But Robert wanted more than to just touch her. His own ravening lust urged him to taste and possess all of her. He dragged himself away from her delicious breasts and ran a trail of sucking kisses down her body until his mouth hovered just above her soft ginger curls. She might be innocent, but she was passionate and adventurous. It couldn’t hurt to ask …
Perhaps confused by his inaction, Jessie raised her head slightly and slanted him a glance from beneath her lashes.
Robert offered her the tilted smile he knew she loved. ‘Jessie I want to kiss you, all of you. Will you let me?’
God, he hoped she said yes.
* * *
Jessie gasped. ‘Down there? Really?’
Robert smiled, his beautiful rakehell’s smile. The one she couldn’t resist. ‘Yes. Really.’
Wicked man. She couldn’t hide her shock. She trusted Robert with all her heart, but the idea of him placing his mouth on her most secret parts … but then, she had tasted him once before. And she knew she wanted to again.
Perhaps Robert’s request wasn’t so outlandish.
Curiosity won out. ‘All right,’ she whispered.
Her heart beating a wild rhythm, she dropped her head back onto the pillows and closed her eyes. Robert’s hair brushed her inner thighs and his fingers gently parted her wet folds. Oh God, she couldn’t believe she was letting him …
All thought scattered as his wicked tongue slid along her wet cleft then flicked against her throbbing centre. Intense, hot pleasure, shot through her. Writhing mindlessly, she gripped Robert’s head and cried his name, but he gave her no quarter—he suckled and licked her ruthlessly until the rising tension within her was unbearable. Bright lights like stars exploded behind her eyes when he thrust his fingers deep inside her again and simultaneously suckled hard on her throbbing core. It was too much. Her grip on reality slipped. An agonised cry tumbled from her throat and blazing rapture at last took her completely, throwing her heavenward.
As the shock waves of pleasure slowly subsided, she felt Robert returning to her side. Gathering her into his arms, he nuzzled her neck and ear, murmuring Gaelic endearments against her heated skin. She snuggled into him, pressing herself against his hard body, her eyelids so heavy with sated desire, she could barely open them. ‘I didna have any idea … It never occurred to me tha’ you could kiss me … tha’ way,’ she murmured against his bare shoulder.
She felt, rather than saw Robert’s smile against her temple. ‘So I take it that you particularly enjoyed that, mo chridhe?’ he teased, his hands caressing her breasts once more, rekindling the warmth between her legs. She raised her head and answered him with a kiss—his lips and tongue were salty with the taste of her, but she didn’t mind. In fact, she found it strangely pleasurable. Erotic.
Robert groaned her name and rolled her onto her back, gently parting her thighs with one of his knees. ‘Are you ready for us to be joined as man and wife, my love? I’m afraid it will hurt at first, but I will be as gentle as I can.’ His body hovered over hers, his straining manhood resting heavily against the sensitive flesh of her belly.
‘Dinna mind me. I willna break,’ she breathed and encircled his pulsating, rigid length with one hand, urging him to make them one. Robert groaned and closed his eyes, pushing into her hand. Briefly, she wondered how he would fit inside her, but she so wanted to please him. She knew he needed surcease badly, moisture was already leaking from him onto her fingers.
Robert took his weight on his forearms, then pushed his hips forward, the head of his cock nudging her entrance. Jessie whimpered as the pressure intensified, and she gripped Robert’s shoulders. The burning pain was almost too much.
‘Tell me if you want me to stop,’ he gritted out, shudders wracking his body.
Jessie realised that the restraint he exercised for her was causing him pain too. ‘Dinna stop. Take me, Robert,’ she whispered, reaching up to caress his tense jaw with trembling fingers. ‘Make me yours.’
* * *
With an agonised groan, Robert surged forward and with one swift stroke, entered Jessie’s hot, wet sheath. Dear God, she was tight. Despite her readiness, Jessie cried out then buried her face in his shoulder, panting. Robert immediately ceased all movement. He’d hurt her. Guilt knifed through him.
‘My sweet Jessie, I’m sorry,’ he whispered into her hair. ‘But trust me, it will get better.’
Jessie nodded and kissed his neck. ‘I know. Remember, I want this too.’
