by Julia London
The warmth of her body and the desire raging through him clouded his thoughts and knocked him off balance. Grif went down on one knee, pulling Anna down to her knees with him. “Criosd! I canna understand ye, lass—have ye no’ dreamed of being held in some esteem by Lockhart?” he demanded angrily, shaking her. “To know his lips on yer lips? His hand on yer body?” His gaze roamed her lush, full lips, the milk-white flesh of her bosom, and he imagined his own hand on every part of her body. On her breast, on the flat plane of her belly. Between her legs. “Is that no’ what ye’ve wanted?”
Anna closed her eyes and let her head fall back, exposing the smooth curve of her neck to him.
“Is it no’ what ye wanted!” he demanded again, shaking her.
She opened her eyes, abruptly caught his head between her hands, and touched her lips to the corner of his mouth. “What I want, above all else, is for you to kiss me.”
Fury and desire exploded within the wall of his chest, and Grif crushed her to him in the circle of his arms, his mouth wildly seeking hers, filling her with his kiss. Anna’s hands cupped his face, and she eagerly drank him in, her body lithely arching into his, molding to him. He surged upward, to his feet, pulling her with him, then hoisted her up in a tight embrace so that her feet dangled just above his, and moved deeper into the rose garden, around the fountain, and into the arbor.
Anna’s hands flitted across his temples, his shoulders, his neck. She kissed him deeply, kissed him like a woman who enjoyed and desired the many pleasures of the flesh, and Grif’s body hardened quickly in response. He stopped somewhere beneath that glorious moon and let her slide down his body while his hands explored her every curve, dipping down so that his mouth could seek the creamy skin of her bosom. With his hand, he freed her breast from the low décolletage of her gown, and took it into his mouth. Anna sucked in her breath above him, and leaned limply over him as her breath began to come in pants. Grif ravaged her breast, teething the rigid nipple while his hand slid down to her bottom and kneaded her flesh, pushing her into him.
They drifted onto the bench beneath the arbor, Anna leaning against the latticework, her hands in Grif’s hair, Grif at her breast, his hands wildly roaming the curves of her body. “Leannan,” he murmured against her skin. “God help me, but I canna resist ye, mo ghraidh.” He rose up and roughly caught her face between his hands, caressed her hair, and looked into the copper of her eyes. “Boidheach,” he murmured.
She smiled, wrapped her hand around his wrist. “I don’t know what you are saying, but it sounds sweet on your lips.”
“Beautiful,” he said with a smile, kissing each eye. “Ye are beautiful, lass.”
“Beautiful,” she echoed softly, and surged forward, throwing her arms around his neck to kiss him. Grif dragged his lips to her cheek, her neck and shoulder, her bosom. His hands swept down her sides, to her waist, to her hips, and lower.
“God in heaven… Grif,” she moaned on a whisper as he took her in his mouth again. “Let me feel it all again,” she whispered plaintively above him. “Let me feel you again, your hands on my body. Everything.”
How he wanted to give her that, how he wanted to fill her completely, let her feel everything that was inside him. His hand slipped to her knee, down to her ankle, and gathered the silk fabric of her gown, pushing it up so that he could slip his hand beneath it. His hand found a smooth velvet-soft leg, and he followed it up, past her knee, to the pliant flesh of her thigh, and onward, between her legs, to her damp core. She sighed longingly into his hair, and Grif felt himself straining to the point of bursting, feeling the overpowering need to be inside her.
He loved her. He realized that it was love filling him, bursting within him, and he loved Anna more than life. He moved between her legs, pressed himself against her, his wish to respect the sanctity of loving her fading in the heat raging through his body.
“I would know love at your hand,” she whispered into his hair, and desire surged like a rough wave through him. “I don’t want to marry without knowing what it is to love—”
The desire in him bled out so quickly that it shook Grif, and he sat up. Anna blinked up at him, obviously confused, ignorant of the power of her words.
He angrily shoved away from her—the magic of the moment, the depth of his feeling for her shattered into tiny shards by the mention of marriage to another man.
Stunned by his push, Anna fell against the lattice.
