by Karen Ranney
There was a small bit of toweling next to the washbasin, but it wasn’t sufficient to dry her completely. She peeked around the screen. The door was firmly closed so she went to the end of the bed, stripped off the bedspread, and wrapped herself in it.
The warmth of the fire beckoned and she sat on the rug in front of it. Tucking the bedspread beneath her arms, she leaned closer to the fire, threading her fingers through her wet hair.
A small white dish filled with potpourri sat on the mantel. As the heat rose, it carried the scent with it—cinnamon and something that reminded her of oranges.
Raindrops made their way into the chimney, hissing as the fire devoured them. Thunder still roared overhead as if this Highland storm was a beast of the clouds and sky. She couldn’t see how it would simply be tamed by dawn.
She could just imagine her grandmother’s comments if she could see her now. Shameful, unladylike, a disgrace, a stain on the family name. No doubt Ailsa would call her those and more.
Right at the moment, Mercy wasn’t trying to be perfect or to please anyone. Sitting on the floor in front of a fire in a Scottish castle on a stormy night, she was simply warming herself.
Regardless of what she did after tonight, someone was going to disapprove of her. She was going to disappoint someone. Yet she was more than content. She was happy, a realization that startled her.
It wasn’t being at Duddingston Castle. Nor was it escaping Macrory House. She was happy because she was with Lennox.
Yet it was evident that nothing could come of any relationship with him. His pride would not allow him to marry her, for whatever amount of money. That was obvious from his reaction to her proposal. Her being an heiress was a detriment, not an asset.
There was no sense involving yourself in a romance with no future. A thought she’d had about Ruthie and Connor. How sad that it fit her situation as well.
If only she could be someone else. A Scottish woman, perhaps, with a great deal more courage. Someone who lived at the castle and who faced both the hardships and the blessings of each day with a smile and an optimistic heart.
As long as she was pretending, she’d make Lennox her husband. She allowed herself to daydream about his return. Perhaps every night she waited for him and every night he greeted her with a kiss before taking her to their bed.
What would it be like to love him? To be able to touch him freely and tell him her secret thoughts? To look her fill at him without shame? She’d never know. After tonight she’d never see him again. She’d find a way to Inverness and leave Scotland.
The country would always exist in her mind as a place of possibilities unfulfilled, of hope and sorrow. She’d always remember him. There was a spot in her heart that had already been carved out and marked Lennox.
He hadn’t lied. Lennox hadn’t given any thought to marriage. Perhaps in the back of his mind he’d known that it was something he would do, sooner or later. He’d never considered that a woman would propose to him. An heiress, no less.
He descended the stairs and headed for his tower bedroom.
He’d also never considered the type of woman he would marry. It had never occurred to him to do so. Now, because of Mercy’s words, he couldn’t help but give it some thought.
She’d have to be loyal, that was a given. She would have to have a fondness for Duddingston since it would be her home and the home of their children. He would want her to encourage him in his pursuits. Whether or not that included flying was something he would have to consider. Intrepid—that was another quality she would have to have. Someone with a heart of courage. A woman who would jump into a loch to save him, for example.
Mercy Rutherford had twisted him up in knots from the first moment he’d seen her. Nothing had been right about his life since the day of the accident. It wasn’t because his airship had nearly been destroyed. Or because Ruthie had broken her arm and it had been his fault. No, it was all because of Mercy.
She’d reminded him of those tumultuous days after Robert had died, when destiny had stood in front of him and forced him to reconsider his life.
He was the last of his family, the last of his line. He’d given some thought to simply turning his back on Duddingston Castle and the history of the Caithearts in the Highlands. He’d trained as a physician. Was he simply supposed to give up all that for the sake of a few bricks?
In the end, he had. There hadn’t been any other alternative. If Robert hadn’t worked so hard for so many years to keep up the family legacy, perhaps his decision would have been different. If he hadn’t been the last of his line, perhaps he could have remained in Edinburgh, finished his studies, and begun his own practice.
He’d made difficult decisions before and paid the price they’d demanded. There were times when he regretted not being a doctor, but fewer than he’d first imagined. He had a duty to Duddingston, his clan, and his family. He’d find a way to ensure that the castle survived, that the Caitheart clan prospered, and that their name would not be forgotten.
Perhaps it was pride, after all. Or the calling of his clan. He could no more abandon his heritage than he could accede to Mercy’s outrageous plan.
He wasn’t for sale. Not even to a beautiful heiress with the ability to plant herself in his mind.
He grabbed a clean shirt and the dressing gown he rarely wore and retraced his steps. Once outside the bedroom he told himself that the wisest course would be to put the garments in front of the door, knock, then disappear. However, that would be the behavior of a coward and he’d never considered himself one.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Lennox knocked on the door and when she answered, he opened it and stared.
She’d done it to him again. Words flew from his mind, leaving him standing there with only one thought.
Mercy was naked.
He could tell that she wasn’t dressed beneath the bedspread, reason enough to excuse himself, turn, and retreat.
