Highland Awakening (11 page)

The only place Esme knew to look for Cam was Lord Pinfield's house. If Cam wasn't there, surely another of his Highland Knights colleagues was, and maybe they would tell her where to find him.

In any case, Lord Pinfield's house wasn't far, and if that avenue didn't work, she'd go to Sam's house in Belgrave Square and ask him if he knew where to find Cam.

She pulled on a plain brown pelisse and slipped out of the house unchaperoned as the warmth of the day began to cool into late afternoon. Usually when she left the house during the day she'd go in the company of a maid or footman, but this errand was of a sensitive nature. She'd left the house alone at night many times, but there was a different kind of danger in this escapade, because if someone she knew saw her, they'd question why she was on the streets alone.

So she kept her head down and her eyes focused on the pavement as she took the ten-minute walk to Lord Pinfield's townhouse. She'd been there only once, a few years ago with her mother to offer condolences on the death of his wife. He had one daughter, Esme remembered, who was a few years younger than her. She didn't remember her name, though, and had only seen her once or twice in the past several years. Did Lord Pinfield keep his daughter out of society for some reason?

As she wondered about it, she found herself staring at Pinfield's front door. It was painted black, with shiny brass fittings. She lifted the heavy knocker and rapped it firmly on the thick wood, three times.

She stood and waited until, a minute or so later, the door opened to reveal a tall, thin, and very proper-looking butler. “May I help you?” he asked, looking down his long nose at her.

She drew herself up to her full height, still a good foot shorter than this man. But she was the Duke of Trent's sister, she was an
author,
and she wouldn't cower.

“I am Lady Esme Hawkins. I am here to see Mr. McLeod or one of the other men who's charged with guarding Lord Pinfield.”

The butler was a quintessential English butler, and nary a hint of emotion crossed his face. “I see,” he said dryly. “I shall see if he is available.”

The door clicked shut in her face, and Esme clutched her hands at her front and waited, shifting from foot to foot, thinking of ways she'd refrain from slapping Cam's face when she saw him.

A few moments later, the door opened. It wasn't Cam. It was another man—clearly another Highland Knight, for he was wearing a kilt. He was blond and of average height—a handsome man with sharp, aristocratic features and shrewd blue eyes. He tilted his head at her. “Lady Esme? I am Sir Andrew Innes. McLeod isna here today. Is there something I can help you with?”

“Thank you, Sir Andrew. Do you know where I might find Mr. McLeod?”

Sir Andrew hesitated for the briefest of moments, his eyes narrowed as they assessed her. Then his face relaxed, and he smiled, his decision evidently made. “Of course.”

He gave her an address in Westminster and hailed a hackney for her, apologizing that he couldn't accompany her, he needed to stay with Lord Pinfield. As he walked into the street to hail the hackney, she noted that he had a bit of a limp, favoring his right side slightly—perhaps from a wound he'd received at Waterloo.

“Thank you so much,” she told him as he opened the hackney door for her.

“You're welcome, milady.” He inclined his head, then shut the door.

Evening traffic clogged the streets, and after the better part of an hour the cab arrived at the address Sir Andrew had given. Esme paid the driver and studied the well-kept townhouse of brown stone as traffic clattered behind her. The dark-brown-painted door was covered by a white lintel, with a large square-paned window beside it. There were two windows facing the street from the first and second floors, then a row of smaller windows on the attic level. The house was identical to the two other townhouses flanking it, and very similar to the rest of the houses on the street—all uniform and neat.

She knocked loudly, then waited a few moments and knocked again. Sir Andrew had seemed fairly certain that Cam would be here. She wouldn't give up easily.

It took another five minutes, but finally she heard the lock clicking. The door opened.

Cam stood there, dressed in shirt and kilt, with no coat and bare legs. Dishabille became him. He looked ridiculously handsome this way, like he'd just risen from bed. He blinked at her. “Esme? How did you—?”

