How to Catch a Sinful Marquess

by Amy Rose Bennett

  “I’m not a child,” she said softly, shrugging off the rest of her robe. It slithered to the floor, pooling at her feet. “And . . . and I have friends who are married to rakes, remember? Your friends. I might be inexperienced, but I’m not completely naive.”

  To her astonishment and delight, he laughed, a rich, throaty sound. “All right then, lass. I’ll play along for the moment,” he said. “Show me all these wicked things that you’ve heard of. Do your worst.”

  “I intend to do my best.”

  Olivia reached across Hamish and snagged a cushion from a nearby chair. Dropping it on the floor, she sank to her knees before him.

  “I see you do mean business,” he said, spreading his legs so she could shuffle closer.

  “You doubted me?” She slid her hands along his thighs, noting how the dense muscles hardened beneath her palms.

  “I certainly don’t now.”

  “Good. By the way, you’re wearing far too much.”

  She wanted him gloriously naked. With hands that trembled only a little, Olivia spread his banyan wide. And then she bit her lip. Not to tease Hamish, but simply because she was utterly captivated.

  Her husband was a work of art. The leaping firelight played over his body, highlighting the wide span of his shoulders that all but filled the back of the wing chair. The swell of his hard pectoral muscles with their light dusting of dark hair. His ridged abdomen, the flat plane of his belly, and the intriguing crests of his lean hip bones. His heavily muscled thighs. And lastly the erect staff of his enormous manhood. Thick and long with a ruddy head, it jutted proudly from a storm of black curls as though tempting her to wrap her hands around it.

  To explore every magnificent inch of him.

  She looked up through her lashes at Hamish, hoping beyond hope he wasn’t laughing at her.

  She needn’t have worried. There was no trace of a smile playing about his wide, sensual mouth. His dark gray eye glittered between half-mast lids, watching her every move. Encouraged by his look of avid attention, she reached out a hand and tentatively cupped his ballocks before curling her fingers around his shaft. He was hot and hard and silken all at the same time. When she gave him a tentative squeeze, he sucked in a sharp breath.

  “Olivia . . .” Her name, spilling from his lips, was little more than an incoherent groan.

  “Don’t think of me as your wife,” she whispered, squeezing him again. “Let me be your mistress. Your lover.” Relinquishing her hold on his member, she placed her hands on his thighs again and leaned forward, raining whisper-soft kisses across his chest. She touched her tongue to his small, bronze-colored nipples and licked a trail across his abdomen, then across the ridged outline of one hip bone, then the other. Every time she moved, her own nipples brushed his body, and her excitement increased all the more. The coarse, crisp hair between his legs tickled her skin. She felt like a cat in heat, rubbing herself all over him.

  Hamish’s penis jerked and twitched and seemed to grow harder by the moment, especially when its hot, heavy length slid between her breasts. She liked the unexpected and illicit sensation so much, she dragged his shaft through her cleavage again.

  “Sweet Jesus,” Hamish panted. “Where did you learn about—”

  “Hush,” she murmured. “Let me play.”

  Olivia sat back and grasped his manhood between both her hands this time. She loved the feel of it between her palms. How it pulsed with a life of its own. How would her husband taste down there? Curious, she lapped at the pearl of moisture that had seeped from the small slit atop the swollen head. Should she do more? Encircle him with her lips, draw him into her mouth? She’d seen a picture once . . .

  She licked her lips, savoring the salty taste on her tongue, and then all at once Hamish groaned. “Enough.” He fisted a hand in her hair and forced her head up to look at him.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “Did . . . did I do something wrong?”

  “No, of course not, lass.” His gaze softened. “I’ve loved everything you’ve done, but I don’t want to come just yet. Besides”—his mouth kicked into a smile—“I’m burning with impatience to pleasure you with my hands and mouth, as you so aptly put it. I want to watch you come. It’s something I’ve dreamed about for days.”

  Oh . . . Olivia swallowed. “Really?”

