Highland Heat (12 page)

Humming, Grace sorted through the mail, setting aside the two letters from families who'd been invited to her father's upcoming house party.

“Well, aren't you cheery?”

Grace looked up and grinned at her sister, who plopped down into the garden chair beside her.

“What's not to be cheery about? It's a fine day.” It was an exceptionally fine day, which was why Grace had chosen to read the correspondence out on the terrace rather than in the ladies' sitting room upstairs.

One of Claire's brows quirked upward. “So it is. But I'm quite certain I've never caught you humming in response to the weather before.”

Heat rushed to Grace's cheeks. Of course that wasn't the reason she'd been humming at all. But she wasn't about to tell Claire that she'd spent the past week sneaking into Duncan's bedchamber every night. That he'd been teaching her all about the pleasures of the flesh—and she was finding them very pleasurable, indeed. So much so that she spent her days feeling as if she were glowing, awash in the residual sensations of the nights before.

Grace focused on the letter she had opened. “Oh, look. Cousins Thomas and Jane will be coming to the house party. Do you think we should give them the Stag Bedchamber?”

“Grace.” There was a note of warning in Claire's voice.

Grace looked up from the letter, pasting an innocent expression on her face. “Hmm?”

Claire glanced around them as if to make sure they weren't being overheard. Then she leaned forward, her expression serious. “Are you being careful?”

Oh. Oh dear. Grace copied Claire's scan of the nearby area. It appeared free of eavesdroppers. When she turned back to her sister, she was frowning. “What do you mean?”

She knew what Claire meant. But if Claire was going to put her in this position, then Grace was going to force her to explain herself.

“I mean with Duncan Mackenzie,” Claire whispered.

“Careful how?”

Claire blew out a frustrated breath. “Careful to not get caught, for one.”

Grace looked away, over the pink rosebushes that her mother had planted before she was born. She'd always loved these roses. They were in full bloom now, big, bold, fragrant splashes of color.

“I suppose not,” she said quietly, “since you seemed to have caught us.”

Claire groaned softly. “I haven't caught you. But I do know you well, and I've known of your attraction for some time. You're both sleeping in the same house, so it would seem natural for the two of you to…take advantage of that.”

“I'm glad I am so predictable,” Grace said dryly.

Claire grinned. “Actually, this is something reckless enough that I could see myself doing it.”

“So I've taken up my younger sister's habits in my old age?”

“It is rather a surprise to me that I have turned into the sedate matron while you're playing the wildling.”

Grace reached out and squeezed her sister's arm. “You'll never be the sedate matron, Claire.”

Claire laughed. “I think that was a compliment.”

“I suppose it was.” Grace laughed, too, because once upon a time her sister's hellion ways had been the source of endless frustration for her.

Claire put her hand over Grace's. “Please be careful,” she said, her voice dropping once again into a whisper.

Grace nodded, but honestly, she wasn't sure how to be careful with Duncan. Or if being “careful” was even that important to her anymore. Most days she felt like shouting to the world that she was madly in love with Duncan Mackenzie, the handsome Scot, and that he seemed to like her quite a bit too.

Madly in love.

Was that what this was? Love?

Her throat went suddenly dry. If love made a person feel strong and confident, if it gave them physical pleasure and emotional comfort, if it made them feel like they could conquer the world…then, yes. That's exactly what this was.

She was in love with him.

Oh dear.

“Try not to—” Claire stopped abruptly.

“Try not to what?”

Claire sighed. “Get yourself with child. That would be…difficult.”

God, yes, it would. She tried to imagine telling her father that she was with child by one of Major Campbell's Scots. The earl would…Well, he'd kill her. Then he'd kill Duncan. And probably Major Campbell, too, for good measure.

She shuddered, and too mortified to look into her sister's eyes, she nodded. “You're right.”

“So…you've done it, then?” Claire's voice changed from stern and worried to excited and conspiratorial in a heartbeat.

Raking her teeth over her bottom lip, Grace slowly looked up. Then she nodded.

“Oh!” Claire clapped her hands over her mouth and stared at Grace with wide eyes. Then her hands slid downward. “Oh, Grace, darling. I'm so happy for you.”

Only Claire would be thrilled that Grace had bedded a man recklessly and out of wedlock. But Claire had never been bogged down by propriety and expectation like Grace had. Much to the consternation of their tutors and governesses, Claire had always believed in living life to its fullest. If that meant bedding a man just for the experience, then Claire would approve.

They'd spoken at one time of how Grace truly believed she'd die a spinster virgin. Now she still might die a spinster, but she'd most definitely taken the virgin part out of the mix. The current ache between her legs from last night's hours-long encounter with Duncan made that quite apparent.

