Winter’s Desire

by Amanda McIntyre, Charlotte Featherstone

  “I’m not a virgin,” she said at last, tipping her chin in the air defiantly. “What do you say to that?”

  “I say that you are perhaps the most perplexing woman I’ve ever known,” he said simply. “And also the most fascinating.”

  Aisling shook her head, her breath coming far too fast. “I suppose I’ve been called worse.”

  He ran a hand through his hair, further mussing the deep brown waves that fell carelessly over his forehead. “It was meant to be a compliment. I’ve more, if you’d like to hear them.”

  All rational thought flew out of her mind. She wanted him; there was no point in denying it. Her brother and his friends were in the parlor, playing cards. Mother had joined them. It would be hours before they quit their game, before anyone came looking for her.

  She took two steps toward him, wanting more than anything to give in to this unfamiliar longing, this newfound hunger running through her, drawing her toward this man like nothing had ever drawn her before.

  “Kiss me, Will Cooper,” she said, before she had a chance to reconsider.

  3

  WILL WASTED NO TIME IN COMPLYING. IN THREE strides he had her in his arms, his mouth crushing hers. Aisling’s hands slid up Will’s back to his neck, her fingers tangling in his hair as she drew him closer, her breasts pressed flat against his coat.

  With a low moan of satisfaction, she opened her mouth against his. His tongue, warm and alive, skated along her lower lip, sending a ripple of shivers down her spine. He tasted of wine, smelled of soap, a hint of tobacco. Heat coiled in her belly, radiating down toward her thighs, dampening them with need.

  “I shouldn’t,” Will murmured, his mouth retreating from hers.

  “Nor I,” Aisling answered, but her lips sought his once more, her hands now clasping the lapels of his coat, dragging his mouth back to her hungry one.

  She gasped as he lifted her off her feet, carrying her back toward the desk, his mouth never once leaving hers as he deposited her onto the desk’s smooth edge, knocking piles of books and papers to the floor in the process.

  Their hands were seemingly everywhere at once—frantic hands, unbuttoning his coat, tugging at her bodice’s neckline, pulling his shirttails from the band of his trousers. A button fell to the carpet, but Aisling couldn’t say whose it was, or where it had come from.

  She struggled to keep her balance on the edge of the desk while attempting to raise her skirts, to free her limbs so that she could spread her knees, allowing him to press himself between her thighs.

  As if Will sensed her intention, he lifted her, scooping up her skirts and gathering them about her waist as he set her back down on the hard, cool surface with nothing between her bottom and the desk’s surface but her thin cotton drawers.

  Tugging on his shirttails, Aisling drew him back toward her ’til she felt the firm pressure of his erection pressed against her drawers, teasing the sensitive nub of flesh between her slick, wet folds.

  Her entire body trembling with desire, she looked over Will’s shoulder and eyed the closed door, knowing that, at any moment, someone could try to open it. That thought alone should have deterred her, should have forced her to flee. Instead, her pulse quickened, her heart thumping against her ribs in rhythm to Will’s, their breath mingling.

  Quickly, her mind screamed, urging her on. Without another thought, Aisling reached for his trousers’ fastenings, her fingers clumsy as she hurried to free his cock. In seconds she held him in her bare hand, running the pads of her fingertips over the velvety-smooth surface. Wrapping her fingers around the shaft, she stroked the length of him, up and down, marveling at the contradictory sensations—smooth yet hard, soft yet corded. As she continued to explore every inch of him, she felt him grow harder, heard his breath come faster, saw his eyes growing heavy lidded.

  With a low groan, he reached for her delicate, lace-trimmed drawers, very nearly tearing them as he roughly shoved them down. Aisling wriggled her hips, pushing them lower, past her knees, ’til they dropped to the floor beside her slippers.

  “Now,” she whispered, unable to stand the ache, the need, that grew and intensified with every breath she took. “Hurry.”

  Will met her gaze and nodded, his pale, piercing eyes never straying from her face as the tip of his cock prodded her entrance. In one sharp motion, he buried his entire length inside her.

