Her warning cry brought his hands around her hips to brace her through the first ungovernable rush of pleasure. His tongue prowled and probed. It thrust deep between the slippery folds and traced swirling patterns on flesh that shivered and tightened with each wave of gratification.
“Stop,” she gasped. “You must stop. I cannot bear it.”
“You can,” he murmured. “And you will, for I have not even begun.”
He ignored her moaned protest and his tongue pushed deeper, joined now by the wicked skill of long, tapered fingers—skill that had her clutching at his shoulders, and had her writhing so dangerously close to the edge of the chair that eventually he had no choice but to lift her and set her down on the rug beneath him. Once there, with nothing to hamper her pleasure or his, he hooked his arms under her knees and raised them until she was as open and exposed as the harlot she had craved to be only moments ago. This time, when her climax came, she had nowhere to go but up, up, straining into each shattering wave of ecstasy until she was in real danger of fainting.
Angus relented, but he abandoned her only as long as it took to kick off his boots and peel away his breeches. Anne watched through heavy-lidded eyes as he pulled his shirt up over his head and flung it away in the shadows. She sighed as he removed his smallclothes, for he stood thick and proud before her, his arousal bucking up against his belly. When he saw where her gaze lingered, he lowered himself between her thighs, but stopped just short of touching her. Instead, he brought her hand forward and bade her wrap her fingers around him.
Anne let her hand glide over the hard shaft of flesh. The veins were prominent, the head smooth and sleek with the proof of his own intemperate arousal. She watched the response in the pewter gray eyes as she continued to pull and push, and she knew, when he was about as full and hard as he would ever be, there was no more time for teasing.
He came into her arms again and there was no hesitation, only hunger. She dug her fingers into the hard muscles across his back and welcomed the first powerful thrust with a cry of joy. As big as he was, she stretched eagerly to accommodate him, aware of every heated, surging inch of him. The pleasure shattered her again. And again. She could feel his flesh growing impossibly harder, thrusting into her with the full power and strength of his possession.
He whispered a ragged command and she raised her knees, locking her ankles together at his waist. He reared up, his face taut, the muscles across his chest and shoulders bulging, gleaming with his exertions, and she saw him give an apologetic little shake of his head, as if he could delay the inevitable no longer. He arched his torso and plunged his hips forward one last time, erupting hotly within her. She shared every shudder, every shiver, every liquid throb of his release before the sheer force of their expended energies brought them melting together in utter collapse.
Even then he continued to rock gently inside her, his flesh as unwilling as hers to relinquish even the smallest quiver of pleasure. From somewhere she found the strength to open her eyes; when she did, she saw the mirror image of their bodies twined together in the pattern of shadows on the wall, a sight that was more intoxicating than any ten bottles of fine French claret.
She ran her hands up from where they had been so urgently grasped around his buttocks and smiled faintly at the dampness she could feel on his shoulders and across his back. Angus Moy did not sweat, as a rule, nor did he pant or grin like a cocky adolescent who has just discovered the real reason why ministers spent so much time in the pulpit lecturing against sins of the flesh.
“Forgive me,” he murmured, capturing her lips beneath his. “You said you were tired. I did not mean to keep you from your bed.”
“A bed would be nice,” she agreed. “Eventually.”
“Eventually?” He said it as if the word held a wealth of possibilities and Anne parted her lips around another sigh, feeling him stir inside her.
“I'm still there,” he whispered. “God knows how, but I am still there.”
“Yes,” she gasped, curling her hips up to savor the delicious thickening. “And right there is where you will remain, my lord, until neither one of us has the strength to say nay.”
Chapter Four
When Anne opened her eyes again, the room was completely dark. There was not even a ruddy glow from the fire with which to orient herself, and it took a moment to realize she was no longer in her own chamber; she was in Angus's big bed with the heavy draperies closed to keep out the drafts. Outside the velvet cocoon, she could hear the wind moaning against the window, rattling the panes of glass with frequent wintry gusts. Inside, there was only the sound of her own breathing and a depression beside her that was still faintly warm, suggesting she had not been alone very long.
Her husband's nocturnal habits had always baffled her. While she could remain in bed as long as the covers were warm and the pillow soft, Angus rarely stayed an entire night abed regardless of how long a day he'd had, or how late an evening. A light, restless sleeper, he would often be up well before the first servant rubbed the crust out of his eyes. Many a time Anne would waken to find him reading or sitting at his desk catching up on his correspondence. He claimed it was a habit he had acquired in his travels through Europe. In order to see and do all there was to see and do, he had learned how to get by on a meager two or three hours of sleep each night.
Anne did not think there was a castle anywhere in the world that would inspire her to rise before dawn and travel twenty miles by horse cart just to glimpse an illusion of battlements floating above a cloud of mist. She was even less likely to cram her feet into shoes with three-inch glass heels just so she could dance the night away in some Russian princeling's court. She preferred the beauty of the glens and ancient keeps right here in Scotland, and there was no greater pleasure on earth than running barefoot through a field fragrant with heather.
With one possible exception, of course.