She smiled, and it was a secret, private smile as she thought of how Duncan had sat her upon his lap last night and told her to ride him. Ride him she had, and his cock had reached places inside her that made her whole body sing with pleasure.

Claire's eyes went wide again. “Ooh. You like it more than you thought you would, don't you?”

Grace's cheeks were on fire, but she told her sister the truth. “Yes, I do. Much more than I ever thought possible.”

Claire tapped her fingers on the metal edge of the tabletop. She gave Grace a sly look. “I've a theory.”

“What's that?”

“I shall call it my Theory of Scots.”

Grace raised her brows. “Oh?”

Claire did yet another quick scan of their environs, then leaned forward again, until she was almost nose to nose with Grace. “All of the married Englishwomen I know consider marital relations to be a wifely duty that ranges from tolerable to highly unpleasant. But I have found it to be quite the opposite. Rob…he's…” She shook her head. “Well, he always ensures that my pleasure comes first. I've never once had an encounter with him I'd consider merely tolerable, and ‘highly unpleasant,' frankly, seems impossible. He's simply…well, he's extraordinary.” She laughed softly. “I could spend the rest of my days with him in bed, honestly, and I'd be a happy woman.”

Grace considered this. She felt the same way about Duncan. “I've heard similar stories. And advice on how to make the experience more tolerable for the poor suffering female. But being with Duncan, it's…” She couldn't think of words to finish the sentence that wouldn't make her sound like an overdramatic, besotted fool.

“But you see,” Claire continued, “all of the ladies I know are married to Englishmen. So it seems the logical conclusion is that Englishmen simply don't understand how to properly please their women. And Scots do.”

Grace covered her mouth to muffle her snort of laughter. “Oh, Claire. That's ridiculous.”

“Not at all,” Claire huffed. “It makes quite a bit of sense to me. I shall encourage each and every one of my unmarried friends to marry Scotsmen. It is the only way to ensure that they will be able to experience the true pleasures of the marital bed.”

“You're terrible,” Grace said through her laugh.

“Terribly honest.” Claire grinned wickedly. She sat back, her gaze wandering over the letters scattered across the table. Frowning, she picked one up and turned it over in her hand. “What's this?”

“I don't know.” She'd really been looking for correspondence regarding the house party and hadn't paid much attention to the other letters. “Who is it from?”

Claire looked up at Grace, her eyes suddenly troubled. “It's for Rob. From the Home Office in London. And it's marked ‘Urgent.' ”

Grace's heart seemed to stop for a moment before beginning a hard drum against her ribs. “Oh dear,” she breathed.

This could be it. The order to return to London that they never spoke of but both women dreaded. For Claire it meant her husband would be leaving her alone yet again, which would test their newfound dedication to each other and to their marriage. For Grace it meant the certain end of her affair with Duncan.

Claire reached out and gripped Grace's forearm. “I don't want them to go.”

“I don't either,” Grace whispered. Then she straightened, culling strength from deep within. “But we don't know what it is for certain. We should wait until the major opens it before we fret.”

Claire nodded and rose woodenly from her chair. “He's in the study with Duncan. I'll bring it to him right now.”

“I'll go with you,” Grace said.

Side by side, they hurried to the study, where both men were reading the newspaper in companionable silence, trading pages back and forth.

The major frowned as his wife entered, immediately picking up on her state of mind—something, Grace noted, that he hadn't been able to do until the moment they'd reunited at little Jamie's gravesite two weeks ago.

“What's wrong?” he asked.

Claire didn't answer, just held out the letter.

He'd turned it over in his hand, looked at Duncan with raised brows, then broke the seal and unfolded the note. The silence in the room was as thick as cream while he read. After a moment, he looked up, not at the women but at Duncan.

“We're summoned back to London.”

Grace closed her eyes. If she was the kind of woman prone to vapors, she would have wilted to the floor at the major's words and be flat on her back by now. But she was not that kind of woman. She straightened her spine and met Duncan's eyes. They stared at each other.

They both knew what this meant.

Claire cleared her throat. “Will you be staying in London? May I go with you?”

The major shook his head. “Nay. We're summoned to London to collect the men. I'm assuming we'll be going to Manchester straightaway after that.”

Duncan had told Grace about the concern regarding insurgents gathering in Manchester, so this came as no surprise to her.

“I want to go with you,” Claire murmured.

