by Platt, Meara
He remained unmoved. “Ye did have a say, lass. Ye chose to ignore yer promise to yer sisters. I waited around for ye to stop hiding and finally come around to reading the book with me. Ye never did. Ye just kept shoving it back at me. So I took it and rode off.”
Heather felt her insides crumbling.
Everything he’d said was right. She had wanted to marry her marquess so badly, she’d broken her promise to her sisters. She’d lied to herself in every possible way. It was all catching up to her now. The worst part was that in disappointing everyone she cared about, she’d also destroyed any possible future with Robbie.
She had chosen the marquess over him, and he was never going to forgive her.
And yet, his assessment was right.
What life would there be for her in Caithness, especially if she were to spend months and possibly years alone while he was away on assignment? This was the life Violet had accepted, but she was here in London with lots of family to support her. And Romulus was so different from Robbie. He loved Violet deeply, and everyone saw it and felt it to their bones.
But Robbie? Was he capable of being faithful to his wife? Even if forced to spend years apart?
“Lass,” he said with a wrenching groan, “dinna shed tears. We both know ye made the right choice. So why don’t we just finish this up fast? Let’s concentrate on yer marquess and all the reasons he’ll make ye happy.”
“All right.” The only problem was her secret dreams had been filled with Robbie ever since meeting him. He was the hero she always conjured up in the dark of night when the truth spilled out. He was the romantic hero her thoughts skittered to whenever she read one of those scandalous books she was never allowed to read. Of course, she inhaled them voraciously because they were prohibited.
She did not know why it was Robbie and not Tilbury, who appeared in her dreams and waking fantasies. Perhaps because marriage to the marquess was real and Robbie was only meant to be just that, a reckless fantasy. “I cannot be without ye, lass,” he would say in his husky, Highland brogue, and crush his lips to hers. She would respond, of course, running her hands along his warm skin and the bulging muscles they covered…because shirtless, Robbie was a thing of beauty, and that’s how she dreamed of him.
Virile and splendid.
His body hard and smooth, as though carved from ancient rock.
Lately, her dreams had grown quite torrid. Robbie kissing her lips, her throat. Robbie wrapping her in his arms and running his big hands over her body. As for herself, she was encouraging him in these rapturous fantasies, lost to all reason, even when common sense ought to have made her wake up.
Everything about him was perfection, in a beautiful and masculine way.
“Pixie, what are ye thinking?”
“You won’t like it, Robbie.”
“Try me,” he said softly.
“Well, I warned you. The thing is…I think it is important for me to know. Perhaps to have a suitable comparison. How else would I know if it was good or not?”
He regarded her, utterly confused. “What is it ye wish to know?”
“What the right kiss feels like.”
He inhaled sharply.
“Do you think we might share one kiss? You and me. On the lips. Then I would know and not spend the rest of my life wondering.”
“Pixie, no. It is a very bad idea.”
“Robbie, please. One kiss, and then we’ll be done with each other forever.”
“Done? Forever? Ye truly think so, lass?”
She nodded.
“Are ye daft? Ye’d give away yer first kiss to me?”
Oh, sweet mercy.
Did he now believe she was carelessly giving away her favors? He had every reason to believe so since she had been careless about reading The Book of Love. It sat there on the blanket between them, and she wanted to rip it to pieces and toss it in the dustbin. It was supposed to be an enchanted book, but it was only bringing her a massive headache.
And an equally massive heartache.
She tipped her head in indignation. “Then forget I asked. Obviously, it was a mistake. One of the many you believe I’ve made. Stupidly, I thought it could be something we’d each treasure since it would be the only thing we’d ever have of each other. But why should you think this way? This is my first kiss, but probably your hundredth or even thousandth.”
Despite trying to maintain a semblance of pride, she failed at that, too. Her heart was breaking, and she could not stop these feelings of loss and sadness from overwhelming her. “Robbie, I can’t do this. It hurts too much.”
