He glanced above. A large looking glass hung beneath the drapery, held by strong wires. It reflected Bride in her majesty, naked and pale and awaiting the pleasure due her.
“Like a painting,” he reminded her. He pulled down the duvet so she was on the sheet. “A moving painting.”
“I never thought I would see myself in such a work of art.”
He climbed onto the bed and knelt over her. “You will not see yourself much, but I will.”
She eyed his tunic, and reached for the belt. She unbuckled it. “And I will see you.”
He rose tall on his knees and pulled off his clothes. She looked him over very slowly, then glanced in the looking glass to see what it revealed.
Her attention returned to the physical view. She reached out and caressed the edge of his hip. His mind split in half.
Her hand slid down his thigh. He hardened even more, which he thought would be impossible. Fascinated, she moved her palm up his inner thigh, driving him insane. Her fingers and gaze moved to his erection.
Her touch tortured him, wonderfully. The recent oasis of control constricted. He leaned over her, his weight on his arms, and released some of his hunger in a hard kiss.
A wildness broke in them both. Her hands were everywhere on him, caressing and grasping. He used his mouth all over her perfect skin, unable to get enough.
Her sighs became gasps, then rose to begging cries. Darkness entered his head until only the quest for pleasure and completion existed. Licking her nipples, stroking her thighs, he forced her to mad passion until she was lifting her hips and parting her legs in her craving for relief.
Images entered his head of how much he wanted and how he would have her in the days ahead. They were too ambitious to act upon in his current impatience. They pushed the boundaries of that control, however, and created urges that howled in him.
He stroked into her cleft and caressed the sensitive softness. Her hips rose to meet his touch. She pulled his shoulders to her and pressed frantic kisses to his face and neck.
“Could you—” the request dissolved into a moan as his finger circled.
“Could I what?” He wanted to hear it. He wanted her to learn to tell him what she needed.
“Do what you did . . . last time.”
“You can have whatever you want.”
He kissed down her body, savoring each taste, slowing himself, leashing the savage drive.
He turned his body as he descended, and hers, too. He lifted her knee to his shoulder and lost himself in the musky sweetness of primeval femininity. He swept his tongue around the edges of that exquisite softness, until her initial tension ebbed. Then he aroused her more directly and barely contained the feral pleasure it incited.
A touch on his phallus sent new shards of hunger through him. He glanced down his body to see her caressing him.
She noticed he had paused, and that he was watching. A question entered her eyes. He did not doubt she saw the answer in his face. Her tongue flicked tentatively. When a moan escaped him, she grew more aggressive.
Somehow he found a place where he could ride the waves of pleasure she gave and that he found with his own mouth.
The urge to possess and claim, to enter and own, became a flame in his body. Violent and ruthless, it finally exploded into a white blaze.
He swung his body and straddled her legs. He had deliberately not brought her to a climax with his mouth, and her wild eyes reflected the torture of her passion. He spread her legs, braced his body over hers, and entered.
Her moan in his ear matched the one in his heart. A moment of drenching peace restored an instant of lucidity. He kissed her, unable to hide the contentment and triumph permeating him.
The calm gave way to fury during that kiss. Senseless, furious passion took over. He thrust hard and slow, then savagely and fast, until her cries sang around them.
A lot could happen in a month.
Ewan gazed up at the looking glass. He could watch all of Bride in its reflection, not just the red curls pressing his shoulder and the ivory shoulders encircled by his arm.
The way he saw it, there were three possible conclusions to this affair.
He might indeed transfer his desire elsewhere, in which case she would be proven right.
Not about refusing him. That had been foolish, no matter how big a scoundrel he might be. Bride’s pride might not like a husband’s little infidelities, but such behavior did not create a disaster.
Lots of marriages existed nicely with their members pursuing other desires. His own parents both took lovers, and those paramours were accepted in his boyhood home with nary a scene. At each of their funerals there had been a contingent of mourners with very special memories.
All the same, if his desire waned and strayed, they would probably part. He would marry her anyway, but she would insist on ending things, being the stubborn lass she was.
History indicated the affair would take that path.
Something inside him, a newly born instinct, suggested it might not.
In the event it did not, he would have to ensure that by month’s end he had conquered any other misgivings she had.
She stirred, and he studied her face in the reflection. He did not trust her to admit her misgivings, so how could he conquer them?
The obvious solution was to drown her in pleasure, and submerge the misgivings at the same time. He would make her so crazed, so thoroughly sated, that the idea of giving up the sensual fulfillment would be unthinkable.
There was a third possibility, of course. She might get with child.
The notion held surprising appeal.
She would be a wonderful mother.
All the more reason to enchain her with pleasure. No matter where his desire lay in a month’s time, he would make sure she did not throw him over if she carried his child.
The ultimate conclusion of his deliberations was undeniable.
He was obligated to make love to her as often as possible in the weeks ahead.
Duty called.
