by Shana Galen
Her arse moved under his hand, probably testing the feel of it, and he could not resist sliding his hand lower until he slid between her cheeks for a moment. He thought she might stiffen or gasp in shock, but instead she gave a moan so wanton that he almost came. Duncan couldn’t think clearly any longer. He just knew he needed to hear that moan again. He needed to see her face when she climaxed. She was the kind of woman who would burn bright and so hot a man might incinerate if he came too close.
Duncan was a man who liked a risk like that. Releasing her hair, he slid both hands to the middle of her spine and eased her back. Much as it pained him to break their kiss, to tear his mouth from her warm, inviting one, he did so. She drew in a breath, her back arching and her small, round breasts close enough to his mouth that he could kiss them over the fabric of her gown. Instead, he anchored her with one arm and slid the other down her neck and between her breasts. “Can I touch ye, lass?” he asked.
She looked down at him, eyes unfocused, expression one of confusion. His hand moved down further to her belly and then lower, and her eyes widened.
“Can I touch ye, lass?” he asked again.
“Please,” she said, and the word was barely a puff of air. He tugged up her skirts until he had the hem then slid his hand underneath. The warmth of her thigh met his flesh, and he cupped it, allowing his hand to heat to her temperature. Their eyes met now, her expression clear to him in the growing lightness. How long had they been sitting here? A quarter hour? An hour? Three? Where was Stratford?
And why did he care when she was looking at him like that, like a lioness watching her prey, waiting for the hunt, the catch, the pleasure of the kill.
His hand slid higher and there was that moan again. Her slim body trembled beneath his touch, her knees gripping his thighs tightly as if to hold on and anchor her. He inched higher, closer to her heat, to the core of her. Her breathing grew rapid, her tongue wet her lips, and Duncan’s own breath rasped in his throat.
His fingers brushed moist hair and she made a sound like Oh. He brushed against her again, and her hips rocked so his fingers slipped over her outer lips. Her entire body shivered, and she moaned.
Christ and all the saints, he’d never heard a woman moan like that. It was the sort of sound that came from somewhere deep within, a well of passion he did not think most women, nor most men, even possessed. And he’d barely tapped it.
His fingers caressed her now, learning the shape of her sex, the creases and folds and the heat of her.
And then he found the wetness. He drew it along a finger and slaked it over her, making her flesh slick and slippery. She was gasping, soft little moans, but she went silent when he found her channel. She tightened with anticipation as he moved his fingers up until he found that wet, hard bud just waiting for him.
“Oh!” Her exhalation seemed to echo about them, and Duncan had a fleeting thought of Stratford again, but one look at Ines’s face and he could think of nothing but her. She was an attractive woman, no one could deny that, but the expression of pleasure he saw on her face made her absolutely radiant. He could hardly breathe at the sight of her.
Somehow, he knew she possessed a short fuse. If he stroked that tight bud, she would climax quickly. He wanted to give her more than a quick burst of pleasure. He slid his finger back to her wet channel, entered it a fraction, and stroked. She was mewling now, moving against him. He tried to keep her hips steady, but she managed to take more of him inside her—one finger to the knuckle. He felt her tighten around him. He slid his finger out and then back in again, and her mouth opened soundlessly. She wanted more, and he wanted to give it to her—two fingers, three, his cock. But someone had to be in control here. Later Duncan would be amused that he was the one to hold back, to keep from rushing in. It was so utterly unlike him.
Duncan tightened his grip on her waist, pulled her close enough so that their eyes were mere inches apart. “Look at me, lass,” he said.
Her unfocused eyes landed on his then her gaze flitted away as her body reached for pleasure. He stroked her, slid his finger to that tender nub, and pressed lightly. Her gaze fastened on him.
“Duncan,” she breathed.
“That’s right. Look at me, lass.”
He rubbed the nub again then slid away and entered her.
“Não! Sim! Por favor.”
“I’ll give ye what ye want, lass, but ye have to give up control. Do ye trust me?”
She shook her head. “I do not trust any man.”
Duncan would explore that sentiment later. For the time being, he would try a different tact. “Do ye think I ken what ye want?”
Her hips bucked as though to show him, her face an agony of waiting. “Then believe me when I tell ye that my way will make it better for ye.”
She gave a brief nod that conveyed tacit agreement. Duncan didn’t mistake the nod for trust or a complete relinquishing of control. But for the moment, she would allow him to show her how it could be.
He stroked her with the finger still inside her, pulled out, then entered her slowly. Her eyes closed, and he whispered, “Eyes on me, lass.”
She stared at him, her beautiful brown eyes so dark and large they seemed to take up her entire face. Slowly, he slid his thumb over her sensitive bud. She inhaled sharply, but he kept his touch light and teasing. She bit her lip as he circled her. Her hips began to move, and he stilled. She glared at him but remained still until he began to tease her again, his movements so slow they must be torturous. They tortured him. She was so warm and tight. He wanted to replace that finger with his cock. But he also wanted to live, and Draven would kill him if he deflowered her. Draven would kill him for what he was doing now.
But Duncan would rather die than stop.
