Chapter 6

Madeline had never seen anything like what had just happened between herself and Lachlan. Objectively, she was sure she ought to be horrified at the lines of thick white marring her fine silk. But she couldn't summon a hint of outrage. All she felt was empowered.

She'd read about such things, of course. The books called it a man's spend. His seed. An emission. But those words provided pale descriptors.

She was flushed. Aching. Touching him had left her in a strangely wild state she'd never felt before. Pleasuring him had made her feel wanton and bold. This big man, her hulking Scot, utterly in her thrall.

She felt as if she had drunk too much wine. Inebriated on pleasure. As if she were teetering on the razor's edge of something glorious herself.

"Lass," Lachlan said, his voice thick and deep.

Almost tender.

She had released him after he'd spent, and now he tucked his cock back into his trousers hastily.

"We shouldnae have done that," he added.

"Did you like it?" she asked.

"Verra much." He sounded grim. "Can ye doubt it? I believe ye're wearing the evidence on yer skirts."

And to think she'd been furious over the champagne he'd spilled on her train before.

She chuckled. "Do you have a handkerchief?"

"Och," he muttered, his cheekbones going red as he fumbled inside his coat, his large hand emerging victorious, a scrap of linen clutched in his long fingers. "Allow me tae clean the mess I've made. It would seem I'm destined tae ruin yer silk."

"I didn't mind as much this time," she told him honestly, holding still as he used the mouchoir to remove the streaks he'd left on her gown.

"I'll buy ye a new gown. Two new gowns." He wrinkled his nose. "I do have some funds of my own. Just not the vast sum required tae restore Castle Kenross."

For some reason, his offer touched her.

"You needn't worry about it," she reassured him. "Though, given the indiscretion that produced this particular stain, I likely won't consult my lady's maid about the best means of removing it."

He made a choked sound, finishing his task and striding to the fireplace to toss the besmirched handkerchief into the low embers as if he were burning the evidence of a crime. "There we are." He turned to a pitcher and bowl on a nearby stand and cleaned his hands, his broad back to her.

Was he embarrassed, she wondered?

Displeased with her for her forwardness? After all, he had mentioned a vow of celibacy. Did that mean he was stiff and proper? Was his vow going to extend to their marriage, or was he intending to remain chaste only until their wedding day?

Questions swirled. He had asked for a marriage in name only, and he'd been quite firm on it. But Madeline knew now that she wanted more than that. More from Lachlan, specifically.

He finished washing his hands, dried them, and turned back to her. His expression was storm-tossed.

"Forgive me, lass. That was unaccountably rude. I shouldnae have allowed that tae happen."

Allowedit? As if she'd had no part in it? As if she hadn't wanted it every bit as much as he had? Madeline didn't like the guilt in his expression. She didn't like the regret either.

"You needn't apologize," she said firmly. "I enjoyed it."

"Ye…" His brow furrowed as his words trailed off, his befuddlement quite endearing. "Ye liked it?"

"Yes. And I'd like to do it again." She kept her tone matter-of-fact. "Only next time, I might prefer to use my mouth."

He stared at her, his gaze searing. "Ye're trying tae kill me. Is that it? Ye hate me, and ye've decided tae punish me before the felling blow."

What an odd man he was. One would think he would be overjoyed that she wanted his attentions. That she wanted to bestow hers upon him. In the books, there was a great deal of mutual enjoyment. And sometimes exclamations and creamy emissions.

"In the stories I've read, the gentlemen always enjoy it a great deal. I think you might as well."

His cheekbones went red again, rivaling his hair. "What manner of stories are ye reading?"

"The interesting kind, clearly." She moved to join him at the washstand, thinking him terribly handsome.

His tremendous size and strength were intriguing to her. She liked the notion that he could pick her up in his arms and carry her away. She liked that he had saved her from being crushed in the castle ruins. That he kissed her so sweetly. That he could be so bold and yet equally bashful, that he was tall and muscled and powerful and yet tender.

"I should… It isnae right that I enjoyed such pleasure and gave ye none." His gaze searched hers. "I should return the favor."

"Do you mean you want to touch me as well?" she asked, the notion sending fire through her blood.

"More than I want my next breath, lass. And that isnae what I want tae be feeling at the moment. Ye scare me."

That had her smiling. "I scare you? Judging by the size of your arms, I think it's safe to say you could beat me in a fair fight."

