She wasn’t cold. Just curious. The fire was actually very warm, and soon Lizzy began to feel languid from the warmth, and the comforting sound of the wind. Lost in thought, she didn’t hear the door open or close, until she heard the click of the lock.
“Maggie?”
A warm hand wrapped around the nape of her neck; the tips of fingers burrowed into her upswept hair. “Me.” Iain… Dear God, what was he doing here?
His hands moved from her neck, smoothed over her shoulders and down her arms. He reached over her from behind and grasped her hand, bringing it to her lap. Then he placed something there. Took her hand and placed it on the object he had laid in her lap.
Tracing her fingers over it, she discovered the slightly rough texture, smelled the scent of leather. It was small, square, the spine embossed with an emblem that felt very familiar under her questing fingertips.
“The Veiled Lady’s diary,” Iain murmured next to her as he slowly pulled a pin from her hair. A strand fell down and she felt him lift it to his face. “Open the cover.
We’ll read it together.”
Oh, how like him to use this against her. He should not be here, under any circumstances, but especially now, when she was dressed in nothing more than a nightgown.
She was certain the flames from the hearth rendered the expensive linen translucent. She should tell him to go, but her fingers would not leave the book, only opened the cover and traced over the page. Beneath her fingertips she felt the raised edges of ink that had been set to paper. The writing felt much different than the writing in Sinjin’s diary. That script had been bold, heavy, pressed deeply into the pages with a sort of repressed passion.
This was lighter, more flowing, much more feminine.
“Where did you get this?”
Another pin was pulled from her hair. “I’ve had it for years.”
“Why did you never tell me?”
“I would have had I’d known you were interested, or that you had Sinjin’s matching volume.”
“Who is she?” Elizabeth demanded. “How do you know this is in any way connected to my diary?” He bent down behind her, his mouth brushing the delicate flesh behind her ear. “Soon.” Another pin. Then another. Silently, he worked behind her, until her hair was unbound and flowing around her.
He took handfuls of it, let it slide through his fingers.
“So long. Does it reach your bottom?” he asked. He leaned over her, took something from the table. The brush. He began pulling it through her hair. Carefully.
Slowly.
“Yes,” she answered, swallowing hard. Strangely, this was far more intimate than anything he had ever done to her body.
“So black and shining. I’d like to see it against your naked skin.”
“Iain.”
“Shall I read the first entry, then?” he asked, subtly ignoring her and the beginning of her protest.
This she could not resist. He could brush her hair all night if he wished, if he would exchange that liberty for a glimpse into the world of the Veiled Lady.
“Yes, please. Begin.”
“‘He came to me in a dream.’” Iain’s voice was deep, beckoning. “‘A prince in a white tunic, a red cross over his breast. His hair was black, his eyes the color of storm clouds. He was everything I had dreamed of during these long days and nights of my imprisonment. He lay upon the ground, the stars for a canopy, the dying embers of a fire for his blanket. I would have given up every comfort in this gilded cage in which I had been placed, for the chance to be with him on the desert sand. But he is forbidden to me. A lover in my dreams. Yet I cannot help but think he is the other half of my soul. Even in my dream I knew him to be the one. The only person in the world who could complete me.’”
Iain had not stopped brushing Elizabeth’s hair, and she closed her eyes, enjoying the soothing motion, the rasp of his voice in the quiet. “Turn the pages, stop whenever it feels right,” he ordered. Then he replaced the brush on the dressing table, moved his hands to her head and raked his fingers through her hair.
She did as he asked, and she felt him step closer to her, the back of her chair the only barrier between them.
But his hands… His beautiful hands continued to move through her hair, massaging her scalp.
“‘I saw him tonight, through the silken veils and screens that keep us apart from the world. My face was covered as I danced. Only my eyes peered out, but my knight knew me—just by my eyes. His gaze flickered down my body as I performed for the men who had gath- ered. He knew my body. Had kissed it in my dreams.
