“I was just thinking of doing that very thing,” Sophy replied, taking his proffered arm. “It will be pleasant to have a companion.”
The strolled down the steps in harmony and, as he listened to Sophy make a general comment about the portrait she was painting of him, Ranulf pondered Francis’s words of that morning. He wondered if it was right to do what he was contemplating, but, when he glanced again at Sophy, with her charming bonnet nestled on her curls, her blue eyes sparkling with enjoyment, and her trim figure outlined by her modish dress, he threw caution to the winds. A smile curved his lips as she finished her remark.
“Have you walked through the birches along the loch before?” he asked. He waved a hand in the direction of the trees, and Sophy shook her head, making the tartan ribbons bob sweetly.
“No, I’ve looked at them often, because the white bark is so striking against the green leaves and blue water, but I haven’t walked there yet. Is there a path?”
“Yes, it goes through the trees and up the rock to look over the loch. Shall we go?”
At Sophy’s eager assent, they headed to the edge of the gardens and down the path into the birches. Here the sunlight was filtered through the trees, creating dappled shadows, and their footsteps were quiet on the loamy ground. A cuckoo’s song filled the wood, and Sophy stopped a moment to listen.
“How lovely. This is a beautiful, I wish I had explored it sooner.”
“It is one of my favorite walks,” Ranulf answered as they came to the other side of the birch copse, and walked up a gentle rise to the top of a stone promontory reaching into the loch. Sophy stood looking across the water, and then turned to see whether the path went any farther. She saw it curve away from them and enter a narrow band of birches again, to emerge on a lawn that led to a small, but very pretty, Palladian cottage.
“What is that?” she asked.
“That is the dower house,” Ranulf replied. “Although it is very small, more of a cottage, really.”
“It is lovely. I suppose it is unoccupied at the moment?”
“Yes, my grandmother lived there for a long time, but she died while I was in Spain.”
“What was she like?” Sophy asked curiously.
“Oh, she was a bit of a tartar I suppose, very clever, and direct. She wasn’t one to suffer fools gladly, but she was more of a parent to me than my mother. I went there often as a child to visit her.”
“May I see it?” Sophy asked.
Ranulf smiled at her. “Of course.”
A few minutes later they were walking through the cottage garden in front of the dower house’s door, its riot of blooms lending color to the grey native stone of the house. Ranulf approached the entrance and reached behind a statue perched on a pedestal to retrieve a key. He opened the door, which swung silently on well-oiled hinges into a pretty hall tiled with black and white marble, its arched ceiling supporting a wrought iron chandelier. Ranulf led Sophy into a drawing room, with windows overlooking the cottage garden, and a fireplace mantel carved with the Stirling coat of arms. Whitewashed, hand-hewn beams spanned the large, airy room, which was filled with the delicate furniture of the previous century.
“How charming,” Sophy exclaimed. “I can almost picture your grandmother here, and you running through the garden to visit her.”
“I spent any number of afternoons here as a boy,” Ranulf said. “After I finished my lessons, I often came here to share my youthful adventures with her.”
Sophy wandered through the room, running her fingers over the desk, and a chair, before stopping in front of the settee. “Did she read you improving stories?”
Ranulf chuckled. “No, she was very much of the old school and did not feel it her duty to improve me. We read selections from the novels of DeFoe and Fielding together. She didn’t hold with what she called the namby-pamby views of the day.”
Sophy perched on edge of the settee, and patted the spot next to her. She gave Ranulf a flirtatious look from under her lashes. “I believe we discussed the namby-pamby views of our time recently, and decided we might dispense with them,” she said, feeling rather bold.
Ranulf hesitated, but pushed away his misgivings about seducing a gently bred young lady. His intentions were honorable, after all, and it was clear from Sophy’s manner that she was not averse to his advances, and was indeed prepared to make her own. He walked over to the settee and looked down at her, taking her chin in her fingers, to lift her face towards his.