Grace watched her brother-in-law. In past years, this would have caused him to go stiff and cold and say that the battlefield was no place for a lady and absolutely no place for any wife of his. But this time, his expression softened, and he came to Claire and gathered her in his arms. “It's too dangerous, my love.”

“I don't care,” Claire said in that stubborn way she had, her voice muffled by the major's broad chest.

He sighed. “We'll talk more about it later, aye?” He kissed her temple and looked at Duncan. “For now, we need to prepare to leave first thing in the morning.”

Grace stared at the floor. It was astonishing how violently her body was reacting to this news. Her muscles felt like rocks. Her stomach felt like it was twisting into knots. A dull pain throbbed at her temples.

After tomorrow, her idyllic time with Duncan would be over. There might be opportunities for them. Stolen moments in their futures, if he came home safe from this mission. But the truth was, she might never have the opportunity to touch him again.

Stolen moments weren't enough, anyway. Being furtive, being “careful,” as her sister had put it—it all seemed so silly now. She wanted Duncan. She wanted all of him. And she didn't want it to end.

It seemed like forever until the sounds of the house died down as the last of the staff retired for the night. Grace had been sitting on the edge of her bed watching a flickering candle burn away a column of wax to a blunt nub.

Finally,
finally
, the house went quiet.

Grace rose and blew out the candle. She didn't bother with a robe, for the night was balmy. Like she had every night for the past week, she made her way in the dark to Duncan's room. Usually when she arrived, his room was as dark as the corridor, but tonight she saw a thin line of light under his door. She hesitated and then quietly knocked as she had every night since the first, when he'd thought her an enemy. She knew now never to make the mistake of sneaking up on him.

She'd hardly finished her second quiet knock when the door opened forcefully. Duncan took her wrist and pulled her inside. He pushed the door shut behind them, then, without preamble, crushed his mouth to hers, backing her against the door until she was trapped between hard wood and a hard body.

She wrapped her arms around him and pulled him close, sighing into his mouth, kissing him just as frantically as he kissed her. He reached behind and grasped her hands—he'd been given permission to remove his sling and bandage three days ago—then raised her arms over her head, trapping her hands to the wood wall.

He held her captive as his body pressed her against the door, and she gasped as the steely ridge of his erection pressed into her stomach. Just the feel of it, insistently masculine, aroused her passion to a near fever pitch, and she writhed under the pressure, wanting more of him, all of him, her center pulsing with need.

He bent down and nipped at her nipples, which had peaked behind the thin cotton of her nightgown. She cried out softly, and he pulled back to stare at her.

His eyes were dark with heat and need, his expression potent with lust. He pressed a finger to her lips.

“Nay. No sounds,” he whispered gruffly. “No words. Understand?”

She nodded. She was trapped, her hands bound by his, her body shoved against a wall, his knee pressing up insistently between her legs. Now he ordered her into silence.

And she'd never felt more aroused. So much so that, while she didn't take her eyes from his, she ground her center down on his knee. Sensation jolted through her, and she gasped, but he swallowed the sound with another deep, hard kiss.

He guided her hands around his neck. “Hold on here, lass.” She clasped her hands together at the back of his neck, the soft brown ends of his hair tickling her knuckles.

He yanked up her nightgown and pushed his hands between her legs, immediately finding the place that always took her to heaven. She blew out a breath, but followed his rule of not making any sound. “Good,” he murmured, licking her earlobe. “You're already wet for me.” His fingers slid easily through the evidence of her arousal, bringing her even higher.

He hooked one of her legs over his hip then moved the pleats of his kilt aside, revealing his turgid erection. Settling his hands under her bottom, he ordered, “Wrap your legs around me.” Again, she complied eagerly, and he hoisted her up until her center slid up and down the length of his cock. He lifted her a bit higher, and she reached down to fit him to her opening.

Oh God…he was going to be inside her. Standing, with her weight half in his arms and half against the wall. She'd never imagined anything so erotic in her life.

He hovered there, holding, staring at her with a look that spread wildfire through her body and scorched her soul.

And then he lowered her onto him.

This time, Grace couldn't help it. She cried out, but she was able to contain it—mostly. It came out as a mew of pleasure. But Duncan frowned and froze. “What did I say?”

She closed her eyes. “No sounds,” she said breathlessly. “No words.”

“Will I have to ask again?”

“No, Duncan.”

“Good,” he murmured silkily. “Because I'll be takin' you against this door. Deep and hard and fast. But I dinna want an audience. Do ye understand?” When she opened her mouth to say yes, he squeezed her bottom, and she gasped.

“Dinna speak again,” he warned, “just nod if you understand.”

She nodded.

