“You have to. Eleanor needs to understand you, as Beth understands me.”
Ian’s jaw tightened as he spoke, his hand as tight on the railing. At least he’d stopped shaking his head like a stubborn mule.
“You’re a hard man, Ian Mackenzie.”
Ian did not answer.
Tell Eleanor everything.
Angelina Palmer had taken it upon herself to visit Eleanor Ramsay in Scotland a few months into their engagement and tell her about Hart. That he owned the High Holborn house, that he entertained ladies there, that he’d pleasured them in ways well-bred young women could not imagine. Angelina hadn’t described things in detail to Eleanor, thank God; but the hinting had been enough.
Hart had deliberately not visited the house and Angelina while he was courting Eleanor, not wanting to be that sort of liar. Feeling virtuous because of this, he’d coaxed Eleanor to surrender her virginity to him.
But Eleanor had awakened something inside Hart, an excitement he’d not felt before or since. He’d wanted to explore it, had explored it as much as he possibly could.
Angelina’s motives for revealing her existence had not been to make Eleanor jealous or to convince Hart to return to her. No. Angelina had known as soon as she’d made the decision that her actions would lose her Hart forever. The marriage to Eleanor had been important to Hart, and Hart was not the forgiving sort. But Angelina had done it anyway.
She hadn’t gone to Eleanor to reveal Hart’s sexual exploits. She’d gone to warn Eleanor of her danger, because Angelina knew exactly what sort of man Hart was on his way to becoming.
And Angelina had been right.
Eleanor’s rejection had taken the arrogant Hart unawares. Astonished and furious, Hart had threatened both Eleanor and her father with dire consequences if Eleanor broke the engagement, because that was the brutal sort of man Hart was learning to be. His father had beaten his lessons into Hart very well.
Hart had never learned how to mitigate his anger or even speak to someone without immediately deciding how to manipulate him. Hart had hated his father but had become much like him, having had no other example to follow.
And so, Hart had no idea how to simply be with a person and, as Mac had admonished him, let things happen. He could have had the chance to learn with Eleanor, but he’d thrown that chance away.
A beam of sun dazzled the water and stabbed into Hart’s eyes. When he raised his head, he saw that they were drawing near a lock, the lockkeeper ambling out of his house toward the pumps at the gate.
“I can’t tell Eleanor the things I did, Ian,” he said.
Ian shot him an impatient look. The approaching lock was far more interesting than complicated conversations with Hart. “You had two sets of rules,” Ian said. “One for Mrs. Palmer and one for Eleanor. You think that if you follow the wrong set of rules with Eleanor, it means you don’t love her.”
Hart opened his mouth to hotly deny this, but the words stuck in his throat. Thoughts he reached for—things he’d been certain of—shattered like glass at his touch.
Ian pushed himself from the gunwale, finished with worrying about Hart’s problems. “How many gallons fill the lock per minute, do you think?” he asked.
Without waiting for an answer, Ian turned from Hart and jumped from the boat to the bank. Ian caught up to the man guiding the horse and walked with him in silence, probably busy calculating the depth of the pond and the time the water in it would take to fill the lock.
A spring rain began, pouring down in earnest as the canal boat pulled over to the bank. The Romany had steered through the last lock below Hungerford, and now they’d reached the part of the canal that marked the boundary of Cameron’s property.
Hart looked up the green field that ran from canal to the house on the rise and saw that it was full of people. Annoyed, dripping people with umbrellas, most of them Mackenzies.
Not all of them. A tall Scotsman who was not a Mackenzie stood very close to Eleanor, holding an umbrella over her head. Hart recognized him—Sinclair McBride, one of Ainsley’s many brothers, the one who was the barrister. Hart felt his rage begin to boil as Sinclair bent down to Eleanor to shelter her with the umbrella, and Eleanor smiled serenely up at him.
Eleanor watched Hart standing on the deck like a king about to address his subjects. Bloody man. She’d been terrified when his lackeys had returned in the middle of the night, saying they’d lost him along the woods by the canal. Only early that morning, when Angelo had ridden up to say that Ian and Hart were safe with his family, had the panic lessened. Now Eleanor was simply angry.