Sophy gazed into his heated brown eyes and felt her heart beat faster, while an unfamiliar pulse fluttered in the same sensitive spot Ranulf had so spectacularly stimulated on the day of her arrival at Spaethness. She felt a tingling in her body that she was beginning to welcome as Ranulf bent down to claim her lips, pressing her to open them to him. He kissed her deeply, thoroughly, with a passion that was both controlled and stimulating. She clutched his wrist in her hand, and then, when he finally broke away, pulled him silently down to sit next to her. Before she realized it, he had lifted her onto his lap as he leaned back into the corner of the settee, so she could feel the growing bulge in his breeches under her bottom. She wriggled slightly in anticipation, and he put his hands on her hips, stilling her.
“In a moment,” he murmured. He surveyed her calmly. “I really think that this very appealing bonnet must be the first thing to go.”
He untied the tartan ribbons and lifted the bonnet from her head. He placed it rather haphazardly on the table next to the settee and then took her face between her hands, gazing into her eyes for a long moment before kissing her passionately, parting her lips with his, and exploring the wet silk of her mouth, nibbling at her lips gently before nipping the full lower one, and then soothing it with his tongue.
Sophy turned towards him, shifting one leg so that she straddled him, her yellow skirt spilling over his lap. She lifted her aching bosom and tried to lean into him, desperate for his touch. She felt as though she were dissolving as his lips slanted over hers, coaxing a moan from her. One of his hands slid down her side, to cup one breast and a little gasp escaped her as she felt her nipples swell against the tight bodice of her dress, seeking the touch of his fingers and the erotic sensations they could deliver. He flicked his thumb across the peak, and she shuddered.
“So sensitive,” Ranulf whispered appreciatively. He grasped her waist, holding her steady, and looked into her face, flushed with passion. “This is a very flattering garment, but I would much prefer a lower bodice,” he said. “Can you sit upright for a moment?” When she nodded, he undid first one, then two, then three of the buttons and slid one warm, knowing hand into the gap. Sophy gasped as his fingers touched her through only the fine linen of her chemise, and then sighed deeply as he rolled her nipple between his fingers, sending pleasure shooting through her to that liquescent place between her thighs that seemed to be longing for his attentions.
Sophy laced her fingers into his thick dark hair and kissed him deeply before pulling at his neckcloth to reveal the opening of his shirt. She leaned in, breathing in his scent, and then nibbled at his neck, putting to good use the things he had already taught her. With eager hands she pushed aside the elegant blue coat and attempted to shove it down over his shoulders. Ranulf laughed, as he found his arms bound by the tight sleeves with his coat only half off.
“You will need to free me, my sweet, if I am to be of any use to you,” he said.
Sophy looked down at the bulge in his pantaloons, and wished for a moment that she had a little more knowledge of the matter at hand so that she could work her will on him, but willingly helped him pull the coat sleeves down his arms and peel the garment off. With his shirt exposed, she tugged on the fabric, freeing it from the waistband, and Ranulf pulled it over his shoulders, dropping it on the floor.
Sophy’s lips made a little ‘O’ as she saw his bare chest, sprinkled with dark hair that did little to hide the impressive size of his muscles. She followed the vee of his abdominals to the little line of hair tha
t started low on his torso and disappeared into his pantaloons. Wonderingly, she pressed her artist’s hands to his chest, lightly stroking, studying his musculature, and then leaned into him to lick one firm male nipple. As she ran her fingers over his biceps and down to his hands, she paused to examine an ugly scar that ran from his palm up past his wrist.
“What happened?” she asked lifting his hand to her lips and running her tongue along the scar.
“I was injured at Waterloo. Shrapnel from a French cannon round that landed near me when I was carrying orders from Wellington to Lord Uxbridge. Luckily, it was me, rather than my horse; I was able to tie it up with cloth and deliver the dispatch.” He shook his head to erase the memory. “We have more interesting things to think of,” he murmured, taking her hand and placing it on his chest.
Sophy looked at her pale skin against the dark hair on his defined chest, and slid her hand down to his pantaloons, cupping somewhat uncertainly the large and intriguing hardness that lurked within.
Ranulf groaned. “No, do not worry, I like that very much,” he assured her noting the uncertain look on her face. “But you are still wearing entirely too much clothing.”
