by Karen Ranney
She didn’t want to stop him, wouldn’t stop him. Perhaps she shouldn’t have reveled in her defilement, but it hardly seemed like that. Her fingers were talented, too, as they made swift work of unfastening his buttons. His jacket was pushed off his shoulders and thrown to the floor. Then his shirt was gone.
His chest. Oh, his chest. She had never thought that a man’s chest could be so utterly beautiful with its play of muscles and thick dusting of hair. She wanted to explore all of him, slowly, with her fingers and her lips, bestow a kiss to the bandage on his shoulder.
But one sensation after another demanded attention. He was kissing her again and the world seemed to spin. He was the only constant and she clung to him gladly.
His lips trailed kisses from her jawline down her throat. How had he removed her corset without her knowing? He grabbed the hem of her shift and pulled it over her head before dropping to one knee.
He must be very practiced at undressing a woman. He unlaced her shoe and removed it. She placed a hand on his shoulder for balance as he removed one stocking, then the other shoe and stocking. All that was left were her pantaloons.
He stood slowly, bare chested, with his trousers and boots still on.
Reaching out, he traced a mark the corset had made between her breasts down to her waist. He stroked the pad of his thumb down as if to erase it.
She was trembling, but it wasn’t because of the cold. The maid assigned to her room always made a point of making up the fire around this time and it was blazing brightly not far away.
No, if she trembled it was because of her own actions. She could have stopped him at any moment, but had chosen to participate in her own downfall.
“I didn’t think you could be more beautiful,” he said.
His hands were everywhere, tender and gentle despite their size.
She didn’t even utter a sound unless it was a moan when he kissed her. She wanted more of his kisses. She wanted his touch everywhere. His calloused fingers dancing down her spine, over her hips, down her legs, everywhere.
His kisses rained down her throat, across her chest. His hands were on her breasts, his thumbs teasing her nipples.
Beneath his hands she felt beautiful, as beautiful as he’d called her, and as perfect as the first woman.
As he lifted her up to the bed, he asked, “Are you sure, Elsbeth?”
He was the one with some sense. He was the one with more moral character. He had the ability to stop, while she wanted to continue this delightful and decadent behavior.
“Please,” she said. She didn’t know what she was asking for, but it seemed as if he did.
“If I don’t leave now, I’m not sure I can,” he said.
“I don’t want you to leave,” she said.
She knew the risks she took. She knew the repercussions. Yet no payment for tonight seemed too great. Let him love her and she would take the chance. Just once, let her stroke her palms and fingers over his chest, legs, all those parts that so intrigued her.
For this space of time—an hour, perhaps two—she wanted to forget her future. She wanted to pretend that he was part of it. He wouldn’t be leaving Scotland, bound for Texas. He would remain with her.
Give her that pretense, for just a little while.
She’d spent the past week thinking about him. She’d prayed over him and promised God that she would be a much better person if he would just spare Connor. He’d spared Connor, and yet here she was, on the cusp of breaking her vow.
Would God understand?
“Please,” she said again, and this time she wasn’t certain if her entreaty was to Connor or God himself. Understand me. Realize how weak I am. How much I want this. How much I know it’s wrong and I’m wrong and how much that doesn’t seem to matter.
Blessedly, thankfully, Connor wrapped his arms around her, her breasts pressing against his bare chest.
Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
He lifted her to the bed as he removed the rest of his clothing.
“You’re taking off your boots,” she said.
He stopped and glanced at her, a small smile curving his lips. “I was only jesting about that, Elsbeth.”
Should she tell him it didn’t matter? He could still wear his boots and his hat and she wouldn’t mind. Just as long as he was with her and could kiss her and touch her and make her feel what he did.
When he joined her on the bed, his gaze was intent, almost as if he were asking the question again.
Did she want this?
How did she say yes? She did the only thing she could think of, reached up and pulled him down to her, kissing him the way he’d already taught her.
In the next moment her pantaloons were being pulled from her. Somehow Connor had untied the drawstring, loosened it, and the offending garment was thrown up in the air to land somewhere she couldn’t see.
She couldn’t help but laugh.
Should she feel so giddy at a moment like this? Should lovemaking be accompanied by amusement?
It seemed as if it was, because he was suddenly above her, his smile and the look in his eyes pinning her to the mattress.
She’d never thought to kiss a smile, but she did now, her hands locking at the back of his neck.
Oh, there was something marvelous and wonderful and almost otherworldly about the feel of a male body on hers. A male body that was so different from her own, and yet it seemed as if they fit together so perfectly.
How could anyone bear to wear clothes again once that discovery had been made?
He kissed her breasts, his tongue dancing on her nipples. She wanted more of that, and when she said as much, she felt him smile against her skin.
“Your arm. Your shoulder?”
“Is fine,” he said, his voice deeper than normal.
He kissed her again and for a few moments she lost herself in the kiss. Was it always like that with a kiss? Did your head go spinning somewhere among the stars? Did colors always appear behind your closed lids? Or was it only kissing Connor?
