A Scandalous Scot (22 page)

She should retire to the Countess’s Suite. Anywhere but be here, on a wedding night that wasn’t a wedding night. What a very strange night indeed. She’d sent him away with a command, then he’d walked away on an insult. Perhaps they were destined never to come together.

Was it a sign? An omen that she wasn’t supposed to be even his pretend wife?

Yet he’d kissed her. He’d touched her as no man had ever touched her.

According to her aunt, she should thank Providence circumstances had brought her any husband, even a false one.

Slowly, she pushed open the door, to find Morgan seated at the desk in a nimbus of light from the oil lamp. His gaze was fixed on the door as if he’d expected her to arrive any moment.

“My name is Jean,” she said, as if they’d never been introduced. “I’m not Lillian. I wish you would not confuse me with her.”

He didn’t speak. Nor did his gaze leave her.

A bare-chested Morgan was even more intimidating than he’d been in his kilt and jacket. Now, she could really envision him as one of the Murderous MacCraigs, especially with that look on his face.

“Did you at least put on your shoes?” she asked.

He frowned at her.

She shrugged at his silence. “I didn’t wear mine, either,” she said, coming around the edge of the desk. She held out one foot and both of them stared at it. “Do you think this means I’m a hoyden?” she asked. “I’ve never gone anywhere barefoot before.”

She sat on the corner of the desk and leaned closer to him. Should she confess she wasn’t wearing anything beneath her cloak, either?

“I don’t know if you would take the word of a former maid,” she said. She held up her hand to forestall his comment. “But I promise never to bed another man as long as you are alive, Morgan.”

“Do you have plans for my imminent death, madam?”

“No,” she said. “But I don’t want to promise I would never bed another man for the rest of
my
life. What if you were killed?” she asked, pushing back the hideous idea of Morgan’s death. “I would have to obey that vow forever. That hardly seems fair.”

He shook his head.

“Are you always so rigorously honest, Jean, even to your own detriment?”

“No,” she said, regretting it was the truth. “I’m not. But when is honesty ever detrimental?”

“When I suspect you of plotting my death.”

“Of course you don’t,” she said. “I don’t think you’re angry at all. I think you’re just a little bit frightened.”

She couldn’t determine the look on his face. It wasn’t anger. Nor was it amusement. Perhaps it was confusion or bewilderment. Truly, she wasn’t adverse to confusing Morgan. He’d done that from the moment he insisted on marrying her.

“Am I supposed to be frightened of you?” he asked.

She considered the question for a moment. “Good heavens, wouldn’t that be something? An earl and a maid, and the earl is quivering in his boots.” She craned her neck for a view of his feet. “But you’re barefoot, too.”

He shook his head.

“Are you coming back to our bed?” she asked, then amended the comment. “Your bed.” She looked around the room. The library was in shadows. She liked this room and knew every cranny of it.

“There’s a settee upstairs,” she said, “if you would prefer not to go that far.”

“Are you suggesting I couple with you in the library?”

“I don’t think I’d like the desk,” she said, looking at the surface. “It’s leather, but there are all those brass nail heads. And it wouldn’t be comfortable on my back.”

He didn’t say a word.

“What shall we do?” she asked, genuinely confused. “Shall I go back to my room? Shall we pretend not to be married? I don’t mind, except I do wish you hadn’t seen me naked.”

“You’ve seen me naked,” he said, in a calmer voice than he’d spoken earlier.

She nodded.

“We could both forget,” she suggested.

“Or we could simply dispense with this damn wedding night.”

Abruptly, he stood, grabbed her wrist and pulled her unceremoniously from the room.

He was muttering to himself, but she couldn’t understand the words. The very fact that he was irritated was a good sign. She could cope very well with Morgan in that state since she’d had the most practice with it. His tenderness and praise had confused her, had opened up something in her heart that swelled even now.

She raced to keep up with him, making a mental note that whenever he dragged her somewhere it was easier when she was barefoot.

Halfway down the corridor he stopped and backed her up to the wall. Only one lone light was illuminated, leaving the rest of the corridor in long shadows.

