Scottish Brides (20 page)

“Your shawl, miss!” One of the maids dashed out of the room and quickly arranged the spangled silk over Rose's arms.

Flashing her, and all the others gathering in the doorway to watch her go off, a wide and grateful smile, Rose glided toward the gallery.

Duncan was waiting, so tall and darkly handsome that Rose's heart skipped a beat. In sheer self-defense, she sent him a teasing, sultry, knowingly alluring glance.

Taking her arm, he ducked his head and ran his lips along the edge of her earlobe. “Later,” he murmured.

Rose shivered—and shot him a warning look.

Duncan grinned, wolfishly, and headed for the main stairs.

Older guests thronged the ballroom's foyer, chatting and gossiping; all heads turned as Duncan, proud and assured, descended, Rose poised and elegant on his arm. Smiles greeted them, along with nods of approval; they were known by everyone. Whispered comments abounded; as they reached the tiled foyer and slipped effortlessly into their social roles, Rose heard someone say, “Aye—a striking couple. They've always dealt well when they're not scrapping.”

Rose smiled. She curtsied and touched cheeks with two of the local
grandes dames.
Music drifted from the ballroom—the evocative strains of a waltz. Yielding to the pressure of Duncan's fingers about her elbow, Rose excused herself. Duncan led her to the arched door of the ballroom; they swept in as the last waltz died.

Duncan slanted her a glance. “Too late.” His murmur was swamped as his mother descended, a host of neighbors in her wake.

Lady Hermione was all gracious absolution, insisting that they relate the whole tale, then declaring that she herself would visit the injured culprits on the morrow. Their neighbors understood completely; all nodded approvingly—they would have reacted in exactly the same way. Clan—or any for whom one was responsible—always had first claim on a chieftain's time.

Only Clarissa, hanging back at the edge of the crowd, appeared less than impressed. Eyes on Duncan, she all but glowered; then she noticed Jeremy approaching quietly to one side, softly smiling at Rose. Clarissa's eyes narrowed; after a moment, she headed his way.

Some time later, Rose slipped from Duncan's side and joined Jeremy and Clarissa. Jeremy smiled. “You were successful, it seems.”

“Yes, thank heavens.” Rose returned his smile. “There were two of them.”

“We've heard,” Clarissa acidly informed her.

Rose looked at her, without comment, then smiled again at Jeremy. “But it's late—I won't keep you.”

“Indeed,” Clarissa stated. “I was about to ask Jeremy to escort me upstairs.”

Jeremy's eyes did not leave Rose. “I'll speak with you tomorrow.”

Smoothly, Rose inclined her head. “Tomorrow.”

“Rose!” They all turned to see Lady Hermione beckoning.

They parted, and Rose rejoined Duncan and his mother—the guests were leaving. As a trio, they stood on the front steps and waved them away, Rose on Duncan's right, Lady Hermione on his other side.

As the last carriage rumbled away, Lady Hermione sighed. “That's over.” She nodded decisively and picked up her skirts. “And I'm for bed, my dears. Good night.”

With a regal nod, she swept indoors and straight on up the stairs. Duncan, with Rose on his arm, followed more slowly, his gaze resting thoughtfully on his mother's retreating back.

He halted in the front hall; behind them, Falthorpe shot the bolts home. Duncan looked down at Rose; she looked up at him and lifted a brow. He grinned. “I'm famished.”

Rose's dimples winked. “So am I.”

They raided the buffet in the supper room, then carried their piled plates into the ballroom so the staff could get on with their clearing. They lounged on a
chaise
and ate as they talked, comparing notes of who had been present and said what, helping themselves to morsels from each other's plate at will. About them, staff set the room to rights, straightening furniture, pushing wide brooms across the polished floor. Footmen used ladders to snuff out the candles in the chandeliers and wall sconces; Duncan shook his head when asked if he wanted any candles left burning. Gradually, all activity about them ceased, leaving them in peace, the room lit by wide swathes of moonlight slanting through the windows.

When they'd devoured every last crumb, Rose licked her fingers, and, looking out over the dance floor, sighed. “It's a pity we missed the last waltz.”

Duncan shot her a glance, then reached out, relieved her of her empty plate, set it aside, fluidly stood—and swept her an elegant bow. “My dance, I believe.”