He rose and drew her up with him, wrapping his arms around her and holding her so gently it only made her want to cry. “I know, lass. And ye think I’ve insulted ye. I dinna mean it that way. I’d be honored to be yer first kiss. No kiss before or after would ever be sweeter for me.”
She closed her eyes tightly and just breathed him in. He always smelled nice, a hint of musk and spice. Even earlier, while reeking of ale and cheap perfume, beneath it all was the clean, masculine scent of him.
She was pressed to his hard body. Perhaps she was the one pressing herself against him. She no longer cared if he believed her foolish and wanton. All that mattered to her now was to be swallowed in his embrace and held for as long as he would allow.
They stood beside the shade tree, only Robbie had moved them over so that the trunk of the tree hid them from view of everyone in the house. How long before her uncles came running out? Of course, this assumed they had not grown bored and stopped watching them. After all, Violet also had to be grabbing their attention.
What a mess.
Violet in labor.
Romulus not arrived yet.
Heather understood the nature of these Brayden men and knew Romulus would never forgive himself for not being here to protect his wife, no matter that both families were taking up the slack.
Would anyone care about Tilbury’s ball this evening? Suddenly, it did not feel exciting to celebrate her impending marriage to a marquess who had not even kissed her.
And here she was, willing to give up her precious first kiss to Robbie, knowing full well he would never agree to marry her.
“Heether,” he said in a rough whisper, his lips pressed close to her ear. “We dinna have to do this, lass.”
Yes, they did.
She took his face in her hands and brought his head down to hers. “We do, Robbie. There’ll be a gaping hole in my heart where that memory would have been stored if we don’t. Please, kiss me.”
He looked as though he wanted to crawl into a hole and die in there. “Promise me ye’ll no’ regret it.”
“I promise you,” she said with a nod. “I shall never regret a single moment of your lips on mine.” She closed her eyes, puckered her lips, and waited…and waited some more…and finally opened her eyes again.
His expression was fathomless.
“Robbie, what are you doing?”
“Wondering how I’m ever going to forget ye,” he said, drawing her up hard against him and capturing her lips with exquisite gentleness, and at the same time, an exquisite heat. No one ever doubted this big Scot knew how to kiss a girl and turn her brains to pudding.
He caught her lips, trapped them, teased them, and claimed them for his own.
She’d read those scandalous passages in novels where the heroine surrendered to the hero. She was helpless to resist. Those were the words often used to describe the power of the hero’s kiss. This is how she felt now, utterly helpless, and craving more of Robbie.
He had only to touch his lips to hers, and she was conquered, eager for his plunder…well, he was only plundering her mouth.
Merciful heaven.
She did not think she would resist him if he sought more.
Fire shot through her blood, spreading the flames to her limbs and bones. The kiss continued, hot and sweet. Seemingly endless, and at the same time, she ached because it would soon end.
But not yet.
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His lips ground against hers, not brutally but with a forceful gentleness. She felt his ravenous longing, his fierce desperation to taste every morsel, savor every memory of her. She felt the same for him. This is all they would ever have of each other.
He left nothing of her untouched, not her heart nor her soul.
She wrapped her arms around his neck and dug her fingers in his hair, his beautiful mane of burnished gold. She was practically climbing up the front of him in her need to touch him, to feel the heat of his muscled body. The rough pads of his fingers traced along her skin with a feathery softness that made her quiver.
She wanted every drop and dram of this big, beautiful Scot and ached in the knowledge there would be nothing more.
One kiss wasn’t nearly enough. How could she tell him?
They’d agreed. This was to be all they would have of each other.
This memory would have to sustain them until they took their last breath.
He slipped his tongue between the seam of her lips and began to explore her mouth, slowly swirling and tangling it with hers. Then he tore his lips off hers. “Pixie, blessed saints.”
