14. Chapter 14

Chapter fourteen

"A rogue never admits he’s lost the game—even when the lady holds all the cards." The Rogue’s Guide to Refinement

B oyd paused outside Beth’s door. The Italian marble beneath his boots gleamed in the dim light, but there was no warmth in it, no sound. He leaned his forehead over the door, fingers flexed around the handle. What the hell was he doing?

Tomorrow, all the Douro Winemakers would come to witness his triumph. High society would know that Croft’s daughter had not been worthy of him. She, the woman who made him laugh and drank wine from his lips. The woman who had filled these last days with warmth and sound.

He should leave her alone. Let her sleep off the wine and forget that her lips had ever been tainted by this uncouth Scot.

Boyd splayed his hand over the wood. The silence mocked him. He should damn well leave. But his legs refused to carry his carcass away from the lass inside.

Thank God the lowlander bears weren’t here to see him. He pushed the door open.

She awaited a challenge, didn’t she? He wouldn’t leave her waiting.

The warmth of the fire greeted him first. The scent of lavender wafted from the adjoining bathing room.

Beth waited by the window, framed by the glow of the firelight. Her face was clear, her cheeks still carrying the faintest flush, and her red hair tumbled around her shoulders. She looked fresh, as if the afternoon’s overindulgence had left no mark on her.

She had changed into a white muslin gown, something she would wear for her husband on her wedding night. Or perhaps a muse from one of those paintings that depicted family bliss. He was unworthy of either.

Her presence spilled across the guest chamber—a shawl draped over the couch, impractical bonnets scattered on the vanity. Utterly frivolous, yet utterly alive. The only place in the house that seemed so.

His heart sped for no reason but that this being was under his roof, under his will.

Boyd’s eyes found hers. He envied her youth. How could she look so untouched by life? He, who had tried so hard to keep control, felt the cracks in his restraint widening with every passing second.

“What will my challenge be tonight, Mr. Sandeman?”

Boyd swallowed, his mouth so dry not even all the lochs in Lochaber would make it moist. The words he had intended to say—something ridiculous about having her wash his feet like a dutiful winemaker’s wife—died on his lips.

His eyes swept across the room and landed on the wooden crate.

“I want you to play the cello for me.”

Her breath caught as he opened the lid. He reached for the instrument, his fingers brushing against its lacquered surface. In his hands, it was nothing more than a piece of fine craftsmanship, beautiful but lifeless. How the hell did she make it come alive?

How did she conquer silence like that? It was a power few possessed, a luxury he’d never had.

The hours it would take to master such an instrument—the patience, the dedication—he had spent wearing his hands to stubs, building his empire. There was no time for music when every day had been a battle for survival, a war to prove himself in a world that cared for power, not talent.

He ran his calloused fingers along the cello’s neck. A pang of something hit him—regret, perhaps. Or envy.

Beth blinked, startled. “The cello?”

“Why didn’t you mention this talent? Isn’t it another asset for a wife-to-be?” Surely a society belle with such a skill would showcase it, flaunt her worth.

“I can’t play in public.” A flicker of hurt crossed her face.

“Why not?”

“A woman cannot play it,” she said quietly. “The position is improper. We have to sit with our legs apart, the instrument between them. It isn’t decent.”

All the blood in his veins went to his cock. “How did you learn, then?” His voice was harsh, tainted by jealousy for a young musician who might have seduced her.

“My uncle. He’s a maestro in London. He taught me as a child—to amuse himself, mostly. But I fell in love with it.”

Boyd lifted the instrument, extending it to her. “I want you to play it for me... in the nude.”

Her eyes widened. “Nude? That wouldn’t be—”

“Decent?” He stepped closer, his voice dropping. “But you just said the cello isn’t decent. And a winemaker’s wife—”

“Would obey her husband’s every capricious whim?” She tilted her chin defiantly. “The answer is no.”

He reached out, his fingers tracing her lips. Her soft gasp went straight to his cock. “Weren’t you tired of your corset, Beth?”

The stone bears must have been howling outside. The gardeners would find them hiding in a bush, ashamed of his despicable behavior, but he kept on. Couldn’t back away now. “Don’t you want to be free for once and show who you are underneath all these layers?”

Her green eyes flashed as they did when she spoke about her secret. Like he knew they would.

“Very well, Mr. Sandeman. I hope you remember your vow to me.”

How could he forget? If his balls would probably fall off after their trials were over?

She turned her back to him. His breath hitched as his fingers brushed the edge of her dress.

The hook-and-eye closures at her nape gave way under his fumbling fingers. The fabric loosened, sliding from her shoulders like a whisper.

