What harm could it do? She’d seen women of questionable morals sitting on the laps of men in taverns, but there was no audience here, and she was hardly a woman of their persuasion. If sitting on his lap would lead to an advancement of her temperance cause, then it was the right thing to do.
She stood, then resettled herself on his lap, placing an arm around his shoulder for support.
“Are you ready?” He lifted a brow. She nodded in response.
“Slàinte mhath,” he said, lifting her glass.
“What’s that mean?”
“Good health.”
Although he did not drain the glass as she’d hoped, he did take a large swallow from her glass. Then he pressed his lips to her. Liquid fire flowed between them. While her lips and mouth sizzled, her eyes drifted shut, allowing her to focus on this communal sharing. He pulled her tight against him, deepening the kiss. Swallowing the whisky that pooled in the back of her mouth, she felt her chest expand with the heat.
At least she assumed the whisky was responsible for her light-headedness, but then she realized Cameron’s lips were blazing a path down her neck. She burned inside and out, but had no desire to quench the fire.
She gasped for air as his hand squeezed and manipulated her breast. Her nipples tightened and pushed against the restraining fabric, burning as if they too had been touched by the fiery liquid. A moment later, they were.
Cameron stood, holding her in his arms. While his lips sampled hers once more, he sat her on the edge of the table, beyond the silver tray and the glow of the candles. Then, after emptying the remaining Scotch from his glass into his mouth, he gently lowered her spine to the smooth table surface. He lifted her breasts from the restraint of the gown and corset and tasted them, just as he had her lips. His tongue swirled the whisky around one, then the other, before he suckled them, as if they were providing nourishment. She wanted to cry out from the powerful sensation that reverberated even to that spot where he stood between her dangling legs. The spicy scent was everywhere. Diluted in the closed, dark library air, she could differentiate the earthly base and floral notes and . . . vanilla. She breathed deep, arching her back to give Cameron more access, enjoying the press of his body as he labored over hers.
Voices in the hallway stilled them both.
“Why you’d want to live in a drafty old castle in Scotland is beyond my understanding.”
Claire recognized the voice as belonging to Lady Kerr. Of course! Lady Macpherson had placed the two sisters in the larger connected bedrooms on the east wall.
“It’s not an old castle,” a younger voice protested. “Lady Macpherson said it’s only twenty years old and has indoor plumbing and a compressor for electricity.”
“It’s still in Scotland, not London,” the older sister said.
Remembering that she had voiced similar sentiments not so long ago at the Crescent Coffee Palace, Claire felt a twinge of guilt. So much had changed in the weeks from then to now. She’d fallen in love with the Highlands and felt insulted that Lady Kerr didn’t feel the same.
“I wonder what’s down this hall?” the young voice asked. “If I’m going to marry the laird, I should like to know where I’m living.”
Marry? Her eyes widened, and she glanced to Cameron, whose head hovered barely over her own.
He shook his head, a slight smile answering her unspoken question. He raised a finger to his lips, then quietly took her hand to help her off the table. While she put her gown back to rights, he blew out all but one of the lit candles. Then with the lit candle in hand, he pulled her behind him as he silently walked toward a wooden panel. A press on a corner and the panel opened, revealing a spiral staircase.
Once she had passed into the stairway, Cameron handed her the candle, then closed the door behind Peat.
“Did you hear something?” the younger voice in the hallway asked. “It was a clicking sound from the floor.”
“Rats,” Lady Kerr proclaimed with a bit of disgust.
Together, Cameron and Claire slipped round the turns until a circular floor greeted them. Three closed doors circled the base. Cameron opened the one on the right and pulled her through.
“Marry?” she teased. “You’re to be married? Your mother will be so pleased.”
He pulled a wry expression, then grasped her waist. “Why am I always at the mercy of conspiring women?”
She raised her eyebrows. “And am I one of these conspiring women?”
