What the Hart Wants

by Royal, Emily

  “Now you’re talking nonsense,” she said.

  He released her hand, and her skin tightened at the sense of loss.

  “You do me an injustice, Miss Hart.”

  “Perhaps we should engage in the real business of the afternoon,” she said.

  She pulled a sheaf of papers from her reticule and handed them to him. He smiled and placed them on a table.

  “Aren’t you going to look at them?” she asked.

  “Let me get you a drink first.”

  He crossed the floor to a table laden with decanters. He reached for one, poured a small amount of amber liquid into a beveled glass, then handed it to her.

  “Shouldn’t you ask me what I want?” she asked.

  “Trust me,” he said. “Let me give ye what ye need. Savor the aroma.”

  She lifted the glass to her nose and breathed in the sharp spices, which mellowed and sweetened as she filled her lungs.

  “It smells like heaven,” she whispered.

  “That’s because it’s forbidden,” he said. “It was distilled forty years ago. My grandfather had whisky in his blood. Not only did he turn a blind eye to the moonshine on his estate, he partook of it himself. He set some aside to mature for future generations, knowing that he wouldn’t live to enjoy it. This is the only bottle I have left. I keep it with me as a reminder that sometimes a man must be patient. The years have given it character. A soul.”

  “You speak as if it’s a living thing.”

  “It is, to me,” he said. “It’s in my veins and in my heart, and is irreplaceable.”

  “Then it should be preserved.”

  “Hidden away in the dark? What would be the point of that, lass? It’s meant to be relished by those rare souls capable of appreciating it.”

  She looked at the glass in her hand. It was as if he’d entrusted her with a piece of his soul. Her fingers trembled, and a large, warm hand closed over hers and steadied her.

  “Be still, lass,” he whispered.

  Her senses were assaulted by warmth and spices—the aroma of whisky combined with the woody, musky scent of man. She closed her eyes, and her mind floated in the delicious darkness.

  “Yield to me,” he whispered. “Feel it. Feel all of it.” His thumb teased her fingers, guiding them across the glass. With her fingertips, she explored the edges of the pattern etched into it. Every ridge, every angle, sliding over the smooth glass as if it were alive. Gently, but firmly, he nudged the rim against her mouth, coaxing her lips open.

  “That’s it, lass. Part them for me.”

  Heat bloomed in her cheeks. He tipped the glass up, and she flicked her tongue out. The warm, smoky liquid slid into her mouth, and flavor burst on her tongue.

  “Good girl.”

  Her body tightened at his gentle praise.

  “How do I taste?” he whispered.

  Soft fingertips caressed her neck, and she swallowed. Liquid fire coated her throat, warming her blood, and igniting the fire in her center. He lowered the glass, and she flicked her tongue out again, chasing the delicious sensation.

  “Ah, lass, are ye gaining an appetite for my nectar?”

  She gave a squeak of embarrassment as her body strained with need.

  “Ye only need say the word, lass, and you could savor the taste each day.”

  His words thickened the fog of lust, which swirled in her mind.

  “W-would you offer me something so precious?” she whispered.

  He plucked the glass from her fingers, then dipped his head and pressed his forehead against hers. His eyes glowed at her, as if stars lived deep inside his soul, and she inhaled the heady, intoxicating scent of whisky on his breath—together with the softer aroma of heather and Highland air.

  “Aye, lass, I would.”

  His expression bore the desire she had come to recognize. But something else shimmered in his eyes. A burning need.

  And love.

  “Have I earned my final lesson?” she asked.

  Raw hunger pulsed in his eyes. “Are ye certain, lass?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you realize that with the final lesson comes the point of no return?”

  “I do,” she said. “I can think of no better teacher to…” she hesitated, “…to give myself to.”

  “Then, I shall treasure your gift, lass, and prove myself worthy of your trust. Come. My chamber awaits.”

  *

  As Fraser opened the door, small, delicate fingers tightened their grip on him, and the ache in his groin intensified.