Her face was pink from the heat, her shoulders bare and creamy in the light from the fire. Her hair tumbled over her shoulders in curls that made him want to bury his hands in them.
Strangely, he was reminded of the morning of the accident when she’d pointed her finger at him imperiously and demanded that he apologize.
He should do that right now.
Forgive me for my refusal to leave, Mercy.
Forgive me for feeling as if my feet were stuck to the floor.
Forgive me for all the thoughts racing through my mind right now, none of which I should be having. You’re a guest in my home and under my protection. You should not be subject to my libidinous thoughts.
But, oh, Mercy, you are so beautiful and it has been so long since I’ve been sorely tempted. I will remember the sight of you sitting in front of the fire until my dying day.
He closed the door softly behind him and walked across the room, placing the shirt and the dressing gown on the end of the bed. He had performed his errand. He’d done what he’d come to do. Now, now he should leave.
Mercy lifted her hand toward him, palm up.
His conscience shouted at him to leave. The weight of the past five years, the sheer solitary burden of it, however, urged him to stay just for a moment, to take her hand and sit beside her.
A beautiful woman was imploring him with a look. What man in his right mind would ignore such an invitation? Perhaps one who hadn’t been a hermit for years. Or one who was stronger, who hadn’t thought too much about her in the past few days.
“Mercy, this isn’t wise,” he said, the last dregs of his honor forcing the words from his lips.
“Will you kiss me, Lennox?”
When he didn’t answer, she grabbed his hand. “I love your kisses.”
“This isn’t wise,” he said again.
One of them had to be sensible. He wasn’t altogether certain it was going to be him. He could feel himself weakening even as she pulled on his hand.
“No,” she agreed. “It isn’t wise. Nothing about
the situation has been wise. Nothing about you or me has been steeped in wisdom, has it?”
He found himself shaking his head.
“Must we be wise, Lennox? Is it altogether necessary?”
She tugged on his hand again and this time he knelt in front of her. “I know what my future is. I can almost foretell it. But tonight can be what I want it to be. And tonight I don’t want to be wise. I only want to be kissed.”
“That often leads to other things, Mercy. Especially dressed as you are. Or undressed.”
She nodded slowly. “Yes.”
“Yes?”
Did she know what she was saying? It seemed as if she did, because she leaned forward and put her hands on either side of his face, then rose up and placed her mouth on his.
Thunder exploded above them, but he was barely aware of it. He was too attuned to the storm inside of him, one that overpowered his conscience and made him wrap his arms around her.
He pulled her tight to him, lost in the kiss. The future, the circumstances, nothing mattered but Mercy.
Perhaps, if she called a halt now, he would still be able to stop himself. Not too many minutes in the future, however. From the moment he’d kissed her in the kitchen, he’d wanted her. No, he’d wanted her for weeks.
“Mercy.” Just that, her name and nothing more. A last-minute plea for her to refuse him, to pull away, to counsel him on restraint.
“If you won’t marry me, then will you take me to your bed?”
So much for restraint.
She was leaving Scotland, leaving him. He’d never see her again. He’d never again get a chance to hold her in his arms or kiss her. She’d be only a memory, another ghost of Duddingston, another regret.
He stood, but instead of heading for the door, he bent and pulled her into his arms. The bedspread fell to the floor. Mercy stood there, naked, her body tinted by firelight. She didn’t gasp or shield herself with her hands. Instead, she stood there proud and unashamed.
His years in Edinburgh had not been monastic ones. Yet he couldn’t remember ever seeing a woman as perfectly formed. But he studied her not as a physician, only as a man. She stood silently as his gaze swept her body, down over long and beautifully shaped legs, upward to a narrow waist and full breasts with erect nipples.
He wanted to touch her so desperately he ached with it, but first he followed her example. Under her gaze he unfastened his shirt and pulled it off. Then his shoes, his trousers, and the rest of his clothing. If she could reveal herself without self-consciousness, he had no choice but to do the same.
“Your arm,” she said, placing her fingers gently beneath the wound.
“It is of no consequence.” It certainly wouldn’t hamper him tonight.
When they were both naked, he placed his hands on her waist, drawing her forward. She was trembling. He wrapped his arms around her, uncertain whether she was still cold or if she was frightened.
He pressed his cheek against her hair, counseling himself on restraint. A difficult task with Mercy in his arms.
“It’s not too late,” he said. “This is more than a kiss, Mercy. I can’t say that I’ll be able to stop if we continue further.”
“I don’t want to stop, Lennox. This is a gift.”
He pulled back and looked into her face. “A gift?”
She nodded, her eyes luminous. “There will never be another time like this, don’t you see? We’re alone. The rest of the world can’t interfere. No one can disturb us. No one will know.”
“You will. I will.”
“I know what the rest of my life will be like, Lennox. There will be no more stolen moments. That’s what I meant about it being a gift.”
“Are you certain this is what you want?”
She nodded.
Before he could say anything else, she placed her hands on his shoulders.
“Would you kiss me again?” she asked. “I always get lost in your kisses.”