“’Tis you who insisted I transfer your whisky with a kiss.” He kissed the side of her neck. “However, as I reached the bottom of my glass first, I can claim my prize.”
It was well that he was holding her in place. She felt giddy and unbalanced and very willing to allow him all the kisses he wished. What a marvelous experience to feel the attentions of a man, especially an accomplished man like Cameron. She couldn’t blame the young Lady Kerr for wanting him. What woman wouldn’t?
“You’ve already had your kiss,” she protested in jest.
“No,” he said carefully, his focus on her lips. It made her want to moisten them with her tongue. “You asked me to kiss you. The forfeit stated you are to initiate the kiss to me.” His thumb tenderly stroked her bottom lip. She tried to nip at his fingers, but he was too quick to be caught. “So that’s what you’re to do. What I neglected to specify was where I wanted your kiss to be placed.”
She caught the devilish glint in his eye and became intrigued. “I could kiss your neck, just as you kissed mine.” Her finger reached to touch the spot. Or she could kiss his shoulders. Oh, yes! “I could definitely kiss your powerful shoulders.” She slid her hands up his arms to their very tops. “I remember when I first saw these shoulders glistening in the sun. I could definitely kiss you there.”
“Claire?”
The glint faded from his eyes. She didn’t like that. He was looking entirely too . . . sober and judgmental.
“Claire, you know you’re in my bedroom.”
“I could kiss your strong chin.” She ran her fingers over his jawline, then pouted. No stubble. “If only you’d stand still.” Or was she the one spinning? “I think I’ll sit down,” she tried to say, though she wasn’t certain the words came out correctly.
A wide, inviting bed filled the center of the room. How very convenient. She headed straight for it, but reaching it took longer than expected.
“I need but a moment,” she said, sitting on the giving surface. Somehow her back kept tilting until her head found support. She was floating on a cloud. “Then the kissing will begin,” she murmured. “Promise.”
“Claire, that’s my bed. Claire? Claire?”
***
Now what? Cameron looked at the woman sprawled across his mattress. He should have known this would be the result of his challenge. She hadn’t his experience with whisky. But he hadn’t expected she’d actually take his challenge, and when she did . . . well, he thought she might enjoy the taste. Some women did, after all.
He couldn’t very well take her back upstairs, not with the Kerr women prowling the second floor. He couldn’t take her to one of the parlors, not with that lecherous earl in the bachelor quarters on this floor. Actually, the safest place for Miss Starke might be exactly where she was. No one would look for a temperance angel in the bed of a whisky distiller. He smiled, watching the rise and fall of her chest, feeling more convinced that keeping her here was the right thing to do. In the morning, while the other guests were busy with the hunt, she could return to her chamber using his private stairway to the library. It made perfect sense.
He supposed she wouldn’t sleep well in that gown, though. She would want him to remove it, of that he was certain. He sat on the bed next to her, then carefully rolled her over so he could unfasten the row of buttons marching down her back. She murmured something he couldn’t understand, something that sounded remotely like kissing.
Then she slid her hand up his thigh.
Great bollocks of fire! He froze in place, half bent over her, afraid to move. Did she know what was under his kilt, and how close she was to discovering how much his manly parts were enjoying her exploration? He gritted his teeth, knowing if she traveled just a little further, a part of him would be stroking her hand, not the other way around. He abandoned the tiny buttons to lightly move her hand back to her side, then stood so she was in no danger of exploring where she shouldn’t. Stepping around to her back, he finished the damnable buttons and began to peel the gown down her sides—except that proved ineffective. He needed her on her back.
He rolled her again, then gently tugged the loosened gown down her arms and over her chest. He tried not to be distracted by the breasts pushed high by her pristine white corset with blue ribbons threaded through the lace. That feminine feat of engineering was created solely to tantalize and well accomplished its mission. Eventually, he divested her of her gown and underskirts, but there was still the matter of the corset.