  Ye gods, she was the most desirable woman he’d ever known! Not just for her beauty, which shone from within, but her feisty nature, tempered by her caring heart.

  The interior of his chamber reflected his tastes, the walls adorned with tapestries and things from home. The huge, canopied bed was covered in a thick woolen blanket bearing the colors of his family’s plaid.

  He released her hand and motioned toward the bed. Understanding, she sat, reaching out to caress the plaid covering.

  “It’s beautiful,” she whispered.

  “Aye,” he said. “I’ve brought my home to London. I’ll have the furnishings taken to Clayton House when the work is completed. Even a temporary home must be furnished in comfort, aye?”

  Disappointment flickered in her eyes. “Temporary? You intend to leave London?”

  “My heart belongs to the land of my ancestors.” He sat beside her and placed his hand on her cheek. “But, lately, I find my heart yearning to remain in London.”

  “Your business must make demands of you here,” she said, turning her head away.

  He smiled to himself. Did she know that the tone of her voice betrayed her?

  “Not just my business, lass,” he said, “but the needs of my body and the calling of my heart.”

  She tensed, and her hands curled into fists.

  Stubborn lass! Would she continue to deny her desires? Surely a woman with her intelligence would understand his declaration, even if he were incapable of voicing it directly. Or, perhaps it frightened her? Did she intend, after all, to marry that fool Sir Thomas? She was worth more than that. With her fire and compassion, she was fit to be a duchess.

  His duchess.

  “Bean mo chridhe,” he whispered.

  Woman of my heart.

  Together they would forge a bond stronger than the mountain—strong enough to withstand the responsibilities which came with his ancestry—both the Scottish and the English. He closed his eyes and pictured his woman—her mouth parted in surprise as he pleasured her thoroughly. And finally, her eyes sparkling with joy as she placed his child in his arms.

  His child.

  His eyes snapped open. From where had that notion come?

  “Delilah…” he breathed.

  She turned her head until their gazes locked. Her nostrils flared, the only sign of her anticipation.

  And her need.

  “Are ye my willing pupil?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she whispered. “Tell me what to do.”

  He caressed her face, running his thumb along her lips.

  “What shall I teach ye?”

  “Pleasure,” she said. “I want you to take command of me.” Her face flushed, and she bit her lip.

  His hands itched to remove her clothes, to reveal that lush body underneath. But she must come to him. “Strip for me, lass.”

  She didn’t move.

  “Must I repeat my request?”

  She shook her head, then stood. Arms trembling, she reached behind her gown and tugged at the ties. She gave a little huff of frustration as she fumbled behind her.

  “May I be of assistance?” he asked.

  He cupped her face and brushed a tear away with his thumb.

  “Are ye unhappy, lass?”

  “No.” She gestured with her hand. “It’s just…all this…it-it’s too much.”

  “Shall we stop?”

  “No!” she cried.

  “There’s no sha
me in giving yourself to me,” he said, “but it must be your choice.” He reached behind her and caught the ties at the back of her dress. Her body trembled against him.

  “May I?”

  She nodded, and he undid the ties. Then he released her and watched as she grasped her skirts and pulled her dress over her head.

  He reached for her chemise, and she held up her hand.

  “No,” she said. “Let me.”

  He backed away and sighed, fighting the disappointment. His whole body throbbed in eagerness to be buried inside her.

  Mischief glittered in her eyes.

  “I believe you commanded me to remove my clothes, Your Grace.”

  Desire surged in him as she peeled off her undergarments, wearing nothing but her stockings. She reached for the top of one stocking.

  “No!” he cried hoarsely. “Let me. Lay back on the bed.”

  She obeyed, then he took her foot in his hands and lifted it to his lips, kissing the toes through the silk stocking. Then he ran his hand along her leg. Her body trembled, and she let out a soft sigh.

