by Karen Ranney
She felt as if she were melting against him. Her hips wanted to move from side to side, to guide his exploring, intrusive, talented fingers, but each time she did so, he pressed his hand flat against her stomach to still her.
Her skin felt hot, too tight, as if she were growing out of it.
The pleasure mounted until she could think of nothing but the strumming of his fingers. Her breath caught painfully, her hips moving as if he’d set them in motion. He was relentless, seeking another spot with his fingers, rubbing so gently she sighed and surrendered. Her nipples hardened, and a warm rush of heat pooled between her thighs.
How utterly wicked and wanton she was. She wanted to smile, to laugh in recognition of her own decadence. Montgomery was her husband and surely such actions were sanctioned. Even if they were never whispered about, or never discussed.
Reaching up with both hands, she gripped the arm binding her breasts, holding him as he explored her. Her knees felt weak. Her eyes squeezed shut on the feelings: anxiety to excitement, anticipation to pleasure.
She arched against his hand, needing the touch of him, craving the circular motion he’d begun between her thighs. She bit her lip as the pleasure mounted, laid her head back against his chest as the tension built.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured against her ear. “So responsive, Veronica.”
She was almost weeping from the pleasure. He pressed himself against her bare bottom. He was hard, his breath ragged.
His fingers brushed against her nipple, then tugged at it.
Her hands dug into his arm, her hips pressing back against him, then against his relentless fingers.
He murmured words of praise, decadent comments that shocked and pleased her. His clothing was abrasive against her skin, the stubble on his cheeks was scratching her hot cheek. His lips were warm against her ear, his teeth sharp against her earlobe.
Nothing existed but Montgomery and pleasure. Nothing but pleasure then, the molten heat of it spreading through her, summoning her keening cry.
She sagged against him, but in the next moment, turned in his arms, pulled his head down, and caught his lower lip between her teeth. She gripped his shirt, wishing he were naked, hoping he’d soon be naked, needing him naked.
A pleased laugh rumbled in his chest as he lifted her in his arms, placing her gently on the bed. She lay there, spent, surrounded by pleasure as if it were a cloud. She watched him, marveling at the body revealed as he removed his clothing. Shirt, shoes, trousers, underclothes all flew into the same corner with her garments.
A moment later, he stood there, naked, the part of him that made him male standing erect. Fascinated, she reached out and touched him, feeling him hard and hot beneath her fingers. She stroked one finger down his length, watching as he quivered at her touch.
How magnificent he was.
What they’d done in the parlor hadn’t hinted at this.
What was the proper word? Coupling? Ravishing? Thank God she was about to be ravished by this man. Or was ravish the proper term since she very much wanted what would come next?
She moved over on the bed, holding her hand out for him.
He joined her, supporting himself on his hands. Leaning down, he kissed her.
This was not a gentle kiss, or one in which he’d held something back. This kiss scorched her lips, sucked her breath, hinted at pleasures she’d never felt. This kiss darkened the room and sent her spiraling out of control.
A sound escaped her as her hands reached up and gripped his shoulders, fingernails digging into his skin.
The throbbing beat was back, hammering at her, transforming shyness into a primitive need as he worked his way across her breasts, nipping at them with his teeth, soothing her skin with his heated lips. She curled her hands around his head, pressing him to her.
His hands were busy, stroking her curves, palming her, fingers splayed, both gentle and intrusive. His mouth was on her again, breasts, shoulders, the inner curve of her arm, the base of her throat. Never leaving, never giving her a chance to recover or become herself again. She didn’t know who this woman was but slipped into her heated body without protest, glorying in the sensations Montgomery gave her.
He moved away, and she answered his departure with a sound of protest. He smiled, then the smile faded as he lowered his head to kiss her once more. When he drew away again, she stroked her hands up his muscled arms, rested on his shoulders, and looked up at him, grateful she could see him in the faint light.
His eyes were heated, his face bronzed by passion.
Slowly, he raised himself.
She needed to brace for the pain, close her eyes and think of the Queen. She needed to remind herself that women through time had faced this anguish and survived it.
Her legs widened involuntarily, her hips rose to the exact angle to allow him penetration. He entered her gently, allowing her to accommodate herself not only to his size, but to the act itself. Yet what should have felt so foreign was oddly right, as if she’d been waiting for him to do exactly that. As if her body had patiently waited all those years to experience those very sensations.
He lowered his forehead to hers, his breath harsh.
“Am I hurting you?”
She shook her head from side to side. “It’s quite an unusual sensation, isn’t it?”
He raised his head.
“Is it?” he asked, his eyes glittering in the semidarkness.
She nodded. “It’s like putting on a pair of leather gloves after they’ve been treated. Snug, but not uncomfortable.”
“You’re feeling a little snug yourself,” he said. “Whereas, I’m feeling pretty damn good.”
He drew slowly out as she watched his face. All amusement gone, his expression was now intent.
Her hips rose again as if to entreat him to reconsider. He entered her again, taking his time, deepening the penetration. She felt a slight pinch, but nothing more than that.