Her long legs stretched in the looking glass. She roused herself out of the sleepy stupor into which she had lapsed.
“You appear quite thoughtful,” she said.
“I promise the thinking is finished. Being the decisive sort, I did not need to strain my head long at all.”
“What decisions did you make?”
“Nothing you would find interesting.”
Her head rose and she looked to the jumble of her garments on the floor and chair. “I should dress.”
“I forbid it.”
“I cannot sleep here.”
“Trust me, you will not be sleeping.”
She laughed. He cupped her face with his hand and kissed her.
“You will be back in your chambers by sunrise. Nor will you need to dress to return to them. Consider the lay of the house, Bride. As it happens, our dressing rooms meet, and there is a passage between them.”
Her brow puckered. He could see her lining up the rooms in her mind. “I did not stand a chance, did I?”
She had stood a better chance than any woman had in years. His inexplicable restraint had delayed this night far too long.
“As you can see, the arrangement of chambers is very convenient.”
She nodded. “Too convenient.”
“I do not think it is possible to be too convenient.”
“I expect you do not. I, however, do not want to be kept quite this conveniently.”
He flipped her on her back and pinned her down with his body. “And I want you where I can have you whenever I choose. If I only get a month, I demand full measure.”
She laughed and shook her head. “I will not live in this house as your mistress, Lyndale. Have you ever before allowed your lover to live under your roof?”
No, but that was different. He could not name how it was different, but it was. It had nothing to do with propriety or scandal, either.
“I am not completely indifferent to my reputat
ion. If I stay here, I will be thoroughly ruined and whispered about far and wide.”
The whispers will become inaudible once we are wed. “So, you are going to move to another house, and I am going to have to arrange assignations, and we are going to have to be discreet, and I will wake wanting you and have to wait, and—”
“I am afraid so. I trust you know how to manage such things discreetly.”
“I have almost no practice in discretion. However, for your sake, I will arrange everything with the secrecy worthy of a bishop.”
She smiled so sweetly that he had to kiss her. Which led him to want to do more. She sensed the change in him, and a response instantly flexed through her. They exchanged slow, long kisses with their heating bodies pressed close.
“Even after I move away, I can still help you investigate the ‘I Modi’ if you like,” she muttered while he tortured her ear.
Yes, she would want to do that.
“Certainly, Bride. I doubt I could manage it without you.”
He had much to say to her about those prints, but not now. Not until he was sure, and not tonight, in any case. Before the month was up, however. She might have refused his offer in part because of all that, and he would have to remove her concerns. That was one misgiving that pleasure might not be able to drown.
He slid off her and rolled her onto her stomach. He swept her tumble of hair aside so he could see her whole body as he caressed it. He bent to kiss down her lithe back while he smoothed his palm over her thighs and bottom. He sensed every tremble that announced her arousal.
She tried to turn to him, but he kissed her shoulder before she could. “No. Stay like that.” He took her hands, and held them together near her head.
“Is this a novelty?” she asked.
“Hardly. Although if you ask, it must be for you.”
She turned her head so it faced away from him.
He realized she was embarrassed.
He leaned over her until his mouth nuzzled her ear. “Do you think it matters to me what you have known or not known? I wanted you when I thought you were a virgin, and still wanted you after I decided you were not. If you had known every novelty with another man, I would not care, nor does it matter if you have experienced nary a one. You give passion more honestly than any woman I have known, and that is all that is important to me.”
It was the truth, but he could not ignore that her lack of experience appealed to him. That he would be the first in many things with a woman would be a . . . novelty.
He made love to her back. He lost himself in her reactions as she accepted this new sensuality. The small of her back dipped and her bottom rose as he kissed her length. He caressed the firm swells of her bottom more firmly. The erotic vulnerability caused her hips to gently rock in the way that revealed her climbing arousal.
“Part your legs, darling.”
A tension briefly claimed her, but she obeyed. He braced up on one arm and watched her as he used two fingers to trace the line of her cleft from the base of her spine to the moist heat at the end of its path.
Her hands clutched the pillow beneath her head as she tried to contain what he did to her then. He made sure she could not. He caressed slowly and deeply, learning every nuance of her reactions to that touch, learning what made her gasp.
When he knew she was impatient with need, he eased atop her, covering her body fully with his, even her legs, so she would know what he was going to do. He held her like that, reeling from the intense impact on his primitive instincts that the domination produced.
She reacted with astonishment, and a fear as ancient and intuitive as his own sense of triumph. He soothed her little rebellion with kisses, luring her into submission.
“You are not truly afraid, Bride. You know I am not dangerous to you. I could never hurt you.”
When she had accepted his benign restraint, he rose back on his knees. The sight of her, naked and beautiful and waiting, intoxicated him. He lifted her hips and slid a pillow beneath them, so her bottom rose erotically.
