? Devoted to his family, to his country, to his heritage—wasn’t that enough?
Such a man would regret what they had
done. She would be, for him, a reminder of his fall from grace, a reminder he wasn’t a paragon of virtue but a human being with human frailties.
He would, if she guessed correctly, be more difficult on himself than he would be on her. He would dislike the fact he’d succumbed to a man’s needs.
Very well, if he wouldn’t join her here, she would continue to paint what she could. She didn’t actually need his presence to paint Amelia. In her mind, she had already envisioned the woman, and the pose.
Her palette arranged, she stepped into the middle of the room, turning slowly in a circle. Perhaps it was because this morning felt ripe for foolishness, but she spoke to the air itself.
“You loved him, I know you did. And when you love someone, do you not wish the best for him or her, even if it does not meet with your plans?”
Amelia didn’t answer. The light in the air remained as bright. Thankfully, the scent of her perfume wasn’t stronger.
“I didn’t take him away from you. But I did give him pleasure, if only for an hour or so. Don’t make him sad because of it.”
There was no answer, only the gentle wafting of the curtains from the open window. How odd that the room felt less constrained by sadness.
“Are you there, Amelia?”
“Who are you speaking to, Miss Dalrousie?”
His voice was low, his tone modulated. She glanced in his direction and felt her cheeks flush. Being naked in front of him had not made her feel as vulnerable as what she was experiencing right at this moment.
He was dressed in his ubiquitous black trousers and white shirt, and he’d never looked more handsome. Unbidden, the image of him naked came to mind as well as the touch of his hands on her skin, the sound of his breath, harsh and rasping.
“Margaret?”
She’d laced herself too tightly in an effort to appear virtuous, and it felt as if her corset bound her lungs. She couldn’t breathe, and her heart was beating much too quickly.
