by Karen Ranney
“Open your legs.”
“And you’ll touch me with the brush? Shall I like it?”
“I think you will.”
He laid the brush on her abdomen and trailed his fingers through her intimate curls. She bit her lip against the sensations flooding through her. What she was experiencing was not only physical pleasure but mental delight as well. They were being wicked, lying in the morning sun, playing at passion as if it were a game given to them for their amusement.
If he felt any regret, it wasn’t in his gaze.
Unexpectedly, he leaned forward and surrounded one nipple with his mouth, the heat of it drawing a gasp from her. Then he played with the nipple with his tongue, darting back and forth over the sensitive tip before doing the same to her other breast.
Sometime in the last minute, he’d picked up the brush again, and it traveled down one leg, inciting shivers in its wake. Down to one knee, and slowly back up one thigh, then across her abdomen and down the other thigh to her knee, a semicircular pattern slowly driving her mad.
She played with his cock, her fingers trailing up and down, following the same pattern, up and down. His flesh was as hot as a brazier, as if there was fire in his blood. Was he feeling as crazed as she?
His lips met hers, and she sighed, almost in relief. The kiss deepened, his tongue touched her lips, darted into her mouth to tease hers. She angled her head and lost herself to the sensation of it.
The brush suddenly stopped, and his fingers were there again, combing through the soft, curly hair between her thighs. He explored lower, parting and gently tracing the line of her swollen folds. A finger gently entered her as his thumb pressed against her. She made a sound in the back of her throat, and he pulled back, smiling.
“You’re ready for me,” he said softly.
A stroke of a finger through her swollen folds proved his comment was true. She closed her eyes on an indrawn breath.
“Yes,” she said, the assent more of a sigh. A second finger entered her, gently, slowly, but it wasn’t enough. She wanted him. All of him.
She opened her eyes and turned to him. “Now,” she said, echoing his earlier command.
The heat in his look arced higher, almost as if he enjoyed her sparring. Or her refusal to be meek and well mannered. On this floor, in this room, both naked and needy, neither one of them had a role or a title or a past. This space and time, marked by four walls and a door, was their own, and she was free to be anyone she wanted to be, even herself.
“Now,” she said again.
His cheeks turned darker, as if passion gave him a ruddy glow and made his eyes sparkle.
“Later, perhaps.”
“Not too much later,” she said. “You’re driving me mindless.”
“If you have enough composure to speak, it’s not mindless enough.”
She felt as if she should clench her muscles, hold tight the sensations he was evoking. She truly couldn’t concentrate on anything other than what he was doing with his fingers.
She wrapped her left arm around his neck. “Do you want me to beg?” she breathed against his skin. She was more than willing to do so.
His chuckle was unexpected, wicked, and utterly delightful.
“That would be nice,” he said.
“Please,” she said. “Now.”
But he didn’t move, content to let his fingers stroke through her folds, play with her dampness. Somehow, he knew where she longed to be touched and how. She tensed in anticipation but every time she wanted him to concentrate on one spot, his fingers would move.
Beast.
She retaliated by gripping him tighter with her right hand and beginning a gentle, unrelenting movement of her hand from base to tip. An inchoate sound emerged from between his lips, and strangely enough, the sound of it made her blood race even faster.
Suddenly, he was over her, his cheeks darkened, his eyes smoldering, his smile gone.
“Now,” he said.
“Are you very certain?” she asked, feeling a disconcerting tenderness.
He only smiled.
She placed both her feet flat on the floor and pressed up to welcome him as he entered her.
Her hips rocked as he thrust again and again. There was no hesitation in this lovemaking, no regret. Instead, they were both impatient and mindless.
His mouth was on her breast; and then he was kissing her. She gripped his shoulders, reveling in the touch of his skin. She wanted him, wanted to feel what she had before and surrender to a fog of delirium. When all was lost to her but the sensation of her own body’s delight, her hands fell limp to the floor.
His cheek was against hers, his breath was loud and harsh in her ear. She turned her head slightly and placed a kiss on the curve of his ear. Her hands reached up, her arms enfolding him. He was still inside her, so she rocked her hips gently to keep him there, needing him to remain. Just simply needing him.
The sudden joy she felt was as confusing as the tears peppering her eyes. Margaret didn’t know what to say, even if she’d been able to speak.
McDermott lay there for long moments, his breathing calming. The slow drip of icicles outside the window was testament to the warming of the day.
Would he regret this interlude now that it was over? Would the pain be back in his eyes now that passion was burned away?
Please, no. She didn’t think she could bear that.
Finally, he stirred, raising his head and looking down at her. Bracing himself on both forearms, he brushed tendrils of hair away from her face.
“Are apologies in order again?”
“No,” she said, smiling.
His lips were against her forehead. Not a kiss as much as the promise of one.
“I always lose my restraint around you,” he said, in such an offhand tone it was as if he spoke to himself. “My words are improvident, my actions equally so. I’m not myself around you.”
“Or perhaps you are,” she said. “More than you’ve ever been.”
He drew back, his smile amused and self-deprecating.
