Oh My Laird!: A Risqué Regency Romance

by Sahara Kelly

  “I think you should stop talking for a wee bit.”

  “Why?” She stared at his mouth and licked her lips. “I like being naked with you. I like it more than I have with anyone else.”

  He reached behind to where his clothes were piled on the bed. He found what he wanted and brought his cravat to where he held her hands in one of his. “I am tired of your babbling about things that don’t matter, Amelia. You have been belittling yourself since you found out we were wed. And this makes me very cross. Very cross indeed.” He had her hands tied securely now, her wrists bound by loops of his cravat. It wasn’t hurting her but she could not free herself.

  She looked at the knots with a puzzled frown. “Well, I’ve been banished from town and now it appears I’ve been captured in a Scottish castle. What an interesting life I seem to lead.”

  He repressed a grin. “Yes, you are now my prisoner. It’s time I taught you a lesson, lass.”

  And on those words, he seized the loose ends of the cravat and lifted them, raising her arms above her head. Then he tied her to the tester rail of the four poster bed.

  “Ian…” She almost hung there, but her height worked to her advantage and kept her feet on the floor. She was stretched though. Beautifully, sensually stretched before him.

  He stepped back, noting her slightly uncertain expression. “Well now. Let’s talk about your being fit to be the Lady of Kilmalochan.” He moved to the chair and sat down, staring at her. “You’re certainly lovely enough.”

  She huffed out a snort. “Should I thank you?”

  “Probably. I’m the only one who knows of your situation. Therefore, it would be sensible to be nice to me if you want to be untied before dawn.”

  “Ah.” She eyed him with a heaping amount of scorn.

  “As I was saying, you’re certainly good-looking enough to be the Lady. Strong legs for walking the dales. Strong arms for carrying lambs in the spring, or helping with the harvest in the autumn. And yes, we do that here.” He smiled at the thought, distracted for a few moments at the memories. But then she made a slight sound and he caught the scent of her arousal.

  Good. It was working.

  “Nice breasts. A matched pair with nipples the likes of which Shakespeare would have written odes to if he’d seen ‘em.”

  “Thank you.” She spat out the words.

  “I like sucking your nipples, darlin’. I like the way they harden in my mouth.”

  She took a breath and the nipples under discussion rose and fell quite quickly.

  “And then there’s your womanly parts. They’re slick now, aren’t they? Getting wet at the thought of me and my amazing cock inside you, sliding in and out while I make sure all kinds of other places receive just the right amount of stimulation…”

  “God…” She choked out the word, her body flushing, her dark tight curls of hair dewing with her excitement as her thighs moved restlessly.

  It might be working well for her, but it was damn near killing him.

  He stood, carefully, and walked to her. Then without a word he took a breast in his hand and cupped it, weighing it, squeezing it—and then sucking the nipple hard.

  She gasped, and thrust herself toward him, mutely telling him that she wanted his mouth on her every bit as much as he wanted her taste on his tongue.

  He obliged, repeating the process on the other breast, but keeping his thumb on the now-wet nipple and circling it, flicking it, teasing it until the gasp became a whimper.

  “Ian, please.”

  “What, Amelia? Are you ready to accept that you’re my wife?”

  “I cannot…I cannot let you ruin Kilmalochan…” she shook her head in despair.

  He reached around her and slapped her buttocks once more. “Don’t deny us, Amelia. Embrace us.”

  “I—“

  He stopped her with a savage kiss, thrusting his tongue into her mouth and plastering one hand over her buttocks. It drove his cock hard against her and she instinctively struggled to get him where she wanted him.

  “Ian, fuck me…” She groaned out the plea as soon as his lips left hers. “I want you so damn much…”

  “I want to fuck my wife, Amelia. Be my wife…”

  “I can’t…”

  Slap.

  “Why can’t you see that, Ian? What is wrong with you?”

  Slap.

  “Oh sweet God above.” She moaned as he rubbed his cock through her juices.

  “Say it, Amelia. Say you’ll be my wife.”

  “Ian, don’t make me. You’ll end up hating me, I know it…” Her voice broke as she fought tears, even while her body slithered against his.

  “I canna hate you, darlin’. I tried, and I failed.” He put both hands on her buttocks and squeezed, pulling slightly, knowing that the tension he was creating added fuel to her erotic fires.

  “How could you fail? I’m not worth it…”

  The tears fell as she made her final admission, and Ian lifted her at that moment, putting their bodies into perfect alignment.

  Her legs rose either side of his hips and clasped him, holding him tight as he positioned himself.

  “I failed for one reason, Amelia. The most important reason of all. I love you, dear woman. Everything else is unimportant.”

  She froze. “What?”

  “You’re deaf now, are you?” He chuckled although it was more of a groan since his control was down to a tiny thread. “I love you, Amelia. And you’re my wife. You’d better get used to it because I’m not ever letting you go.”

  With that, the Laird of Kilmalochan gave a mighty push and sank his cock up to his balls in his wife’s body.

  Wet, hot and ready for him, she cried out—but this time with pleasure at the sensation.

