“Demetrius and Helena,” he told her.
She clicked her tongue sadly. “Poor Helena.”
Tris fell silent for a moment, then his huff of amusement brushed her neck.
“Ye think he failed to satisfy his lass?”
She studied the statue again where the gods frolicked within the spring of rushing water. “I can’t see how he wouldn’t.”
Tris’s chest rose and fell a hairsbreadth away from her back, and she jumped as he grasped her hips and pulled her back against him. Swatting his hand away, she turned her head to glower at him. “What are you doing?”
“Honestly, I dinnae ken.” His rough brogue tickled the nape of her neck as he pressed behind her. “’Tis no’ what I brought ye here for. Every time I’m near ye my good intentions seem to fade away.”
“You don’t just get to touch me anytime you want, you know. You need to make sure I want you to first. You need to ask.”
“I have.” He pushed her hair aside.
“Each time.” The brush of his lips sent a quiver of longing through her and her voice wavered. “My answer might be different. Saying yes once doesn’t imply universal approval.”
“I’m listening to ye, lass. The tilt of yer head when I kiss yer neck. The hitch of yer breath when I touch ye.” He slid his hand down the curve of her hip. “The way ye’re pressing yer bonny arse against my hand as ye are. All of it says ‘Aye, I want ye, too.’”
When had he learned to read her so well? “It’s the middle of the day.”
“Ye said ye’d do anything if I saved ye from Wyndom’s company.”
“I’m pretty sure I’ve paid off that debt in full over the past week.” His hand slipped over her belly and up over her breasts. A gasp of delight swallowed further protest. It wasn’t enough. She was beginning to think it never would be.
He nipped at her earlobe. “I’ve always had a particular fantasy about making love by this fountain.”
“In it or on it?” she breathed then blinked. “Wait. You can’t be thinking of doing this right now.”
“Why no’?”
“Because!” Pulling away from his intoxicating nearness before she was too drunk on him to argue, she turned to face him. “Anyone could walk in here at any time. And…and it’s…it’s…”
A wicked grin creased that undeniable dimple into his cheek. “Why, my sweet lass is proving herself to be something of a prude.”
Her arms found their way around her waist in a defensive self-embrace. “We both know that’s not true. I’ve done things with you I never imagined.”
“If ye think what we’ve done thus far is unusual, ye’re more innocent than I believed.”
She wasn’t innocent, he had to be well aware of the fact. Granted she’d always been a little vanilla, in Aila’s vocal opinion, but it got things done pleasingly enough. For her, anyway. God, had she bored him already?
A memory stirred along with the sting of mortification. She’d been right. She should have left this place already.
“Was this your plan all along?” she asked him, hugging her arms tight. “To lure me with stained glass and flowers, and have your way with me?”
“Nay. Honestly I brought ye here wi’ the best of intentions. Now that we’re here though and the subject has…er, arisen so to speak…” He sat on the edge of the fountain and took her hand. Kissing her knuckles, he drew her between his knees. His green eyes danced with wicked desire in the summer sun. “Will ye explore the possibilities wi’ me, my love?”
He ran his hands up the back of her legs and cupped her butt. Pressing a kiss to her abdomen he smiled up at her, the personification of temptation.
Brontë traced her fingers over his cheeks and raked her nails along his roughened jawline. Heaven help her, he was gorgeous. The changing light played with the color of his hair as she buried her fingers into the thick locks. Helpless against him, she bent to kiss him then jumped with a squeal when his hands slid down and his fingers slipped between her thighs. “Tris!”
“Blame yerself,” he told her. “I cannae keep my hands off of ye nae matter how I try.”
“Do you have to try?”
“Aye. Otherwise we wouldnae hae left yer bed since Tuesday.”
His words were playful, teasing, yet they struck a chord. “Then you’re not bored with me?”
The smile slipped away. “Why would ye think that?”