Had touched me as I have never been touched before. I dreamed of those touches, how his hands moved along my skin. How in the quiet of the night I retraced the path of his fingers with my own. Somehow, he knew my every wish, my every secret desire.’” Iain paused in his massage and leaned over once more, whispering in her ear. “Another entry. Stop when you want.”
It would only get more detailed, if this diary was anything like Sinjin’s. She was so tempted to turn only one page. But Iain’s hands smoothing down her neck, his thumbs pressing into her skin, relieving her of the tight knots, made her a bit reckless. So, too, did the idea of him reading something very naughty aloud. It was strange, erotic, to hear him read the words of a woman’s secret desire. Elizabeth could so easily imagine that they were her thoughts he was whispering aloud.
Flipping through the pages, she stopped, waited to hear him speak. When he did, he was closer, peering over her shoulder, whispering next to her ear as he read the words from the diary that rested in her lap.
“‘I lay awake on the pillows, while his hands—Sinjin’s hands—burned a wake over my body. Inside I trembled, heated, wanted to beg for the fleeting touch of his hands on my breasts.’”
Elizabeth was aware of how Iain’s palm caressed her throat, rested over the expanse of her chest as he read.
Then he very slowly untied the ribbon to her night rail and parted the yoke, revealing the crests of her breasts.
“‘He claims to adore my breasts, and his touch conveys that. He stares at me, watching as his palms, rough, calloused, cup me. His touch isn’t enough, merely a tease.
I should not be so wanton, but I want more, what no lady should desire if she were truly a lady. I want his hand engulfing me.’” Iain’s breath caressed the shell of Lizzy’s ear as his hot palm sneaked beneath the yoke of her night rail, cupping one heavy breast. He sighed, squeezed, then freed her breasts from the material, allowing the linen to slip down her arms. He would be watching in the dressing- table mirror, she knew. He would see her, her breasts large and heavy, cupped from behind in his palms.
“‘I want his tongue on me, following the path of his hands.’” Iain nuzzled the side of her breast. His mouth warm and open, he kissed her as he moved to the side of the chair, making his way closer to her breast, and the nipple she felt curl in anticipation. “‘I want him to pleasure me until I scream, until I fall apart with nothing but his mouth suckling me.’”
Iain had done that once to her. Did he remember? He found her nipple, curled his tongue around it and moaned as she arched into him. How could she deny this? Stop him? Her body cried out in pain at the thought of denying him. Just a bit more, it pleaded. It had been so long…so long….
But Iain was not content with that. He wanted more, he lifted her up, and the Veiled Lady’s diary fell to the ground. He took Elizabeth’s chair, sat her on his lap and removed her gown. She was completely naked and, embarrassed, she shielded her breasts and sex with her arms.
“No, Beth.” He kissed her ear, pulled her arms away, positioned her so that her legs were open, lying over his thighs. He was fully clothed, and she felt the heat of his chest through his shirt, the woollen blend of his trousers on her bottom.
“How is it you’ve only grown more beautiful?” he asked. “Your body… What a pleasure it will be to taste, to traverse these curves in the dark.” His hand skimmed over her, resting against her belly, then lower
over her mons. He began to speak to her, words from the diary. Was he reading it from where it had fallen on the floor, or had he memorized the passages as she had done?
“‘I ache to feel him inside me, long and rigid, filling me.’” Elizabeth felt his hand beneath her bottom, caressing her, then freeing the buttons of his trousers. Finally, the burning heat of his erection pressed against her. “‘I need him, so deep inside me. Awaiting his penetration.’” That last word was whispered hotly in her ear and she squirmed on his lap, but he only held her more tightly.
“Was it like that for you, Beth, waiting that first time to feel me inside you? Awaiting my penetration?” He was moving her so the head of his penis was nudging against the rim of her sex. His hand was stroking lazily, parting her core, allowing the edges of her sex to slip closed, then opening them again with his fingers.
