Scottish Brides (21 page)

He gave her what she wanted, experience and much more. With each caress more intimate than the last, he opened doors she hadn't imagined existed, showed her delights she was only just able to comprehend. He tasted, licked, probed and suckled; she threshed her head wildly, fingers clamped to his skull, her body in full flower, open and aching—and all his.

Dragging in a deep breath, her perfume sinking deep, wreathing through his mind, he shifted back and sat on the edge of the bed, replacing his lips and tongue with the fingers of one hand. With the other, he unbuttoned his trousers.

Freed of his weight, yet still captive to his fingers, which probed her heat with a slow, steady rhythm, Rose breathed rapidly, deeply, then cracked open her lids. Duncan saw her eyes glint from beneath her long lashes. Saw her watching what he was about. Then she licked her lips.

“Why the stockings?”

He couldn't even begin to explain—that he'd fantasized about her legs, about having them wrapped about him, leaving her wide open, his to fill. “You'll see in a minute.”

He stripped off his trousers, kicked them off and turned to her; her eyes flew wide. She started to sit; he knelt between her thighs, caught her hands and bore her down again. And covered her—covered her lips—before she could say whatever she'd been about to; he was sure he didn't need to hear it.

The kiss turned into a struggle for supremacy; they both lost when desire came out of nowhere and captured them both. Rose squirmed beneath him—not to get away, but to press herself closer. Duncan drew back and gasped, “Wrap your legs about my hips.”

She did, instantly—and he returned to ravage her mouth, wanting to be filling her there when he entered her below. She welcomed him in, sweet and hot in both places. He flexed his hips and sank into her, filling her, stretching her. Her breath caught; she arched beneath him. Duncan drew back and thrust deep, through the slight resistance. She tensed, shocked, then, two heartbeats later, melted around him. They both lay still, savoring the moment, the glorious intimacy, the sensation of their hearts beating in time.

Rose moved first, compelled by some impulse she didn't know or understand, Duncan responded immediately, giving her what she hadn't known she wanted, riding easily within her. The sensations that swirled through her were startling, riveting, totally addictive—she wanted to feel them again and again. Duncan obliged, and she suddenly realized what he'd meant by a new landscape—one filled with warm waves of pleasure, lapping peaks of exquisite delight. They rode into it, at a steady gallop, escalating into urgency as the waves rose higher and the peaks pierced the sun.

Only it wasn't the sun; it was pure oblivion. He rode her right into it, into a malestrom of sensations, emotions, and on into a vale of unutterable bliss.

Braced above her, Duncan watched her face as she fractured about him, watched the tension ease and melt away, even as she melted beneath him. Her womb throbbed and contracted; instinctively, she tensed about him.

He gasped, closed his eyes and, filling her one last time, joined her in sweet oblivion.

 

Rose woke early, before the sun was up. She knew that from the deep peace that pervaded the house; not even a tweeny was stirring. Eyes closed, she settled more comfort-ably, dreamily wondering why her pillow was so hard. A hair tickled her nose; cracking open her lids, she brushed at it—and woke up with a start.

Eyes wide, she surveyed her pillow—Duncan's bare chest. Her mind, scrambling to attention, slowly filled in the rest—the long body lying intimately wrapped about hers, both naked beneath the covers. She couldn't even remember getting beneath the covers.

She could, however, remember the oblivion that had over-taken her—and what had led up to it.

Cheeks burning, she struggled to think—of where she now was, where she now stood—lay—with him. And discovered that, with his heart thudding in her ear and his hair-dusted limbs trapping hers, she couldn't formulate a single coherent thought.

Escape was imperative.

Very gently, she eased away from his chest, then, slowly and smoothly, lifted the hand that lay over her waist, and rolled away. Onto his other arm. He breathed in deeply; she froze, but when nothing happened, she edged her legs—still clad in her silk stockings, for heaven's sake!—to the side of the bed, then lifted her shoulders from his arm and started to slide to safety—

His hands clamped about her waist before she reached it.

