“I was . . . I would have cried out.”
“No one inside would have heard you and MacMartin is probably the sort who enjoys hearing a woman protest.” Alexander paced before her, energy crackling off him like heat lightning. “Especially if there’s nothing else she can do about it.”
“There are other things I could do.”
“Oh, do you mean the way you were pounding on his chest? If you weren’t trying to get away, I have to assume you think men like being pummeled while they kiss you.” He leaned on both arms of the wing chair, forcing her back into the tufted seat. “Most men don’t relish being punched when they’re trying to work their way into a woman’s pantalets.”
That made her breath hitch uncertainly. She wouldn’t have classed herself a prude, but when he said “pantalets,” she flushed all over. Maybe her reaction wasn’t embarrassment though. Maybe it was something much different. Something darker and more dangerous. And tinged with wicked promise.
Alexander’s face was so close to hers, his breath feathered warmly over her mouth. The scowl melted from his features as he looked down at her with an intensity that made her belly jitter. Her lips parted softly. She couldn’t seem to help it.
“What . . .” she whispered, “what do men relish when they . . . when they’re . . . ?”
“Trying to work their way into a woman’s pantalets?” he repeated, his voice husky this time.
Drat the man! He must be able to tell how he’s discomfited me.
Lucinda didn’t think her voice would work so she simply nodded.
“You really want to know?” The sharp edge of irritation left his tone.
She nodded again.
“Trust,” Alex said simply as he brushed his fingertips along her cheek and then tipped her chin up. “A man relishes a woman’s trust.”
Slowly, he lowered his mouth to hers.
This kiss was so far removed from the blistering taking of Sir Darren MacMartin, they couldn’t be classed as the same act.
Alexander’s lips caressed hers, warm, wet, and insistent. Even though she could still sense his bridled fury in the aftermath of his fight with Sir Darren, Alex’s strength was controlled.
Designed to make me trust him.
She opened to him like a daisy to the sun and his tongue slipped in to explore her with tense gentleness. When their mouths finally separated a bit, she was aching in the tender place between her legs and desperate for more.
Lucinda draped her arms over his shoulders. “You win, Alexander. I trust you.”
He kissed her again, long and slow.
It was wonderful, but it wasn’t enough.
“What else does a man want . . . when he’s working his way . . . into a woman’s pantalets?” she asked breathlessly between kisses.
“Yes,” he said and claimed her mouth again.
What? That makes no sense. But then she wasn’t thinking terribly clearly. Maybe he wasn’t either.
Alexander’s kisses made her lips tingle and her head fuzzy. It was as if she’d sneaked into her great-aunt’s store of rum and consumed the lot. When she inhaled, all she could smell was him, all leathery and male and with a light undernote of spicy bergamot. He made it hard for her to put a coherent thought together, much less voice it, but she finally managed to whisper, “Why ‘yes?’ I dinna understand.”
“The only thing a man wants to hear a woman say is ‘yes.’”
“Oh.” She went all limp and liquid inside, lost in the heat, the yearning, the wonderment of his mouth. “Aye,” she said, soft as a sigh. Then, for his sake, she amended it to the very English “Yes.”
His hands moved from the arms of the chair she was sitting in to her breasts.
She jerked in surprise, but then his kiss deepened, his tongue gently exploring. She supposed she ought to find this all normal, his soft caress through the thin silk of her gown, the way her body seemed to melt in places. After all, folk had been doing this dance since Eden. A man seducing a maiden was the most ordinary thing in the world.
But now it was happening to her and that made the old dance new. Fresh as the Garden itself. No man had ever kissed a girl like Alex kissed her. No one had ever felt this jumbled up Oh-God-what’s-coming-next anticipation that swirled in her belly. No one had ever made love before. Alexander and Lucinda were making it up as they went.
It was life-altering. Shattering. Inevitable.
The tips of her breasts peaked to hard points, each so sensitive and throbbing she groaned into his mouth.