"What of an unfair one?" His tone was teasing, but his eyes had slipped to her lips.

She pretended to contemplate his question for an overly long moment, tapping her chin thoughtfully with her forefinger. "Who would be cheating, me or you?"

He passed his hand over his chin in a gesture she'd already come to recognize. "Ye, of course. How else would ye have a chance of winning?"

"Then I'd win," she said without hesitation.

His lips cocked up into a grin. "Sure of yerself, aye?"

"How should I be anything less? You've just shown you don't have the power to resist me. If the fight wasn't fair, I'd kiss you and unbutton your trousers, and you'd forget you were meant to be competing against me."

"Are ye a witch?"

His question made her blink. She certainly hadn't expected that.

Madeline frowned. "Of course not. I'm an American."

"I'm beginning to think that means ye are," he grumbled. "Because I find myself wanting tae kiss ye again and tae do things I shouldnae do."

His hands were at his sides, so strong and large, flexing as if he were tempted to reach for her. She wondered what they would feel like on the tender skin of her legs, her inner thighs. In her most intimate place. She wondered if she would like it if he touched her there. Madeline had a feeling she would, if the descriptions she'd read were at all accurate. She already knew she liked her own touch quite well.

"Who says you shouldn't?" she teased him lightly.

He was so stiff and rigid, his posture as stern as his voice, and she wondered what had happened to him to make him so distrustful of her. For surely that was the reason for his reaction. She couldn't think it anything else.

"My honor," he said.

"Honor is an admirable thing," she agreed, reaching for him bravely. She settled a hand on his hard chest, just over his madly thumping heart. "But I find myself curious, Lachlan."

"Curious?" he rasped, taking her wrist in a firm grip.

He was a big man, so very strong. But she felt utterly safe with him. Content in his presence, in his room. More so in his arms.

"Yes, curious," she repeated, elaborating on the profusion of feeling within her, some of which was even difficult to understand herself. "I've been reading bawdy stories for a long time, you see."

"God help me," he muttered.

"And it's made me wonder if everything I've read is true. If the sensations, the emotions, the mechanics of lovemaking are accurately depicted. I always imagined I'd take a lover one day since I never intended to marry. Maybe two."

He made a low, growling sound that rumbled in his chest.

"Or three," she continued, unable to resist prodding him for a reaction. "But since I'm going to have a husband, I can conduct the research myself."

"I was right. Ye're going tae be the death of me."

The soft burr of his accent wrapped around her, and he gently stroked the sensitive skin of her inner wrist with his thumb. His scent of soap and fir made her want to burrow her face into his broad chest and inhale deeply. Marrying this man wouldn't be a hardship at all. She only needed to persuade him that he didn't want a marriage in name only. And that his vow to himself was best forgotten.

"Will you kiss me again?" she asked.

"Lass."

He groaned. But before she could say another word, his head dipped and he sealed his mouth over hers. The kiss was ravenous, making a liar of the stoic face he had presented in the wake of his earlier passion. He had spoken of bringing her pleasure. She knew he could do so without making love to her. Perhaps they could skirt his vow to himself. She wasn't too proud to try it.

She kissed him back, accepting the fullness of his tongue. Her other hand crept to his shoulder and then glided over the thickly corded muscle there to his nape. She speared his thick hair with her fingers, cupping his skull, kissing him furiously, grateful for the practice she'd had in the past, all of which seemed to lead directly to this moment.

To this man.

He released her wrist and grasped her waist, pulling her into him again. And then they were moving. Moving as one. To his bed, she hoped. Maybe she could persuade him to give her a bit of relief. The ache that had been steadily building between her legs was more pronounced than ever, and his wicked lips moving over hers didn't help matters.

One step at a time, they went, as if it were a dance in a ballroom instead of a backward march across the Axminster. He was still kissing her when she heard something that sounded suspiciously like a door latch. But no, that couldn't be. Still kissing her until the moment he stopped and those strong hands of his lifted her gently into the hall.

He raised his head. "Go tae bed, lass."

His hands left her waist. She was bewildered. Bereft. The last thing she saw was his handsome countenance, his jaw tight as if he were using all the restraint he possessed.

And then the door closed in her face with a snap so abrupt that a small gust of wind buffeted her cheeks, making her stained skirts flutter around her legs.

She stared at the door, heart thudding in her breast.

