Highland Heat (9 page)

“What about me?”

“I…” Grace's tongue darted out to swipe over her bottom lip. “I want to make you feel good too,” she whispered.

“Do ye ken how to go about doing that?”

She shook her head. “I've really no idea,” she said honestly. “But Claire has given hints that it is possible. She said that the major—”

He raised his hand to stop her. God knew, he had no interest in hearing anything about the major and Lady Campbell's carnal relationship. And he'd bet his dirk that if the major found out he knew anything about the way Lady Campbell touched him, he'd skin Duncan alive.

“Do ye feel me?” he asked in a husky voice, flexing his arse so his cock pressed up against her bottom.

She gazed at him, her big blue eyes full of innocence and wonder…and heat. That flash of erotic desire that made him even harder.

Gently, he moved her off his lap so she sat beside him on the sofa. He took her hand and pressed her palm over his cockstand, nearly groaning aloud when her fingers instinctively curled around him.

She gazed inquisitively at him. “Does it feel good when I touch you like this?”

“Verra good. So good…” He closed his eyes as she began to stroke him over the wool of his kilt, exploring him, her fingers inquisitive. When she pressed harder, he did groan, the sound emerging low and ragged from his throat. It had been a long time since he'd been with a woman. And this woman was like no other he'd ever touched.

She took the cue and squeezed him again, this time tighter, and he saw stars. “It doesn't hurt?” she asked.

“Nay.”

“Would it hurt if I squeezed as tight as I could?”

His lips twisted. “I doubt it. Though there are things that can hurt.”

“Like a blow to the ballocks?” she asked, her voice so full of innocence and curiosity as she asked that he almost choked with laughter. Another blast of stars across his vision as she squeezed him again, this time tighter.

“Aye,” he said, chuckling while at the same time thrusting up into her hand, “a blow to the ballocks is about as painful a thing as I've ever experienced.” He reached up and wrapped his hand around her neck, drawing her close. “Where'd you hear about that?”

She laughed softly. “As much as a girl is sheltered, it is impossible to keep her from knowing everything. I saw one of the groomsmen getting kicked by a foal in that area when I was a girl.”

“Och.” Duncan's brows drew together in sympathy.

“He recovered,” she said. “But honestly, for several moments I thought he actually might die.”

“He probably felt like it.” Duncan pulled her an inch closer, and their mouths touched. “Kiss me now,” he said against the soft pucker of her lips.

She kissed him, running her hand up and down his cock, squeezing him from top to bottom. The pleasure her lips and hand wrought on him was so intense, Duncan's eyes slammed shut.

And then her hand left him to trail down the length of his kilt, bunching it in her hand and pulling it up as she moved downward. Then, still kissing him but now making little gasping noises into his mouth, she reached beneath the wool and stroked his bare cock.

His fingers tightened on her neck, pressing her closer to him. Her palm felt like silk on his hot, swollen skin.

Using the pads of her fingers, she stroked up and down, exploring him from base to tip, paying special attention to the sensitive head—so much so he fought not to squirm. God, she was a tease. It was still a struggle to keep still, to keep hold of his control, to not take what his body so desperately wanted from her.

“Does this feel good?” she asked, pulling away far enough so she could see his expression. Both of them were breathing hard.

“Aye,” he said gruffly. “It keeps getting better.”

“What about this?” She curled her fist around his girth and gave his cock a firm pump.

He emitted an undecipherable sound, and she laughed, evidently pleased with this power she had over him.

And then she did it again, and again.

Duncan laid his head back on the sofa and gave in to the urge to thrust into her hand, to tell her what he was feeling, what he needed. “Aye, lass, that's it,” and “God, that feels good,” and “Right there, squeeze me hard,” and “Stroke the head with your thumb.”

She was responsive, doing everything he asked with enthusiasm, her own arousal evident by her flushed cheeks, quick breaths, and lust-filled eyes. When her fingers danced over his cockhead, he couldn't speak anymore, the sensation was so strong.

His ballocks tightened against his body, and heat began to coil at the base of his spine. Holy hell, he was going to come. He blinked hard, attempting to reel himself in. “Grace, I—”

“You're growing bigger,” she breathed.