His fingers dipped into her bodice, first a brushing, teasing series of strokes. Then he moved around the chair so he could tip her head against the seat back, run his palm over the length of her neck, and slide his whole hand down the front of her gown.
Oh! To be held so. The aching eased for a few heartbeats, and then began again in desperate throbs. He took a hard peak between his thumb and forefinger and gently squeezed. A jolt of desire zinged from that sensitive point to her soft molten core.
But it still wasn’t enough.
She unbuttoned the seed pearls that marched down her bodice and unlaced her stays enough to tug the neckline of her chemise down. Still suckling his tongue, she helped him free her breasts completely from her layers of clothing so her skin lay exposed to his touch and his gaze.
“You’re beautiful,” he said as he kissed down her neck to her waiting breasts.
When he took a nipple in his mouth and sucked, she thought she’d die of bliss. He tugged at her peaks, bit down on them till she moaned his name.
Even this delight wasn’t enough.
The nameless longing moved down her body, raging into a stronger ache that settled between her legs in a steady pounding throb.
Want me, Alexander. Need me. Love me.
She was thinking it so loudly, she was sure he must be able to hear.
“I do want you, Lucinda,” he growled in her ear as he thrummed her nipple.
Oh, dear Lord, I didn’t say it out loud, did I?
She didn’t have long to puzzle over whether or not he could hear her thoughts because he scooped her up then and carried her to the bearskin. Still kissing her mouth, her cheeks, her closed eyelids, he lowered her to the soft pelt.
Lucinda wasn’t sure what he expected of her. Should she touch him as she had in her great-aunt’s kitchen when she’d learned for certain sure just how “Much of a Muchness” he was? Should she simply lie there with her eyes squinched tight?
Trust, he said. That’s all I have to do.
“There be three things which are too wonderful for me, yea, four which I know not: The way of an eagle in the air; the way of a serpent upon a rock; the way of a ship in the midst of the sea; and the way of a man with a maid.”
Proverbs 30:18–19, King James Bible
Chapter Eleven
Lucinda decided on keeping her eyes open and she was so glad she did.
Otherwise she’d have missed the wholly unexpected look of tenderness on Alexander’s face as he lowered himself beside her. She’d have missed the way his eyes closed in something like reverence when he bent to kiss her breasts and the way the corners of his mouth turned up wickedly when he reached under her hem.
When he slid his hand up her silky pantalets, it was as if the thin fabric disappeared entirely. Her legs fell open of their own accord. She couldn’t have kept her knees together unless they’d been bound with a cord.
Then Alexander found the open crotch in her pantalets and cupped her sex with his whole hand.
“Oh,” escaped her lips.
Her insides did several backflips, a fierce melding of need and joy. She’d never imagined wanting to be held like this. Now she couldn’t imagine what her life had been like before he did it. He took that part of her she didn’t know quite what to do with—the part that some had tried to teach her was shameful, not to be touched or fiddled with more than strictly necessary—and he held her as if that small bit of her was the most precious thing in the world.
“Can ye feel that?” she whispered. “My heart is pounding between me legs.”
He smiled down at her. “Just wait.”
Then he bent to kiss her again and as he slipped his tongue between her lips, he slipped a finger between her soft, moist folds.
The whole world fell away.
Everyone pronounced the sword and dirk dances an unmitigated success. Lord Rankin moved around the ballroom, dropping a few words into each little clump of revelers’ conversations, and received nothing but glowing comments in return.
His talents were wasted playing sheepdog to men like Mallory and Clarindon. So much more could be accomplished through diplomacy. Once Rankin paved the way for a successful royal progression next summer through his own methods, surely Lord Liverpool would see that in the modern world, such old-fashioned spies as Mallory and Clarindon were as antiquated as knee britches and snuffboxes.
And how might the prime minister reward someone of his talents? An ambassador’s post sounded good to Rankin. Preferably to someplace warm. Italy, perhaps. Tuscany was particularly lovely any time of year. Lord Liverpool could arrange matters for him.
