by Lauren Smith
The library. Of course. She loved to read. Joanna was studying the shelves. The flare of her hips and the bright-green satin gown embroidered with wildflowers made her appear like a tempting garden nymph. Blonde curls danced down the slope of her swanlike neck, making his mouth run dry as he imagined placing soft, hot kisses on her skin as he held on to her waist from behind. Lord, the woman had a way of bewitching him.
He moved softly. Years of hunting deer in the sparsely wooded hills had trained him well. She was mere inches away when he reached out to touch her shoulder. Joanna screeched and leapt into the air.
“Hush, lass,” he warned, instantly turning her around.
“Oh! It’s you!” She placed a hand over her chest, breathing hard. The effort made her breasts swell against her tight bodice. “What are you doing here?” she demanded when she caught her breath.
Brock stared at her. “I came to see you…and Rosalind, of course.”
“Of course. I meant, what are you doing in the library.” She slid to the side, escaping him when he rested one palm on the shelf beside her.
“As I said, I came to see you.” He didn’t want her to escape. He reached out and caught the flow of her skirts, just above her bottom, pulling her to a stop. She turned, glancing down at his hand fisted in the fabric. She quirked a brow, challenging him, silently demanding that he let go.
He most certainly wouldn’t do that. He gazed back into her blue eyes, watching a blush slowly unfurl on her cheeks as he moved closer and curled one arm around her waist.
“Is this your favorite color?” he asked, giving her green skirts a playful tug.
“What?” She looked up at him, and her lashes half lowered when she focused on his lips. He knew she was thinking about kissing him, and he wanted to grant that wish, but his sister was right—he needed to know more about her.
“Green, is that your favorite color?”
“I… No, not really.”
“Then what is it?” He cupped her cheek and moved their bodies backward so he had her caged against the wall by the window.
“It’s gold.”
“Gold? Like this?” He slipped his fingers beneath the fine gold chain around her throat until the solitary blue sapphire stone pendant glinted in the light. Her skin felt warm beneath the backs of his knuckles, and for a moment he forgot what they were talking about.
Joanna’s breath hitched a little. “No. Gold like the color of leaves in late October, or the way the sunlight illuminates the leaves just before they fall.”
“Like glittering rain?” he added. He knew just the color she meant, and it was indeed spectacular.
Joanna nodded. “It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” She lowered her head, another blush flaming her face. “What about you? What’s your favorite color?” She placed a hand on his chest, her elegant fingers moving over the plain ruby-colored silk of his waistcoat.
For a moment he was ashamed that he was not dressed in finer clothes, like the other men here. She must expect a gentleman to look like a gentleman. Right now, he felt like a farmhand in his simple clothes. But he could not afford more. Back home he felt no embarrassment, but here in the fine trappings of Lennox’s Bath house, he felt shame, though he had nothing to be ashamed of. He tensed, ready to step back, but she raised her eyes to his again.
“Brock?” His name upon her lips seemed to ring like a distant bell, giving him peace, clarity.
“Red, like the color of a fox’s coat, that ruddy orange-red.”
She tilted her head as though considering his words.
“That’s a lovely color.” She slid her hand up his chest to his shoulder, her fingers curled slightly, as though she hungered to hold him close. He echoed that need as he gripped her waist.
“I want to know you, Joanna. I want to learn all your secrets.” Brock brushed the backs of his knuckles over her cheeks, and her lashes fluttered in response. His body burned for her in a way that made him unsteady, like he’d snuck a few too many sips of whiskey. A delicious shudder shot through him as he slowly pulled back the heavy blue curtain of the window and moved her behind it. Now they were shielded from the rest of the world, and it was only the two of them.
“What are we doing?” Joanna whispered.
“Learning each other, lass.” He pulled the curtain closed around them. They faced the glass of the window and could see the thick blossoms of the rhododendrons that crowded the windowpanes with bursts of lavender amid the green leaves. No one could see them from the garden outside, except perhaps his head, but not Joanna’s. They were safe in this private world.
