by Amy Quinton
Mr. Stubbs was strong and capable, able to carry Alain if the occasion required it, and he was genuinely affectionate and careful with his charge. Respectful, even.
Likewise, Alain seemed satisfied with his nurse, who appeared most times to be more friend than servant.
“Mrs. Chase, Lord MacLeod,” said Mr. Stubbs in greeting.
Hearing Alain called MacLeod was startling. But she supposed it was technically correct, it was just strange hearing Alaistair’s name on someone else after so many months of just knowing one MacLeod.
“Mr. Stubbs, you are just the man I needed to see.”
Mr. Stubbs smiled at that. “Oh, is milord not holding up his end of the conversation again?” he joked.
Alain, who had leaned on his hand, propped on the arm of his chair, smiled at the good-natured jest.
She placed her hands on Alain’s shoulders. “On the contrary, I’m afraid Alain might have grown weary of the sound of my voice. I do tend to carry on so.”
They all laughed at that, while Alain began rubbing at his ears as if to soothe the pain.
“Lord MacLeod, are you ready to return to your rooms then, old friend?” asked Mr. Stubbs.
“Yes.” A definite yes, that.
“See? I told you. He seems intent on me seeing this room, but says he doesn’t want to go inside himself.” Strangely, Alain tensed beneath her hands.
Mr. Stubbs glanced over her shoulder at the door, his eyes widening ever so slightly before he looked to his charge.
“Milord, she cannot. You know he wouldn’t like—”
Alain, somewhat agitated, maintained his desire. “Yes,” he interrupted, his tone commanding and firm.
Amelia looked to the unassuming door, curious now as to what lay behind it. It was a grand, dark-stained oak door that appeared to be in rather good repair apart from a touch of rust around the latch.
Mr. Stubbs sighed. A reluctant acquiescence, if she’d ever heard one.
Amelia moved to stand before Alain. “I guess I’ll see you later, then. Thank you for a lovely morning. I enjoyed it immensely.” She was determined to see this room now, and was reluctant to give the well-meaning nurse a chance to talk her or Alain out of it.
Amelia held out her hand. Alain took it, but rather than give her hand a shake as she’d intended with her American ways, he pulled her hand to his lips to kiss her knuckles with effortless gallantry, smiling all the while.
“Yes,” he said in agreement.
Mr. Stubbs looked as if he would say something, but thought better of it.
“Mr. Stubbs?”
“It is nothing, my lady. Just…take care.”
“Of course. I’ll see you later, then?”
“I look forward to it.”
She watched the men as they walked off down the hall, a frown on her face.
What an odd conversation.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Amelia turned toward the closed door, more curious than ever.
And that was saying something considering she was far too nosy for her own good at the best of times.
But Alain clearly wanted her to see this room, and see it, she would, even though she was now a touch concerned about whether it was safe for her to walk through that door.
Would it change her life? Anger someone? MacLeod, perhaps? Ha! Probably.
Well, it mattered not, she simply had to see for herself. Sure, it was the kind of decision that had brought her trouble in the past; she knew it and embraced it.
Amelia engaged the latch and shoved at the door, which was unlocked but somewhat stiff from infrequent use. The door scarcely moved with her first push, only enough to expose a small gap between the door and its frame, but it was enough to show the room behind glowed with a brilliant light.
The edges of the door appeared to glow white, a bright contrast from the dark hall and the even darker door. After prowling the dim halls of this castle for the better part of an hour, it almost hurt to look at it. Still, Amelia continued to push at the door, slowly increasing the gap and revealing a larger and larger beam of sunlight. She could clearly see dust motes dancing in the rays, stirred up from her efforts with the door.
Eventually, she opened enough of a gap to squeeze through and into the room beyond.
The room was certainly bright—so much so, she had to shade her eyes until they adjusted to the change.
The first thing she noticed were the eight large windows standing sentry on the far, south facing wall—the obvious source of the overabundant light in the room. She followed the line of windows, realizing that the room was long and curved, presenting almost like a gallery of sorts.
Or a gallery in truth, for as she stepped further into the room, Amelia could see that it was filled to the brim with art in various mediums. Paintings—some oils, some watercolors. Sculptures in both clay and marble. Silver figures. Brass figures. So much talent, hanging from every wall and covering every surface.
Hundreds of paintings lined the walls, in some cases the canvases were simply leaning against the wall on the floor, eight pieces thick. There were wooden tables covered in splattered white linen everywhere, most of them jutting out from the wall opposite the windows, creating short aisles with their precise positioning. There were at least fifteen small corridors in all, or thereabouts. And on the tables were various sculptures, mostly of animals.
She followed the room by walking along the windows, her eye like a child in a sweet shop unable to stop to look at any one thing for too long—there was simply too much to see. She wanted to touch every critter represented in clay and marble, sometimes silver and cooper. She wanted to stare at every painting for hours, while she made sense of the scenes and the emotions they conveyed. The room, the sight of it all, was both shocking and an absolute marvel all at once.
As she passed the fourth window, she was startled to spy MacLeod at the far end, standing before a work table wearing a threadbare kilt and an old shirt, all of it covered in various colors of paint and what appeared to be dried clay.
