Never Kiss a Scot

by Lauren Smith

  “Let’s go to dinner.”

  “Yes. I’d like that.”

  He offered her his arm and escorted her to the dining hall. Tonight he would take her to bed. She was simply too irresistible.

  18

  Joanna felt the weight of the engagement ring on her finger, but it was not unwelcome. Rather, it was comforting to feel the press of the gold circlet beside her wedding band. She could not believe he had given her a ring that had belonged to his mother. Joy bubbled up inside her as she considered what it meant. He could try to stay distant, but she saw the heat and the longing in his eyes. It wasn’t simply physical for him—at least, she sensed it wasn’t. She had to have faith that she could win his heart, help him realize that he wasn’t like his father.

  We will have a happy marriage, a happy life. I refuse to believe anything else.

  They entered the dining room, and she gasped. It was stunning. Red satin wallpaper covered the top of the room, and the bottom half was dark with oak paneling. Portraits of noblemen in kilts and women in tartan dresses were interspersed between mounted deer heads and elk antlers. It looked in equal parts a hunting lodge and an elegant dining room, the type that she might see in England.

  “I do like this room.” He grinned and pointed at a large beautiful buck head. “I do not hunt for sport, mind you, but I was proud when I caught him last fall. He fed a number of families last year, including Dougal and Annis. I hunt when the herds grow too large during the lean winter months. Sometimes there is not enough vegetation to feed them all once the snow falls.”

  He escorted her to a chair close to the large fireplace. It was almost as tall she was. She wondered if this might have been part of the great hall a few hundred years before. Brock pushed her chair in, and when she sat down he waved to a footman who’d been standing politely in the corner of the room.

  The young man retrieved a tureen and came forward, ladling soup into each of their bowls before returning to his position in the corner.

  “Turtle soup,” Brock said. “One of my favorites. We never eat it. Mrs. Tate must have gone to great effort for us tonight.”

  “I must remember to thank her. I like this soup too,” she admitted with a grin, and dipped her spoon into the bowl. They ate quietly, the fire crackling behind them. Even in the summer it was noticeably cooler in Scotland than it was in Bath. Once they finished, the footman brought out a platter of salmon and then roast beef. They then shared a tart with meringue, laughing when their forks both collided as they reached for the same piece.

  But they didn’t speak much, except to discuss the tenants and what books they had read as children. She was delighted to discover that they both enjoyed reading many of the same kinds of stories. Books with adventures, books that discussed history and philosophy. Brock was well read, far more so than she’d expected. That left her feeling a bit silly, having assumed he was more of a barbarian. It was the sort of thing Ashton would have assumed about him, and she hated herself for that.

  “Tomorrow we will ride into town and inquire after some new servants. I shall post your letter to your maid, and we will have you fitted for more gowns, unless you wish to have your maid bring your old ones?” Brock asked.

  “I might order a gown or two in the Scottish style, but Julia can bring more of mine with her. Do you…” She paused, choosing her words carefully. “Do you wish me to have new clothes?”

  Brock toyed with the stem of his wineglass, considering her question. “I would, yes, but not yet. There are more important things needed, such as seeds for crops and farming equipment for the tenants.”

  “Yes,” she agreed. “But do you think we might upset them? How would they respond to our generosity? I do not wish to insult anyone’s pride.”

  “Aye, that’s a fair point. I will raise payments to them first, and then we will hire an architect from Edinburgh to draw up plans for some better housing and see what the cost will be. I would like to have a few houses constructed before winter, if possible.”

  “That would be good. I cannot stop thinking about those people living in those bleak houses during the dark days of winter.”

  “I fear my father did not care about such things, but we will help them.” He reached across the table and covered her hand with his. She almost pulled away, not because she didn’t want him to touch her, but because it felt wonderful and she feared it didn’t mean the same to him as it did to her.

  “I think it’s time for me to retire. It’s been a long day.” She rose from the table, and Brock got his feet as well. They didn’t speak as he escorted her to the stairs.

