by Liz Carlyle
Trust him? What in God’s name was he thinking?
But instead of pushing him away in disgust, Esmée just swallowed hard and nodded. “When you say it, I believe it,” she whispered.
She was a fool, he knew, to believe in him, the most resolute rotter in Christendom. But in that moment, he wanted her to believe. He wanted to deserve, just for an instant, the abject need he’d seen in Esmée’s eyes. She set her cheek to his chest. “Oh, Alasdair!” Her plea was so soft, he could barely hear it. “Oh, just put your arms round me for a moment. Please.”
So he encircled her in his arms and drew their bodies closer. He crooked his head, meaning to kiss her temple again. But she looked up at him instead, her damp eyes wide and searching. She made a little sound, a sweet, sudden inhalation, and somehow, he dipped his head. Their lips met—by accident, he would have sworn—and she let her weight sag against him, wordlessly pleading for something she’d no business having.
But there was, perhaps, a little sliver of decency yet left in Alasdair. He raised his head, and looked at her questioningly.
“Aye, Alasdair, I can hold my whisky,” she whispered. “I’m not so tosie I don’t know what I’m about.”
Another tear leaked from her left eye, and impulsively, he dipped his head and brushed it away with his lips. Esmée made the small, plaintive sound again, and curled one slender hand behind his neck.
He let his eyes move over the pure ivory of her face, now tear-stained, and somehow convinced himself it would be ungentlemanly to refuse her a moment of consolation. So he let one hand slide from her shoulder down to the gentle sway of her back and spread his fingers wide, then eased his palm soothingly up and down, easing a little of his own fear as he did so. Burying his face in her hair, he drew in Esmée’s sweet essence, that familiar scent of moor and heather. Of home. Of her.
Impatiently, she rose on her tiptoes and slanted her mouth over his, setting his head to swimming. Somehow, he managed to remember her innocence, and returned the kiss tenderly. But that was not quite what she wanted. Instead, Esmée opened her mouth beneath his, tempting him to take her.
Logic spun away. Alasdair slid inside her mouth, tasting the whisky on her lips. Her breath was like spicy fruit; a ripe persimmon, bittersweet on his tongue. Esmée’s hands began to roam restlessly over him, her touch uncertain yet urgent.
Alasdair understood that sometimes harrowing experiences had an extraordinary effect on people. There was a sense of having been brushed by death, and often, a desire to obliterate the terror with some other—almost any other—sensation. But he did not explain this to Esmée, for he could not find the words. Instead, he set his other hand between her shoulder blades and began to pat her back in a gesture he hoped was more avuncular than avaricious.
Apparently, it wasn’t working. She tore her mouth from his. “Alasdair,” she choked. “Don’t leave me tonight.”
Her meaning was clear. “Ah, Esmée,” he whispered. “It wouldn’t do, love. You are distraught. And I am not for you. Remember, you don’t even like me that well.”
Anxiously, she licked her lips. “I was mistaken,” she returned. “You make me afraid of myself, I think.”
He kissed the turn of her jaw. “Be afraid of me, love,” he whispered against her ear. “I’m no gentleman.”
She arched her neck, all but begging his mouth to slide down the turn of her throat. “Just stay with me, Alasdair,” she pleaded. “Make me forget this awful day. I can’t be alone. Oh, I can’t bear it. Not tonight.”
Alasdair heard the little catch in her voice. He told himself that she was young and innocent, and that he needed to soothe her fear for Sorcha, without making his desire so bloody apparent. But that was the very trouble he’d been struggling with these last few weeks. Esmée was desirable—so much so that he’d been afraid to sleep alone in his own home. Afraid, really, that he wouldn’t end up alone, for despite their fierce arguments, he had already felt the snap and crackle of passion between them.
Oh, yes, it was all too easy for a practiced rake to seduce an innocent. And it was particularly easy now, when they were both hurting, and afraid of being left alone with their fears. It was up to him to say no. But when she brushed her lips over his again, and slid her warm, slender hands round his back, he said yes, closing his eyes, and kissing her deeply, until her body came fully against his, and pressed artlessly against the bulge of his trousers.