So brave. As much as his balls ached, as much as his cock throbbed, Robert vowed he wouldn’t move until she was ready. Ignoring his own acute urge to pound into her, he rained feather-light kisses across Jessie’s eyelids, cheeks, and forehead waiting until she had adjusted to the feel of him inside her.
Her eyes soon fluttered open and she smoothed his hair away from his brow. ‘I’m all right now,’ she soothed, and drew his head down for a slow, deep, languorous kiss. Then she moved her hips.
Thank God. She still wanted him. Following Jessie’s lead, Robert slowly withdrew, then glided into her again, deeper than before. Jessie moaned and her hands slid to his buttocks. Heartened, he repeated the action and this time Jessie sighed with pleasure. Joy flared like the incandescent heat of the Caribbean sun. Gaining confidence that she was beginning to enjoy their coupling, Robert began to slide back and forth with slow sure strokes, powerful yet controlled, watching Jessie’s changing expressions, gauging her reaction, making sure she continued to enjoy this as much as he did.
Panting beneath him, she matched his rhythm, her hands gripping his sweat slick shoulders. Her inner passage started to quiver and he gritted his teeth against his own compelling need to let go. He would make sure she came first, even if it killed him. He pounded, faster, harder until he knew she was at the edge. When she cried his name, when her sheath clenched and rippled around him, he rejoiced.
But he could no longer control the rising tide of his own passion. With a final driving thrust, Robert too succumbed to the all-consuming rush of release. His body shuddered again and again as great waves of pleasure claimed him, like nothing he’d ever experienced before. He buried his face in the curve of Jessie’s neck, groaning her name.
Spent at last, he rolled sideways, gathering Jessie into his arms, still joined with her. He softly traced the outline of her kiss-swollen lips with his thumb and then brushed back a tangled lock of hair from her face. ‘I love you, my wife,’ he whispered, a smile of pure happiness curving his mouth.
Jessie smiled back with drowsy-eyed contentment. ‘And I love you, my husband,’ she murmured, then curled herself into him.
With her languid limbs still entwined with his, Jessie soon floated into sleep. The quiet rhythm of her breathing soothed Robert’s soul like nothing else possibly could. He stroked her soft hair, gloried in the feel of her warm, silken skin pressed against his and at last, he let the awe and profound satisfaction of knowing this beautiful woman was really, truly his, sink into his very bones.
Everything he did from now on would be for her and the children they would make together. The morning and the days ahead would bring challenges to their door. But Robert vowed that no one—not Simon or his stepmother or the devil himself—would stand in the way of his happiness and Jessie’s. Not ever.
Chapter Nineteen
Simon sat on the edge of his bed at the White Horse Inn, clutching his pounding head in his hands, waiting for the world to stop spinning. Why the hell hadn’t he listened to his mother and kept away from the demon drink like she’d ordered? A hangover was the last thing he needed, on top of a bruised and scratched face, cut forehead and bitten hand—all of which still pained him.
Devil take him, he was a mess.
He doubted he could stand, let alone fight a duel with his bloody brother. His only consolation was that if all went according to his mother’s plan, it was unlikely that he would have to lift a finger, let alone a sword, at all.
He had no idea what the time was, but he judged
it was close to dawn. Baird, his valet, had woken him a short time ago before disappearing into the adjoining room to fetch his clothes and sword.
Passed out in the chair before the spent fire snored his fair-weather friend and reluctant second for the duel, Archibald Ramsay, Esquire. Simple bribery had secured his services. The promise of covering Archie’s substantial gambling debts for the evening as well as the inducement of visiting a brothel in the Grassmarket had done the trick.
Thanks to the considerable amount of wine and rum he’d imbibed, Simon had only vague recollections of the red-headed prostitute he and Archie had both used before they were tossed out into the street by the madam of the establishment and her henchman. Apparently he and Archie had been too rough with the wench, whereas in Simon’s mind, she had not been accommodating enough.
Just like Jessie.
A smirk quirked the corner of his mouth when he envisaged how he’d treat Jessie when he finally had her all to himself. It wouldn’t be long now. If all went according to plan, Robert would be locked up again in the Tolbooth before the sun even appeared over the Firth of Forth.