  “Aye, God help me. Really.” Hamish gently but firmly urged her back with his hands. “Lie down, mo chridhe,” he murmured huskily, shrugging his banyan off completely. And then he followed her onto the floor, prowling up her body like a great beast until he loomed over her.

  Resting on his forearms, he stared into her eyes. Stark hunger filled his gaze. “Do you know how beautiful you are, Olivia? How much I want you?”

  Both enthralled and momentarily tongue-tied, she shook her head. She gripped his bulging, rock-hard biceps, and they twitched and flexed; somehow this display of barely restrained male strength aroused her even more. “No . . . no I don’t,” she whispered huskily.

  “Then I’ll have to show you.” And then Hamish dipped his head and kissed her.

  It was a long, languorous, searching kiss. Hot and deep and thorough. He sucked her tongue into his mouth. Nipped at her lower lip.

  As he continued to kiss her, he shifted his weight, and one hand came up to cover her breast. His fingers found her nipple, hard as a pearl, and when he gave it a light, teasing pinch, Olivia gasped as pleasure blasted through her. Oh, that feels good.

  But when Hamish lowered his head and caught her other nipple between his lips and suckled, her brain all but ceased to function. Her hands came up to grasp the back of his head. She twisted her fingers into his thick hair.

  “Oh, Hamish,” she moaned, and arched her back, pushing herself into his mouth. “Why have we waited so long to do this?”

  His only response was to mercilessly tease her other breast with his lips and teeth and tongue.

  But the exquisite torture wasn’t over.

  Hamish slid his hot, wicked mouth across her torso. Laved her belly button with his tongue. And then he was pressing open her thighs. Exposing her most secret part to his gaze. By rights she should be embarrassed, but she wasn’t. Lust throbbed deep inside her core, and her aching sex was slick with desire, demanding attention.

  Ever since she’d learned that a man could kiss a woman down there, she’d often wondered what it would feel like. It seemed her husband, the man whom she now knew she loved with her whole heart, was about to introduce her to one of life’s most wicked pleasures. She simply couldn’t wait.

  Hamish positioned his wide shoulders between her legs, then pushed her swollen folds apart with gentle fingers. “What a pretty cunny,” he murmured. “And no doubt delicious.” His wicked words and the wash of his hot, humid breath against her sensitive flesh made her shiver. And then he lowered his head and flicked her sex with his tongue.

  Olivia bucked. Stars burst behind her eyes. She’d never imagined . . . she’d never dreamed . . .

  Her thoughts disintegrated and scattered as Hamish applied himself to the task of pleasuring her most intimate parts with his fingers and mouth. Every teasing stroke, every tiny lap, every delicate suckle and kiss drove her higher and higher. Moaning, she sank her fingers into his hair, spread her legs, and undulated her hips, a mindless, writhing creature seeking untold bliss beneath his mouth.

  When Hamish shifted his weight, propping himself onto one elbow, Olivia fluttered her eyes open and glanced down the length of her body. With his dark head between her thighs, she couldn’t quite see what he was doing, but she sensed he’d grasped his member with one hand. His shoulder and arm were moving, pulsing as though he’d begun to stroke himself. Oh, she wanted to do that. Work him. Pleasure him. Take him in her mouth again until he spent his seed . . .

  Hamish’s tongue flickered against one excruciatingly sensitive part of her sex at the apex of he
r folds, and Olivia cried out and clutched his head. She was so close, so very close to heaven. Hamish groaned against her, his breath a hot, teasing gust, and the thought that he was about to reach that same wonderful place, too, was her undoing. All at once she came, releasing a cry of joy as ecstasy rushed through her in a great, pulsating wave.

  When she opened her eyes, it was to discover Hamish gasping and shuddering and cursing beneath his breath. She raised herself onto her elbows and watched in fascination as his seed erupted onto the folds of his discarded banyan.

  Then he slumped to the floor, his abdomen and chest heaving.

  Olivia slid alongside him and brushed damp tendrils of hair away from his forehead. “Thank you, Hamish,” she murmured, then dropped a kiss on his brow, “for giving me my first taste of pleasure.”

