He kissed her forehead, the shell of her ears, her chin and neck…“Ian.” Somehow her hands had moved to grasp his shoulders, and she twisted her head to offer her mouth. “Please kiss me.”
“I am kissing you.”
His lips slid along her jaw to the lobe of her ear, and he nipped it.
Every nerve in her body sprang to attention. “Why did you do that?”
“So I could do this.” He soothed the sting with a kiss, then sucked the tender flesh into his mouth.
She inhaled in a startled, desperate need for air. His tongue, his lips, his teeth, worked along the lobe and up the shell, nibbling as if her ear were a tasty delicacy meant to be savored. Goose bumps started at the base of her spine and traveled outward, trying to chill an already overheated body.
Useless endeavor. He gave her no quarter. “A beautiful ear,” he murmured. “Rosy and delicate, and so sensitive.” The slight breeze his speech created skimmed across the dampness. “Isn’t it?”
Her eyes had closed as she tried to absorb the sensation. “What?”
“Your ear. It’s sensitive.”
Stupid question. With him, everything was sensitive. Her scalp responded as his fingers slid through it, seeking the contours of her skull and massaging it until she relaxed, each muscle lax, each bone detached. Then his hand slid down to her shoulder blade. She tilted her head away, allowing him to stroke her; little circles of solace ranging over a body tense from work and worry. He gave her such comfort, she wished she had had it all the lonely years ago. She wished she could have it all the lonely years in the future.
“You can,” he whispered.
And her relaxation vanished.
His hand no longer massaged her shoulder, but caressed the flesh her nightgown should have covered. When, and how, had he disrobed her?
She lunged for the covers, but they were out of reach.
“Embarrassed, sweet?” His dark, rich voice checked her unease. “Silly, to be ashamed of a body as grand as this. Look.” He palmed her breast, lifting it from below and accenting the upper swell. “The finest ladies of the world wish for such soft, unmarked skin, for such jaunty roundness, for a nipple the color of the dawn.” His voice thickened, as if he had tempted himself.
She watched as his dark head lowered and he kissed her breast. The brush of his lips against the outer arc of flesh banished modesty, and his forefinger and thumb closed around one nipple. Gently he pinched, and she moaned, a quick dip into verbal surrender.
His eyes, sable-soft in the dim light, fixed on her, and again and again his thumb rubbed gently over her. “Sensitive here, too. Look how it has puckered, so tight with anticipation. Why do you suppose that is?”
“Oh, please.” She strained upward.
“Talk to me, Alanna. In your own sweet burr, tell me why your body teases me with response.”
“Because…I want…a kiss.” Her teeth gritted in a combination of exasperation and desire so intense she would have done anything to assuage it. Anything…except unlock her door to the real man.
“You’re too stubborn,” he chided. “But I’m yours to command. See?” Lifting his head, he pursed his lips and bussed the air. “A kiss.”
“A real kiss.”
“Why, Alanna. You want me to open my mouth on you.” He managed to sound shocked, yet utterly content. “You want me to suckle. Why would you want that?”
Because somehow that might assuage the craving she experienced in each receptive place in her body. In the most receptive place of her body.
“Tell me, Alanna. How would it feel if I licked you with my tongue, and took your nipple between and sucked on it? Maybe even…bit down.”
Crazed by his spoken half promises, she stirred restively.
“Not hard!” he assured her. “No, but gently, tenderly, a mere scrape of the teeth to warn you of the danger. For I am dangerous, Alanna. Do you know that?”
Her knee crooked and one foot dragged slowly across the linen sheet, as if that little roughness would give her a base of reality. “I’m dangerous, too.”
The teasing note in his voice vanished. “I know that. You have the ability to send me into exile with a mere flick of your fingers.”
Damn him! Why didn’t he do as she demanded? “I should.”
“Yes.” He wrapped his hand around her throat. He exerted no pressure, but the threat was there. “Yet you wonder—would you then never be rid of these dreams, or would frustration dog you until the end of your days?”
She laid her hand across his. “And your frustration?”
