What the Hart Wants (Headstrong Harts Book 1)

by Emily Royal

  “I assure you, ma’am, he’s taken the utmost care of me,” Lilah said, “but I am very tired, and would beg to be excused.”

  “Then I’ll bid you goodnight,” her hostess said, “and see you tomorrow morning, where I trust a hearty breakfast will revive you.”

  Lilah rose to her feet, curtseyed, then exited the room, but not before she caught a look of triumph in Miss MacKenzie’s eyes.

  Tonight she’d learned two things. Her host was a man beyond compare, a man she could grow to love.

  And, she had a rival for his affections.

  Chapter Sixteen

  An owl screeched outside, and Lilah sat upright, heart pounding.

  Voices chattered in the distance—servants clearing up after dinner and laying the fires in preparation for the morning. How was it that the men and women who tended to the rich retired much later than the people they served and were obliged to rise earlier?

  She wiggled her toes, which had grown numb with cold. The owl screeched again, and she slipped out of bed. A shaft of moonlight streamed through the window, and she crossed the floor to look outside.

  The moon sat directly above the mountain, illuminating the jagged peaks and the patches of snow. In the peace of the night, she could watch the mountain unobserved. Tall and silent, it guarded the land like a sentinel or a pagan god of old. Perhaps it was from the mountains where the people of this land drew their strength.

  Footsteps approached. Someone was outside.

  She crossed the floor and pulled the door open.

  He stood before her, his large frame filling the doorway. A candle flickered in his hand, illuminating his face, which bore a frown of concern.

  “Is there anything wrong?” she asked.

  “I came to see if you were all right,” he said. “You seemed out of sorts tonight. Was the meal not to your taste?”

  “It was delicious.”

  “The company, perhaps?”

  She looked away.

  “You must forgive Jennifer,” he said. “We grew up together, and she expects me to offer for her.”

  “And will you?”

  “No.”

  “Does she know you intend never to marry?”

  He shook his head.

  “You should tell her,” she said. “It’s not fair to let a woman believe you feel something that you don’t. It’s dishonest.”

  “That’s why I admire you, Miss Hart,” he said. “Jennifer displayed such incivility, yet you champion her cause and admonish me for my lack of honesty.”

  Her mind wandered to the article she’d just finished.

  “I’m not honest,” she said. “You don’t know me.”

  “I know you better than you think, lass,” he said. “From the moment we met, I knew you were different. Other women bend back and forth, weaving themselves around the people they seek to manipulate to gain what they want. Like water, they follow the easy path. But you…” He sighed, his chest rising and falling in a shuddering motion as if he struggled to contain himself. “You’re like the mountain. Straight and true, you never deviate from your path, no matter the temptation.”

  Guilt pricked at her conscience, and she spoke harshly to conceal it. “You came to my chamber, risking my reputation, to tell me that?”

  “I’m here out of genuine concern for your welfare,” he said.

  “I’m well, as you see.”

  “Why are you awake?” he asked. “Is there anything you need?”

  “No,” she said. “I have been admiring the view from my window. The mountain is so beautiful. Will you take me there tomorrow?”

  He smiled. “I promised, didn’t I? I agreed to show you pleasure five times to complete your education, and I have only done so once. You have four more.”

  She reached up and touched his face, unable to fight the need to feel his skin against hers.

  His nostrils flared, and he closed his eyes.

  “Miss Hart, you know not what you are doing.”

  She tipped her face up. “I’m asking you to honor your promise,” she whispered.

  He lowered his mouth and brushed his lips against hers, then peppered her face with light kisses. His breath tickled her ear.

  “I want ye—badly,” he said, his voice hoarse, “but I would never scandalize ye.”

  Her body hummed as his brogue became more prominent. He moved against her, and she felt his maleness, hard and hot against her stomach through her nightrail.

  “Would you show me pleasure?” she asked. “Like before?”

  “Ma is sleeping on this floor at the other end of the passageway.”

  “I have no wish for your mother to join us,” she said.

  A low growl rumbled in his chest. His knuckle brushed against her breast, and a small gasp left her lips as her nipple beaded.

  “So responsive,” he breathed. “You’re a natural, Miss Hart. Your body was made for seduction.”

  “No, Your Grace, it was made for you.” She reached for his arms. “Are you to continue my education, sir?”

  “I see I have an eager pupil.” He entered the chamber and closed the door behind him.

  “Am I to be your prisoner, Your Grace?”

  “I’d like nothing more, lass, than to tie ye to the bed and have my way with you.”

  She shivered with anticipation at his deliciously wicked suggestion.

  “Ah!” he said. “I see you’re not averse to the notion of being at my mercy. But I merely wish us not to be disturbed.”

  “Surely we’d hear anyone coming?”

  “Lass,” he said, “ye’ll be too busy screaming my name to notice any passersby.”

  He took her hand and led her toward the bed, then he lowered his gaze to her chest where her nipples poked insistently against the fabric of her nightrail.

  She sat on the bed, and he pushed her back, his hands gentle yet firm.

  “Do ye trust me, lass?”

  “Yes.”

