When a Scot Loves a Lady (19 page)

Finally he pulled away and rolled onto his back, taking a tress of her hair with him, between his fingers. His eyes were closed and as his breathing slowed his thumb stroked the lock across his palm.

Kitty shifted onto her side, curling her knees up to hug, and the strands slipped from his hold.

For long minutes they lay like that, his fingertips by her shoulder but not touching. The chill air tingled over her cooling skin.

“What was that you said?” she finally said. “The English part.”

His breaths seemed to pause. “A dinna ken, lass,” he finally replied.

“I don't believe you.” But she was, after all, well suited to games. She would demand an explanation, but tomorrow. Not now. Not filled up and trembling as she was at this moment. “What do we do now?” she said, repeating her question from earlier, the confusion welling within her ever stronger now. She had never given this to a man, not this abandon.

He turned his head, and his eyes were all gentleness. Somehow it did not surprise her, this warmth.

“Ye weel ask that quaisten, winna ye?”

“It is a good question.”

Silently his gaze traveled the line of her hair, across her features.

“And?” She must try to understand at least this. She was accustomed to having a plan. “What now?”

“Whitiver ye wish, lass.” The words came upon a hard breath, as though brought forth reluctantly this time. He curved his hand around the side of her face and passed the pad of his thumb across her lips, the same caress that had made her want him so swiftly. It was at once tender and demanding.

She did not know exactly what she wished, so she did not speak.

“'Tis best an A go nou,” he said quietly.

Her throat was dry. “Of course.” She had never considered an alternative. Lonely wanton, her imagination did not extend further.

He pushed onto his elbow and surrounded her face with his hands. His eyes, like pitch cast in the sheer silver of night without, sparkled. He placed a warm, astoundingly gentle kiss upon her lips.

“Happy Yule, Leddy Kath'rine.”

She could not reply to wish him the same. Her throat was closed finally, somewhat belatedly. She had not actually known that she could moan in such a manner. No one had ever warned her it was even likely. No one had told her anything, of course. And she had most certainly never discovered it on her own.

She had been kissed so very differently before, by a man who told her she was imperfect, her body inside and out something to be ashamed of, even as he used her, telling her that she was not desirable. She had not known a man could kiss a woman with such tenderness. She had not known
this
.

Leam sat on the edge of the bed, drew his trousers on, and shrugged his shoulders into his shirt, then stood. For a moment he remained so, his broad back to her, looking out the window. Then he turned, touched two fingertips to her cheek, gave her another smile, and left.

Kitty stared at the closed door.

Nothing could have been worse than Lambert Poole's cruelty, how he had used her, then laughed at her, telling her he had ruined her out of spite to her brothers whom he despised. Kitty believed for years that she had experienced the worst a man could do to a woman. She had told Lambert that herself.

Clearly, she had been wrong. Somehow, astoundingly, a sweet, simple good night from this man after everything was worse.

C
hurch bells woke Kitty. Uneven, inharmonious church bells rung by an inexpert hand, which seemed unlikely, so she dragged herself from the bed in which a near stranger had made love to her hours earlier, and peeked out the window. Glare from the snow pricked her eyes.

Rapid knocking came at the door. Not a man's knock. Of course not. Kitty had little doubt that in company the Earl of Blackwood would appear today as he had after each previous encounter, the same mildly flirtatious, lazy-eyed semi-barbarian she still could not quite believe she had invited into her bed. Although in point of fact she had not really invited him. He had climbed in.

Her entire body got hot, most especially where she was tender and slightly sore.

Ignoring Emily's knocking, she crawled back to the bed and curled up in the mussed linens, twisting them about her fingers and toes and imagining everything over again. No detail was too small to recall thoroughly. She must revel while reveling could be done, before she must see him among the others and be cool, self-possessed Lady Katherine again. And before she must fully confront the fact that Uilleam Blackwood was not all he appeared to be in public.

The door opened. Emily marched in.

“Happy Christmas, Kitty! Good gracious, what a mess.” She picked up garments. “You must rise. It is half past ten already and we will be late for church.”

“Church?” Kitty pushed herself up to sit and the hair out of her eyes—the hair he had stroked so gently after making love to her. She still could not entirely believe it had not been a dream.

“It seems there will be church after all. So come now. Up.”

She allowed Emily to dress her. She herself was good for little useful employment. If any of her sophisticated political and literary friends in London could see her now, hazy-eyed and flush-faced, they would not recognize her. She peered into the glass and blinked. She did not even recognize herself.

“How would you like your hair arranged?”

Kitty frowned and set down the glass. She took a steadying breath. “Very tight and secure.”

“I haven't any talent for it, you know, but since it is Christmas I will do my best.”

“Thank you, dear.”

It looked a fright. But Lord Blackwood didn't seem to mind it. Contrary to Kitty's expectations, he met her at the base of the stair with a lovely smile, warm eyes, and a neat bow, his dogs hanging about his legs. She managed to curtsy without falling over, which was an accomplishment of sorts as her joints had turned to jelly and her insides to warm caramel.

Making love with him had only worsened matters. She was thoroughly infatuated. But of course she was. What an immensely pathetic fool she had turned out to be after all these years of endeavoring not to be precisely that.