A shrug denied the depth of her anxiety. “I thought wanting to do it here instead of…” She rolled her eyes up with another lift of her shoulder.
“Ye barmy female,” he exclaimed. “Aye, I can think of a hundred places and ways to hae ye in this room alone. Nevertheless if I were to only hae ye beneath me in yer bed between dusk and dawn, I’d be equally content. What jackanapes ever let ye think otherwise?”
She shifted in embarrassment, but he wouldn’t release her. How could she tell Tris, of all people, about her failings in Jake’s eyes? The core problem in their relationship hadn’t truly been that he’d cheated on her, it was what had driven him to it. Not only her nagging, constant disapproval but her inadequacies in bed had led him to find satisfaction with someone else. The pain and humiliation born from that complaint had been more devastating than the cheating itself. She failed to satisfy.
If she were honest with herself, that was why she hadn’t given another guy a chance over the past year. Fear of failure in so many ways. Fear of not living up to another man’s expectations. Of him not living up to hers. Thus, the ideal of the perfect man. The one who’d…
Shit, she should really see a therapist someday.
“I’ve never been particularly adventuresome,” she admitted quietly, aware that Tris was waiting for an answer. All kindness and caring. Though smoldering desire lingered in his eyes and…well, his hands were still on her ass. She wiggled her hips. He held on, his fingers digging in. Her pulse accelerated a fraction. She swallowed back a smile and ran her fingers through his hair again with a thoughtful sigh. “Honestly, I suppose I’ve never really been inspired enough to venture beyond the usual three positions.”
“Three?” His expression lit with mischief once more. “I’ve counted six or more already. I’m happy to make it seven if it pleases ye. Or waiting until the clock strikes midnight again if it disnae.”
Something split deep in her chest and spread with a poignant ache. Bending over him, she kissed him. Long. Slow. Deep. Each caress of his mouth, every stroke of his tongue sent the sensation radiating outward. Down her limbs to pool into a delicious throbbing between her thighs. “Thank you,” she whispered against his lips.
“For what?”
“Inspiring me.”
“I hae a care for what is mine, lass. And ye’re my own.”
Yes. She was deeply afraid that she was.
Fighting back the panic the thought aroused, Brontë gathered her skirts around her hips and straddled Tris where he sat on the edge of the fountain. His rough hands immediately clasped her bare thighs above her stockings, thumbs tracing a path inward. Kissing him again, she reached between and ran her palm down his rampant length before finding the buttons of his trousers.
“I’m warning you,” she said, biting on his lower lip. “You better not get me wet.”
Tris rubbed a finger around her pulsing nub and slid between the damp folds. Testing her, then retreating. Teasing her again. She threw back her head with a throaty cry of surrender and his warm chuckle caressed her cheek.
“No’ get ye wet? Och, lass. I cannae make that promise.”
Chapter 24
“I dinnae ken what anyone else would hae to say on the matter, but I’d say ye get fair marks for creativity.” Tris grinned down at her and kissed the back of Brontë’s hand as they walked back outside.
A pale pink flush stained her fair cheeks as she ducked her head against his shoulder. “What can I say? I’ve learned a lot from reading and never had much of a chance to put any of it to the test before.”
The cur
ious combination of astonishment and amusement she often sparked in him reared its head once more. This time he opted for laughter. “I’d love to see what ye’ve been reading.”
“I’ve got books. Lots of books.” The mischievous glow of her smile enchanted him. And inspired him as well.
“My uncle Vin told me about a book my aunt has that’s been known to make a grown man blush,” he told her. “When we return to Edinburgh, I’ll see if I can borrow it from his library.”
Her expression dimmed and she looked away, gnawing her lower lip. “Only a few days more, I guess.”
“Aye.” He wondered where her thoughts had wandered off to. “Dorian will be off to London by the end of the week.”
“Then back to work for the rest of us?”