“Did you ache for me deep inside? Do you ache now?” She was breathing too fast, her chest rising and falling in anticipation, fear, and he reached for her head, held it back until it was resting against the crook of his neck.
His mouth found hers, first the corner, which he kissed.
His hand continued to play, his erection coming closer, nudging inside her. It made her breathe harder, faster, like a terrified virgin—not in fear that he would hurt her, but in terror of the intensity of the emotions, the desire, the very great need to feel him possess her body once more.
“Shh,” he whispered, placing his hand over her chest, calming her.
He kissed her, a slow, deep kiss. His tongue was warm, circling, making the same pattern as his hand was over her clitoris. She grew taut, ready, and his hand slid from where it rested over her breast bone, down to her breast, where he tugged at her nipple while stimulating her most sensitive centre.
It was intentionally provocative. Deliberately slow. He knew how to play with her, to keep her suspended, but she wanted more, to come crashing down into his arms, her body splintering.
Brazenly, she reached down the length of her body and tried to move his hand lower. She wanted his fingers moving inside her, appeasing the ache. The way he played with her nipple only intensified that need. So, too, did the knowledge that he was fully clothed beneath her, and was watching her in the mirror, and she was left to imagine what they must look like.
Stubbornly, he refused to give her what she wanted.
His fingers remained against her, playing, stroking, while she felt empty.
“Say it, Beth,” he demanded, and she heard how husky and rough his voice was. Felt how his chest had begun to grow hot, his shirt dampening against her back. “Say you want me inside. Not my fingers, but this.” She shook her head when he brushed his phallus against her bottom. She did not want to fall that far. This was more than she’d ever thought to allow herself.
“Then you shall have to remain unfulfilled.” He kissed her neck, drew his tongue along the column of her throat.
“Empty.” Another caress of his tongue. “Aching. I want to give you what you want, Beth,” he said darkly, “but with my cock.”
Biting her lip, she nodded, pressed her eyes shut. She needed to feel him inside, and if not with his fingers, then with what he desired. In truth, it was her desire, too. Even though it shouldn’t be. She whimpered in surrender, such a weak-willed woman.
“It’s not bad to want this, Beth,” he murmured as he kissed her, slowly guided himself to her entrance. “It’s not wicked to want to join with me.” Why, then, did she feel she was selling her soul to the devil?
She almost cried no, jumped off his lap, but then he slid into her, straight, steady and so full, penetrating her so deeply that she moaned, dug her nails into his thighs.
“Beth,” he groaned as his hips moved slowly. “Take it all,” he whispered. “All of me, my Beth.” She had no experience with this, this position, this complete exposure. But he helped her, planted his hands on her hips and showed her the way to move. She felt Iain’s body behind her, heard his breaths which became uneven gasps.
Slowly he moved, his hips thrusting, retreating, building the rhythm, taking it from lazy to harder, more determined, more possessing. His fingers bit into her hips as he angled her, and she heard him growl next to her ear.
“So damn good,” he said. “You should see it, Beth, what we look like doing this, loving each other.” She grew wet, arched her back, excitement growing when she learned he was watching them. His hands left her hips, came to her breasts and cupped them, the nipples sliding between his fingers as he pulled to the rhythm of his cock, which was stroking seamlessly in and out of her.
“Yes, yes,” he murmured as his body worked beneath hers. She sensed the moment he was about to climax; his body always stiffened. He drew his breath in and held it raggedly, his fingers biting into her nipples, and Eliza- beth knew what she must do. She accepted one last thrust, then lifted herself off his lap as he came.
“Beth?” he gasped in surprise. He reached for her, tried to bring her back to him, then moaned, spilling his seed. She was left unfulfilled, aching. But it was far better than to be filled with any repercussions from her lapse of discipline.
Surprising her, Iain reached for her, held her close to him as he framed her face in his hands. “Why?” he demanded. He was furious, she realized.
“This madness you’re suffering under. It won’t last forever, Iain. Just like the last time. And I do not want to be compromised and left with something you don’t want.” She would have given her soul to see his expression.
