The door to the sitting room stood partially open, and fire-light painted the walls with moving pictures. Kirsty watched the rise and fall of flame shadows and tried not to feel the warmth of the man beside her.
He breathed quietly.
Kirsty held her breath.
He breathed more and more slowly, more regularly.
Asleep already, she decided. If they were attacked, she’d be the one to defend the pair of them.
I love ye as an old friend.
She loved him as a woman loves a man, and the power of it all but tore her asunder. That fulsome, overdressed, pettish Lady Hermoine wasn’t good enough for him. She’d make him miserable with her demands. She’d be forever wanting more of those terrible, fancy clothes she favored, covered with silly flowers and feathers and the like. And she’d probably nothing more in her head than what gossip she’d most lately heard. Why, she’d bore Max in no time.
It was wrong to judge someone you didn’t know. And it was wrong to do so because you were jealous and wanted something you couldn’t have.
Max turned on his side.
The side facing Kirsty.
He put an arm over her middle! She opened her mouth to say something, but what would be the point? The man was asleep and didn’t know what he’d done. His arm was heavy and very, very warm.
His fingers curled around her waist . . .
Kirsty held quite still. Then, cautiously, she turned her face toward him. His head wasn’t squarely in the middle of the next pillow as it should be, but just about on hers. She could see his closed eyes, his thick, curly lashes, the hard, but irresistible lines of his mouth, and the shadows beneath his cheekbones.
He nestled his head even closer, and his fingers trailed up and down her side.
Och, but she was in a pickle.
She was so warm she feared her hot skin would wake him.
He’d had a fearsome experience, and he didn’t know what he was doing—not that he was doing anything so very terrible. In fact, it wasn’t terrible at all.
She was a good girl. Squeezing her eyelids together she repeated over and over again inside her head, I’m a good girl. I’m a good girl. I’ll no’ give in t’temptation.
Max’s face settled beside hers on her pillow, and she felt his soft breath on her ear.
I’m a good girl, she told herself.
He moaned a little and nuzzled her neck, and pulled her closer.
Desperate, she turned away, turned her back to him, and promptly found herself brought against him, his body curled to make a place—a most unsuitable place—for her bottom, and his thighs beneath her thighs.
His strong arm curled about her—just beneath her breasts.
His lips rested against the back of her neck.
And she’d thought a sheet would be an adequate bundling board! No wonder he’d laughed.
Kirsty narrowed her eyes in the darkness.
He’d laughed, but he’d followed her suggestion. Now look what he was doing with himself—and her.
His lips moved.
Very, very softly, he kissed the nape of her neck, then he lifted his head just a little to allow himself to kiss the side of her neck, then to nip at the lobe of her ear.
So, he’d decided she was a foolish wench to be toyed with. Well, one thing she was sure of: Max Rossmara wouldn’t go farther than she allowed him to go.
His Part had grown hard against her bottom. Did the silly man think she’d not notice a thing of such proportions? She’d lived on the land too long to not know what it meant. Very well, she would also sleep and be unaccountable for her actions.
Wiggling, she settled her bottom more firmly against him, and smiled to herself at his indrawn breath.
Kirsty breathed deeply and quite loudly.
Heaven help her, but he pulled down the sheet, pulled up her nightgown, and rubbed her thighs. Taking advantage of a sleeping woman. He wasn’t the gentleman she’d considered him to be.
He stroked her belly and moved upward to her breasts! One by one he tweaked her nipples! Such feelings. Such wild things she wanted without even being able to name them.
This must stop at once.
He took a nipple between finger and thumb and pinched lightly, then used a fingernail on the very end. She squirmed, and he murmured against her ear. And he pushed his other arm beneath her so that he could hold her fast while he put a hand between her legs.
She’d grown wet.
The next blast of heat upon her skin made her pant.
He probed beneath the soft folds down there, wetted his fingers with her moisture, and found a place that made her forget she was asleep. “Max! Max, what are ye doin’?”