What a naïve little fool she was! And what a cad he was. Suddenly, cool air breezed up his spine. She had tugged his shirt free. Her small hands were on him, warm and searching as they skimmed up the muscles of his back, setting him to trembling.
“God Almighty, Esmée,” he choked. “Don’t.”
But Alasdair had no self-discipline, save his ruthless control at the card table. He refused himself nothing he wanted—and what he wanted now was Esmée. Which really wasn’t anything new. So he let her slide the coat from his shoulders. Let her fingers skate round the bearer of his trousers. Let his hand ease down to the luscious curve of her arse. Let everything go to hell in a surge of overwrought fear and suppressed desire.
Esmée no longer kissed like an innocent. Instead, she was meeting his strokes with hers, languorously entwining her tongue with his. Blood began to pound in his temples, drowning out his good intentions. Tearing his mouth from hers, he shoved his fingers into her hair and drew back her head, brushing his lips down the tender flesh of her neck.
Esmée shuddered. “I want…oh, I want…” she whispered.
He knew what she wanted. And Alasdair had never been a saint. He undressed her with the efficiency of a practiced rogue, divesting her of gown and corset, chemise and drawers—everything, even what was left of her hairpins—all without taking his ravening mouth from hers.
Oh, he knew he was going to regret it; knew there was going to be a terrible price to pay. But he drew in her scent again, and let the strange mix of fear and desire swirl in his mind like a shimmering haze, obscuring his reason.
Esmée showed no embarrassment when his hungry eyes raked her bare body. Perhaps it was the whisky. Or perhaps just her earthy nature. He didn’t care; he was mesmerized by the soft alabaster curves of her hips, her thighs, round swell of her breasts. She was small, so fine boned and delicate he feared he might break her. But her cool green eyes held his, as knowing and honest as the day he’d first met her. The heavy brown hair he’d once thought plain hung to her waist in a shimmering curtain which teased at her nipples. He buried his face in it again, drew in her scent of honey and heather, and was lost.
Later, he couldn’t even remember undressing himself, or carrying her to the bed. But he remembered pressing her down into the white softness of the mattress and dragging his weight over her. Her breasts were surprisingly full, and when he set his hands firmly against her shoulders and took one in his mouth, Esmée arched beneath him and cried out his name.
Something hot and frighteningly possessive surged through him then, yet he was but barely aware of the danger. Esmée was all youth and beauty and innocence. And her innocence was his, it seemed, to take.
Esmée felt a sweet, hot heat go curling through her belly the instant his mouth touched her breast. Instinctively, she cried out, her body rising to his in a primordial sign of desire. She was not a total fool; she understood she was offering him something irrevocable. It did not matter. She wished to lose herself in this man’s beauty; to let him ease her pain and obliterate her fear.
“Alasdair.” Her voice was urgent in the gloom. “Alasdair. Please.”
Instead, he cradled her face between his hands, let his long lashes drop shut, and kissed her slow and deep. Esmée’s head swam. His tantalizing scent—soap and tobacco, sweat and whisky—teased at her nostrils and made her stomach bottom out. She lifted one leg instinctively and curled it over his, drawing their hips together. But he pushed her leg away almost roughly and turned his attention to her other breast, his heavy golden hair falling forward, veiling his eyes
.
For long moments, he suckled her, stilling her to his mouth with his powerful arms, and building her blood to a roaring boil. Oh, this! Yes, this was what she yearned for. With the weight of his body still sprawled over her, he drew the tip of one breast between his teeth. She gave a cry, soft and urgent, but it wasn’t pain. It was…something better. Something heady and uncontrollable.
Esmée let her head tip back into the pillow, let her fingers curl into her palms, inviting him to do as he pleased as she watched from beneath her lashes. Oh, he was so beautiful, this lover she ought not have! But regret would wait until tomorrow. Right now, she needed to forget. Alasdair’s body was slender and hard, sculpted into lean planes and taut curves. His arms and legs were layered with muscle and dusted with surprisingly dark hair. And the warm, silky weight which she felt between her thighs—oh!
“I want you,” she said, barely realizing she’d said the words aloud.