She couldn't stop it. Her hand whipped out, and she slapped him, hard, across the cheek. His face whipped to the side with the force of her blow. Then he reached up to cup his cheek in his hand.

“Well,” he said quietly. “Come in, then.”

Fury swarmed in her chest, threatening to burst out of her, encouraging her to slap him again, but she held her fist clenched at her side. “Why should I?” she demanded.

He raised a brow and dropped his hand. Red blotches in the shapes of her fingers bloomed on his cheek. “You came here for some purpose, I assume? Or was it just to slap me?”

“Slapping you wasn't enough,” she snapped.

“Then, please. Come inside so you can slap me some more.” His voice was light, and it infuriated her. All residual traces of the mourning Cam who'd visited her the other night were gone. Only the cocky, overconfident man she'd first met at Mrs. Trickelbank's establishment remained.

She glanced over his shoulder, and he looked back, following her gaze.

“No one's home.” His gaze returned to hers. “It's just you and me, lass. Trust me, you won't be discovered. Though if you stand out here much longer, some passerby is sure to recognize you.”

That got her moving. She stepped in, and he closed the door behind her, immediately crowding her back against it and caging her in with his arms.

“Why are you here, Esme?”

“You…” Emotion crowded her throat, competing with her anger. “You…” She shook her head, looking down. It was all too much, all of a sudden.

He took her chin between his strong fingers and forced her to look at him. “I…what?”

She blinked. “You told him. You told Henry about my writing.”

“Yes, I did.”

She jerked her chin out of his grasp. “You are so unconcerned. Betraying me was nothing to you, was it? I shouldn't have trusted you. I should have—”

“What?” he asked. “What should you have done?”

He must have bathed recently because he smelled of bergamot and soap. And his warmth nearly consumed her.

“I…I thought you were a good man.”

“I've never claimed to be a good man, Esme. I've certainly implied the opposite. This is your naiveté showing.”

“No doubt,” she said bitterly. “I should have guessed you'd have no qualms about ruining my life.”

His blue eyes snapped with sudden electricity. He moved closer, up into her face, his body a hairsbreadth from hers. “Ruining your life? No, lass, I've
saved
your life.”

“You
interfered
with my life,” she countered.

“Only because no one else cared to stop you from destroying it,” he said, his voice hard. “Something had to be done.”

“Don't pretend you know me, Camden McLeod. You don't.”

“I do,” he said.

“You
don't.
And you have no business making decisions about me and my life. You're not my father, my brother, or my husband.”

“Your father's dead,” he growled, and she remembered he still didn't know the truth about her parentage. That was one important secret she'd kept from him, and thank goodness for that. “You have no husband,” he continued. “And your brother knows nothing of your secrets.”

“He does now!” she cried. “Thanks to you!”

Cam went still, his muscles tense, his expression dangerous. “What? Whitworth told him?”

“No!” she exclaimed. “I did. I had to—otherwise I'd have had to develop some intricate lie about the ending of my engagement, and I couldn't do that. I couldn't out-and-out lie to him like that.”

Cam relaxed, and the truth struck her like an anvil. “You!” she gasped.

He arched a brow.

“You're the reason Henry promised not to tell anyone, aren't you?” Her blood was fire in her veins—rushing and scorching hot. Anger mixed with his nearness, and this new revelation…

“I forbade him to tell anyone,” Cam said mildly. “ 'Tis no one's business, after all. Just yours. And,” he added dryly, “your future husband's. I had the distinct impression that if I didn't threaten him with his neck, he'd ruin your reputation out of sheer pettiness.”

Cam's impression was right—it was why she'd been so surprised when Henry had told her he intended to divulge her secret to no one. “But
why
?”

“I told you,” Cam said patiently. “The purpose of telling him was to save your life, not ruin it.”

“But…”

“Admit it. I was right. Henry Whitworth is wrong for you.”

“I…” She shook her head, clamping her mouth shut stubbornly. He moved closer, until his lower body pressed against hers. Oh…Lord.

