by Tarah Scott
Phoebe gave the bodyguard a wide birth, then pocketed the gun and followed Madam Duvall down the corridor, up two flights of stairs, and down another corridor. Madam Duvall stopped before a set of double doors, gave a perfunctory knock, and entered.
“Lord Ashlund—”
“Yes, Letty,” Kiernan interrupted. He sat across the lavishly furnished bedchamber at a secretary, his back turned. He confirmed Phoebe's suspicions when he said, “Show my wife in.” He continued writing as Phoebe entered, and Madam Duvall left, closing the doors behind her. He laid down his pen and rolled his chair around to face her. He wore a kilt, as he had for their wedding. She couldn't halt the flick of her gaze to his muscled calves. The man could drive a woman wild. He had driven her wild.
“You never cease to amaze me.” He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “Where does my father think you are?”
“On my way to London to see Adam's family.”
Kiernan nodded. “And how did you find me?”
“The Andalusian.”
“That horse is likely to get me killed.” Kiernan rose and strode to her. Once at her side, he caught her hand and raised it to his lips. “Things aren't what they appear, my dear.”
Ah, Phoebe reflected with a stab of sadness, if only they were as simple as they appeared. “I suppose it's my fault you’ve sought solace in a brothel,” she said. He gave her a questioning look, and she added, “I wasn't a proper bride on our wedding night.”
Amusement flickered in his eyes. “I will have to remember your love of brandy, but I doubt you believe the fact we didn't consummate our marriage is why I'm here.”
“What else am I to assume?”
“What indeed?” he murmured.
Kiernan reached up and she stilled when he undid the clasp on her cloak. His warm fingers brushed her collarbone and gooseflesh raced down her arms. He swung the cloak from around her shoulders and tossed it onto a nearby chair. Then, with a firm hand on her elbow, he directed her to the couch that faced the fireplace. She sat down and he lowered himself onto the cushion beside her.
“I should have told you the truth,” he began, “well…before now, at any rate.”
“What truth would that be, my lord?”
“You recall the Highlanders who have been displaced from their homes these past years? You may not be aware of it, but many are wanted criminals.”
Phoebe lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “When one plans the assassination of noblewomen…”
A corner of his mouth lifted. “I felt sure you hadn't forgotten.”
“It is difficult to forget when one is threatened at gun point.”
“Desperate people do desperate things,” he replied. “But, if you recall, it was you who pointed out that Robbie's pistol wasn't loaded, and you stopped me from beating him to death.”
“I remember,” she said—and she also remembered a line from her father's letter. You cannot comprehend the fine line between reason and desperation when all choices have been eliminated.
“Desperation does not excuse murder,” she told her husband.
“Surely, you understand how those in power might manipulate others' desperation for their own means?” Kiernan asked.
It is shocking to learn that one’s leaders are willing to sacrifice their countrymen for money and power came another startling salvo from her father's letter.
Then it seemed Kiernan had read her mind when he asked, “How does a man take back that which was stolen from him by his betters?”
“He-there are channels one goes through.” She clamped down on the strange sense of indecision that muddled her brain. “Protocol. Not murder.”
Kiernan gave a gentle smile that caused her chest to tighten.
“Ahh,” he said. “And the men who have been trampled upon should trust those in power, those who robbed them, cast them from their homes like animals—and worse—to follow this protocol?”
The words were barely out of his mouth when her mind flooded with those few rich and powerful men who rule supreme in our society have stolen our rights.
Anger shot through her. “You condone murder under any circumstances?”
“I should ignore the innocent who are murdered by their masters, yet bring to justice those men who strike back at their murderous overlords?” he said, but might as well have repeated her father's words, Ironically, had I known then what I know now, I would be guilty of their accusations.
The tears she'd held in check since discovering Kiernan was in Dornoch burned the corners of her eyes. It was as if he had read her father's letter. But that letter lay in the bottom of a drawer in England.
“How can you understand?” she demanded. “You’ve never faced hunger, cold, the prospect of no home.”