His hands slipped under her ribs, hinting of something wonderful if only he would move them upward. Just the littlest bit higher. But they held there, to her frustration.
He refused to take the next step and cup her breast.
It made little sense to her since her breasts were already pillowed against his chest, tightly pressed to him as she absorbed the heat and strength of him. But somehow, to this proud Scot, touching her there would have taken their kiss a step too far.
He meant to give her a first kiss, which was an altogether different undertaking than a first grope.
What did it say about her that she desired everything from him? Her five senses were in an uproar, swirling around her, striking her all at once so that she felt dazed and reeling. The handsome look of him. His exquisite touch. The divine taste of his lips. The scent of his masculine heat, intoxicating and turning her into a wild, wanton thing, no better than an ewe in heat. His soft, husky growl of satisfaction.
She tried to restore the pieces of her broken heart as he eased her out of his embrace. “Pixie, ye’re trembling.”
Try as she might, she could not stop. He had to know their kiss had shaken the very foundations of her soul.
“Och, lass. This was a terrible mistake.”
“A mistake?” Not for her. It was beautiful and perfect and a memory she would always treasure. But she nodded, realizing he must not have felt this same perfection. Measured against all the girls he’d kissed, hers had to be inept and among the worst. “It was my first time. I tried my best. In my own defense, you overwhelmed me.”
“That is no’ what I meant.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I have to go.”
She stared at him, startled. “But we haven’t finished reading the book.”
His gaze was hot enough to engulf both of them in flames. “I dinna think I can help ye any further. Read it, lass. Finish it today if ye can. I’ll be leaving London tonight.”
Her heart shot into her throat. “Why, Robbie? You have to stay until my wedding. Oh, heavens. What am I saying? What am I doing? My wedding. And I kissed you.”
“I know, lass. It is not a proud moment for either of us. Send word to me at my granduncle’s townhouse if ye have something ye wish to tell me. But do it quickly. I’ll no’ be here by nightfall.”
“Nightfall?” Her head was spinning. “No, it’s too soon. What can I say to change your mind? Must I beg you to stay?” Merciful heavens. She had been reduced to begging him.
“Why would ye do that?” He reached out and ran his thumb lightly across her lower lip. “What would ye have me stay here for?”
For you.
For us.
But he’d just told her their kiss was a mistake.
He’d spent the morning going over all the reasons why their love, should he ever allow himself to love her—which he wouldn’t—would never last.
Not only would it not last, but it would be a horrific disaster.
This kiss was all he needed and the last contact he ever wanted from her.
He waited for an answer she was terrified to give. “Right, lass. I thought so.” He gave her a whisper-soft kiss on the cheek. “I wish ye a happy life with yer marquess.”
Chapter Six
Robbie had meant to return to the Caithness residence, pack up his belongings, and leave London before the Tilbury ball. He had to leave now because if he remained a moment longer, he was going to attend that ball and likely wreck it.
But the Fates were working against him, as though purposely tossing objects in his path to delay him. First, Gallant had thrown a shoe that had to be replaced. As soon as his trusted gray had been properly shod, Robbie had returned to the house to retrieve his travel pouches, only to find he had received a summons from Lord Liverpool. He was commanded to meet England’s top minister at Westminster Hall at four o’clock this afternoon. “Bollocks, what does he want?”
He arrived at the appointed hour, impatient to learn what the summons was about, give some glib response, and then be on his way north before something else arose to interfere with his plans.
Leaving this late in the day, he would not make it very far before darkness fell. But he did not care. He only needed to be out of London and away from the temptation of seeing Heather again.
His legs felt like lead weights as he strode into Liverpool’s office. Lord Liverpool rose from his chair behind the large mahogany table that served as his desk and came around to greet him. “MacLauren,” he said, sounding not at all jovial, “your replacement is an arse.”
“Dinna I tell ye that when ye first chose him? Not even the Scots like him, and he’s one of ours.” Robbie folded his arms across his chest, a gesture that was most certainly disrespectful. He no longer cared. He wanted to be out of London. “But how is this my problem?”