He helped her step out of the gown, careful and reverent as any lady’s maid—the only difference was that he wanted to ravish his mistress.

While he unfastened the laces of her corset, his breathing was harsh. If he didn’t wrestle the damn stays now, she would vanish. She shuddered under his touch as the constraint released. When it came away, her shoulder blades expanded, and she breathed. Perhaps the first full breath she took in his presence.

Kissing her neck, Boyd untied the tapes that held her petticoats in place. The white fabric slipped down, pooling around her feet like a cloud. She stepped out of them, turning slightly to glance at him over her shoulder, her eyes catching the low light and shimmering with bashfulness, but also courage.

With each piece that fell, he peeled back not just fabric but layers of defense, shedding society’s expectations. By the time she stood before him in a sheer white batiste, his body was taut, perspiration slicking his skin.

Her skin, he never saw the like. White, everywhere white, with reddish freckles, as if a naughty cupid had sprinkled her body with powdered cinnamon. His mouth watered for a taste.

“Have you never enjoyed the sun?” he asked, his voice strained. “I thought society belles loved to take the waters in Vila Nova de Gaia.”

She swallowed, her throat working. “I never revealed my skin to the elements. To be fair, you are the only person who has seen me bare. Not even Dora.”

The thought of her untouched by any other hand filled him with a possessive heat. He’d buy her a beach if he had to—an entire coastline where she could soak in the sun like a lazy nymph, her skin kissed by light.

The batiste clung to her body, its transparency teasing him with the shadow of her nipples and the soft mound of her femininity. Boyd’s throat tightened. He wanted to lick the fabric where it clung to her curves until it became damp and utterly revealing.

He had seen courtesans disrobe for him, their gazes sultry as they shed lace and leather. Yet nothing compared to Beth’s quiet dignity and innocence. She made him feel base, every inch the uncouth Scot he was certain she thought him to be. And yet, uncouth Scot that he was, he craved more.

“All of it.”

Her fingers moved to the hem of her camisole, hesitating only briefly before pulling it upward. The fabric glided over her thighs, her stomach, and finally, her head. She cast it aside and stood before him, bare.

The firelight caressed her, painting her lithe curves in warm gold. Her nipples puckered, two coral berries crowning her curving breasts, just the handful to fit his rough, calloused palms. His gaze traveled downward, following the line of her navel to the soft v-shaped mound of red curls between her thighs.

Boyd’s throat tightened, the weight of the moment pressing on his chest like a stone. His hands curled into fists at his sides. Tension coiled through him until it threatened to splinter him apart.

His shirt, his trousers, everything that covered him felt vulgar compared to the dignity she wore, as if even the act of undressing was a reclaiming of her power. She was naked, but it was he who felt stripped to his core.

“Now tell me your secret,” she whispered, her voice soft but unwavering, a plea and a command.

Boyd gazed at the floor, but the expensive rug offered no refuge. A muscle in his jaw twitched, and he swallowed hard, the ache in his throat refusing to subside. The silence suffocated him.

Beth took her robe, her face downcast, as if he had disappointed her.

Did she want his secrets? She could well damn have them.

“I cannot sleep,” he said at last, his voice hoarse and cracked. “The silence haunts me.”

The truth hung there, like the frayed bed sheet of a poor bastard hanging from a cloth line. Boyd forced himself to meet her gaze, expecting pity or discomfort. But what he found was something that hollowed him out—an understanding so deep that it made his breath hitch.

Boyd caught the instrument, silencing the question that was about to come. He was not ready to speak about the past. She would know soon enough. Would his revenge feel less bitter to her then?

He couldn’t tear his eyes away as she retrieved it from him and moved to the chair, her bare skin gleaming in the firelight. His breath was shallow, heart pounding.

She opened her legs, but before he could see her sex, she nestled the cello between her thighs. Was it possible to curse an instrument’s good luck for being so close to her intimacy, to scent her arousal?

But then she played, and his murderous jealousy receded. The cello was no longer a barrier, but a part of her.

Her first note trembled in the air like a whisper.

He recognized it—last night’s lullaby.

“Not this one. It will put me to sleep.”

Nodding, she adjusted her position and started again. She closed her eyes, her body moving with the rhythm, lost to the world around her. The aria’s misty melody filled the room, filled him.

Where was the society princess? Prim, proper, restrained?

Her hair fell in loose waves over her shoulders, catching in the dim light, and her face... God, her face was serene, as if she belonged to the music and nothing else.

Where did such warmth come from? Did she pull it from some hidden place inside the wood?

Without realizing it, he moved behind her. He had always been a man who needed to touch, to experience things with the rough skin of his hands.