  Aisling gasped with pleasure, wrapping her legs around his waist. Slowly, sensuously, he withdrew, then thrust back inside her, his eyes still holding hers captive, his hands on both sides of her face. His thumbs stroked her cheeks as they found a rhythm, their bodies moving in perfect unison.

  His movements were slow, determined, almost willful. She bit her lip, trying not to cry out, trying not to beg him to go faster, harder. Aisling felt herself grow wetter, slicker with each thrust, her hips bucking to meet his, her need growing more and more persistent, more tightly coiled by the second.

  And then with one last thrust, she found the release she sought. Her quim tightened, pulsing against his deeply buried cock just as she felt his hot seed pump into her. For a moment her mind emptied of everything but the exquisite sensation, the oblivion she felt as wave after wave of sweet pleasure washed over her.

  Neither spoke for a full minute as they fought to catch their breath. Aisling buried her face in his neck, breathing in his scent as her racing heart finally slowed its frenetic pace. At last, she sat upright, taking two deep, calming breaths.

  “You’re bleeding,” Will said, reaching up to brush her lower lip with the pad of his thumb. Aisling glanced down, surprised to see the crimson-red smudge there, marring his skin.

  She shook her head, hoping to clear it. “I bit my lip.” It hurt now, a vague, throbbing pain.

  He bent toward her, his lips finding hers, his tongue gently sweeping across the tender spot. “There,” he said, his voice soft. “Is that better?”

  She could only nod in reply.

  He smiled then, a slow, lazy smile that made her heart accelerate again.

  “What have we done?” she asked, shivering as his cock slipped from inside her, leaving her damp, cold—empty.

  He reached down to pull up his trousers, fastening them with precise, confident motions. “Do you regret it? Here,” he said, plucking her drawers from the carpet at his feet.

  Aisling slid off the edge of the desk, her legs unsteady and weak as her feet found the ground. She took her drawers and wadded them into a ball, still considering his question.

  Did she regret it? This…this wonderful feeling she now felt in her heart, the way her blood raced through her veins, warming her skin?

  It had been lovely. Wondrous and entirely pleasurable. Nothing like her ill-considered coupling with Esterbrooke—nothing at all. That had been about satisfying her curiosity, nothing more. This had been about satisfying her. And it had. Entirely.

  “No,” she said decisively. “I don’t regret it. Not a bit. Do you?”

  He shook his head. “I’ve never wanted anything more in my life. I cannot explain it, but from the moment I saw you tonight, I could think of nothing else.”

  “I…I felt the same,” Aisling agreed with a nod. “From the moment I sat down and saw you there. It’s like…like I was seeing you with entirely new eyes.”

  “Almost like a spell, isn’t it?” Will said with a chuckle.

  And then it hit her, like a dousing of cold water. The poem! Her winter’s desire. She’d read the poem, there in the circle of stones, and made that ridiculous wish. And now…now…

  But that’s nonsense. There’s no such thing as spells, she told herself.

  “When can I see you again?”

  Drawn from her musings, Aisling looked up at Will, surprised by the earnest expression she saw on his face. “See me again? But how? I mean, what will we tell everyone?”

  “We needn’t tell anyone anything. Jack said he’s leaving for London tomorrow. There must be some way—”

  “Of course! Tomorr
ow my mother has an appointment at the draper’s in the village. She always pays a call on Mrs. Brandon afterward, and usually ends up staying for tea. She’ll be gone by half past eleven, I’d say, and won’t return ’til sundown.”

  “Yes, but the servants,” he said, straightening his necktie. “It’s not as if I can simply waltz in and—”

  “Of course not. Damnation!” Aisling shook her head. “What I wouldn’t give to have the freedoms a man has.”

  “There must be somewhere here on the grounds, somewhere we can—”

  “The old gatekeeper’s lodge,” she interrupted. “It’s not the finest of places, but it’s furnished, and there’s a small stove for heat. We keep it clean and the linens fresh for guests’ servants, just in case. Anyway, it’s empty now.”

