A Well Favored Gentleman: Well Pleasured #2

by Christina Dodd

  Now she snuggled against his back, her arms wrapped around his waist. The poor man was stunned, but she couldn’t call the words back, so he’d have to get used to it, wouldn’t he? For a resilient bubble of joy had formed in her, and nothing could destroy it now. “Husband, would you like something to eat? We’ve not yet eaten breakfast, you ken.”

  Silent, he stared out into the witch’s hut, not flinching as the lightning cracked the darkness again and again. So be it. She could interpret his reticence as she wished. “Not hungry?” She kissed his shoulder blade. “Good. I have greater plans for you.”

  Still he said nothing. Brooding, no doubt. She’d never seen such a magnificent brooder, but she would cure him of that. “Don’t you want to know what they are?”

  “What…what are?” He sounded hoarse and more than a little dazed.

  “My plans.” She massaged her thumb down his spine, around each vertebra, trying to relax him.

  When she reached the base of his spine, he groaned and stretched. “Plans.”

  She smiled at the sinuous ripple of muscle beneath his skin, then sat up and shook out her hair. “I’m going to shave you.” Rising, she climbed over the top of him and off the bed. Going to the big valise she’d brought, she rummaged in it and pulled out a dressing gown.

  He watched her with a hunger that fairly vibrated the air. A hunger that manifested itself in the constant flicker of lightning and rumble of thunder. Yet he appeared detached. “Shave me.”

  She felt almost sorry for him, having to deal with emotions he’d never hoped to experience. Yet she couldn’t let him retreat. He was hers. The sooner he understood that, the better. “Aye.” She smiled at him. “A little warm water, a sharp razor, and at last I’ll see my new husband’s whole face.”

  “Of course. Shave me.” He sounded a little more enlightened as he sat up enough to lean on his elbow. “You’ve discovered a better way to rid yourself of an unwelcome husband than a mere annulment.”

  His hostility startled her, and she blinked. “What do you mean?”

  “Why don’t you just say you want to slit my throat?”

  A flush of fury raced through her at his cynical statement, and as she grabbed for control she wished she could express herself with lightning and thunder. Instead, she had to make do with mere words; how inconveniently mortal. With her hands clasped at her waist, she stared at the man cloaked in shadows. “Why would I want to slit your throat?”

  “Because I cost you Fionnaway.”

  “Fionnaway.” Hope shriveled. “Fionnaway.” How silly of her. She had been thinking of ethereal emotions. He had been thinking of her very substantial lands.

  Digging in her bag, she pulled out a velvet robe. Its jade color flattered her hair and skin; it was no accident this robe had accompanied them into exile. But right now she wanted only to cover herself, and she hastily shrugged it on. “So I was premature in rejecting Edwin’s solution of an annulment.”

  He froze in the process of pushing back the blankets.

  She fumbled for the belt, caught it, and knotted it around her waist. “You wish an annulment.”

  Her accusation hung on the air, and he stood slowly to confront it. Magnificently male, he shrank the tiny room with his height. His midnight hair captured each lightning burst and from it spun silver. His body gleamed and rippled: molten steel and polished bronze. And his enigmatic eyes caught the candle’s flame and reflected it back at her. “Never. I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I don’t want an annulment.”

  Holding the ends of the velvet belt, one clutched in each fist, she asked, “Even though I no longer have what you desire?”

  “What do I desire?”

  “Fionnaway.”

  A muscle clenched in his jaw, and he took a step toward her. “You are not going to make it appear you separated from me because you were doing me a favor.”

  She swallowed and tied another knot in the belt. “You never lied to me. I always knew you wanted Fionnaway.”

  “No, my lady.” His voice mocked her. “You accuse me of rejecting you when I am the cause of your downfall.”

  This time she stepped toward him until only a breath separated them. Carefully she examined him. His eyes no longer looked enigmatic. Enraged, hurt, he had been battered by life and had no reason to expect her to behave any differently from the other people who had so abused him.