And then she glared at it.

He had shoved her into the hall, the oaf. While kissing her, no less.

Madeline's eyes narrowed. Lachlan Macfie, Duke of Kenross, her future husband, had just declared war.

The house partywas nearly at an end, and some of the guests had already departed, which meant that Lachlan found the garden blessedly empty the next morning when he eschewed breakfast in favor of taking the air and trying to talk some sense into his wee mind. He'd found his way to a large Venus fountain that was surrounded by miniature Cupids who ringed the edge, each of them emitting a perfect stream of water from their tiny doodles.

A damned peculiar fountain if you asked Lachlan. But apparently, it was centuries old, and the Duchess of Bradford had recently had it lovingly restored. He couldn't fathom why.

"Why is it that everyone at this house party seems to congregate around this bloody fountain?"

Lachlan glanced over his shoulder to find Decker approaching him on the path with that fluid ease and leonine grace that only true rakes—in Decker's case, a former true rake—possessed. It was a grace that a man of Lachlan's size would never own. He was forever slamming doors without realizing, lumbering about like a giant in a world of Lilliputians.

He sighed, but not because his friend had found him here, brooding. "Where else is a man tae congregate if not by a fountain presided over by tiny pissing Cupids?"

Decker chuckled, stopping when he'd reached Lachlan. "A question for the ages." He cocked his head. "But truly. What the devil are you doing out here this morning? Have you breakfasted?"

Lachlan's stomach rumbled. "I havenae just yet."

Denying his body's greatest pleasure—apparently aside from Madeline's hand on his cock—was his idea of penance. Because he wasn't proud of himself.

In fact, he was damned ashamed.

Just an hour closeted in his bedroom with Madeline Chartrand, and he'd already succumbed to base desire. But worse, he'd broken his vow to himself. This marriage was a carriage ride straight to hell.

He was doomed.

Aye, he may as well consign himself to the fires of Hades right now if he believed he would be able to withstand his future wife's seductive wiles.

Not. A. Chance.

"That isn't like you at all." Decker raised a brow, making an exaggerated show of peering into Lachlan's face. "Have you taken ill? Are you feeling feverish? Suffered another unfortunate blow to the head in castle ruins?"

"Another blow tae the head would be a mercy," he grumbled, passing a hand along his jaw and finding the prickle of stubble there.

He hadn't shaved this morning. He'd been too caught up in his ruminations to have a care for aught else. It was a miracle he'd managed to dress himself, now that he thought on it.

Decker sobered, clearly understanding the gravity of the situation. "Why so Friday-faced this morning?"

"Because I did something stupid last night," he admitted, scrubbing at his jaw some more.

"Are you going to tell me, or must I guess?"

Lachlan grimaced. "I'd rather not say."

"Guesses it is, then." Decker's perennial good nature returned—the man couldn't resist a dark jest. "You walked naked through the great hall in your sleep?"

"Och, no."

"You broke wind near Lady Featherstone?"

Lachlan laughed reluctantly. "What do ye take me for? I'm a gentleman."

"Pity. I would have dearly loved to hear the lady's reaction if you had." Decker stroked his jaw in a pensive gesture. "Hmm, let me see. What else could you have done? You wrestled with a swan?"

"Nay. Not even a brute like me is man enough tae take on Honoré."

The disagreeable swan had been menacing the guests at Sherborne Manor for the entirety of the house party.

"You shaved your eyebrows?"

"Not again with my puir eyebrows." He pinned his friend with a glare. "Does it look like I shaved them tae ye?"

"I have no notion of how quickly those little beasties grow back," Decker said mildly. "For all I know, it happens within hours."

Lachlan chuckled despite himself. "Ye are a true arsehole, ye ken that, Elijah Decker?"

Decker bowed with an exaggerated flourish. "Happy to live up to my reputation, as always. Now, tell me what the devil has you so overwrought that you've forgone your mammoth breakfast and are frowning at a host of pissing Cupids."

Lachlan clenched his jaw, considering his words with great care. "I was indiscreet with Miss Chartrand."

"That's what has you so concerned?" Decker thumped him on the back. "Never fear, old friend. If you weren't sneaking about, pleasing your future wife, I'd be concerned."

"Och, well, I didnae please her," he grumbled, grim.

Heat prickled up the back of his neck and flooded his ears.