Rankin was warming to a vivid daydream of dusky dark-haired maidens, their bare calves stained from stomping grapes, when Lord Arbuthnott interrupted his musings.
“Weel, milord, are ye ready to return to the chess match we started?” Arbuthnott said. “Though if ye didna wish to, I couldna blame ye. I left ye in a deuce of a pickle, an’ I do say so meself.”
“Don’t be too hasty,” Rankin said. “We English have had our backs to the wall before and emerged victorious.” When Arbuthnott frowned, Rankin realized he’d steered the conversation in entirely too military a direction. “But no matter. The point of the game is stimulating conversation as far as I’m concerned. And I believe I saw a decanter of port in the study as well. Shall we?”
He waved Lord Arbuthnott ahead of him and started along the perimeter of the ballroom toward the exit. The musicians had launched into another set of dances and he noticed the comely MacOwen sisters had once again taken to the floor, this time with new partners. It had been a stroke of genius to include that family in the gathering. Not only were the girls highly ornamental, their presence seemed to irritate Mallory since they were a tangible reminder at every turn of his unexpected betrothal.
And serve him right!
Strange that he didn’t see Mallory’s fiancée dancing, too. Or Mallory himself, for that matter.
“Lord Rankin, I’m cravin’ a word wi’ ye.”
Hester MacGibbon’s croaking voice carried over the music and he wasn’t quick enough to pretend he hadn’t heard her. She rumbled along right behind him and Lord Arbuthnott. The old lady could be surprisingly spry when she wished.
Since it wouldn’t do for him to be seen to be discourteous to a guest, even an uninvited one, Rankin stopped and allowed her to catch up to him, though every fiber in his being urged him to flee. The MacOwen girls were a fine addition to the party. Their demanding great-aunt was not.
“What is it, Mrs. MacGibbon?” He added a silent “this time.”
“’Tis concerning me niece Lucinda’s nuptials,” she said. “The marriage contract stipulates that the wedding between her and Lord Bonniebroch be held at St. Giles, the High Kirk in Edinburgh, on Christmas Day. But I’m thinkin’ we could bend the particulars of the agreement without disturbin’ the intent. Not to mention that these old bones don’t crave another carriage ride back to town for no longer than it’ll take to say the needful words over the happy couple. The MacOwen family would be satisfied if the ceremony were held here at Dalkeith, in the St. Nicholas chapel.”
Satisfied? She’d be merely satisfied to have her niece married in the very chapel where King George IV would make at least an appearance of piety next summer. The woman’s pushiness had no limits.
“Surely this is not the time or place for such a discussion. Kindly make an appointment with my factor and I’ll give your request full consideration tomorrow.”
“I don’t see as there’s all that much to consider,” Mrs. MacGibbon said.
“Nevertheless, I have a pressing chess match to settle and I haven’t time to attend to other matters at present.” He turned to follow Lord Arbuthnott, who was well on the way to making good his escape. “Now, good evening.”
“Aye, it’s been that,” Mrs. MacGibbon agreed with uncharacteristic cheer as she clasped his arm and tottered alongside him. “Chess, d’ye say? Not with Lord Arbuthnott, I hope. The man’s a master. Why, he’ll give ye such a drubbin’ as ye’ll never recover from. Best I go along and see can I offer ye some help. Many’s the time I kept Mr. MacGibbon, God grant him rest, from castling his king when he ought to have charged across the board.”
Rankin couldn’t shake her without curtness. Perhaps acquiescence to her demands was the ticket. “On second thought, I believe a St. Nicholas chapel wedding is a capital idea. I don’t see why your niece and Lord Bonniebroch shouldn’t be married right here.”
“Weel, that’s grand then,” she said, but showed no sign of turning him loose.
“Now that that’s settled, there’s no need for you to leave the evening’s festivities,” he said with fading hope.
“Och! In truth, all this music’s beginning to give me a headache and I’m needin’ a bit o’ quiet. A good game o’ chess will be just the thing,” she said. “Tell me, milord, how stand ye on the question of using the King’s Gambit for an opening?”