“Ye want me to love ye while ye plot to wed yerself to another man?” he demanded acidly. “God in heaven, but I canna abide the way ye use me!”
“Use you?” she cried. “I haven’t used you—we had a bargain!”
“We didna have a bargain! Will ye no’ admit it? Ye’ve made me a hostage!”
“That’s a lie!” she cried, and angrily adjusted the bodice of her gown as she sat up. “You didn’t have a choice? I didn’t have a choice! I didn’t know what else to do! I don’t know what to do even now,” she cried.
Grif moved forward and cupped her cheek, forcing her to look at him. “Forget this folly, Anna! Forget Lockhart!” he blurted.
Anna gasped softly and reared back, her eyes belying her disbelief. She shakily dragged the back of her hand across her mouth. “What are you saying? You know I can’t do that,” she said quietly.
“Why no’?” he demanded furiously. “Ye’ve no’ agreed to anything—”
“And do what, pray tell? Run off to Scotland with a liar and a thief?” she angrily exclaimed.
Something twisted violently inside him; a shot of pain sliced his chest. He sat back, pushed both hands through his hair. “Bloody hell, then.”
“Grif…I didn’t mean that—”
“Congratulations, Anna. Ye’ve all but succeeded in yer quest—”
“Grif!” she cried, moving toward him, but Grif instantly stood up and put up his hand to stop her.
“No, Anna. Ye have what ye wanted—but I’ll no’ pleasure ye like a whore,” he said sharply, ignoring her indignant gasp. “I’ve done me part of it. Now it is time for ye to do yer part and give me the goddamn beastie! I only hope to God ye finish this business sooner rather than later, before it is too late for us both,” he said, and turned away, striding away from her and crossing the chasm that had opened between them and spread as long and as wide as an ocean.
Twenty-four
G rif wanted to be as far away from the Addison sisters as he could reasonably get, for he could not bear to be near Anna without exploding in fury, and he could not, on his honor, make any more conversation with Lucy. If he was forced to spend another moment in her presence, he thought he might be driven to madness.
He retired at a time that was unfashionably early, but his charade was wearing very thin, and the evening had been irreparably marred. He fell into a fitful sleep, haunted by dreams of Anna.
The next morning, he rose early. Fynster, who had come in quite late, was still snoring peacefully across the room. Grif donned a dressing gown and rang for Hugh. And rang again. And twice more.
Were it not for the kindness of Fynster’s valet— Gregerson, he thought he said his name was—Grif would have appeared to all in his nightshirt. Gregerson managed to find Hugh and rouse him from his slumber, and was even able to find Grif’s clothes when Hugh was unable to rise.
“He’s got a bit of the ague, I should think, sir,” Gregerson politely explained.
“He’s a fondness for drink,” Grif said roughly as the man handed him the clothes. He thanked Gregerson, and once he was dressed, he skipped what breakfast might have been left, and made his way up to the third floor, where the servants were housed.
He found Hugh easily enough—he was the only scoundrel still abed, a pillow covering his head, a sheet scarcely covering his body. With a well-placed boot, Grif brought him up, sputtering and squealing like a stuck pig. “Ye’ll behave yerself, MacAlister, or ye’ll return to Scotland without yer fool head.”
“Aye, aye,” Hugh said wearily, waving hi
m on.
Luncheon was a quiet and boring affair—most of the ladies refused it, since they had breakfasted so late, and most of the gentlemen had breakfasted early so that they might have a ride about the manor grounds and into the village. Grif sat with an elderly gentleman from a neighboring estate who wanted to talk about sheep, of all things, while Grif brooded about Anna.
Shortly after luncheon, a very restless Grif wandered outdoors and saw that the ladies and the few gentlemen who had remained at the estate were gathering for various lawn games. There was lawn bowling, battledore and shuttlecock, archery, and even target shooting. A smattering of tables and chairs had been set up under awnings so that the ladies who were not inclined to exertion could watch the games around them.
That was where he saw Anna for the first time today, looking invigorated by the fresh air, with a rosy flush in her cheeks. Apparently, she had slept rather well. He intended to avoid her completely, to join the gentlemen who preferred to target shoot, but Lady Featherstone stepped out from beneath the awning and waved to him. “Lord Ardencaple!” she cried happily. “We were just to begin a game of battledore and shuttlecock and need a fourth. Would you be so kind as to join them?”
