The Heir lf-1

by Johanna Lindsay

  It was probably Sabrina's own embarrassment that was causing her some anger, and not very familiar with that emotion, she didn't think before saying, "You could simply spare me this lesson. I assure you, I can go on quite blissfully being ignorant of these—nuances"

  "Not at all," Ophelia purred. "I really don't mind educating you, my dear. There is also the fact that I am constantly catching Duncan staring at me when he thinks I don't know it."

  "Hardly conclusive—"

  "I wasn't finished," Ophelia all but snapped, then coughed and continued in her falsely sweet tone, "That, coupled with the kiss he all but forced on me, is really all that was necessary to ascertain his real feelings toward me. But then there is also this campaign of his to make me jealous. Now do you understand why I know he wants me back? He broke our engagement in the heat of the moment. Not that I blame him, when it was what I was trying to achieve at the time. He regrets that, but his pride won't let him immediately rectify it, thus these silly pretenses in the meantime."

  "I would say the only pretense being enacted around here, Ophelia, is your pretense of friendship with me. Arid if anyone should be warned, it is you. Duncan has kissed me as well, but I didn't presume it meant anything. I've been told he stares at me also, but I'm not silly enough to think that means anything either. His interest in Amanda Locke is probably quite genuine, and if anyone would make him a fine wife, it would be she. Now, you don't like me, you've made that abundantly clear, so do spare me these 'friendly' chats in the future. In fact, Ophelia, just stay the hell away from me, thank you very much."

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Sabrina had never in her life done anything so ... so foreign to her nature as she had that evening. It was the unfamiliar anger, still present, that had her seeking her coat and leaving Summers Glade without even telling her aunts, sending them only a curt message to be delivered by Mr. Jacobs. But it was the mortification that followed, which she felt clear to her bones, that had her running all the way home

  without waiting for the coach to be brought around.

  She simply couldn't believe she had said those things to Ophelia. Delivering unkindness for un-kindness was never the answer, no matter how satisfying it might be. Yes, Ophelia had deserved every word, but was that any excuse to compromise her own principles and nature?

  She could have just walked away. That simple rudeness would have sufficed to get her point across, that she was fed up with Ophelia and wouldn't tolerate any more of her spitefulness. But no, she'd had to let the anger she'd experienced take control of her, and stoop to Ophelia's level instead.

  She would prefer not to ever go back to Summers Glade, at least not as long as Ophelia was still there, but she didn't know what excuse she could give her aunts not to. The truth was considered, then rejected. Hilary would blame herself, after all, because Ophelia's mother was her friend. She might also feel bound to inform Lady Mary about her daughter's horrid behavior, then would feel guilty about that as well. Sabrina could at least spare her aunt all those awful emotions by simply keeping the incident to herself.

  She really wished she could ignore Ophelia's conclusions and believe Raphael's instead, but she couldn't. There had been nothing exceptionally passionate about the kiss Duncan had given her, other than the violent storm that had raged about them when it occurred. His kiss had been gentle, sweet, surprising, wonderful, at least for her, but there had been no great passion involved that she'd noticed. Yet he'd kissed Ophelia passionately, even though he didn't want to. That had been implied, that it had been forced out of him, and that spoke volumes about his true feelings.

  She didn't doubt for a minute that Ophelia's main contention was true. He wanted her back, he was just too angry yet to admit it. How could he not? Ophelia was just too beautiful for any man not to want her for himself. Sabrina did not, however, think that he was just using her to make Ophelia jealous. Amanda, perhaps, but not her. Their friendship was genuine. It had to be. She couldn't be that wrong about him—or her own self-worth.

  And then the painful emotions arrived, with her acceptance that the man she loved, loved someone else, and someone who wasn't even worthy of him. She had known she would experience it eventually, but this soon?

  Quite naturally, the tears came next, and so many of them that she was soon running aimlessly, without really seeing where she was going. When she nearly tripped on a root, she took a moment to clear her sight and found that she'd turned herself around in a circle and was almost back at Summers Glade. Which was why the coach leaving the mansion just then was able to come across her rather quickly.

  "What the devil are you doing?" she heard before Duncan jumped down from the driver's seat and thrust her inside the coach.

  There was no light inside. He'd taken the first vehicle that he'd come across that had horses already harnessed to it, the one that would have taken her and her aunts home at the end of the evening, and was kept ready for that.

  So he couldn't see her tears when he followed her inside out of the cold, and his next question sounded just as angry as the first. "What happened back there tae send you running from the house?"

  "Nothing."

  "Nothing? When you were so upset you couldna e'en wait for your driver?" "I like to walk—" "You were running!" "It's cold—"

  "You'll be giving me the truth, lass, and nae more excuses. I saw you talking tae Ophelia. What did she say tae you tae upset you so?"

  "Duncan, I just want to go home. If you don't want me walking, then take me home."

  He must have heard the quaver in her voice this time, now that he'd let her say more than a few words without interrupting her, because his finger came to her cheek to find the suspected tears there and then he was gathering her in his arms, almost crushing her in his own upset.