In response, Alasdair trailed his mouth between her breasts and down her belly, then sat back on his heels. The heavy curtain of hair still hid his eyes, separating them. Novice and teacher. Slave and master. He had enslaved her against her will with his melting brown eyes and infinite beauty. He set his wide, warm hand on her belly, and Esmée trembled. With unhurried motions, his hand slid lower and lower, until his thumb inched into the thatch of curls below her belly. He stroked between the folds of her skin, and Esmée felt a tremor rock the bed.
He made a sound—an anguished groan—and with one knee, urged her thighs wider. Then his hand slid between them, and he touched her again, gliding through her flesh, tormenting her past all bearing. “Ah, Esmée!” He sounded almost regretful. “Such a beautiful, sensual creature.”
He set both hands on her inner thighs, pushing them farther, then bent his head and touched her with his tongue. “Ahh!” she cried, the pleasure so intense she wished to shut it out.
“Relax your legs, love.” His voice was but a whisper. “Open for me, Esmée. Let me soothe you.”
Let me soothe you.
She writhed beneath his touch. Oh, God. He could do it; she knew that much instinctively. But what was he offering? His hands pushed firmly on her inner thighs until she relaxed into the mattress, then his thumbs spread wide her flesh. His tongue slid deep, teasing at her wetness, heightening her desire, until it touched her very core and made her body tremble. And still, he tormented her, pleasuring her with light, little flicks, and then long, languorous strokes, until Esmée found herself shaking and shattering, and coming apart.
She returned to awareness in the dimly lit room to see Alasdair rise up on his knees. When she saw the jutting length of his erection, she drew in her breath sharply. His head came up, and with a jerk of his head, he tossed the heavy gold hair from his eyes. His once-hidden gaze burned into her now, and with one hand, he touched himself, easing his fist along the impossible length of his flesh.
Esmée swallowed hard, then held out her hands, inviting him. Instead, he came down beside her, and curled one leg over her body. Sated and uncertain, she rolled onto her side, facing him. She thought he ought to be doing something—something more than just staring into her eyes—but she was unsure.
“Alasdair, I…I want…”
“Shush, love,” he whispered, touching one finger to her lips. “I know what you want.” He rolled closer, pushing her onto her back, then covering her body with his.
This was it, then. The moment every woman both craved and feared. But he did not put himself inside her body, as she expected. Instead, he kissed her again, opening his mouth over hers, abrading her face with the stubble of his beard, his nostrils flared wide, his breath coming fast and urgent.
“Touch me,” he groaned, as if the words had been dragged from the pit of his belly. “Esmée, touch me.” Almost roughly, he took her hand and guided it toward his erection.
Esmée did as he asked, sliding her hand between their bodies. The weight of him felt like satin, but hard and warm, pulsing with strength. Tentatively, she stroked him as he had done, drawing her fingers firmly down his length. Alasdair came up on one elbow, and shuddered. “Again,” he rasped, his eyes squeezed shut.
Esmée obliged him, marveling in the barely restrained power of his body. He trembled as if from his very core, then spread his mouth over hers again, kissing her deeply. Esmée felt a growing sense of power, a faith in her ability to give him pleasure.
Alasdair’s long, elegant fingers curled over hers, easing her hand back and forth over his hot flesh as his tongue thrust inside her mouth. Again and again, she repeated the gesture, his hand over hers, his tongue sinuously curling around her own, his shudders deepening, until at last he tore his mouth away on a guttural sound. She stroked him once more, and his beautiful body bowed back, his mouth opening in a silent, triumphant cry. Then Esmée felt his erection spasm, again and again, until the warm wetness of his seed spilt across her belly.
Alasdair’s deep sense of peace was not long-lived. After allowing himself the luxury of drowsing with Esmée in his arms for perhaps an hour, he began to stir, prodded by guilt and worry. Reluctantly, he slid away from the warmth of her body and returned with a damp cloth from the washstand.
She opened her eyes, and stiffened. “Sorcha—?” she rasped, rolling up onto one elbow, and pushing the hair from her face.
“Nothing yet.” He brushed the backs of his fingers along the turn of her jaw. “Rest, Esmée. It’s late. I’ll make sure Reid sends for you if there’s any change.”