She started forward, but Ainsley’s brother Sinclair touched her shoulder. “Best not. It’s muddy and you might have a fall.”
He was sweet, really. Sinclair McBride, a widower, had arrived with his two children this morning to further fill the nursery. Ainsley had invited him and the rest of her brothers to stay at Waterbury this spring, but thus far, only Sinclair had been able to turn up.
Ian had stepped off the boat. Beth ran to him, despite the mud, and Ian swept her up into a warm embrace. Everyone surrounded them and began talking at once. Demanding to know where Ian had run off to. Why had he worried everyone so? Thank God Hart had found him.
The Romany piled off the boat, children, goats, dogs, men, and women, and trudged to the middle of the rainy field to start setting up tents. Cameron seemed to find this in no way unusual. He began talking to a man with a pipe, and Daniel and Angelo joined them, along with Eleanor’s father. Daniel started helping the Romany men stretch canvas over the tents, and the children ran inside them. Sinclair handed Eleanor the umbrella and moved to assist.
Last to leave the boat was a black-clad older lady. Hart assisted her across to the bank, but he did not get off with her.
What was he doing? Hart stood back, like the king Eleanor had thought of, or better still, a general, watching everyone, waiting to direct them if necessary. He kept his eyes on his brothers, formidable giants with their wives never far from their sides. They all looked happy—Beth, Isabella, and Ainsley laughing at their Mackenzie men but gazing at said men with deep love.
“He needs you.”
Eleanor jumped at Ian’s voice in her ear. He was beside her, his keen gaze on her, while Beth stood not far away chattering with the older Romany woman.
“Who does?” Eleanor asked Ian. “Hart?” She peered through the rain at the stubborn duke leaning on the rail of the tied-up boat. “Hart Mackenzie needs no one.”
Ian’s whiskey-colored eyes were dark under the umbrella’s shadow. “You’re wrong,” he said. He turned and trudged away, back through the rain to Beth.
He needs you.
Hart did look so alone. He was watching the family he’d done everything in the world to keep safe, but watching. Not part of them.
Eleanor lifted her already muddy skirt and picked her way down the slope to the bank, mindful of Sinclair’s words about slipping. Hart watched her come—she could feel his gaze on her all the way down the field—but he didn’t leave the boat to meet her.
Not until she’d reached the canal boat did Hart step to the rail, snatch the umbrella that threatened to turn inside out in the wind, toss it aside, and haul Eleanor across the foot of water between them.
Eleanor landed against him. Hart was soaking wet, his coat open, wet strands of hair against his unshaven face. From behind those strands, his eyes were amber and sharp, alive.
“What are you doing?” Eleanor asked, still angry. “Are you going to weigh anchor and float us away?”
“Angelo’s mother asked me to look after the boat. They’ve come to watch Cameron and Angelo train the horses.”
“She meant for you to have one of the staff do it, surely.”
“No, she meant me.” Hart gazed into the strengthening rain, which obscured the tents on the hill. “Dukes and errand boys are all the same to her. But it doesn’t matter. It’s quiet here.”
Quiet was one thing Hart Mackenzie did not
have an abundance of, and Eleanor knew that when he returned to London, he’d have even less.
“Shall I go, then? Leave you in peace looking after your canal boat?”
“No.” The answer was abrupt, swift. Hart’s hand, heavy and strong, landed on hers. “You’re all wet. Let’s go inside. I want to show you the boat.”
He half guided, half pulled her down the few stairs to the cabin door. Hart wrenched open the swollen wooden door, towed Eleanor through, and shut it again.
The sound of rain turned to a hollow drumming on the roof and a pattering against the windowpanes. This, coupled with the quiet hiss of coals in the little corner stove, was soothing. Eleanor understood Hart’s reluctance to leave.
“I’ve never been on a canal boat before,” she said, looking around in delight.
The Romany might be itinerants, but their home was cozy. The tiny stove gave off good heat. Pots and pans hung above the stove, scrubbed gleaming clean, and bunks at the far end were piled with colorful quilts and blankets. The bench that ran along one wall under the windows held embroidered cushions she recognized as Ainsley’s work.