He flicked at the bud, circled it, felt her shiver. She was close now and he withdrew just for a moment then returned. Her breathing was hitched and loud. Her entire body trembled in his arms. Her gaze was hot and sharp as it bored into his. He gave her a slow smile as he slid his thumb over her center of pleasure one more time. The touch was light, but the pressure was just enough that he knew it would send her over the edge.
Her mouth opened but no sound came out. Her body stilled, though, as if it were drawing tightly into itself. Her legs gripped his thighs as he pleasured her. And then with what seemed like almost an explosion, she let out a moan erotic enough that he might have come just from hearing it if he wasn’t so focused on what he was doing. Her inner walls tightened on his finger and her body jerked convulsively as she climaxed. As he’d instructed, her eyes never left his, and he saw in them the wonder and pleasure and surprise of the experience.
He saw the beauty too. This was what the experience should be—beauty and bliss and a reach for something just beyond oneself.
Finally, she threw her head back and pushed her hips forward, pressing harder against him to take all of the pleasure she could. Her hands held fast to his shoulders and though her nails were short, her hands were those of a woman who worked. As she dug her fingers into him she caused just a small bite of pain.
Finally, she fell forward, and he caught her against his chest. Her breathing was rapid as though she took in gulps after a long run. Her face against his neck was hot and...wet? He pulled her back and looked at her face. Tears ran down her cheeks.
“What’s this now?” he asked. He removed his hand from under her skirts to hold her in place while wiping the tears away with his other hand.
She said something in Portuguese, and though he didn’t understand he understood the shrug of her shoulders and shake of her head. She did not know why she cried. She was overwhelmed by the emotions.
He was overwhelmed as well. He’d never been so enraptured by a woman before. He’d never gotten so much pleasure from giving pleasure.
And though he did not want to cry, he was having trouble making sense of all the emotions he felt in that moment. Rage, he understood. Exhilaration, he understood. Impatience, he understood. Lust, he under
stood.
But this was none of those. And for the first time in many years Duncan felt something that might have been fear and just beyond that an emotion he dared not name.
Twelve
STRATFORD
Stratford gave Emmeline a good quarter hour before he went after her. She might need a few moments of privacy, but he wouldn’t leave her alone in the woods. When he found her, she was leaning against a tree, Loftus beside her, both of them looking up at the canopy of branches above. She held up her hand as soon as he began to approach. She’d probably heard him coming as he hadn’t tried to move silently.
“I do not wish to discuss it,” she said before he could even speak.
“I think we should,” he said.
“No. I am not myself lately. I say things without thinking.”
He could believe she was not herself lately. After all, she had run away, she had adopted a dog, and now she was insisting on traveling to Scotland. But he’d never known her to say something she did not mean. In fact, the opposite was usually the problem. She said too much of what was on her mind.
But if she did not want to discuss her comments about marriage, who was he to force her? It wasn’t as though he wanted to talk about it either. She had spoken out of a moment of passion—she didn’t want marriage, she wanted one benefit of marriage—and he didn’t think she harbored some secret love for him. Until the past few days, she had never shown any particular affinity for him.
He knew because he had always hoped for a sign of affection from her, though if she had shown it, it wouldn’t have mattered as he couldn’t have returned it anyway.
“We should keep moving,” she said. “Mr. Murray and Miss Neves are probably wondering where we are.”
Based on the sounds that had carried his way while he’d been giving Emmeline her privacy, Stratford rather doubted Miss Neves or Murray were thinking about them at all. “I think we might wait for them to come and find us.”
She gave him a puzzled look, and he raised a brow.
“Oh,” she said. “Well...clearly Ines is besotted with him. I just did not think he would take advantage of that.”
Stratford frowned. He was in the habit of defending Duncan as the two of them had prowled about London together of late, but he did not like to be put in this position. “Duncan is a man of honor. He won’t do anything she doesn’t want.”
“Oh, I think it is quite impossible to find something Ines does not want Duncan to do to her.”
Stratford opened his mouth to say that Duncan knew the boundaries of propriety, but then he realized he would be speaking of Duncan. The Lunatic. And whatever Duncan was doing, it hadn’t sounded at all proper.
“Then he will accept the consequences,” Stratford said. Of that, he was certain. Duncan never shirked his duty.
“Of course,” Emmeline said with a sigh that caused the dog to look up at her. “As though women are nothing but a consequence.”
“That is not what I meant.”
She waved a hand. “I know.”
They stood together, looking up at the branches limned in moonlight. And as the sky grew lighter, Duncan finally called for him.
“Here!” Stratford said, coming out into the clearing beside the road.
“What are ye doing hiding?” Duncan asked. “We should be going.”
Stratford gave him a withering look. “It sounded as though you needed more time to rest. We were waiting until you were done...resting.”
Duncan was never embarrassed, and he smiled now. “I’ve rested plenty. Let’s continue.” He nodded to Emmeline then waved a hand as though to indicate that they should follow him. Stratford caught up to him, thinking it might not be the best idea to give a man who had been shot recently the task of leading the way.
