When a Scot Loves a Lady (18 page)

He did not want that.

But he wanted
her
.

He swiped a hand across his face. He was no celibate, by God. He could enjoy a tumble with a beautiful woman without fear. She wanted it, and he would give it to her. He wasn't the foolish youth who had lost himself so thoroughly to a woman that he became blinded to everything around him, including her. And Kitty Savege might not be a doxy, but she was no virgin to be misled.

Yet he stood, paralyzed, no shoes, no shirt, and staring at nothing, unable to move a single muscle.

K
itty barely made it to her bed. She sank onto it, strewing her garments at her feet and covering her face with her hands.

What horrid, nasty, taunting divinity had provided her with a man who looked and kissed like a god yet seemed to possess an astounding ability to detach himself from an unclothed woman throwing herself at him? Despite her remaining scruples she wanted his touch, his kiss, the sensation of his hot skin and hard muscle beneath her palms. She had tried to win at cards although she ought never to have played. But when he removed his shirt she'd nearly
died
.

Good heavens, were all men so beautiful beneath their clothing, so perfectly proportioned like Greek statues? It couldn't be. She felt certain at least ten gentlemen of her acquaintance wore stays and another half dozen purchased buckram padding by the bushel.

Leam Blackwood did not do either, obviously. Everything in his coat was defiantly real man, broadly structured and muscular yet slightly underfleshed, an athletic man who ate perhaps not quite enough.

She had touched that. She had touched him.

It made her weak inside. It made her feel insane.

Why didn't he want her?
Or did he, and he was too decent to take full advantage of her? They called him a flirt. Was this flirting, teasing with kisses and touches until she could think of nothing but him? He said he was slowing it down for her. Why would he do that for a woman of her besmirched reputation? Did it mean he wanted more from her—eventually? As she did. Oh, Lord,
as she did
. How could that possibly be?

She yanked off her wretchedly confining stays that he had begun to remove yet had not, turned onto her side, and wrapped her arms about her middle.

Why
must he be decent? Why must he be even a little bit gentlemanly? She wanted him to be a barbarian, the lout he'd said he was. She wished he had not followed after Emily on the stair to protect her from possible danger. Kitty wished instead that he'd made quick, careless love to her in the parlor, on the sofa, the floor even, wherever rogues had their way with loose women, so that she could revel in being known by a man who could not touch her profoundly. So she could revel in running away from the cold, controlled woman she had come to be.

But if she did, if she took him as her lover, she would be precisely what the gossips of society believed her already.

The door creaked. Her hands jerked away from her face. The panel opened a crack and he came into her bedchamber.

She leaped up.

He was absolutely beautiful, his eyes dark, his jaw firm and hair tousled. A triangle of male flesh was revealed by his shirt, recalling her palms to the taut smoothness of his skin, the texture of dark hair descending in a line to his trousers, the strong beat of his heart.

She shook her head. “But you said—”

“Kitty—”

“I cannot.” The words slipped through her lips.

His chest rose and fell hard. He tilted his head.

“That moment when you—” She gulped in thick breaths. “You said you would slow it down for me, which I believe is an excellent idea. And—and—” She stuttered. “And when Mr. Cox went to follow Emily upstairs, and you were ready to…” Would he understand? She hadn't really until now. “Don't you see? You are no longer a stranger and it changes everything. I know that must make me the greatest wanton this side of—”

He moved to her swiftly and covered her mouth with his palm, warm and encompassing and sending her heartbeat flying. He bent his head and spoke above her brow.

“An A'd hae kent this afore.” His voice was low. “A woudae gladly left the bairn tae her fate wi' him.”

Kitty laughed, muffled against his skin. He released her.

Her tongue stole along the edge of her lips, tasting him there. “You would not have.”

His gaze dipped to her mouth. “Aye, A might have.” It turned quite sober. “Lass, ye dinna know me frae Adam.”

“But I—”

“Than pretend ye dinna.” A note of haste colored his words now, or perhaps desperation, like hers. His dark eyes shone. “Pretend for the nicht.”

“Oh, God. No,” Kitty groaned, feeling him without even touching him. Knowing everything was changing now.

He knew it as she did. He had tried to put her off before, but he had succumbed below stairs, and again now. He had come to make love to her although it could not be wise. They were not for each other despite this
thing
that drew them together, the hot familiarity that should not be there between them.

But perhaps he was merely a man, unknown to her as he said, who would say anything to gain entrance to a woman's bed. She would depend upon it. She would pretend there was nothing else, nothing she could feel each time he looked at her.

It felt like a lie to even consider it! And she wanted no more lies. No more secrets. She wanted life and laughter, and this man made her feel those with barely a word. And he made her want him as she had never wanted anything simply by standing before her in gorgeous disarray.

“This is a very bad idea,” she whispered. “You must go.”

He took several deep breaths.

Silently she prayed.

He turned and went to the door. Kitty's knees gave way. She collapsed to the bed, dropping her face into her palms again. The door clicked shut. The bolt knocked into place. Her eyes flew open.

He moved right to her, with a firm hand on her shoulder pushed her onto her back and climbed over her, sinking the mattress with his knees. He looked down at her, both their breaths audible.

“Tell me nae.”

She could not.

Holding her gaze, he nudged her thighs apart and lowered his body onto hers.

Kitty trembled, every muscle paralyzed. This was too much. Too fast. It was not her life, her rigid existence of purpose and poise. This was a man's body brushing hers from chest to knee. A breathtaking man with raw desire in his hooded eyes.

She whispered, “Yes,” barely a breath.

