Amanda Scott (28 page)

He stood then without a word and drew her to her feet. She thought he would move aside to let her pass, but he did not. Instead, he drew her into his embrace, enfolding her and effectively shutting out the rest of the world.

She could smell a light citrus scent that lingered in his hair from the powder, and a spicier scent of cloves from his clothing. She could both hear and feel his deep, steady breathing. When he touched her chin with his fingertips, she obeyed their slight pressure and tilted her face up. His lips touched hers, softly at first, tasting her, exploring her lips with the tip of his tongue, sending a wave of fresh, new sensations racing through her body.

Intrigued, she tried doing the same to him, and he tasted of cheese and mellow wine. Her hands were at his waist, and she could feel the soft silk of his waistcoat, the nubbly silver threads of its brocading.

His fingers and palms moved slowly, tantalizingly, over her body, from her shoulders to the curve of her waist and over her hip. Then one moved upward, cupping a breast, a thumb rubbing lightly over its tip, stirring feelings she had not known existed. All the while he kept kissing her, tempting her to do the things he was doing, teasing her, provoking new sensations with every movement. She ached for him, and when he held her tightly, she could feel his body stir against hers.

One of his hands groped at her waist, its movements feeling different from before. They were urgent, seeking motions. She heard him moan impatiently.

Drawing back slightly, she said, “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“How the devil does this thing unfasten? I cannot find button or clasp.”

A gurgle of laughter escaped, and she said, “There are hooks, tiny ones. Here, I’ll show you, but should we not put out the candles? They’re getting low.”

“No. I want to see you, lassie.”

“Aye, well, then you shall. It’s your right, after all.”

“And yours, lass, to see what you’ve saddled yourself with.”

She showed him how to unhook the robe, and it fell open, revealing that she wore only her thin cambric chemise and underskirt beneath it.

“What if someone comes in?” she asked.

“They won’t.” He eased the robe from her shoulders, and it fell in a pool of soft, pale-yellow wool at her feet. He stood without moving, looking at her.

Michael inhaled deeply. Her white chemise was cut low to follow the fashionable low décolletage of most gowns, and he saw that what he had thought earlier was lace edging her gown was, in fact, the lace trimming of her chemise showing above the bodice edge. The soft swell of her breasts rose above the lace. The top of the garment, threaded with a white satin ribbon drawstring, tied so that it just touched the outside ends of her shoulders.

He untied the ribbon and pushed the chemise down, exposing her breasts to his touch. Her skin felt warm and soft, and it glowed golden in the candlelight. When he touched a nipple, she gasped, and he felt his blood race at the sound. He forced himself to move slowly, though, knowing she would enjoy the experience more if he did not rush her. Stroking her with one hand, he found the ribbon for the underskirt and untied it. Then skirt and chemise followed her robe to the floor.

Naked now, she shivered, and he said, “We don’t want you getting cold.” As he spoke, he scooped her into his arms and laid her on the bed, pulling the coverlet over her. Quickly, he took off his clothes, snuffed the now-guttering candles except for the one nearest the bed, and slipped in beside her. His body was ready for hers, throbbing with impatience. He slid one hand beneath the coverlet, sliding it over her soft belly, lower and lower to see if she was yet ready for him.

He heard her breath catch in her throat, but when he pulled back, she caught his hand with hers, holding it in place. “Don’t stop now,” she said.

He kissed her, and when his lips touched hers, his hunger for her threatened to overpower him. He wanted to taste every inch of her, to possess her, body and soul. Exerting himself to go slowly, he succeeded only in increasing his desire.

Where her fingertips touched him, his body burned, and when she used her mouth and her lips as he was using his, he feared he would explode from sheer, driving lust. At last, he could stand it no longer, and he took her, fighting to be as gentle as he knew how to be but fearing that it was not gentle enough. Before he was spent, the last candle guttered and went out.

He heard her moans and knew there was as much pain in them as pleasure, if not more, and he wondered if she were already regretting her decision to marry him.

He held her close, stroking her hair. “Did I hurt you?”

“A little,” she said, “but only at the end.”

“It won’t always hurt,” he said.

“Aye, it’s easing now.”

Her voice stirred him again, but this time it was his protective instinct that stirred. He wanted to make the last vestige of pain disappear.