“Duncan! Let me go.”

She sat up fully and tried to wriggle free; he chuckled—an intensely wicked sound—slid his hands down to close over her hips and drew her inexorably back into the bed.

Rose wasn't having it. She yielded to his pull, then flipped onto her stomach, expecting to break his hold and slide away. He read her mind and swung over her as she flipped, straddling her legs, trapping her between his rock-hard thighs.

“Ah-huh—you can't run away before your second lesson.”

Rose lifted her face from the pillows. “What second lesson?”

She felt him lean forward; his chest grazed her back, his lips grazed her nape, as he slid one hand beneath her stomach—then the other between her thighs. She gasped; he whispered softly, “Your second lesson in being mine.”

Her body heated instantly; her breathing seized. “Dunc—
ooooh!”
His name dissolved into a long-drawn sigh—of delight, of anticipation. His fingers artfully delved; then he drew her back, onto her knees.

She went willingly, eagerly, caught in his spell. He caressed the firm globes of her bottom, and she shivered. He grasped her hips, nudged her knees apart and slid into her—slowly, thoroughly, mind-numbingly deep.

And taught her how to feel all over again, taught her about delight, rapture and earthly bliss. The constant slide of his body into hers, the rhythmic rocking as he filled her—fully, repeatedly—filled her mind, overwhelmed her senses, imprinted him deeply on her soul.

The ride was slow and long; she was sobbing before it ended. Sobbing his name, sobbing with joy, mindless in ecstasy. And, this time, when he drove her over the last peak, he followed immediately. Before oblivion swamped her, she felt his warmth flood her and heard his helpless groan, as he collapsed upon her.

 

Duncan woke, a good two hours later, unsurprised to find himself alone in his bed. By any normal standards, the woman who'd shared his bed throughout the night and into the early morning shouldn't have been able to crawl, much less walk, out, but Rose had somehow made good her escape.

He wished he'd been awake to see it.

Lips curving in a wolfish, thoroughly satisfied smile, he stretched, then crossed his arms behind his head and wondered what she was doing now.

Two minutes later, he was out of bed and dressing. If the years had taught him anything, it was never to underestimate Rose.

All was quiet downstairs, the household in the grip of the usual aftermath of a major ball. Duncan doubted his mother or any of the other ladies were yet about, which focused his mind even more acutely on finding Rose.

Striding down the long corridor leading from the front hall, he heard voices. Halting, he listened and identified Rose—and Penecuik.

Duncan dragged in a deep breath and held it; through the half-open door of the breakfast parlor, he glimpsed Rose and her suitor on the terrace. Rose had her back to the room, gesturing as she spoke. Penecuik was frowning, concentrating on her words.

Duncan reminded himself that they had a right to privacy, that Rose wasn't yet formally his. That he should give her the opportunity to deal with Penecuik on her own. None of his arguments stood a chance of persuading him; quietly, silently, he passed on to the morning room next door, opened the door and slipped inside.

 

“You're not listening, Jeremy.” Rose looked her erstwhile suitor in the eye and tried, once more, to convince him of his position. “I am not going to marry you. I have decided I do not wish to, and that is all there is to it.”

Jeremy eyed her stubbornly, even mulishly. Then started, once again, to enumerate all the reasons why she couldn't possibly think that.

Rose struggled not to roll her eyes to the skies, struggled to listen civilly. He'd waylaid her before she'd even had a chance to break her fast, to restore her failing strength—drained very effectively by Duncan—and now Jeremy was being unbelievably difficult, obtuse and refractory. He wouldn't accept his dismissal.

Which mattered not a jot, because he was going to have to. She'd finally discovered that something she'd been looking for all her adult life—that force stronger that her will that would sweep her into some man's arms—and she wasn't about to turn her back on it. Not that she understood it yet, given it had been Duncan's arms into which it had swept her.