  “Are you sure?” Will asked, reaching for her hand and clasping it tightly in his. She felt the calluses that marked his hands as working hands—and yet, strangely enough, she didn’t care, didn’t care that Will’s mother was a washerwoman, that no one knew exactly who his father was. All those things were suddenly inconsequential.

  She nodded. “Yes, I’m sure. At noon, then? I’ll bring us a picnic lunch, if you’ll bring a scuttle of coal.”

  “Very well. Noon, then. I’m already counting down the minutes.”

  “Who knew you were such a romantic?” she said with a laugh.

  “I could say the same of you.”

  “Oh, I’m not a romantic. Not in the least.” At least, she never had been before.

  “We’ll see about that,” he said, sounding like the cocky, self-assured Will she remembered.

  “See if you can melt the ice queen, is that it, then?” she teased.

  His face reddened like a schoolboy’s. “How did you—”

  “Oh, I won’t hold it against you,” she teased. Jack had told her, of course. “But you should go. Truly, before we’re caught.”

  He nodded, running his fingers through his hair. “Do I look at least moderately presentable?”

  Aisling grinned. “No, you look as if you’ve just had quite the tumble.”

  “Well, they’re much more likely to assume it was one of your maids I was tumbling than you.”

  “I suppose I can take comfort in that. Now go.” She tipped her head toward the door.

  He nodded, then leaned in to press his lips to hers once more. “’Til tomorrow,” he whispered against her mouth.

  “Tomorrow, then,” she murmured.

  An hour later, Aisling sat at her typewriter, her handwritten manuscript beside it on the desk. She preferred to write in longhand, but the story had to be typed for submission and Jack was leaving for London in the morn. She took a deep breath, willing herself to concentrate, but her focus was drawn instead to the strange wooden box with the Celtic symbol sitting on her desk beside the typewriter.

  Warily, she reached for the box and removed the folded slip of parchment and smoothed it straight, her hands trembling ever so slightly as she did so. Wherever had it come from? And how did it find its way to the circle of standing stones?

  She read the poem once more, silently this time, her lips moving as her eyes skimmed the words. What exactly had she wished for when she’d read it aloud, there in the circle? She forced herself to remember her exact thoughts, to examine them thoroughly.

  A man who would make her feel things she’d never before felt. Like she had just now, with Will. An educated man, an artist, perhaps—and wasn’t Will both? A botanist, with a university education. He cataloged plant species, drew them, he’d said. Rough, callused hands—just like the hands that had held her face captive while Will had made love to her in her brother’s study. A man who would worship her, yet treat her as his equal. Would he? Only time would tell. Whatever fire had been stoked between them today would not be doused so easily.

  But the poem…her wish. She shook her head. It was a coincidence, she told herself as she folded the age-worn page and placed it back inside the box. It had to be a coincidence. There was no other reasonable explanation, and Aisling was nothing if not a woman of reason.

  She could have sworn she felt a tear slip from the corner of one eye, which was nonsense, of course. Aisling never cried. Never. And yet, when she reached up to brush her cheek with the back of one hand, she found it strangely wet.

  With a small groan of frustration, she set the wooden box on the floor at her feet, out of her sight. She turned up the lamp and settled back against her chair’s plump cushion, wondering if, perhaps, she was on the verge of a crying jag. She’d always thought she might enjoy one. Still, no matter how hard she’d tried in the past, she’d never been able to summon even a single tear.

  Perhaps it was the solstice, working some strange magic on her mind. Or perhaps she was just exhausted. Either way, everything felt somehow different, as if she’d stepped into someone else’s skin and was now seeing the world through their eyes instead of her own. And yet, oddly enough, it was a pleasurable sensation.

  Indeed, she could not deny the frisson of excitement that shot through her veins when she thought about meeting Will tomorrow at the gatekeeper’s cottage. Will Cooper, of all people!

  She shook her head, willing herself to focus on her manuscript, instead—it had to be typed, and tonight, if she wanted another neat little sum deposited into her account by the week’s end. Nodding to herself, she began to type, quickly losing herself in the story. Every kiss, every touch she described became Will’s, every wicked sensation her own.