Lord Rankin slowed to match her pace and continued on toward the parlor. There was no help for it. He’d been short to the point of rudeness, but she hadn’t even recognized the cut. He’d given in to her demands and she merely took it as her due. Short of peeling the woman’s hand off his arm and fleeing for his life, he wasn’t going to be rid of her.
Lord Rankin sighed.
A wise man knows when he’s lost the skirmish, throws down his weapon, and lives to fight another day.
Alex thought he couldn’t get any harder, but watching Lucinda’s face while he played with her soft folds made him like granite. Her breasts were perfection and the sweet, wet heaven between her legs was worth dying for, but to watch first wonder, then need, and finally rapture parade across her lovely features was the finest thing he’d ever experienced.
He kissed along her jawline, then licked her earlobe. She shivered with delight, raising her arms above her head in surrender. Her eyelids fluttered closed and he knew she was so intent on simply feeling, she couldn’t bear too many senses at once.
His were all on high alert. The fresh, musky scent of her arousal perfumed the small space. He longed to bury his face between her legs and wallow in her essence, to nibble on those sweet nether lips and run his tongue through her secret valleys.
But Lucinda was a virgin. He didn’t want to overwhelm her.
Next time, he promised himself.
For now, he worshiped her soft wet petals with his touch. He circled and teased and stroked the little pearl that had risen under his fingertips. He slipped into her tight channel, first with one finger, then with two, while his thumb still tormented her most sensitive spot.
She writhed under him. She arched her back while he tongued her nipples. She moaned his name. She didn’t hold back or beg him to stop. Lucinda accepted everything with heart-pounding delight.
She was a veritable queen. And her trust made him feel like a king.
Her breathing grew increasingly ragged. Finally Lucinda’s eyes flew open and her whole body stiffened. She curled her fists into the shaggy bearskin.
“That’s it, love,” he said encouragingly. “Let it begin.”
Her release started with a soft pulse in her folds, then a pounding around his fingers. Finally her whole body bucked with the force of the contractions and she cried out in a long thin sob of joy.
Alexander cradled her sex in his palm. It was as though her heart galloped in his hand. He kissed her again, intending it to be a sweet conclusi
on to her experience, but she pulled his head down and held it while she thrust her tongue into his mouth. Her other hand found his groin and she began rubbing him through his trousers in long, hard strokes.
So much for overwhelming her.
He undid his trousers, hiked up her skirt around her waist and settled between her thighs. He stopped, poised at her swollen opening.
“That was . . . there are no words,” she said, squirming down to take him in. The tip eased into her warm wetness. “But it still wasn’t enough. I’m so empty.”
He kissed her breasts, then her chin, then her lips. “And I can’t bear to see a damsel in distress.”
She was going to be a tight fit. Should he go slow to avoid hurting her or shred her in a single hard thrust and get the business of deflowering her over with quickly?
But before Alex could do anything, fast or slow, the door to the corridor opened and Lord Arbuthnott walked in.
“God’s teeth, laddie, are there no beds in Dalkeith that ye must defile your lass on a bear rug?”
Alex scrambled to yank Lucinda’s skirt down as she rolled out from under him, away from the Scottish laird. Then he stood and refastened his trouser buttons, while she, faced away from Lord Arbuthnott, did up her bodice.
Blood started to flow back to Alexander’s brain and sanity came with it. What on earth was he thinking? He didn’t want to marry Lucinda. Wasn’t that the whole point of their ridiculous “kissing three other men” agreement? And yet he couldn’t bear to watch MacMartin slobber on her.
“This isn’t what it looks like, milord,” he began.
“If it isna what it looks like then the English really are a different sort of folk,” Lord Arbuthnott said, arms crossed over his chest. Lucinda finished arranging her clothing, smoothed down her hair, and turned around. “Ah, there ye are, lass. I mind ye now. Ye’re the MacOwen girl, are ye no’?”
“Aye, milord, an’ it please ye.”
The laird’s brow lowered. “It doesna please me.”
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