by Sabrina York
But she wanted him.
She wanted him more than she’d ever wanted anything.
Anything.
And it was a different kind of wanting. One she’d never experienced before. Something deep within her, wet and bubbly and aching.
She wasn’t stupid. She knew it was lust.
She just wasn’t sure what to do about it.
More than once, she’d vowed never to get married. That was no secret among her family, though they usually just chuckled fondly at her brazen pronouncements. Even when they’d all decided to go to London for the Season, traveling all the way from Dounreay, she’d been quite clear. She was not going to England to find a husband. When she overheard her mother and her aunt conspiring to find her just such a creature, she’d had to reiterate herself.
She was going to London on holiday. She was going to explore the museums and study the strange sights that made up English society. But she was not—repeat not—looking for a husband.
They smiled and nodded and made all the right sounds, but she knew them. She knew they had hopes she would finally find a man she might consider.
What nonsense.
As though an Englishman would ever do.
She hastily corrected her thought. An English lord.
She’d met them from time to time, because of her uncles, one who was a baron and the other a duke. And the impression they’d made on her had been definitive.
Prancing men—in heels—with stuffed cods where their cocks should be, wearing tights with padded thighs and wigs that smelled of powder and sweat. Their hands were delicate and be-ringed. Their chins weak. Their lips thin.
As though any manliness had been bred right out of them.
No. She was not going to London to catch one of those . . . cold fish.
But Nick was different.
First of all, he wasn’t a lord. He had a sense of humor, a warmth about him that made her—dare she say it—happy. Beyond that, he was handsome and manly and she hungered for him.
She’d never hungered for a man before.
Was it so wrong to consider taking what she wanted?
It would, in all probability, be the last time she ever met a man who made her feel like this, considering that in all her years, no one else had ever come close.
And the best part of all was that she would never see him again—
Her thoughts came to an abrupt halt there, and she worked through the emotions such a prospect engendered.
She would never see him again?
Nonsense.
No doubt they would stop at the Willoubys’ again on their return trip. Wouldn’t they?
But such considerations hardly signified, because Isobel had made up her mind.
When she met Nick today—if, indeed, he could come to her—she was going to let the kiss continue.
As long as it would.
* * *
Nick had no idea why he was nervous as he sat on the rise waiting for her.
It had been a minor miracle that he had escaped from Swofford Manor without Celia on his tail. He’d see her skulking around the stable in the early-morning hours and engaged Desmond to distract her while he made his getaway.
He hadn’t brought wine, rather a nice cold breakfast. And, of course, that blanket.
Excitement scoured him, because he had decided—whether she was the Lochlannach lass, or her maid—he fully intended to seduce her.
Which was why his mood dimmed as, with each passing moment, she did not arrive.
Had she been toying with him?
Had she been detained?
Was she in trouble?
He was just about to pack it all up and ride to the Willoubys’ in a froth when he heard the sounds of hooves pounding on the dirt track.
His heart pounded in tandem and he stood.
So she would see him, perhaps.
Or so he could see her.
Whatever.
He never expected the hit to his solar plexus when she rounded the curve in the road. It strangled his breath and made his stomach churn. His pulse thrummed.
She was magnificent. Her hair streamed out behind her like gossamer, a shimmering white-blond, a color he’d never seen before. And then she saw him.
Had he thought her beautiful before?
Her expression, when she smiled at him, eclipsed anything he’d ever seen.
It was glorious.
She was glorious.
She slowed as she neared and slung herself from the saddle. Her steps were hesitant as she came toward him, leading the stallion by the reins. He imagined she looked . . . shy.
Could she?
But when he grinned at her, she grinned back.
“Good morning,” he said, taking the reins and tying her beast up next to his.
“Good morning,” she said, not meeting his eyes.
Shy it was, then.
Or was she playing a game?
“I brought breakfast for you.” He gestured to the blanket.
She laughed. “I ate before.”
Really? Why did he feel put out? He’d gone to great trouble. “There are scones.”
“I see that. And where did you find scones, pray tell?”
“I bribed the cook.”
She flashed a look at him from beneath her lashes. “Is the cook from Scotland?”
“All the best ones are.”
“I may have to try those scones then.”
“There’s clotted cream as well.” Not that he’d had thoughts of other uses for that cream. But he had.
“Lovely.” She turned a smile at him, and conversation evaporated as they stared at each other.
“I was worried you weren’t coming,” he said, nearly a whisper.
“I had to sneak away.”
“I’m glad you did.”
“So am I.”
And as easily as that, the awkwardness between them dissolved. They moved as one, together, into each other’s arms with a furor that surprised and delight him. Her mouth was hot against his as they tasted each other. Her fingers threaded into his hair, scored his scalp as the kiss deepened. He wrapped his arms around her and held her close, delighting in the feel of her curves against his hardness.
And his hardness grew.