“Do you like to ride?” Brock asked as he lifted one of her hands up, studying the blue veins that ran beneath her fair skin like lines on a map. He wanted to memorize the pattern, carve it into his mind because it was a part of her. His future wife.
“I do. I’m not particularly good, I suppose. Horses make me nervous if I ride alone, but if I’m with someone, I enjoy it.” She was touching his shoulder again, exploring, her fingers caressing the muscles beneath the shirt he wore.
“I like to ride as well.” Brock pressed his lips to her hand, against the entrancing pattern of those veins, and she trembled a little.
“And you read?” she asked.
He nodded. “Aye. Whenever possible. My mother loved books, as do I.”
“That’s good,” Joanna murmured before her eyes strayed to his lips again.
“I have more questions,” he promised. “But if I dinna kiss you right now, I may go mad.”
He gave her time to resist, to push him away. When instead she curled her arms around his neck, he lowered his lips to hers, feeling a flood of victory within him that would have made his warrior ancestors proud.
My sweet little Sassenach has surrendered to me.
6
This was madness. Joanna knew she ought to protest, to push Brock away, but all she could hear was her mother and brother’s conversation from the previous night, haunting her. Her melancholy thoughts soon faded beneath the hum of her blood under her skin as she surrendered to Brock’s kiss.
She was not wanted, not desired…yet here was a man who did want her. He not only wanted her but he wanted to know her. And she wanted to know him, this quiet, brooding man who showed her a world of passion whenever he touched her. Perhaps lust could turn to love given enough time?
She closed her eyes as their mouths met in a soft, slow kiss. She gripped his massive shoulders, admiring the way he stretched the coat he wore. He towered over her and she couldn’t help but feel small and delicate, in a purely feminine way that she liked immensely.
The gentlemen at the ball last night were nothing compared to him. He moved with a masculine, nonchalant grace that spoke of years of working every part of his body rather than lounging around card tables or billiard rooms. The outlines of his muscles strained against the fabric of his waistcoat, and she wondered if he had outgrown the garment over the last few years, becoming even more muscled. The thought sent a wild racing pulse straight to the core of her womanhood.
Brock moved his mouth expertly over hers, kissing her with great gentleness, which negated any fears she had about him using his strength to overwhelm her. She stroked a hand down the square line of his jaw, feeling the clean-shaven skin. Their mouths broke apart, and she was lost in his gaze, astonished by the inherent strength in his face and that sharp, assessing gaze that softened whenever he was close to her. She wondered if in some way she tempered the wild, feral man before her.
“Lass…what you do to me…” His voice was husky, and her skin broke out in goose bumps.
“What do I do to you?” she asked, her voice breathless as she craved to know his answer. Was he as affected by this wonderful madness as she was?
He stroked the pad of his thumb over her bottom lip. “You make me…forget,” he said, his warm breath fanning her face. How could this feel so intimate? This closeness, the sharing of breath? He lowered his head again to kiss her.
>
“Forget what?” she asked between kisses.
“How to behave. I shouldna be doing this here, but I want you so much.”
“I want you too.” She tugged at his shoulders, wanting something more.
Brock’s hand wandered up her leg, pulling her skirt up to her thigh, and she whimpered in delight, and with a little trepidation. His palm was rough and hot as a firebrand against her thigh. She’d never had a man touch her there before
The sound of the library door opening made them both freeze. Voices could be heard. Voices she recognized.
“Ash, what’s wrong?” Charles asked.
Joanna shifted closer in Brock’s arms at the same time he moved to shield her behind him. They were hidden by the fall of the curtain, so surely no one would see them. Especially, she hoped, her brother and his friend.
“Something is bothering me. I can’t say what,” Ashton said. His voice drew closer. Joanna could still feel Brock’s hand on her thigh, his fingers digging into her skin as they both remained still.
