“It’s something special, little bear.” He brought his fingers to her collarbone, touching very lightly.
“That’s why I want it to be you.”
“Even though…” His voice trailed off. He knew, she supposed, that he didn’t need to say it; not for her benefit. They both knew.
He wasn’t going to be hers.
She wasn’t going to be his.
Whatever happened, it was just for this moment in time.
And that was fine—because it was her choice. No matter what happened, she’d always have this. It would be her secret, tucked safely from the judgement of others.
She turned around and gave him a smile. “You need to catch up. I’m not taking off the rest until you’ve shown me everything.”
“Yes, ma’am.” With top coat and boots gone, he peeled off his shirt and tossed it to one side.
His chest was just as broad and muscled as she’d known it would be—like the statues in the British Museum, but far from marble cold. His skin was a light brown, marked at the shoulders by the sun. And there was hair on his chest—curling thick like the mane on his head, covering all the way to a dark arrow pointing downward, disappearing within the waistband of his trousers.
Her eyes were fixed there, on that trailing line. She had an inkling where it led to. Not all statues wore fig leaves, after all. And she’d felt the outline of what he kept in his trousers, too—the first time he’d kissed her, and again, outside; a rod of something long and hard that wanted to poke at her belly.
“Keep going.”
She wanted to see it.
He tipped his fingers in mock salute and slowly pulled through his belt. She watched him unbutton the fly, letting the trousers drop. With only his small garments beneath, the outline of his manhood was apparent. It pushed out against the fabric, making a tent in front.
“These as well?” He was teasing, pulling out the waistband and peeking inside. “Are you sure your maidenly sensibilities can cope?”
“Uh huh.” She licked her lips. There was no doubt in her mind.
And then, they were off.
He stood entirely naked, backlit by the fire. The front of his body was half-shadowed but she saw enough to know that he was a prime specimen of man.
The hair sprung thick between his legs, but it did nothing to hide that part of him a man used for reproduction.
She felt hot and lewd, wanting to touch him—was struck by a yearning to rub her cheek over him; not just over the fur of his chest and that flat abdomen but along his thighs and…
Her heart was racing.
Had she really just thought that?
Yes. She wanted to rub her face over his penis.
Not just her face.
She wanted to open her mouth and taste it.
What was wrong with her?
She was depraved, surely.
Except that, looking at Rye, and seeing how he was looking at her, it didn’t feel like it could be wrong.
Keeping her eyes on this new part of him, she pulled the ribbon of her chemise and shimmied it downward, then did the same with the ribbon on her drawers.
Suddenly, she was as naked as he, feeling a little goosebumped and uncertain.
Was her body as much a surprise to him? It wasn’t the first he’d seen, she expected, but women came in different shapes. What would he think of her, now that she was showing him everything?
Before she had a chance to ask, he stepped closer and answered whatever she was thinking with his hands. Warm and firm, they moved over her breasts, cupping their weight. His thumb and forefinger grazed her nipples.
“Rye.” She breathed his name rather than spoke it, and he bent his head to her neck, kissing down to her shoulder and then up again, into her nape and hair.
His kisses, first tender, grew fervent—his mouth and lips and tongue eating her up and all the while murmuring endearments, telling her she was perfect, and that he couldn’t stop touching her, that he wanted to taste and squeeze and own every part.
He kissed her mouth again, long and hard, while his hands stroked the arch of her spine and the dimples above the curve of her bottom, and then he brought his lips to the top of her breasts, kissing their softness.
He covered every part of them with his mouth, drawing the peak of her nipple deep inside, then letting it free, gazing upon the bud a moment before pulling it back into the warmth for a second feasting, suckling like a babe hungry for nourishment.
Moving lower, he grazed his stubble over her belly, telling her what he wanted to do—that he was going to kiss her there and make her wet for him.
And then, he was actually doing it, without waiting for her to say no or yes.
Not that she wanted to say no—not to any of it.
He’d fallen to his knees and was breathing through her tangle of curls, his hands reaching round to caress her behind.
She pushed at his head, giggling. There was nothing there for him to kiss. It was silly. She didn’t know what he was doing.
But then he pulled her knee onto his shoulder and brought his mouth straight between her legs, and his tongue was on her cleft.
“Rye!” she gasped, wriggling. “What are you—?”
And then she knew, for his nose was buried in her curls and his tongue was pushing inside her, and it was the most terrible, wonderful thing.
With his hands firm on her behind, he was pulling her onto his face, wanting to do this to her as much as she was enjoying having him do it. She pushed her hips forward and he moaned.
“So beautiful.” He was muttering again and holding her tight, drawing the flat of his tongue across that secret part of her and then tickling her with the tip, making her writhe with exquisite, sharp-sweet pleasure.
Right there, where he was teasing her, she was growing hot and restless, melting onto his tongue. He kept pressing and circling, and clasping her in such a way that she couldn’t hope to escape from the deep, sweet ache.