She sighed into his mouth. Rubbed against him, just so. Held him closer.
His sanity fled.
He kissed his way along her cheek and nested in the crook of her neck, drawing in her unique scent, sipping at her nectar, nipping at her flesh.
“Oh, God,” she said in something of a snarl, and to his delight, she reciprocated.
Her tiny pearly teeth scraped against his neck and he shuddered. But he was not prepared for what she did next. She drew his flesh into her mouth and sucked, the way she had sucked on his tongue.
It nearly unmanned him.
With a growl, he lifted her into his arms and carried her to the blanket and, unmindful of scones or clotted cream, or berries or anything else he had so carefully selected for her gastronomic delight, he brushed it all away and settled her in an unencumbered spot. Then settled himself beside her, and over her.
And damn, it felt good.
They fell into a frenzy after that, ripping at each other’s clothes, exploring each other’s bodies. He took great delight in making her writhe and scream and cry for more as he suckled the tender tips of her breast through her chemise.
While she was so distracted, he reached for her ankle, then made his way up the creamy skin of her thigh to that warm nest he so coveted.
He found her wet.
He had to take a moment, there, to catch his breath.
It was nearly unbearable to know she wanted him with the fervor with which he wanted her.
But he could not resist for long. So much to taste. So much to explore.
When he delved between her folds and found that hard nub, she howled.
She actually howled.
He was possessed for a moment of the thought that
maybe she wasn’t an experienced woman after all, so surprised was she in the pleasure of it.
But no woman responded like this if she didn’t know what was coming.
She couldn’t.
He smiled at her as he circled her, teased her, flicked at her clitoris as she trembled beneath him, staring up at him with parted lips and limpid eyes. “Yes,” she breathed. “Please.”
And he gave her what she wanted.
It was a torment and a delight, pleasuring her. Watching her step into the storm he created within her, while his own needs rampaged through him. But it was worth it.
After he’d made her come once (maybe twice), he eased lower, toward that coveted cavern. He needed her and he needed her now. But he wanted to be sure she was ready—
His heart stuttered when his questing fingers found something they were not anticipating. Something he had never expected to find.
Something disastrous.
* * *
Nick stilled, so suddenly it cost Isobel her breath.
“What?” she wailed, but he did not resume that dizzying touch. In fact, he retreated completely. Replaced her skirts. Rearranged them over her legs.
He waited until she opened her eyes and looked up at him. “What?”
“You’re a virgin.”
She blinked. “So?” Weren’t most women. At some point?
He blew out a sigh and dropped his forehead against hers. “I can’t do this.”
“Why not?” Surely not a wail.
“I can’t. I don’t . . .”
“Don’t what?” Surely he did. He was practiced at this. It was clear. She was beginning to resent them, those other women.
He rolled onto his back and covered his eyes with his arm. “I won’t despoil you.”
Isobel frowned fulsomely. “Why is it despoiling for women and not for men? You never hear of a man being ruined in a tryst.”
“There is good reason,” he said on a groan.
“It is not fair.”
“Nevertheless . . .” He sat up and met her gaze with his. “I can’t do this. I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry?”
“Sorrier than you can ever imagine, I promise you.”
Fury raged in her breast. Hunger savaged her. “You canna leave me like this.”
He stared at her for a moment, as though memorizing her face. Then he smiled. That wicked, crooked, dimpled grin. “Och, my wee lass. I willna leave you . . . like this,” he cooed in that charming and utterly ersatz brogue. And then he lowered his head.
She had no idea what was coming.
No idea what to expect.
But it certainly wasn’t this!
Oh, she knew about it. She’d heard whispers from the milkmaids back in Dounreay. She knew of congress between men and women. But she hadn’t realized.
She hadn’t known . . .
It was magnificent. Breathtaking. Unbelievable.
Nick’s mouth, that beautiful, warm, velvet mouth, found her. Found that spot where her being coalesced and he nudged it. Sucked it. Nibbled. Nipped.
Oh, he’d had her writhing in pleasure before, but that had been nothing like this. This was, in a word, perfection.
But then his intensity shifted. Or something in her did, and the joy within her tightened and became something savage, something aching, something wanting.
It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough.
She needed more. More. More.
And then, when she thought she might expire from the agony, he gave it to her. A touch of his fingers, a lap from his tongue. A tiny suckle, but it was enough.
As though he were a master musician and she were a violin and he knew just how to play her.
She released in a blinding shaft of glory and light. Something heavenly and profound. Something she was certain no woman had ever known before.
How could they, and ever do anything but this?
He held her as she recovered, stroking her gently and murmuring into her ears.
“Are you all right?” he asked, finally, when her breathing had calmed.
“Oh, Nick. That was splendid.”
Still, she knew, there was more. Something more he was withholding from her. If there was a God in heaven, she would have time to tease it from him.
He grinned, self-satisfied. “You liked it then?”