She wasn’t sure if it was shock or hurt, but he suddenly released her, set her away from him so he could stand.
And then he left, just as he had the last time, without a word.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
GODDAMN HER, he was still seething when the dawn came.
He had stood at the bedroom window for hours, watching the blinding whirl of snow, lost in thoughts of Elizabeth and what they had done.
He saw her upon his lap, naked, open, accepting him.
She’d been so damn lush, her body welcoming him as though he had never been gone from her. He’d wanted to carry her to the bed, to stretch out on top of her and feel her curves beneath him, but he’d been mesmerized by the image in the mirror. How they looked together. He’d been enslaved at that moment, the second he slid inside her body. He’d thought of so many things, but most of all, he’d thought of what it would be like to take Elizabeth that way while she was heavy with child. And she hadn’t wanted that. Had accused him of not wanting it, when even now he thought of how satisfying it would be to give her his seed and create a life with her.
Banging his fist on the sill, he hung his head and tried to stuff the pain back down. Pain was a sign of weakness, or so his father had claimed. Never show pain, or fear.
And never tears. Iain, as far as he knew, had never once cried. To weep was weakness, and neither his mother nor his father had tolerated that failing. But he was close…so damn close to letting his fear and frustrations get the better of him. Maybe Sheldon was right. If Elizabeth truly desired him, she would be his now….
Activity in the hall told him the servants were waking for the day. He wondered if Elizabeth still slept. Had she thought of him last night? Did she relive that scene as he had? Bloody hell, he had barely a dozen strokes into her and was coming, leaving her dissatisfied. He’d planned to remedy that, knowing he could not hold back his climax. But she’d put a damper on his plans. She’d rejected him. Rejected his seed.
He’d never offered it to another before. He always wore French letters when he took a woman, and never relied on them, preferring to pull out at that peak. That moment with Elizabeth had been the first time in twelve damn years he’d been flesh to flesh inside someone, and it had felt so damn good. It had been only her he’d touched, skin to skin. And she’d denied him. But not only that, she’d denied herself, because Iain knew that she hadn’t thought that way before. She’d taken him every time he’d had her, pouring into her.
A
knock sounded at the door, and he called, “Enter,” in a voice that was much too rough.
Charles, Elizabeth’s favourite footman, peered his head inside. “Snowed in,” he muttered. “Three-foot drifts by the mews. Took a dozen of us to dig it out to get food to the horses. I’m afraid, my lord, you’ll be stuck here until the thoroughfares are cleaned. And as it’s still blowing a white tempest out there, I doubt that will be for some time.”
“What a shame,” Iain said, “that I shall be forced to spend days here.”
His sarcasm was lost on the footman. “Nothing to do about it, my lord. I’ll send some of His Grace’s clothes to you. You’re about his size.”
“Thank you.”
Charles was about to close the door when Iain turned from the window and said, “Be so good as to inform Lady Elizabeth that her presence at breakfast is requested.”
“At once, my lord.”
Days… Well, let’s see what good he could make of them.
“YOU’RE LATE.”
Elizabeth saw red when Iain spoke from the depths of the dining room. How dare he command her about like he was her…her husband, for heaven’s sake! “This is my home, and I will dine when I’m good and ready to dine.”
“You eat by nine, Elizabeth, every morning. It is nearly noon. You’re simply avoiding me.” How the blazes did he know that about her? He wasn’t around for breakfast normally, and she couldn’t imagine that he would recall such a thing from the past. No, he was merely goading her.
Carefully, she took her seat and settled her napkin on her lap. “Charles, I’ll have—”
“Charles has been dismissed for now. I’ll see to your plate. Although I should think that by now the eggs are cold.”
“Have you eaten?” she asked.
“No, testament to my current mood, I should suspect.” The scents of bacon and sausages and toast floated over to her. Iain set a plate in front of her. She heard another plate being placed to the right, followed by the squeaking of a chair as Iain sank into it.
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