His lips, the erotic lips she coveted, curved in a bitter smile. “I’ll be chained against the same rock in hell as you.”
How she liked that! She had always been the lady of Fionnaway, proud, noble, and honorable, but never had she known she could hold a man in thrall. Especially not a man of such dark charm. “Kiss me,” she directed, “on the lips.” She didn’t know why that mattered so much, but she wanted to taste him, to have him taste her. Only then would she believe this was happening. Only then would she comprehend her power.
But he didn’t answer. And he didn’t obey.
Instead she found his fingers gliding down to caress her belly. She forgot about the kiss. She forgot about pride. Only his unspoken, tantalizing promises mattered. “Ian.” She twisted on the bed, frantic to have him press his hand to the place that throbbed with the rhythm of her heartbeat. “Please.”
“Another kiss?” He nuzzled her other breast with his lips.
“Not like that.” She caressed his chest, finding a light covering of hair over his breastbone. His nipples were flat and smooth until she wet her fingers in her mouth. She touched the circles of color, and they puckered, like her own, and she heard his intake of breath.
“You are innovative.” Provocatively he licked the inside of her elbow. “Or desperate.”
Desperate. Aye, she was desperate. Boldly she slid her hands lower. Along his hip, slender and strong. Across his belly, rippling with muscle. If she touched him the way she wanted to be touched, maybe he’d also be driven mad with need.
But he blocked her as she reached the frame of curly hair at the apex of his legs. “That is play for lovers.”
“We’re lovers.”
His knee pushed her knees apart, and ever so slowly he lowered himself until his weight rested on her. Bringing his thigh higher, he crowded between her legs. The pressure was a flawed replacement for the delicacy of his hand, but she moved herself against it tentatively, then eagerly. The sensation satisfied her and made her want more, all at the same time. He let her use him, propel herself against him until she whimpered from desire, until she strained toward satisfaction.
Then he held her hips still. She saw his eyes glinting in the dark above her, and he said what he always said. “We’ll be lovers when you unlock your door for me.”
He moved so lightly, she didn’t realize he was gone until she woke, clutching the pillow to her midriff.
A light sweat covered her skin. Her breath came in short pants. Her blood pounded in her veins, and desperately she touched herself, trying to relieve the tension, and knowing from experience that nothing she did would ease the damp, empty sensation.
For the first time, he added, “It’s time to remember, Alanna.”
She heard him so clearly, she flung herself over and stared at the door, expecting to see him.
The door was shut. Locked, and for the last three nights, bolted with an iron bar.
Her caution had been for naught. Once again Ian had done as he’d promised. He’d drifted in her window on the breeze, enchanted her with a spell, and she had dreamed of him today as she had done every damned night. Every damned night.
Infuriated, shaking from frustration, she rolled off the bed, landed on the floor with a thump—and tripped as her nightgown dropped to her feet. Catching it on her toes, she kicked it as far as it would go. But it drifted in a flutter of white cotton rather than slamming against the wal
l as she had hoped.
Stupid nightgown. She fastened every button all the way to her neck every night, and every morning she woke to find it opened, lowered to her waist, raised to her hips…How was he doing this?
She glared around her empty room. The room MacLeod daughters had occupied since the castle had been built. No comfort had been spared; Alanna should have been as satisfied to be housed here as the stones were with their niche in the fireplace.
But satisfaction was the last thing Alanna felt.
Frustration. Now, that was the word. Every night Ian came to her in her dreams and caressed her until she begged for completion. Every night he denied her. He would take her just to the edge. Just to where her body was wound to its tightest. Then…she would wake. And all day, everything that brushed against her made her think of Ian. Everything she tasted, touched, smelled, made her remember the erotic teasing of the night before…and the teasing hadn’t really happened.
“Bother him!” Snatching her clothes off the chair, she dressed as quickly as she could. She had to get out of here before she saw him.
Nay—before he saw her. He was the hunter, she was hunted. He followed her everywhere as she took up her duties as the lady of Fionnaway. He did it, supposedly, to help her as her foot healed. Then, when it was better, he said he came because she needed a chaperon as she rode from village to croft.