  She yielded and let her body relax. He gave a low rumble of approval and lifted her clothing. Strong, warm hands caressed her legs, moving slowly toward the juncture of her thighs, where she felt wet.

  “Oh, lass, you need me as much as I need ye.”

  “H-how can you tell?” she stammered.

  He inhaled deeply. “I can smell it, lass. You’re ready for me.”

  She blushed at his wanton language and her body’s reaction to him.

  “There’s no shame in it, lass,” he said. “To enjoy your body is the most natural thing in the world. Society should hang its head for demonizing the most beautiful act between a man and a woman.”

  “You speak as if you have extensive experience.”

  “I do,” he said. “How else would I qualify to be your tutor? Surely you’d rather learn from a master at the art of coupling—a real man—than fumble in the dark with a mere boy? I would have ye learn the pleasures of your body, lass, so that you might show your future husband how to please you.”

  Your future husband…

  His words tempered her desire. Did he see her as nothing more than an apprentice, to be taught the pleasures of the flesh, then cast aside? Once he’d finished with her, would he move on to the next? Was that what he’d done to Miss MacKenzie, the woman who now clung to him, displaying her desperation so openly?

  But he’d made her no promises. Lilah had entered into their agreement willingly. But this man—this beautiful man who loved his homeland, who took pleasure in his privileged life but worked hard for the benefit of others, was in very great danger of making her fall in love with him. Would she be able to safeguard her heart while yielding her body to him?

  He dipped his head and placed a soft kiss on her ankle. His touch sent a shiver through her body. Murmuring gentle words of praise, he peppered her skin with small kisses. Then he nudged her thighs apart, and she gave a squeal of embarrassment.

  “No, lass,” he whispered. “It gives me great pleasure to look at ye. Would you deny me that pleasure
before I give you pleasure in return?”

  She lifted her hips, and he growled with approval.

  “That’s right, lass,” he said. “Ye’re ready for me.” His tongue flicked over her flesh, and she gave a low cry.

  “Delicious,” he whispered. “Perhaps I should place you on the dining table. A rare banquet that would be. Would ye like that, lass, to be spread over my table ready for me to devour whenever I wish?”

  His voice had grown hoarse with need.

  “Tell me dinner is served,” he rasped. “Say the word and permit me to feast.”

  “Your Grace, I…”

  “Just say it,” he growled. “Tell me ye’re mine for tonight.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Yes, I’m yours.”

  He dipped his tongue again, a soft, velvet weapon caressing, teasing her, circling her flesh until it found what it wanted—the little nub of pleasure. Then he clamped his mouth over her and sucked hard.

  Her body exploded, and she cried out, clutching at the bedsheet as the world shattered around her.

  “Good, lass, Delilah…”

  His words of praise fueled her pleasure as wave after wave engulfed her. As the waves receded, his caresses grew gentle, while he murmured her name.

  The bed shifted, and he moved beside her. His maleness pressed against her side, and a musky aroma thickened in the air. He let out a deep sigh.

  She opened her eyes and looked up. The moonlight formed a soft halo around his face as he gazed at her, his eyes glowing in the dark. The aftershocks of pleasure gave way to fear.

  Fear that her heart was already lost.

  He reached out to touch her face, and she turned her head away.

  “Didn’t you feel pleasure?”

  She forced a smile. “Yes,” she said. “You’re an able teacher. Perhaps the man I marry will continue my education.”

  He hesitated, then nodded his head. “You may compare us if you like, though I’d advise you not to voice your comparison. Sometimes the truth can be painful.”

  “Yes,” she said, swallowing the bitterness in her voice. “It can.”

  The bed shifted, and he sat up. She reached for the hem of her nightrail, and a warm hand enclosed hers.

  “Allow me.”

  He pulled the garment down, covering her legs.

  “I should let you sleep, lass.”

  He crossed the floor, stopping at the desk where a pile of papers sat—her finished article. He only need lift the top sheet to see the name of the author.

  Jeremiah Smith.

  “You’ve been writing poetry?”

  “Yes.” Her stomach tightened at the lie.

  “That’s good,” he said. “I’m doing all I can to find someone to publish them. May I read it?”

  He picked up the top page, and she cried out.

  “No!”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Fraser watched her on the bed. Moments before she’d been mewling with desire, yet now, she’d withdrawn from him, hurt in her eyes.

  She wanted more.

  Had he respected her less, he’d have spread her legs and buried himself inside her. But he valued her too much to take her as his mistress. Though she may deny it, she needed to avoid a scandal. She had a bright future ahead of her, and her desire to help the disadvantaged women of London, as well as her talent for writing, were better served with a spotless reputation.

  But the need to claim her as his warred with his resolve. What might it be like to have her warm his bed every night? To see her belly round with his child?

  He picked up a piece of paper on the desk, and she cried out.

  “No!”

  “Forgive me,” he said, dropping the paper. “I’ve no right to intrude on your privacy or betray your trust.”

  She didn’t reply, but the stricken expression on her face tore at his conscience.

  “I didn’t mean to cause you pain, lass,” he said, taking her hands.

  “You’ve not pained me.”

  “I forget how little experience you have of men,” he said. “I should listen to Ma’s counsel more.”