Quickly, with a skill Sophy realized vaguely came of long experience, he unbuttoned the rest of her bodice and removed her belt. Her dress dropped open, revealing her ripe bosom, her already stiff nipples betraying her excitement through the thin fabric of her chemise and stays. He grabbed a handful of her skirt, and then another, and pulled it up.
“Stand up for a moment,” he whispered, and she obeyed a bit unsteadily. With one motion he lifted the full skirt with its rows of ruffles at the hem up over her head, leaving her wearing nothing but her stays and chemise over her stockings. He peeled the chemise off her as well, and pushed the thin cotton of the cups on her stays down. The pink silk stays, ornamented with lace, emphasized her slender waist, and he stood back a moment, looking at her with the eyes of a connoisseur.
“I think we shall keep these,” he said. “They emphasize delightfully that you are otherwise naked.”
Sophy blushed, suddenly shy at standing before him thus arrayed, but he only chuckled and took her hand, drawing her back down on his lap. Settling her carefully astride him, he lifted one breast in his hand, weighing it gently for a moment before lifting it to his mouth, planting tiny kisses along it, laving and teasing, but avoiding the tips, which grew even more sensitive for the lack of his touch. Sophy felt as though she was melting into a pliant being, wholly dependent on the pleasure he brought her. Empty spaces within her she had never thought of before encountering him demanded that he and he alone fill them. She squirmed, anxious for more.
“What do you want, darling?” murmured Ranulf. “Do you want this?”
Very delicately he touched one hard nipple, and she jumped at the sensation that shot through her body. He laughed softly in the back of his throat and then raised the breast to his lips, biting down very gently on the tip and then, at her shocked gasp, laving it gently with his tongue, soothing her before suckling gently. Sophy clenched her thighs against the rush of moisture she felt between them, but to no avail. Ranulf felt her movements, and even as he moved to attend to her other aching breast, one strong hand slid over a rounded thigh, pressing it outward slightly, exposing her to his questing fingers, which dipped between the soft curls to slip along the tender flesh they hid. Sophy moaned, and hid her face in his shoulder, suddenly conscious of the both the impropriety and the excitement of her situation, sitting naked on Ranulf’s lap in an open room, the light of the late afternoon slanting across her exposed flesh.
Ranulf lifted his head. “You are so beautiful,” he murmured. “Don’t hide from yourself from me.” He lifted her chin, and looked into her eyes as his fingers continued to explore the hidden folds between her thighs, finding a spot so responsive to his touch that she gasped. Sophy, bewildered by the flood of erotic sensations assaulting her, suddenly felt a powerful wave of pleasure building and, as it swept through her, she felt herself as taut as a bowstring. Her fingers clutched Ranulf’s forearm, and she heard herself cry out as it peaked, and she collapsed boneless and panting against him.
She vaguely heard a soft laugh of satisfaction from him, and her eyes fluttered open to see a pleased look on his face. “Oh, Sophy,” he said. “I see that I am very lucky man, indeed. I had no notion you might be such a responsive lover.”
Beyond the bliss of the experience, she felt vaguely embarrassed, but that soon dissipated as Ranulf gently shifted her off his lap and onto the settee, careful to ensure that the back and pillows supported her. He slipped to his knees on the floor and gently pushed her thighs apart, his fingers running up the inside of them, savoring the tender flesh he found there.
“Let us see how soon you can do that again,” he murmured wickedly, spreading her legs still wider, holding them open for a moment and admiring what he saw, before reaching forward to open the lush, warm folds. Before Sophy had quite processed the thought of being so exposed to him, he leaned forward, pressing his lips to her in a kiss she’d had no notion was possible.
Panicked, she instinctively attempted to clamp her legs shut, but Ranulf’s broad shoulders and strong hands made it impossible. “No, sweetheart, there’s a great deal more pleasure to come,” he assured her.
“I’m not sure I can bear any more,” she said, her voice weak.
“Oh, I assure you that you can, and it will be entirely my pleasure to prove it to you. Trust me, my sweet.”