Without realising it, she’d wrapped her fingers in his hair and was pushing herself just as hard, panting “No” and then “Yes”, and “Oh” and “Yes” again. Something burning bright was coming for her and she didn’t know how to stop it. It was bowling her over and tossing her and making her push harder against him.
She didn’t know what sounds she was making, only that she couldn’t prevent them. His tongue was drawing them out of her, and she was shaking and trembling. And then the burning consumed her utterly and made her cry and tug his hair so hard she must have hurt him, but he only held her tighter.
“Ursula.” Her name was rough on his lips. He looked up at her with eyes half-closed but entirely focused.
“I need to be inside you now. That part of myself that’s hard, it’s all for you. I need to bury myself inside you. It’s how a man gives a woman a child, but I won’t let that happen. I can stop before that happens.”
He was already rising, cupping his arm under her knees and carrying her.
The blanket was still on the bed from the first time.
Gently, he laid her down and kneeled above her.
She couldn’t stop looking at that part of him. Where it had bobbed half-upright before, it looked different now: thicker, longer, and wet at the tip.
In the same way that he’d made her wet, she’d done this to him.
By God, she was lovely.
She’d stripped everything away—not just her clothing but her soul, and he was so hard for her, he didn’t know where to begin. She deserved to be worshipped.
Not just screwed—which was what the prostitutes in San Antonio had given him. He’d only been a handful of times, and it had all been over pretty quickly. The women he’d lain with had seemed perfectly happy with that—a customer who paid his coin and did what he’d come to do. It had been nothing like this.
He knew what it felt like to enter a woman’s body; knew what sorts of noises a woman made when she was liking it, too. But, Ursula was a virgin. Everything that happened betw
een them would be the first time for her.
He’d have to be careful not to hurt her—and to watch himself, too. It was going to be damn difficult, but he couldn’t spill inside her. He’d protect her from that, however much his body was telling him otherwise.
He wanted to lick and bite and taste her all the way down and up again, to bury himself balls-deep and pulse his desire into the velvet heart of her—but this wasn’t about him. It was about him showing her what she meant to him.
He’d filled his hands with her, making her pant and mewl as he squeezed and tugged—but not too hard.
He couldn’t be too rough with her, but he’d been just rough enough. He wanted her to know that he was taking charge; taking charge of her body and her pleasure. She’d asked him to show her what this was about, and he didn’t plan to disappoint.
He hadn’t been sure if she’d let him kiss between her legs but she’d taken to it without too much embarrassment. Better than that. He knew where a woman’s most intense sensations were and he’d found that place for Ursula. Hearing her moan had been headily arousing. The smell of her, and the beauty of her body, the heat of what she was offering him—all of it was arousing, but most especially the trust she was investing in him.
When she’d come in his mouth, he’d almost spent on the floor, right underneath her.
Now, he moved his weight over her, pushing forward with his hips until the shaft of his erection lay against her cleft.
He groaned into the hollow of her throat.
“I’m ready, Rye. I want you. Don’t worry about it hurting. I know it will—but it will be all right. My body’s made for this, isn’t it—it’s made for you.”
Hearing her say it tipped him over the edge.
He shifted the angle of his pelvis and his cock, swollen with desire he could barely contain, and found the soft wetness she’d created for him. He drew the broad crown down her cleft, then pushed just the tip inside, rubbing against the swollen part of her. She looked up at him with wide eyes and parted lips.
She trusts you.
He had to remind himself. This wasn’t about him; it was for her.
“I don’t want to hurt you.” No, he didn’t—but the ache in his balls was going to rupture him unless he did what he needed to do.
He couldn’t hold off any longer.
He wanted to drive his cock into her heat.
He want to thrust home and ride her senseless.
He pushed forward.
Mine.
He sank deeper.
This is mine.
She tensed and gasped—but he was inside her, where it was tight and hot, and soft and—nothing had ever felt so good.
It had hurt. She’d known it would; a sharp burning as he’d entered her.
But it wasn’t hurting any more. There was too much slipperiness for that.
He was sliding into her, moving in a steady rhythm and, despite the chill of the room, she was burning hot.
He was, too. There was perspiration on his skin, making his chest stick to hers, dragging rough against her breasts.
The way he was rubbing against her was exciting, making something build again. Something raw. Something she needed. She was on the edge of it and it was different to what he’d done with his tongue.
That had been tender. Reverential even.
This was utterly carnal.
He was moving quickly, pumping fast, then faster. What had begun slowly sped and tumbled, as if they were racing to some invisible finish line.
She tipped back her head to let him see her and wrapped her legs around his, tipping her hips where he was joined to her. She was aware, suddenly, of all the places in which their bodies were touching. That thought, alone, excited her. That there was nothing between them. He was inside her and she wanted him there.
The heat was growing, as if it would ignite her in a great flash, licking through her belly and thighs and sparking right at the spot where they were joined; a huge, blinding flame of pleasure covering every part of her but centred right there, in the place that was giving him pleasure too.
She dragged her nails over his shoulders, needing him to do just this. If he stopped, she would scream, but her voice already seemed to be doing that. A wave of uncontrollable joy swept through her and she arched into him again.