“Sleeping,” he said in a rumbly voice against her shoulder. “Like you. Don’t be afraid of me, dearest. I won’t do anything that could harm you. But I’d like to bring you pleasure.”
Oh, she wanted to press harder against his hand, and she didn’t want him to stop playing with her breasts.
She reached behind her and found his Part, held it and squeezed. It swelled even more and jerked—answered her!
“Kirsty,” Max murmured. “I don’t think you should do that until we’ve had more time to discuss the future.”
“You’re not goin’ t’stop, are ye?” she said, thrashing, turning onto her back and pulling her nightgown up beneath her armpits. “I’m on fire, Max, and I dinna want it t’go out.”
“I’m not being fair.”
“Oh, but ye are. Oh, I’d not known there were such wonderful feelings. I’ve no’ had time for the laddies who’ve wanted t’get to know me better. I’ve no’ wanted to.”
Max grew still, but held her more tightly.
“What is it?” she asked him.
“Other men tried to know you?”
She frowned and rolled toward him. “Only men I already knew a little.”
“How little?”
“Och, I grew up wi’ ’em. Y’know what I mean.”
“Do I?”
He thought . . . “Max Rossmara! If ye’re suggestin’ I was ever together wi’ one o’ them like this, then I’m insulted.”
Rather than respond, he thrust his head under the covers and fastened his mouth on a nipple.
Kirsty’s lips parted, but no sound came. The sensation in her breast, where he sucked, and the feeling between her legs, where he rubbed, seemed joined, the one making the other more intense. Her hips rose off the bed.
She pulled his face up, put her arms around his neck and kissed him. Turning her head just so, she managed to make their noses fit quite nicely.
Max didn’t stop rubbing.
“Och! It’s a magical thing. Why . . . Och, Max! How does it happen? It’s like, och, it’s . . .” Her legs shot down straight and she crossed her ankles, trapping his hand. Burning waves flashed through skin and flesh and seemed to enter her bone. “It’s wonderful,” she told him, gasping, not wanting it to stop.
Never mind his warnings; she wanted to see if she could bring him great satisfaction, too. His Part would give her the answer. Pushing her face beneath the covers, she kissed his belly until he drove his fingers into her hair and made sounds that suggested he was feeling pleasure himself.
A little lower, she kissed him, and a little lower. Then, so quickly he’d not time to stop her, she took the Part in her hands and kissed him. He grappled for her hands, but she only held on tighter.
“Kirsty Mercer,” he said, diving beneath the covers and curling over her. “Unhand me, you forward wench. Or you’ll be sorry.”
“I’ll not unhand ye. If I do, ye’ll be sorry.”
He moaned, and his hips jutted. He took one of her breasts in each of his hands. “Sweetness, please don’t. Please stop. You don’t understand. You were right when you told me we shouldn’t . . . Well, you know.”
“I wasna right. But that was because I didn’t know what I’d be missin’. Ye’re talkin’ too much.”
“My God!”
“
Dinna take the Lord’s name in vain.”
“I will be strong,” he said. “What I asked earlier was wrong. Aah! I know that now. Aah!”
Why, if she opened her mouth wide she could take a goodly amount of him deep inside. And he liked it. Och, yes, he liked it verra much. He moaned and groaned and clutched at her, and clutched at sheets, and squeezed her breasts, and sweated. He really liked it.
Tangled together, the sheets and quilt over their heads, they paused in their writhing.
“Kirsty,” Max said, covering her as if to hold as much of her as possible and easing her mouth from him, “say you’ll never leave me.”
A great swell of sadness rose in her chest. “I canna think o’ not bein’ wi’ ye.”
“No matter what, you’ll stay with me?”
He asked so much. “I hope I can.”
“I want us to be lovers, but I know I’m wrong to take you.”
And she was wrong to want him to take her, but she did. “We’ll have t’think hard, Max. But there’s no goin’ back, is there?”
“No, no going back.”
“Perhaps it would be better if I did leave. I—” She stopped and listened.