“Admit it,” he said huskily.

She squeezed her eyes shut. “You had no right.”

He ground his teeth. “Do you think I'm a man who'd just stand by and watch someone I care about be dragged into a miserable marriage?”

Cam's breath whispered across her cheek. The heat in her blood had reduced to a low simmer, and her skin prickled, drawn to his skin, aching to feel it pressed against her.

She closed her eyes. Cam had overstepped his bounds. He had betrayed her trust. He had done something she never would have agreed to.

But he'd saved her from marrying Henry Whitworth. And now that she was freed of the engagement, she realized what folly it would have been to marry that man.

She was confused. She hated Cam. Or she
should
hate him, but she couldn't quite bring herself to.

Because…ultimately, he was right. She had been so blind. She might have never seen the truth clearly until it was too late and she'd committed herself to a man who would never accept her for who she really was.

“I dinna want your hatred.” Cam's voice was soft now. “I kent I might have it, after talking to Whitworth. But…” He faltered for a second, and his dark eyelashes fluttered as he looked down, then up again. “I couldna stand by and watch you marry that bastard. It would've killed me.”

Her body jerked in response to the raw honesty in his words, and she pressed herself closer to him, finally letting go and allowing herself to slip her arms around him.

“He wasna good enough for you,” he whispered. “Not nearly good enough.”

She closed her eyes and sighed as his lips touched hers. The kiss started soft, then became stronger. He pushed her lips open, swept the inside of her mouth with his tongue, and she responded in turn, tasting him, trying to go deeper. She wanted all of him.

And yet…a part of her was still angry. He'd betrayed her. He could kiss her a thousand times and that bitter truth would never disappear. She let the anger flow through her body, felt her movements grow stronger, her fingers curl into his shirt, digging into the muscles of his back.

“Oh Christ,” he groaned, pulling back and looking at her with such blazing intensity she shivered. “You're driving me mad.”

He kissed her again, his lips hot and hungry.

Desire flared within her like a wildfire. Now that she was no longer promised to anyone, the walls of her inhibitions crumbled to dust. She wanted him as fervently as any of the heroines in her novels wanted their heroes. More, perhaps.

“I want you,” she said boldly, between frantic kisses to his stubble-roughened jaw, running her hands over his body, exploring him as much as she could over his clothes. “I can do what I wish now. I'm free.”

“Thanks to me,” he gritted out, then his teeth closed gently over her ear, and she gasped.

“Thanks to you. And I still hate you for it.” She shuddered, a bone-deep shake that originated in her core and radiated outward. “I hate you so much, Cam. But I also want you. Is that crazy?”

“Nay, I dinna think so. Because you're fragile and upset, and I'm going to take direct advantage of your state and take you to bed. What do you think about that?”

“Do it.”

“I told you I wasna a good man,” he murmured, dragging his lips over her jaw. She tilted her head up to give him better access. “A better man would send you home.”

“I don't want a better man. I want you.”

He pulled back again, his gaze suddenly deadly serious, his grip hard on her shoulders. “I didna tell Whitworth so I could trick you into my bed. You ken that, right?”

“I don't care about that right now, Cam. I really,
really
don't.”

He stared at her for a long moment, then heat replaced the concern in his expression, and he dragged her against him, bending down to whisper into her ear, “I intend to make you scream, lass. With pleasure…although this first time, it might be from pain. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” She shuddered at the realization he planned to do this more than once.

He kissed her eyebrow, his lips soft as he nuzzled her forehead. “Say you want it. Say, ‘Take me to your bed, Cam.' ”

She obeyed but took it a step further. “Take me to your bed, Cam. I want it. I want
you.
Take me as you see fit. Show me
everything.
”

Cam pulled back, surprise freezing him for a second, then he scooped her into his arms. Truly, there was no woman in the world like Esme Hawkins.