Mr. Yale offered her cloak and then his arm. A good thing indeed, since touching the earl would surely result in her becoming a puddle on the foyer floor.

“How on earth will we get to the church through all the snow?” Emily said, grasping Lord Blackwood's arm as they stepped over the threshold into the yard.

“Via the path, one imagines.” Mr. Yale gestured, leading Kitty toward a neat, flat corridor cut in the snow from the edge of the yard a considerable distance down the street. “It is somewhat slippery, Lady Katherine. Do take care.”

“Should I fall I will endeavor not to drag you down with me.”

“That's all right. The other night Blackwood's fist sent me to the snow already, so I am accustomed to it.” Indeed, a bruise colored his chin.

“Good heavens, sir.”

“All in an evening's amusements.” He winked.

The dogs ran ahead, leaping through drifts.

“Well, isn't this the most pleasant journey to Christmas services I've ever taken?” Mr. Cox said, smiling for all as he came behind them. “I haven't been in such grand company for church in years, I daresay.”

“Don't you go to church, Mr. Cox?” Emily asked from behind Kitty where she thankfully could not see the handsome man with whom she had spent the wicked portion of her night.

“I suspect he meant the ‘grand company' part, rather than the ‘church' part,” Mr. Yale said, and Emily's brows went up.

“All right, then. With whom do
you
usually go to church?”

“No one you would know, I'll merit,” Kitty's escort murmured.

Kitty pressed her fingertips into Mr. Yale's arm and he slanted her an apologetic glance, then a grin.

“I suspect you are correct,” Emily said, apparently not minding his teasing today, “although my companion, Madame Roche, always seems to know everybody and introduces me to the most remarkable people whenever we are about. Two weeks ago I met a dozen chimney sweeps at the market.”

By the time they ascended the church steps, swept clean and the remaining film of white already melting in the sparkling sunlight, Kitty was breathing hard from the exertion and possibly because the earl was right behind her. He had yet to speak, but in company he was taciturn at best. In the company of more than one, that was. Alone with one person he spoke French verse and, in perfect English, said delectable things she had not dreamed any man would ever say to her.

The tiny church was nearly full, villagers crowding the pews despite the snow. But the building was tidy, white-washed inside and out, with modest decorations and a minister standing behind the pulpit dressed in an oversized black jacket.

Kitty screwed up her brow. “Marie, isn't that your coachman?”

“By George, it is. What are you doing up there, Pen?”

The coachman came out from behind the pulpit. Kitty recognized the coat of casual cut yet fine wool. Lord Blackwood had removed it for a trio of jacks the previous night.

Mr. Pen reached up as though to tip his cap and tugged on his bushy gray hair instead.

“Happy Christmas to you, miss. Milady. Milord. Sirs.”

“Pen, what on earth is going on?”

“Well, don't you know, milady, the vicar ain't been seen since the snow hereabouts.” His clear baritone filled the little church. He shook his head sorrowfully. “When His Lordship were looking about for someones to preach services this morning on behalf of it being the birthday of Our Lord and Savior, well, I don't mind telling you, I was happy to step up to the job.”

“Are you an Evangelical, Pen?”

“Methodist, miss.” He tugged again at his nonexistent brim.

Mr. Yale chuckled. “Let the man get on with it,” he said. “It's cold as a desert night in here.”

“Ye've niver been tae the desert,” Lord Blackwood murmured, defraying Kitty's own chill by sending little eddies of warmth through her entire body.

“Well, I couldn't very well say it's as cold as a Bengal summer, could I?”

“Yer forgitting the muntain.”

“Perhaps intentionally.”

“Lord Blackwood,” Emily said, “did you really ask my coachman to say the service today?”

Mr. Yale chuckled. “Someone had to.”

“Now ladies and gents, if I'm to get to our lesson today, I'd best be starting.” Mr. Pen retook his place at the pulpit.

Kitty could not say what the coachman's sermon was about, although she heard the word
virgin
a number of times, perhaps because she was primed to hear it through mingled ecstasy and shame.

He had lived in Bengal and had traveled in the mountains, presumably the Himalayas. He could recite French poetry. He had arranged for someone to provide a Christmas sermon, albeit a creative alternative.

When the bright notes of a violin echoed throughout the high-ceilinged building, matched by Mr. Pen's baritone and Mrs. Milch's thin alto, Kitty dragged herself from her study. Emily and Mr. Yale sang, and Mr. Cox at the end of the row, his cheeks bright.

She looked over Emily's bonnet. The earl stood with his head slightly bowed, his beautiful mouth a straight line. As though he sensed her regard, his eyes flickered up, and he met her gaze. He smiled. But the steely glint was back, and Kitty's nascent pleasure wavered.

They walked back to the inn in pleasant company, Mr. Cox and Mr. Pen providing most of the conversation in spirited form. The others came along the narrow path behind and before, the innkeepers, Ned, and the villagers invited to take a mug of ale at the inn and a slice of Christmas pudding.

“Pen, did you shovel this path to the church as well?” Emily asked.

“No, milady.” Ned's piping voice came cleanly across the snowy street as he plodded along, wolfhounds at his heels. “Me and milord did it yesterday. Finished it up this morning just in time, didn't we, gov'nor?”