He was on the verge of declining, but Anna turned around, and in her hand was a battledore, a racket. And her eyes were shimmering with that devilish glint.
“I’d be delighted,” he said, abruptly changing his mind, and marched forward to receive one of four battledores and the shuttlecock.
Anna walked out from beneath the awning, tapping her battledore against her palm as she glanced up at the sun. “Splendid day for games, don’t you think?”
“Splendid,” he said coldly.
She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. “Are you adept at these games, sir? Or do you find these games not to your liking, either?”
“Predictably, ye misunderstand me, Miss Addison. I’m always eager to indulge in fair sport.”
She rolled her eyes heavenward.
“You must be quite careful of Anna, my lord!” he heard Lucy call from somewhere beneath the awning. “She’s ruthless in sport.” As if he needed to be told as much.
Anna merely shrugged. “She’s far too frail. I enjoy physical activity.”
“Aye, it’s quite apparent that ye do.”
“Apparently, I’m not the only one,” she murmured, and squinted at the sun again as Lady Featherstone hurried forward with two more players.
She introduced Grif to Lady Killingham, who was to be his partner. And then he turned to the other woman who had joined them, a tall, older woman, with a bonnet so outlandish and large as to require its own lawn, not to mention her collar made of a starkly familiar tartan and a day dress adorned with the oddest assortment of bric-a-brac he’d ever seen.
When Lady Featherstone introduced them, Grif felt the earth shift beneath his very feet. He was so startled that he had to ask the hostess to repeat the woman’s name.
He could honestly attest that Lady Battenkirk did not appear at all how he’d pictured her.
Anna wanted to laugh—Grif looked as if had Lady Battenkirk so much as breathed, she’d have toppled him right onto his bum. But somehow he managed to remain standing, to smile and nod as Lady Battenkirk spoke breathlessly.
“I’ve only just arrived, you know,” she announced, as if Grif could possibly care. “It’s quite far to travel, all the way from Wales, my Lord Ardencaple. Ardencaple. Is that Welsh, perchance?” she asked, her eyes lighting up at the prospect.
“He’s Scottish,” Anna replied helpfully.
“Scottish! How fortunate for you sir, for Welsh is a frightfully harsh language with a lot of achs and grrrs. Nevertheless, the Welsh are a very clever people, what with their pottery. I found the most delightful figurine of a lion spirit. You call them beasties, I believe. I’ve seen them.”
“Shall we play?” Anna asked gaily, her spirits immeasurably improved with the arrival of Lady Battenkirk, who provided a welcome relief after last night’s crushing blow to her heart. Oh yes, it had been crushed, all right. It was small wonder it hadn’t left a horrid stain beneath the arbor, he had trampled it so badly.
“Oh yes, please, let’s,” Lady Battenkirk exclaimed. “I’m quite good, you know. I was rather spry in my youth,” she avowed as she marched forward to the small lawn where the net had been set.
Lady Killingham dutifully followed, as did Grif, but not before casting a murderous look at Anna, who lifted her chin and marched on, too.
At the net, Grif shrugged out of his coat, tossing it onto a shrub, and followed that with his waistcoat.
“I’ve had the pleasure of playing battledore and shuttlecock with the duke of Langford,” Lady Battenkirk was saying. “I twisted my ankle rather violently!”
Anna nodded, surreptitiously watching Grif roll up the sleeves of his lawn shirt—but he caught her watching him and turned his back to her.
Dear God, she was angry with him, exceedingly angry… yet she had spent the entire night feeling his body next to hers, hearing his whispers in her ear. Boidheach… She longed to touch his back now, to place her hands side by side across the breadth of his shoulders and rest her cheek against him. It was a desire so resoundingly loud within her that she lost track of Lady Battenkirk’s story of her violent ankle twist until the poor woman tapped her on the crown of her head with her battledore to gain her attention.
Anna gasped with surprise; Lady Battenkirk smiled. “Mind that you watch for rabbit holes. That is the advice I’m trying to impart.”