He received a scathing frown in response. “Because I am making it your problem.”
“How? And what if I refuse to be dragged into your politics? I’m about to return to Caithness.”
“No, you’re not. And I am not asking you. I am commanding you.”
Robbie shook his head, not quite certain where this discussion was headed, but he already knew it was not going in a direction to his liking. “And just what are ye commanding me to do?”
“You are to return to your position as the military liaison. MacDonald is out. You’re back in.”
“Over my dead body.”
“Fine, if it has to be that way. Stop behaving like a bloody, stubborn Scot. Were all of you born with a thistle stuck up your arse to make you so contrary? If you attempt to flee London, I shall send an entire dragoon regiment after you. They’ll have orders to shoot you if you resist.”
His heart sank into his stomach. “Ye canno’ do this.”
“Indeed, I can.” Liverpool motioned for him to take a chair. “Who’s to stop me?”
No one could, Robbie realized and grudgingly sat down. A damn horseshoe and now this. All he wanted to do was get out of London so that Heather could marry her marquess and be happy for the rest of her life. How was this wrong?
He sat forward in his chair and groaned. “How long must I stay?”
Liverpool’s demeanor softened as he resumed his own seat behind the desk. “One month. Maybe two. Sooner if you can find me another MacLauren to take over as liaison. I want a man with brains, not a hot-tempered, drunken buffoon who believes he is Robert the Bruce reincarnated.”
Robbie cast him an ‘I told ye so’ look. “I warned ye about appointing a MacDonald to the post.”
“The choice wasn’t mine alone to make.”
“Spreading the blame now? This is what ye politicians do best. Ye made yer choice. Why can ye no’ live with it?”
“Your Scottish earls also had input. So did my cabinet.”
Robbie arched an eyebrow. “Seems to me, ye
ought to sack yer cabinet.”
Liverpool cast him a wry smile. “Stop flinging the problem in my face. Believe me, I’ve considered sacking the lot of them more than once. MacLauren, I know you wish to return to Caithness. I promise you, this will only be a temporary assignment. It is the best I can do for you at the moment. We’re done now.”
He rose to signal the end of their meeting. “But it is good to see you again. You’ll have your old office back, of course. Let me know if there is anything you need. Welcome home, son. You were sorely missed.”
He ought to have been flattered, but all he felt was irritation while he rode back to the Caithness residence.
Bollocks.
His home was in the Highlands, not bloody London.
And what was he to do about Heather? He’d meant the one kiss he’d shared with her to be the end of any further contact between them. He needed to put a stop to whatever it was that simmered between them.
Not merely stop it but stamp it out. Crush it. Stuff it into the deepest recesses of his heart and never allow the feeling to see the light of day while he had breath left in him.
One thing for bloody certain, he was not going to attend Tilbury’s ball. Why torture himself by watching his pixie dance with her betrothed?
“Over and done,” he muttered, knowing he had fulfilled his obligations and more. He’d read the book with Heather…most of it…enough of it.
He’d given her a first kiss, which would also be their last.
Bollocks again.
He had not expected it to be so good.
Of course, he’d known what he was doing. But she had never been kissed before, and didn’t even know how to pucker her lips properly. And yet, it was the best kiss he’d ever received. It left him ravenous for more. Only there could never be more.
He undressed and washed, intending to retire early and drink himself senseless while alone in his bedchamber. He hadn’t the heart to go out drinking with friends or sit in on a game of cards. He hadn’t the desire to ease his frustration with a woman, no matter that he could have any of his choosing…just not Heather.
He sank onto his bed, clad only in a towel, and clutching a bottle of bootleg whisky in his hand. It was a family brew carried down from generation to generation and would burn out the guts of a lesser man. But the MacLauren men had been weaned on it, so it was mother’s milk to them.