He lied. He came so he could smile at her. Smile, and touch her on the elbow as he assisted her across rocky ground. Smile, and lift her into her saddle with his hands on her waist. Smile, and rub the knot between her shoulder blades as she spoke with the crofters.
And he was the reason she was tense! He did not once touch her as he had in the study. She knew his hands were bold, seeking, knowledgeable, but would he show her? Nay. He would just look at her, all jumpy from those erotic dreams, and without saying a word, he let her know he knew. Damn him, he knew, and she feared unless she got a reprieve from the endless stalking, she would break. She would agree to wed Ian just so he would show her what lay on the other side of this tantalizing mountain of sexual yearning.
Clutching her light leather boots in her sweaty palms, she unlocked and unbarred the door. Slowly, quietly, she pulled it open and stuck her head into the corridor. She glanced first to one side, then the other, and when she saw no Ians lurked in the shadows, she tiptoed out. Toward escape.
Chapter 16
She made it down the corridor without seeing so much as a servant. She crossed the boundless reaches of the great hall, glancing around as if she were an intruder in her own home. The passage that led to the outside door beckoned, and she had almost reached it when—
“Lady Alanna, are you going out again?”
Alanna jumped guiltily and swung toward the fireplace.
There a lone figure huddled by the blazing hearth. “Wilda,” Alanna whispered.
“You’re leaving earlier than usual,” Wilda said.
With her hand on her thumping heart, Alanna wanted to snap, Of course it’s earlier than usual. I’m trying to sneak out without your cousin’s company. But she couldn’t. If she did, she would hurt the dear girl’s feelings.
Alanna liked her. She didn’t want to—well, what woman wanted to like another who so completely overshadowed her with the gifts of beauty and charm?—but as Wilda had gravely confided, “I know I’m prettier than anyone else, but Mama says I’m stupid and softhearted, and I’m not likely to catch a rich man when I feel sorry for so many poor ones.”
Right now that would be Edwin. A younger son, he didn’t have his own fortune. He had no prospects, because his brother had only one estate and managed it well. Brice supported Edwin without complaint—after all, Edwin was a pleasant man, impossible to dislike—but Alanna knew Brice wished she would disappear so he could place his brother at Fionnaway as steward and free him of his perpetual tag-tail.
It was really too bad Wilda had no prospects, either, for Alanna thought Wilda and Edwin would make a lovely couple.
Brice and Wilda…Now, that was different. Brice was harder than Edwin, given to bullying, and he had proclaimed his determination to wed a wealthy woman, for he wished above all to be greater than the lady of Fionnaway. It would take a powerful infatuation to sway Brice from his chosen course, although in the last week…Alanna stared at Wilda. In the last week it had become clear that if anyone could make Brice love more than money and prestige, it would be Wilda.
Resigning herself to a morning chat, Alanna walked to Wilda’s side. “What are you doing up at this hour of the morning? Why, it’s scarcely past sunrise.”
“My bed was cold.” Blankets were heaped over Wilda’s hunched-up knees and around her shoulders.
“I am going out.” Alanna sat on the floor and pulled her boots on. “Would you like to accompany me?”
Wilda shivered. “No. It’s freezing out there.”
“It’s the twenty-first of July!” And Alanna’s birthday. If she could, she would proclaim herself undisputed mistress of Fionnaway and throw everyone out on their ear. Except Wilda, of course. And she couldn’t make a man in Leslie’s uncertain health start a lengthy journey to England. And if she tried to send Brice and Edwin on their way, she would hear manly protestations. And Ian—if she tried to throw Ian out, he would laugh at her, and maybe try and press his claim on her, and she would cave in like a weak-kneed fool.
Alanna pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes. What a tangle she’d made of things!
“You’ve tangled your lacing,” Wilda said. “You’d best start over.”
Alanna looked down. She had. Impatiently she loosened them and started over.
“It’s colder in Scotland than in the South.” Wilda frowned at Alanna, her clear brow creasing with anxiety. “You should put on a pelisse.”