“Aye, because…” Her fingers tightened on him, and he gulped in air. Did he want this? Here and now? His mind was too boggled to answer that question. But it didn't matter. His body was too far gone.

He lost his tenuous grip on his control. His buttocks tightened and he thrust hard into her hand, imagining her sweet tightness wrapped around him, squeezing him from top to bottom, the look of ecstasy on her face as he slid his hot, hard flesh against her softness.

With a low groan, he came. Pleasure coursed through his body, jerking his limbs and releasing in great pulses of seed from his cock. It seemed to go on forever—his body shaking as it released his pent-up desire.

Duncan had never been a man made for celibacy, but the last half a year on the march had masked his carnal desires. Yet his needs weren't gone at all—they had just been lurking behind his duty. Waiting for someone like Lady Grace to come along and tear down his shields and make him feel like a man again.

He turned his heavy head to look at Grace through slitted eyes. She was staring at him, her eyes big and blue with shock, her mouth rounded in a little O. Her hand, though, was still wrapped tight around him. Slowly, she moved it over him, her palm lubricated by his seed.

And just like that, Duncan knew she could do it all over again. He shuddered under her hand.

“Is this your seed?” she asked breathlessly, moving her fingers through the fluid that had erupted from his cock. “That could give me a child if we…”

“Aye,” he whispered, and then shuddered again. He was so damn sensitive now, and before his erection had gone completely down, it started to rise again.

Tempting as it was to allow her to bring him to fulfillment once again, he slid his gaze to the clock over the mantel and then pressed his hand over hers, stilling her movement. “I just came. It's more sensitive afterward.”

“You came.” She seemed to play with the word on her tongue, saying it aloud as if it was the first time she'd ever used the word in this context—and it probably was. “Did it feel good?”

He snorted. “
Good
would be an understatement, lass. It felt like heaven had come down and wrapped itself around my body.”

“Really?” she breathed.

He nodded solemnly.

She considered that for a moment, then smiled. “I liked it too. It brings me pleasure to bring you pleasure. Can I do it again?”

Good God. Had he actually died and
gone
to heaven? He wished fervently that they were alone. That they were married and she was all his. He'd suspected all along she would be an eager student. And she was innately sensual and beautiful. If they spent the rest of their days in bed, he'd never tire of her body.

He shook his head. “Nay, not today.” He winced then, because saying “not today” implied there might be a tomorrow. And while he hoped to hell there was a tomorrow, there was a large probability there wouldn't be.

“Are you sure?” she whispered, looking confused again.

“Aye. In any case, your sister will be back soon.”

She glanced at the clock and sighed, withdrawing her hand. She looked at the sheen of fluid on her fingers, then rubbed them together, studying them. He took her hand and wiped it clean with the edge of his kilt. Then he wiped himself off and spread his kilt back down over his thighs.

When he was done, she looked into his eyes. “I want you to be my first, Duncan.”

“Your husband should be your first,” he said softly.

“I'll never marry,” she said. “How could I, after having met you?”

He stroked her cheek. “Your da will want ye to marry, lass. You're his eldest.”

She shrugged. “No proper gentleman wants me. Which is fine with me, because I'll have none of them, either.”

“What do ye mean, no proper gentleman wants you?”

“There are some who want me because I am an heiress, and some who want to link themselves to my family. But none who truly want me for me. I don't fit the image of the perfect English bride.”

He stared at her, utterly bewildered. “How's that?”

“Well, first of all, I'm probably about half a foot taller than most of the men in my father's circle. None of them would be able to fathom marrying an Amazon who's creeping up on six feet.”

He was silent.

“It is not very fashionable to be tall, you know.”

“That's ridiculous,” he said.

“Ah, but you're taller than me, so you might not be as bothered by it as other men.”

“No one should be bothered by it. You're…
statuesque
.”

She laughed. “And people find me dull.”

His brows shot up. “How?”

“Well, I tend to be rather shy. I'm certainly not as talkative with most other people as I am with you. You…bring me out of my shell.”

“I havena seen you shy,” he said. Except for all the blushing, he supposed. But she'd never been the closed-off, retiring sort in his presence.