“Of course I did. But I do wish you dinna stop.”
“I had to. It wouldn’t have gone that far if I’d known . . .”
“Damn and blast my virginity,” she said, almost as a joke.
He smiled and kissed her nose. “I honor your virginity.”
“It’s pointless, considering.” She sat up and rearranged her dress so she wasn’t blatantly exposed.
He sat as well, and stared at her. “Considering what?”
“Why, that I’m never getting married, of course.”
“You’re never getting married?” Why did he sound so surprised? Or was that disappointment?
“Of course not.”
“There’s no of course about it. Everyone gets married.”
“Do they?”
“Don’t you want children?”
She sniffed. “My mother didn’t need a husband to have one.”
He blinked. “I . . . what?”
“It’s true.”
“I know it’s possible,” he said after a moment. “But not the easy path.”
She flashed him a smile. “I am a Dounreay lass,” she said. “As my mother says, we never take the easy path.”
Chapter Four
Dounreay.
Not Lochlannach.
A certain relief scudded through him, although he wasn’t sure why. As a matter of principle, he did not toy with virgins, but he couldn’t silence the little devil in the back of his mind, which kept whispering that if she were, indeed, not the Lochlannach lass, a seduction would have fewer consequences.
Lust twined with mortification. Surely he was a better man than that? He’d never believed that men of power should take undue advantage. He abhorred men who did.
But when he looked into her eyes, he forgot himself.
He found himself suddenly swamped with all manners of justifications to take what he wanted for himself.
Not the least of which was the fact she wanted it as well.
His cock lurched at the thought.
But first to business. He’d kissed her—in the most intimate way—and yet he didn’t know her name. He took her wrists in his hands and levered over her again. “Tell me what to call you,” he demanded. “I must know.”
“Your Majesty?” she said on a laugh.
“Do stop. I told you my name. You must tell me yours. It’s driving me mad.”
“Is it?” Her playful tone was suddenly a tad annoying. He feared she might never tell him. That he would never know her—
“Isobel.”
Ah. Isobel. It fit her perfectly.
“Isobel.”
She chuckled. “Why do you say it like that?”
“Like what?”
“All . . . breathy.”
He brushed her hair from her cheek. “I am not breathy in the least.”
“You said it that way.”
“Well, I had been wondering what your name was.”
She frowned at him. “Did it occur to you to ask?”
“I did once. You didn’t answer.”
“Did I no’?”
She knew damn well she hadn’t. She’d just smiled.
“Anyway, it suits you. I like it.”
“I am so gratified.”
He flopped down beside her on the blanket and they stared at the sky through the lacy leaves. After a moment, he rolled toward her.
“So . . . my darling Isobel,” he said, toying with a blade of grass. “How long are you staying in Newcastle?”
She shrugged. “I doona know. Not for certain.” And then she smiled. Something fetching and coy. “Why do you want to know?”
He grinned
back at her. “Why do you think?”
“Because you want to see me again tomorrow?”
“And the next day.” Every day, in fact. As often as he could.
“I’m no’ sure. When the rest of our party arrives, we will leave.”
His heart dove. “For where?”
She made a face, an adorable moue with a delightfully wrinkled nose. “London.”
He had to laugh. For one thing, that’s where he was headed, too, when his holiday ended. Which would probably be . . . when she left.
“What’s so funny?” she sniffed.
“The way you said it. As though it’s hell on earth.”
“Is it no’?”
It wasn’t. And it was. Depending on one’s perspective. And relative wealth. “Have you been there before?”
“Never.”
“Then how do you know it’s horrible?”
“I’ve heard stories.”
The way she said that made him even more curious. “Such as?” he asked, offering her a crumbled scone as an offering. She reached behind him for some berries as well. They turned her lips a bright, tempting red. The juice was tempting as well.
“The place is peopled with popinjays,” she said.
“Really?”
“Grown men in tights and heels . . . Haven’t you heard this? I’m sure even a stable hand would know of the lords of London.”
“I’ve heard they are a profligate bunch.” His mother had told him as much. Of course, she’d been referring to his friends at the time.
“Aye. But it’s more than that.”
“Is it?”
“Aye. You know why people travel all the way to London for the Season, do you no’?”
“I have heard . . . rumors.”
“To parade their eligible daughters before the ton.”
Something stuck in his throat. “Are you to be so . . . paraded?” For some reason, he didn’t like that prospect in the least. Especially because he knew that the men who might be considering her were profligate indeed.
She laughed. “Oh, not I.”
Relief washed through him. But he needed to know more. “Why not?”
He expected her to say something like, Because I am a maid, but she did not. As she often did, she surprised him by saying, “Can you imagine me married to a London lord?”
He could indeed, but kept his own counsel on that. “You would make a lovely bride.”
She laughed again. “Och, I know that. I’m no’ the problem.”