The bed vibrated slightly, and fur touched the arch of his left foot, then his calf. A cold nose touched the back of his knee as Penelope said, “What on earth?”

He felt a bubble of laughter in his throat but managed to keep his voice under control as he said, “I’m afraid it’s Cailean. The door to the dressing room must not have shut tightly, because I did not hear it open.”

“We might not have heard it in any event,” she said, and he heard laughter in her voice. “Does he often sleep with you?”

“Only when he can get away with it. He usually waits until I am asleep, then creeps up under the covers from the foot of the bed. He doesn’t have fleas, I promise. Chalmers bathed him after his adventures, and assured me—”

He broke off without finishing the sentence, because his bride was laughing so hard that she couldn’t possibly hear him anyway.

The following morning, when Pinkie awoke, Doreen was opening the curtains and Kintyre and Cailean were gone. She was alone in the high bed. The sun was shining outside, though, spilling paths of gold through the tall window, across the bedchamber carpet. She looked forward to the day ahead.

“Good morning, Doreen,” she said, sitting up and pushing hair from her eyes. Memory of the dog’s attempt to sleep with them made her want to laugh again.

Doreen returned her greeting, adding, “I kent ye wouldna want to lie abed this morning, my lady, though his lordship said not to disturb ye.”

“You were right,” Pinkie said, getting up and slipping her arms into the wrapping robe Doreen held ready for her. Hot water steamed in a ewer on the washstand, and when she moved toward it, Doreen skipped ahead to pour it into the basin for her. Pinkie raised her eyebrows. “Am I to do naught for myself now?”

Smiling, Doreen said, “Ye’re a countess now, m’lady. It isna fitting.”

“Don’t be daft,” Pinkie said. “Lady Balcardane does not shy from homely tasks, and neither shall I.”

“Ye will an ye wish to impress Lady Bridget,” Doreen said with a sniff. “Her ladyship isna pleased with the new arrangement, I’m thinkin’.”

Knowing she should not encourage Doreen to talk of Bridget, Pinkie opened her mouth to say as much but instead found herself saying, “What has she done?”

“Och, it isna what she’s done,” Doreen said. “’Tis only that she makes it her business to put us wrong wi’ the servants here. I havena spoken up, knowing well that ye would want me to hold m’ tongue, but ’tis a trial to meet wi’ disapproving looks and to see people who should ken better turn away when I enter a room.”

“Bless me,” Pinkie said. “I wonder what she can have said about us.”

“I dinna ken,” Doreen said, “but the auld ladies be kind. They said the family doesna go to kirk till after noon, but they be at table now, so I came to wake ye.”

Pinkie thanked her and dressed as hurriedly as was commensurate with tidiness, then went in search of the breakfast parlor, which she found on the same floor as the drawing room, overlooking the back garden instead of the street. The sun had not yet reached the room, for it faced northwest and the small garden below its windows remained in shadow. In compensation, however, the room itself was cheerfully alive with color.

Two walls were yellow, and the other two bore lively Chinese wallpaper, depicting brilliantly colored birds perched on gilded and flowered branches of unlikely trees. The woodwork and fireplace surround were white, and the chief colors in the floral carpet were pale green, pink, yellow, and cream. An oval table near the corner where the papered walls met wore a floor-length yellow linen cloth with a wide border embroidered with birds and flowered branches, repeating the wallpaper pattern.

Mrs. Thatcher and Lady Marsali were alone in the room when Pinkie entered, and both greeted her cheerfully; however, she had no sooner taken her seat at the table with them when first Sal entered to ask what she wanted with her toast, and then Bridget entered, looking magnificent in a morning gown of sapphire blue trimmed with deep edgings of white lace.

Sal was halfway to the door when Bridget swept in, and the maid stepped aside to let her pass, saying, “Will ye want coffee, tea, or chocolate, my lady?”

Bridget did not deign to answer, saying to her with noticeable irritation instead, “Nan told me that a letter came for me in yesterday’s post—when we were at the wedding—but that you would not let her take it to my bedchamber. I want to know who you think you are to interfere with my maid!”

Sal’s face reddened, but she did not answer, looking instead to her mistress.