“Are we all quite at the ready, then?” Grif called as Anna rubbed her head. “Mind the shuttlecock,” he advised them, and very lightly sent the thing across to Lady Battenkirk.
She swung at it with such force that it was a wonder the poor thing didn’t lodge permanently in the net instead of dropping directly to the ground. One lone feather drifted helplessly behind it.
It was quickly apparent that the only two persons who had a knack for the game were Anna and Grif. Lady Killingham never lifted her racket, and Lady Battenkirk swung frequently, but rarely hit the shuttlecock.
When Anna batted the shuttlecock to Lady Killingham, Grif sprang, gazelle-like, in front of her, and hit it back, catching Anna off guard and thereby forcing her to lose sight of the thing. It hit her in the shoulder and floated to the ground.
“You must have a care, Miss Addison!” Lady Battenkirk admonished her.
They bandied the shuttlecock back and forth, Grif hitting with enviable ease, considering he was covering his entire half of the lawn. Anna grew terribly frustrated at his penchant for playing each and every turn.
At last the shuttlecock was hit to Anna, and in a fit of frustration she purposely hit the bird directly at Grif, but he misjudged her direction, and was lunging toward Lady Killingham to recover the shuttlecock when the thing hit him square in the side of the head and floated to the ground.
Grif looked at the bird, then at Anna. “I believe ye intentionally meant to hit me head.”
“What a perfectly unsporting thing to say!” Anna snapped.
With a dark frown, he stooped to pick the thing up, and when he served it across, it seemed to Anna to be a bit more forceful than before, and she decidedly aimed for his person again, managing to ping him on the shoulder.
She laughed triumphantly and strutted to the net, let her fingers trail across it as she pinned Grif with a look. “I believe that ties our score, does it not?”
“Aye,” he growled.
She returned to her place on the lawn. Grif smiled wickedly, tossed the shuttlecock into the air, and swiped it hard. The thing sailed across the net and hit Anna on her hip, as she turned from the projectile at the last minute. She gasped and jerked around. Grif was smiling and bowed over one leg stretched before him, his arms splayed wide.
Furious, Anna pounced on the fallen shuttlecock. “You really shouldn’t have done that, my lord!” she cried, and served it with as much force as she could marshal.
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The final battle was begun.
The ladies beneath the awning had turned their chairs to face the court and began to call out helpful suggestions. “A bit on your toes, Lady Killingham!” one suggested. “Miss Addison, do take care to keep from wrenching your back!” called another.
But for Grif, they had nothing but words of encouragement. “My dear Lord Ardencaple, shall you have my favor?” one lady cried, waving a white kerchief at him. “Oh my lord, what marvelous skill you have!” another assured him when he managed to save another shuttlecock from its demise on Lady Killingham’s battledore.
As the game neared its conclusion, Anna and Lady Battenkirk were dangerously close to being eliminated. “Go on, then, let’s not dally,” Anna said irritably, preparing herself to receive the shuttlecock.
Grif smiled dangerously, pointed his battledore at Anna, tossed the shuttlecock in the air, and slapped it to Lady Battenkirk. She returned it hard to Lady Killingham, who shrieked and turned away in fear. Grif easily retrieved it and batted it to Anna. She swiped at it with great force, but her battledore caught nothing but feathers, and the bird sailed into the net. She watched in horror as the thing fell to the ground.
“Oh dear, you’ve lost the game!” Lady Battenkirk cried.
“W-what?” Anna asked, gasping for air.
“But never you mind, Miss Addison. A bit of practice, that’s all you require! Oh dear, I’m really quite parched! Come, Lady Killingham, shall we have a lemonade? This warm weather brings to mind the time I was in York. Have you been to York? They have such lovely textiles there…”
Lady Battenkirk dragged Lady Killingham along. Anna looked at the fallen shuttlecock, then at Grif.
His gaze was cold as he shoved one arm into his discarded waistcoat, and then the other. “It would seem we had time for one last lesson, aye? Never challenge a man at his own game,” he said, and picked up his coat. Without another glance at her, he walked to the awning to join the others while Anna stood alone, staring at the lot of them.