She laughed, wrapping her arms around his neck as he carried her down the corridor and up a narrow set of stairs. He took her into his functional bedchamber, the plain bed and bureau shadowed in the dimming early evening sunlight, and laid her on the quilt.

As he turned to lock the door, he heard her sigh as she stretched out on the bed. After he'd secured the bolt, he turned back to face her and just stood there for a long moment, studying her.

“Bonny Esme,” he murmured. He wanted to ravish her, show her
everything,
just as she'd requested. But some stranger had piped up, a voice inside himself that told him to be gentle. That she was a virgin and he didn't want to hurt her. That he cared for this woman, and he wanted to make it special for her.

In fact, with a woman like Esme, it told him, he should probably marry her first.

He blinked hard at that one. Clearly he'd lost his sense. Marriage would be a mistake for him. One he had no intention of making.

But that voice inside mocked him. He might have never wanted to marry, but this woman…he could marry her. She would make him happy.

Too bad he didn't have the capability to make her happy in return.

He stalked toward her. She stared up at him with shining dark eyes. She didn't look at him with trust, though. There was a wariness there, lurking on the fringes of her expression.

She didn't trust him. She shouldn't trust him. It was no surprise, after what he'd done, but for some reason one of the fissures on his heart cracked wide open.

He climbed onto his bed and drew her into his arms. He didn't want to think about trust or marriage, and those disturbing thoughts quickly vanished as he took little sips of her mouth, then moved over her so he could kiss her more thoroughly. He kissed her jaw and the soft, slender column of her neck. She lifted her chin to give him more access, her fingers making long swipes over his shoulders, her eyes closed as she hummed her approval.

He propped himself on one hand so he could unbutton her pelisse, then he urged her up to a seated position so he could slip it off her arms and toss it away. He arranged her on his lap while he worked on the tapes of her dress, moving slowly down her back, taking his time with each one.

He loved her taste. He loved how she kissed him back with eager, inexperienced, hungry kisses. He could kiss her all day…all night.

Kissing her all night, every night, having her lie beside him, her warmth and heat and sweetness…That would be bliss.

Stop.
He needed to stop these intruding thoughts of the future. He didn't need to be thinking about anything but this moment right now, and the soft, pliable woman in his arms.

He slipped her dress from her shoulders, and she pulled back and looked at him. “Cam…”

“Hmm?” He looked into her eyes, and a potent mixture of affection and awe spread through him.

“You really don't care about my writing?”

“Your writing?”

“Are you sure that it doesn't make you think less of me?”

He drew her close to him, pressing his lips into her hair. “I already told you, lass. It makes me think more of you. It is a part of you I canna help but respect. I ken what your life has been like, Esme. My sister was raised in a similar environment, though it was probably less demanding and stringent than yours, as you were raised the daughter of a duke and she was only the daughter of a Scottish earl. What you have done with your passion, despite the obstacles you faced and continue to face, shows braveness and commitment.”

“No one else thinks like you do,” she whispered.

He grinned. “Aye, well, that's true. Now kiss me again.”

She did, dragging him in for a long, erotic kiss. When she pulled away, they were both panting, and his cock was as hard as an iron spike.

He laid her back down, dragging her dress over her hips, peppering kisses across her body on his way. She possessed feminine curves in all the right places. He had to rid her of her chemise and stays as quickly as possible. He wanted to touch all her hidden spots, cup her breasts in his hands, run his palms along the dips in her waist.

Once her dress was off, he unlaced her stays and pulled them free, then tugged her chemise up over her head. Now she was naked except for her stockings, shoes, and her ribbon garters tied just below her knees.

Cam reared up to look at her. She lay on the bed, staring at him with shining eyes as he moved his hands over her chest, testing the weight of her breasts. Set free from the confines of her clothes, they spilled over his palms, heavy and warm and soft. His mouth watered with the need to taste them, but instead, he moved downward, stroking the curves of her waist and her flared hips. A dark vee of hair hid her womanhood, and he pressed his palm to it.