His kiss seemed tied, somehow, to the very depths of her. Virgin or no, her body seemed to know what to do. She spread her legs almost instinctively, but he only moved aside, his head propped on his hand.
He seemed to be a great deal calmer than she felt. Her heart was racing; she couldn’t breathe deeply. He stroked his hand from the mole next to her left breast, down and over her abdomen.
“You’re so beautiful, Elsbeth.”
She wanted to be, for him. She wanted him to truly think it and not to say it just to be kind.
She wished, for the first time in her life, that she was experienced, that she knew more about lovemaking. If she had been versed in the necessary skills, she might have been prepared for his hand moving down her body, exploring nooks and places she’d always been told were not proper to think about, let alone touch. But every time he did, her body responded.
“Are you sure?” he asked as he rose above her.
No, she wasn’t at all sure.
“Kiss me,” she said. If he kissed her, she wouldn’t be able to think of anything else.
He did, his tongue touching hers, exploring. She felt herself open to him, both his kiss and his invasion.
The sensation was shocking.
Her body was no longer hers. Somehow he commanded it, was able to harness her breath and cause her heart to beat like a shuttered bird in a tiny cage.
Even more sensations were layered atop the first. She didn’t expect the pinch or the slight twinge of discomfort. She made a sound and Connor stopped moving.
“Am I hurting you?”
No. Yes. No.
She shook her head, but he didn’t move, merely braced himself on his forearms.
“Elsbeth.”
What a very strange time to want to weep. She wrapped her arms around him, wondering if she could explain. What she was feeling was something she hadn’t anticipated, a yearning, a need to tell him how she felt.
He mustn’t think
that she would have done this with anyone. Only him. Only Connor.
In loving him she’d given him the only gift she had to give, her innocence. She wanted him to value it, to accept it, and in return give her something she might hold dear for the rest of her life: affection, if only for this moment.
He kissed her cheek, the corner of her mouth, the edge of her jaw, holding himself still as if to allow her to become accustomed to his size.
She was heating from inside, and she needed, wanted, must raise her hips. When she did, he raised up, kissed her lips. She met his downward stroke, her body knowing what to do without her mind’s acquiescence. It felt as if she’d done this before, that she knew the rhythm and movements of this dance.
This. This is what she wanted. This feeling. This knowledge that something was going to happen and that it was going to burst from deep inside her. Not only emotion, but physical sensation. Her body’s transformation from innocence to experience, from yearning to completion.
Then she lost herself, wonder stripping her of breath as she wrapped her arms around his neck and held on.
He stiffened above her, kissing her, the two of them joined in pleasure and passion.
Finally, it was over, Connor moving to lie beside her, his breath as fast as hers. She reached out, placed her hand on his good shoulder, needing to continue that connection with him.
This shattering interlude had propelled her from virginity to knowledge. It had done something else as well, something she hadn’t expected. She felt as if he were wedged into her heart now, in a way that meant he would be nearly impossible to remove.
Chapter 30
Where the hell had she disappeared to now?
Douglas had informed him that Elsbeth had taken herself off to Inverness, only an hour’s journey from Bealadair.
“Miss Elsbeth said she’d be back in three days, Your Grace. I’m sure she will. She never breaks her word.”
“Do you know why she went to Inverness, Douglas?”
The stablemaster had looked surprised at the question.
“No, Your Grace, she didn’t tell me that. Nor did I ask.”
The look Douglas gave him meant Connor shouldn’t have been curious, either.
He was a damn sight more than curious. He was angry.
He’d even gone to Glassey, but the solicitor had not been forthcoming with any information.
“Yes, she’s in Inverness, Your Grace.”
“Why?”
“I’m not at liberty to divulge that, Your Grace.”
And so on and so on.
“Are you any closer to finding a buyer for Bealadair?” he finally asked.
“I’ve sent inquiries to a number of solicitor friends, Your Grace. Finding a suitable buyer who has the wherewithal to purchase an estate the size of Bealadair will take some time, I’m afraid.”
He’d studied the man, wondering if Glassey had his own reasons for delaying the sale.
“Do what you can to hurry it along,” he said. “I want to go home.”
The instant he said the words, Connor felt them spring back, almost as if they were on a cord. Yes, he wanted to return home, but he would miss some things about Scotland. Not the weather, certainly, but Addy, who was a damn fine cook. Perhaps she could be persuaded to come and live in Texas. He’d gotten to know his cousin Muira a little better and thought that she might get along with his sisters well, especially Eustace.
He carefully avoided thinking about her, the woman who was tying his guts into knots. The same woman who just up and left Bealadair without a by your leave, or any kind of notice. The same woman who’d invited him to her bed and the very next day left as if she hadn’t been a virgin and it hadn’t been, well, a night he’d always remember.
What about her?
Evidently it hadn’t been as important as her jaunt to Inverness.
Three days? What was she doing in Inverness that took three days? Glassey wouldn’t tell him. Addy didn’t know. If Muira knew, she was better at lying than anyone he’d ever met.