  He leaned forward and brushed his lips against the ribbon holding her stocking in place. Her breathing grew heavy as he tugged at the ribbon and hooked his fingers under the stocking. He rolled the stocking down and placed a soft kiss on her bare knee. The skin of her thigh was flushed a delectable shade of pink, and he nearly spent in his breeches at the prospect of her flesh waiting to be claimed.

  When she lay naked before him like a delicious offering, he stood back to admire her. Her body was petite yet possessed lovely curves. Perfect breasts fashioned to fit his palms, a delicate waist he could span with his hands, and the flare of her hips with a tempting thatch of curls at the center. She closed her eyes, obviously ashamed of her vulnerability.

  “Delilah,” he said. “Will ye look at me?”

  She opened her eyes.

  “Good, lass,” he said. “Keep your eyes on me.”

  He removed his jacket and tossed it behind him. His necktie came next, then he unlaced his shirt and removed it. Her breath hitched, and he gave a soft chuckle.

  Her eyes widened as she lowered her gaze to his manhood, which was painfully hard now, almost brushing his stomach.

  “Do you like what you see, lass?”

  She dragged her teeth along her lower lip, then gave him a wicked smile.

  “You forget, sir, I was raised in the country. I’ve seen many bulls in rut.”

  The tremor in her voice betrayed her nervousness, yet still, she teased him!

  “I ought to discipline you for such insolence,” he said. “No tutor would permit his pupil to speak to him in such an unruly manner.”

  She grinned at him.

  He reached for the glass and swirled the whisky round. Just enough remained for his purposes. He climbed onto the bed next to her.

  “No,” he commanded as she tried to sit. “Remain where you are so that we may enjoy your lesson.” He held the glass up to the light and rotated it, letting the light dance off the facets of the crystal.

  “I intend to enjoy this whisky to the full.”

  He reached over and cupped a breast, relishing the silken skin against his fingertips.

  “Is that good, lass?”

  “Yes,” she whispered. He brushed a thumb across her nipple, and it beaded against his skin.

  “So responsive,” he whispered. “So needy.”

  He dipped a finger into the whisky and held it over her breast, a bead of amber liquid dripped onto her nipple, and she gave a little gasp.

  “How does it feel?” he whispered.

  She shook her head.

  “Tell me, lass,” he said. “To gain your reward, you must hide nothing from me.”

  “Hot,” she whispered. “Sharp, delicious. It feels like…oh!” She cried out as he took her nipple in his mouth, running his tongue around the tip.

  Perhaps this was how the best whisky was to be enjoyed, to enhance the flavor of his woman.

  His Highland queen.

  He tipped the glass until a dribble of liquid fell onto her stomach.

  The finest desserts were enhanced with a dram of whisky, and today he would feast on such a treat. He lowered his head and ran his tongue across her body, following the trail of the liquor, until he met the center of her belly.

  “Fraser…”

  His name on her lips was almost his undoing, and he gritted his teeth. He placed a hand on her thigh and brushed his thumb against her damp curls. With a sigh, she parted her legs.

  “Oh, sweet lord, lass,” he groaned. “I can feel you’re ready for me.” He slipped his finger inside her, and she shivered, drawing his finger deeper in.

  “Do you want something, lass?”

  “Please!” she cried.

  He lowered his head and inhaled her scent, then he flicked his tongue across her flesh and tasted her. Her body bucked, and he lifted his head once more, and she gave a sharp growl of impatience.

  “How long shall I make you wait?” he asked, teasing her. “When shall I instruct ye to take pleasure?”

  “Now…”

  “Are you sure, lass?” he asked. “Are ye ready?”

  “Yes!”

  He covered her with his body and claimed her mouth.

  She curled her tongue round his, and soft moans of pleasure rumbled in her throat.

  “Do you give yerself freely, lass?”

  “Yes.”

  Slowly he entered her, marveling at the heat which enveloped him, until he met her barrier.

  “Look at me, lass,” he whispered.