He wore no cravat, and his shirt was missing a few of the top buttons. It hung loosely revealing a small sampling of his chest. His kilt had threads dangling around the bottom hem, along with larger strips from being ripped at some point in the past.
And upon his nose, perched there quite unexpectedly, were a pair of spectacles. He stood frozen in place, paused in the act wiping his hands on a length of linen, his head dipped so he could watch her from above the top of the rims of his glasses.
She licked her lips. Goodness. She never realized she would find a pair of glasses so—alluring.
It didn’t take a genius to fit the pieces together. “Are these…yours? You’ve done this? All of this?”
Her question seemed to spur him to action for he resumed wiping his hands on the cloth, cleaning them of bits of clay. “I dabble, aye.”
The man was amusing. Dabble was quite an understatement.
She broke eye contact, suddenly aware of the intimacy of her trespass upon his private domain. Uninvited.
This place—it was so personal. These were not pieces of art on display in the public rooms of his home. This was his studio.
Her eyes landed on a large bed against the wall off to the side, untidied, but inviting and very present in the space. The swirl of emotions dancing around inside her mind began a faster jig at the sight.
She jerked her eyes away, though they landed right back on him. He’d turned away and was hanging his cloth on a bar at the end of a nearby workbench.
She hadn’t seen him for more than a few scarce moments since their argument on the lawn two days ago. It was as if he had gone into hiding, leaving their quarrel open and unresolved.
He turned to face her and against her will, her focus dropped to his lips. She recalled—for probably the thousandth time in as many seconds—all the erotic things those he could do with those lips.
He could glide them across her skin with reverence before he kissed her tende
rly on her neck, on her shoulder, or on her cheek. He could form them into soft pillows or into intractable, hot iron as his mouth danced with hers, demanding or coaxing per his will. He could brand her as his while he traced the line of her legs, her thighs.
And he could bring her to the height of ecstasy as he stroked and caressed her core while she lay there, writhing in heat across the surface of his desk.
She felt a telltale surge of moisture between her legs as the memory resurfaced in surprisingly acute detail.
No, not surprising, really, considering how many times she’d relieved the entire event since then. And oh God, she was more than ready to do that with him again. And again. Oh, how effectively could they make use of the bed so conveniently available…
But he wasn’t ready; he’d said as much that day with no sign since then to suggest he’d changed his mind.
Amelia jerked away and turned her back on him, lest she give him no choice in the matter. Dash it all, she needed to say something, else she’d climb his body right there in the middle of his workspace, his preferences be damned.
Amelia squared her shoulders and looked around the room with more than a little respect. She was awed by his talent and intrigued at this latest glimpse into MacLeod’s hidden depths. He never ceased to surprise her.
Her eye caught on a painting of a London scene. She walked over for a closer look. Oh, yes, she knew it was London from the familiar buildings making up the skyline in the background. But this was not the usual landscape committed to canvass by the average London artist. This work, like the man, was dark and gritty, the mood brooding. The street in the scene was clearly in a very poor part of town, possibly St. Giles. The cobbles were dirty and puddled, soiled with rivers of filth running along the edge of the lane. Beggars in ragged clothes squatted in front of dilapidated houses, most too poor and downtrodden to even look up at passersby in the hopes of a little charity. Many of the homeless were young, clearly children, who should have been playing and smiling, but who instead carried the weight of a thousand lives in their eyes.
His colors were muted and unsaturated except for a weed, a thistle caught in a sunbeam. It stood tall and almost reached for the sky. Its colors, from the leaves to the flower, were vibrant and brilliant amidst all the grey and dirt.
But it was clear that the weed was only moments away from being trampled by the careless step of a man in a kilt, walking with his head turned to the side, not looking where he was going.
And no one else on the street appeared aware of the impending doom.
There was no question the man in the painting was MacLeod. A self-portrait of a broken man.
She wanted to weep for him. Weep for this man who cared so much—too much—and shared so little. What must it be like to be gifted with the love of a man like that? It made her heart yearn for even a small taste.
Amelia was barely able to breathe for the thought of it.
She turned around and peered in his eyes, eyes which held their usual intensity, but with perhaps a tinge of worry and a hint of doubt.
She hated to see that. She never wanted to see it again.
She knew her eyes were bright with the threat of tears. She reached up to touch his face as the first tear fell.
“MacLeod, I…”
MacLeod covered her hand with his, closed his eyes, and leaned into her caress, effectively halting whatever she had intended to say. Hell, she no longer knew.
When he spoke, it was barely a whisper. “Mel. I’m sorry. Though it pains me to say this, everything in me screams in protest, I want ye ta ken: Ye can leave if ye want to. I will take you to Dansbury, if that is your wish.”
She was floored. And honored. And pained to hear this. She suspected she knew what it cost him to offer her her freedom.
She studied the crease across his forehead, the tight squeeze of his eyes, his firm but gentle grip on her hand. The signs were there, whispering—no, exclaiming—his need, his desperate need, for companionship and affection, for someone simply to confide in. How long had it been? How long since he’d opened his heart to another?