He blew out a breath, the challenge of his restraint apparent in the narrowness of his eyes and flatness of the corners of his lips.

Then his expression softened. “Jesus, Grace,” he murmured. “You're so bonny. So perfect.”

And then he began to move. It was just as he'd promised. Deep. Hard. Fast. A storm that blew through her, within moments erupting in an explosion of heat and desire. She came silently, her mouth shut but her body racked with pleasure that burned through every inch of her flesh. She held him tighter, kissing him frantically, tasting the rough skin of his jaw and of his chest as his relentless thrusts started stoking a new fire.

He didn't stop until she came again, pleasure crackling through her like the sparks of a firework. He yanked out of her then pulled her close as he spilled against her stomach, soiling her nightgown and his kilt. But neither of them cared about that.

He carried her to bed when it was over, stripped her, and tucked her beneath the blankets. After divesting himself of his shirt and kilt, he crawled in beside her and pulled her to him, her head lying on the front of his shoulder, her leg draped over both his, his arms tight around her.

They lay like this, wrapped up in each other, for a long while. Both of them were awake, but they didn't need to speak, not yet. Silence had grown to be a comfortable thing between them. A safe place where they could each get lost in their own thoughts without feeling compelled to share them.

Finally, he spoke. “God help me, Grace, but I dinna want to go. I want to stay here with you.”

“I want you to stay.”

“You ken it's no' possible.”

She nodded, then said quietly, “Do you ever wish…?” Her voice trailed off.

“What?” he pressed.

“That…we weren't constrained by society's silly rules.”

“Oh, aye,” he said. “All the time.”

“That people could simply look at us and see that we're…well, that we're
good
together, and simply accept us?”

He nodded.

“Instead of placing us into categories based on not who we are but who we were born to,” she finished bitterly.

His arms tightened around her. “There's no sense in wishing for things that canna be.”

“I know.” She sighed. “It just frustrates me to no end.”

He kissed the top of her head.

“Did you know…the thought of betraying my father would never have crossed my mind before I met you.”

He went very still.

“My duty to my father and to my family and its name has always meant everything to me.”

“Aye,” Duncan said slowly, “but you speak of it in such a bitter tone. Being dedicated to your father and family is something to be proud of, no' to scorn.”

“I suppose. But it all seems so meaningless when I'm with you.” She hesitated, then pressed her body tighter to his. “Duncan?”

“Aye, lass?”

“I wish…we could marry.” She felt more than heard his breath catch, and she plowed ahead. “I wish I could be your wife.”

He was quiet for a long moment, then released a long sigh. “I wish for that, too, Grace.”

“Why can't we marry, then? Why, why, why?” She groaned. “Of course I know why. But it's
so
stupid. Ridiculously stupid.”

He tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “Shh.”

“Sometimes I feel like two different people. The woman I was born to be and the woman I am. And those two are about as opposite as two people can be.”

He trailed his fingertips down her spine; a soft, comforting touch. “I think they've more in common than you might imagine.”

She shook her head stubbornly. “The woman I was born to be is prudish and sanctimonious and thinks herself better than most.”

He laughed. “That might be the lass society wishes you were, but I've seen none of those traits in you, ever. Even when you play the role assigned to you at birth, you are generous and kind. And others may think you a prude, but the aristocratic Grace I know is secretly a vixen.”

“How would you know?” she teased.

“Hmm…you played the part of Aristocratic Grace at dinner tonight, aye?”

She laughed against his skin, remembering how she'd seated him beside her and then cupped her hand over his cock below the tablecloth as the footmen had moved to the other side of the table to serve the duck. “Goodness. I suppose you're right.”

“You are who you are, love. No façade you wear can change who you are inside.”

The words sank into her slowly. Who was she, really, on the inside? How much of a person's identity was tied to their desires? To how they had been raised? To the expectations laid upon their shoulders?

With these thoughts swirling in her head, she drifted off to sleep, only to wake hours later to the pleasant sensation of Duncan's body over her. He made love to her, moving into her body in slow, heavy thrusts. She moved her hands over his chest, his arms, his buttocks, trying to burn every line and angle of his body into her memory.

He pressed his hand between them, touching her in that most sensitive place with firm strokes. It didn't take long before a shuddering orgasm overtook her, making her toes curl and her fingers clench over his biceps as she cried out in release.

When he too had found his pleasure, he sat her up and pulled her nightgown on over her head. Then he wrapped a plaid around himself and drew her into his arms. He carried her to her own room, closing the door behind them and laying her on her bed. He bent down to kiss her gently.

“Sleep now, lass. I'll see you at breakfast.”