Her smile was decidedly complacent, as was her whole body. It had been so long … too long, since she'd wakened with her nose buried in pillows that smelled of the sandalwood oil Angus used to dress his hair. The scent was distinct and uniquely his, another luxury acquired abroad, for he disliked the chalky feel of powder and rarely tolerated the itch of a wig.
Mewling through a delicious stretch, she savored the feel of soft linen sheets against her naked body. She felt woolly and drugged, as if someone had given her laudanum and the effects were slow to wear away. Her lips were tender, her cheeks lightly chafed by stubble, and when her hand brushed over her breasts, she found they were still responsive enough for the nipples to gather instantly into tight, crinkled peaks. A languorous shifting of her hips brought attention to a welter of other sensations, most notably the throbbing sleekness between her thighs.
A faint sound from the other side of the curtain made her lift her head off the pillow. She listened a moment, then rolled quietly to the edge of the bed and ran her hand along the velvet until she found the break where the curtains joined. Careful to guard against the rustling of the mattress, she leaned over and used the tip of her finger to open a sliver between the panels.
At first she saw nothing for the lack of light. The night lamp glowed in its sconce beside the dressing room, but the wick was turned low, the flame too miserly to give off more than a pinpoint glow and a smudge of smoke. Something in the texture of the shadows drew her gaze to the desk, however, and after a few moments of concentration, she saw Angus seated in the leather chair where he usually scratched out his letters. He was not writing anything now, however; he sat with his elbows propped on his knees, and his head bowed forward, his chin cradled in his hands.
Anne nudged the velvet wider. “Angus?”
When he did not move, or acknowledge her whisper, she moistened her lips and tried again. “Angus … are you all right?”
He expelled a long breath. “I'm fine. Go back to sleep.”
“Why are you sitting in the dark?”
“It isn't dark,” he said, raising his head. �
�It's just… quiet.”
Anne drew her legs up and swung them over the side of the bed. She had been carried into the room naked and it was measurably cooler outside the curtains. He was wearing the robe he normally kept beside the bed, and with nothing else at hand, she pulled the top cover off the bed and wrapped it around her shoulders before she emerged.
“I trust that is not your subtle way of telling me I snore, milord?”
His face was just a pale blot against the shadows, so she could not see if her remark won a smile as she approached. The robe was dark blue, the quilted brocade cool to the touch when she ran her hand across his shoulder.
“Anne, honestly I am fine. You should go back to bed before you catch a chill.”
“Will you at least let me stoke the fire for you? See, there are still some embers—”
“If you want a fire, I will build one for you, otherwise … please. I just want some time to think.”
Anne recoiled slightly from the sudden sharpness in his voice—a voice that only a short while ago had been reduced to low and silky groans against her flesh.
“I'm sorry. I… certainly did not mean to intrude.” She pulled the blanket higher around her shoulders. “Perhaps you would rather I just returned to my own room?”
He caught her hand before she could turn away. “No. No … Anne, I'm the one who is sorry. I… I don't want you to go. Not at all. Please. Here, come and sit with me for a minute. My head is pounding like thunder and my belly feels full of lead ballast.”
“So much for feeding you a gallon of claret each night,” she murmured.
“What?”
“Never mind. 'Twas a silly thought anyway.”
Angus pulled her into his lap, and she curled warmly into the curve of his shoulder. “I truly am sorry.” He ran a hand down her back to smooth her straggling waves of hair into place. “I did not mean to bark at you.”
“And I did not mean to interrupt you. I will go back to bed if you want me to.”
He debated the offer for a moment before pressing a kiss into a crush of her hair. “No. I like you right where you are.”
Anne sighed and snuggled closer. A few seconds later, the soft edge of regret she had heard in his voice made her tilt her head surreptitiously upward to study his face in the gloom.
With the effects of the claret worn away, was he now embarrassed by their behavior during the night? As much as she imagined lust would be regarded as a decided weakness by a man who always kept such a tight rein over his emotions, he had seemed determined to make up for his lack of attentiveness over the past weeks. Was he now wondering how to face her across a plate of breakfast sausage, knowing where she had had her mouth only hours before?
An uncomfortable flush spread through her body and the lush, rich sense of contentment so recently acquired threatened to vanish between one heartbeat and the next.
“Is it something I have said … or … or something I have done that is troubling you?”
Angus took a moment to ponder his answer before he shook his head, dismissing the question. “No, it is nothing to do with you. Nothing you need concern yourself with, at any rate.”
His tone could not have been more patronizing had he patted her on the head and offered her a sweet.
“'Twere a fine romp, lass. Ye've done a bonny job distractin' me,” she said with gentle mockery, “now off ye go an' peel the tatties. Aye, milord, I'll just do that, I will. An' should I muck out the stables whilst I'm at it?”
He stared at her through the gloom, one dark wing of brow curling upward. “A distraction? Is that what you think you are?”
“It's not what I want to think, but you leave me little choice when you as much as shout: ‘Go back to bed and don't bother me.’”
Angus opened his mouth, then snapped it shut again, the warning implicit if he tried to discount the charge with more platitudes.