He caressed her shadowed, wet vulva, deliberately driving her to a delirium of desire. When she was clawing at the pillow, smothering her cries of need, lifting her bottom more, he gave her the relief that they both ached for.
Bracing his weight on his arms, he took her in a way that was not novel at all, but as old as humanity. Only this time his passion was tinged by an intense satisfaction in the ancient claiming of rights, and in his possession of her.
Lyndale opened a door, revealing a short corridor. Clutching her garments, Bride entered the little passage that connected Lyndale’s dressing room to hers.
He caught her arm and turned her to a parting kiss. It deepened in a way she had learned to recognize during the night, and her body stirred as it had so many times already.
Day was breaking, however, and they could not indulge. She did not want Michael finding them here, naked. Nor would her sisters remain abed much longer.
She eased out of his embrace. He let her go. She felt his gaze on her until she closed her chamber’s door behind her.
She leaned against its board and closed her eyes. The night had been astonishing. Her face warmed at some memories, but she felt no real embarrassment. There had been nothing wicked in that bed. She had known only joy and incredible pleasure.
Her senses were still dazed. While she pulled on some clothes and put away the gown, her brain was not really in the world. A cloud occupied her head, dulling her perceptions.
“I see you are awake.”
The voice shocked her out of her stupor.
She turned. Jilly stood at the threshold to her bedroom.
Bride desperately calculated the odds that her aunt had just come down looking for her.
Jilly moved about the room, fixing the disorder from last night’s hurried change. “When you did not come back, we wondered what became of you. You had left in such a state.”
Bride tried to find a story that would explain her extended disappearance. She suspected any she gave would not sound credible.
“Michael found Mary,” Jilly said. “Caught her hiding in the reception hall. He brought her up.”
“I am relieved. I knew she had not managed to enter the party, but—”
“You did, I expect.” Jilly straightened some items on the dressing table. “That would explain why you did not return, wouldn’t it?”
“I did dally for an hour.” She prayed Jilly never learned about those parties. If so, she would have some explaining to do.
“I’m thinking you dallied well longer, and not at a party.” Expression bland, Jilly headed for the door. “If you want to sleep, I’ll keep the others away. You should call for a bath, too. You smell of him, Bride.”
Jilly’s calm assumption left Bride with nothing to say.
Her aunt gave her a long look before leaving the dressing room. “I’m trusting his lord is as worth dallying with as he appears.”
Bride swallowed hard. “I would say so, yes.”
“Then you’ll not be hearing nay from me. I never scolded about the last one, and won’t this time, either. I know you won’t be stupid about him. You know better than to believe the lies men tell to get their pleasure.”
CHAPTER
TWENTY
Just draw freely,” Lyndale said.
Bride poised the crayon over the thick, flat stone, searching her mind for an image. She closed her eyes and saw the view of her Highland home from the hill to the south, with the glen stretched out under a summer sky.
She touched the oily crayon to the stone and drew a quick picture of the scene. It was just like drawing with charcoal on paper, quick and immediate, and very different from painstakingly gouging thin lines and tiny dots into a copper plate.
When she was finished, Mr. Vouet, the man who owned the lithography studio, called over his workers.
“Come and watch the magic,” Lyndale said to her.
He guided her to the tubs where her stone had been c
arried.
“The stone will be treated so that the parts left blank by you are receptive to water. That is what they are doing now. Then, when the stone is rolled with ink, the oily ink will adhere to your oily lines, but not the other, wet places. In that way your drawing will be ready for the paper and the press.”
She watched the whole process with fascination. She knew about lithography, and its increasing popularity. Mr. Vouet had already shown her some plates he was making, where the same paper had been printed over and over, each time with different colors for different sections. The result was a very vivid and very expensive image that imitated a painting.
“It is not a technique for reproductive work, but for original art and for illustrations,” she observed.
“Engravers will not be replaced, if that is what you mean,” Lyndale said. “They will not go the way of the weavers. Although, eventually I suppose a machine might be invented to reproduce images. Not soon, though.”
Side by side they watched her stone through every step, until an hour later she stood with a lithographic print of her glen in her hands.
She gazed at the image and her heart swelled with nostalgia. It also filled with warmth toward the man admiring it with her. He had arranged this outing as a surprise for her, so she could experiment with this new technique. It had been very kind of him, and another example of how his thoughtfulness touched her.
He filled her days now, escorting her around town. Together they visited artists and print shops. Lyndale made his queries regarding “I Modi” at the latter, quizzing the owners about engravers and new discoveries, subtly seeking information for his quest.
Bride listened to the answers for her own purposes, but her fear regarding the banknote plates had receded. That found little room in the lighthearted excitement that dazzled her heart and body. It became a distant problem waiting in another life for another day.
She rolled her lithograph so she could carry it easily. “I do not know how to thank you enough for this wonderful day, Lyndale.”
“I expect we can find a way.”
She looked at him, and caught him watching her much as he had that day in Ackerman’s, as if she perplexed him.
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