Rose chuckled and gave him her hand. He drew her to her feet, into his arms, into the slow revolutions of a waltz. Rose hummed softly and let him sweep her away; they dipped and swayed in perfect accord, physically in tune, in time, in step. She felt the strength in the arm about her, felt the lean, steely length of him pressed against her, the hard column of his thigh parting hers as he swept her through the turns.

Moonlight bathed them, a shimmering silvery glow—the essence of midsummer magic. A deep silence held them, filled with the beat of their hearts and a breathless anticipation.

How long they revolved, Rose couldn't have said; when Duncan slowed and halted before one of the long windows, she was far past breathless.

She looked up and saw the dark glow in his eyes; she reached up and traced the harsh line of one cheekbone. Then she stretched up—and lifted her lips to his as he bent his head to kiss her.

They kissed simply, sincerely, without barriers, limits or restraints, simply sinking into the other until there was only one. One sense, one heartbeat, one emotion, one longing.

Rose eventually drew back; she had to breathe. Eyes closed, she leaned her forehead against Duncan's shoulder. “We should go to bed.”

“Hmm—my thought exactly.”

Duncan turned her; his arm around her, her head on his shoulder, they slowly climbed the stairs. They reached the private gallery; Rose started to turn toward her room. Duncan's arm tightened; inexorably, he led her on—toward his.

Rose blinked, suddenly wide awake. Her heart jerked to life, then raced. In a mental scramble, she replayed their last exchanges, the tenor of his reply . . . “Ah—” She had to clear her throat. “I meant in separate beds.”

“I know.” Duncan glanced down at her. “
I
meant in mine.”

Rose looked into his eyes and read his intent clearly; he wasn't going to let her go this time. She felt the steel in the arm about her, the strength in the body prowling beside her. She dragged in a quick breath and forced her feet to stop. “Duncan, I don't know—”

“I know—so why don't you do what you've always done?” He stopped and swung to face her; his gaze trapping hers, he drew her closer. “Just follow my lead—and let me teach you.”

His head swooped and his lips found hers—no gentle kiss this time, but a searing, passion-laden incitement to madness. A soul-stirring challenge; as his lips moved on to trace fire down her throat, Rose realized what he was doing. “Good God!” she gasped. “You're seducing me!”

He chuckled, the sound wickedly evocative. “Am I succeeding?”

Yes
—
oh, yes!
Rose bit her tongue and held back the admission, but she couldn't hold back a soft moan as his lips trailed lower, into the deep valley between her breasts, then over the exposed upper curves, while one thumb artfully brushed, tantalizingly to and fro, over one silk-clad nipple.

“Rose.” He breathed her name against her flushed skin. “Come spend Midsummer's Eve with me—come taste the magic. I'll take you on a ride more wild than the last. There's another landscape you've never seen, peaks you've never climbed—come let me show you. Come ride with me.”

How could she resist him? Rose discovered she couldn't, discovered that there did indeed exist a compulsion strong enough to sweep aside all caution, all sanity, strong enough to insist that this was not only right, but meant to be. The next thing she discovered was that, somehow, they'd crossed the threshold of Duncan's room and now stood beside his four-poster bed. “This is madness,” she murmured. Obedient to his tugging, she lowered her arms so he could draw the sleeves of her gown down. Revealing her naked breasts.

“Oh!” she blushed vividly and crossed her arms protectively. “I was in such a rush, I forgot my chemise.”

“Don't apologize on my account.” Curling his fingers about her wrists, Duncan drew her arms down. She would have resisted, but he gave her no choice; drawing her arms out and down, then lacing his fingers with hers, he stared, apparently mesmerized, at what he'd revealed.

Rose cleared her throat. “They are rather large, I know.”

Duncan choked on a groan, then his eyes lifted to hers. “Sweet Rose—you're beautiful.” He raised his hands and gently, tenderly, cupped the firm mounds; thumbs slowly circling the sensitive peaks, he backed her until her legs hit the bed. Rose was glad to feel it behind her; if her legs gave way, as they were threatening to do, at least she wouldn't hit the floor.

Eyes dark, Duncan concentrated on her breasts, fondling, gently kneading. “You're beautiful, generous. And mine.” With that, he bent his head and took one tight peak into his mouth.