  He nearly screamed himself. She was on fire, her muscles pulling at him, urging him deeper inside her. When their bodies met, her breasts were flattened against his chest and his mouth was on hers.

  He swallowed her whimpers and gave her his breath as he started to move, fucking her slowly at first and then more strongly as she hung from the bed rail, locked to his body.

  It was mad, savage and sensual, the ultimate joining and the ultimate surrender.

  She could do nothing but ride the wave of astounding pleasure and he had uttered the words he’d never thought he would ever say.

  “I love you.” He buried himself deep, knowing his release was seconds away.

  “Ian…oh Ian…” It was a whispered sob. “I think I might love you too.”

  “You think?”

  He needed no further encouragement. He released his cravings for her, hammering into her, giving no quarter until he felt her grow taut in his arms. Her muscles hardened, her head fell back and the cords in her neck stood out as she closed her eyes and lost herself in her orgasm.

  “Ian…” She screamed his name as she exploded around him, her body writhing, her legs clamped around him like a crab’s claw.

  He let go and followed her, his seed pouring from him into her fire, fueled by the spasms he could feel inside her, milking him, claiming him, holding him right where he was.

  The world disappeared in those moments, swallowed up by a vortex of stars, lightning and madness.

  Finally, the room righted itself and Ian realized that Amelia was now truly hanging from the tester. He quickly released her and she fell into his arms, limp, damp and holding him close to her.

  He eased them both into the bed. “Are you all right, love?” He stroked the dark hair back from her face.

  “You said you loved me.” She stared at him, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “Did you really mean that?”

  “Aye, lass. I did. The Lairds of Kilmalochan never lie to those they love.”

  She absorbed that comment, then reached out and touched his chest. “I’m afraid.”

  “Of what?”

  “Of loving you. I don’t know how to love someone. I never have.”

  “I’ll teach you, darlin’. We’ve a lifetime t
ogether to learn about loving. And I’m thinking it’ll come easy to us.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Do I have to spank you again?”

  A wicked grin crossed her face. “Well, not right this minute, no. But I wouldn’t mind it now and again…”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Amelia couldn’t quite believe what was happening to her, as over the next few weeks, she finally began to let go of her past and dared look toward her future.

  Ian took great pleasure in showing her Kilmalochan, taking her around the vast estate with pride. He showed her the untouched hills where sheep grazed, the tenants’ homes, the fields they tended and the harvest that would be gathered soon.

  They visited the village that bore the name of the Keep, and were toasted heartily by everyone in the local taproom. Which was most of the village, once word spread that the young Laird had taken a wife and they were about to down an ale or two at the Heather and Bells inn.

  It was a different life for Amelia. These were experiences she’d never had. Upon reflection, she realized that as a DeVere, perhaps she should have had them. Or ones like them. Would her mother have done this? Shown her how to run a large household?

  Were there facets of life that she hadn’t known simply because her mother had left her too soon and there was no one to take her place?

  She found she could talk about it to Ian, and he concurred that losing a parent at a young age would be detrimental in so many ways. Then he kissed her and she forgot to pursue the topic.

  There were so many things to see, to learn, things that fascinated her about Kilmalochan and about Scotland.

  There was even a piper, whose strange-sounding music could be heard now and again. Katherine confessed that while she loved tradition, having the man filling her dining room every night with his somewhat squeaky renditions of Scottish melodies…well it tended to put her off her food.

  So the proud gentleman donned his formal Scottish regalia on Sundays and piped the congregation into the local church. Thus satisfying the entire community and relieving Katherine of indigestion.

  The Laird himself returned and within moments was slapping Ian on the back and complimenting him on the wisdom of picking a beauty for a wife. Wisdom which doubtless he had gleaned from his Papa who had done the same thing. He then kissed Amelia with affection, and Katherine with passion—which included a tweak to her backside.

  Amelia laughed, understanding that this was indeed a merry household filled with wit and warmth. Completely unlike anything she could ever recall experiencing.

  So was marriage.

  Being wed to the young Laird gave her something intangible that it took time for her to understand. It gave her a reason to hold her head high. No longer did she need to pretend that she was unmoved, implacable and completely in control of her life.

  All those things were meaningless, she realized. They were steadily being replaced by a growing interest in her home and her in-laws. She was developing pride in Kilmalochan and the fact that one day hers would be the hand that rang the big bell to begin the harvest.

  She learned to appreciate the simple smiles and greetings from the villagers who looked upon her as theirs; part of the family that had arisen around an ancient Keep.

  And when Harvest Sunday rolled around, she sat in the small stone church in the McPherson pew, surrounded by people she knew were real. There was no pretense, no affected laughter or false friendship. Everything that she’d known for most of her life in London had turned out to be nothing but a thin veneer of artifice, concealing people who had no idea how to be a friend, or care about their families.

  It was all about money, status and power. If you had those three, you were someone.

  Here, in the simple Scottish village of Kilmalochan, she had none of the things that mattered so far south. But she had everything she wanted here, and she had everything that would ever matter in her future.

  It was a stunning realization for a woman who had reigned as an Incomparable of the Ton for several years. But oddly enough, that Amelia seemed to have slowly slipped away. As she listened to the sweet sound of the choir and observed how the sun shone through the ancient stained glass windows, she knew she could never go back to being that Amelia.