“Shall I apologize?” she asked. “For what, I don’t know, but I’m more than willing to do so if it will ease your mind.”
“For being a sorceress, perhaps? Do you use some magic potion in your paints? Perhaps you’ve bewitched me.”
“If I knew any spells, McDermott, I would certainly have used them before now. I am simply myself.”
His smile grew broader. “Ah, but that self is Margaret Dalrousie, inimitable artist, beloved of the Imperial Court of Russia, exhibited at the Royal Society of the Arts.”
“How did you know that?” she asked, surprised.
Instead of answering, he said something else startling. “I’ve never seen any of your work. I very much wish to.” He placed a finger over her lips when she would have spoken. “Not to assure myself of your skill, as much as to understand you.”
She blinked several times, but couldn’t speak. Finally, she closed her eyes and turned her head away, overwhelmed.
No one else had ever known that. No one else had ever figured it out. She worked when she was miserable, sick, alone, and desperate. She worked when she was ecstatic, amused, happy, and silly. She worked when another woman might have sobbed into her pillow, cursed her existence, or laughed with joy.
Who she was could be seen in each portrait, in the curve of a cheek, the loving eyes of a favored pet, or the sweet smile of a child holding his mother’s hand. How she felt about tyranny or children or her own preference for colors was to be discovered in each successive painting. She was there along with the subject, and no one else had ever discerned that before now.
He left her, rolling over to gather up his clothing. She felt the drape of cloth on her stomach, and opened her eyes, her equilibrium once more restored. He was staring at her, at her half-open thighs.
She clenched her legs together tightly, but it was too late.
“What is that?” he asked. His tone was calm, but not naturally so. He’d
said he wasn’t restrained around her, but at the moment, he was. She could tell by the muscle clenching in his cheek and his unblinking gaze.
“What is it?” he asked again, and she closed her eyes once more.
The past was back again, however she might wish it gone. The past might well mar the beauty of this morning, bury the memory of the exquisite pleasure they’d felt together beneath its sheer weight.
He placed a hand on her thigh, and one corner of her mind marveled at the gentleness of his touch even as she flinched from it.
She knew better than to pull away, however. He would simply reach for her again. He was resolute, stubborn, and willful. What McDermott wanted, he no doubt always achieved.
“A coat of arms,” she said. She didn’t look at him, but at the ceiling, instead. She couldn’t bear to see his expression.
“Tell me about it,” he said softly.
“There’s nothing to tell,” she said. “It’s a coat of arms.”
“What’s it doing on your leg?”
Margaret turned and looked at him. “Can you not forget what you saw, McDermott?”
She knew the exact moment he understood. Comprehension lit his eyes and thinned his lips.
“Someone branded you, Margaret. How did he do it?”
She had a choice—to tell him or keep silent. For nearly a year she’d kept the secret, never telling anyone. Even the physician who’d treated her hadn’t known the extent of her injuries.
What difference did it make now? He’d seen, and he wouldn’t forget, no matter how much she wished she’d been more careful.
“He heated his signet ring,” she said, careful not to allow any emotion into her voice.
For some time it was silent in the room. He didn’t comment, only retrieved their clothing and slowly began to dress.
She did the same, grateful for the respite, knowing the silence was only a prelude for the questioning to come.
“What you’re describing is torture, Margaret,” he said finally. “There’s no other word for it.”
“I didn’t know what it was at first,” she said. “The burn took some time to heal. At the beginning, I thought it was just the end of a poker he’d used. It was only later, when the swelling went down that I saw it was a pattern. A shield topped with a knight’s helm. I think there are lions on either side, and a banner at the bottom.”
“Who did this to you?”
“I don’t know.”
She’d used all her skill and spent days on the drawing, taking it to her new solicitor when the drawing was done. He had two tasks, only one of which McDermott was familiar—that of finding her benefactor. The second, and more important, was to find the owner of that particular coat of arms.
“Don’t trouble yourself, McDermott,” she said blithely, sitting up, and donning her chemise. “It’s not your concern.”
He didn’t answer, and she managed to ignore him until she finished dressing. Only then did she glance in his direction. He was not looking at her as she’d supposed, but was staring out the window, toward the lane, an expression on his face she couldn’t decipher.
He annoyed her, he irritated her, and he also had the power to elicit her compassion, a fact she chose not to share with him. Most importantly, he was the only man who had the power to seduce her from her work.
He was regretting their interlude. But at least, this time, regret had not been his first thought.
“There will come a moment when you want to smile,” she said softly. “Even despite yourself, you’ll begin to live, to want to. The human heart finds a way through the darkness.”
He turned his head and looked at her.
“You talk about things you don’t understand, Margaret. If you’ve lost no one, how can you know?”
“I’ve lost myself,” she said.
Without waiting for him to respond, she turned and left the room.
Robert sat at his desk, staring down at the note that Janet had delivered to him this morning.
Was Margaret Dalrousie two people in one? She was, no doubt, simply an unstable artist. Weren’t they supposed to be temperamental and volatile? One moment she was smiling sweetly at him, the expression oddly tender, and the next, she sent him this damn note.