“It’s the Scots, isn’t it? Ever since they came to Bath, you’ve been…twitching.” Charles chuckled.
“I haven’t.” Ashton’s voice was full of frustration.
There was another snort of laughter, but it cut off abruptly. “I say…are curtains supposed to have boots beneath them?”
Joanna had but an instant to look down and realize the curtain didn’t cover Brock’s feet and his boots were clearly visible. There was a wrenching of the fabric as it was flung aside.
“God’s blood!” Ashton bellowed as he caught sight of them. A few feet behind him Charles stood, watching them, mouth agape. Joanna rushed to smooth out her mussed hair in panic.
“Ash” Joanna began, but her brother had already thrown a punch, catching Brock squarely on the jaw. He staggered but did not fall.
“No!” Joanna tried to get around Brock so she might step between him and her brother, but she couldn’t. He threw an arm out, keeping her trapped behind him.
“I knew I couldn’t trust you!” Ashton shouted and swung another fist. Brock dodged it. Joanna tried to grasp Brock, but her hands met thin air and she toppled to the ground, wincing as her hip and arms took the brunt of her weight on the hardwood floor. She scrambled to press herself flat against the wall by the window as Ashton dove at Brock, catching him around the waist. The pair stumbled back, knocking into a sturdy bookshelf, but the momentum made the shelf quake, and a number of books toppled to the ground.
Brock struggled to catch one of the books before it landed on the floor, but the effort only opened him up to a sharp jab of Ashton’s fist straight into his stomach. He didn’t drop the book, but he grunted with a look of pain.
Charles knelt beside her, offering her a hand, which she gratefully accepted. She got to her feet and tried to move toward the fighting men, but Charles caught her wrist.
“Wait a moment—you’ll only get hit if you get too close. Let them sort it out themselves.”
“But he’s hurting Brock!” she cried and pulled free of Charles’s hand. It was quite clear Ashton was the aggressor, and Brock was doing his best to fend off blows while not throwing any of his own.
“If you ever touch my sister again,” Ashton shouted between each punch, “I’ll bloody kill you!”
“Brock!” Joanna called his name, wanting him to defend himself, to fight back a little.
“Quiet, Joanna!” Ashton commanded, and she flinched. He’d never spoken to her like that before, with his tone so full of disappointment and annoyance.
“You willna not speak to her like that,” Brock growled and threw a single punch to Ashton’s stomach. It caught Ashton by surprise, and he stumbled back, sucking in pained breaths.
Joanna leapt forward to throw herself in front of Brock as Ashton tried to rally. Her brother skidded to a stop, his fist glancing off her cheek as he tried desperately to pull his punch back, but it was too late. He clipped Joanna, and she cried out in pain. Brock moved fast, lifting her gently into his arms and carrying her to a soft chair. She appreciated his gentleness more than she could say. The fall on the floor had left her shaken and bruised.
Brock stroked her cheek. “Does it hurt, lass?”
“Not much,” she said, feeling oddly shy now that her brother was watching them.
Ashton walked over, his steps slow, cautious, his face pale.
“Joanna, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to…” He scraped a hand over his jaw as he knelt by her. Brock never took his eyes off her as he stayed protectively close. He grasped one of her hands in his and didn’t let go.
“Should we call the doctor?” Charles asked her as he hovered close by.
Her cheeks flamed in embarrassment. “I’m fine. Truly.” She squeezed Brock’s hand, and their gazes locked. She’d been having such a wonderful time with him until her brother had ruined everything. “Ashton, please go.” She glanced toward her brother.
His worried expression turned to disapproval. “Joanna, I’m not going to leave you alone with him. You were just”
“Just what? If you say he compromised me, then think carefully about the consequences. Besides, you were the one who struck me.” It was the first time she’d spoken so forcefully to her brother. She knew he hadn’t meant to hit her, but she needed him to understand that only one man in this room had truly tried to protect her, and it wasn’t Ashton.
