Mia Marlowe (7 page)

“Never mind, then. Surely there’ll be a man at Dalkeith who’ll be happy to fill in the gaps in my learning. After all, I do have three kisses to dispense and I’ll warrant more than lips may be involved and—”

Alexander pulled her roughly to him, covering her mouth with his in a possessive kiss. He cupped her bum and lifted her a bit so she could feel the feverishness of him through the thin muslin of her gown, the length and the hardness of him pressed against the apex of her thighs.

His smell, that disturbing, warm masculine scent—all leather and fresh air and horseflesh—was everywhere. Something dark and delicious fluttered to life in her belly.

His hands flicked over her, sending sparks of pleasure trailing after them. Up and down her spine, then around to trail under her breasts. Her nipples ached and she arched herself into him.

He rocked against her and she rocked back, luxuriating in the flood of warmth pooling between her legs.

Alexander straightened and looked down at her, a smile slowly spreading over his face. Then the smile faded and his gray eyes warmed to the color of burnished pewter. He bent and claimed her mouth again.

She didn’t protest. He covered her lips with his for a moment. Then he slanted his mouth across hers, tasting her, teasing her lips open. His tongue toyed with her and she made a little noise of impatience.

Then he took her hand and guided it between their bodies, laying her palm over his groin and pressing it against the hard bulge.

Lucinda was equal parts shocked and intrigued. There was something vulnerable about the way he invited her to explore him. She ran an experimental hand over his length and he groaned into her mouth. When she gave him a squeeze, he thrust his tongue between her lips as if showing her how he’d like to thrust that other part of him into another place in her. He was long and thick and she ached to feel him without the layers of his trousers and undergarments between them.

“Lucinda!” Her great-aunt’s voice sing-songed down the hallway and into the kitchen. “Dinna make me wait for me rum, girl!”

Alexander stopped kissing her and buried his nose in her hair. He drew a deep breath as if he might inhale her all the way down to his toes. She gave him one last stroke as he stepped back.

“Lucinda, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

She pressed a finger to his lips. “We’re betrothed, Alex. ’Tis only a matter of a few days and the bit of naughtiness we’re about now will be Church-sanctioned naughtiness then.”

A dark shadow seemed to pass over his face at that.

The realization struck her with the force of a blow, but Lucinda swallowed back her hurt. However much her chest ached at the thought that Alexander still felt trapped by their betrothal, she still needed to make the match work. For the sake of her family’s future. For her brother, Dougal, on the wrong side of the law. For too many reasons to count.

Not the least of which was the way Alexander Mallory twisted her pantalets.

It was early days yet, she decided with dogged determination. She’d
make
him love her, one way or another. Jealousy might be a way to goad him down the road. And he was the one who brought up their wager and the three kisses she was due before their Christmas Day wedding.

“Thank ye kindly, Alexander, for that little dollop of education,” she said with what she hoped was a winsome smile. “Ye’ve given me ever so many interesting things to compare when I start kissing other men.”

Once the carriage returned for them, Alexander and the driver loaded Aunt Hester’s trunks in the boot and bundled the old woman into the equipage. Both were neat tricks because the lady and her luggage claimed a goodly amount of the available space. Alex and Lucinda crowded together on the rear-facing squab.

Ordinarily, he’d like nothing more than to be close to such a lovely young lady, but not this one who seemed more convinced than ever that he intended to marry her. He’d mentally kicked his arse up between his shoulder blades several times for kissing her in the kitchen like that when he ought to be looking for ways to end this sham betrothal.

Encouraging her to fondle his cock probably hadn’t been the best way to begin to break things off with her either. Usually, he took his mistress to dinner or dropped by with flowers and broke the news to her gently. He was always kind about it how he phrased it. Something on the order of “while their association had been memorable and oh, so pleasurable, it was now time for them to go their separate ways.”

He rarely faced tears and recriminations because most of his light-o-loves had husbands to turn to. Or else they were worldly widows who collected men like some women collected Delft pottery. He had no objection to joining such collections temporarily, but when he was ready to climb off the display shelf, nothing could stop him.

Alex had never dealt with a virgin before and he wasn’t sure how to proceed. So, he folded his arms over his chest and closed his eyes. With any luck at all, the weeping woman who’d plagued his dreams wouldn’t find him in the rocking coach.

The back and forth movement was sensual, like the give and take of a vigorous swive and so, contemplating silken limbs and deep thrusts, Alex drifted to sleep.

 

 

 

 

The coach sank into a pothole and tossed its occupants upward so their bums left the tufted squabs for a moment. Alex woke with a start, but Aunt Hester merely grunted and burrowed deeper into the arms of Morpheus.

He glanced sideways at Lucinda, who was peering out the window, blissfully ignorant of the way she was about to be rutted six ways from Sunday in his dream.

As dreams went, that one was a close call. Another minute or two of it and he might have gone off like a fountain in his trousers. Alex took a handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket and wiped his brow.

“How much farther is it to Dalkeith?” he asked, willing his body to settle.

“Shh!”

Lucinda put a finger to his lips. “My aunt has finally stopped grumbling and fallen to sleep,” she whispered. “An’ ye know what’s good for ye, ye’ll help me keep her in that state.”

He nodded his agreement.

