Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Macrath wanted to resurrect the Earl of Barrett and ensure his death was agonizing.

Virginia had said the words in such a soft tone, it had taken a moment for them to register. The earl had been an angry husband? He'd show the bastard what anger was.

Regrettably, he wouldn't have the chance. All he could do was hold Virginia close and ensure those memories were pushed to the background.

Taking her to his chamber seemed oddly right, especially since it was patently wrong. She was his guest, a lone woman who should be protected and held safe.

He didn't stop to reconsider his actions. He didn't want to think at the moment, only feel, and even that was nearly overwhelming, like he'd breathed too much ammonia.

When he stopped in front of his door, he lowered her feet to the floor, holding her hand in case she wanted to escape. He wouldn't allow it. Not after the year of torture he'd endured.

Even so, he would have escorted her to her suite, said good-night and left her alone. But she'd uttered those words: "I want to know what love is like between a man and a woman."

The world, circumstances, fate, any damn thing you wanted to call it, owed them these moments, this time, this night. All hell could visit them tomorrow. For tonight, they'd have everything they'd once wanted.

He looked down at her and it all fell away. All the anger, all the longing, everything but Virginia.

Her face was pale, as if he'd shocked her by carrying her through his house. He held her in the safety of his arms, bent down and pressed a kiss to her hair. He smelled roses, which made him smile.

"Forgive me," he said. "I've rushed you. I've been a fool."

"You haven't," she said. "I was always foolish around you and about you."

"Do you want this, Virginia?"

She pulled back and gazed up at him. "Yes. For the last year, I haven't been able to forget you. Yours is the face I saw before I slept. I prayed for you when I should have been praying for my own husband. Perhaps if I had, I wouldn't be here now."

"Then we'll go to perdition together," he said, "because I can't be sorry for your husband's death."

He pulled her inside his suite, closing the door firmly behind him, striding through the sitting room and into the bedroom to stand beside his bed.

He'd left the lamp on in the sitting room and considered lighting the one on the table beside the bed, dismissing the thought instantly. That would take too long, and he was impatient enough as it was.

He removed her garments one by one, gently set them aside, revealing her like she was a present lovingly wrapped for his delectation. The bow was, perhaps, her bodice with its jet buttons and full sleeves. The paper was her corset cover and the corset he unlaced with deft fingers.

The package was her skirt, shift, and pantaloons, until she stood in front of him naked with only her shoes and black garters holding up her silk stockings.

The contrast of her black stockings against her white skin was yet another present.

He held out his hand and she placed hers on it for balance. Bending, he removed her shoes then her stockings with such speed he was amazed at his own dexterity.

He stood studying her like she was one of his ice machines. He expected her to cover her breasts with her arms. Or shield the curls at the juncture of her thighs. She did neither, merely stood with her hands at her sides, letting him look his fill.

Now he wished he'd lit another lamp.

"You're as beautiful as I always thought you'd be," he said.

"You imagined me naked?" Her voice sounded surprised.

He smiled. "Endlessly."

He had never touched her breasts, never stroked her skin with fingertips that were rough and tender at once. Yet it felt like he had, as if he knew her like he knew himself.

Still, some innate caution whispered at him to pay attention; there was more here than he could see. She trembled, but was it from fear or eagerness?

The girl he'd known had acquiesced only too easily to her father's plans. Or did he judge her too harshly? Perhaps she had been a girl, and a woman stood before him now.

"Why are you here?" he asked, trailing a finger down her nose, then tracing the shape of her mouth.

Her full lips curved at the touch of his finger.

"For this," she said, another gift, this one of words. "To have you kiss me endlessly, until I grow tired of kisses. To have you love me until I'm exhausted from it."

"Virginia," he said, that one word uttered harshly.

The need for her slammed up against his self-control. He warned himself not to be too eager, but the message didn't reach his cock, straining against his trousers.

He was as hard as he'd ever been and as improvident: a man's body with a boy's excitement. He wasn't wise or cautious at this moment. Only desperate to feel her, touch every inch of her, and have her sob in his arms.