He had to feel her, desperately, urgently—this feminine source of sound, the antidote to the silence that plagued his life. His palm hovered above her chest, feeling the music pulse. Then he pressed it against her bare skin, right over her heart. The reverberations of the cello trembled through her body, alive beneath his touch, like a current of raw emotion.

She missed a beat, her fingers faltering on the strings.

“Keep playing,” he whispered, his voice rough, almost a growl.

She obeyed, though her movements were shaky, her breath coming faster.

Boyd leaned down, his lips brushing the curve of her neck. He closed his eyes, inhaling her scent—had it changed? Did music alter the way her skin smelled? His nose traced a line along her arm, testing, needing to know if it had seeped into her very pores.

Her scent was intoxicating—warm, mixed with the heady aroma of the firelight.

She played on, but the notes grew fractured.

He needed to taste her. His mouth moved up, taking her earlobe between his teeth, biting gently before letting his tongue glide over her cheek. He licked the freckles sprinkled over her shoulder and closed his lips over one or a hundred. Her fingers stumbled on the strings again, but she kept going, her body trembling beneath his.

Boyd’s hands slid lower, tracing the curve of her abdomen, feeling the slight contraction as she struggled to maintain control.

She was losing it, just like he was.

He moved his touch downward, the pads of his fingers brushing over her thighs, tracing the strain as she pressed the cello between them.

When he reached the tuft of red hair covering her mound, she froze, the music halting. But his heart kept the rhythm as if she had altered something inside him.

He pulled the cello from her. Coaxing her legs wider, he took its place, kneeling between her thighs.

A flush rose on her skin. “What are you doing, Mr. Sandeman?”

“Call me Boyd.”

With trembling fingers, he opened the lips of her sex, and the folds yielded to him. Pink and honeyed flesh glistened inside. He caressed her with his thumb, first the right side, then the left, afraid to penetrate her with his finger. The need burned inside him, but he teetered too close to breaking his vow.

His cock was so hard he wondered how his trousers didn’t rip under the pressure. To steal her virginity would be as easy as lifting one of her pretty ribbons. But he had sworn she would remain untouched. If he could give her nothing else, he would honor that promise.

Using both hands to keep her open, he kissed her inner thighs, licking the marks left by her garters, biting, then soothing the pain.

Murmuring endearments, he caressed her clitoris in easy circles that had her belly shuddering. He brushed his chin over her mound, then pressed his lips to her, his teeth grazing the delicate flesh before he kissed her fully. He licked her from her entrance to her little clit, his eyes rolling back on his head at her heady taste.

Her essence coated his fingers, warm and slick, as he cupped her buttocks and pulled her closer. His hunger took over, and he devoured her, his lips and tongue moving with purpose. Her soft moans and breathless purrs drove him to the edge of madness.

Her juices coated his mouth, spilling over his chin, clinging to his skin. He savored each drop, his tongue exploring her pussy’s outer lips, pressing against the tiny clitoris, consuming her sweetness.

He was downright shameless now, nibbling at the edges like a starved man, determined not to let a single shudder of pleasure escape. Every lick was better than the last, and he made a low, satisfied sound in his throat as he penetrated her with his tongue, like some kind of animal discovering a hidden treasure.

“Boyd!” she cried out, her scream echoing through the room as she shattered beneath him.

He watched her climax, her body arching, her skin flushed pink. The sight of her undone stole his breath. Her chest heaved, her stomach rippled, and she glowed with a beauty that made him ache.

She wasn’t the frigid English lady he had once hoped she’d be. She was perfect. More than perfect—a treasure.

His heart pounded. A warm, aching sensation spread through his chest, as if something was trying to break free from within him. He was tainting something pure, and the guilt stung.

He kissed her leg, petting her, memorizing every detail of her face. Knelt between her thighs, he lingered, fighting the urge to hold her close.

Her eyes fluttered open, and she reached for him. Her gaze was filled with wonder and a hint of awe. She bit her lower lip, a question forming on her expression before she stopped herself, waiting.

Damn it, don’t look at me like that. I can’t be what you think I am. You have no idea what I’ve planned. What I’m capable of.

A wave of nausea twisted in his stomach.

“You will make a fine wife for a gentleman someday, Beth.”

The words felt like acid on his tongue.

He pushed to his feet, his movements abrupt, trying to distance himself from the overwhelming need to make her his.

Her eyes lifted to meet his. The uncouth Scot who made her scream.

Her brows knitted together as she processed what he said. The silence suffocated him. “But not you?”

The room darkened, the warmth snuffed out.

Without answering, Boyd left, not trusting himself to look at her again.