  “Joanna, I assumed you might wish to sleep apart tonight, but…” Brock caught her by the waist. “May I come to your bed tonight?” The question was a soft, husky whisper in that heavy brogue that always made her feel weak.

  Yes. The word was on the tip of her tongue, but she didn’t dare say it. Until she could find a way to make him fall in love with her, she wasn’t sure she could risk her own heart like that. When they were together, it was as though everything fell away and it was only the two of them together in a world of heat and pleasure.

  “I…I don’t know if I’m ready for that again.” She choked on the words as she fled upstairs. She’d imagined her marriage so differently, at least when it came to her husband. She had thought they would be madly in love with each other, that nothing would come between them, least of all their own hearts.

  I’m afraid to love the man who is afraid to love me.

  There was a cruel irony to their fears, but she knew she was closer than he was to love. She could feel it fluttering around her heart like doves searching for a place to nest.

  As she stepped into her room, the one that Brock had said could be her quiet refuge, she paused, noting the fire in the hearth and the pot of tea on a tray left on the side table by her bed. The young maid Maura, who had helped her dress tonight, must have brought it up for her. She poured herself a cup, and when she started to sit down in the armchair by the fire, she jumped as something moved.

  She stared down at the badger who’d been curled up in the chair asleep. “Freya?”

  The badger raised her head and blinked sleepily at her. So much for sitting by the fire. She was not silly enough to try to dislodge a badger when it was happily settled somewhere, and the room had only one chair.

  She finished her tea and then headed back downstairs, hoping to find the library. Given how Brock loved books, she rather hoped he would have an extensive collection. Joanna tiptoed down the hall and began to open doors one after another. Most were drawing rooms or parlors. Finally, a door she tried opened to reveal the library.

  Two-story bookshelves covered the walls, reaching up to the ceiling. Several tall windows allowed moonlight in, and she gasped when she saw that most of the shelves were tragically empty. Only a few books remained. She moved deeper into the library, her heart sinking to the floor. There were barely any books, perhaps only a dozen, in a room that could have held thousands. She spied a tall figure standing before the fire, one hand resting on the mantel as he gazed into the flames. Brock. Joanna debated trying to slip back out of the room, but he must’ve heard her because he spoke.

  “I wasna planning to show you the library until I had a chance to buy more books.” Shame colored his tone, and her heart ached for him.

  Joanna sighed and walked up behind him, wrapping her arms around him from behind. She rested her cheek against the back of his shoulder. His warmth seeped into her, and she could feel the strong muscles of his abdomen clench beneath her hands even though he still wore a shirt and waistcoat. He turned his head to look over his shoulder at her.

  He nodded at the skeletal shelves. “I’m sorry you had to see this, lass.”

  “I’m not,” she replied. “Do you want to know why?”

  He nodded.

  “Because it means that you and I will have the pleasure of visiting bookstores together, choosing every title we wish to read and bringing them home
with us. This will be our library, one we’ll build together.” She rubbed her cheek against his shoulder, hoping she could offer him some comfort.

  “The shelves were once so full. Each and every book contained the magic my mother taught me and my siblings to cherish. She loved to read and would spend the nicer days out by the lake reading in the shade of an old tree. On days when it was cold or rainy, she would sit here by the fire, spellbound by each book that came into her hands. She taught me the power of words, how to transport oneself far away from one’s troubles.” Brock placed his hands over hers. “When my father turned cruel, these books helped me forget the bruises, the lingering pains.” His misery was so acute it caused her throat to ache with grief, thinking of what he must have suffered.

  “When she died, he began to sell things—the furniture, the jewelry. And then I started to notice the books disappearing from the bottoms of the shelves, where they’d be less likely to be missed. The house seemed to grow thinner with every passing day, and then one day I caught him here in the library. Half the books were packed in wooden crates.” His voice was low, tormented, each word full of utter agony. “I asked him what he was doing, and he struck me, hard, with his cane. I fell, right there.” He pointed to a place by the fireplace. “There was a fire poker there, and I hit my head against it. I passed out on the floor. He left me there, bleeding and unconscious. Rosalind was the one who found me and helped me.” Brock reach to touch his temple. “I still have a wee scar there.”