Her hips rose when he left her, fell when he returned, repeated the dance with her hands clenched on his shoulders, her eyes wide, her gaze fixed on his face. He braced himself on his forearms, entering her, then pulling out just as gently, a slow, measured, careful seduction.
Her breath caught; her throat unexpectedly closed on tears.
She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, closed her eyes, and held him as the rhythm between them quickened. He reached down between them with one hand, stroking her, coaxing pleasure with his fingers. She shivered where he touched, felt herself falling into darkness, then soaring higher. Her body bowed, arched up to meet his, and she cried out in surprise as pleasure washed through her again.
He buried his face in her hair as his body tightened. A second later, he whispered her name, drawing out the syllables in a voice turned silky, then collapsed on top of her.
She kept her eyes shut, her hands smoothing over his shoulders and the broad planes of his back, reveling in his body lying heavy on hers as if he claimed her still.
Too soon, he rolled over, his forearm over his eyes.
Was he disappointed in her? For long moments, they remained like that, neither speaking, or moving toward the other. Had she done something wrong?
“I was not supposed to move,” she said in the silence.
He turned his head.
“A proper wife simply endures,” she said.
She glanced at him in the gray light. “Is it proper to couple in the middle of the day?”
“It’s not the middle of the day,” he said, turning away from her.
Did other women feel the same as she did? Her lips were swollen, her cheeks chafed by his emerging beard. Her breasts were different, somehow, as if they were larger, more sensitive. Beyond the physical sensations, she was filled with both contentment and confusion.
Were other women as amazed?
“Have I done something wrong?” she asked, steeling herself for his cutting reply.
She told herself what they’d just experienced was mating, pure and simple.
It had not been a spiritual joining or a deepening of their understanding of each other. They’d not become lovers; they’d merely consummated their marriage.
“Was it your aunt?” he asked. “Or your mother?” He turned his head and regarded her. “The person who told you that you shouldn’t enjoy the marriage bed?”
“My aunt.”
He nodded as if he’d suspected it.
“You did nothing wrong, Veronica,” he said, sitting up on the other side of the bed.
He didn’t say anything further, but she had the decided impression he could have filled volumes with what was left unsaid.
Montgomery moved from the bed to the washstand behind the screen. His trunks had been sent on to Doncaster Hall, so he went to his valise, where he’d packed enough clothes for the stopover in Inverness.
He believed in planning.
Planning had kept him sane.
Planning had kept him alive.
Planning had gone to hell the day he’d met Veronica MacLeod. Veronica Fairfax.
He didn’t like confined places, and the room was just small enough to qualify. The other reason for wanting to escape lay in the bed, hair tousled, lips well kissed, a flush coloring her cheeks, a lambent look in her eyes.
She’d managed to seduce him when all he’d wanted was to consummate his marriage.
He’d lost himself in her. Exquisite pleasure had taken over his mind, his memories, and any anxiety he felt about coming to Scotland. Even with the memory of their lovemaking barely faded, she tempted him.
He left the room without looking at Veronica again, knowing if he did, he’d probably return to the bed. Passion was an opiate stronger than drink. He wanted her again and after that, probably again.
Outside the hotel, the air was balmy, almost soft to the touch, reminding him of summers at Gleneagle, when heat boiled up from the ground, and the breeze off the river cooled his skin.
Carriages and pedestrians forced him away from memory for a time, into an appreciation of the wooden bridge stretching across the River Ness, and a sky turning purple with dusk.
At home, when he was restless, he’d stroll from room to room at Gleneagle, or spend some time reading the newspapers he’d ordered from Washington. If his mind wouldn’t settle, he’d leave the house and walk down the hill to the river. Occasionally, he’d take the road to the church that had once been at Gleneagle but had been relocated where it had found a larger congregation.
Sometimes on his walks, the moon was high and full, casting shadows and bluish white light over the fields. Sometimes, like now, the moon hadn’t yet risen, and only a softly scented night greeted him.
Occasionally, either Alisdair or James would accompany him, as if his older brothers knew when he needed company. Trained for the law, he was not prepared to be a planter, but he’d handled his duties as well as he was able, stepping in when his family had needed him.
“You need to marry, Montgomery,” James had said one night. “Your wife would keep you home and in bed.”
James had been the tallest of the three, whipcord lean with broad shoulders and black hair. His angular face was covered by a beard, but his mouth was wide and habitually curved in a smile. His eyes were intense blue, the Fairfax eyes. They all had them.
“Ah, but you’ve stolen the best of the available women, James,” he’d answered. “Why should I settle for second-best?”
“Caroline has a sister,” James said. “You’d be doing me a big favor if you’d consider courting Ethel.”
He’d only sent James a look. Ethel was a petite blond with a habit of simpering and giggling. “One night with Ethel, and I might start walking and never stop.”
“Well, it was worth a try,” James said. “We’re going to Richmond to visit Caroline’s family before the unpleasantness starts.”
“You just wanted company for future visits.”
“Good Lord, yes,” James said.