I am unable to continue the sittings at this time, finding myself indisposed.
What the hell happened?
Had he said something wrong? Done something wrong? For that matter, did she regret what had happened between them, not once but twice?
Twice now, he’d been overwhelmed by sheer lust. He’d never before experienced such searing pleasure or its confusing aftermath.
He hadn’t lied to her—should he have? He’d told her the truth, bare and unadorned as it was. He’d tried to banish thoughts of her. He’d tried to stay away from her. She was like a pebble in his boot, annoying and constant, and doomed to be a constant irritant until he rid himself of her.
Was it because of her scar? Was she shamed by it? Had he been too insistent on hearing the story?
He couldn’t very well unsay the words, could he? And there was no way in hell he was going to forget her explanation. Nor could he banish the rage he felt whenever he thought of someone branding her.
A few minutes later, he stood as a knock sounded. He came around the desk, crossed the carpet, and opened the door to Janet.
She entered, bobbing a small curtsy, and staring intently at the floor as if spying a speck of dust. Her hands were twisted together in front of her, and her teeth were worrying her bottom lip.
“Sit down,” he said, pulling out one of the two chairs in front of his desk.
She sat in the chair to the left while he sat next to her. There was no need for him to sit behind the expanse of mahogany that was his desk. He wanted Janet to confide in him, and reinforcing his role of employer would not accomplish that aim.
He smiled at her, but she looked away, intent on the view outside the window.
Undeterred, he waited until she looked back at him.
“You were with the Duchess of Burford for a number of years, weren’t you?” he asked.
She nodded.
“In fact, that’s how you met Tom, was it not?”
Again she nodded, gripping her hands tightly in her lap. Her glance encompassed him, his desk, and the windows to the far side of the room.
“He worked for your mother, as you know, Your Lordship. Is there a reason why you ask?”
“I imagine that you still have friends working for the duchess.”
“The duchess passed away three years ago, Your Lordship.”
“But her Edinburgh house is still open, isn’t it?”
“Her son spends a great deal of time in the city, I understand,” she said.
“Who was it who told you that Miss Dalrousie came to call on the duchess?”
She stared down at her hands. Robert waited patiently.
“Someone told you, didn’t they?”
She finally nodded. “The housekeeper and I are friends. She thought I should know.”
He circled his desk and took his chair. “What did you do then?”
She sighed, sat back and regarded him levelly. “Tom and I talked about it. For a few days we did nothing, but the more I thought about it, the more I knew what the duchess would have wanted.”
“And what was that?”
“She believed in Miss Margaret, Your Lordship. She wanted the best for the girl. She would have stepped in to help Miss Margaret if she could have.”
“Therefore, you went to my mother?”
“They were friends, you know. She and the duchess. Great friends.”
“So my mother made a gift of the cottage to Miss Dalrousie. Why didn’t you take advantage of your meeting to remind her to pay you?”
She looked shocked.
“I didn’t go to see her, Your Lordship. Tom did. And he wouldn’t have mentioned our pay for anything.” She took a deep breath. “He found out where Miss Margaret was living, Your
Lordship. It was a place not fit for rats, although there were plenty of those. I think she was close to starving. When she first came to the cottage, a sorrier sight you never saw. We never suffered like that, Your Lordship. Glengarrow always provided.”
What had he ever done to inspire such loyalty?
“Thank you, Janet.”
His housekeeper stood and walked toward the door. She turned and faced him again.
“Are you going to tell Miss Margaret? I hope not, Your Lordship. Russia was not kind to her.” She hesitated a moment. “She thinks she doesn’t need anyone, Your Lordship, but we all need someone. She’s beginning to realize that, in her way. Still, she’s a proud woman.”
“Thank you, Janet. For caring for her. Even before she knew it.”
Janet studied him for a moment. A smile curved her lips finally.
“She’s a lovely person, Your Lordship. But I expect you know that already.”
With that comment, she left, making him wonder exactly how perceptive Janet had become.
Chapter 23
“I think you’ll find the service is very uplifting, Miss Margaret,” Janet said. “The presenter has a beautiful voice, and the sound of the congregation singing is enough to send your heart soaring.”
Margaret glanced at Janet, but she didn’t comment on either the older woman’s uncustomary poetic words or her enthusiasm for church.
“Will you be coming to service with us, Miss Margaret?” Janet asked, and every Sunday except for this one, Margaret would respond claiming a malady. I have a headache. I’m feeling a little tired. I have a cough that has kept me up all night. Anything but agree to go to the village church. Janet never said a word when Monday came, and Margaret was mysteriously cured.
“It’s glad I am that you’ve finally decided to come with us, Miss Margaret. I know you will enjoy it.”
If there was any truth to the idea that God knew each sinner, then she might well be crushed in the doorway as she entered. After all, she’d been a loose woman, guilty of the worst kind of sin. The truth of the matter, however, was that she was heartily tired of her own company, and the confines of the cottage seemed to be growing smaller and smaller.