He leaned over her and she sighed, releasing the sweet scent of whisky, infused with her natural vanilla essence. Remembering her reaction when he’d lifted her breast earlier, he wondered if she’d moan again if he kissed her lips, or suckled her breasts, or . . . Bollocks! Restraint had never been his virtue, and not sampling Miss Starke’s sweet charms was the worse kind of torture.
He carefully drew the middle of the corset together to unfasten the front hooks, till the opened garment fell on either side of her. With the corset removed, twin dark circles shifted beneath her thin linen shift, clearly delineating her nipples. He let his gaze trail down to the dark triangle beneath the shift, positioned perfectly between his legs. His mouth dried, his groin throbbed. Ever since she so sweetly sat on his lap and took whisky from his mouth, his manhood had stirred to action. If her kisses were any indication, she’d be a passionate lover. Lucky would be the man to ride that passion with her.
Without thought, he leaned over her and slipped a finger under the neckline of her shift, feeling the gentle swell of her breasts. Instantly, the tips pebbled and pushed against the linen. He knew it was wrong, but he wanted to lave those breasts, to feel those stiff points against his tongue. She choose that moment to moan, as if she wanted more of his ministrations as well.
“Och, English,” he muttered. “What are ya doin to me?”
He withdrew his hand, determined to tuck her safely under the covers before he became the worst kind of churlish reprobate.
He pulled the goose down away from the pillows, then lifted Miss Starke, intending to place her between the sheets. Almost immediately she nestled closer to his chest, then wrapped her arm around his neck. Once he positioned her properly on the bed, he tried to withdraw, but her arm stayed in place. She pulled his forehead to touch hers.
“I owe you a kiss,” she said, her eyes closed and her words heavily slurred.
“You’re dreaming, English. Tomorrow you’ll—”
Her mouth reached up to capture his. She tenderly sucked at him, her tongue darting between her lips as his had before. Her arms pulled his chest to meet hers, and once again he heard her sweet moan of pleasure.
And just like that he was undeniably lost.
Chapter 29
She had a vague sense of bright sunlight. Even on the brightest sunny day, the tiny north-facing window in her assigned bedroom never allowed much sunlight. It must be near noon. With all the guests in residence, she was surprised she’d be allowed to sleep so late. Faith must be loathe to get moving as well.
Claire reluctantly opened her eyes, hesitant to leave her soft warm burrow, but the realization that she wasn’t in her own room made her jolt upward. A mistake! Light-headed and dizzy, she fell back onto the pillows while her head pounded out retribution for her sudden movement. What was happening to her, and why did her mouth feel as if a cat had taken up residence there?
A door opened, spurring her to tunnel deep under the covers until she could figure out what had transpired the night before. Clearly, she’d been unburdened of her dress and corset, but fortunately her shift still bunched around her.
“Cameron,” James said, “I’ve brought some of Cailleach’s morning remedy. Time to roust and—What are you doing in that chair?” She heard his confusion. “And if you’re in the chair, who is that in your bed?” Steps approached.
“James. Don’t . . .”
The heavy quilt lifted from her head. “Miss Starke, I presume. Thank heavens. I was afraid I might uncover Lady Helen Kerr.”
She heard Cameron groan. As she’d been discovered, there was no need to hide her face. She crawled slightly out of her sanctuary, careful to keep the quilt up around her neck.
“I suppose I should have brought two remedies,” James mused. He held a glass toward Claire. “Ladies first. This should take care of the throbbing head, distressed stomach, and parched throat. I’ll return with another glass for the laird.”
“You won’t tell her why you need two,” Claire cautioned. She accepted the drink with one hand, but it shook so, she had to drop the quilt to use two. The slide of the quilt was minimal, but James couldn’t miss that only the thin straps of her shift graced her shoulders.
“Cailleach won’t ask.” He smiled tenderly. “Don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me.”
He turned and walked around the bed. “I’m taking Lord Lothian and his son over to Lachulain Ridge for deer. The herd needs thinning. Hopefully, they can assist in that regard. Are you planning to accompany your guests?”