  Her growing sorrow for him finally shattered her fragile self-control. “Oh, Brock, I’m so sorry.” She came around to stand in front of him and hugged him again, burying her face against his hard, muscled chest. He clasped her body tightly to his, his hands gripping her lower back. As she held him, her Highland warrior with a broken heart, she realized it was impossible for her not to fall in love with him. She wanted to give him all the love he had been denied since his mother died.

  I am lost to him.

  She reached up to the buttons of his waistcoat, slipping them free one by one. He didn’t stop her, nor did he interfere or try to take over. When she was finished, she pushed his waistcoat off his shoulders and let it fall to the floor. When she tugged his shirt out from his trousers, he finished by pulling it off. He stayed still while she placed her palms on his chest, exploring his smooth skin and the patch of dark hair in the center of his chest. She then discovered the thin line of dark hair from his navel down beneath his trousers. She hadn’t noticed it the first time they had come together.

  She trailed a fingertip around his flat nipple, and his breath caught. Were men as sensitive here as women? She felt no shame for being wanton as she leaned forward and kissed him there, flicking her tongue against his nipple. He sucked in a harsh breath, and she smiled in silent triumph as she moved to the other side, repeating the wicked little kiss. He stayed still and silent, except for his responses and the sound of his breath as she explored him.

  If she stopped, turned away, and went to bed now, what would he do? She wasn’t cruel, so she wouldn’t do that to him, but she wanted to know what it would take to shatter the control inside him. She reached for the buttons on her garments, staying close to him as she loosened the bodice, then shrugged out of her evening gown. It gleamed in the moonlight at her feet like a fairy pool. She began to unfasten the ties of her stays, and he watched, silent, hungry, unmoving. There was a brooding look in his eyes, but he made no move as she let the stays fall to the ground. She then removed her petticoats. Would it take her being completely naked to make him let go? She loosened the ties at the front of her chemise, then slid off first one shoulder and then the other before it to fluttered to the ground. She now stood completely bare before him.

  “I thought you didn’t want me to come to your bed tonight, lass.” The words were low and husky, and they sent a shivering thrill through her.

  “This isn’t my bed…and I changed my mind.” She licked her lips, feeling wild and wanton as she challenged him. She’d promised to share his bed, but after feeling so vulnerable that afternoon, she’d longed for the privacy of her separate bed chamber. But again, she’d changed her mind, her desire burning too hot to keep her away from him. “Now, what are you going to do, husband?”

  His fingers curled into fists at his side, and his nostrils flared. “I’m worried I can’t be gentle, lass. Not when I feel so…” He didn’t finish. “I dinna want to hurt you.”

  She tilted her head. “Can’t a man and woman make love roughly without pain?”

  “Aye, ’tis possible.”

  “Then let’s try.” She pressed her body to his, her nipples scraping against his muscular chest felt so good. She moaned as he cupped her bottom, his large hands always so capable in any situation.

  “Lass, you are—” The rest of his words disappeared as she kissed him. His lips opened in surprise, and she slipped her tongue inside. The excitement of being the aggressor was new and arousing for her.

  “Take me. Make me yours,” she whispered. “We both need this.” Only rough pleasure would sate them both now. She hungered for it as much as he did.

  He lifted her up, and her legs wrapped around his waist as he carried her over to the nearest reading bookshelf that had a ledge. He sat her down on it and fumbled with his trousers. She placed kisses on his chest and throat as he freed his cock. She had but a moment to prepare as he spread her thighs with his palms and then thrust inside. The tenderness was there, but she was wet and ready, and he pushed mercilessly into her with little effort. Her breasts bounced as he rammed deep into her, and then he paused, watching her face. She knew he needed to see that she wanted it like this. She met his gaze and nodded. Whatever resolve he had been holding on to seemed to disintegrate. The savage, wild Highland lord she’d envisioned in her darkest fantasies was finally here.