“I won’t let you leave,” Max said, kissing her shoulder.
“Hush,” she whispered. “Listen.”
“Say you won’t try to go away.”
“Listen.”
“Say it!”
“I’ll try not t’go away. Now listen, ye foolish laddie.”
At last he did as he was told. A tap-tap-tapping sounded from the sitting room. Max made a move to pull the covers from his head but Kirsty stopped him. “Lie still, will ye? These are my rooms, remember. Ye’re no’ supposed t’be here.”
Tap—tap—tap.
“What the hell is it?”
“Ye swear too much. Hush.”
She peeked from beneath the sheets and grew utterly still. The door to the sitting room swung slowly wide open. Framed there was a tiny figure in dark silhouette.
Kirsty held her breath.
“You are not asleep,” a cracking, imperious voice announced. “You were too busy to respond to my knock, but I heard you talking just now. Are you talking to yourself, Kirsty Mercer?”
Max grew heavy. Kirsty heard him mutter, “Greatgrandmama,” and groan.
“Speak up! What did you say? Don’t try to pretend I’m too deaf to hear. I may not walk as well as I did, but I hear perfectly well.”
The Dowager Duchess of Franchot! What could she be doing here? With the exception of the marquess and Max, the family had gathered at Franchot Castle in Cornwall.
“Speak up at once, Kirsty Mercer.”
“Your Grace,” Kirsty said. “I was sleepin’. Dreamin’.” Och, she was a poor liar.
“Really. Would you be so good as to explain why these rooms are in such disorder.”
“Ahem. Difficult events, Your Grace. We seem to have had an intruder.”
“An intruder? And you go to bed and dream?”
“It was late when I discovered the situation.”
Max held her tightly, his fingertips digging into her.
“I see. Am I right in my understanding that my great-grandson has retained you as his assistant?”
“Quite right,” Kirsty said, feeling increasingly miserable.
“Hmm. Highly unusual. Would you happen to know where I might find that young man? Despite the late hour, I insisted upon finishing our journey tonight. We are only recently arrived, and I am quite tired. But I should like a word with Max before I try to sleep.”
“Ye, er, ye came here to Eve alone?” Kirsty asked tentatively. She had no wish to confront the viscount. She had no wish to confront anyone while she was in a predicament.
The old lady—no one seemed certain just how old she was—used her stick to help her make progress to the side of the bed.
Kirsty bundled the covers around her, slid to sit up and attempted to make the bed look as if it was in particular disarray.
The lamp beside the bed burst to life, casting light over the scene.
“Good evening to you, Kirsty Mercer,” the dowager said. Her thin white hair was scraped severely back beneath a black, beribboned cap. She held the ivory handle of her ebony cane with both hands and leaned heavily. She appeared almost transparent, but her eyes flashed bright and canny.
“Good evening,” Kirsty said.
“I trust your family is well?” responded the dowager.
“Verra well, thank ye.”
“Seems you’ve not slept peacefully this night.” Those bright eyes surveyed the bed. She lifted her cane and brought it down hard on a particularly noticeable bump.
Max yelled.
“Out with you,” the dowager demanded. “Enough of this foolishness. I’m not blind. Out with you at once, young man. As usual, my instincts were correct. My presence is far more necessary here than in Cornwall. Present yourself, I say.”
Kirsty throbbed, horrified.
Slowly, Max emerged, holding the bedclothes to his chin.
The dowager turned the lamplight higher. “Did I not hear that you were to be betrothed to one Lady Hermoine Rashly?”
“You may have heard that,” Max said.
“But this is Kirsty Mercer? Daughter of a respectable family that has occupied land at Kirkcaldy for more than two generations? Didn’t my granddaughter, your mother, tell me that?”
“Correct, Great-grandmama. It’s been a difficult evening. With the intruder and so on.”
“He didna want t’leave me on my own,” Kirsty added.
