A Scottish Love (25 page)

Yes, kiss me. Please.

He was too slow. She framed his face with both her hands, held it still and placed her lips on his.

His mouth was hot, soft, and intensely talented. His breath was life. His tongue swept along her bottom lip, not in a gesture of coaxing as much as acquainting. A dance of the memory that was as seductive as his hands stroking her skin.

He pulled her with him, their feet dancing across the floor and into an alcove of sorts. She felt as if she couldn’t breathe, her heart was pounding so quickly. And then breath didn’t matter as much as the touch of him, the feel of his skin beneath her fingers. Her thumbs stroked his throat, pushed aside the shirt. She wanted, suddenly and desperately, to run her hands down his back, scratch at him with her nails, mark him so that he would always and forever remember her.

The tightness she felt inside loosened, became lax limbs, soft lips, and pooling warmth where she dampened from a single, lingering kiss.

He stripped her skirt and petticoat from her, tossing them anywhere; it didn’t matter. She fumbled with the buttons of his trousers, annoyed when her fingers weren’t as quick. His hand covered hers and he stepped back.

Don’t question me now.
Sanity might prevail. She might grow cautious once again when all she needed was this. Him.

Instead, he toed off his boots, unbuttoned his trousers, and stepped out of his clothing, all the while never moving his eyes from her.

Naked, he was even more beautiful than he’d been seven years ago. War had marked him, but it had also honed the shape of him. Muscular arms and thighs, a broad chest tapering down to a narrow waist. She ached to put her hands on his hips, splay them over his skin, reacquaint herself with the curve of each buttock.

But her eyes drifted to his penis, erect and unashamed.

As she watched, his hand brushed from the base to the tip, as if he pointed out the various attributes of such a marvelous weapon of pleasure. Please note the testicles, drawn up high beneath the nest of hair. See how the ridge along the engorged shaft pulses impatiently? Or how the mushroom-shaped tip, larger than she remembered, glistens in anticipation?

All for her.

The thrumming beat between her legs grew even stronger.

She slowly unlaced her corset, taking her time, teasing them both. He didn’t move, content to stroke himself and watch her. His hands flattened against his thighs when she dropped her corset. After bending to grab the hem of the chemise, she pulled it over her head.

Bare now, her breasts throbbed, nipples hard.

Slowly, she removed her pantaloons, attired now in only her stockings and shoes.

He took one step toward her but she shook her head, the admonishment softened with a smile.

She removed her shoes, then bent to remove her stockings, one after the other. Unfastening one garter, she rolled down her stocking slowly. Then repeated the movement on the other leg. While he was still watching her, she approached him, a smile of anticipated delight curving her lips.

She was on her back, atop her clothes, before she could blink.

His arms bracketed her, hands spearing into her hair. He kissed her for long, endless moments, sending plumes of color behind her lids, making her breath race and her heart thud furiously.

His lips traced a path from one ear to the other. A kiss to her nose, to her closed eyelids, to her chin, and both cheeks. He’d never spoken Gaelic before, never murmured her name in such a fierce tone. Never said, “Dear one,” as a punctuation for each kiss.

But he did now.

Tears hid behind her eyelids, dampening her lashes.

She wrapped her arms around him, hands flat on his back, feeling the power and the strength of his muscles. Widening her legs was an invitation. Today, she had no patience for more teasing, for slow, drugging kisses, or the sweep of his fingers over every inch of her body.

He raised up, positioning himself, his eyes never leaving hers.

Time seemed to still in that instant, as if this mating was somehow important. A moment to be heralded and remembered. Into her mind flooded all the memories of their loving when he’d worn that same expression, passion raging in his eyes.

Surrender had never been a necessary word between them. Instead, they’d come together equally matched, equally willing, equally passionate.

Nor was it changed now.

He surged into her, the force of their joining causing her to cry out, arch her head back, all the while gripping his shoulders with fingers transformed to talons.

All she could see or feel was him.

Dear one. Dear God.

Raising up, he kissed her, soothing her with a soft murmur, a promise in his eyes.

