She braced herself, anticipating his worst.
Instead, he surprised by saying, “Well done, Miss Cameron. You’ve won the point.”
“I’ve won the battle,” she countered.
He stepped forward. She held her ground, uncertain whether she should run or not…until she saw he was smiling, his lips twisted in rueful respect. “Aye, perhaps the battle.”
Charlotte was tempted to ask him to repeat those words. As it was, she couldn’t help but happily smile right back to him. She’d done it. She’d won and victory was so sweet.
“You can trust me,” she reiterated.
His smile flattened. “I pray it is so.”
“I’m not that sort of person,” she informed him.
“Are you saying I am?”
There was an edge of self-mockery in his tone. It pricked her conscience. She shouldn’t feel any sympathy for him. “No, I’m saying I wouldn’t blackmail you,” she said, even though she would if he made it necessary.
His eyes, silvery in the moonlight, studied her a moment, his expression sober. “Thank you,” he said at last. “But may I ask one favor of you?”
“What is it?”
“Would you help me get these boots off? The wet leather is about ready to drive me to madness, and I can’t remove them myself.”
The change of subject caught her off guard, and then made her laugh. “I know how you feel. I kicked off my shoes the first minute I could.” They were lined up beside the wall of the hayrick.
She held out her hand. “Here, let me have your heel. I used to do this for my father.”
He sat back on the coat spread over the hay and raised his right foot, placing the heel in her offered palm. She tightened her grip. He pretended to wince. “You are a strong woman, Miss Cameron.”
She nodded, relieved the unpleasantness of the letter was behind them. “It comes from years of chopping my own firewood, Your Grace.”
“I daresay there are few earls’ daughters who could make that claim,” he answered, and she nodded her agreement. He really wasn’t a bad sort. He just didn’t like to be crossed…like any other man she’d ever met. She pulled on the boot.
It moved, not far, but it did move.
It was now a challenge.
Charlotte tugged again. This time the boot held fast. “Who made these? Hoby?” she asked him with a grunt, naming the most fashionable bootmaker in London. She yanked on the boot so hard she almost fell back on the ground. No wonder he wanted the boots off. She went back at it again.
Fighting the battle from his own end, with his own share of grunting, Colster repeated, “My bootmaker? No, Lobb.”
Catching her breath, Charlotte said, “Lobb? Isn’t he out of fashion? I thought everyone of importance used Hoby.”
His brows drew together. “You shouldn’t believe everything you read in the newspapers. My father used Lobb—” He offered his boot to her again. She took it. “My grandfather used Lobb. His father used Lobb, and I—”
“Use Lobb,” she said in unison, giving the boot a pull. It finally slid off. She took a step back from the exertion. In spite of being wet, the leather was still good and soft. She could see why he used Lobb. Setting the boot on the ground, she asked, “Will the next be as difficult?”
“No, this one is easier.”
It wasn’t.
But by the time they were done, she was laughing. She couldn’t help herself. The hour was late, she was tired, and she’d spent a good portion of time being the Duke of Colster’s lackey. She sat down on the far side of his greatcoat. He took off his stockings.
Her feet were bare, she’d removed her wet stockings when she’d taken off her shoes, but there was something, well, intimate about seeing his bare feet. They were strong, handsome feet. Long and masculine.
Heat crept up her neck at the yearnings his feet seemed to stir inside her. She reached for his coat, which he’d offered her as a blanket.
Colster was not for her. He was everything she’d ever dreamed of in a man—in spite of being such a formidable enemy—but no, he could not be hers.
After all, why would a duke marry an insignificant earl’s granddaughter? Before coming to England, Charlotte wanted to dream such things were possible. However, now, after being around the ton, she knew she had a better chance of sprouting wings and flying than to ever become a duchess.
She settled in, wiggling into the hay, and tried to distract herself with its earthy, green scent.
He’d stretched out on the coat beside her, not really making a great effort to keep space between them.
Of course, she was so very conscious of him that even if he slept outside the hayrick, she’d be aware of every nuance and movement. She wondered if he was as aware of her?
She rolled on her other side, giving him her back.
He rolled, too—closer to her.
Charlotte could almost feel his breath against her shoulder. She debated moving farther away. It would move her off the coat and into the hay. For a long moment, she weighed her options, and in the end didn’t move. He couldn’t read minds. He didn’t know what she was thinking.
And perhaps it wasn’t prudent, and was certainly a bit silly, but she wanted to just lie still and pretend that a man like him could be hers. Was it so wrong to do so, just for this night?
Was it wrong to like having him this close?
Tomorrow she would be leaving for London, and they would, once again, be strangers. Just for tonight, she wanted to savor the camaraderie they’d discovered.
Colster wasn’t asleep. She knew he was awake, just as she was aware of almost every little detail about him. She could even feel his mind was working.
“What are you going to do if the story in the letter is true?” she asked. “What if your brother is alive?”
“I’ll bring him home.”
“You won’t worry about the gossip?” He’d been furious over Miranda’s jilting.
“This is beyond the pettiness of gossip.”
That was the right answer.