“There wasn't much room for it when I was in a battlefield, surrounded by dead men and searching desperately for one who might be still alive.”

“Aye, I suppose not.”

“A dinner party or a ball is a whole different matter. I can be polite enough as a hostess, but when someone starts to be interested in me as a person, I can hardly force myself to string a few words together in response to someone's question. And ultimately what I do string together sounds awkward and silly.”

“I'd sound silly at a dinner party surrounded by earls and dukes and such,” Duncan said, “but I've my doubts you do.” She had been raised in this life, after all.

“And…well, I am rather plain.”

He took her chin in his hand and stared hard at her. “Dinna speak of yourself like that. You are the bonniest woman I know.”

Her expression softened. “No…”

“Yes,” he said, his voice hard, “you are.”

She stared at him for a long moment, her eyes searching his face. “Do you really mean that?”

“Aye, I do.”

She gave him a soft smile then buried her head against his chest. “I…I like you so much, Duncan. I've never felt with anyone the way I feel with you.”

“ 'Tis the same for me,” he said quietly.

“When will I see you again?” she asked.

“I dinna ken,” he said truthfully.

She sighed heavily. “Maybe…my father would be able to accept this. Accept
you
. Eventually.” But she didn't sound at all confident in that, and Duncan closed his eyes. Nay. After seeing the earl today, the cold way he'd looked at him, Duncan knew he'd never gain that man's approval.

Grace pulled back. “I'm dreaming impossibilities, aren't I?”

He nodded slowly, wishing like hell it were different, that he could somehow find a way to gain her father's approval. The major's approval…society's approval. But ultimately, what did he have to offer a fine lady like Grace? Nothing. And that was the bald, plain truth.

His gut felt like it had been rolled in shards of glass. What was he thinking, allowing himself to get so close to a lady of her status? Allowing her to start having feelings for him? Encouraging those feelings?

He should push her off him right now. But he couldn't bring himself to. He pulled her closer.

Just then there was a knock at the door. Grace leapt off his lap, patting her hair—half of which had fallen from its pins—her eyes wild as the key turned in the lock.

Duncan smiled at her as she settled in the armchair, her back straight, and grabbed a cup of tea—incidentally it had been his cup, but that hardly mattered.

Lady Campbell entered and stopped just inside the threshold as Duncan rose to his feet to greet her. Grace's sister looked back and forth between the two of them before seeming to collect herself. “I'm so sorry that took so long, but…well…it's time to go.”

“Of course, milady.” Duncan turned to smile at Grace, but it was a forced smile. “It was…good…to see you again, milady.”

She looked down, and the tips of her ears turned scarlet. “And you as well, Mr. Mackenzie.”

Lady Campbell went to her sister and kissed her goodbye, whispering something in her ear as Duncan waited for her by the door. He let the lady go out first, and as he left, he cast a long glance over his shoulder to see Grace one more time. She was watching him, her eyes big and blue, her hair glinting gold in the sunlight filtering through the gauze covering the window.

Leaving her felt like he was leaving part of himself behind.

Grace performed her duties that afternoon in a mild haze. She couldn't stop thinking about what Duncan had done to her. How Duncan made her feel.

Fortunately, her father dined at his club that night, so Grace ate alone, happy not to have to face him. She wondered if people could see in her face that she'd changed somehow, that Duncan's touch had altered something essential inside her.

After dinner, she wandered the quiet house. She needed to check the menus for the rest of the month, write to the servants at Norsey House, send out the formal invitations for the house party, hire a replacement for one of the housemaids, who'd left to marry a chimney sweep…

What was this life she found herself in? Why did she suddenly yearn for something else?

The truth was, she had no idea what a day-to-day life with Duncan would be like. All she could imagine was lying with him in tangled sheets, him touching her, her exploring his masculine body…

She took a deep breath and stopped in the middle of the upstairs corridor. She bent her head, squeezing the bridge of her nose hard between two fingers.

She needed to write those invitations.

Grace walked to her room and to her desk, where she pulled out her quill and ink and her stationery. She wrote for hours, painstakingly penning each invitation in her most elegant hand.