  She ached for his anguish, yet at the same time, that small bubble of hope expanded and rose in her. “I want you to be happy, and I know you can’t be happy without…You desire an estate. If you want an annulment, I won’t stop you.”

  “As an actress you have no peer.” He turned his back to her. “You almost have even me convinced.” Picking up his breeches, he stepped angrily into them and glanced at the window.

  He wanted to leave, she could tell. Like a wild creature, he wanted to run away from her, from the situation. Yet the wind still howled around the eaves, and rain splattered on the thatching. He prowled across the room, then prowled back again. Lightning stoked the heavens and thunder vibrated the shutters.

  Ian’s own storm trapped him here. With her. And maybe it wasn’t just the loss of the lands that made him prowl and snarl. She had to find out, didn’t she?

  “Sit down,” she commanded, and pointed to the bench.

  Head up, nostrils flared, he glared at her.

  “Don’t be so dramatic,” she chided him, and saw him flush belligerently. Lifting the half-full bucket onto the table, she dipped a linen cloth in it and wrung it out. Coaxing him, she asked, “If I promise not to slit your throat, will you sit down?”

  “Bloody hell, but you’re irritating.” He flung himself onto the bench so hard it rocked on its back legs and he had to catch himself. Leaning his elbows against the table, he made a parody of relaxation.

  “I don’t hold the license on irritating.” She heated the cloth over the candle flame until it was so hot she could scarcely handle it, then she tilted his head back and wrapped the cloth around his face. He recoiled and swore violently, but she held it tight under his chin. “Now.” She put her knee on his thighs to keep him in place. “Are you always this cranky when your women declare their love?”

  He pushed her hand away. “My women?” His laughter cracked like the thunder. “I don’t have women.”

  “Your mistresses, then,” she insisted. “When they say they love you, do you always flee?”

  “I am not going to discuss this with you.” The towel started to slip, and he caught it. Then as if he couldn’t stand it, he sat straight up. “What makes you think I want to flee?”

  She almost smiled, but caught herself. “Woman’s intuition.”

  He slumped back against the table, and he wrapped the towel tighter around his face. In a muffled voice he said, “No one has ever told me before.”

  “Of course not.” Now she mocked him as she shook out a clean towel and tied it around his neck. Digging through her valise in pursuit of the razor and strop, she said, “With a face that looks like God’s grace on earth, and so much charm every one of my maids sighs for you, and you claim no woman has ever said she loves you. Pull the other bucket, if you please.”

  “Hell, yes, the maids like me. I made sure of that. I made sure all your people like me.” His eyes glittered as he watched her sharpen the razor with long sweeps of her arm. “I was determined to do this lord-of-the-manor thing correctly. But women…no, women don’t love me.”

  She tested the honed edge with her thumb, then, satisfied, she placed it on the table behind him. “So you were a virgin yesterday?”

  “Women have wanted me. For the money. Or because they think I’m dangerous, and they want an illicit thrill.” As she pulled off the still warm cloth, he grinned savagely. “Are you complaining my training is incomplete?”

  “Your lovemaking, as you very well know, is dazzling.” Leaning over him, she kissed his lips. “But if you’re telling me the truth, and I’m the first to love you…we
ll, then, I know why you’re upset.”

  He steadied her with a hand to her back. Her muscles flexed beneath his palm as she straightened, and he enjoyed the sensation of her movement as much as he hated her cross-examination. “Why am I upset?”

  “Because you don’t like people to be too close to you.”

  He jerked his hand back. Not since his childhood had anyone ever been able to pierce his enigmatic facade. Now this bit of a girl “felt” his fear, his disturbance, without even seeing his face.

  “There must be selkie blood in you.” Thunder shook the hut in a long, shattering roll, and he waited until it had finished. “You see feelings.”

  “That selkie blood is back so far, it’s barely a dribble in my veins.” She lathered soap into her hand, and spread it on his throat. Picking up the razor, she said, “Tilt your head back.” He did, and she placed the razor against the skin close to his Adam’s apple. “Ready?”