  Their breath mixed, and his eyes were now blind with the same desire she felt. There was nothing outside the fusing of their bodies, the ancient rhythm of flesh, breath, and pleasure, dancing like leaves on the fall wind. Endless, natural.

  He curled his fingers into a fist in her hair, pulling her head back as she leaned against the wood of the shelves. The wood dug into her, but the pain was eclipsed by the exquisite earthshattering thrusts he made into her body. Brock made love like a firestorm, all wind and flames, completely consuming. She throbbed around him, welcoming him inside her with a sharp pang of need. Joanna dug her nails into his shoulders, urging him on, deeper and harder.

  Let go of your fear, she tried to say with her eyes. Let go and be who you truly are. You won’t hurt me.

  He plunged into her over and over, his shaft huge, but she craved the slight edge of pain it gave, knowing that if she could take this and enjoy it, then she would never fear that he would hurt her. Brock was not his father. He spoke kindly, touched kindly, and even this savage lovemaking still held some tenderness to it that she felt deeply without being able to fully explain it. White-hot pleasure exploded through her, and she screamed. Brock covered her mouth with his, stifling the sound. She went limp, bone-tingling pleasure reverberating through her. Brock, still alive with savage energy, kept thrusting while kissing her. His hands tightened in her hair and on her hip until at last he groaned low and deep as he went rigid.

  Joanna was vaguely aware of his release, of him giving up part of himself to her, and she gave it back in sweet kisses as he panted for breath. He stayed inside her, their bodies still joined. It was the most intimate thing she could have ever imagined and so wonderful.

  “Ach, lass,” he sighed, his gaze heavy as he brushed the backs of his knuckles over her cheek. “Did I hurt you?”

  “You didn’t,” she replied, leaning into him to nuzzle his chest. She hoped he’d found some peace in this, the way she had.

  He slowly pulled out, and her face burned with embarrassment at the sight of him, but he merely chuckled and fixed his trousers. Then he retrieved her chemise, and she stood so she could slide it down her body. But b
efore she could pick up the rest of her clothes, he caught her and gathered her up into his arms.

  “Leave it, lass. I want to take you to my bed and hold you.”

  “I won’t argue with that. Freya may well be in my bed by now. And I’d much rather cuddle with you than her.” She couldn’t say that she’d felt foolish for going back on her desire to share his bed every night. But perhaps he’d understand now that she was recommitting to her desire to keep one shared marriage bed and not two.

  He chuckled and kissed her as he began to carry her back to his chambers.

  “I can walk.”

  “I know. But let a man feel like a conqueror, lass. Sometimes it’s nice to carry one’s woman about, especially when he’s headed to bed.”

  She definitely wouldn’t argue with that.

  They entered his bedchamber, and he set her down on her feet before he pulled back the covers so she could crawl beneath them. She rolled onto her back, closing her eyes as she listened to him remove the rest of his clothes. She smiled at the sound of his boots hitting the ground. She felt the bed dip, and then she was cocooned by his large, warm body. He kissed the shell of her ear as she spooned back against him on her side.

  “I truly didn’t hurt you?” he asked in a whisper.

  “No, it’s was spectacular.” She rolled over to face him. They shared a pillow as she tucked her head under his chin. She’d had plenty of rest in the last two days while they’d taken the coach to his castle and she’d felt relaxed and ready for him this time. And the pain of losing her maidenhead hadn’t been present this time. There had only been intense pleasure.

  This was going to be one of her favorite parts of being married. Sleeping beside Brock, feeling his breath stir the fine hairs above her forehead and the way their legs twined and his arms curled around her, holding her close. It was impossible not to feel cherished…loved in a moment like this.