  She had found Ian, and she had found joy. The two went together in her mind, and turning away from either was impossible. She had also found herself.

  Ian had given her the ruby the day it was returned. But he’d given her a different gift as well—the gift of self-awareness. She had begun to understand that she was worth something, even though she still had moments of doubt. She was beginning to believe he did indeed love her, and that was an accomplishment in and of itself.

  That someone like Ian could actually love her—well, it was a miracle and it had taken some time for her to wake in the morning and know he would be there, not gone in the night like so many others.

  “Ye’re not singing, lass.” Ian nudged her and whispered in her ear as they stood for the next hymn.

  “I don’t want to scare the children,” she whispered back, loving the way his eyes crinkled at the corners every time he smiled. She also found herself laughing at his erratic Scottish accent that seemed to come and go without any kind of pattern at all.

  But she was becoming used to it. Yesterday, she’d even managed a quite respectable “Aye” to a young boy who’d asked if she was the young Laird’s lady. It was a proud moment for both her, and the young Laird who overheard the conversation.

  The hymn over, they resumed their seats. “You look pretty, love.” He glanced at her little miniature nestling in the lace at her neck. “A nice piece.”

  She touched it. “It was given to me to cheer me up. I like to think it worked, or at least kept me going until you came into my life.”

  He reached over and folded her hands in his, remaining silent as the Vicar began the sermon. But he squeezed her fingers, telling her without words that he was moved by her statement.

  That was something else she was learning—how many ways there were for a man to express his feelings, his emotions, without words. Her husband was teaching her more every day.

  Just the simple touch of his hand like this, or the way he kept his hand at her waist, protectively, when they walked the hills. The quick kiss he was wont to steal when she least expected it, and the outrageously wonderful moments when they loved, deep in the deserted Scottish hills.

  Just as she had learned what it was to love and be loved, she had also learned what it was to make love. And it was, without question, the most wonderful thing ever.

  Smiling at the memories, she found her gaze drawn to the altar, and for the first time she could remember, she offered up a little prayer of thanks to whoever might be listening. Her life had turned around and she made a silent promise to be worthy of the joy she had been given.

  The service ended and with a bright smile, she stood, following the Laird, Lady Katherine and Ian down the aisle out into the bright sunlight. The air was sharp now, a harbinger of winter, and the time was right for the harvest, as was the weather.

  She watched as Katherine walked to the end of the church drive and opened a large box that sat on a post. There it was—the harvest bell. Symbol of a tradition that had lasted several generations, Katherine held it carefully and then began to ring it.

  Cheers arose as the sound echoed around the crowded churchyard, and a buzz of conversation followed. Amelia caught the words, knowing that hay and barley and pigs and sheep were an integral part of the life of these folk; every bit as important as what the Prince Regent was doing that evening.

  More so, in fact. She no longer cared about any of the Court or the courtiers, all the way up to the Prince himself.

  When little Jenny Dugan came up to her and held up her hand, Amelia took it, charmed at the innocent smile, the missing tooth and the freckles. “Wanna see ma kitty, m’Lady?”

  “I’d love to, Jenny.”

  Ian chuckled next
to her. “You make sure her Ladyship doesn’t want one of her own, wee one. They’re a big responsibility, you know.”

  “They cuddle nice,” lisped the little girl.

  “So do you,” Ian whispered in her ear.

  “Sshh.” Amelia felt the blush climbing up her cheeks.

  They walked on, little Jenny running ahead, presumably to collect her kitty. Although where it might be, Amelia couldn’t even begin to guess.

  A distinct rumble sounded in the distance, and several people turned their heads; more as the rumble grew nearer.

  Finally, in a bit of a dusty cloud, a large black enclosed carriage drew to a halt, and three uniformed men climbed out.

  “We’re looking for Lady Amelia DeVere. Anyone know where she is?”

  Silence fell and Amelia’s heart tripped several beats. Ian’s arm surrounded her as she walked over to the men.

  “I’m Ian McPherson. Lady Amelia DeVere is now Lady McPherson. My wife.”

  The men looked at each other, but then shrugged. “Well sir, we’ve orders from Whitehall to arrest Amelia DeVere and transport her to London for trial.”

  Amelia gasped. “On what charge?”

  One officer looked at her, a gaze of disdain. “Theft, Madam.”

  “You came all this way to arrest my wife on a trumped up charge of theft?” Ian’s voice hardened. “I’m a Bow Street Runner, man. Best be careful where you throw your accusations.”

  The man paled, but stood his ground. “I didn’t know that, sir, but it makes no difference. I’ve got the warrant, properly signed by the Magistrate and handed to us by the Chief Constable. She’s to come with us and answer to the charges.”

  “What am I supposed to have stolen?” Amelia spread her hands wide. “I have nothing except what my new family have given me.”

  The officer pointed. “That, Madam. You’re brazenly wearing that pin. It was reported stolen several weeks ago from the estate of the late Lady Mabel Springer.”

  “No, no.” Amelia protested. “This was given to me by an elderly gentleman in London.”