  The trust in her eyes tore at his heart.

  “Do you want me?”

  “Yes, Fraser,” she whispered. “Yes, I want you.”

  He sheathed himself fully inside her. Her eyes widened, and she let out a cry.

  “Good lass,” he whispered. “There is only a little pain your first time.”

  “I felt no pain,” she said.

  “What did ye feel?”

  She blinked and rolled her eyes as if searching for the words. “It was like the sting of the whisky on my tongue,” she whispered. “Sharp at first, followed by a delicious warmth. Deep inside.”

  “And do you want another sip?”

  She shifted her legs further apart. “I want to drink my fill.”

  He withdrew slowly, then eased himself inside her once more, savoring the feel of her body.

  “Mmm…” She arched her back.

  Her body shuddered, and he struggled to maintain control—he had waited so long for this, had fantasized about her every night.

  At all costs, her pleasure must come first.

  “Fraser!”

  Her body clenched around him. He thrust once more into her, and his own body shattered. Shards of pleasure ripped through him, exploding into stars.

  “Oh, lass!” he cried.

  He continued to thrust, drawing out every drop of pleasure, then he rolled onto his side, still inside her. She clung to him, her body trembling. He grasped the blanket and pulled it over them both, then he held her.

  “Fraser,” she whispered. “My Fraser…”

  A lock of hair had fallen over her face, and he brushed it aside. Her heart, which hammered against his chest, slowed to a deep, steady rhythm. He stroked her hair, and she sighed like a contented kitten.

  She was his soul mate. He had no wish to spend another day without her in his bed.

  As soon as he returned her home, he would seek out her brother and ask for her hand in marriage.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Lilah opened her eyes and reached out. The bed bore his imprint and a faint trace of warmth where he’d lain. A delicious soreness lingered between her thighs, and she blushed at the memory of the pleasures he’d given her. After making love, he’d let her sleep, then woke her, coaxing her to pleasure with expert fingers until she was ready for him again.

  But this time, the lesson was different. With gentle instructions, he taught her
how to please him, letting her ride him. Lacing his fingers with hers, he guided her as she took her own pleasure while she rocked her body to draw him deeper inside.

  The door opened, and she lifted her head.

  “Has my Highland queen recovered from her exertions?”

  He stood in the doorway, half-dressed, shirt open, revealing a dusting of hair, which she now knew grew thicker lower down.

  “How long have you been awake?” she asked.

  “Long enough to read these.” He lifted his hand, which held a sheaf of papers. “Your poems are beautiful. I’ve never read the like.”

  She colored and looked away. Despite the intimacies they’d shared, the mere thought of him reading the words from her soul made her feel more exposed to him than she had ever been.

  He approached the bed and took her hand.

  “Forgive me,” he said. “Was it deceitful to read them without your permission?”

  “No.”

  “You’ve been nothing but honest with me, lass. I hope you don’t think I’ve betrayed that honesty.”

  Shame prevented her from meeting his gaze—shame at her deception at having taken financial gain from writing such damning articles about his family name.

  “Won’t you look at me, Delilah?”

  Gentle fingers took her chin and coaxed her to look up. Their gazes met, and his eyes twinkled with a smile.

  “There, lass,” he said softly. “There must be no secrets between us.”

  She bit her lip, focusing on the pain to stem the tears. He traced the outline of her face with his fingertip.

  “There’s no shame in what we shared,” he whispered.

  “It’s not that,” she said. “I…”

  “Hush, lass,” A wicked glint shone in his eyes. “I hope, one day, to take ye against the hard granite of Beinn mo Chridhe. It’s time I blessed the mountain of my heart with my woman.”

  My woman.

  She could stand it no longer. The open honesty in his words and voice deserved equal honesty from her. She had to confess whatever the consequences.

  “Your Grace…”

  He shook his head. “I think we’re beyond formalities. You screamed my name, not half an hour earlier, lass. Can you not speak it now?”

  “Fraser.”