  “Your mother?” Her eyes widened. “Does she not like me?”

  “On the contrary, she likes you a great deal. But Ma has always told me that a woman’s heart is like porcelain, where a man’s is made of granite. She said that a man might indulge in as much pleasure as he wishes and be forgiven for it. But she warned me that if a man’s indulgence brings hurt to a woman, then he cannot call himself a real man.”

  She wiped her eyes and gave him a smile. “I think tonight’s lesson has shown that you’re a real man,” she said. “I would like to continue my education. Three more lessons remain.”

  “And do you have a proposal for your next lesson?”

  She nodded toward the window. “The mountain.”

  He lifted her hands to his lips. “Then, lass, I shall bid you good night so you can be sufficiently well-rested to conquer our mountain.”

  He released her hands, then retreated from the room. After he closed the door behind him, he could swear he heard a cry.

  *

  “It’s magnificent!”

  Miss Hart’s joy swept aside any concerns Fraser might have had for her disposition. She seemed to have shaken off her melancholy from last night.

  She’d taken to the mountain track with gusto. The drover’s road to the pass was relatively easy-going, and she’d refused his help. But when they veered toward the summit, the terrain grew rougher. After some hesitation, she let him take her hand during the steeper parts, and his heart lifted each time she tightened her grip on him.

  “I envy you,” she said. “If I lived here, I’d climb the mountain every day.”

  If I lived here…

  As if she understood the implication, she blushed. “Does the mountain have a name?” she asked.

  “It’s called Benn mo Chridhe—mountain of my heart.”

  “Mountain of my heart,” she repeated. “I like that.”

  “My great-grandfather named it,” he said. “He fell in love with the land here, almost as much as he fell in love with my great-grandmother.”

  “He was the one you inherited the title from?”

  “Aye, one of that blackguard Jeremiah Smith’s cursed Molineuxs.”

  Her smile disappeared.

  “Forgive me, lass,” he said. “Today is not the day to speak of enemies, for I’m with a friend, am I not?”

  She picked up a stone and held it up. Something glittered in the rock, winking in the sunlight.

  “What’s this?” she asked.

  “Its tiny crystals embedded in the granite.”

  “It’s beautiful. Almost as if the rock were alive.”

  “It is,” he said. “A living, breathing part of the land.”

  He handed her a flask. “Here, drink.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “It’s not whisky, is it?”

  He laughed. “No, it’s water.”

  She took it, then picked her way over the rocks until she reached a large, flat slab that jutted up at an angle, pointing toward the sky. She looked overhead, exposing her throat, and his manhood twitched with the need to taste her skin.

  She lowered her head, and their gazes met. Love of life glittered in her expression, and her face glowed with health and happiness.

  “Ye look well, lass,” he said, “far better than the pasty skin of London. Our land is doing you good.”

  “Would you prescribe a trip to the Highlands to solve the world’s problems?”

  “I would. It’s the land I belong to, the land I love. Money, titles, it’s all nonsense compared to this. The air is fresh, the water pure, and the rocks…”

  He moved toward her and held her against the slab of rock—the very same slab he’d envisioned making love to his woman against. He closed his eyes and could almost see the lifeblood of the earth pulsing through the rock.

  “We live for the land,” he said. “We don’t own it. We belong to it.
It gives us life and hope. It feeds us, clothes us—the peat keeps us warm, and we have learned to take pleasure from everything around us.”

  She tipped her face up, and their mouths almost met. Her lips parted, and her sweet breath caressed his mouth. He had only to lower his head to claim those plump lips. The memory of the taste of her swirled in his mind. He longed to hear her little mewls of pleasure once more.

  “What do ye think of your third lesson in pleasure, Miss Hart?”

  Her tongue flicked out, moistening her lips.

  “I enjoyed it very much,” she said. “It’s rendered me even more out of breath than the second lesson.” She lifted her hand and touched his face, rubbing her thumb along the line of stubble at his jaw.

  “I find myself in need of my fourth lesson,” she whispered. “My thirst for learning refuses to be quenched.”

  “Then, you must ask for it, lass.”

  “Your Grace …”

  “No,” he said. “Say my name. I want to hear it from your lips.”

  “Fraser…”

  “That’s it, lass,” he whispered.

  “Am I to receive my next lesson?”

  “I require payment first,” he said.

  “With what?”

  “May I read the poem you’ve been writing?”

  “You’ve already seen my work.”

  “Ah, yes,” he said, “but they were written before I began your education. I’ll wager your poems have gained depth now you’ve widened your experience of pleasure.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “Because it’s through experiencing life—the primal, visceral reaction to the world and its pains and pleasures—that we can voice our emotions. And what is poetry, or any art form, if not an expression of emotion?”

  She colored and looked away, and he took her hand.

  “May I read it?”

  “It-it’s not finished.”

  “But you said last night you’d completed it. Did you deceive us?”

  Guilt flickered across her expression.

  “Don’t you want me to read it, lass?”

  “I do, but not yet.”

  “Is it your best work?” he asked.

  Moisture glistened in her eyes, and she blinked, releasing a tear.

  “I believe it is.”