Sally MacKenzie Bundle

by Sally MacKenzie

  He swallowed the brandy in one gulp, almost enjoying the pain as it burned its way down his throat.

  In her perfect world, he would have a title.

  Did he really want to slide between the sheets of a woman who had been literally beating the bushes for a peer? Who had taken Bennington out into the shrubbery?

  The rest of his body assured him he did.

  Damn.

  Well, there was no doubt he was physically attracted to the girl—he’d mauled her every time he’d gotten a moment alone with her. He closed his eyes briefly. And not so alone, as Lord Fonsby’s many guests could attest.

  Still, he couldn’t spend his life in bed with her, could he?

  He frowned down at the organ that had answered an enthusiastic ‘yes.’

  He dropped his head back against the chair and stared up at the shadows the fire threw on the ceiling.

  It wasn’t just her body he craved. She had a sharp mind. He’d noted it last year at Tynweith’s house party. He didn’t usually discuss serious topics like horticulture and gardening with females, so it had been very…stimulating to match wits with her over his favorite hobbies. And she certainly had plenty of integrity and courage. He smiled, remembering how she’d faced down her family—and his mother—in Lady Palmerson’s parlor. Nor had she cowered before all the society gossips.

  Of course she had engaged in a number of hare-brained, beef-witted, cabbage-headed activities. Why she’d thought donning male attire and attending the Horticultural Society meeting was a good notion was beyond his comprehension. Displaying her legs for all the world to see…

  Mmm. He took another sip of brandy and closed his eyes. He wouldn’t mind seeing those lovely legs again. What would they look like naked? How would they feel wrapped around his?

  He ached for her—and not just the obvious part of him ached. His mind, his heart ached, too. He wanted a companion, a lover, a friend. He wanted Meg.

  He put his glass down and let himself out of his study. He must remember Meg’s behavior was impossible to predict. Who would have thought a gently-bred miss would be dragging men into the shrubbery or parading down London’s streets in pantaloons? She might tell him in no uncertain terms she wanted nothing to do with him.

  What would he do then?

  Yet she had married him. She was intelligent. She must see she was out of options—the time for compromise had come.

  He climbed the stairs. Would she be asleep already? Should he wake her or wait until tomorrow night?

  No, Father was right—he had to resolve matters sooner rather than later. Jane and Edmund would be leaving as soon as Jane and the baby could travel. Then Mother would have nothing to distract her from his business. She would be relentless.

  He stopped in the corridor outside Meg’s door. He should go to her through his room, but he did not care to encounter MacGill’s knowing smirk. He glanced both ways. There was no one to see him.

  He slipped through the door. The sitting room was dark, but the fire gave enough light for him to navigate without tripping or knocking anything over. It was so quiet. She must be asleep.

  The door to her bedchamber was open. He paused to listen.

  It was too quiet. He should hear something—the rustling of bedclothes, soft breathing…something. It was as still as death.

  Good God! Certainly nothing dire had occurred?

  He grabbed a candlestick, lit it in the fire, and held it high. Shadows whirled around the room. He stepped close to the bed, pushed aside the curtains.

  The bed was empty, the coverlet smooth and undisturbed.

  Where the bloody hell was his wife?

  The door from her room banged open. Meg jumped, clutching Repton’s Sketches and Hints on Landscape Gardening to her breast.

  “What are you doing here?” John sounded extremely annoyed. This was obviously not the time to ask him if he might be willing to provide her with children.

  “Er…I couldn’t sleep. I was looking at your books. I hope you don’t mind?”

  He frowned and glanced around the room. “Where’s MacGill?”

  “He, um, left when I arrived. He didn’t say where he was going.” Hopefully the light was too dim for John to notice her heightened color. MacGill had realized why she’d come in here; why couldn’t John? She put the Repton book carefully back on the shelf. Perhaps he did realize, and just didn’t want her here.

  He grunted and clasped his hands behind his back.