He smiled up at her briefly and then urged her legs open again, before pressing his tongue to the slick and receptive pink flesh that nestled there. As he licked and sucked at her, Sophy sagged against the pillows, unable to think of anything but the insistent sensuality of his touch. She felt him slip one finger inside her and then another, separating them slightly to stretch her virgin channel. As he continued to lap at her with his magical tongue, he placed one hand just above her pubic bone, and then pressed the fingers exploring her against a spot that suddenly seemed to be afire with a need so compelling that Sophy found herself convulsing once again, wracked with pleasure and flushed with the heat of her climax.
Ranulf watched her with tenderness and a certain complacency, her face soft with satisfaction, limbs relaxed and flung wide in abandon in the aftermath of the joy he had given her. He sat down next to her, holding her hand, his fingers caressing her wrist as her eyes fluttered open. She struggled to sit up a little, licking her swollen lips, uncertain of what to do. But then her eyes were drawn to the bulge in his breeches, and she reached for it, feeling the stiffness and size of him. Somehow, despite her satiation, a part of her wanted urgently to be filled by him, and she knew the answer was to be found there.
Ranulf rapidly unbuttoned his trousers, releasing himself. Sophy tentatively grasped his thickness, slightly taken aback by his length and girth, but fascinated by the silky soft smoothness of the skin that covered it. As she squeezed lightly and slid her hand up and down, gauging his response, he groaned deep in his throat.
His hand stilled hers her after a moment. “Sophy, your touch is going to unman me; I’m too close. Wait a moment, sweeting.”
She dropped her hand obediently, and he put a knee next to her on the settee, bending over her to caress her breasts, licking and nibbling at them until she was once again sighing her pleasure. Then, very carefully, he fitted himself to her creamy opening, pushing in just slightly.
Sophy’s eyes widened at the intrusion, and he paused. “Are you sure?” he asked. “I can still stop.”
Sophy tipped her hips up slightly to meet him. “I’m sure,” she breathed.
Ranulf cast caution to the winds and slid in another inch. She was very tight, but the slickness of her channel from his prior ministrations allowed him to push in farther, and then still more, until she felt a sharp little pain as he slid home.
Sophy felt filled, impaled with his masculinity, but in a way that permeated her heart with satisfaction. She wrapped her
arms around his broad shoulders, holding his chest to hers, enjoying the slight roughness the sprinkling of hair created against her tender skin. Ranulf paused a long moment, waiting for her to become accustomed to him, and then withdrew very slowly before sliding forward again inch by inch. Sophy began to make little mewling sounds of excitement as he repeated the movement, and she felt her muscles clinging to him, as the tremors she had experienced earlier rose in her once more. She clutched at Ranulf’s upper arms, digging her nails into them, and unconsciously bent her knees, allowing her legs to open wider to receive him more readily, lifting her hips to meet his stroke. Realizing he was not causing her pain, Ranulf allowed himself to abandon some of the rigid control he had been keeping on his desire. He lowered his head to lick and nip at the stiff buds crowning her lavish breasts, as he allowed his rhythm to quicken, grow wilder, while still observing her response carefully, wishing to bring her surpassing pleasure. When Sophy’s every breath was a little gasp, and he saw a flush on the pale skin of her chest, he thrust harder, once, twice, and then as she moaned, and he felt the telltale clenching within her, he took one rosy nipple in his lips, nipping at it gently as, with another deep slide, he watched her achieve bliss, before following her into it.
After long moments Ranulf rolled onto his side and gathered Sophy up against him, tucking her head under his chin, and indulging in the joy of holding her close. Nestled against Ranulf’s bare chest, breathing in his scent and that of their lovemaking, Sophy felt liquid, insubstantial, almost as though her body had merged with his. This open sensation, as though their breath mingled and skins united, filled her, leaving her thinking that it might be possible to touch his soul. A sudden moment of clarity infused her, and she saw the boy ignored by his parents, the young officer facing the hardships of Spain, the hardened man enduring the heat and disease of India, all to return to a place he’d been absent from nearly all of his adult life. In that instant she understood what was missing in her portrait, the hollowness she sensed in her depiction of him and her fingers itched to be in the studio once again.
The Highlander's Yuletide Love Page 15