“Perhaps not,” he agreed. “But Ashlunds are also MacGregors, and MacGregors live under threat. You will remember Zachariah and his men.”
Phoebe drew a sharp breath. She had taken Zachariah for a man who double-crossed an employer, who had masterminded the kidnapping of a wealthy marquess. But Kiernan inferred that the employer wanted Kiernan MacGregor the man, not the British nobleman.
Phoebe lifted her chin. “Kiernan MacGregor may face many dangers, but what chance is there the Marquess of Ashlund will ever stand accused of treason?”
Kiernan didn't break from her stare. “After today, very great. You see, I am confessing to you my part in aiding criminals escape the fate their government would impose upon them.”
“You are in league with them,” she cried.
“In league with them for what, a plot to kill a woman hundreds of miles away?”
Phoebe glared at him. “The duchess would not be so blasé about the plotting of her murder.”
He gave a short laugh. “She would like nothing better than to send those men to the gallows for something that never happened.”
“You're twisting the truth. Their plot to murder anyone is a crime.”
“Can you so easily judge and condemn a man who has had even the most basic rights denied him?” Kiernan asked.
Would it shock you to hear that I relish the day I shall destroy my accusers? They have taken all I hold dear: you, our darling Phoebe and, lastly, “my freedom,” she said out loud. Surprise flickered in Kiernan's eyes, and she added, “I am not their judge. The law must deal with them.”
“You mean the law dispensed by people like the duchess, or perhaps those gracious men in the House of Lords? Say, Lord Ronald Harrington, who makes the very laws that protect them?”
“Lord Harrington?”
You cannot know how my accusers make even the most abhorrent criminal look like one of God’s angels. I sorely underestimated the depth of their deceit.
Her head swam. Surely her father hadn't meant—
“You think I'm wrong to slip the hangman’s noose from around the necks of accused criminals?” Kiernan asked.
Just as I did yours, she knew he was thinking, and could no longer hold back the tears.
“Damnation, Phoebe.” He pulled her close. “I’m not as bad as all that, I promise,” he said. “I've been a terrible suitor and a worse husband. Finding me here is inexcusable, and my confession in such surroundings…”
His confession? He had confessed to aiding criminals. Criminals he believed were victims…just as his kinsmen David had been? Winnie was right, Kiernan hadn't forgotten.
“I shouldn't have left you only a day after our marriage,” he said.
She became aware of the heat of his fingers around her waist. Phoebe shook her head in an effort to clear the haze in her mind.
“And, while I forgive you, you are correct,” he said. “We didn't consummate our marriage.”
He shifted and the moist warmth of his lips touched her throat. His mouth moved in what seemed infinitesimal increments along her neck. Shivers raced along her flesh. His mouth slid onto her ear.
“This is, perhaps, not the most fitting place,” he whispered, his breath skimming
across her skin, “but you have me at a disadvantage. Your touch drives me wild.”
She vaguely remembered trying to drive him wild, stroking his engorged member—that she remembered too well—but he'd gotten the better of her.
“Technically,” he went on, his deep voice moving over her like silk as he ran his tongue along the edge of her ear, “this isn’t our wedding night. Therefore, it’s not as if I’m a complete cad. Can you forgive me for, yet, one more transgression?” His mouth glided across her cheek. “I promise to be a better husband afterwards.” He covered her mouth with his and dragged her against him.
Her breasts, crushed against his chest, ached. She exhaled, her breath mingling with his. A soft moan emanated from her throat. He slid a hand up her back and ran his fingers along her neck just below the hairline.
Phoebe shivered.
He pulled her to her feet. Her legs felt like rubber.
“Steady, sweetheart.”
He turned her until her back faced him and pushed aside her hair. With one arm around her waist, he held her close while kissing her neck. She was vaguely aware of him unbuttoning her dress, but the sensation of his mouth on the sensitive skin of her neck muddled her brain. A moment later, he pushed the dress from her shoulders and it slipped to the floor. He grasped her chemise and began pulling it over her head.
