Mad About the Marquess (Highland Brides Book 2) (48 page)

She knew what to do when she was on her own two feet—she could think then. “Alasdair, you must put me down.”

“Nay. You’re shivering.”

“Not from the cold.”
 

“Can’t be too sure, lass. I need to get you out of these wet clothes”—he took the stairs two at a time—“and warm you up. And I have great many useful skills for warming a lass up, each of which I would be delighted to demonstrate for you.”

“Very kind of you, Alasdair. I appreciate your thoroughness, but do you think you might hurry—”

“Nay.” He gave her his absolute wickedest smile yet, but did not climb the long staircase any faster. “Everything we’ve ever done has been in a rush, in the dark, out of sight. Today, I’m going to take my own sweet time with you. And nothing you can say will stay me.”

For once in her life, Quince didn’t want to say anything to stop him. She felt as if it were she, and not he, who had climbed up the long stair, so breathless was she by the time they reached the top, that her heart was hammering in her ears as if her stays were too tight.

They would be loosened soon enough.

Because at last Alasdair was kicking open the carved oak door to the Laird’s suite, and carrying her into the high, vaulted bedchamber.
 

The room was nearly round—part of the original tower of the first moated castle built upon the site, Mrs. Broom had said. But Quince didn’t want to think about Mrs. Broom or castles, or history, or anything that wasn’t the tall, imposing man who set her down at the foot of a high, imposing, Tudor carved bed. “It's quite impressive.”

The impressive man did not entirely take her meaning. “We’re not going to talk about architecture, Quince. We’re going to talk about your wet clothes, and how we might best get them off you.”

As she was wearing her own country clothes—a simple, well-worn jacket that had seen better days, Quince had no attachment whatsoever to the garment. “We get it off like this—” She simply fisted up her lapel and ripped, tearing off all but the last, tenacious button.

“Very efficient. And impressively impetuous.” Alasdair put his hands over hers. “But allow me.”

Where she would have rushed, he took his time, standing close and sliding his fingers against the soft material, pressing into the barrier of her stays so that she felt the heat of his fingers all the way through the intervening layers of material, all the way across the surface of her skin. When she would have thrown the jacket to the floor, he eased the garment from her shoulders carefully, lingeringly, guiding her free of the tight sleeves, standing so close she could smell the rain on his hair and skin. Rain she wanted to taste.
 

“Alasdair.” She looped her arms around his neck and did just that, kissing the drops from his neck. “I’m not made of spun glass.”

“Ah, lass. So impatient. So impetuous.” But he said it with a low appreciative murmur of approval that hummed down her spine and stayed, warm and delightful, in her middle. And he allayed her need for closeness by wrapping his own arms around her, crushing her against his chest. He ran his hands down the column of her spine, and around the curve of her bottom, lifting and wrapping her legs around his waist so his torso was pressing against the heat of her.

She gasped at the contact, at the shivers racing across her skin and the sudden glorious tightening of everything within, as he carried her to the edge of the bed, and set her down.

“Boots next.” He pushed up the froth of her petticoats.
 

“I can to that.” She bent to unlace the threadbare old things. She knew well enough what to do when they were kissing, but all this preliminary undressing, and leading-up-to, was making her positively nervy. She was made for action, not idleness.

But Alasdair was his own unruffled self, pushing her hands away. “I know you can, but let me, Quince. It gives me pleasure to undress my wife.”

“I can’t see how,” she whispered, her voice lost somewhere at the bottom of the well of feeling echoing through her body as his hands cupped the back of her calf. “Seeing as you’ve never had a wife before.”

His smile grew wider. “And that is why I’m going to take my time, and savor you.” His fingers slid northward, exploring the hollow at the back of her knees, gently urging her legs apart. “I’d like to start as I mean to go on. For years and years.”

And to demonstrate just exactly what she could look forward to savoring in the coming years, he pushed her knees wide, slowly sliding his palms along the length of her thighs.

She felt as if she were crawling out of her skin, with the need to do something besides sit still and
feel
—her breath felt hot and tight, as if she couldn’t breathe. But she didn’t care, because on the next breath, he was smiling at her, that gleaming, nearly mischievous, full-butter boat smile that lit her up, and instead of going up in flames, made her feel as if she were melting in the sun. “Oh, by jimble.”

“Exactly, lass.” And then he slipped one boot free, and put his thumb into the sensitive, ticklish arch of her foot, and pressed, just so.
 

Just so, a sound of pure animal delight and pleasure slid right out of her mouth and danced down her spine.
 

“You like that?” He shied one eyebrow over his laughing eyes.

“Oh, holy iced macaroons.” She had never felt such unadulterated physical bliss in the entirety of her life. “It feels like morning chocolate tastes, only better.” If she had not already been seated she would have toppled over. “Do it again.”

He did, kneading deep with of his clever, long, strong, fingers.

The bliss made her topple over anyway. “Oh, Alasdair. If this is any indication of what you are capable, I’m rather sorry I didn’t throw myself at you that first night, at Lady Inverness’s ball.”

“You did throw yourself at me, wee Quince. And I caught you. And I’m very glad I did.” He flipped off her other boot and dug his knuckles into her arch. “There’s more to come. Much more.” And to prove it, he slid his fingers up the back of her legs to untie her garters. Which he did without ever taking his eyes from hers.