“I thought you’d like it,” Hart said.
“I take it you had no run-ins with assassins on your jaunt?”
“No.”
Just the one word, when she’d been worried to death. “I am speaking lightly of it, because, Hart, I was so scared…” She trailed off, her hands balling. She wanted to fling her arms around him, and at the same time, she wanted to beat her fists against his chest. To stop herself from doing either, she folded her arms across her stomach.
She felt Hart’s warmth as he came to her, smelled the wet linen of his shirt and damp wool of his coat. Hart slid off the coat and set it aside, then he cupped her elbows with his big hands and drew her against him.
The kiss, when it came, was hungry. No teasing, no playing, no cajoling. A desperate kiss that wanted her.
He needs you.
Eleanor pressed her hands against his wet shirt, feeling his heart racing beneath her touch. His skin was too cold, his mouth, hot as flame.
She pushed at his shirt, the buttons already loose. “You need this off. You’ll catch your death.”
Hart impatiently shrugged off the shirt and let it fall to the floor. He was bare beneath, no flannels covering his bronzed, tight skin.
He pulled her into the circle of warmth near the stove and drew her up to him again, thumbs opening her mouth. His next kiss was even more fierce, more desperate.
Eleanor’s fingers curled into his shoulders as she kissed him back. He kissed her harder, tasting her mouth, licking the rain from her lips. Eleanor ran her hands down his naked back, feeling hot, smooth skin.
Her body was on fire. Eleanor kissed his warm lips, chasing his tongue with her own. She felt the top buttons of her bodice open, then Hart’s fingers, easing the placket apart. His palm slid behind her bared neck, strong and warm, holding her.
He broke the kiss to swiftly unbutton the rest of her bodice and peel it down her arms. He didn’t pull off the bodice entirely—his eyes darkened as her arms were pinned to her sides by the fabric. Hart growled softly and kissed her again, she lifting her hands as much as she could to place them at his waist. She felt the in and out movement of his breath, the warm wool waistband of his kilt, the hotter skin of the man inside it.
“Eleanor. El.” He raised his head, eyes dark in the shadows of his damp hair. The smile, when it came, was sinful. “I keep having visions of you in nothing but your corset.”
Eleanor’s heart beat faster, a tingle of heat racing through her. “I’ve been having visions of you in nothing but your kilt. In fact, I have photographs to pore over if necessary.”
His smile went wider, and the Hart Mackenzie she’d fallen in love with years ago shone through. “What am I going to do with you, minx?”
“My father sent for some photographic apparatus so he can take pictures of the Berkshire flora. Perhaps he will let me borrow the camera.”
Hart stopped, and then his wicked grin returned. “Do your worst. But only…” He pulled her bodice all the way off, then slid his hand behind her back and smoothly untied the cord that closed her corset. The laces loosened and spread under his fingers. “Only if you do the same for me.”
“Pose for pictures for you? Good heavens, no. I’m far too modest.”
The laces came undone, the little straps that held the corset over her shoulders sliding off under Hart’s large hands. He leaned close.
“These will be private photographs. Very private. Only you and only I will see them.”
“Hmm,” she said. “I will think on it.”
Hart smiled against her mouth, followed by a lick across her lips. “If you want me in only my kilt, you must agree to the terms.”
Eleanor’s face heated. “I told you I’d think on it.”
“I knew the moment I kissed you in that boathouse that you were a wicked lass. Prim and proper for the world, wild with passion behind closed doors. The perfect lady for me.”
“I’ve only ever been wild with you, Hart. You taught me.”
“Did I?” Hart was laughing, hands on her back, nothing between him and her but the thin linen of her camisole. “You were eager to learn.”
“You were an interesting… instructor.”
He smiled, his forehead against hers. “El, you make me young again. You make me…”
His smile died with his words. Hart’s hands went to her waist, fingers unfastening her skirt and the petticoat beneath. Eleanor’s skirts fell—she’d donned no bustle to wander the rainy meadow this morning.