  4

  WILL CHECKED THE TIME ONCE MORE, THEN dropped his heavy watch back into his pocket. Five minutes ’til twelve. He paused, setting down the scuttle of coal as he looked toward the gatekeeper’s cottage up ahead. He did not want to appear too eager—or too nonchalant. In fact, he wasn’t quite sure how to proceed where Aisling was concerned. He had no experience with women like her, after all.

  But then again, Aisling was a thing unto herself, in no way representative of women of her class. The gently bred ladies of his limited acquaintance were not nearly as outspoken, as confident or independent minded as Aisling was. They neither cursed nor smoked nor secretly published erotic stories, as far as he knew.

  And while he had no firsthand experience in such matters, he could only assume that well-bred, unmarried ladies did not generally go around fucking their brother’s childhood chum while said brother played cards with his guests a few doors down.

  He had no idea what to expect from her today—or, for that matter, what she expected from him. He’d come prepared, with a packet of French letters in his pocket. He was leaving nothing to chance this time. Last night he’d been caught up in the moment, careless. But today…today would be different.

  Feeling restless, he checked his watch once more. Only two minutes had passed, but he could wait no longer. He picked up the coal and made his way across the bare winterscape to the cottage door. It was unlocked, and several minutes later he had doffed his overcoat and lit the stove, which now belched out sooty heat in the room’s far corner. Smiling in satisfaction, he rose, dusting off his hands. As he did so, he heard the door creak open behind him, followed by the faint whistle of the wind, and then the door slammed shut with a bang.

  “You’re here,” she said, sounding surprised.

  He turned to find her there by the door, wrapped up in a heavy, woolen cloak, a basket clutched in front of her. Her cheeks were pink, her eyes bright and full of mischief.

  “You look like Red Riding Hood,” he said with a smile. “Only in black, of course.”

  “I certainly hope you aren’t the Big Bad Wolf,” she replied, setting the basket down by her feet and pulling back her cloak’s hood.

  “Did you know,” he began, taking two tentative steps toward her, “that Red Riding Hood has been seen as a parable of sexual awakening?”

  “Really? Quite fitting, then, that you made the comparison, all things considered.”

  “Are you trying to shock me, Miss Wainscott?” he teased, feel
ing immediately at ease in her presence.

  She reached up to untie the cloak’s fastenings at her throat. “Perhaps. It is what I’m best at. Shocking people, I mean. At least my mother would say so.”

  “Well, I suppose I’m of a hardier constitution, because it will take more than that to shock me. Much more.”

  “Well, we’ve got all day, haven’t we?” she asked with a shrug.

  All day. Will let that phrase sink in, thinking just what could be accomplished in a single afternoon. First, he would undress her. Slowly, sensuously, revealing her form inch by tantalizing inch. This time he could afford to pay attention to her breasts, to taste her, to savor her. He could picture her now, sprawled naked on the narrow bed there across from the stove, her legs spread while he feasted—

  “I see you’ve got the stove lit,” she said, effectively ending his lustful imaginings. She turned in a slow circle, surveying the room they stood in. “It’s not so bad, is it? It’s clean, and there are blankets in the cupboard.” She pointed to a door opposite the stove.

  “It’s cozy,” Will answered with a nod. “I’m glad you came.”

  She arched one delicate brow. “Why wouldn’t I?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know. I suppose I figured that once you’d given it more thought, you might reconsider. After all, we’ve never been what you might call friends, have we? At least, not since we were children.”

  Aisling smiled as she shrugged out of the cloak, revealing a simple bottle-green skirt and white blouse underneath, a black kidskin belt around her waist. “You always looked at me queerly,” she said, hanging her cloak on a hook by the door.

  “I was always trying to figure you out,” he said, stroking his chin.

  She peeled off her gloves and laid them on a spindly wooden chair. “And did you?”

  “Not in the least. You’re quite the enigma, you know.”