Charlotte folded her arms under her head. “If your brother was kidnapped at birth, I’d say this goes beyond retaliation for an ancient feud.”
“I agree,” he answered without reservation. “This is too evil to have survived centuries. Even if the letter is a hoax, what prompted it is something current. Something that happened recently.”
She turned to look at him. “And you’ve never been to Scotland?”
“Not in my memory.”
She waited a beat, and then whispered, “I know how you feel. I would fight demons for my sisters. I would give up everything for them.”
“So I’ve learned,” he answered dryly.
Their eyes met. It wasn’t her imagination that she saw respect in his. Respect for her. It made her fluttery and tight inside.
Charlotte turned back on her side, knowing she’d best leave well enough alone. Colster was still dangerous to her, but in a completely different way than before. No man should have the power to make a woman feel the way he seemed to touch her.
She tried to focus on anything but him. She thought of Constance in boarding school not far from Edinburgh. Perhaps she should pay her a visit with the good news that they no longer had to worry about the Duke of Colster.
The diversion worked. Her eyelids began to get heavy. She closed them, thankful she didn’t face the concerns Colster did about his brother—
He rolled closer.
Her drowsiness vanished. He was so near she could smell the spicy warm, masculine scent of his skin. If perfumers could capture that scent, she’d buy a dozen bottles. Perhaps even a hundred—
His arm came down over her waist. His relaxed hand rested close to her abdomen.
Charlotte couldn’t breathe.
She should move.
She didn’t want to move.
He must have fallen asleep and wasn’t aware of what he was doing. It was natural that he turned toward her. He was probably being protecti
ve…or so she hoped—
His lips nudged her hair aside and kissed the sensitive skin of her neck below her earlobe.
Shock shot through her, mingling with the heat of desire centering in her pelvic region.
Charlotte knew she should edge away from him. It was the only thing she could do and keep her sanity. This man was dangerous. “I need to sleep—”
He cut her off with a kiss on her lips.
Charlotte knew she shouldn’t let him do this. She should tell him to cease immediately—but she didn’t want to.
They were alone in the dark. The air was sweet. His body warm and safe…and kissing him seemed the most natural thing in the world to do.
He raised his hand, placing fingertips against her cheek and turning her completely toward him. Just as it had been in the coach, she could only resist for the slightest moment before wanting to breathe him in.
His hand came back to her waist. The weight of it felt good, possessive. He nestled her hip against the flat of his abdomen and his legs. He was aroused. The length and hardness of him set her blood pounding. He wanted her.
She wanted him.
The first touch of his tongue against hers was startling. It brought her out of the moment. She shifted, pushing away. He returned his hand to her face, lightly holding her while he ventured further into the kiss and won her over completely.
Charlotte surrendered.
And why should she not? This was not London or any place of importance. There was no society, no rules, no responsibilities. All that there was, all that mattered, was the way his body fit with hers. He knew what they were about far better than herself. He was the teacher and she an apt and willing pupil.
His hand covered her breast. Her nipples tightened. He began placing small kisses along the line of her jaw, down her neck. His unshaven whiskers were rough, and exciting, against her skin. His fingers wound themselves in her hair, holding her fast.
He didn’t need to worry. She wasn’t going anywhere.
Charlotte slid her arms around his neck. She kissed his temple, his hair, his nose. Her nose kiss made him smile. He lifted his head and looked down at her, his expression bemused. “You are so beautiful.”
“So are you.” The words had just popped out of her mouth in her excitement and eagerness, but she would not call them back. He was beautiful.
His teeth flashed white in the darkness. “Sweet, sweet Charlotte. You are a constant surprise.”
Any resistance she might have had left melted. She liked being a source of surprise.
Certainly he amazed her—and when he brought his lips down for another kiss, she held nothing back. Dreams were made from moments like this.
This man was worthy of her. He wasn’t like Thomas, narrow-minded and backward and expecting her to choose him over her family. No, Colster was the only man who’d ever challenged her as if she were an equal.
Miranda might not have been able to love him, but Charlotte knew with complete conviction she could.
He started undressing, pulling his shirt off over his head. They hadn’t broken the kiss, and so for a moment they were both hidden in folds of white linen. It added humor to the anticipation of the moment, making her feel closer to him.
He ended the kiss and slid the shirt over his head and down his arms. His muscles had the lean, well-defined lines of a natural athlete, and Charlotte swallowed to keep herself from purring aloud.
Colster smiled as if he knew what she was thinking. He returned to her side for another kiss. She placed her arms around his broad shoulders, wanting to hold him forever—but then his hand covered her bare breast.
She pulled away to glance down to where his hand rested on her, too shocked to pay attention to his lips seeking hers. Her sleeve was off one shoulder, and half her bodice was practically to her waist. Common sense reared its ugly head. “What are we doing—?”
He cut her off with hungry, demanding kisses, and she didn’t care where his hands were. In fact, his fingertips lightly circling her nipple felt good. Very good.