They hadn’t spoken for a few minutes, and whatever they’d said after that he couldn’t remember. Something one brother would say to another, a comment not meant to be recalled.
The unpleasantness had started, especially between the brothers. Alisdair and James had fought for the Confederacy. Montgomery had no choice but to join the Army of Northeastern Virginia. Ethel had stopped giggling and become a nurse, an example of selfless dedication. She’d died of a fever she contracted while caring for her patients.
And Caroline? He didn’t want to think of Caroline.
On this wet and balmy spring night in the middle of Inverness, his brothers felt especially close. If he turned quickly, would he see James leaning against one of the bridge supports? Or Alisdair, staring off at the distance, transfixed by the view of Inverness, glittering in the near darkness?
What would they have thought of this journey of his?
They’d talked of coming to Scotland, to see the place where Magnus Fairfax had been born and raised. He’d never thought to make the journey without them, but then he’d been forced to do many things without family.
What would James have thought of Veronica?
She certainly didn’t giggle, but she did act oddly from time to time. Claiming she was clairvoyant, for one. Being a virgin who took to lovemaking like it was water and she’d been thirsty all her life, for another. Not that he would have told his brothers either fact.
He nodded to a few people, surprised at the friendliness of the Scots. The brogue of Scotland flowed around him, reminding him of his grandfather. It was one of the reasons he hadn’t wanted to come. He’d not wanted to be reminded of Magnus Fairfax. He’d been closer to his grandfather than even his father, and his grief felt fresh here in Scotland.
The child he’d been had always thought his grandfather’s rumbling voice sounded like thunder. He heard it then in his imagination.
“You’re thinking dour thoughts, lad, when it’s spring. It’s time to think of the earth. Planting. Life.”
Magnus Fairfax had always been so much a part of Gleneagle, it was odd to think he’d never walk the fields again, never look to the sky for rain.
A spring in Virginia was a busy time, filled with planting, readying the earth. Long, exhausting days measured the progress of the season. When they hit the beginning of the summer, they had a little respite from the sheer physical labor of planting time, not to mention the record keeping.
Montgomery leaned back against a support, watched the river flow beneath the bridge. Sometimes his heart was so filled with Virginia, he couldn’t see anything else around him.
Inverness, and maybe Scotland, was tapping him on the shoulder and reminding him that it was the birthplace of the Fairfax dynasty.
A dynasty with only one member remaining.
His grandfather had been born here, had lived and left for something new and better and more rewarding. Yet Scotland had locked itself into Magnus’s heart. When his grandfather told a tale of Scotland, there’d been longing in his voice.
Tomorrow, they’d reach Doncaster Hall, and Montgomery would assume the responsibilities that circumstances had labeled his. Magnus wouldn’t be with him. Nor would Alisdair or James.
He was the last Fairfax. The last member of his family, and it was somehow fitting he return to Scotland where it all started.
The question was, did he stay in Scotland?
Have I done something wrong?
Even here, Veronica’s voice found him, plucked at his conscience. He wasn’t comfortable talking to people, especially one who disturbed him as much as his wife.
Not only had the Fairfax family come full circle, but so had his thoughts.
What was he going to do about Veronica?
What was he going to do about Scotland?
Chapter 12
“We should reach Doncaster Hall soon,” Veronica said the next morning.
“Did you speak to the coachman?” he asked, surprised.
Edmund had, with his usual competence, arranged for a coachman from Doncaster Hall
to be waiting at the hotel the next morning. The comfortable carriage they traveled in now was Montgomery’s, the coachman his employee, and the woman sitting opposite him his very annoyed wife.
She didn’t look at him when she answered, but she hadn’t looked at him the whole morning. Even their breakfast had been a restrained affair, with Veronica deliberately focusing on her meal.
“Doncaster Hall is not far from where I used to live,” she said.
“You never told me that, Veronica.”
“If you recall, Montgomery, I’ve not been encouraged to converse.”
In that, she was correct, but it annoyed him she refused to do so when he wished her to.
“Tell me about your home,” he said.
“No,” she said, glancing over at him. “I don’t think I will.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he said gently. “Quite the contrary,” he added, fascinated by the dull red flush sweeping over her face.
“Tell me about your home,” he said.
“No,” she said again.
She stared out the window, leaving him no recourse but to frown at her.
“Then tell me about Doncaster Hall.”
“You’ll see soon enough for yourself,” she said.
“Are you angry with me? Because of yesterday?”
She still didn’t look at him.
“I thought it was quite wonderful,” she said, finally. “However, I don’t wish to discuss that, either.”
“I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
She stared down at her hands, smoothed the leather over the backs of her gloves.
“Yesterday. I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
“As I said,” she said, raising her face to look at him, “I thought it quite wonderful. Didn’t you?”
None of the women he’d bedded had ever asked him that question. He should have expected it of her. He didn’t know if he was disconcerted or embarrassed.
“I was quite pleased,” he said. What the hell did she want to hear? That he’d been astonished at her passion? That, even now, watching her work at her gloves, he wanted to pull her across the seat and make love to her? Or engage in a little play as they had in the parlor?