“So do I.”
Her lips curved as she stood on tiptoe to kiss him again. For long moments they stood there, entwined in front of the fire, two people who should have known better but in thrall to emotions more powerful than concepts like honor and propriety.
He wanted her more than he wanted to unlock the secrets of flight. He wanted her enough to ignore the whisperings of his conscience.
When she wrapped her arms around his neck, he was lost. The feel of her abdomen against his erection, the press of her nipples against his chest, the sigh she made when his tongue dueled with hers—all those things were greater than any wise thoughts that might have stopped him.
He led her to the bed, holding her hand as she took the steps and sat on the mattress. A second later he joined her.
Rain slashed against the windows and lightning illuminated the room in a bright white flash that lasted only a second.
He looked down at Mercy. “I need to ask you if you’re certain, at least one more time.”
“No,” she said, startling him. “I’m not entirely certain. I know I’m being horribly unwise, but I want this.”
“Aye, Mercy. If I were a better man I would leave you right this moment.”
She reached up and entwined her arms around his neck. “Not if I won’t let you leave,” she said. “You have asked me enough times, Lennox. You’ve been honorable and decent and a man of great character. Forgive me if I’m not of the same estimable character, but I want to remember this for the rest of my life.”
Must you leave? A question he didn’t ask because it promised a commitment he couldn’t make. Yet even as he kissed her, a voice whispered about the stupidity of pride. This surprising, enchanting, fascinating woman had offered to change his life and he’d turned her down.
He was either the world’s worst fool or the proudest man in Scotland.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
He shouldn’t have returned to the room. Nor should he be here now. But any kind of caution Lennox should have uttered to himself was useless at the moment. His baser self had taken over, the entity who lectured him endlessly and was heartily sick of his hermitage. The same creature who’d spent countless moments adrift in thought about the woman in his arms.
His hands were shaking. His fingers trembled as they slid over Mercy’s skin. She was warm, yet her flesh pebbled at his touch.
He kissed the sigh that emerged from between her lips.
“Forgive me,” he said, his better nature surfacing from beneath his need.
She pulled his head down for a deeper kiss, silencing any further words he might’ve said. In that second he was truly lost, given over to the feel of her beneath his hands.
It had been some time for him, yet he couldn’t remember when the act had ever been painted with a sense of wonder.
He kissed his way down her throat, across her shoulders, and between her breasts before giving attention to both of them.
Her gasp was an indication of how shocking all of this was to her. Another reminder, perhaps, that he should stop, excuse himself, and retreat to his tower room. Instead, he kissed her again, growing familiar with the delicacy of her mouth and the sound of her sighs.
Perhaps she had some imperfection, but he couldn’t find it. Everything about Mercy was flawless from the curve of her shoulders to the slenderness of her ankles.
She was a virgin, deserving of patience. He wasn’t sure if he could restrain himself. Every moment touching her ratcheted his desire up even further.
Her kisses became wild things, her breathing nearly the match of his. His hands stroked her intimately, found proof that she was ready. Even so he should have waited perhaps.
He wasn’t a god, only a man.
If she rebuffed him he would somehow find the strength to leave her.
All she did was smile up at him, wind her arms around his neck, and pull him down to her.
She shouldn’t be doing this. Every rule she’d learned from her mother, her nurses, and her governesses was geared toward this one act. She wa
s to be treated as inviolate, the Vestal Rutherford Virgin. She was to act pure, hold herself up to a higher standard than most women, and be without blemish or flaw.
No one had ever embraced their downfall with as much enthusiasm as Mercy felt right now.
Lennox was touching her, kissing her, causing remarkable sensations throughout her body. Her skin felt heated, even her breathing was different as if she were running a race.
Her breasts felt as if they were swelling to meet his touch, her nipples hard. Each of his kisses had left an impression on her lips. She’d never feel another kiss like his, never experience the wonder at the simple touch of a mouth on hers.
Her hands gripped his shoulders, then flattened against his impressive chest.
His manhood was hard against her stomach and she wanted to touch it, but held back. A second later she dared herself and when her hand brushed against it, Lennox made a sound in the back of his throat.
“Have I done something wrong?” she asked, wishing she knew more.
“No,” he said, before kissing her again. Permission, then, to keep touching him.
Time meant nothing. In one sense it was racing. In another, each second was elongated, pulled thin.
He kissed her neck and she shivered at the sensation. The inside of her elbow, between her breasts, even her wrists were especially sensitive. His lips on her nipples were tied in some magical way to a place deep inside her.
When he raised himself over her, she pushed back her momentary fear. She knew this next part might be painful at first, but how could that be when everything felt so wondrous?
He hesitated, kissed her, and said her name. Just her name, but it was a question, permission sought.
She nodded and then she was no longer a virgin. It pinched, but that was all. Just a momentary pinch, not pain.
She’d never imagined that the act of love would make her feel part of another person. She was joined to Lennox physically, but it was more than that. She’d always remember this moment when she was no longer innocent and unaware.