She jerked in his hands, but he kept going, stroking over her smooth thighs and knees to the ribbon garters. “We'll leave these on,” he said softly. “We wouldna want you to feel naked.”

“You're right,” she gasped. “Removing those would make me feel utterly exposed.”

He glanced up at her face to see her smiling at him.

“Are you nervous?” he whispered.

“I'm always nervous,” she said shakily. “But this…I feel as if…as if I'm going to explode.”

“Do you like showing me your body?”

She seemed to consider this for a moment, then she said, “I like the way you look at it.”

That made his smile broaden. “You have a bonny form, Esme. I could look at it all night long. There are so many things I want to do to it, but that will take days. Years, mayhap.”

“There's always tomorrow,” she said breathily.

He laughed. “Aye, and the day after.”

“And the day after that…”

He pulled off his shirt and tossed it to the floor. Then, as she watched, he worked on the buckles of his kilt. “Fair's fair,” he murmured. “If I were wearing my stockings, I'd keep them, but alas, you'll be seeing all of me, I'm afraid.”

“Good,” she said firmly.

On his knees over her thighs, he unbuckled his kilt and drew it away. His cock fell heavily, jutting out, still painfully hard.

Esme gasped, staring at it with wide eyes. “Goodness…I…it's…”

“Touch it,” he commanded.

She reached out and wrapped her palm around it as if she knew what she was doing. She stroked him, and Cam closed his eyes on a groan. “How'd you learn how to do this so well?”

She chuckled, so low it sounded like a purr. “The ladies at Mrs. Trickelbank's establishment insisted I practice on cucumbers.”

Cam choked out a laugh that she strangled immediately by squeezing harder.

“Does it feel good?”

He opened his eyes to see her gazing at him, her expression curious. “Too good.”

Damn it, he didn't want her to let go, but he needed to prepare her. He wanted her to enjoy this, at least a little.

There was that unfamiliar voice again. He felt different somehow. Changed. But he couldn't analyze it right now, not with a beautiful naked woman lying under him, stroking his cock and looking at him with big brown eyes that he could drown in.

He curled his own hand over his cock and guided her in three strong jerks that nearly made his eyes roll back in his head. Then he peeled her hand away. “My turn,” he murmured as he lowered his mouth to her nipple.

Oh Christ. He could bury himself in the soft mounds of her breasts. He could dedicate his life to suckling her, to teasing the taut peak of her nipple. He closed his eyes and feasted on her, swirling around the tip with his tongue, moaning when her fingers dove into his hair and held him pressed against her.

Cupping her breast, he moved to the other one, flicking one nipple with his thumb and the other with his tongue. Above his head, she made sweet gasping sounds, her fingers digging into his scalp.

He loved women's breasts. They were feminine and foreign, soft and supple, so different from anything on his own body. And Esme's breasts were the most beautiful he'd ever seen. Large, ripe, and dark-nippled, with peaks that drew out easily as he suckled them. And sensitive, if her gasps of pleasure were any indication.

He lost track of time, trailing his lips and tongue over her mounds. He went from one to the other and back again, until she writhed beneath him, each of her breaths emerging in short, sharp gasps.

But there was more, so much more for him to discover. Eventually he moved downward, over her stomach and her hip bones, until he reached the triangle of hair that hid her womanhood.

“Let me kiss you here,” he murmured.

“Yes,” she gasped, and she said it like she knew that was exactly what she wanted, not like a virgin who'd never heard of such a thing. She even gave him an encouraging push.

He adjusted himself so he was no longer straddling her body; instead, he pushed her legs apart at the knees and settled himself between them.

He started by touching her, learning her. Studying what made her shiver and moan. He stroked her thoroughly, from the top of her and downward, to the place he'd sink into her—soon, if his cock had anything to say about it.