When she finished with the invitations, she opened her diary. She began by taking note of the weather, like always:
The day was fair; 67 degrees; a few clouds. Finalized details on transition to Norsey House with Mrs. Fitch. Received word Mrs. Miller from the village was delivered of a healthy baby girl. Purchased hunting boots for the earl from M. Garner & Co.; selected fabrics (muslin, wool, satin) for winter carriage dress, plus pelisse and dinner gown. My sister and Mr. Mackenzie visited in the afternoon. Claire left us alone, and he touched me. He made me feel—

Here she stopped, staring at the words. Good heavens. She looked over her shoulder in panic, sure that someone was standing behind her, reading what she'd just written. There was no one, of course. Her room was empty. She hastily tore out the sheet of paper from her diary, crumpled it, and tossed it into the flames of the fire.

McLeod sat in the drawing room, across from Duncan, his legs stretched out and crossed negligently at his ankles. Beside him sat Samuel Hawkins, a former English spy from the Agency, a group similar to the Highland Knights but much older and more established. Hawkins would be with them for the next few weeks, acclimating them to their new roles and teaching them the subtleties of their duties.

Unlike the Agency, whose task was more focused upon eliminating established threats all over the United Kingdom, the Highland Knights would be infiltrating and investigating various potential threats. Their work would be done mostly in Northern England and Scotland, though they would be spending quite a bit of time in London as well.

Hawkins was about the major's age, broad-shouldered with dark hair and intelligent dark eyes. He was a quiet, serious man, who'd obviously seen and done a great deal in his work for the Agency.

That didn't stop McLeod, though. McLeod would try to get a rise out of a rock if he thought there was any chance of being successful.

“I've met your brother,” McLeod told Hawkins.

Hawkins raised a brow. “Which brother? I've four of them.”

“Ah…well, I've heard the rumors.” McLeod gave a negligent shrug.

“Rumors?”

“Aye. That you're not all exactly blood relations, ye ken?”

Duncan saw the flash of anger in the older man's eyes and wondered at McLeod's tendency to play with fire. He'd get himself in trouble one day if he wasn't careful.

But the anger disappeared almost as soon as Duncan had seen it. Hawkins gave McLeod a scrutinizing look. “Those kinds of statements will get you far in this business, I daresay. If they don't get you killed first.”

McLeod laughed, and Stirling said, “He'll probably get himself killed.”

“ 'Tis good he has us,” said Ross, the fiery redhead who'd been a lieutenant in McLeod's company. “He'd've been kilt a dozen times over if the 92nd hadna been at his back, hacking away at every enemy lookin' at him with murder in their eyes.”

McLeod smirked. “Bit of an exaggeration,” he informed Hawkins. “I'd say only
half
a dozen times.”

Laughter filled the room. Even Hawkins smiled. Duncan glanced over at Stirling, who was staring out the window, a dark expression on his face. He looked as though he hadn't heard a word of the conversation, although McLeod was by all accounts his closest friend.

The major rose and went to Stirling, placing a hand on his shoulder, which seemed to jolt him back to the here and now. Duncan looked away, not wanting to draw attention to them. He had a feeling that would only make it worse.

Fraser, who was sitting beside Duncan, leaned forward. “Do ye have any idea what our first task for the Crown might be, sir?” he asked Hawkins.

Hawkins fingered the rim his glass, which contained port left over from dinner. “I do.”

The room went silent, all attention turning to Hawkins.

“What is it?” McLeod asked.

“An insurgent group has formed in Manchester. It's a small cell but grows daily, and by all accounts they have the backing of some powerful men.”

“Which men?” Innes asked. Of them all, Duncan knew Lieutenant Andrew Innes the least. He had been in McLeod's company and had rarely crossed paths with Duncan. He was tall and blond, with angular features. He was less talkative than the other Knights, preferring listening over speaking, though he seemed very pleasant. Duncan was certain that it must have been his connection to the Marquess of Lochleid that had brought him here with the rest of them.

“There's one clear leader, but it seems he has many lieutenants, and I'll acquaint you with all of them—as much as we know—in the next few days,” Hawkins said. “But your first task will involve infiltrating this group—discovering exactly who is and who isn't involved, and to what extent, and learning about their plans.”