His fingers measured where he entered her, tested the welcoming slickness and danced along her folds.

Their gazes clung, each withdrawal coupled with a momentary feeling of loss, each thrust accompanied by a sigh of relief. Over and over, until it was too much, the sensations as pure and piercing as pain.

Her eyes fluttered shut when the peak came, when lightning flared behind her lids and pleasure held her heart still for one long, breathless moment.

His body convulsed on hers. A moment later, he kissed her temple and her cheek, his breath harsh in her ear. Her legs loosened around him, her feet lowering to brush his ankles. Her arms fell lax to the side, the backs of her hands brushing the dusty floor.

He kissed the dampness at the base of her throat, then the pulse there.

Silence ticked off the moments.

Words were perilous. They’d tossed so many words at each other of late, each one barbed and forked it was a wonder they didn’t bleed to death from their conversations.

Her hand rose to rest against his back, the touch of him seeming to anchor her to this place, to the now of it. They were seven years older, but the connection was still there. So, too, the need that had knifed through her until it had been satisfied.

He’d taken her on the floor and she’d gone willingly.

Dear God, what had she done? Been unwise again.

“I’ve made another mistake, haven’t I?” She stared up at the cobweb-draped rafters. “Coming here, first of all.” Secondly, acting the strumpet.

He raised his head, but he didn’t answer, his face set in careful, noncommittal lines. Had he looked at his men in such a way? Had any of them been able to tell what he thought? She couldn’t. Unless it was a whiff of contempt. That, she sensed only too well.

She gently pushed him away and he rolled over. Naked and spent, he was still beautiful. A work of masculine perfection, even his scars somehow decorating his body, not detracting from it.

She wanted to ask what the mark on his chest was from, or the one on his leg, but she didn’t. He’d tell her or he wouldn’t, but regardless of what he did, she would worry. For seven years she’d worried.

“Is there anywhere else you could be?” she asked softly. “Isn’t there any duty that would take you to London? Or to Inverness? Or Edinburgh?”

“Shall I conveniently take myself off to war, the better to ease your conscience again?”

There it was again, seven years ago. Could they never get past that? Or not until she paid enough of a penance for it?

“I left Invergaire before you did.”

“I remember,” he said. “In fact, the recollection of those months is quite vivid.”

“I can’t do anything about seven years ago,” she said. “I can’t make things right. I can’t undo my actions.”

“No.”

Such an ugly word, no. A sound, really, and little else.

“All I can do is concentrate on today.”

She began to dress, donning her clothes more hurriedly than she’d removed them. She glanced down at her bodice to ensure it was buttoned correctly, arranged her cuffs, and pinned her hair back into place.

While she’d dressed, he had as well. His trousers were fastened but not the white shirt.

“Do I look presentable?” she asked.

He didn’t answer, only nodded.

This man was a stranger, not the lover he’d been only a moment ago. So much the baronet that she asked, “What’s it like being a baronet?”

“The same as being a colonel, or simply Gordon. I didn’t change.”

Yes, you did.

But she had, too, and perhaps that was the reason she suddenly wanted to weep, to flee from the Works and vow never to see him again.

T
he day had been an eventful one, the past marching back into Gordon’s life and announcing in stentorian tones that it had never truly left.

Now he stood staring into the flames of the furnace as if they held the answer for his confusion. Despite the work he still needed to do, he couldn’t stop thinking about Shona.

He’d been seduced. Not only had he gone willingly to his seduction, but he’d found himself stunned by the intensity of his response to her.

She wasn’t the girl he’d known. He’d realized that when it was over and passion drained from him to be replaced by tenderness. She’d not teased him the way she had seven years ago. Instead, he’d seen sadness in her eyes, as if their loving had unleashed emotions she normally kept cloaked.

He’d been routed by her grief, left floundering on the bank like a salmon.

“The lady, she is gone?” Rani asked.

He turned to face his friend.

“The lady, she is gone,” Gordon said. Refusing his offer to take her home, another example of the indomitable Imrie pride.

Had he hurt her?

“Many pardons for my tardiness,” Rani said.