“I will.” She wouldn’t, but she could tell that one wee lie. More and more Wilda reminded Alanna of her mother. Fussing at her to dress warmly when she was already warm. Constantly asking about an ankle already healed. Warning that riding horses astride would ruin her maidenhood. It was sweet—and maddening.
“Do you have your wool petticoats on?” Wilda asked.
“Not wool, but petticoats.” Wilda wore wool, Alanna could tell. Wilda had had the seams of her dresses let out to accommodate as many petticoats as possible. She looked stuffed as a sausage, but neither Brice nor Edwin seemed to care.
“Mrs. Armstrong made me wool petticoats so I wouldn’t catch a chill. And pantalettes.” Wilda stuck out her foot and showed the wide band of lace that edged the bottom of her bizarre undergarments. “She made you pantalettes, too, but I suppose you’re too stubborn to wear them.”
“They’re not something we wear in Scotland,” Alanna said firmly, as she finished lacing her boots. Personally she thought she never would condone such silly things. They looked like men’s trousers made from white cotton, and Alanna felt sure the fashion Wilda worshiped today would be passé tomorrow.
“In England, men don’t wear skirts.”
“Kilts,” Alanna said patiently. “They’re kilts.”
“Anyway, the pantalettes are warm on my legs.” Wilda tried to tuck the blanket around her feet. “I can’t get my toes warm.”
Feeling ungrateful for mocking Wilda and her girl-trousers, Alanna knelt before her. Taking the blanket, she rubbed Wilda’s feet and tried, one more time, to express her gratitude. “You’ve been too good, to allow your own cloth to be made up for me.” She touched the buttons extending from throat to hem on her new dark blue, high-waisted gown.
“But you’re the lady!” Wilda replied. “The long-lost lady who has returned from the mists to marry my cousin.”
Looking up, Alanna asked stiffly, “Why do you say that?”
“Because you’ve been gone for so long.” Wilda’s answers never quite fit the questions.
Alanna took a calming breath and tucked Wilda firmly in the blanket. “Nay. I mean the part about me marrying your cousin.”
“He told m
e he was determined to have you.” Wilda beamed. “He always gets what he wants, so I’m happy for you both.”
Wilda would be. Wilda saw only the good things. That was why everyone liked her. That was why Alanna liked her. But what Wilda didn’t see, didn’t know, was her beloved Ian’s Machiavellian side.
Dream of me. He’d commanded, and Alanna had obeyed. He chased, and Alanna ran. He demanded, and Alanna…Nay, she wouldn’t give in. When she’d come back to Fionnaway, she’d had a plan. She wouldn’t wed him unless he proved himself worthy. She would not marry in a fever as her mother had, and pay the price later.
“He deserves someone besides a Quaker girl who trembles when he looks at her.”
Wilda’s pronouncement grabbed Alanna’s wandering attention. “A Quaker girl?”
“I told him she wasn’t the wife for him—”
Shocked, Alanna demanded, “He’s been married?”
“No!” Wilda impatiently blew a wisp of hair out of her eyes. “He insisted she would be his wife because she was willing to put up with the disgrace.”
Alanna tried to interrupt again.
Wilda babbled like a mountain stream after the winter melt. “She should have been grateful, a puny little thing like her with no title and no fortune. Oh, she pretended she would wed him for love, but I know better. She wanted the money.”
Trying to interpret the flood of information, Alanna asked, “What money?”
“He’s got bags. Hasn’t he told you?”
“Yes, I believe he did.” And Alanna thought that might explain why he wanted a crumbling manor in Scotland. Every piddling merchant in England wanted property in the country and, if possible, a title or a titled wife. Such honors lent them an air of respectability. But she had news for Ian. A hundred manors wouldn’t buy such a sensual man respectability.
“Then that miserable coward wrote him a note and said she couldn’t bear to go through with it because he’s a wizard,” Wilda said. “A wizard! Have you ever heard such a thing? Of course, Uncle Leslie claimed Ian was half selkie, but Uncle Leslie would say anything to get attention. He’s the second oldest, you know, my grandfather’s brother, and really my great-uncle.”
A Well Favored Gentleman Page 15