  She could offer to leave, but if she did, she might never again find the courage to open the connecting door. She had to persevere.

  She had to find an excuse to remove her dressing gown.

  “Is it hot in here?”

  John blinked. “I don’t believe so. Are you warm?”

  “Yes.” It was a lie for a good cause. “I am.”

  “I see.” He frowned. He appeared to be searching for words. Was he trying to find a polite way to ask her to go back to her room?

  She couldn’t leave until she had at least tried to seduce him. But she couldn’t take her dressing gown off with him staring at her like that. It was too embarrassing.

  She needed a distraction. If she could get him to turn away, she could do it.

  “Do you think I might have a small glass of brandy?”

  “Brandy?”

  “Yes.” She nodded for emphasis. “I see you have a decanter on the table over there.”

  John glanced over his shoulder. “Oh. Yes. Certainly.”

  She slipped out of the dressing gown the moment his back was turned—and shivered. John was correct—it was not overly warm in the room, and now she was as good as naked. Her nipples pebbled into hard buds.

  Perhaps he wouldn’t notice.

  How could he not? They were practically sticking through the gossamer fabric.

  Should she put the dressing gown back on?

  No. She kicked it off to the side and stepped closer to the fire, resisting the urge to wrap her arms around herself. This was her golden opportunity. She could not squander it for a few minutes of warmth.

  John finished pouring the brandy and turned, glass in hand. “Here you—” His eyes found her by the fire.

  “Good God.”

  His mouth fell open as the glass full of brandy splashed to the floor.

  Chapter 22

  He had died and gone to heaven.

  Meg stood in front of the fire, dressed in…well, almost nothing. Her shoulders and arms were completely bare, and a thin white gown clung to her breasts and hips like spider webs at sunrise. The firelight behind her illuminated all that the pantaloons had only outlined—the delicate line of her calves, the curve of her knees, the sweep of her thighs, the shadowy curls at—

  He reminded himself to breathe.

  “Oh, dear. Look what you’ve done.”

  “Huh?” She was hurrying toward him. Zeus, there was a slit in the gown’s skirt. Her leg from thigh to ankle flashed at him as she walked, teasing, taunting…

  He opened his arms. He had to hold her. He had to feel her against him. He had to—

  She crouched down to examine the rug.

  “Do you have a towel to mop the carpet with?”

  “A towel?” He moistened his lips. The back of her neck, the curve of her back, the shadowy cleft between her buttocks—all beautiful.

  “Yes. The stain is spreading.”

  “The stain?”

  She frowned up at him. “From the spilled brandy.”

  “Oh.” From this angle, he could see her breasts quite clearly. Well, not as clearly as he’d like. He would like them both naked in front of him, close enough to kiss, to lick…

  If she moved her face forward half a foot, her lovely mouth would be just the right height to—

  “What is the matter with you? Why are you just standing there?” She looked down again and picked up the empty brandy glass. “Perhaps you should ring for MacGill.”

  “No.” She was right, though. He couldn’t just stand
there, dumb with lust. He reached for her. “MacGill would be very much in the way.”

  She felt his hands on her shoulders—his gloveless, large hands spread over her bare shoulders. His strong, thick fingers, warm and dry, smoothed her skin. The slight friction started a throbbing low in her belly. Her nipples tightened, though not with cold this time.

  She shivered.

  “Meg.” His voice was deeper than usual.

  She was afraid to look up. She stared at the spreading damp stain. The carpet was not the only thing growing damper.

  His hands slid over her shoulders to her throat. He cupped her chin, tilting her face so she had to meet his gaze.

  “Why did you come to my room tonight?”

  “Um.” She tried to look away, but he wouldn’t let her.

  “Why did you come to my room?”

  She was panting. He was breathing a bit heavily, too. It was time for courage. She stood up; put her hands on his waistcoat.

  “To seduce you.” She cleared her throat. “To ask you to give me children.”