Baird’s return roused him from his musings. Rising from the bed so he could begin to get dressed, Simon noticed that his manservant was soaked to the skin.
‘What the hell happened to you?’ he demanded, clipping Baird around the ear with his uninjured hand. ‘And mind my clothes, you fool. You’re getting them all wet.’
‘I’m verra sorry, Mr Grant. But it’s been rainin’ fit to drown the fishes in the Firth. An’ I havena had the chance to change, seeing as I have only just returned from watching the main gate into Holyrood Park.’
‘Well?’ Simon’s voice was edged with impatience as Baird pulled up his buckskin breeches and laced them for him. ‘Don’t dilly dally about with the details. Was there any sign of the Scots Guard?’
The involvement of the Guard was part of his mother’s ingenious plan to entrap Robert. Last night, Baird had conveyed a message from the Countess of Strathburn to the dragoon regiment stationed at Edinburgh Castle about the impending duel. Simon was counting on the fact that the Guard would be in place to arrest Robert before he even had a chance to draw his sword. He was not foolish enough to believe that he could best his older brother in a physical confrontation. But he was certain that he and his mother could outwit Robert, hands down.
‘Aye, Mr Grant,’ replied Baird, as he handed Simon a fresh cambric shirt. ‘I saw a Redcoat officer wi’ six soldiers ride past not ten minutes ago, headin’ towards Arthur’s Seat.’
‘Good. Damned inconvenient this weather though.’ Simon grimaced as he shrugged into a heavy redingote jacket of broadcloth. ‘The bloody lobsters better be there, or I’ll have your guts for garters, Baird. I don’t want to brave these elements for nothing.’
Baird simply handed him his belt and short sword; he was used to his master’s foul moods. ‘Shall I wake Mr Ramsay?’ he asked woodenly. ‘It’s already half-past six.’
Simon glanced over at his all but unconscious companion. ‘Don’t bother,’ he snorted, throwing on the oilskin cloak Baird had passed to him. ‘He’ll only slow us down and you can stand in for my second just as well. Besides there will be no duel if the Scots Guard time it right.’
Just then, a squall of rain hit the windowpane. ‘Bloody hell, what are the chances of rooting out a carriage at short notice, Baird? I don’t fancy riding in this downpour.’
‘I’ll see wha’ I can do, sir. I believe there is a small carriage in the mews runnin’ beside the inn tha’ can be hired. I saw it when I came back from the Park.’
‘Good. I’ll await you on the front stairs. And you better be damned quick.’
After Baird left, Simon splashed cold water onto his face from the basin to help clear his head. His hands were shaking as he dried his face with a towel—a pointless exercise given he was about to get soaked through. He could hear rain drumming steadily against the window now. When he opened one of the shutters and peered down to the courtyard below, he could barely see a thing—it was as black as Hades.
And then a dark carriage appeared at the entrance of the close. Baird had been successful. At least the devil’s own luck seemed to be working for him at the moment.
He trusted it would continue.
The entrance of the inn was deserted when Simon gained the vestibule. He pushed through the front door onto the rain slicked portico. The carriage waited for him at the foot of the short flight of stairs, the door closed against the rain. Where in Lucifer’s name was Baird?
He squinted through the rain and darkness at the driver of the carriage, but he was shrouded in a hooded oilskin. He’d kick Baird’s arse later for being too lazy to get down from the driver’s seat to open the door for him. He flung himself into the pit of the cab and slammed the door.
Only to be met by the touch of something metallic and cold between his eyes. Something clicked.
Fuck. It was the sound of a pistol being cocked.
‘Now then, Simon Grant,’ came a rumbling baritone from the dark recesses of the cabin. ‘Welcome to Purgatory.’
* * *
As much as Robert would have loved to stay abed with Jessie until at least the middle of the next day, he slept with her in his arms for only a few hours. The ormolu clock on the mantel in the sitting room was chiming six-thirty when he gently disengaged himself from her warm embrace. She barely stirred as he moved the sleep tousled curls from her face and placed a gentle kiss on her brow. As soon as he’d dealt with his brother, he swore he would return to her side, his wife.
His love and his life.