Tris nodded. Aye, he had projects aplenty waiting for him. Messages arrived everyday as the push to produce the advanced communications the Marconi Works contracted with the British government to develop traversed from luxury to necessity. He’d taken to tinkering in the work shed and writing long briefs of his ideas in the mornings while Brontë slept in. The overall progress was satisfying. His contribution, unfortunately, paled in comparison to the mark he hoped to have in the evolution of a changing world. But for the distraction she provided, he would have felt more at odds than he already did. Perhaps he should think again on the option he and Henry had been discussing of late.
A footman passed by with a tray of finger sandwiches, reminding him that they’d missed luncheon while tarrying in the conservatory. Tris stopped him, took the tray, and requested a pitcher of lemonade make its way to them as well. He led the way to a small bistro table on the terrace and held a chair for Brontë. Her smile returned and she dug into the sandwiches with gusto to challenge his own. Thankfully their drinks arrived in short order. He’d hadn’t realized how parched he was from their exercise.
“Do you enjoy your work?” she asked after a few minutes.
“Not the investments themselves precisely.” He frowned. The joy taken in the fruits of his labor wasn’t something he’d ever been asked about before. “I like being at the forefront of innovation and invention. Fostering change, nurturing growth. Supporting new ideas of what may come. That sort of thing.”
“Coming up with a few of your own?”
A provocative question. He had many unique theories on ways to change the future for the better. Not all could be boiled down to a physical manifestation to display to the world. While he toyed with mechanics, he was no engineer. Crossing the bridge from concept to reality wasn’t a solitary operation. “Maybe. I like the idea of conceiving something that might harbor change. I have but one life. I’d like to use it to its best advantage.”
“You want to save the world.” She smiled and covered his hand with hers on the table. “That’s so sweet.”
“You tease.”
“Not entirely. You have advantages others do not and never will. Something to start with and people who believe in you.” Her smile was a bit tighter now. “I’m sure you will rock the world.”
Rock the world? More of her Americanisms, he supposed. They rolled off her tongue with such ease he’d come to do no more than process and move on. “You haven’t the same advantages?”
“My granny is super supportive of everything I do. You’d think I could walk on the moon with all the encouragement she gives me.” She laughed and he joined her. Such a ridiculous notion, after all. Then she sighed. “My mom not so much. She thinks I’m too independent and impulsive. I can only imagine what she’d have to say about all of this.”
Questions once again began to cloud his thoughts. If Brontë had close family relations, why had she arrived in Edinburgh alone? Why had no one written her a letter in all the time she’d been away? Sent a message?
“What about your father?” he asked.
A huff of cynicism escaped her lips. “Should we find the others? They must be wondering where we are.”
Once they were again strolling arm in arm, Brontë finally chose to answer his question. “Dad likes to call me an SJW. Social justice warrior.”
“I confess I’m unfamiliar with the term.” As was the norm with her. “It sounds rather complimentary.”
“It’s not. You see, in my own way, I’ve always wanted to change the world a little, too,” she admitted. “Calling me an SJW is his way of mocking my efforts. The term itself is a derogatory one used to describe a person who uses social injustice to validate their own moral superiority.” She twisted her lips wryly. “He says it to piss me off. Says my entire generation is full of crybabies whining that life isn’t fair.”
“It isn’t,” Tris felt compelled to mention. “Never has been.”
Brontë nodded. “I know that. That’s not me. I’m not trying to fuel fires or make enemies. I’m not condescending or rude in my opinions and I never force them on anyone, though I’m willing to debate them in hopes of changing someone’s mind. I’m definitely not one of those people who think they deserve what they don’t earn and who’s offended by everything. My goal is solely to support social issues and civil rights. The world needs open, rational conversation on the issues that divide us, not more reasons to hate.”
A stab of pride in her conviction pierced him. She soldiered on even without the support of her family. He would do well to follow her example and delay no further in his desire to make a difference in the world, even if it meant disappointing—or defying—the preferences and wishes of his family.