The room was quiet, while outside the storm pounded Drumvagen, the wind batting against the windows, throwing the drops of rain against the panes in a child's tantrum.

She vaguely noted the surroundings lit faintly by a lamp in the sitting room: a massive four poster bed, large enough for Macrath to stretch in any direction, a dresser, two armoires. The carpet beneath her feet was patterned, but in the semidarkness it was only black and gray.

Her breasts were full, the tips straining toward him. Desire thrummed through her body, extending even to her toes, showing her that passion could fill every pore. She wanted him to hurry, to be as naked as she, his skin rubbing against hers.

How did she say such a thing?

He bent to kiss her shoulder. "Virginia," he murmured against her skin. She cupped his cheek with her hands, hoping he didn't question her further.

Not now, not when she wanted this feeling to linger. Should she tell him how she felt? Should she mention the heat inside her body, or the trembling that had begun the moment he'd carried her to this room?

He'd been her dream lover for nearly a year, living in her dreams each night. Now he was here and real.

The timid girl she'd always been whispered to take care, use caution. The woman she wanted to be stepped forward, eager and needy.

He stripped his clothes off in seconds. What a pity not to have more light so she could see him. Her fingers would be her eyes. Slowly, tenderly, gently, she would smooth her hands over him, learning him.

Should she feel sinful at this moment? Or guilty, if nothing else? Instead, she wanted to smile, or shout with joy, or lift her eyes to a storm-filled sky and say, "Thank you, God, for this moment." For him. For being alive. For being a woman he desired.

He picked up her hand, extending kisses along the back of it to her wrist, traveling slowly up to the crook of her elbow, then to her shoulder.

She smiled until he traced a path to her collarbone. Her smile faded when he placed a hand on either side of her breasts, plumping them together so he could kiss both at the same time.

He dropped his head, mouthing a nipple.

When he drew the tip into his mouth, she gasped aloud, prompting him to do it again.

She leaned forward, kissed his shoulder, tasting his skin. He smelled of Macrath, soap and something else, a scent reminding her of clean linen and spices. Something his housekeeper used to store with his clothes?

When he tumbled her back on the bed, she was startled. In the next moment all she could think was how he made her feel. Her skin was too tight, her body too hot.

She'd thought this seduction would be quick and easy. Instead it was dangerous, pulling her down into the darkness and the deep.

He brushed her lips with the tips of his fingers, then kissed her mouth lightly. With his next kiss the world vanished. Nothing mattered but the touch of his hands on her skin, his lips as he coaxed her mouth open. She inhaled his breath, gave him hers, wrapped her arms around his shoulders, her excitement mounting.

His fingers danced across her skin, in hidden folds, coaxing even more heat from her. When his finger entered her, she shivered.

She grabbed at his shoulders, turning toward him, urging him in a way that was foreign and new. She wanted the completeness, the feeling of being joined to him. She wanted to feel him inside her, her legs wrapped around his, her lips pressed against his throat.

As he poised above her, she had a moment to be alarmed. Then he slipped inside, filling and claiming her in that instant.

She'd remember this night for the rest of her life.

Macrath raised himself over her, gently pulled out, and surged into her again. Surprise had her gasping and grabbing his arms so tightly she gouged him with her nails.

Don't stop. Please don't stop.

All she could do was wrap her arms around his neck and breathe against his skin.

He was too slow, too measured, too careful of her. She beat a tattoo on his shoulders with the heels of her hands. A moment later she was gripping his buttocks, pulling him to her.

If this was seduction, the word was not expansive enough. It couldn't fully describe this battle of passion. He lunged; she submitted. He withdrew; she chased after him.

She never imagined the dreams she had of him were pale substitutions for what he made her feel now.

This was bliss stretched into a net, catching all the stars, and pouring them into her body. This was a thrumming awareness of every part of her, skin and muscle, blood and bone.