She hadn't, thanks first to Duncan and now Jeremy, yet had a chance to consider that aspect, or very much else. It was Midsummer, and she'd promised Jeremy her answer. Now she'd given it him, the least he could do was accept it with good grace.

Suppressing an urge to tell him so—plainly—she waited until he reached the end of his predictable list, then drew a deep breath and earnestly said, “Jeremy, this is not a matter of who you are, or what you own, or what benefits might accrue to your wife. This decision is about me, and what
I
am.” She fixed him with a direct gaze and willed him to understand. “I'm not yours.”

She was Duncan's.

Jeremy sighed, as if arguing with a child. “Rose, I really don't think you're weighing this decision as you should. Your feelings for me, personally, shouldn't sit so heavily in the scale.” He smiled at her. “You and I get along well enough; that's all that's required. But the rest—the duchy, the estate—”

“My fortune.”

He nodded. “That, too. All these are the principal reasons behind my proposal, and I think you need to consider things from the same perspective.”

Jaw set against a scream, Rose folded her arms and glared at him.

And heard a deep sigh from the morning room to her left. Both she and Jeremy stared as Duncan strolled languidly through the open French doors. He nodded to Jeremy. “Excuse me, Penecuik, but I have an urgent matter to discuss with my countess-to-be.”

Jeremy frowned. “Your countess-to-be?”

“Ah, yes—I'm sure you would have eventually winkled it out of her”—Duncan slid his arm about Rose's waist and, drawing her against him, smiled down into her eyes—“but the truth is, Rose has decided not to be a duchess-in-waiting. She's going to be a countess instead.”

Her mouth open, Rose simply stared at him, utterly flabbergasted and not a little chagrined. Duncan committed the sight to memory, then flicked a glance at Penecuik. “If you'll excuse us, Penecuik—that urgent something . . .” Letting his words trail off, Duncan gathered Rose into his arms, lowered his head and kissed her—deeply, ravenously. Convincingly.

As was fast becoming her habit, she melted into his arms and returned the kiss avidly. From beneath his lashes, Duncan saw Jeremy's face blank, then he glared, assumed a petulantly supercilious expression and stomped off along the terrace.

Rose didn't hear him go—her mental processes had frozen at the words “countess-to-be.” When Duncan finally consented to lift his head and let her drag in a breath, she stared into his face, then narrowed her eyes. “I had visions, you realize, of having you on your knees.”

Duncan grinned. “As I've already had you on yours, that seems a trifle redundant.”

Rose quelled a delicious shiver and sternly studied his eyes. He lifted an inquiring brow; she lifted one back. “I'm not perfect, you know.”

Duncan held her gaze steadily. “Perfection is in the eye of the beholder.”

No one had ever considered her in any way perfect—the wild wanton in socially acceptable disguise. And Duncan knew all of her, the wild wanton as well as the lady. The look in his eyes, cool blue but glowing so warmly, assured her of his sincerity, his conviction, his single-minded determination. He thought her perfect for the role of his countess.

Rose smiled, slowly, seductively; the light in her eyes that Duncan had always distrusted gleamed provocatively. “Are you sure,” she murmured, stretching up and wrapping her arms about his neck, “that you've seen enough of me to be sure?”

Duncan frowned, admitted his memory could do with a little refreshing—and took her straight back to his bed.

*       *       *

Andas they rolled amongst his sheets, from far across the fields the kirk bells rang out, welcoming in Midsummer.

Four weeks later, the bells rang again, even more joyously, when the thorn in Duncan Macintyre's flesh became . . . his perfect Rose.

Stephanie Laurens

 

After years of enjoying Regency romances as an escape from the dry world of professional science, and suddenly finding herself desperate for reading material, STEPHANIE LAURENS turned to writing. The hobby became a career, and after eight Regencies, her first historical romance,
Captain Jack's Woman,
was published by Avon Books. This was followed by
Devil's Bride,
the first in a series about the sexy, irresistible Cynster cousins.