He shifted his hips into hers. Her body erupted in sensation. His need was hot and hard against hers. Her eyelids fluttered and she moaned softly, her knees coming up to clasp his hips, hands seeking his waist. The desperate ache spread as she pressed to his erection. He moved against her again, pushing her into the mattress, and she nearly came apart. She groaned in pleasure and lifted, rocking herself against him.

“Yer wanting mair than this,” he said above her lips, each thrust through the friction of their clothing like sin, making her feel everything. His hand circled her calf, moving beneath her shift, along her thigh. “
I
am.” His voice was rough, as hot with need as her body.

“Yes,” she uttered, and on a breath, “If you would oblige.”

He pushed her shift up, past her hips and breasts. She would have kept it; he yanked it over her head. He shoved his shirt under his arms and brought his chest against her naked breasts and his mouth down upon hers.

She drowned. Feeling him, skin against skin, his taut muscle against her nipples, was utterly bewildering and spectacular. His tongue delved into her, demanding, his hands sweeping down the sides of her breasts, curving along her waist and hips. He dragged her against him, releasing a cascade of pleasure in her and coiling the ache tighter. She drank him, ravenous for his tongue sliding in and out of her mouth, nibbling at his lips, wanting more.

He broke away from the kiss and pulled off his shirt. His hungry gaze swept her from brow to toe. Kitty sucked in breath and turned her face away. She knew what he would say. She had been here before.

“Pray, do not—”

“Your body is art, Kitty Savege.” His chest rose on hard breaths. He caressed her hip, his strong hand possessing. “Perfection.”

Kitty couldn't breathe. The man who spoke was not the man she had taken into her bed. His words were beautiful, deep, and smooth, the Scots burr entirely gone, like that moment in the yard.

Her lips parted. “Per-perfect—” she stuttered. “But—”

“No,” he ordered.

She gripped his shoulders to push him off. “But,
yes
.” She scrambled out from under him, her arm a brace holding him away, her other hand grabbing up a corner of bed linen before her as a hasty covering.

“Kitty—”

“What you said,” she panted, feeling his hard breaths through her palm with every nerve in her body. “Why did you speak that way?”

His eyes were so dark, liquid with desire.

“Kitty, luve,” he said somewhat raggedly, “A dinna ken whit A'm saying nou A need tae be inside ye.”

A sound escaped her, a surprised whimper that was nothing like her.

“All right,” she heard herself whisper. “That will do for now.” She threw herself at him.

He grabbed her up and bore her down beneath him, and cupped the sides of her breasts, the pads of his thumbs seeking the peaks, and she moaned. Then he caressed her into silence, and submission. Her hands sought the waistband of his trousers and clutched around his tight buttocks. His hand slipped between her legs. He held her a moment, neither of them breathing, then he delved into her.

“Kitty,” he groaned, sinking his finger deep, and she clutched the bedclothes. He caressed, and she trembled as he touched her so perfectly—
sublimely
. He drew out, but she was breathless for more. Then he entered her again. Her body shook, his fingers driving her, slowly in and out, teasing. She arched into him, begging for more with her body.

He kissed her mouth, her throat, the valley between her breasts, then her tight nipple until she moaned, wanting him.

“I must have you now.” Deep, husky, perfect, a fantasy of words and cadence.

“But I—
Now
,” tore from her. “Do it now.”

He pulled off his trousers and moved between her legs, spreading her thighs with his hands. His shaft pressed into her, opening her, and it was a hard invasion, welcome, at first almost unbearably so; it grabbed her breath.

Then delicious.
Perfect
.

He groaned; she echoed him. His arms and jaw were taut with restraint. With each gentle thrust he gave her more, and it was an agony of tortured pleasure. Push in, retreat. Again farther in. And again, each thrust better than that before. She quivered, strung. She hooked a leg around him and tried to pull him close.

But he would not give it all to her. She struggled beneath him, sliding against the bed linens, pushing herself up to meet him. His big hand curved around her face, a fingertip tracing her lashes.

“
Please
,” she whispered.

“
Vainement je m'éprouve
.”

Kitty's eyes flew open.

His eyes were nearly black. He kissed her hard, then whispered above her lips, “Is this whit ye be wanting, lass?” He braced his hands to either side of her and drove up into her. Their moans mingled. He filled her completely. She did not want him to withdraw. She did not want it to end.

He knew her mind.

“'Tis anely the beginning.”

“Make it last,” she uttered as she shifted her hips to feel him thoroughly. Her fingertips sank into the muscle of his buttocks, holding him tight to her.

“For ye an me both, luve.” His voice was as strained as hers. Breaking her hold, he pulled out, she gasped and he thrust in again. Again, harder with each thrust, and a little bit deeper each time, caressing her so deep within. He met her center. She bucked, dragging herself onto him, and he went deeper still, giving it to her over and over until she whimpered. She bit her lips to withhold her shouts, breaking the skin. He covered her mouth, sucked on her lip. His voice came rough and deep.

“
Contre vous, contre moi
.”

“
Leam
.” He forced her down into the mattress. “Now—
oh
!” But he kept coming until her breaths shallowed and dizziness gripped her. Then rapture, rolling, sudden. Her sounds of pleasure tangled with his, his hands holding her hips down as he rose high in her. His body strained. She met him, taking his fast thrusts amid her shudders and feeling him thick and powerful. His hips pressed hard into her a final time, and with a great breath he went perfectly still.

She sighed a stuttering exhalation. He fell upon his forearms. She pressed her cheek to the mattress. Their breaths came heavy, her breasts flattened beneath his chest. She ought to unwind her arms from around his waist. His skin was damp beneath her palms, his heartbeats thunderous like hers.