He chuckled as her fingernails dug into his backside to pull him closer. Her legs widened, her hips arched. She wanted to be savage and unrestrained, and so she was, nipping at his bottom lip, fingers curved and raking his back. He grabbed handfuls of her hair, held her still as he trailed kisses along her throat.

She moaned, and he murmured against her skin. Words that were cautionary or calming, she wasn't sure which. They had no effect on the rise of excitement, the flames licking at her from the inside out. Only he could ease this trembling ache, this need consuming her.

She might have screamed. She thought she did. She'd no choice. How could anyone live with such joy? It must be manifested in some way, expressed, and forever remembered.

He awakened Virginia at dawn with a kiss. With her eyes still closed, she smiled.

The seabirds cried outside his window, a call to be about the day. For now he was content to remain where he was, in his bed with Virginia.

With one finger, he traced a path from her ear, down her jaw to her chin, marveling at the softness of her skin.

She wrinkled her nose with her eyes still closed.

"You're bonnie in the morning, Countess," he said. "Most women aren't."

She opened her eyes and frowned at him. "Do you have much experience with women in the morning?"

He wasn't foolish enough to answer that question fully. He grinned at her. "My sisters. My cousin."

She held up her hand as if to forestall a recitation of other women.

"I must get back to my room," she said softly. "Otherwise, I'm bound to shock your servants."

"Every single one of them is loyal to me," he said. "You've nothing to fear from them."

"I can't say the same about my own maid. If I'm not back in my chamber before she arrives, Hannah's tongue might begin to wag."

For a moment he was content to simply study her, note her pink cheeks and sparkling eyes. Passion became her. So did sleeping in his arms.

"The look of sadness is gone," he said.

She reached up and cupped his face.

"I thought it was because of your husband," he said, turning his head and kissing her palm. "But it's gone."

"Is it?" she asked, smiling.

"Do you like being a countess?"

"Why would you ask that?"

He needed to know. How fond was she of a title? Enough to remain in London? Or would she be willing to give it up?

"If I never knew you before, I wouldn't have approached you now," he said, offering her a strange truth.

Her smile was gentle.

"You can't tell me, Macrath, that you would've been put off by a title."

"No," he said. "You wouldn't have interested me because you belong to a certain class of people I normally ignore."

"Why? Because you think them arrogant? Aren't you guilty of the same?"

He had the feeling he was walking close to the edge of a cliff, and took a cautious step back.

"It's been my experience that a great many people with titles feel they are better than others because of their birth. They're singled out as being special, when they're not, in truth. They're simply the sons or grandsons of men who did something."

"Since I don't know many people with titles, I can't argue with you."

"You didn't associate with people of your rank?"

"I didn't associate with people at all," she said, surprising him again. "I spent my time at home, with Lawrence's sisters or with my mother-in-law."

He kissed her again, simply because he wanted to. No, he had to.

"What did you write me?" she asked. "Those dozen letters you wrote, what did you say?"

"The ramblings of a man in love," he softly said. "Foolish, unwise comments, no doubt. How much I loved you. How much I longed for you. How much I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you."

"Oh, Macrath."

She always skewered him when she said his name in that tone, with that look of wonder in her eyes. He wanted to be the man she thought him, powerful and without sin or blemish.

He'd take her to his cottage and show her his first ice machine, introduce her to Jack and Sam. He'd show her the rest of Drumvagen, so she'd be suitably impressed about his home, enough to stay. He'd convince her to remain in Scotland, coax her into not returning to London at all and marry her with indecent haste.

People would gossip about the two of them, how he'd acted like a border reiver and how she'd been willing to give up everything in England for him. They'd call him a devil, perhaps, for abducting her, for convincing her to stay.

And her? What would they call her? A wild American, a woman in love.

Before he allowed her to leave him, he loved her again, cherishing her moans as he teased her to pleasure.

He thrust into her, impatient, desperate to last. He wanted this moment to be elongated, stretched until pleasure was a skein wrapping around and forever joining them. He wanted to please her while he pleased himself. As he erupted into her, it was with the knowledge that he was lost, his spirit and body shrunken, his heart once more given to Virginia.