Lady Isabella's Scandalous Marriage (13 page)

Isabella stared at the mound of cream on Mac’s blunt fingers, and her mouth went dry. She kept her gaze on the cream so she wouldn’t have to look at his wicked smile and the gleam in his eyes.

Mac didn’t think she’d do it. He thought she’d tell him to go away, or burn him with some acerbic witticism. He didn’t think she’d dare reach over and gently lift a fold of his kilt. But she did.

“What did you say a Scotsman wore under this?” she asked.

Mac’s pupils widened, black swallowing copper. “Isabella.”

“If you thought your dare would make me blush like a schoolgirl, then you do not know much about schoolgirls.”

Mac laughed. His laughter died as Isabella rose, walked to the drawing room door, and turned the key in the lock. Mac remained on the sofa, watching her with a stunned look.

“The cream is melting,” she said.

Mac snapped his gaze to the dribbles of cream running from his fingers. Isabella came to him, caught his hand, and licked his fingers clean.

Mac always tasted agreeable. Isabella savored the smooth sweetness of the cream overlaid with the tangy salt of his skin.

She sat down, touching the tartan again. “Show me?”

Mac swallowed, his laughter gone. He took the hem of his kilt, drew in a breath, and scooted the fabric up to his stomach.

He was bare beneath, his cock dark and hard as it rested on his tight abdomen. He was breathing rapidly, the cock moving a little with his pulse. Isabella remembered the exact feel of it in her hand, how long it was and how thick, exactly how far she had to pull her hand up to complete one stroke. She also remembered precisely how it tasted and felt in her mouth.

Mac had always enjoyed the way she touched him. He’d sometimes joked that she must have studied cock pleasuring at Miss Pringle’s Select Academy, because she did it so well.

You taught me, Mac,
she’d whisper.

He’d also never gone bare under his kilt. Isabella knew full well that Mac usually wore drawers beneath, claiming that it was all very well to be traditionally Scots, but he had no intention of freezing his goolies off to satisfy tradition. He’d worn nothing today for her. To tease her.

Time for Isabella to turn the tables. “Stand up,” she said.

Mac got to his feet in a comically short time, the kilt still lifted. Isabella reached for the bowl of clotted cream, dipped her fingers into it, and smeared cream on his tip.

“Vixen.” Mac’s voice was ragged. He liked to call her that whenever she instigated play.

The word slid into a groan as Isabella leaned forward and closed her lips around him. His hands balled to fists over the fabric. Mac didn’t reach for her, didn’t touch her, just held the tartan out of the way in a white-knuckled grip.

Isabella suckled his tip, letting her tongue trace all the way around the flange. She dipped her tongue to the underside of the shaft to catch the cream that had dribbled there.

Mac rocked a little on his heels, but he didn’t try to pump into her; he barely even moved. Not that Isabella didn’t react herself. She was hot between her legs, and her breasts were tight, her heart pounding behind her corset.

They used to play games like this with each other—stealing pleasure without removing their clothes, seeing how far they could take each other. Even more enjoyable when they did it in an unusual place, such as in a deserted hall outside a ballroom, a summerhouse, Mac’s studio. Isabella remembered how they’d tried to stifle their sounds of pleasure and their laughter.

Mac wasn’t laughing now. “Little vixen,” he whispered. “Naughty minx. My beautiful, wicked wife.”

Isabella reached for more cream. Mac’s cheekbones were flushed, his eyes desperate. Isabella focused on his cock again, slathering it lovingly with the cream.

Mac furrowed her hair with one hand. “I can’t hold out, love. It’s been too long.”

Isabella couldn’t answer, too busy nibbling and licking and suckling. She swallowed the cream she’d coated on him, and now she enjoyed the hot, velvety taste of Mac himself.

Mac touched the nape of her neck. “Pull back, sweetheart. I’m about to lose myself.”

He used to warn her like that in case they were in danger of being caught, or were too near a public place, or in case Isabella didn’t want to take the game to its conclusion. The courtesy warmed her, and she responded by sliding one hand to his bare buttocks and staying put.

She felt him move in little pulses, and then his warm seed spilled into her mouth. He bunched her hair, his hips rocking as Isabella took all of him. “I love you,” he said brokenly. “I love you, my little Sassenach vixen.”

Isabella savored him until he had no more to give. She pulled away and Mac collapsed to the sofa, breathing hard, his kilt draping him modestly once more. Isabella reached for her teacup, but Mac jerked the cup from her hand, clattered it back to the table, and wrapped his arms around her.

They sat together a long time, Mac holding her, Isabella’s head on his shoulder. Isabella felt the
thrub-thrub
of his heart under her ear, his warm lips on her hair. If it could only be this way always, the two of them quietly absorbing each other, they could possibly live in peace. But they were both too volatile, too selfish, and Isabella knew it.

“Three and a half years,” Mac was saying. “Three and a half years since I’ve felt that. Since I’ve felt
you
. Thank you, love.”

Isabella looked up past Mac’s sandpaper chin to his copper-colored eyes, which were tired but fixed on her. “You seemed to need it.”

“That wasn’t charity you just gave me, my sweet. You enjoyed that.”

She gave him a faint smile. “Perhaps I felt it my duty as a wife.”

“Pull the other one. It’s got bells on.”

She widened her eyes. “Good heavens, it has bells?”

Mac burst out laughing. His breath smelled of strong tea and cream. “Lord, I’ve missed you. I’ve missed you so much.” He stroked a languid hand through her hair. “If anyone can tame the wild Mac, it’s you.”