“Thoughtful boy,” the dowager said. “It’s probably as well that I persuaded your father to wait until morning to see you. Your uncle Arran made too much of telling us how hard you’re working and how much you need your sleep. I just knew he was trying to make sure we didn’t come here unexpected.” She presented her hawklike profile and fell into deep thought.
“Great-grandmama, Kirsty has a lot to learn. You probably misunderstand—”
“Not a bit of it. I’m sure you’ve a great deal to teach Kirsty.”
“It’s not the way it—”
“Oh, but it certainly is. There’s much to learn about the new ways of farming, and Kirsty will have to learn them, won’t she?”
Kirsty closed her eyes.
“She will,” Max said.
“And you, my errant young man, have a good deal to learn about a great many things. Such as the danger of meddling with young women who are members of families beloved to the Rossmaras. And, I may add, what affects the Rossmaras, affects my granddaughter, my dear Justine— and, by extension, myself. Then there is my grandson, Calum, your mother’s brother, lest you have forgotten the elevated family of which you are a member. The Duke of Franchot is also affected by whatever affects the Rossmaras. Arran may have some foolish, romantic notion about there being a way to bring the two of you together. You and this young woman. Arran was always a soft-hearted nincompoop. I must take matters into my own hands.”
“Great-grandmama—”
“Enough. I’ve seen all I need to see. You will present yourself to me in the Green Salon at ten in the morning. Bring Kirsty with you.”
Max groaned afresh.
“You may well be concerned, Max Rossmara.” She reached the door and turned back, and pointed her cane at Kirsty. “Seems too thin for you, m’boy. Not at all your customary, full-figured type. But you certainly seemed to be finding considerable pleasure in her when I arrived.”
This was the worst moment of her life, Kirsty decided.
“You had best hope,” the dowager continued, “that you have not found so much pleasure in her as to bring about a situation that would make our dilemma any more difficult. Or far-reaching.”
Chapter Fourteen
“There you are, Max.”
At the sound of his father’s voice, Max rose to his feet from the books he’d been stacking on the floor of his library. “Good morning to you, Father. Welcome back to Sco
tland.”
Struan, Viscount Hunsingore, was a lean, dark-eyed, dark-haired, wickedly handsome man who had once been set to enter the priesthood. He liked to say that it was his lovely wife, Lady Justine, who stole him from the church, but his family knew he’d changed his mind on that score by the time the two met.
This morning, at the ungodly hour of six, Struan was dressed in his customary black, with black cravat and stark white linen—and an expression that would shock cows into birthing.
Max smiled at him and carried another armload of books to the shelves.
“What in God’s name is going on here?” his father asked. “Why aren’t you properly dressed?”
He wasn’t properly dressed because after leaving Kirsty he’d spent the rest of the night roaming the floor in his bedchamber. At least he’d put on a fresh shirt, even if its tails did trail loose.
“Max,” Struan snapped. “I asked you a question.”
“An intruder,” Max responded shortly. “He entered while I was down in my study last night. I have no idea what he hoped to find, or if he found and took anything at all. To the latter, I tend to say no.”
“To hell with intruders. You and Arran must deal with castle affairs. Your great-grandmother came to see you last night, didn’t she?”
Max’s pulse beat harder, faster. “Yes, she did.”
Another pair of boots sounded in the corridor, and Arran entered, the scent of the outdoors coming with him. What few silver hairs flecked the dark, unruly hair he wore tied back in a tail only served to make him more distinguished. Arran and Struan were commanding brothers, and, despite frequent disagreements, wedded to supporting each other. With their friend Calum, Duke of Franchot, they were known throughout Scotland and England as a trio to be feared as enemies and treasured as friends.
At least Arran smiled, even if somewhat sheepishly.
“I suppose you’ve come to tell me how to deal with my own son,” Struan said, his nostrils flaring. “Always to be relied upon for unwanted advice, that’s my brother.”
“I’ve not said a word,” Arran remarked mildly.
Struan waggled a long forefinger. “Not because you haven’t thought a word, I’ll wager. You’re just getting ready to tell me I’m overreacting.”
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