He couldn't bear to confess the rest. Not only did his honor as a gentleman preclude such a revelation, but he would drown in a sea of shame if he admitted to his friend that he'd been cad enough to allow his betrothed to take him in hand while offering her naught in return. Before promptly shoving her into the hall.

"So she didn't like what happened between the two of you?" Decker asked hesitantly. "Is that what's upset you?"

Good God, Madeline had loved it. Her enthusiasm had haunted his attempts at slumber. He'd never been with a woman who had been so artlessly free with her sensual nature before. It was nothing short of intoxicating. And that was also why it terrified him.

"There's something I've never told ye," Lachlan confided at last.

"I hope it doesn't involve leeches," Decker said wryly.

Lachlan winced. "Nay, it doesnae. But do ye recall when I told ye about Rose, the lass I left behind?"

Decker raised a brow. "I do. But what does that have to do with Miss Chartrand and your guilty face?"

"I loved Rose," he gusted out. "I wanted tae marry her. But she wanted tae marry someone wealthier. She wanted tae remain where she was instead of following me into the world tae see what I could make of myself. So, she stayed where she was, and she married the eldest son of an earl. It was a far better future than I could dream of giving her at the time. I was devastated when I left Scotland, ye ken. I vowed tae myself that I'd never again let a woman close. That I'd stay chaste as a monk for the rest of my days. And I have."

Lachlan finished his revelation in a rush.

Decker stared at him in silence.

And stared some more.

"Are ye no' going tae say anything?" Lachlan burst out when the quiet stretched between them.

"You're jesting," Decker said.

"I'm no' jesting," he said.

"All these years?"

Lachlan nodded grimly. "All these years."

"Bloody hell," his friend said, shaking his head. "You must have the fortitude of steel, old chum."

Not exactly.

Or perhaps he had possessed it. Until a fiery American had entered his life. Now, he was weaker than the silk he'd desecrated last night.

"I'm no' so certain I'll have the fortitude tae continue as I have," he continued. "Miss Chartrand is…"

His words trailed off as he struggled to define her.

Tempting.

Beautiful.

Sensual.

Lovely.

Unlike anyone he'd ever previously known.

"Your face says it all, my friend," Decker said, chuckling.

"And what does my face say, pray tell?" Lachlan demanded.

"That you're doomed." Decker was grinning now.

"Ye're enjoying this, ye bastard."

His friend laughed. "I'll admit, as a happily married man, I was wondering when you'd ever find yourself settled. I know you didn't want the dukedom or a wife, but this could be what you've been needing without ever realizing it."

"Of course it isnae," he groused. "I was perfectly content with my life just as it was. Working for ye has given me all the fulfillment I need."

"One would argue otherwise, given your reaction to Miss Chartrand," Decker countered. "Perhaps it's time to forget your vow."

"Never." His reaction was as instant as it was vehement. He would never forget how decimated Rose's rejection had left him. Nor would he ever present another woman with a chance to do the same. "Ye dinnae know what it was like, what I endured with Rose."

Decker's grin was wry. "You forget I've a past of my own, and if I hadn't allowed myself to fall in love with my wife, I would have missed the opportunity to spend the rest of my life with her. You need to marry Miss Chartrand. You may as well enjoy your marriage."

Lachlan sighed. "We'll have tae agree tae disagree on this matter, I'm afraid. I'm no' as resilient as ye."

"So you fear you'll fall in love with her, is that it?" Decker asked, far too perceptive as always.

"Och, no," he denied.

But the truth of it was, he did fear being vulnerable. Coming to care for her. He feared the damage a woman like Madeline could inflict upon his already bruised and battered heart. Or what remained of it.

"Some vows were meant to be broken, my friend," Decker advised him. "I think you'll find that this is such a one."

"Enough," Lachlan said. "Or I'll dump ye heid over arse into the drink, and then all the wee Cupids will be pissing on ye."

Decker laughed. "We can't have that. I'll say no more. The choice is yours. Will you look to the future, or will you allow the past to control you?"

What a damned question.

Lachlan didn't know the answer. He wasn't certain if he ever would. All he did know was that it would be a miracle if he lasted the next three weeks without ravishing Madeline Chartrand. Particularly if she stole into his room again.

The sensible, logical part of him hoped she wouldn't.

But another part of him—the part she'd so pleased the night before—decidedly hoped she would.