  Ready? If she leaned down much farther, he would catch a glimpse down her robe. Then he’d be ready.

  Sounding patient, she said, “Ian, I really don’t intend to slit your throat.”

  Of course she didn’t. Alanna would never take the easy way out—nor allow him to. She would drag out this conversation until he ran away, or went mad—or until he believed she loved him.

  God, did he dare believe her? “Shave me,” he said gruffly.

  With a long stroke, she removed the first of his whiskers—and, to his surprise, none of his skin. Carefully she wiped off the blade and started again, and after the first tense moments, he realized she was good. Very good. “You’re better than my valet.”

  “I used to shave my father. He didn’t trust anyone else to do it—there were plenty at Fionnaway who wished him dead—and he said my sense of duty was such I wouldn’t slit his throat.” With a clean cloth she wiped it off and leaned back to him. “Unfortunately, he was right.”

  He couldn’t stand it anymore. He had to know. “Why aren’t you angry at me about the loss of Fionnaway?”

  “It was my fault. I failed in my duty to ask about your background.”

  “And why did you do that, when you’d been so conscious of your duty in every other way?” He waited, breath held, for her reply.

  “Perhaps I didn’t care about the answer.” She finished his throat with tender care, then stropped the razor again. “When I was the witch, you took loving care of Fionnaway. When you found out who I was, you didn’t try to kill me. You wanted to wed me instead. You didn’t declare your undying love, but told me the truth. You want Fionnaway, not for its wealth of sea opals, but for the home it gives you.” Again she soaped her hand, and spread it this time on his cheeks. “You’re a good man, Ian MacLeod.”

  “You’ve had a hard upbringing, Alanna, if you think my determination to wed rather than kill you is evidence of a noble character.”

  Her dimple blinked at him as she smiled. “There are some who would not have hesitated if they had known my location.”

  Her suspicion of his intent, he could have understood. He could have comprehended her resentment about the marriage, about his illegitimacy and the destruction he’d wrought to her life. What he could not understand was her trust.

  She seemed to know his thoughts, for she leaned against his shoulder and said it again. “I love you.”

  I love you. She said the words; they sliced at him as the razor had not. And he didn’t even bleed. “You can’t love a scarred, crippled man.”

  With her free hand she smoothed his hair back and looked down into his eyes. “You’re none of that. If I were a conceited woman, I would crow to the world I’ve wed the finest-looking man in all Scotland.”

  Leaning his head back, he traced her features with his gaze. The glaze of freckles melted across her nose, and her wide mouth smiled or frowned or, as now, thinned with determination. For Alanna, emotions were not enemies, but simply the best part of living, and he envied her her naïveté. But while he knew he couldn’t bear it if she sought out and found all the dark corners of his soul, still he also knew he had to caution her. “You can’t see the scars. You can’t see the impairment. You don’t love me. You love an illusion.”

  She laughed. Laughed at his dark warning, “Oh, Ian, do you think I can’t distinguish who I love?”

  With her fingertip she turned his head to the side. He heard the scrape of the razor as she bared more of his face to the air. The sun would scorch his newly exposed skin. The wind would burn him. Yet his skin would grow tough—his spirit had to be tempered by exposure, too.

  “I know that compared to you I’m a green girl, but that doesn’t mean you know everything and I know nothing.” Leaning close, she laid her cheek against his and hummed her satisfaction. “In fact”—her breath dusted his ear—“when it comes to love, I know more than you.”

  Maybe he could bleed, after all. “Do you? So you’ve declared love to many men.”

  Offended, she straightened. “I can see why you’re worried about getting your throat slit.” Spreading the hem of her robe open, she said, “But don’t be silly. No men. Until you, I haven’t particularly thought well of men. Love is not only about male and female.”

  “Isn’t it?” Right now, with his gaze fixed to the gleam of her legs, he would have sworn it was.

  She straddled him, one knee against his thigh, the other foot flat on the floor. The clean scent of her intoxicated him. The restless stir of her body against his created eddies of pleasure. The wind roared outside, but inside the hut was snug and warm, and her breasts were close enough to tease his mouth. He waited in anticipation for her to open the top of her robe.