But for now, this was about her. Watching her, learning that she liked it better when he stroked around the nubbin at the top of her slit than when he touched it directly. She was sensitive everywhere he touched, though, and when he pushed a single finger into her sheath, she moaned, long and low, her passage tight around him.

She was a virgin. He'd known that, but her tightness confirmed it. God, how would he fit? He lowered his head, kissing the small space above his finger as he withdrew it then slid inside her again.

“Oh God,” she murmured. “Oh. God.”

And he'd discovered yet another thing that would be able to consume him all night. Kissing her mouth, her breasts, her sex. All of those activities would keep him happily occupied for the rest of his days.

She had a sweet taste, like honeysuckle, and she was so responsive, wetness eased his way. He crooked his finger, slid it along her inner wall, and she shuddered around him.

“Cam,” she whispered. “Ohhhh…” Her thighs tightened around his shoulders.

He closed his eyes. God help him. He was thrusting his hips into the mattress in a fruitless attempt at soothing his raging need.

Keeping his finger firmly lodged inside her, he looked up. “I need you, Esme.”

“Yes,” she said.

“It's going to hurt,” he warned.

“I'm not afraid of pain.”

That made him blink in surprise. The duke's sister had a surprise for him at every turn, it seemed.

He kissed his way up her body, resuming the stroke of his finger inside her, keeping his finger crooked the way she seemed to like.

He hovered over her, watching carefully as he pulled his finger out then pushed in again, caressing her inner walls.

“Does it feel good?”

“So…so good.”

He smiled and settled into watching her as he moved his finger inside her, eventually squeezing in a second finger even though she was so tight he worried he might hurt her.

“Oh, Cam. Yes…there!” she gasped.

The corner of his lips quirked up. “You've done this to yourself before, haven't you?”

She just smiled at him, her expression knowing. Vixen and virgin. God…he'd never witnessed such appealing reactions from a woman in his life.

He realized he was thrusting his pelvis against her hip, so focused on his ministrations on her body he'd almost forgotten his own needs. But his cock was near to bursting. He needed relief…soon, or this would be over before it had ever even started.

He kissed her, letting her taste herself on his lips before sliding down her body once again and putting his lips to that sensitive nubbin above his finger. He kissed her deeply there, then closed his eyes and sank into playing with her body, responding to the subtle shifts of tension in her legs and in her channel as his fingers continued to surge in and out of her.

She grew tighter on his fingers, and her legs tightened over his shoulders. Her nub grew taut, and above him, her pants grew louder until she let out a low keen with every breath. She clutched the bedcovers on either side of her body.

Again, he curled his fingers, touching that sensitive spot just inside her channel. Her hips would have bucked off the bed if he hadn't been holding her down.

And then she came. In glorious pulses that he could feel shuddering through her entire body. She throbbed around his fingers and under his tongue, where he could feel the blood rushing through this most sensitive part of her. She sobbed, her hand clutched his shoulder, clawlike, and her nails pressed into his flesh.

He licked and stroked her through the orgasm, and finally, when her muscles had relaxed, he slipped his fingers out of her and once again moved up her body, this time kissing her sweat-slicked skin softly, because she jumped when he touched her, as if every inch of her had become oversensitive.

Finally, he was hovering above her, poised at her entrance. Still panting from her orgasm, she blinked her eyes open to look at him.

“Yes, Cam,” she said. “Don't ask. Just…please. I need you inside me now.”

“Well, who'm I to disagree with that?” he asked, his voice tempered by a sharp mixture of arousal and humor.

His cock didn't need adjusting. It was in the perfect place—the notch at the outside of her sex, as if it knew exactly where it needed to be to find its pleasure and ultimate peace.

He pushed into her. He didn't thrust in, tearing his way through her virginity, but he pushed slowly and steadily. She was tight as hell, and pleasure ran up his cock, sparking throughout his entire body.

Finally, he was all the way in, buried to the hilt inside her.

He opened his eyes to look at her. Her eyes were squeezed shut, her mouth open in a tiny
O.