Ines and Emmeline fell into step behind them, their heads together as they whispered about God knew what. The dog ran ahead and then sprinted back to them, sniffing them each in turn before running ahead again. Dawn began to rise, and Stratford told Duncan he hoped they might see a farmer with a cart soon.
“It would save us time, aye,” Duncan replied.
Stratford glanced back at the ladies to make certain they were not tiring. Emmeline looked to have as much energy as Loftus. Stratford didn’t know where she came by it. She couldn’t have slept any more than he, and even his bones were tired. Still, he’d fought most of a war without much sleep. He knew he could keep going with little rest. He was not so sure about her.
But then why was he worrying about her? She didn’t want his worry. She didn’t even want his conversation. She hadn’t wanted to talk about the marriage proposal she’d blurted out. Stratford knew he’d hurt her feelings. But he hadn’t been rejecting her. He had been saving her the trouble of rejecting him.
For while their families were close, Stratford knew that Emmeline and her sisters did not know everything. They did not know the truth about him. They did not know why the baron hated him.
Of course, any fool could make it out. Stratford, no fool, had figured it out when he’d been but nine or ten. He wasn’t the baron’s son. Stratford looked a great deal like his mother, but he had none of his father’s features. He bore a resemblance to his siblings, but whenever they talked about the Fortescue nose, Stratford was aware of his father’s gaze avoiding him. Sometimes the baron would just abruptly leave the room.
Once, when Stratford had been quite young—before he’d figured out the truth—he’d asked his mother why his father hated him. She’d taken him into her arms and held him. It was a rare thing as she almost never showed him affection or attention. Then she’d looked into his small face and said, “It’s not you he hates, it’s a mistake I made. He hates my mistake, darling. Not you.”
But Stratford was keen enough to understand that the sight of him reminded the baron of his mother’s mistake, and he made sure to stay out of sight and to be good, perfect, and obedient. He wondered if the sight of him was why his mother did not love him. Perhaps looking at Stratford was a daily reminder to her too of her long-ago mistake.
Of course, as an adult, Stratford had looked into the matter more closely. He’d made discreet inquiries and discovered that his mother had been linked to the Marquess of Wight for several years before his birth. By the time he was born, the relationship had ended and the marquess had retreated to his country home. He hadn’t been seen since, and by all accounts the house had fallen into disrepair.
Stratford had thought for a long time about going to see the marquess. He wondered if he resembled the man and if he had any half siblings. In the end, he decided it did not make any logical sense. Wight had not tried to see him and might not even know he had a son. Better to let the past stay in the past. Except now he had to confront the past. He was not who Emmeline thought he was. He was not who anyone thought he was.
The sound of horses and wheels reached his ears, and he and Duncan turned about the same time. A moment later, a cart pulled by two horses appeared with a farmer at the front and a load of what looked like produce taking up most of the back. Stratford waved to the man, gesturing slyly for Duncan to stand back. Duncan would only scare the farmer.
The man lifted his hat and eyed the women first. It wasn’t a lascivious look but one of curiosity. Then he gazed with interest at Stratford, his eyes widening as he took in Duncan, who he couldn’t really miss. The farmer was a weathered man of perhaps forty who looked closer to nearing sixty. He wore simple, sturdy clothing that had been mended and was clean and fit him well. His hands held the reins of his horses confidently, and he called out, “Whoa,” slowing before he reached Stratford. Stratford walked back.
“Good morning,” Stratford said.
“Good morning,” the man answered.
“I am Stratford Fortescue, and this is my friend Duncan Murray. These ladies are our cousins.” Better not to give their names. “We are traveling to Scotland to visit with Mr. Murray’s uncle, the Duke of Atholl.” Always throw in a duke if possible—that was S
tratford’s motto.
The farmer’s eyes widened appreciatively and predictably. “I am John Bixly.”
“A pleasure, Mr. Bixly. We have had to leave our coach behind,” Stratford said. Always stick to the truth as much as possible—another motto. “Would you mind taking us as far as you travel today?”
The farmer nodded. “Of course. It’s only five miles to the village, but I might be able to help you find someone else to take you further north.”
“That would be much appreciated.”
Stratford and Duncan started for the back of the cart as did Emmeline and Miss Neves. The farmer called, “Do the ladies want to sit up front?”
Stratford looked at Emmeline, who looked back at him. He could see she was tired. Her eyes had faint smudges under them, and her shoulders were slumped. But she might just ride next to the farmer to avoid being with him.
“I will sit in the back, senhor,” Miss Neves said. “Thank you.”
Bixly looked perplexed by Miss Neves’s Portuguese accent. Really, Stratford wished everyone would just let him do the talking. Emmeline climbed in beside the other woman. “I will ride back here too.”
“I’ll ride on the box,” Duncan said, and the farmer looked startled as the Highlander climbed up beside him. Well, that left no room for Stratford in the front. He climbed in beside Emmeline, who scooted closer to Miss Neves.
The cart started away, and after they’d been jerked this way and that, Stratford leaned closer to Emmeline. “Listen, I want to say—”
“I think I shall lay down and rest,” Emmeline said, not looking at him.
“I will too,” Miss Neves said.