She lifted the heavy curtain to get her bearings. Despite the rare December sunshine, a cold draught washed over them before she dropped the curtain back in place.

“Not so far,” she whispered. “Only a wee bit more now.”

“You’ve been to Dalkeith before?” He matched her soft tone to keep from waking Hester. Lucinda was right. Best to let sleeping dragons lie.

“Only to walk the grounds,” she admitted. “’Tis supposed to be ever so grand on the inside, ye ken. Queen Mary lived there for a time, but that was long before she ran afoul of her wicked English cousin Elizabeth.”

Alex rolled his eyes. “Do you know any bit of history that doesn’t involve allegations of English oppression?”

“I’d say lopping off a body’s head is a good bit more than allegations of oppression.”

She laced her fingers primly on her lap, those same lovely fingers that had danced over his hard length only that morning. He was forced to look away.

“Dinna blame me if your people have a history of mistreating the Scots in general and our queens in particular,” she went on in a louder whisper. “Mary Stuart had as good a claim to the English throne as your Virgin Queen. Better, some would say.”

“That all happened a very long time ago.”

“Aye, but we Scots have verra long memories.”

“And a misplaced sense of whom to blame for your past woes. I had nothing to do with any of it.”

“I’m thinkin’ ye and yer friends have more to do with our future woe. Ye’re here to bring an English king to us, are ye no’?”

Alex ran his hand through his hair in frustration. “He’s not just the English king. He’s your king too, whether you like it or not.”

“Whether I like it or no’,” she repeated. “You’re right. How daft I am. That doesna sound like oppression at all.”

Hester MacGibbon snorted wetly in her sleep, a truly horrendous sound that reminded Alex of a wild boar thrashing in the brush.

“You’re upsetting your aunt,” he said. “Let’s talk about something else.”

“Maybe we shouldna speak at all,” she said tersely and turned her face to the curtained window as if she could see through the heavy damask.

He folded his arms over his chest and closed his eyes again. Lucinda MacOwen couldn’t start kissing those other men soon enough to suit him, he decided.

If only his gut didn’t roil at the thought.

 

 

The pale stone of Dalkeith rose from its sheltered place among hundred-year-old Caledonian oaks. In high summer, it would be breathtaking. Now with bare limbs and a broad expanse of winter-brown grass, the edifice was just shy of forbidding. The palace was styled after William of Orange’s Holland estate. The Continental influences showed in its sloped lead rooflines that sprouted over a dozen tall chimneys. The multi-paned windows spread across the front of the building in rigid symmetry.

There were footmen aplenty to help pry Aunt Hester out of the carriage and see her safely to one of the rooms that had been prepared for Lord Rankin’s guests. The fact that Hester had invited herself probably never entered the old lady’s mind as she supervised the unloading of her effects.

A cricket game was ranging over some of the grounds. The flock of sheep that kept the grass short scattered each time a batsman connected with the ball. Alex handed Lucinda down from the carriage, told her he’d see her at supper, and turned her over to the waiting servants.

He’d already lost too much time to feminine distraction. It was time to go to work.

Clarindon was standing on the sidelines watching the play, cupping his hands and blowing into them to warm them. As an Englishman, he was accustomed to a wet cold, but the wind that whistled down from the Highlands lent winter an extra bite.

Alex came up to stand beside his friend. The Scottish team was hopelessly unsure of how to field and sweep. The English batsman slammed another ball that skimmed the ground.

The English contingent erupted into a cheer as their man began to sprint to the opposite wicket.

“What’s this?” Alex said. “Rankin’s idea of building goodwill is pummeling the stuffing out of the locals?”

“Something like that,” Clarindon said. “The mood’s getting a bit nasty on the Scottish sidelines. This clearly isn’t their game. If Rankin keeps walloping them like this, the king’s progression will be over before it starts. Are you going to play? Rankin’s been asking for you.”

Alex had been the top batsman on his cricket team at Oxford. Though it wasn’t his greatest strength, he had a good spin on the ball when he bowled as well. “Yes, I’d better play, but not for Rankin.”

He loped back to the carriage and found his trunk before the porters could cart it off to his assigned chamber. He removed his jacket and waistcoat and stuffed them into the baggage. Playing in his shirtsleeves would give him more freedom of movement. Then Alex rifled through the contents of his trunk and came up with the
MacGregor
plaid sash.

 

 

The final score was 197 to 198. The English team did not win.

Alex had cajoled and encouraged the Scots and was astounded by how quickly they picked up the finer points of the game once someone took the trouble to explain it to them. Their natural balance and athleticism carried the day.

But they seemed to think it was Alex who tipped the scales in their favor. So once the winning point was scored a pair of the long-haired giants hoisted him on their shoulders and paraded him around the field. As they went, they growled out a fighting song in Gaelic. It sounded rather like a pack of dogs being butchered alive, but what the singing lacked in grace it made up for in enthusiasm.

Lord Rankin watched the celebration from the sidelines, his florid complexion paling to the color of rancid suet.

Toward the end of the match, Alex had been vaguely aware that more ladies had donned their pelisses and stood in the cold sunshine to cheer on their teams. From his perch on the pair of burly shoulders, he scanned the crowd, hoping to spot Lucinda.