She stood to the tips of her toes, sliding her hand around to the back of his neck, and pulled him down for a kiss; her answer to his offer of freedom.
The moment her lips touched his, she saw fireworks flash in the darkness behind her eyes. His lips were soft and hot. His breath smelled of MacLeod, warm with a hint of spice and a touch of mint. His beard was somewhat rough against her skin and it all colluded to enhance her essential need to taste him more fully.
She licked his lips, and he opened his mouth on a groan.
The touch of his tongue felt like home.
His hands wrapped around her back and pulled her close; her heart sung at the feeling. This was right.
His warmth enveloped her, secured her. She needed him, and she knew that he, in turn, needed her, too. And oh, God, how she wanted him to need her!
It was at once too much and not enough. And she knew, at that moment, she wanted to remain in this very spot, in his oh-so-capable arms, for a lifetime. Might as well set out a table and a bed and mark it with a grave, for she was never, ever leaving.
MacLeod shifted and Amelia could feel his arousal through her clothes as his hard cock slid against her stomach, unfettered as it was beneath loose folds of wool. Without giving a thought to whether she should, Amelia reached down and lifted the edge of his kilt, exposing him to the heated air about them.
“Mel…”
“Shhhh…let me…” It was all she could manage before she slipped to her knees. She kept her eyes on his almost as though she was afraid to see the proof of his desire. To see longing in a man who felt as deeply as Alaistair MacLeod was…daunting.
And, oh, did he want her. His eyes burned hot with desire and his hands shook with ravenous need. His breath sawed in and out as if he’d run the length of a race track for hours, never breaking stride to rest.
Still, she never broke eye contact as she unerringly slipped his hard-throbbing cock into her mouth.
“Oh, God,” he ground out, one big hand sliding around to cup the back of her head.
Amelia whole-heartedly concurred. His eyes burned hotter, if possible—his craving, his need almost painful in its intensity. His head tilted back on a wave of desire so intense, she felt the echoing throb in his cock with a flair of hardness, a twitch of desire.
She sucked him then, and an answering pool of wetness surged between her legs. His pleasure, hers.
Both his hands came around to cradle her face, gently, reverently. And his thighs, which she squeezed with both her hands, the better to hold herself in place, twitched with restraint as he tried desperately not to thrust into her mouth.
“Mel…God, Mel…”
He murmured her name like a benediction with each suck, and her heart leapt knowing this man was so completely undone by her own hand, her mouth.
Before too long, she felt him harden to solid rock and knew that his crisis neared. He was no longer able to keep from pulsing his hips. His hands squeezed and relaxed repeatedly, cradled around her head, but never forcing her to continue.
She reached up to cup his balls and he stilled, but then tried to pull back.
She wouldn’t allow it. All too quickly, she grabbed ahold of his ass and pulled him tight to her mouth as his cock erupted down her throat. It was a magnificent release and indicative of days of pent up passion and she was thrilled to be the one who brought him to completion.
The King George Tavern: Near Carlisle, England
Kelly was led to a private room by a giant ogre of a man with small, beady eyes and no visible teeth, not a typical drawing room dandy, to be sure. Once inside, Kelly studied the room and its lone occupant.
It was obvious the room was normally bare of ornament, utilitarian and sparse. Nevertheless, the man sitting in a chair by the hearth had arrived with a surfeit of his own personal luxuries, which blanketed the room’s practical features like an ill-fitting mask. Gold
-threaded cloths were draped over one of the inn’s battered dining tables, another swathed a crude side table by the hearth. More gold-threaded and heavily tasseled cushions were precisely positioned upon a wooden bench and a rickety, three-legged stool situated by the fire. Underneath it all, a thick, Aubusson carpet covered the floor at the man’s feet but couldn’t completely hide the scrapes of over two hundred years of chairs and boots being dragged across bare wooden floors that peeked out from beneath it like unraveled threads of wool.
The man waiting for him wore gloves and formal wear. He was meticulously combed and clean shaven, yet he strove to appear relaxed as he sat back in an overstuffed chair likely brought with him in a second wagon for just such a purpose.
Kelly briefly wondered if the man supplied his own bed as well. Certainly, he had brought his own linens.
When the man finally spoke, his voice rasped and grated like a hundred-year-old man who’d been smoking for decades, certainly not the booming voice Kelly remembered from his youth. It was jarringly at odds with the man’s assiduous toilet.
“I’m beginning to think you have no desire to succeed. If I didn’t know any better, I would question your loyalty to our cause.” The old man wasted no time with social pleasantries.
If only he could tell the man what he really thought.
Kelly’s jaw tightened, the only outward sign of his anger. “I am still your man.”
“That certainly remains to be seen. I don’t understand how an insignificant American woman managed to escape one such as you, a master spy? I find your explanation of the events leading up to her escape suspect and utterly fantastical.” The man studied the gold-rimmed glass in his hand while he spoke. The amber liquid within glowed, catching sparks of light from the fire as he turned it this way and that.
Kelly smiled. When he spoke, his voice was a smooth as the scotch he knew the man sipped from his monogrammed glass. “Do you really think I would put everything on the line here to save the life of one American?”