She sat fully upright, and let the sheets fall. A less missish sort would have dragged them up to hide her nakedness, but Esmée seemed unconcerned. “Are you leaving me?” she asked, her eyes searching his face.
God knew he did not want to. “I’d best,” he said. “The servants will be wondering.”
“Alasdair—” she began, then halted. “I wish…I wish you to tell me why.”
She was not referring to his leaving, and he knew it. Christ, it had been hard enough to do. Now he had to explain it? He bent one knee to the mattress, and sat down. “Esmée, you brought me great pleasure,” he answered. “May we leave it at that?”
She shook her head. “No.”
Absently, he tucked a curl behind her ear. “Esmée, you are very young,” he began. She opened her mouth to speak, but he laid a finger to her lips. “And I have seen more of the world than a man ought.”
Esmée’s eyes hardened. “I’m inexperienced, aye, but not ignorant,” she said. “There is a vast difference between the two.”
He leaned across the bed, and lightly kissed her. “Is there indeed?” he said. “Well, we shall speak more of it tomorrow, Esmée, when we are not scared out of our minds.”
She tore her gaze from his, and stared into the darkness of the room. “Did you not want me, then?” she asked. “Was it just me, throwing myself at you? Answer me that, MacLachlan.”
So he was just MacLachlan again. “Aye, Esmée, I wanted you,” he answered. “But wanting, and having the right to take, are far from the same thing.”
She raked her hand back through her hair again. “I have been a fool, haven’t I?” she whispered. “Sometimes I think I haven’t the sense God gave a goose.”
Alasdair didn’t know what to say to that, but he understood the terrible weight of regret. He watched by the fire’s light as she slid from the bed and padded across the carpet to the pile of clothing on the floor. She was so beautiful and so fragile. And yet the word beauty was inadequate, and her fragility was deceptive. He had taken not just pleasure in her arms tonight, but comfort, too. A sense of strength, and of being where he belonged. And yet he did not belong with Esmée. Certainly he did not belong in her bed.
Esmée returned with her drawers and chemise.
“Stay in bed, love,” he urged her. “Try to sleep.”
Again, the stubborn shake of her head, which sent her long, shimmering hair sliding over one shoulder. “I must go to my sister,” she answered. “I shan’t trouble Dr. Rei
d, I swear it. But I’ll not rest tonight until I’ve seen Sorcha again.”
Chapter Six
In which Lady Tatton is Aghast
Shortly after dawn the next morning, Alasdair arose from his own bed, feeling as if the Sword of Damocles hung over his head—two or three of them, actually. He had not slept to speak of. But to appease Ettrick, he’d taken off his clothes and put on his dressing gown. For about the fifth time since midnight, he hastened downstairs to check on Sorcha.
Dr. Reid roused in his chair and unfolded his hands from his belly. “She stirred a bit about an hour ago,” he reported. “Her pupils are responding nicely, and the shoulder looks good. I think we are well out of the woods, Sir Alasdair.”
“Oh, thank God.” He went to the bed, and took Sorcha’s tiny hand in his. The thought of the pain she must have suffered almost unmanned him. But she did indeed look different now, as if she were drowsing naturally. She really was all right. Relief began to flood through him.
The doctor rose. “I think she’ll wake by noon. Then we’ll see if we can determine how much discomfort she’s suffering. She’ll likely be fretful for a day or two.”
Alasdair smiled and let his hand play with one of Sorcha’s fine, baby-soft curls. “Oh, Sorcha won’t tolerate discomfort,” he said with an inward smile. “And she’ll communicate that quite forcefully.”
“Hmph!” said the doctor. “Spoilt, is she?”
Alasdair shrugged. “I prefer to say doted on.”
Upon leaving the doctor, he choked down some dry toast and coffee, then dressed in haste. It was going to be one hell of a day. He knew what had to be done, and it left him a little ill, though whether from dread or anticipation, he was not perfectly certain. He was sorry, though—damned sorry for all of them—that he’d let it come to this.
In the entryway, Wellings handed him his stick and his hat. “Your brother was to take breakfast with you this morning, sir,” he said with a sigh.