So he wouldn’t disturb her, he moved into the adjacent dressing room and threw on a linen shirt that he left untucked and open at the neck, black breeches of fine broadcloth and black leather boots. He didn’t bother to shave or even comb his hair—the greater his dishabille when the King’s troops inevitably arrived on the doorstep, the better. Then he moved into his sitting room and rang for tea. Gordon quickly appeared and within a short space of time, the fire was restoked, the candles lit and a tray of warm baps and a pot of tea was brought up from the kitchen by one of the footmen.
As he mulled over the strategy he and his father had devised to expose Caroline’s and Simon’s treachery, he noticed the increasing intensity of the rain drumming on the casement windows. Gordon had not drawn back the curtains yet, but Robert suspected the gutters and cobbled streets would be awash. It was definitely not the kind of weather in which to be fighting hand-to-hand combat with short swords. The common below Arthur’s Seat and Dunsapie Hill in Holyrood Park would be a quagmire. He almost felt sorry for the poor sodden Scots Guards who would be lying in wait for him and Simon to arrive. He wondered how long they would stay in position before they realised the duel would be a non-event.
With cup in hand, he wandered to the window and flicked the curtains to the side. The square below was deserted for now. Over the looming bulk of the Salisbury Crags, he fancied that the heavy pall of dark grey clouds was beginning to lighten a fraction. He estimated that within the hour, there would be a mightily annoyed and bedraggled officer pounding on the door of Strathburn House.
He wasn’t far off the mark. The clock was heralding half-past seven when he heard the clatter of horses’ hooves on the cobbles outside. He put down his second cup of tea and waited patiently for Gordon to summon him.
Sure enough, within a few minutes, Gordon reappeared. ‘Milord, Captain McBryde from the Scots Guard kindly requests yer presence.’ The butler’s lips twitched with a smile.
‘Indeed. I believe that my father would like a word with the captain as well, Gordon. If you would be so kind as to send word to MacGowan to wake his lordship.’
Gordon bowed. ‘Of course, milord.’
Robert ran his hands through his hair, ruffling it. Deciding he looked suitably sleep rumpled, he descended to the vestibule.
Captain McBryde stood in the middle of the entrance hall, looking both sodden and disgrun
tled in equal measure. Water streamed from his greatcoat onto the parquetry floor, and his boots were caked in mud. The front door was still ajar and Robert could see at least a half a dozen other Redcoats shivering on the portico outside. The rain was coming down in sheets. Robert bit the inside of his cheek to suppress a smile as he greeted the officer.
‘Captain McBryde,’ he said with an incline of his head. ‘What can I do for you at this early hour?’
McBryde bowed but not before he had looked Robert up and down, noting his obvious state of dryness and undress. A look of resignation replaced the expression of annoyance. ‘My apologies, Lord Lochrose, for having roused you from yer bed. It seems I have been led a merry dance by someone.’
Robert feigned a look of confusion. ‘I don’t follow you, Captain.’
McBryde sighed and swiped at a trickle of water running off his nose. ‘At ten o’clock last night my Commanding Officer received a missive—written on paper bearing the Strathburn coat of arms—stating tha’ you had instigated a duel with yer brother, Simon Grant. Said duel was to ha’ taken place half an hour ago in Holyrood Park. Given that you had only been released from the Tolbooth yesterday an’ are on probation—Lord Arniston’s office informed the Guards of the terms of yer release yesterday—we were duty bound to investigate. But as neither you nor yer brother arrived, I can only conclude tha’ one of you, or both, thought better of it an’ forfeited.’
Robert looked at the captain squarely. ‘It is true that my brother and I had a disagreement last night over a somewhat … private matter. Harsh words were exchanged and in the heat of the moment, my brother did propose that we settle the grievance at sword point at first light in the Park. But to go against him in a duel, that would be foolhardy to say the least, considering my current situation. I decided it was not worth it, as my forfeiture clearly demonstrates.’
Just then the earl appeared on the landing. ‘What is the meaning of this?’ he demanded before MacGowan assisted him down the stairs to stand beside Robert. It was obvious he had only just emerged from his bed as well—he wore a velvet banyan over his nightclothes and his periwig was slightly askew.
The Master Of Strathburn Page 29