  "I'm sorry, lass," he mumbled. "You dinna have tae talk aboot it if you dinna want tae. Och, I'm such an insensitive brute."

  He wasn't that at all, was in fact trying to make amends by wiping the tears from her eyes and cheeks with his own lips. And such a natural progression, when he began kissing her instead. She certainly didn't object. She couldn't imagine herself ever objecting to Duncan's kisses, whether they were given in sympathy or friendship or ...

  Passion, like anger, was an amazing emotion in how quickly it could arrive and—take over. The pitch darkness heightened the other senses, especially touch, and combined, what was felt on the surface and what was felt internally were too powerful to resist.

  Sabrina didn't even try. She knew very well what could happen, what was happening, and was in a unique position to not care. She could ignore the right or wrong of it because she had already decided to never marry, yet here was the man she loved offering her a small glimpse of what marriage to him could be like. Of course she wouldn't refuse. She would accept anything he was willing to give her of himself, including these few stolen moments of passion that were her dreams come true.

  There was an element of unreality, though, of doubt that something so wonderful could be real; it must be a dream instead. But a dream or otherwise, it was still not to be refused, was to be savored to the fullest extent, and Sabrina did just that.

  Her hair was already in wild disarray from running, making it easy for Duncan to thread his fingers along her scalp to position her for the depth of his kisses. His tongue was teasing and bold by turns, playing with her senses, inciting her to join the play, and then as suddenly ravaging, scorching in intensity, and she met that, too, awed and thrilled by each new sensation as it arrived to tantalize her.

  Breathing was becoming difficult until she realized she was too busy enjoying herself to think of anything so mundane as breathing. She kept it in mind thereafter, or tried to, though her occasional gasps suggested otherwise. It did get easier, though, when his mouth moved on to her neck, only that started a new set of sensations that had her catching her breath again in shivering delight.

  Her coat was parted—she had never bothered to fasten it, merely tugged it on b
efore bolting out the door of the mansion—as his mouth worked a bit lower. Tall as he was, though, he was having a bit of

  trouble bending to reach what he wanted, so she wasn't all that surprised when he moved off the seat to kneel before her.

  His kisses now followed the square neckline of her day dress, the depth very circumspect in comparison to an evening gown. This was nowhere near her breasts, yet she was thrilled beyond measure, never having been kissed on her chest before, never having been kissed much in any way before.

  Her hands rested on his shoulders, moved hesitantly into his hair, rested on his shoulders again—she really wasn't sure what to do with them, when what she would like to do was pull him closer and closer to her.

  It was growing rather warm in the coach. She noticed it at about the same moment that he did, since he began removing her coat and then his own, and she could only nod mentally in approval. It didn't really help much, though, with her long sleeves and the thick material of her dress, so she gave another mental nod a while later when her gown came off as well—and his shirt.

  Oh, my, what she wouldn't have given for a candle just then, or the moon's appearance, any kind of light really, but there was none. Viewing the bare chests on statues, which was as close as she'd ever come to seeing one, just wasn't the same as experiencing the warm male skin under her fingers, which she craved to see as well as touch.

  She had to wonder if he felt the same way, because he seemed to be trying to imagine what she looked like by touch alone, since he was touching her everywhere. The length and breadth of her arms, over her shoulders, around her neck— down her chest.

  Her gasp was merely in surprise when both his hands covered her breasts. There was still the thin material of her chemise between them, yet there might as well have been nothing, so hot were his palms, so firm was his grip. And when his mouth came back to claim hers as he began to knead the plump mounds, a surge of heat shot deep within her, coiled, spread, and escaped in a long moan of pleasure. And yet that was nothing in comparison to the intensity of sensations that followed as he laid her down on the seat and continued to educate her in the delights of amour.

  The coach was large and luxurious, but then it would be, being the vehicle that carried the marquis's coat of arms. The seats were wide, plushly, comfortable in soft velvet and thick padding, the windows tightly sealed against the cold, like a small room in a house—with narrow beds. It still wasn't where she would have chosen to lose her virginity, but there really was no choice involved for either of them. What was happening was a matter for the moment, not for careful thought, or it might not be happening.

  And deep down, she was afraid he was going to stop, afraid that at any moment he would come to his senses as he had after that kiss on the terrace, or that she would awake from the dream if it was a dream. This fear lent a very real urgency to the emotions that were churning around in her. She wanted to slowly savor, and yet she wanted to hurry so that she could experience it all.

  If he had simply said, "I'm going to make love to you," she could have relaxed and enjoyed every moment of it. But she suspected that this impulse of his was just that, an impulse, and thus could be terminated at any time if thought did intrude. She wished she knew how to prevent that, but in her innocence, she had no idea how to make him hurry other than to say so, and that was out of the question, any words from her probably the very thing that would shatter the magical moment and bring reality crashing back upon them.

  His hands continued to shape an image of her for his mind, or so it seemed, spanning her waist, her hips,

  sliding down each thigh. On the return path, her petticoats caught on the backs of his hands and rose to her hips, but she barely noticed that, when she could now feel the heat of his palms directly on her skin. He shaped and molded her thighs, her calves, behind her knees, lifting, moving, even removed her shoes and massaged her feet. He was leaving no part of her unexamined and was very bold in his touch, with none of the hesitancy that she felt in returning his caresses.