He towered over her like a mountain.

“Am I supposed to be afraid of you?” she asked, putting her hands on his shoulders.

“God, no,” he said, leaning in to kiss her.

Her hands reached up to bracket either side of his face, and then she didn’t know anything for some moments. His mouth was warm, his tongue insistent.

No one told her she could become delirious with a kiss. Not one person had ever warned her a kiss could heat her body to this extent.

“You’re naked under the cloak,” he said, his voice hoarse.

She nodded.

When he pulled away, she made a moan of discontent, but then her cloak was open and his mouth was on her breast.

Surprise kept her silent. This was passion, she was certain of it. Her body felt as if it were liquefying. She would become nothing more than a puddle in a moment, a stain on the crimson runner.

Wherever his mouth touched, her skin quivered.

Why couldn’t she breathe?

His lips left her breast for her mouth, a fierce, possessive, and shocking kiss, an explosion of taste and color urging her to surrender.

He opened his mouth, inviting her in, and her tongue found his, darting in and out, teasing and daring, brave as she’d never been brave with any man.

He made a sound in the back of his throat, and she pressed against him, wishing she didn’t have the cloak shielding her nakedness. Wishing, too, he was as naked as she.

He pulled her closer, thrusting his tongue into her mouth, tasting her. She was suddenly dizzy, as if his kiss was a narcotic, some drug that lessened her resistance and made her compliant to Morgan’s will.

Her breasts ached, dampness pooled between her thighs, and she felt the same tingling emptiness that had accompanied every thought of him for days now. She wanted to be touched in a shocking way. Another kiss and she’d ask him to remove his clothes. At the sight of him, she’d toss off her cloak and join him in nakedness.

Suddenly, they were racing back to the Laird’s Tower.

She grabbed her cloak with both hands, glancing at him as they ran. His face was bronzed, his look intent.

A laugh caught in her throat when he took her hand at the top of the stairs. She was out of breath, feeling as if the world had turned itself upside down.

When he kissed her again, she held onto him for balance, loving the shape of his mouth, his hot breath.

How had she lived before being kissed?

Then he was naked and they were on his bed again, the distance from the door to his bedroom crossed in a fog of feeling. When he trailed kisses between her breasts and down to her stomach, her breath came in choppy pants.

She felt like herself and yet more than herself. Herself times ten, perhaps, as if she were both older and wiser than she’d been this morning. Her fear level had dropped to a two or a one, or maybe it was naught.

Instead of gasping in horror, or being shocked when his fingers slid in her intimate folds, her legs widened to give him access. When he found her slick and wet, he made a murmur of appreciation.

Another lesson learned, passion was a good thing between husband and wife.

She wanted, needed, to do something, so she raised up and linked her arms around his neck, bringing his head down for a kiss. She nibbled on his bottom lip, then laved it with her tongue. Breathed into his mouth and gently sucked the tip of his tongue.

She rained kisses along his jaw, down his throat. He lifted himself over her, bracing himself on his forearms.

“I wish you weren’t a virgin,” he said again before sliding into her, an invasion so shocking her eyes widened and her hands gripped his shoulders, nails biting into his skin.

She might have made a sound if he hadn’t kissed her at that moment.

The delight of his kiss and his touch gave way to a pinch of discomfort, a feeling of being stretched and invaded. She wanted suddenly to stop it, to demand he leave her. Instead, he raised himself, surging back into her, unknowing or uncaring about her pain.

Where had the passion gone? It had disappeared in an instant to be replaced by
this
. Tears welled in her eyes. How long was he going to do this?

An endless time, hours, or days, or perhaps only moments later, he lifted himself off her. She rolled to her side, drawing up her legs.

Catriona had lied to her.

This hadn’t been pleasurable at all.

She lay as quiet as possible, wondering when she could go back to her room.

Suddenly, Morgan left the bed, returning in a few minutes to sit on the edge of the mattress.

“Turn over, Jean,” he said, touching her arm.

She shook her head.

“Turn over,” he said again, gently pulling her to lay on her back.

She closed her eyes, pretending he wasn’t there.