Mrs. Thatcher said calmly, “Kintyre asked to see any letters addressed to you before they were given to you, my dear. We forgot to tell him about that one, I’m afraid—well, in point of fact, we did not know until this morning, and we did not see him before he went out. He told Sal he is meeting with Sir Renfrew Campbell,” she added obliquely. “In any event, you would not expect Sal to disobey him.”

“Where is my letter?” Bridget demanded.

“On the sideboard,” Lady Marsali said, “but really, my dear, you must wait until Kintyre returns before you read it. There is a posy, as well, so I daresay you can content yourself with that until—”

“Don’t be silly,” Bridget snapped, turning to the sideboard and snatching up both the letter and the little bouquet of wilting flowers that lay next to it in a dainty silver holder. A note was tucked into the holder with the flowers, and she opened it, reading swiftly and smiling as she moved to set it down again. Then she paused and looked up with a frown. “I thought you said that Michael had gone out, but the seal on this note is broken. Who opened it?”

“I did, my dear,” Lady Marsali said. “We knew that Kintyre would not deny you your posy, but I did think we should know the sender’s name. You know,” she added thoughtfully before Bridget could speak, “I do not think it is quite the thing for a young man to send you flowers without properly identifying himself.”

Bridget raised her chin defiantly. “I think it is romantic. Moreover, you can see that the letter is directed in the same hand, so you know that it came from him, as well. If I can have the posy, I can read the letter. In any event, I intend to read it; so there.” She looked at each of them in turn, and when no one spoke, she turned again to Sal and said, “I want chocolate. Be sure it is hot when it reaches the table.”

“Yes, my lady.” Sal fled.

Bridget glowered at Pinkie. “You are sitting where I like to sit.”

Lady Marsali said, “Bridget, dear, you are being prodigiously rude again, and are putting us all to the blush. You must apologize to Penelope at once.”

“Must I, indeed?” Bridget said, her tone more haughty than ever. Glaring at Pinkie, she said, “I dare swear you will agree with her. Perhaps you also agree that I should not read my own letters without permission from my brother to do so.”

Having purposely remained silent, but realizing that Bridget had no intention of allowing her to do so any longer, Pinkie said quietly, “I know only that I would not defy my brother if he gave such an order.”

“Your brother is not a tyrant,” Bridget said. “He would never issue such an order. Nor,” she added with a knowing smile, “would he want anyone to prevent me from reading letters from my secret admirer.”

“Well, I do not know how you can know that,” Pinkie said. Thoughtfully, she added, “I cannot say for certain, of course, that he ever would give an order like that to me, but then, I have never given him cause to do so.”

“Do you think I have?” Bridget sounded outraged.

Looking her straight in the eye, Pinkie said coolly, “I do not think you have given my brother cause to do any such thing, or that you ever will.”

Mrs. Thatcher, audibly choking back laughter, looked down at her plate.

Bridget shot her a look, but it was to Pinkie that she said, “I expect you think that you are clever, but you are no such thing. I know exactly what you are.”

“And, pray, what is that?” Pinkie asked with an edge to her voice.

Bridget tossed her head. “You know, and I know, but you need not worry that I shall give your secrets away. I have better cause, I believe, to conceal them.” She held up her letter. “I am going to read this in private.”

Sal returned with a tray bearing two small, round pots and a rack of toast, but as she passed Bridget, the latter said, “I have changed my mind, Sal. You may serve my chocolate in the drawing room.” With that, she swept out of the room in the same haughty manner as she had entered it.

“Dear me,” Lady Marsali said, shaking her head. “Kintyre will be sorely vexed, I fear.”

“As sure as eggs is eggs,” Mrs. Thatcher agreed. Turning to Pinkie, she added, “Bridget seems to have taken you in dislike, my dear Penelope. I vow, I did not know where to look when she spoke so disrespectfully to you.”

“Odious girl,” Lady Marsali said, reaching for a piece of warm toast from the rack. “Pay her no heed, my dear. Kintyre will soon sort her out.”

“I assure you, ma’am, I do not want to cause strife between Kintyre and his sister,” Pinkie said. “I think perhaps I should talk to her before he returns.”

“If you think you can accomplish anything by talking, pray do so,” Lady Marsali said. “For my part, I wish someone would give her a good skelping.”

Pinkie smiled. “I know you are too kindhearted to mean that, ma’am.”