Her brother’s brow furrowed. “If I go, he goes as well. I’m not leaving him alone with you. That’s final.” Ashton’s response was hard edged, and Joanna sensed she wouldn’t win that battle. She squeezed Brock’s hand again and gave him a small nod to let him know she was fine to be left alone.
“Come, Kincade. I’ll see you out. I think it is best you go home today.”
Brock rose, his gaze still on Joanna’s face. “And the wedding?”
For a second Joanna thought he was speaking about her.
The two men stared at each other for a long moment, still breathing hard. Then Ashton’s gaze softened.
“You’ll still be there tomorrow to walk Rosalind down the aisle,” Ashton conceded.
Brock nodded once at Ashton, and the two men left the library without a backward glance. Charles remained, his lips twitching.
“So, you and the Scot, eh?” He whistled softly, his gray eyes glinting.
Joanna stood from her chair, her hip twinging. “Yes…I mean no… No, I don’t know.”
“Jo, he had his hand up your skirts,” Charles said more seriously.
She blushed again. It had been ages since Charles had called her Jo. She’d once believed herself in love with him, years ago, before she’d come to understand that loving Charles was like loving a distant god. He would never open his heart to any woman. Once she’d realized that, she let her girlish fantasies about him fade. But she was still mortified that he and Ashton had caught her kissing Brock.
“I don’t have many options, Charles,” she said quietly, her gaze fixed on the books that had fallen to the floor. She bent to pick up one, sighing at the way the pages were bent. She had not missed that Brock had done his best to catch the books, taking a few blows from her brother in the process.
Charles joined her, collecting a pair of books that had toppled on each other like wounded birds. “Of course you do.”
“Do not try to spare my feelings, Charles. I know the truth. Ashton tried to find me a match. There is not a man in England who would offer for me. I don’t understand why.” She couldn’t help the pathetic, forlorn tone to her voice, but after everything that had happened, she was ready to break down and cry. Or perhaps smash every bloody teacup in the house. But neither of those things would make her feel better.
“So you take up with the Scot instead?” Charles’s lips twitched. “Wonderful way to drive your brother mad with worry.”
Joanna blew out a frustrated breath. “I haven’t taken up with him.” He had proposed, offhandedly, it was true. But that wasn’t a true proposal, not to her.
“Hmm…you may not have taken up with him then, but I do believe you are taken with him.”
She didn’t miss the difference, and she had to agree, at least silently. She was indeed quite taken with the tall, brooding Scotsman. Joanna knew this topic was taking a dangerous turn. She didn’t want Charles to tell her brother that she was ready to run off to Gretna Green with Brock.
“Once upon a time, I was taken with you.”
Charles’s eyes lit up. “Were you now?” He lounged arrogantly against the bookshelf, and she retrieved the last of the books from the floor.
“I was, and then I grew out of that infatuation. I’m sure it will be the same with Lord Kincade.”
Charles laughed. “I’m not sure about that. That fellow seems to have had the good fortune of kissing you, where others have not.” He winked at her and then left her alone.
Joanna stared around the library, feeling listless. Her sense of refuge in this room had been destroyed, for now at least. When she finally left the library, she could see the tea was well underway, but she did not wish to join them. Ashton had thrown Brock out, and she didn’t want to sit in a room without him. She went upstairs to her bedchamber instead. After she closed the door, she threw herself rather indelicately onto the bed and buried her face in the mess of pillows. She was not a child. She would not cry, no matter how much she was hurting. She drifted off to sleep and was woken several hours later by a knock upon her door.
“Who is it?” She sat up and tried to compose the mess of her hair, which had partially come undone during her rest.
“Your brother.”
Joanna stiffened. Ashton wanted to talk. Of course he did. No doubt he’d spent all bloody afternoon preparing some lecture or speech on her behavior. Before she could refuse him, he opened the door and stepped inside. He closed the door behind himself and leaned back against it.