  “Ah.” He closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, they held a mix of heat and hesitancy. “And you won’t mind that your children will lack a title?”

  She heard the whisper of pain in the words.

  “Of course not. Why would I want a title?”

  “All women do.”

  “Not this woman.” She reached up to touch his jaw, and he turned his head to kiss her palm. She smiled. Mmm. Courage. She would give him the gift of her heart. Perhaps knowing she loved him would salve the wound Grace had inflicted. “I’ve wanted you—I’ve loved you—since I met you at Lord Tynweith’s house party.”

  He shrugged off her touch, turned away. “No.”

  “Yes.” She wrapped her arms around his waist and rubbed her cheek against his back. He had far too many clothes on. “No one has ever understood my passion for plants. I’ve always been the vicar’s odd daughter, the poor little girl whose mother died when she was just a baby, the sad romp whose father should have reined her in and taught her the proper way to go on, the blue stocking who drones on and on about vegetation.” Her voice broke. Why was she crying? None of this bothered her. She’d grown used to it.

  John turned back and pulled her close, pressing her face against his chest, tangling his hand in her hair, cradling her head. It felt so good.

  “You understood. I could talk to you—really talk to you. And then, after Robbie and Lizzie wed, you went away. It was clear you did not feel what I felt.”

  He brushed his lips over her temple. “I hate London. And I was afraid. I’d told myself for years I would never marry, and then I met you.” He sighed. “Well, I am not very flexible. Ask Mother. She’ll tell you once I have a notion in my head, it takes nothing less than a miracle to dislodge it.” He raised her face from his chest. “And you, my love, are a miracle.”

  His lips touched hers gently. She opened for him, relaxing against his body. His tongue stroked slowly into her. It was not a kiss of passion so much as…connectedness.

  Oh, and passion, too. Her nipples peaked, her breasts ached. Need curled low in her belly, and an emptiness only he could fill grew in her.

  “Shall we go to bed?” he whispered.

  “Yes, please.”

  Need such as he had never known surged in him. Meg wanted him. Him.

  She loved him.

  It was beyond comprehension. His mind couldn’t grasp it, but his heart could. For once, he let that organ guide him. He took her hand and led her to his bed. He stopped her when she started to climb in.

  “Wait.” He went down on one knee before her. “I never properly proposed to you, Meg.”

  She tugged back a little on her hand, but he didn’t let her go. “It was an odd situation.”

  “Yes, it was.” He kissed her palm. “So I will ask you properly now. Will you marry me, Miss Margaret Peterson?”

  She laughed uncertainly. “Silly. I already have.” She blushed. “Do get up.”

  He didn’t move. Instead, he kissed each of her fingers, lingering over her wedding ring. “Will you wed me, truly? Will you be my wife and have my children? Will you love me now and forever?”

  She bit her lip. “Yes. Yes, of course I will.”

  Joy began to bubble up inside him. “And I will love you. In London I gave you my ring. Tonight I shall give you my body.”

  Meg inhaled sharply. “And…and I will give you mine.”

  He grinned. “Splendid.” He had chosen this position, before her on his knee, because it was traditional, but he discovered it also gave him a wonderful view and excellent access to her scantily clad, lovely, seductive body. He reached for her ankles and slid his hands slowly up her legs, over her soft skin, taking the gauzy scrap of fabric she was wearing with him. Up her calves, past her knees to her beautiful thighs.

  She was panting now and moaning just a little, her hands on his shoulders, her fingers clutching him each time his hands moved higher.

  He stopped at her waist. Her lovely private curls were displayed for his inspection.

  “John…”

  Did she sound embarrassed? She tugged on him, as if to lift him from his contemplation.

  He kissed the crease where her right leg joined her body.

  “John!”

  He treated her left side to the same attention.

  “John, this is…I’m certain you should not be…”

  Her curls tickled his nose. He loved the heat of her and the slightly musky smell of this secret place.