Across the lawns, the others were playing lawn bowls. Hannah spotted them and lifted a hand, waving them over. Tris nodded and steered Brontë in their direction. “What sort of issues do you support?”
“Environmental issues mainly,” she told him. “And of course, gender equality.”
“Gender equality?” he frowned. “You mean women’s suffrage?”
“Where did you two get off to?” Hazel asked with a knowing smile. “We missed you at luncheon.”
Color crawled up Brontë’s neck. “I’m afraid we lost track of time. Tris gave me a tour of the Winter Garden. It’s gorgeous. I could have walked through there for hours more.” Recovering herself, she looked from the red wooden balls Hannah was holding to the blue one Henry turned between his hands. Farther afield more balls of the same colors dotted the grass. “Are you playing bocce?”
“It’s lawn bowls, my dear,” Henry corrected as he bent and pitched his toward the others. It hit one of the red ones and knocked it away from the smaller white jack.
Hazel pouted his success. “Thank God you’ve returned to spare me such defeat.”
“It looked like you two were having a rather heated discussion on the way over here,” Henry said while Hannah took her turn.
“Brontë was telling me about her support of women’s suffrage.”
Henry waved his hands to deflect the topic. Too late. Hannah smiled with sinful enthusiasm and took up the subject. “You haven’t discussed this with her yet? Why, that’s only the beginning.”
* * *
Tris wasn’t certain how he’d gone from making love to Brontë in the conservatory to arguing political issues in less than an hour’s time. Even so, he couldn’t say he wasn’t enjoying himself. Not as passionately to be sure, but he was.
She was fierce in her beliefs.
“If you can help those less fortunate, you should.”
“Why should I?” He’d pushed for the sake of riling her further. He did enjoy ruffling her feathers. “I’ve worked hard for what I have. Why should I feel compelled to share it with others?”
From social services, they’d been recalled to the original subject. Arguing equal pay for women, safety in work place environments and against sexual harassment. On those issues, the debate had become more heated as their conversation flowed from outdoors to in as clouds darkened the sky and rain threatened.
“You believe a woman should be given a position simply because she is female?” he asked.
“Not at all. No one sho
uld be given something they don’t earn,” she argued. “There is reward in achievement and hard work. Something we forget sometimes. I’m saying whoever has the superior education, work experience and applicable skills should get the job. However, if it’s a woman, she should receive the same pay as a man, right?”
Enclosed in the drawing room, they’d attracted more of an audience. And more participants to the discussion. Most remained silent as if unwilling to commit or disagree with the merest shake of their head to such radical ideas. Others, like Tris’s mother and aunts, were ardent in their agreement.
Likely because they were all already equal, if not superior to the male gender, within the confines of their own homes. They were smart, competent and capable. Never would he dare consider himself above any of them. It was a matter of respect, he’d learned over the course of his life. That esteem merited equity.
On the other hand, he’d met many a woman…and man, for that matter, who did not warrant equivalent deference. He told Brontë as much and was surprised when she nodded her agreement.
“That’s what I’m saying. I don’t expect any employer to hire someone who lacks the proficiency and knowledge base to do a job. Simply provide an equal shot at it. Hire who is best for it, then provide a work environment and benefits without gender bias.” Her expression was avid. Animate. “That applies to race, too. Religion. Et cetera.”
“Race and religion?” Henry asked. “Not that I disagree, but you ask a lot.”
“There’s no reason not to if we’re ever going to have a truly equal society.”
Hazel nodded enthusiastically from across the table. There was a murmur of approval from some of the ladies. One of dissent from a few of the men who’d stopped to listen.
“That’s rather radical thinking,” Heath Wyndom spoke up. Hannah glowered at her beau in a fashion Tris thought might set his suit back a month or two.
“She reminds me of Mama,” Hazel announced and squeezed Brontë’s hand. She looked around at the aunts. “Don’t you think so?”
A Scot to Remember (Something About a Highlander Book 1) Page 22