“I make you what?” she whispered.
Hart’s warm hands glided to her buttocks, his laughter completely gone. She saw stark need in his eyes, and loneliness, and fear. Fear of many things, all complicated, all too real.
“I can’t do this alone,” he said. “I need you, El.”
She knew he didn’t mean for ravishing in a canal boat while the Romany raced off to see Cameron work the horses.
“I… need… you.” The words tore from him, this man who never dared voice weakness to anyone.
Eleanor slid off her camisole and twined her arms around Hart’s neck.
“I’m here,” she said.
Hart slid his thumb across Eleanor’s lower lip, in wonder, as always, at her softness. He was a hard, hard man, and Eleanor was all things warmth and comfort. He’d been a fool to let her walk away.
He drew her up to him and sank himself into another kiss. She tasted like rainwater, heat, and desire.
He’d taught her, yes, he’d taught her. Not everything—not by a long way—but he’d taught her.
Eleanor looked up at him with her warm blue eyes, her passion shining unashamed. He loved that about her—Eleanor had never seen any shame in her need.
Her skirts were on the floor, she standing in nothing but her drawers. Hart smoothed the fabric that cupped her buttocks, linen so fine it was almost silk. She’d obeyed him and gotten new ones.
He ached for her, his cockstand berating him to get on with it. But he did not want to go too fast, did not want to rush. The Romany and Ian had given Hart this gift—a gift of time with Eleanor.
More than that. Eleanor might consider this a stolen moment, but Hart was not going to keep it to a moment. He had to keep her safe from the world, and now from Sinclair bloody McBride. McBride was a handsome Scot with two small children and badly in need of a wife, and here was Eleanor ripe for the plucking. He saw what Ainsley was up to, asking him here.
Hart had to move swiftly, never mind his plans. No more waiting.
He untied the tapes that held her drawers closed and slid his hands inside them. Softness met his fingers, the silk of Eleanor. He circled his thumbs on her skin as he kissed her, then moved one hand to the warmth between her thighs.
She was hot, wet, ready, as needy as Hart was. He moved his fingers, rewarded by her little noise of pleasure as her body loosened. Anything maide
nly and resistant in her dissolved and floated away. The prim young spinster vanished, and Eleanor the passionate woman filled her place.
Her breasts were soft, fuller now than when she’d been twenty. Hart leaned down and licked between them, tasting warm, salty skin.
The cabin was narrow and low. Hart didn’t have room to sweep Eleanor into his arms and carry her to the nearest bunk, but he guided her back to it, kissing her and touching her all the way.
He lifted her and rested her buttocks on the bunk, stepping between her thighs as he parted them, and slipped her drawers the rest of the way off. Eleanor cupped his face in her hands, her eyes half closed as she waited for what was to come.
Hart unfastened the pin that held his kilt closed and caught the folds as they fell. He pulled the plaid up and draped it across the bunk behind Eleanor.
The bunk was too narrow. It would never hold them. Hart lifted Eleanor again, and their bodies came together, both damp from the rain and slick from the stove’s heat.
Hart moved his hands down her spine to her buttocks, smoothing, soothing. He lifted her a little more, and then he was gliding into her, her slick depths welcoming him.
Inside her. His Eleanor.
Hart stilled, the sensation of her surrounding him filling him with joy.
“Hart.” Her warm breath feathered over his damp skin. She touched his face, smiling a little as she rubbed fingers over his rough whiskers.
Eleanor’s red hair was dark with rain, the ringlets soft under his lips. She’d rushed out into the wet without a hat. Typical Eleanor. Impetuous, impatient.
Her nose was gloriously dusted with freckles. Hart kissed one, then another, then another, all the while feeling the sharp joy of being inside her. Part of her. She was his.
Hart braced his hand against the cabin wall and thrust up into her. It was awkward in this space, but he did it. “El.”
His voice grew more grating with each thrust, her body welcoming him. Hart’s fist grew tight against the wall, his head bowing to her neck. Eleanor was pressed firmly against him, her skin to his. Water from his hair trickled down on both of them.
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