“I think I don’t want you tame. I like you wild.”

“Do you? That’s encouraging.”

Isabella pushed away from him and reached for her now-cold tea. It was fine tea, but its taste was lost after the headiness of Mac.

“I won’t rush you, Isabella,” Mac said. “I won’t. Promise.”

“But you’ll risk freezing your goolies off and move yourself into my house?” She smiled, and he smiled back. It was dangerous, Mac’s smile.

“I never promised not to torment you. Or tease you, plague you, or make your life hell.”

“That is for certain. Thank heavens we are heading to Doncaster where we’ll be surrounded by the rest of the family.”

“Yes, I’m looking forward to moving in with my three brothers and nephew, all bent upon invading our privacy and driving me insane.”

“I think your family is lovely. Four brothers looking after each other.”

“Brothers who can’t mind their own damn business.” Mac picked up his cup and took a long drink of tea. “I prefer my valet. He keeps his opinions to himself—unless I’m bent on ruining my clothes—and he brews one hell of a pot of tea.”

Isabella took a thoughtful sip. “You know, I read a novel as a girl, about four sisters in America. They paired off rather like you do—the oldest sister looked after the youngest, as Hart does with Ian, and the two middle sisters looked after one another, as do you and Cameron.”

Mac’s eyes widened in mock horror. “Good Lord, are you comparing the wild Mackenzies to four virtuous girls from America? I beg you to never say this in public.”

“Don’t be silly. It was a sweet story.” Isabella clenched her teacup. “Come to think of it, one of the sisters was called Beth, and she died.”

Mac’s arms came around her, his smiles gone. “Don’t even think it, love. Beth is made of stern stuff, and Ian won’t let a thing happen to her. Just as I won’t let anything happen to you.”

“How can you know that?”

“You have my word on it. Mackenzies never go back on their word.”

“Unless it’s expedient.”

Mac chuckled into her ear. “I’m crushed. Although being crushed against you has its compensations. By the way, love, I’ve not gone down one fraction of an inch. Very uncomfortable for tea drinking.”

Isabella sent him a sly look, happy to turn the conversation from her worries. She put her hand on his knee and slid it swiftly under his kilt.

Mac inhaled sharply. “My, my, you’re good at that. Is that the sort of thing you learned in finishing school, young lady?”

Isabella gently twisted her hand around his shaft, and perspiration formed on Mac’s upper lip. “On the contrary. I learned deportment and how to wear a fine hat.”

“Nonsense, you had lessons in this. Miss Pringle must have handed out models of cocks, made of plaster of paris maybe.” He took on a high falsetto. “Like this, girls. One, two, one, two. Come along, ladies, don’t slack.”

Isabella burst out laughing. “Just for that . . .” Isabella sped her attack until Mac was arching back on the small sofa, stroking her hair, crying her name, and moving his hips in time with her rhythm.

When he spilled his seed all over her hand, he gathered her into his arms and kissed her until she couldn’t breathe, think, or worry about anything but dissolving into his warmth.

Mac warmed as he watched Isabella rush into Beth’s arms when they disembarked the train at Doncaster, the pair of them shrieking as though they hadn’t seen each other in years, not weeks.

The journey had been a restless one for Mac. He’d conceded to Isabella’s request that she ride alone in her own compartment, but the temptation to leave the one he shared with Cam and Daniel and make his way to Isabella’s was overwhelming. Playing with Isabella in the drawing room, ending with her bringing him off in that skilled fashion, had only inflamed Mac’s already potent desire for her.

Mac didn’t want games or the occasional tickle in the drawing room. He wanted all of Isabella—her love, her friendship, her trust. Passion without love and trust was empty, he thought as he watched Beth and Isabella hug each other. He’d learned that brutal lesson too late.

Hart had hired a house a little outside of Doncaster, the country home of a gentleman whose income had dwindled too drastically for him to keep up such a large abode. The gentleman had decided to rent his house to other aristocrats rather than sell it to be turned into a hotel or hospital. His staff, local people, stayed on to be paid by the guests.

The large boxlike structure contained enough rooms for the four brothers, two wives, one nephew, their personal servants, and the dogs. Hart and Ian always brought the dogs. There were five of them, ranging from huge hound to small terrier. They milled about as the family arrived, tails waving furiously. Isabella petted them and addressed each by name: McNab and Fergus; Ruby and Ben; and Achilles, with his one white foot.

Mac loved that Isabella so unflinchingly embraced his family. When she’d met them shortly after marrying Mac, his sweet little bride had instantly charmed his rather skeptical brothers. Cameron had liked her right away, laughing in his loud way and telling Mac she would lead him a merry life. Ian had regarded Isabella for a time with his sideways look, before offering to show her his collection of Ming bowls. For Ian, this was the equivalent of declaring undying devotion.

Hart had taken slightly longer, having faced Isabella’s father in political battles—Hart pro-Scottish; Earl Scranton still annoyed about the Highland uprising a hundred and forty years ago. Isabella had won Hart over by not letting him tread on her. Hart respected strong women, and he’d softened toward Isabella within days. Hart had done much the same with Beth, Mac had heard, Mac still sorry he’d missed
that
encounter.

As soon as they entered the house, Isabella and Beth headed toward the terrace, arms about each other’s waists, their nonstop chatter punctuated with much giggling. Mac watched them go with some regret then turned to Ian and clapped his brother on the shoulder. It spoke of how far Ian had relaxed that he didn’t immediately pull away. Ian didn’t like to be touched—except by Beth. He’d made that abundantly clear.