She was as spellbound by his look as she was by his clever fingers, brushing along her skin, tugging at the ties of her garters, heating her by degrees as he slowly, slowly rolled her stockings down until her legs were bare.
 

“And we’re just beginning, wee Quince.”

She felt joyous, and light, and stupid, as if every touch stole her good sense along with her breath. “You had better not call me wee when you’re looking at my breasts, Strathcairn.”

Alasdair gave her that wicked, lazy, tomcat smile and drew her to her feet. “Why don’t we take a wee look under those stays, and find out? But as I recall, lass, they’re magnificent.”

Pleasure curled her toes into the thick Persian carpet. Every sensation felt exquisite, every touch a delight. He shivered his palms across her collarbones, and lingered, playing his fingertips in the dips and hollows at the base of her throat. “So lovely.”

Beneath the confines of her stays and chemise, her breasts felt tight and swollen. She felt giddy and light-headed and happy. So happy she wanted to share the delight. She reached for his buttons of his waistcoat. “I want to see you, too.”

“All in good time, wee Quince. And first things”—he put his lips to the spot where his fingers had just been, while his clever fingers plucked at the ties of her quilted petticoat—“first.”
 

He was taking his time with her, she knew, drawing out each touch, each sensation, lingering and waiting while a yearning worked its way through her. He was clever, her Alasdair, letting the pleasure seep deep into her bones so she was already wanting more of the gorgeous feelings. Already eager for each step toward passion.
 

He was slow and cautious and oh, so thorough when she wanted to throw herself at him, and have done all at once, in one glorious headlong rush.
 

But Alasdair would not rush—he sipped when she would have gulped, savoring the pleasure slowly, as if she were a delicate teacup of a woman who might shatter under any pressure.
 

Well, she wanted to shatter. She was strong enough to break apart and make something new. She wasn’t tepid tea, she was strong Scots whisky, hot and volatile, ready to go up in flames. Ready to take him up in flames with her.
 

Chapter Twenty-nine

“Patience, lass,” he breathed against her skin. And no sooner had the heavier outer petticoat come down, that he was already at the lighter underskirt, tugging the tapes free to fall to the floor in a
shush
of fabric that pooled and lapped around her ankles.
 

Quince stepped out of the soft puddle of material, while Alasdair circled behind her, just out of sight. But not out of mind. Nor out of reach. She could feel the heat of his strong, solid body close against her back, as he brushed his hand through her loose hair, raking his fingers through the length of it, lifting it aside to bare her nape.
 

Quince curved her head aside, silently granting him access, closing her eyes to give herself over to the exquisite experience of his touch, his care, his love—for that was what he gave her, fully and unconditionally. And that was everything and all she wanted.

His touch was feather light but sure, the gentle impression of warmth and sensuality, as he stroked the backs of his fingers down the arc of her neck, then turned his hand to sweep his palms along the taut tendons, and out across the bridge of her collarbone to her shoulder.
 

Her skin blossomed with heat and anticipation—from the top of her head to the bottom of her bare toes, she tingled with awareness and longing for more of his touch.

“Tell me what you like, lass,” he instructed into her ear.
 

“I like this.” She hadn’t sufficient experience to imagine more that the delicious sensations he was currently arousing. “But you tell me what you like, too.”
 

“Oh, aye. I like to look at you.” His hands circled the slim span of her waist, just as they had that first night in the darkened room at the ball. But this time his touch held no anger, only reverence and passion. “To look down your wee bodice, at those magnificent breasts.”

Beneath his gaze, those small breasts grew full and tight and so aching with pleasure that she couldn’t contain the low, breathless murmur of delight that slid off her lips. “Tell me more.”

“Aye, lass. I’ll tell you.” He tucked his chin over her shoulder, and eased her flush against his chest, letting her feel the full length of his arousal between them, showing her that he was a man, with a man’s appetites and desires.

 
The heat of his body warmed her through, but still she shivered.

“I’ve got you, lass.” He flicked the tapes of her shoulder straps loose, and brushed aside her chemise, bending his head to nip and salve the sensitive slide of her shoulder. His mouth rounded to the hollow of her throat, and she could feel the rising cadence of her pulse where it beat against his lips.
 

“Alasdair.” It was a delight to give him the gift of his name. A delight to reach back and find his familiar face, and stroke the strong stark angles along his granite jaw.

He turned his face into her hand, rubbing the rough texture of his incipient beard into her palm, chafing her in a way that was discomfort and pleasure all at once. Pleasure that she wanted to experience with hands and lips and tongue.
 

She gave him her mouth eagerly, turning into the kiss, but once their lips met, and she tasted his desire, she gave him her mouth completely, all hungry lips and dancing tongue, bending back to him with the strength of her own desire.

While they kissed, his hands were not idle—he stripped the laces from her stays with sure, strong strokes that tugged and released, tugged and released, until her stays fell away, tossed onto the heap of her petticoats, and she stood before him in nothing more than a chemise of thinnest, most translucent cotton.
 

Never had she felt more vulnerable, or more strong. More ready. Ready for his touch. Ready for his love.

He set his hands to roaming, tracing the size and span of her through the thin layer of cotton, delineating the flare of her ribs and the warm curve beneath her breasts. He spread his clever fingers out, grazing across her body from belly to breasts, stroking his thumbs back and forth, until awareness and deep saturated pleasure flooded across the surface of her skin. Until she was straining and arching into his hand, silently urging her breasts into the cups of his palms. And then not so silently. “Alasdair, please.”