He found himself haunting the stable. He’d go and visit with Douglas midmorning and then again around four, just before dark. On the morning of the fourth day, he was there every hour on the hour and had given up any pretense that he was oiling his saddle or admiring the horseflesh or examining the tack room. Everybody knew—and he wasn’t really concerned that they did—that he was waiting for Elsbeth.
Waiting, and not in the best of moods.
Elsbeth sat in the carriage on the way back to Bealadair, occupying herself with her notebook, writing down anything she could think of that needed to be done before the ball. The event to welcome Connor was to be held tomorrow. Thank heavens the weather had held. That meant that most of the people who had been invited would attend.
She needed to spare some time to endure Rhona’s lecture. After all, she’d gone to Inverness without the duchess’s permission. She wasn’t truly a servant, although there were times she felt like one. Even though she’d made arrangements for everything to be taken care of in the three days it would take to travel to Inverness, conduct her business, and return, that wouldn’t be good enough for the Duchess of Lothian.
No, Rhona would lecture her on propriety—why hadn’t she taken a maid with her? If she had, she would no doubt have had to endure a lecture about taking one of the staff away from her duties. And she was certain that Rhona was going to take this opportunity to inquire about her success at seduction.
That was the topic she did not want to discuss, now or in the future.
She could tell when they were getting close to Bealadair. The great brick wall that encircled the house and its gardens ended in a magnificent wrought iron and brick gate manned by one of the footmen. Only a little farther and they would be stopped, the driver would nod and identify himself, and the bell would be rung in the gatehouse that signaled those in the house that a visitor was approaching.
Not quite a visitor, though, in this case. But perhaps she would be shortly. She had met with the solicitor Mr. Glassey had recommended, and there were several properties that matched her requirements and her budget. All she had to do was choose. She’d been able to visit two of them and although each was exactly what she had envisioned before coming to Inverness, she hadn’t yet made a decision.
One thing kept occurring to her, and it was something she had never thought of until this trip. How was she to bear the loneliness?
At Bealadair, when she wished to be alone, she went to her suite and closed the door. Even the duchess gave her privacy in her own rooms. Otherwise, she was surrounded by people all the time. The staff of Bealadair were, even in the sad months following Gavin’s death, of a kind and cheerful nature. There was something about them that she knew made them different from those people who worked at other great houses. Perhaps it was Gavin’s insistence on educating their children or considering them part of the clan, even if they came from Inverness to work at Bealadair.
There was most definitely a feeling of family.
Did Connor know what he was going to do? Did he realize that he was disbanding a clan? Did he care about the people who would be scattered to the four winds if the new owner didn’t wish to keep them on? Would the house be left unoccupied for the most part, only to be visited by an absent owner a few times a year?
What would Gavin say?
Appeal to his logic, Elsbeth. He is an intelligent man. After all, he’s a McCraight.
The problem was that she could completely understand why Connor would want to sell Bealadair and return to Texas. He was born there. That was his home, his country. Although his ancestors were Scottish, he didn’t feel a kinship to Scotland.
How was she to bear it when he left? That was a question she should have asked herself earlier, before she allowed herself to be fascinated by him.
She rested her head against the padded seat and closed her eyes. When he left, she’d feel an acute sense of loss. But he was an anomaly, a moment out of time in her lif
e, an experience she had and would never have again. He was simply a stranger who’d shown up one snowy night and would disappear soon.
She wiped away her tears and counseled herself sternly. She never wept, or at least not as often as she had for the past three days. Nor had she known when it would happen, an embarrassing situation since it had occurred once when she was speaking to the solicitor and another time when they were going to see one of the properties he’d selected for her.
Something had reminded her of Connor. Some simple remark, some item recalled him to mind—and she’d acted like a schoolgirl.
It had been a very long time since she’d felt this lost and alone. She’d been eight years old and visited in the hospital by three officious gentlemen who informed her that her parents had not survived the accident, but she had, and wasn’t she the most fortunate little girl?
She hadn’t felt fortunate.
She had a feeling she’d feel the same way when Connor left, when he packed up his saddle and strode to his carriage without a backward glance toward Bealadair. Or her.
She’d wanted to talk to Douglas, so she’d requested that the driver take the carriage around to the stable instead of pulling into the front of Bealadair.
As if she summoned him with her thoughts, Connor was standing there when the carriage rolled to a stop. His hat was pulled low over his forehead so she couldn’t see his eyes, but from his stance she could tell Connor McCraight was not in a good mood. He was leaning against a fence post, his arms folded in his leather coat, one booted foot crossed over the other.
Snow was drifting down lazily like feathers, but it didn’t seem to touch him. Maybe Nature itself knew better than to bother with His Grace when he had, as Mr. Kirby had once called it, his “mad on.”
Elsbeth thanked the stableboy who opened the carriage door for her.
Why was Connor waiting for her? It was quite evident he was, especially when he pushed back the brim of his hat with one slow finger.
Oh, dear, that expression wasn’t friendly at all.
Somehow, he’d acquired Gavin’s frosty look when he was being all ducal and aristocratic. In Connor, it seemed to be even more intense.