Rose gasped; she swayed—-she would have crumpled in a heap if he hadn't caught her and lifted her against him. She clung to him, fingers sliding from his shoulders to twine frantically in his hair as he pressed wet kisses over her soft flesh. His mouth was so hot, she felt sure he was burning her, then his tongue rasped her nipple, and she nearly died.

She might even have screamed—she wasn't sure she could hear anything over the pounding of her own heartbeat, over the roar of savage desire. He feasted on her as if he were famished; she panted, squirmed and writhed in his arms.

The hand at her back shifted, pressing her more firmly against him, then sliding possessively down, slipping beneath the folds of her gown gathered at her waist, over naked skin, to her bottom, to trace, to tantalize, then to fondle far too knowingly. She arched in his arms, pressing her hips even more firmly to his; she felt the heated ridge, the blatant evidence of his arousal, hard against her lower belly.

There was fire in her veins; he had set it there. He caught one aching nipple and suckled fiercely—and she went up in flames.

And then he was laying her across the big bed, on sheets cool to her fevered flesh. He drew her gown down, over her hips, down her long legs, flipping off her slippers as he went. She lost all the breath she still possessed when, sitting beside her, he surveyed her—totally naked but for her stockings, gartered above her knees. His perusal started at her toes, traveled slowly upward, lingered for a moment on her garters, then rose higher. She should have been overcome with maidenly modesty; instead, freed by the fire in his eyes, she felt wanton, wild, abandoned—blissfully excited. She burned as he studied her thighs, her hips, the soft, bronzy thatch at the base of her quivering belly. Then his gaze, heated and hot, swept upward, over her breasts, swollen and marked by his attentions, to her lips, parted and swollen, too.

The smile that curved his lips, the dark glint that lit his eyes, left her quivering.

“One more item.”

His voice was deep, gravelly with desire. Expecting him to reach for her garters, she blinked in surprise when he leaned over—and reached for her hair. He speared his fingers into the coiled tresses, then spread them, scattering pins left and right. He brushed them away, then fell to unravelling the plaited braids. She studied his face, the hard edge that desire had set to the already-angular planes. The tension that invested his whole frame, that held her fast in its grip, naked and quivering, wanting and waiting, held an excitement she'd never known, that she wanted to experience more than she wanted to breathe.

Finally freeing her hair, he tossed it about her head and shoulders, arranging it to frame her face. Gripped by an urgency she didn't understand, she slid one hand down to her garters.

“No.” Duncan caught her hand, then, capturing her gaze, raised it to his lips. “Leave them.” The puzzled question in her eyes nearly made him groan. ‘Trust me.” Letting go of her hand, he sat up and started to undo the buttons on his shirt.

She moved so quickly, he had no time to react. He heard the swish as she swung her legs about, then she was pressed against him, breasts to his back, reaching around him to help with his shirt. Her lips nuzzled his ear. “Why do you want me to keep my stockings on?”

Duncan closed his eyes and bit back a groan. “It's a secret.”

“A secret?”

He might as well have invited her to tease him; her fingers found their way beneath his shirt and trailed, as tantalizingly as he'd imagined, over his chest, then down, over his ridged stomach. Then down . . .

Fighting free of his cuffs, he abruptly stood and shrugged off the shirt. Rounding on Rose, he caught her hands and bore her back onto the bed. “I think,” he said, trapping her beneath him, “it's time to start your tuition.”

“Oh?” She squirmed beneath him, her breasts caressing his chest, her thighs caressing his aching erection.

Duncan gritted his teeth and used his full weight to subdue her. “If I have my way,” he ground out, “it'll be an extended first lesson.”

He could but try.

He kissed her long and hard, until he felt her soften beneath him. Then he shifted his attentions to her breasts, until she was hot and aching, arching sweetly in his arms. Relinquishing her breasts, he slid lower, trailing open-mouthed kisses over her waist, pausing at her navel to probe evocatively with his tongue, until she sobbed and sank her fingers into his shoulders.

Then he shifted lower.

He thought she was going to scream when he traced the top of each garter with his tongue. She gasped and tensed when he parted her thighs and dotted kisses up their sensitive inner faces. And when he parted her, and kissed the soft petals as she bloomed for him, she called out his name on a sob of pure desire.