All thoughts of protest left her brain. Constance, Miranda, Scotsmen, and feuds ceased to matter. She wasn’t even Charlotte anymore. Her whole being centered on discovering the touch, taste, and scent of him.
When his mouth closed over her tight nipple, the pleasure was so intense she cried out. She curled her fingers in his hair and repeated his name as he introduced new and more enticing ways to please her. When he tugged at the other sleeve of her dress, the one still on her shoulder, she helped him take it off. She took it all off, kicking her skirts away to be gloriously naked beside him—and she felt no shame.
“Charlotte,” he said as if delighted with her body and no praise had ever pleased her more.
She felt afire with her wanting of him. All skittishness had vanished. She’d been created to be with him.
He ran his hand up her legs with more purpose than he’d done in the coach. This time, she didn’t flinch…and when she first felt his touch, she thought she would weep from the joy of it.
Charlotte knew what was going to happen between them. The tension between them was to the snapping point, and just as she did in every other facet of her life, she went after what she wanted now. Impatiently, she tugged at the band of his leather breeches. She’d given all. Now let him.
“You undo them,” he ordered quietly.
Her fingers went right to his buttons. She twisted the first free, then the second. His skin was warm against the backs of her fingers. As she reached to unfasten the third, she brushed his erection.
It was the most incredible thing she’d ever touched. Different than what she’d imagined and yet exactly what she would have anticipated. She unbuttoned the remaining three buttons and pushed his breeches down so that she could feel all.
Colster rewarded her with a sigh of pleasure.
In her experience, men were hard, hairy creatures. She’d never imagined there could be anything about them this smooth. This soft…this sensitive. She ran a fingertip up its length in experimental wonder.
His reaction was immediate. With a low growl, he took her down to their bed of sweet hay, settling himself between her legs. “You are delightful,” he whispered before claiming her with a kiss that sucked the very breath out of her body.
Charlotte was defenseless against such an onslaught. This was perfect. It was right. It was the way things were meant to be. From the moment he’d entered her coach, her body had ached to join his. She understood that now.
Colster combed her hair back with his fingers. Her breasts were flattened against his chest. Her legs cradled his hips. He kissed the line of her jaw, the underside of chin, encouraging her to arch back, lifting her hips slightly—and then he entered in one smooth, strong thrust.
The magic disappeared. Reality arrived in a sharp sear of pain.
She would have scrambled out from beneath him but he leaned his weight against hers, holding her in place.
“Gentle, gentle,” he whispered. She didn’t know if he spoke to her or was telling himself. “It’s over. It won’t hurt again.”
The pain was ebbing, but the consciousness of reality stayed in place.
What had she done? A part of her wanted to weep. Another, the part of her still connected with him, wanted more.
Colster understood. “I’m sorry, Charlotte, but I can’t let this end here. You’d hate me.”
She hated him now. She’d hate him forever—
He began to move. Long, steady, careful thrusts.
Slowly, her body adjusted to accommodate him. What had seemed alien began to feel right as she stretched to accept all of what he offered.
And it was beginning to feel good.
She turned her head, searching for his kiss, needing his reassurance. He was right there, watching her, caring for her. This kiss was more personal than the ones they’d had before. Simpler and honest. After all, what was done was done…and she relaxed, releasing fully into making love to him.
N
or did Charlotte believe she was the only one affected. Colster seemed to lose himself. His kisses, too, were increasingly urgent. He reminded her of a starving man feasting on his first meal. He kissed her lips, her eyelids, her ears, and her neck. His thrusts went deeper and with more force.
He’d been right, the pain had been momentary.
Charlotte’s body began moving instinctively with his. She met each of his thrusts and found the rhythm they needed. In his arms, she imagined them dancers, and the music was the sound of their breathing and their own driving need.
She’d become wanton. This was the mystery of life, the need that humbled all of them. She grasped his arms, holding on for all she was worth.
This was brilliant. It was madness. It was divine—
Her senses hit a point sharper and more defined than the tip of a needle, and yet there was no pain. No, what hit her was pure, exquisite joy.
She gave a sharp cry. He held her tight as though he’d never let go. Deep muscles contracted. She’d couldn’t move, could barely breathe.
At last, she understood. Finally, she knew why Adam would follow Eve, Paris would steal Helen, and her mother had left her family, homeland, and birthright for a man she had loved.
But Colster wasn’t done.
No, he buried himself deep within her, holding her as if he’d never let her go—and she felt his seed release inside of her.
Charlotte was transfixed.
Here was the life force, the communion, the hand of God. It was the most amazing, critical moment of her existence. She was no longer flesh and blood but light and being. One with him.
This was the man she’d been waiting for all of these years. Her duke. And he was bolder and stronger and more handsome than she could have ever conjured from her imagination.
He stroked her hair, her waist. His heart was beating as rapidly as her own.
For a long moment, they held each other…until their bodies started to cool.
Colster lowered her to the coat, his body resting on hers. Charlotte smiled. His weight felt good. Her heart was so full of tender emotions she knew she’d never be sad or lonely again. She loved the feel of his weight upon her. She could spend her entire life this way.
In the Bed of a Duke Page 7