Suddenly, he was groaning and looking down with a surprised expression, as if he didn’t quite believe she was there with him.
“Dear God! Ursula!”
He thrust one last time and went still, his face buried in her hair.
His body was humming for her—utterly spent, but fiercely alive too.
What had passed between them had been incredible.
Only one thing was wrong. Deep inside, he’d given her every drop of his release.
He should have been horrified. And, yet, part of him was glad.
How hadn’t he seen it before?
He wasn’t just attracted to Ursula. He was in love. And telling himself anything else was just plain dishonest.
He’d been so busy thinking what he needed to do to make other people happy, he’d forgotten that he deserved happiness himself. And Miss Ursula Abernathy did more than make him happy. She made his heart sing.
She acted fearless—even when he knew she was shaking with fear, and she was thoughtful—even when nobody else seemed to give her a second thought.
He ought to get down on one knee here and now and beg her to marry him. Nothing else mattered, did it, in the end? He could still do his duty without marrying one of his cousins. He’d make it his duty to find them each a better husband than he could have been.
But, if he was going to propose, he needed to do it right—not on this tatty mattress in a shepherd’s bothy, without even a ring to offer her.
He’d get her safely back to the castle and then arrange a meeting with his grandfather. It wouldn’t be an easy conversation, but nothing worth having ever came easy.
It was time he stood up for what he knew was right for him—and he wouldn’t make his proposal until he’d convinced his family to accept his choice of bride.
If his future truly was here, at Dunrannoch, he wanted Miss Ursula Abernathy to share that future with him. Nothing, and no-one, was going to stand in the way.
Chapter Seventeen
Early-evening, 20th December
Ursula sat before the fire in her room, brushing out her hair.
She’d known that nothing would be the same afterward. She’d been a virgin and now she wasn’t, but it wasn’t just her body that had changed. In those moments afterwards, stroking Rye’s back, she’d felt an overpowering tenderness.
He’d leaned up on one elbow and looked at her, and what she’d seen had thrilled her.
Because something in him was different, too.
They were both alive and joyous and vibrant, and what they’d shared was like nothing else in the world.
Was it so wrong of her, now, to harbour a secret hope—that what had happened had deeper meaning for them both?
Throughout the day, guests had been arriving for the countess’ Yuletide cèilidh and there seemed no-one in the house unaffected by the excitement.
The banqueting hall was dazzling—every surface flickering with candles and a hundred baubles in gold and silver between, their facets catching the glinting light. The Christmas tree was swathed in ribbons and all manner of sweet confectionaries, and boughs of green swung from the rafters.
There was a magical atmosphere within the castle, but Ursula felt a pang at what this night might bring.
Lady Dunrannoch had said she would encourage Rye to select from amongst his cousins. Would there be an announcement then, before all the guests?
Though Cameron would be unable to dance, he was recovered enough to attend and had refused to allow any adjustment to the plans on his account. He would sit with his grandfather, he said, and enjoy the festivities from a comfortable chair.
Ursula had hoped that Rye would seek her out, but
he’d been closeted with the earl most of the day—discussing his various duties, she supposed.
Or which of his cousins he’ll be marrying…
Ursula laid out her blue silk with the smallest of sighs, and was about to change into it when there was a knock upon her door.
“Lady Iona?” Ursula stepped back to allow the earl’s daughter entry. “Is everything all right?”
“You won’t mind my intrusion, I hope.” Iona glanced about the room’s meagre furnishings. “I wanted to thank you for helping Cameron. With so much commotion yesterday, I fear your kind efforts were overlooked.”
“I did nothing at all,” Ursula protested. “The level-head was all Lord Balmore’s. I acted only as he instructed.”
“Nevertheless, I’m indebted.” Lady Iona pressed her hand upon Ursula’s. “And I’ve brought something.” Over her arm, she was carrying a length of amber-golden tulle. “The warm tones should suit your complexion. It was a favourite of mine in the year my husband courted me.” The colour rose to Lady Iona’s cheeks. “We shall not recall how many years ago that was, suffice to say that I had Cameron the following year, and the dress never fitted again. I should long ago have passed the gown to someone who would gain pleasure from wearing it.” She laid it carefully beside Ursula’s upon the bed.
Beneath the tulle was a layer of palest peach silk, while golden threads embroidered the yoke of the bodice. It was not in the current fashion, but the elegance of the gown was timeless.
A surge of gratitude filled Ursula’s chest. “It’s truly beautiful, and I’ll be honoured to wear it.”
The thoughtfulness of the gift touched her more deeply than she could say. She’d seen herself only as an outsider at the castle, but this kind action spoke otherwise.
“I trust you’ll enjoy this evening, Miss Abernathy, though we may be a little topsy-turvy, due to Lord Balmore’s novel suggestion.”
Intrigued, Ursula invited Lady Iona to take the armchair by her fire.
“Food and beverages are to be set out along one side for guests to help themselves,” explained Lady Iona, “So that our staff can join in the dancing—at least for an hour or two.”
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