  “Tighten your lips,” she said. “I want to do your chin.”

  “Do my chin?”

  “Shave your chin,” she enunciated clearly. “I want to shave your chin. Now, tighten your lips.” He did, and watched entranced as, unconscious, she imitated him. Her words came out oddly as she moved her mouth to one side, then the other side. “I love Fionnaway. I love my people. I love my cat.” She gestured toward Whisky, sleeping on the rug. “Long ago, I loved my mother. She always told me what to do. She reprimanded me and forced me to take responsibility. She made fun of me when I threw tantrums.” She grimaced at him. “But I still loved her.”

  “Why?”

  “You’ve got a cleft,” she said inconsequentially. “I think you might be the most handsome man in all the Britains beneath this thatch.”

  “Oh, I am.” So the women said.

  “Do you want any whiskers at all?” She held the razor at the ready. “A mustache, perhaps?”

  “You might as well see it all,” he answered, knowing that if she could successfully shave the delicate contour of his upper lip, a valet would be superfluous. Then, driven by unsatisfied curiosity, he said again, “How could you love your mother if she was like that?”

  “What do you mean, how? I loved her because she loved me enough to care to tell me what to do. So don’t tell me I don’t know what love is. You’re the one who wouldn’t know it if it bit you.” Bending over, she nipped his shoulder.

  He shuddered and grabbed for her. She chuckled and expectantly looked down at him. She was warm in his hands, alive and vital in a way he could never be. Yet he clung to her in the vain hope that somehow the heat of her body and the depth of her passions might someday melt his heart. “I can’t return your love.”

  “Well…nay. Probably not. Not now.” Her chest rose and fell in a sigh, and she put the razor to his other cheek. As she scraped the whiskers away, she said, “But you can’t crush my hopes for the future.”

  She seemed to have faith that if she just loved him enough, sooner or later he would naturally return the emotion. Yet he had spent years wandering alone; he had no such faith, and if he were a good man, he would smash such hopes now.

  “I’m not a good man.” He said it to himself as much as to her.

  She tossed back her head and laughed, a delighted froth of merriment, while he noted h
er body’s scent and the grace of her neck, and wondered how the woman had made a sensual pleasure of a shave and confrontation.

  “Ah, Ian, I would say you are very good.”

  “Saucy lass.”

  Still smiling, she dabbed suds on his upper lip. With a delicate touch, she removed the last of his whiskers from his face. Wiping away the lingering flecks of foam, she stepped back and surveyed her handiwork. He found himself waiting for the verdict, as if her opinion could change his visage.

  “Ohh.” The sound was a mere exhale of admiration. As if she couldn’t resist, her hand hovered over his face, then came to rest on his cheek. She traced his cheekbone, then smoothed her hand over his chin. “You’re right. You are the best-looking man in all the Britains.” Taking the towel from around his neck, she leaned over him, her mouth hovering above his. “The thing is—I fear I would have wed you regardless of your appearance.”

  “Would you?” He wrapped his arms around her. The razor clattered on the table behind him.

  “Oh, aye.”

  He weighed her words, judged the sincerity behind them. She told the truth. Maybe not all the truth, but enough of it to make him say, “I always thought if I loved someone, I could make magic.”

  “I would say your magic has wet Fionnaway pretty thoroughly.” She kissed him lightly, then rubbed her lips against his. “I like you without a beard.”

  “Good.” He opened her robe and surveyed the body he’d claimed. “Because I’ve just discovered I like to be shaved.”

  Abruptly she pulled back, and he let her go, wondering why she wasn’t clinging to him. Had he insulted her? Was she shy again? Capricious, perhaps? But no, she struggled to open the double-tied belt, and allowed her robe to slip to the floor.

  The lightning crackled, no longer right over their heads, but still strong enough to illuminate her tentative smile. He didn’t have to take, demand, seduce. She was offering herself.