He began to button his shirt, glancing at Rani. “You weren’t an audience to—”

Rani interrupted. “I saw the lady enter and did not do so myself. She is your lost love, is she not?”

Surprised, Gordon shook his head.

“I think, perhaps, she is. The woman who occupies your thoughts, to whom you wish to prove yourself.” Rani smiled. “I, too, have such a woman. A blossom with deep brown eyes and lips that make me wish to kiss them.”

He didn’t know what to say to Rani’s confession. An admission hardly seemed necessary since anyone could see how he acted around Shona. What kind of man takes a woman on a bare floor in the middle of a factory with no concern as to witnesses?

“I had an adventure last evening,” Rani said. “It is why I am tardy. My room was in disarray. I believe someone thought to take my notes.”

Surprised, he stared at Rani. “Did they?”

Rani bowed slightly. “I no longer take my notes with me,” he said. “I keep them here,” he added, tapping his temple with one finger.

“Someone wants to know what we’ve discovered,” Gordon said.

“General Abbott, perhaps? He is with the army,” Rani said. “They wish something, they take it.”

As Rani should know only too well.

“Come and stay at Rathmhor,” he said. “You’ll be safer there.”

“I am safe enough where I am,” Rani said, shaking his head. “I am not known well, and I am left alone for the most part.”

In other words, Rani preferred his privacy.

“Has no one in the village befriended you?” he asked. The Scots were known for their hospitality, especially in Invergaire.

“I have talked at length with many men,” Rani said. “Some are interested in who I am. Most are more interested in who I am not.”

Rani was an expert at cloaking his words, but Gordon was getting better at deciphering what his friend didn’t say.

“Prejudice is everywhere, Rani.”

“This I know. I am not angry. I am different from your countrymen.”

He put away the broom and headed for the office, Rani beside him.

“We’re fortunate you were wise enough to guard your notes,” he said.

“This is not the first time such a thing has happened,” Rani said, not looking at him.

He stopped and faced the other man. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I’m not entirely certain of it,” he said. “Whoever was in my lodgings did not disturb much.”

“Did they take anything?”

“This I do not know,” Rani said in a subdued voice. “I do not write my notes from that night.”

He couldn’t think of a damn thing to say to reassure Rani, or himself.

We’re interested in seeing what it can do
. Abbott’s words.

Just how far would the War Office go to obtain his blasting powder?

A surge of anger kept him silent. His superior officers had taught him restraint, especially in the presence of rampant stupidity. His own, in this case. First, he’d been effortlessly seduced, and secondly, he hadn’t appreciated the threat General Abbott posed.

Which one was more dangerous: Shona or the War Office?

S
he hadn’t worn her bonnet, and the wind was blowing briskly by the time she made it back to Gairloch. Her breasts ached, Gordon’s seed was drying on her thighs, and shame spread over her skin like fire.

What had she done?

She hadn’t even thrown up her skirts and asked to be taken. She’d taken off her skirts, instead. She’d been as naked as a babe in the Works, and allowed—no, solicited—her own abandonment on the floor.

The sight of Gairloch ahead was almost an admonition.

The sight of Fergus waiting on the road made her sigh.

“Have you been with Gordon?”

Did she even need to answer that? It should be written all over her face. Her lips still tingled with Gordon’s kisses.

“I knew about the cottage,” he said, startling her. “But I didn’t say anything. I should have been a better older brother.”

She kept walking, but slowed her pace so he could match it.

“What do you expect me to say, Fergus? That I was a foolish girl? I was.”
And still am
.

“I thought you needed someone,” he said. “Or maybe I just turned my back. But I won’t allow it now, Shona. I’ll have a talk with him.”

She stopped, turning to face him. “You had a talk with him, before, didn’t you?” Why had she never considered that? “You asked him to marry me, didn’t you?”

“Why do you ask?”

She shook her head. “Don’t avoid the question, Fergus. It’s important. Did you?”

“If I had, what did it matter? He was going to do it himself. He loved you.”

She turned and looked toward Gairloch. “It doesn’t matter,” she said, realizing it was the truth. “It doesn’t matter at all.”