“I did not shout.”
“You said it yourself: You barked. At any rate, you sounded angry.”
“Not with you, Anne. With myself, maybe, but not with you. Well, yes, all right, I will confess I was angry earlier tonight, but that was only because I was worried. I had a lot of time to think about a good many things, including what your presence in my life means to me.”
She frowned. “What does it mean? A warm body in your bed when you need one, a hostess at your table, someone to count linens and occasionally scold a servant for not applying enough wax to your tables?”
“My tables?”
“If you will recall, I came here with nothing but the clothes on my back, so aye, they are your tables, your chairs, your curtains, your plates, and I have never been encouraged to think of them any other way.”
His hand shifted restlessly on her shoulder, and she knew he was remembering the flower arrangement she had made the first week she had come to live at Moy Hall. She had been out for a long walk and collected some sprigs of heather and bluebells—truly a scrawny offering, in hindsight, but at the time, she had thought it pretty enough to put in an odd little china vase she had seen in the drawing room. Within the hour, the flowers were gone and the maids were tittering about the “weeds” the valet, Robert Hardy, had found in the master's valuable antique vase. Angus had never mentioned the incident, but it had taught her a painful lesson in making presumptions.
“I was not aware you still felt like a guest in your own home,” he said quietly.
“Sometimes I do, yes. And other times …”
He tilted his head forward as she bowed hers down. “Other times?”
“I am quite aware I am an inconvenience,” she said softly. “Even an embarrassment.”
Angus straightened his head again. “I will grant you that some of the time you can be extremely headstrong and opinionated. You also have a disconcerting habit of saying exactly what is on your mind without pausing to think of the repercussions—and not just within the privacy of these four walls. I will even go so far as to say that you are probably not what every man has in mind when they think of a quiet, sedate country life. On the other hand, if that was what I had wanted—”
“You could have married Margaret MacNeil or her lovely French cousin, Adrienne de Boule. Indeed, I was told they were both sorely distressed when they heard you were obligated to take a sow's ear to wife.”
“I cannot imagine anyone comparing you to a sow's ear.”
“Then you should listen more carefully to the gossips. Regardless, I doubt the likes of Mlle. de Boule would ever cause you a moment's worry by riding out in the middle of the night with guns in her belt, nor would she disgrace you by using the wrong fork or spoon. She would likely feel at home seated next to Duncan Forbes at a dinner party, and would never dare ask why in God's name you wear the uniform of the Black Watch when it shames nearly every one of your clansmen who see you in it.”
The instant the words left her tongue she regretted them, for they struck him like a cold slap in the face. His body stiffened and the hand that had begun to wander beneath the folds of the quilt withdrew as if it were on a spring.
“So. We come back to that again. As always.”
“It is not something we can just ignore when the mood does not suit us.”
“No, we certainly cannot. And I would say the mood here has been pretty well shattered.”
The leather creaked as he shifted forward, inviting her to leave his lap. When she did, he stood and crossed over to the fire, bending down to light a taper, which he then used to bring a pair of candles on the mantel to life. In the bright yellow flare, Anne could see his face was set in harsh lines, his jaw was squared, his mouth compressed into a flat line. His hair was still boyishly disheveled, the dark waves falling forward on his cheeks and brow, but where it should have softened the impact of his anger, it only emphasized the swiftness with which he could turn from considerate lover to dispassionate overlord.
“I suppose I should have asked you earlier, but I thought … well, never mind what I thought,” he said
. “I expect Fearchar called the meeting because he wanted to know if I had any intentions of changing my mind; if I intend to release the lairds of Clan Chattan to join the prince's army if that is what they wish to do?”
“He was hoping it would be what you wished to do.”
“Join the ranks of an army in retreat? I may not have the military expertise of the Farquharson clan, but I am inclined to believe this is not the best time to declare one's support.”
“Had you declared it earlier,” she said evenly, “perhaps they would not be in retreat.”
“Do you honestly think a few hundred men would have made a difference?”
“Not alone, no. But if the few hundred MacKintoshes had joined with the MacLeods and the MacDonalds and the dozens of other clans who chose to stay at home and safeguard their family assets, there would have been thousands and yes, that might have made a difference.”
The taper had burned down to his fingers and he tossed the charred scrap into the fire before walking over to the window. He lifted the curtain aside to look out, but it was still black as sin and there was little to see. When he turned back, he shoved his hands into the pockets of his robe and glared at her, his eyes eerily reflecting two hard points of candlelight.
“Perhaps you are right,” he said. “Perhaps I should have included you in some of the discussions I have been having with my conscience. Not that I haven't heard all the arguments already, of course.”
Anne said nothing; she stood on ice cold feet, her toes curling nervously into the carpet.
“Do you honestly think I want to force good men like Fearchar and Gillies MacBean and John MacGillivray to keep an oath that galls them to the very bone? Do you think I enjoy the sullen stares, or the sound of men spitting at me behind my back? Do you think, for one blessed moment, that a day does not go by without my agonizing over the decisions I have had to make?”
Midnight Honor Page 6