  She wondered if it was a Highland trait, that boldness. But no, she was being silly. Englishmen, she supposed, could be as bold, and yet some were so painfully correct in their etiquette that she imagined they might ask for permission before kissing or touching a knee or ...

  It just happened, before she even realized or guessed where he was going to touch her next. Suddenly his hand was just there, cupped firmly at the apex of her legs, his palm pressing, rubbing, and he was kissing her deeply again, capturing her gasps. Expecting a protest perhaps? Oh, no, no protest over what she was feeling now, no indeed, just amazement over yet another new sensation, when she thought she must have felt everything possible by then.

  Still he wouldn't hurry. Still she wanted him to, so she rejoiced when he finally joined her on the seat again and filled her senses with his overwhelming presence. The heady male scent of him, so different from a life of rosewater, powder, and sweet spices in a household of just women. The hard texture of his skin, muscles that wouldn't give, coarse hair that tickled on his chest, the very expanse of him that made her feel so small and feminine. And his weight as he slowly covered her skin with his, the velvety thickness filling her, the...

  She cried out, not so much from the sudden thrust of pain, but from the surprise of it. And he was immediately making amends, raining kisses on her face, swearing that it couldn't be helped, but that it would never hurt again.

  She believed him, of course, because the pain was already gone, leaving her to experience only the fullness deep inside her, and those other sensations again when he started moving, the pleasant ones, swiftly taking over, as swiftly growing in intensity, tantalizing, enthralling, rushing her to a soaring peak that was so shockingly exquisite she could barely take in the full beauty of it.

  He was kissing her tenderly now. He had climaxed, too, though she hadn't noticed, so overwhelmed had she been by her own experience. She thought she might become embarrassed, now that it was over, but no, she just felt a tremendous lassitude that might have put her fast to sleep if he weren't still keeping her attention with his kisses.

  He helped her dress, which was fortunate, because she could barely keep her eyes open now. The long day was catching up to her, and the many turns it had taken. It had been the most unusual, amazing, shocking, and finally wonderful day of her life, yet she could barely stay awake to savor it.

  Duncan made no excuse this time for what he'd done. In fact, he didn't say much of anything about it, other than, "We'll talk in the morning," before he left her alone in the coach so he could drive her home, which only took a few minutes, so she managed to stay awake for it.

  He did walk her to her door, though, and he gave her one last gentle kiss and the admonishment to get some sleep. Her aunts weren't home yet, probably wouldn't be for another few hours, since the party would go on for at least that much longer. Sleep? She was probably asleep before her head touched her pillow, because she was never to recall getting into her bed that night.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Sabrina woke with a smile, still savoring her dream. It had to be a dream, making love with Duncan MacTavish. Anything that wonderful, yet that unlikely, couldn't have been real. She continued to think so until she noticed her clothes in a pile on the floor, and on top of the pile, her petticoat spotted with blood.

  She sat down then in amazed wonder and continued to sit there on her bed in a near daze, remembering, and experiencing such incredulous delight, such utter ... happiness. She might have spent the entire day in her euphoric stupor if the rap on her door hadn't signaled the arrival of the maid she shared with Hilary and Alice, causing her to make a mad dash to hide her petticoats before the door opened.

  She couldn't imagine how she managed to get through dressing and meeting her aunts downstairs without letting on that her life had changed or that she was so happy she could barely stand it. She wanted to share that happiness, to confess everything that had happened, but of course, she couldn't. The
y might understand. They might get as excited as she was and expect an immediate announcement of marriage. And therein was why she would say nothing.

  Duncan hadn't asked her to marry him, though he did say they would talk this morning, which implied that he would. She did expect him to now, which was one reason she was so deliriously happy, but she would also make it clear to him that he wasn't obligated to. If it had been just an impulse on his part, she wasn't going to force him to marry her by letting others know about it. She wouldn't regret it either way. How could she, when she loved him? But if he was going to ask her to marry him, it had to be for the right reasons, not because her aunts would demand it.

  She couldn't wait to get to Summers Glade to see Duncan this morning, and hurried her aunts out the door to the waiting coach. It was a bit disconcerting, though, to sit in that particular vehicle with the memories she now had of what had happened in it, and if her cheeks got a little red on the ride, at least her aunts didn't notice.

  They arrived in time for breakfast, which Hilary and Alice both promptly went off to have. Sabrina, hoping to find Duncan first, declined to join them. However, she ran into Raphael instead, who was determined to detain her.

  She supposed she ought to tell him that he'd been right, at least partially. Duncan hadn't needed "waking up" as Rafe had suggested, he'd merely needed opportunity, and she had certainly provided that in her mad dash from the mansion last night, which had prompted him to follow her. It just went to show why young women needed chaperones, when being alone with a man they were attracted to presented temptation in its purest form, which could very easily be impossible to resist.

  But distracted as she was in searching the crowd in the drawing room for Duncan, she was only half listening to Raphael, though she did vaguely recognize the dryness of his tone and the distinct edge of disgust in it.