“My lord,” she cried, but he had the garment off her and a chill raced across her flesh.
He turned her and her skin heated when his gaze dropped to her naked breasts.
“Sir,” she began, but he cut her off with a kiss, then lifted her into his arms and crossed to the bed. He laid her on the mattress and she knew she should push him away, leave, run as far away from him as she could. But when he lowered himself onto her, a dizzying current spun the room. Then he kissed her and she was sure she was drowning. He trailed kisses along her cheek and down her throat to her shoulder.
“Sweetheart,” he said, and Phoebe felt herself floating between the real and unreal.
He filled her senses.
Kiernan shoved off of the bed and in seconds had his boots off. He rose, loosened his belt, then unwrapped his kilt. Phoebe's heart jumped in the instant before the plaide dropped to the floor and she couldn't tear her gaze from his shaft. He was just as he'd been that night in his chambers: thick, rigid, and—heaven help her—in definite proportion to his size. He began unbuttoning his shirt.
Her heart beat faster. What in God's name was she doing? She hadn't come here to seduce her husband. She had come looking for her father. Kiernan braced one knee on the bed, then bent and kissed her. Phoebe started to shove him away, but her palms connected with the hard flesh of his chest. Her eyes flew open and the sight of her fingers splayed against the dark expanse of muscle caused her to knead the unyielding flesh. He drew back a fraction and she tore her gaze from the mesmerizing sight to see that his blue eyes had darkened to a hard glitter.
He shucked his shirt, then came down on top of her. Her breath hitched and she clutched his shoulders. The softer contours of her body submitted to his hard planes, and his engorged member lay thick and heavy on her belly. Her nipples rose to marbled points against his chest and the juncture between her legs tightened in response. She couldn't halt the reaction and a throb thrummed from the most intimate part of her.
Kieran covered her mouth with his as he shifted, then began a slow glide of his shaft through her curls and along her belly. Phoebe sucked in a breath and he slipped his tongue inside her mouth. He gave another slow thrust of his shaft, this time caressing the tip of the throbbing point between her legs. Phoebe startled at the pleasure that radiated through her. Feather light, one hand skimmed along her arm, over her shoulder, then covered her breast. Kneading the breast, he broke the kiss and slid his mouth along her cheek, down her neck to the other breast. An instant later, he sucked a nipple into his mouth.
She was slowly going insane.
He reached between their bodies and Phoebe gasped when his warm finger stroked her heated sex. He flicked his tongue on her nipple as his finger teased, stroked, urged her to want more…to want him. She gripped his shoulders in an effort to halt the whirl of sensations, but the feel of steel beneath her fingers compelled her to pull him closer instead.
The stroking ceased and she realized he was fitting his shaft to the entrance of her channel. Her stomach did a somersault. This was as far as she and Brandon had gotten—though the journey had been nothing like this. She hadn't lost her mind with Brandon. The tip of Kiernan's penis eased into her. Phoebe tensed.
“Easy, love,” he whispered. “We have all night.”
She flushed. He had guessed the truth? But how?
He inched deeper. She held her breath as his girth stretched her. This was strange. He reached between them and began stroking her again, this time with more fervor. She clamped her legs around his hips.
“That's it,” he coaxed, and massaged her faster.
Her mind confused the sensation with his deeper penetration. He had stopped, hadn't he? Need rose on a tide and she remembered this same feeling from the night he'd given her pleasure. God forgive her, she wanted that now. He began flicking her sensitive nub. She lifted her hips and in the next instant he shoved into her hilt deep. A split second of tearing pain, then he lay on her unmoving.
She waited, suddenly lucid and uncertain. Did a wife tell her husband to get himself off her when he had just taken her virginity?