“Was it very painful?”

The question surprised her, enough that she opened her eyes and looked at him. Did he honestly care?

“Not very,” she lied.

“I’m sorry. I hear it’s like that for a virgin. At least it’s over.”

Dear God, did he want to do it again? She closed her legs tightly.

He placed a wet cloth against the juncture of her legs, surprising her again.

“Morgan . . .” she began, then faded to a stop as he began to bathe her. The warm cloth was oddly comforting as he insinuated it between her legs.

“Next time will be better,” he said.

Next time? When did he plan to do it again?

His head dipped and he kissed her stomach. She flinched, tried to draw away, but he simply placed one large hand on her hip to keep her in place.

Then Morgan MacCraig did something she’d never expected, had never prepared for, had never imagined. He kissed her in a place she’d never thought to be kissed. She raised up, a hand fisting in his hair, but he calmly reached out and entwined his fingers with hers.

She lay back, closing her eyes, feeling the most incredible heat throughout her body. Embarrassment of a certainty, mixed with another sensation.

She pulled her hand free.

“Morgan,” she whispered.

He did something with his fingers, gently stretching her.

She tensed, expecting him to enter her again, but all he did was use his tongue to stroke against her, long, lingering touches that made her shiver.

Grabbing the sheet with both hands, she tried not to move. Was it allowable to move? He was using his tongue in magical ways, stealing her breath.

Time narrowed. Slowed. Stopped.

Her heart pounded as a bubble of pleasure traveled from her center throughout her body.

Morgan’s hand stroked her hip, gripped her buttock, claiming her as his mouth drove her insane.

She began to make inarticulate noises. Pleading with him, begging him either to stop or never to stop, she wasn’t certain. Her hands left the sheets and flailed in the air. Then he pursed his lips, pulling gently on one particular spot, and her hips arched upward, her eyes closing at the surge of feeling. She bit her lip, held captive by the sensations. She was surrounded by colors, bright, wicked shards of light dancing in her mind.

Her hands gripped his shoulders. She moaned, and he murmured against her, the sound tipping her over into bliss.

J
ean woke, to find herself alone in the earl’s bed. Morgan, she corrected.

She sat on the edge of the bed, her legs dangling.

Once again she saw herself in the mirror on the opposite wall, and this time she winced. Her hair was a cloud around her head; her face was pink. Her lips were too full, and her eyes wide.

She should’ve drawn up the sheet around her, but instead she sat looking down at her own naked body as if it was a sight she’d never seen. In a way, she hadn’t. She was as surprised by her body’s reactions as by the events of the night before.

Where was Morgan? Was he avoiding her? Had he arisen early on purpose? Was he wanting to be away from her?

What was she to do now? Her days as a maid had been carefully orchestrated and scheduled. She woke, she washed, she dressed, then went to an early breakfast before inspection and being assigned her chores.

Very well, she could dress and find breakfast. As to her chores, that was a mystery, wasn’t it?

M
organ returned to the Laird’s Tower, knowing if he didn’t, Jean might very well go in search of him.

Besides, he had visions of waking his surprising bride up in the most delightful way. But when he entered his bedchamber, she was sitting on the edge of the bed, a frown on her face.

Before he could greet her, she looked up, saw him, and grabbed for the sheet and wrapped it around her nakedness.

He wished she hadn’t done that. But he could always strip it from her.

“Leave your hair down,” he said.

Her hand went to the length of her hair, falling below her shoulders.

“It’s not proper,” she said.

“Who decides what’s proper and what’s not?” he asked, coming to stand in front of her. His fingers threaded through her hair.

A flush began in her chest and traveled up her neck to bloom in her cheeks.

“Do I embarrass you?” he asked. When she didn’t answer, he merely asked her again.

“Is it entirely proper, everything we’ve done?”

He knew exactly what part of their lovemaking she was talking about, and although he wished to smile, doing so might hurt her feelings. Her innocence was charming and something to be guarded.

He placed his hands on her shoulders, gently smoothing them down to her wrists.

“Nothing we do together, Jean, is wrong.”