  He cracked his eye open and stroked her face. “No. Thank you, lass. This encounter was everything I could have hoped for and more.”

  “So . . . so does that mean we can do it again?”

  Hamish sat up. The firelight gilded the strong line of his powerful back. The side of his face. A muscle twitched in his stubbled jaw.

  She dared to place a hand upon his shoulder. “Join me, in my bed,” she whispered. “We can do more. You . . . you can put yourself inside me and take my maidenhead. Spend outside my body like you just did if you d-don’t want to get me with child. Or use a sheath. Just like you do with all your other lovers—”

  But Hamish was shaking his head. “No. I won’t take that risk with you, Olivia. I thought I’d been careful in the past, but clearly accidents happen. Tilda could be mine.”

  Even though they sat by the fire, it felt as though a cold draft swept through the room. Olivia was conscious of the crackle of the fire and the ever-present crash of the sea and the winds battering Muircliff’s walls. “But yesterday, you almost took me in your study. You . . . you even suggested you could withdraw,” she persisted, even as her confidence began to falter.

  He turned his head to catch her gaze. His whole demeanor had changed. His eye glimmered with a hard, cold light. “It was a momentary loss of reason. I can assure you it won’t happen again. This, what we just did, is all I’ll ever permit.”

  “But . . . but even if there were an accident, would it be so bad, Hamish? Isobel isn’t having her Season anymore, so it doesn’t matter if I’m increasing.” She curled her fingers around his arm. “I . . . I would love to bear your child . . . if you chose to give me one, that is . . .”

  Hamish stood abruptly and draped her discarded robe over her naked shoulders. “I’ve told you before, lass,” he said gruffly, bending to snatch up his own soiled robe. “I don’t want an heir.”

  “You’re not like your father.”

  Hamish froze. Then straightened. His empty fist clenched and unclenched at his side.

  Oh, no. Had she gone too far?

  He stared down at her. His expression was as harsh and frigid as arctic ice. “You think you know me, but you don’t.”

  “Hamish . . .” She caught his hand and got to her feet. She hated sounding desperate, but she was. “At least . . . at least lie with me. Hold me. Until I fall asleep.”

  But he shook his head. A great, shuddering sigh escaped him. He dropped his robe and turned toward her. With his free hand, he caressed her cheek, then stroked it over her hair with infinite tenderness. The anger had seeped away, only to be replaced by a great sadness. “Believe me, I want to, Olivia. But I can’t. You ask the impossible.”

  Impossible? She shook her head. She didn’t understand. “I don’t care if you have a bad dream and wake me.”

  “But you see, I do.” His expression was grave. “And I won’t change my mind. Not now. Not ever. Come.” He led her to the connecting door between their rooms. “Good night, my sweet lady wife. I’ll see you in the morning.” He brushed a kiss across her temple, then pushed the portal shut, leaving her all alone with the crushing sense that she’d done something wrong yet had no idea what.

  CHAPTER 20

  The night passed away, and the sun rose from the ocean; my feelings became calmer, if it may be called calmness, when the violence of rage sinks into the depths of despair.

  Mary Shelley, Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus

  Muircliff Castle, Isle of Skye

  Hamish stumbled through the smoking, steaming rubble of the south tower. The blackened bricks and broken beams. Ash swirled around him like snow. The incessant roar of the waves mingled with the mournful cries of a seagull circling overhead.

  “Too late,” it called. “Too late.” The cries of the gull grew louder, becoming an ear-splitting shriek. Or perhaps it was the wind. Or an infant . . .

  Christ, what was a wee bairn doing out here?

  He tried to follow the sound, but the gale kept snatching it away. The ash cloud grew thicker, expanding into a choking, swirling, smoky miasma. Terror gripped him. What if he tripped over the edge of the cliff? But he had to find the child.

  And then fire exploded in his vision, blinding him. The wail of the child merged with the agonized cries of men. He couldn’t see. Couldn’t move forward or backward. He was on the edge of a precipice, about to fall into a fiery pit. Blazing heat seared his face.

  A sob escaped him. How could he help anyone when he couldn’t even help himself?