His chest rose then fell with a deep breath…and he kissed her. Warmth began a slow spread through her. He grasped her hands, raised them over her head and threaded his fingers with hers. Then he began moving inside her. This was nothing like a moment ago. He slid effortlessly in and out of her slick channel. Her heart rate kicked up. His hips rocked against her with each slow stroke of his rod along her walls. Phoebe laced her fingers more tightly with his. He thrust faster, harder. She drew a shaky breath. Pleasure tickled at the edges of consciousness. She clamped her legs around his hips and startled at the sensations that radiated through her. Tentatively, she lifted her hips to meet his surge. The tip of his penis seemed to crash into the back of her wall.
He groaned and crushed her deeper into the mattress with a fierce thrust. A mixture of pleasure and pain shot through her. His hips slammed into her with each powerful plunge deeper. Kiernan abruptly shifted and sucked a nipple into his mouth. Blinding pleasure surged through Phoebe. She squeezed her eyes shut. A bright white light blurred her vision behind her eyelids. Her muscles tightened around Kiernan in climax. A hoarse groan rumbled through his chest and he ground himself against her. He released her fingers and slid his arms around her, squeezing so that she could scarce catch her breath. But the discomfort was flooded by the ripples of aftershock that radiated through her body. He pounded into her, then gave a final thrust that seemed to reach clear to her core.
“Phoebe.”
The hoarse whisper sent a strange ripple of emotion through her as the pleasure subsided on smaller then smaller waves. He thrust again, slowly. Phoebe wrapped her arms around his shoulders in the last seconds as he moved inside her then finally relaxed.
They lay unmoving for a long moment, their bodies slicked with sweat, then Kiernan slid from her. Cool air washed over her heated flesh. He pulled the blanket up over them, then tugged her backside against him. Phoebe blinked at the stars that winked in the night sky through the window, then closed her eyes.
Chapter Twenty-One
Phoebe awoke chilled. She glanced around the darkened room, her eyes unfocused. She shivered and tugged the bedcovers up over her shoulders—then remembered. By heavens, she had let her husband bed her in a brothel. Worse, she'd liked it.
A faint noise sounded. She shifted her gaze to the left where a sliver of light shone beneath a door she thought opened to a closet. Did the door connect to another room? She threw back the covers and grimaced when cool air rolled across her naked body. Phoebe pulled a blanket from the bed, wrapped it around her, and crept to
the door. She placed her ear against the wood but heard nothing, so lowered herself onto her knees and looked under the door. Another door was visible fifteen feet away. A closet connected another room, she realized, and the opposite door was open.
Phoebe stood and slowly turned the knob. The door clicked open, and she waited for any sounds of alert, but silence followed. Carefully, she inched opened the door and the murmur of Kiernan's voice reached her. She strained to make out his words, but his voice was pitched too low. She tiptoed across the floor to the door and peeked through the crack. Her view included an armoire beside a window. She eased closer to the door and cocked her ear as close to the opening as possible.
Kiernan quieted, another voice murmured something, then Kiernan said, “What better way to catch a traitor?”
“We should go,” the man said.
Kiernan sighed. “I had more pleasant plans for the morning, but if we hurry, I may make it back before my wife wakes. Give me a moment.”
Phoebe's pulse jumped. Footsteps approached the door. She sprinted for the opposite door and reached it in two leaps, carefully shut it, and ran the last few paces to the bed. She threw the blanket over her as she turned toward the wall. A moment later, the door softly clicked, and the soft pad of feet neared, then stopped. Phoebe forced even breathing as if asleep, and he left. She waited another moment, then sprang from the bed and dressed.
Moonlight shone through fast moving clouds, illuminating the two men's tracks in the moist ground. Not that Phoebe had to track them. In the distance, they walked down the main street, their great coats fanned out around them like bat wings. She hugged her cloak tighter, keeping a hand pressed against the pistol in her pocket, and hurried through the shadows cast by the shops that lined the deserted street.
The men took a right turn down a narrow lane. She rushed to the edge of the building and peeked around the corner. When they were far enough ahead, she hugged the wall and followed. They wound their way through the streets for another fifteen minutes as the tang of salt air intensified.