  He had never done this before. He had never wanted to make love to Cat. He’d just wanted release—his release—as quickly as possible.

  He was in no hurry now. He wanted to explore, to enjoy. To play.

  Had he ever played? Certainly not since he’d grown from boyhood. Certainly not with a woman.

  He wanted to give Meg pleasure. Oh, he wanted his pleasure, too. Anticipation of that pleasure hummed throughout his body. He smiled and slipped his tongue into Meg’s curls, into the dark, moist—wet—place hidden there. He found the tiny nub—

  Her hips jerked, and she squeaked.

  “What are you…eep!” She pulled on his hair.

  He licked her again. She tried to twist away from him, but he held her hips still.

  “What are you doing?! I’m sure you should stop that.” She pulled on his hair again. “It is most unseemly.”

  He looked up past her lovely, heaving breasts with their tightly budded nipples outlined against the transparent fabric to her flushed face. “Do you like it?”

  “I…I am sure I should not.”

  “But do you?”

  “Y-yes. I mean, it feels very odd.” She squeaked again as he licked her one more time.

  He gave that part of her a parting kiss and moved upward, kissing her belly, her navel, her waist, her ribs. He pulled the nightgown completely off then, freeing his hands to cup her lovely breasts while his mouth and tongue explored her nipples.

  “John. Oh. John.” She pushed at him, breaking his concentration finally. “John!”

  He drew back. She was flushed and panting, but she had a very determined look in her eyes. Certainly she was enjoying his touch? “What is the matter?”

  “You—you still have your clothes on.” She took a deep breath, causing her breasts to move delightfully. “You should remove them.”

  “I should?”

  “Yes.” She cleared her throat. “I want you…naked.” She swallowed. “Completely naked.”

  “Ah.” He grinned. So she did like what he was doing. “What a wonderful suggestion.” He pulled back the bedclothes and lifted her to sit on the mattress. He kissed each breast once more and then stepped back. “I will be happy to accommodate you.”

  She was going mad. Need was eating her up so all that was left was an aching, throbbing emptiness.

  “Hurry up.”

  He chuckled. “So impatient.”

  Slowly—too slowly—he u
nwound his cravat and unbuttoned his waistcoat. He draped them carefully over a chair. Then, finally, he grabbed the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head.

  “Oh. Oh, my.”

  “Like what you see?”

  “Yes. Very much.” He was beautiful. His arms curved with muscle; his shoulders stretched broad and straight. Short, brown hair covered his chest, trailing over his flat stomach to his pantaloons. She leaned forward to touch his stomach. He was like warm marble.

  “Take off the rest of your clothes.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  He stripped his pantaloons and drawers off quickly and straightened. She sucked in her breath.

  The male organ was very odd-looking indeed. John’s was startlingly large.

  If she understood the process correctly, that very large appendage needed to fit inside…She winced.

  She could see why the procedure might hurt the first time. Or every time.

  Well, she had never been missish, and now was definitely not the moment to start. Emma and Lizzie had lived through the experience—Emma had even said it was pleasant. And John must have accomplished the deed numerous times without killing any women. The human race would not survive if the various procreative pieces did not fit together.

  Now that she considered it, babies traversed the same passage, and they were much larger than this organ. Somehow the relevant portion of her anatomy must expand appropriately.

  It felt as if it were expanding now.

  She glanced up at him. He was watching her intently.

  “May I touch?”

  His throat moved as he swallowed. “Please,” he croaked.

  She ran her finger up his length, then took him gently in her hand. This part of him was hard, too—and silky and warm.

  Yes, she felt very expansive.

  He had licked her. Could she…?

  “Meg!”

  She could.

  “Meg, love, please, that’s enough.” He sounded desperate. He put his hands on her head and gently moved her back.

  “Don’t you like it?”

  He shuddered. “I love it, but if you don’t stop now, things will be over before they begin.”

  “I don’t underst—”