  Somewhere behind him, his father laughed and he froze, all but paralyzed. Gasping, sweating, and petrified, he struggled to crawl away. He had to move. Hide.

  “Oh, God. I can’t . . .”

  And then a hand clutched at him . . . Someone far away called his name . . .

  “Hamish . . .”

  Hamish lurched upward. His heart was pounding, his breath came in harsh, ragged spurts. The linen sheets of his bed were twisted around his hips and legs, constraining him.

  “Hamish,” Olivia repeated, capturing his attention at last. Her eyes were huge and dark in her pale face as she hovered wraithlike in her white nightgown by his bedside. In one hand she held a branch of candles. Her other hand was at her throat. “Oh, my goodness. Are you all right? I’ve never heard such terrible cr—”

  Hamish held up a shaking hand, cutting her off. “What are you doing here?” he ground out. Bile rose in his throat, and he closed his eyes and swallowed hard.

  “You . . . you were having a nightmare, and I . . . I came to check on you.”

  He pushed his hair out of his face and glared at her. “Well, don’t. Don’t ever.”

  “But—”

  “There are no buts, Olivia. You need to understand—” Losing his battle against the swelling nausea in his gullet, Hamish broke off and lunged out of the bed, bolting for his dressing room.

  When he emerged a few minutes later, wrapped in a clean banyan and with a leather eye patch in place, it was to discover Olivia had retreated to the fireside and had installed herself in one of the leather wing chairs. She’d already restoked the fire, and the branch of lit candles flickered upon the mantelpiece.

  “Hamish. We need to talk about this,” she said firmly. Her brow had knit into a deep frown, and she had a decidedly determined glint in her eyes. “About your nightmares and . . . and everything else. And I won’t be fobbed off anymore. I just won’t.”

  “I know.” He crossed to the oak cabinet, which he kept stocked with spirits. He needed a drink first. “Would you like a whisky?” His voice was rough as he sloshed God knew how much into a glass. His hands still shook, and his throat felt raw.

  “Yes, please,” she replied.

  After passing Olivia her glass, Hamish dropped into the wing chair beside hers. His shoulders heaved with a weary sigh, and he rubbed his forehead. Where to begin? How much should he divulge? What should he leave out?

  By the look on his wife’s face, the stubborn set to her neat chin, only complete candor on his part would suffice. Perhaps it was time
to confess all. And then she’d understand why he was such a mess.

  Why she needed to stay away and give up this futile pursuit of him.

  Yes, he needed to rip off the bandage. Expose the ugly truth. And the sooner he did so, the better.

  Olivia sipped her whisky with barely a grimace. “Hamish, perhaps it would help if I told you what I learned this afternoon when I took tea with your mother,” she said softly. “She told me a little about the fire here at Muircliff. How you risked your own life to rescue her. And she also told me about your father, Torquil. How he had a terrible temper and how cruel he was to you all.”

  Ah, so that’s why Olivia mentioned that she thought he was nothing like his father. Hamish tossed back a mouthful of whisky, hoping it would give him the courage he needed to continue discussing such a harrowing subject.

  “Aye. He was cruel, lass. A heartless bastard with a penchant for making his family’s life hell.”

  “So . . . so why did you tell your mother that you feared you’d become just like him? You’re not cruel or heartless. As far as I can see, you’ve never done anything out of malice. Even your mother said as much. Whatever actions you’ve taken have been because you want to protect those you care about.”

  “Are you so sure of that?” he demanded. “How many times have I had sudden outbursts of temper? Until yesterday morning, didn’t I plan to interfere in Isobel’s life, disregarding what she truly wanted? Haven’t I turned your life upside down? Made you miserable with all of my caveats about our own marriage? Denying you tonight was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. It didn’t matter that I knew I was hurting you. I did it anyway.”

  “I know that’s because you’re afraid that you’ll get me with child. That you think you’ll be a terrible father,” she said. “You can’t deny that’s what you believe. But that’s not true. I’ve seen how wonderful you are with Tilda. So patient and kind and generous. And you’re not even sure she’s your daughter.”