“My mother’s guests,” he groused.
“Technicalities,” James replied. “I’ll be back.” He patted his leg, calling Peat to accompany him.
Claire studied Cameron while she sipped the foul-tasting drink. He looked as if he’d been poured into that upholstered chair, all rumpled, scraggly and—she realized with a start—extremely alluring. Something about his darkened chin and upper lip made her breasts tingle as if they longed to feel this morning transformation against their sensitive tips. Stop that! she scolded herself. A virtuous woman shouldn’t think of such things, but then, she couldn’t really call herself that, could she? What virtuous woman found herself undressed in a man’s bed?
Once the door closed behind James and Peat, Cameron stirred.
“Good morning.” The two words seemed to tax him sorely. His head fell back on the cushions, his eyes closed to mere slits. “I hope you slept well.”
“What happened last night?” she asked suspiciously. “How did I arrive here?”
“You don’t remember?”
She wasn’t certain what she remembered. Images played in her mind that she could barely credit. To her shame, if what she suspected had actually occurred—which it must have—she couldn’t remember it at all. And that was downright disappointing, given that she’d most likely not experience it again.
She should be furious, as she was most likely ruined—but that was assuming another would discover her state. She hadn’t the energy to work up a good rage, not on top of the turmoil roiling in her stomach.
“Do you remember that we engaged in a contest of sorts in the library last night?” he asked.
“A contest of wits?” she asked, hopefully.
“A contest of whisky consumption,” he replied.
That explained it! She’d shake her head if she didn’t suspect the action would render Cameron’s plump quilt completely unusable. “I should have known.” The dismal prospect of her future crept into her tone. “I was intoxicated and you took advantage. I’ve fallen victim to all that I abhor.”
“Miss Starke.” A cold harshness settled in his voice. “Had I taken advantage, you wouldna be in that bed alone, and you’d be as God made you, no in a flimsy shift.”
She blushed. “Then we didn’t . . .”
“No. We did not.” He frowned. “In spite of y
our obvious opinions of my complete lack of character.”
“I didn’t mean . . .” Claire protested. “It’s just that alcohol—”
He leveled a glare in her direction. “Dinna blame whisky for qualities that land squarely at the feet of men who lack the wherewithal to be responsible.”
A knock at the door preceding James’s entrance interrupted whatever else he’d planned to say. She settled into silence, pondering why she felt slighted that he hadn’t taken advantage.
“The guests are up and about and your absence and that of Miss Starke have been noted.” James handed a glass of the vile liquid to Cameron. “I suggested that this remedy was to counter a night of overindulgence and that I had spotted Miss Starke in her photography croft earlier this morning.” He nodded toward her. “You probably should avoid the first floor. I assume you’re familiar with the Laird’s private stairway to the library?”
“I’ll see her safely to her room,” Cameron said.
“What should I tell the others? They’re anxious to take home trophies.”
Cameron tilted his head, his face settling into a look of disgust. “Take them up to the ridge. I’ll come along shortly.” He ran a hand over his jaw. “I’ll need to clean up first.”
James nodded, then left.
So that was the way of it. She was being dismissed to travel along secret passageways so as not to offend the guests with her debased presence. “My clothes?” she asked stiffly.
“I left them on the other side of the bed. I thought that by leaving them there, they would serve as a deterrent,” he explained.
“I see.”
She suspected if he truly wanted her in the way the earl had implied last night, a mere gown would deter nothing. Something else kept him away from the bed, and she suspected it had less to do with his character and more to do with her lack of desirability. She wanted to gather her things and be gone from his sight as soon as possible. Swinging her feet over the side of the bed, she had to stop a moment to let the room right itself. Her stomach protested. “I’m not sure I can dress myself,” she admitted, trying to imagine tightening the corset over its swirling contents.
The Whiskey Laird's Bed Page 19