Fraser grinned. “I canna wait to go north. London is a wee bit crowded for my tastes.”

“I daresay Manchester won't be much better,” Hawkins said.

“Have ye been there?”

“I have. It's a large town.” His gaze went to the major. “You've a house there, haven't you?”

“Close by,” said the major. “To the north of the city, and Hawkins is right. If it's country you're looking for, ye'll no' be findin' it in Manchester.”

“I dinna think it's country he's looking for.” Ross smirked at Fraser, his blue eyes snapping under his shock of red hair. “I think it's Scotland.”

The rest of the men nodded in understanding. It had been over two years since Duncan had seen the bonny mountains and lochs of the Highlands. He knew that some of the men hadn't been home for even longer. McLeod had mentioned once that he hadn't seen Scotland since he was a lad of fourteen.

Even Hawkins smiled in understanding, and Duncan liked him for that. He wasn't one of those Englishmen who looked down upon them for being Scottish. He treated them like equals, like the competent men they were.

“You'll have your chance to be in Scotland soon enough,” Hawkins said. “But we wanted to keep this one a bit closer to home, since it's your first. Only a two days' ride from London, if you should need to send for help from headquarters.”

McLeod snorted. “Two days if you're riding like the hounds of hell are nippin' at your heels.”

“True enough,” Hawkins said, “but you'll find yourself chased by the hounds of hell more often than you'd like in this line of work.”

For the first time, Duncan wondered what they'd really gotten themselves into.

The next morning, as Grace was once again at her desk, rewriting her diary entry from yesterday with what she hoped would be a calmer mind, her door suddenly flew open with such force it banged against the wall.

She spun around, her hand slapping to her chest. Her sister stood at the threshold. “Good Lord, Claire! What are you—”

“I have to go. Will you go with me?”

Grace frowned. “Go? Where?” And then she saw her sister's pale cheeks and red eyes, and her heart sank straight down to her toes.

“To Norsey…House.” Anguish surged and broke in Claire's voice.

Grace closed her eyes. Damn that man. The major had done it again. He'd broken her sister's heart.

She rose and went to close the door behind Claire. She took Claire's hands in her own and chafed them. “Your hands are so cold. What happened, dear?”

Claire's lower lip trembled. “I need to go see him.”

“We'll have to—”

“I need to see him today.”

Him?
Oh God. Grace had been so distracted by all that was happening, she'd forgotten. How could she have forgotten?

It was her little nephew's birthday tomorrow. Of course that would be foremost on Claire's mind.

Grace blinked hard, fighting tears, remembering the worst day of her sister's—and her own—life. It was the day they'd lain Claire's sweet little seven-day-old baby boy to rest. She put her arms around Claire and drew her close, stroking her back soothingly. “Yes, yes, of course. We'll go to him today. As soon as we can get the carriage ready.”

Claire sniffed and buried her face in Grace's shoulder. “Thank you. Thank you so much, Grace.”

Grace's work would have to wait. She would drop anything and everything for Claire today. Her sister needed her, and she'd be there, no matter what.

She called for the carriage and, not knowing how long they'd be at Norsey House, had Mary pack for an extended stay. She hurriedly gave Mrs. Fitch instructions for the next few days—she'd write a letter if their stay in Kent ended up being for a longer period of time. Their father wasn't at home, so she wrote a quick note to him. As much as the earl would disapprove of Grace's absence, Grace knew he'd understand exactly why they'd had to leave on such short notice.

Within half an hour, they were driving out of London, toward Kent and their father's seat, Norsey House, where young Jamie had been buried.

Claire didn't speak much during the few hours of travel, but tears seemed to seep constantly from her eyes. Eventually, Grace asked quietly, “Did something happen?”

Claire closed her eyes, sending two fresh tears rolling down her cheeks. “Why doesn't he care, Grace?
Why?
”

That was a question Grace couldn't answer. She'd never understood her brother-in-law's callousness when it came to his wife and son. She clenched her free hand into a fist, wishing that the major were here so that she could slap his face and tell him what she really thought. The heartless bastard.