When a Scot Loves a Lady (38 page)

“It seems I cannot get enough of every part of you,” he uttered against her mouth, the jagged unevenness of his breathing echoing hers. “The contour of your cheek. The curve of your throat. You are perfection, Kitty Savege.” His thumbs stroked across her bodice, and her knees weakened. “Did you sing? Tell me you did.”

She clutched his shoulders, aching for his caresses.

“I did. Terribly.” She pressed her hips to his. A rumbling pleasure sounded in his chest and he swept his hands to her behind, pulling her against him. There was no mistaking his need, and she could not breathe for wanting him inside her. But he would not give her that again. He had said so at Willows Hall.

“I need you now, Kitty.” He gathered her skirts. “Now.”

Chill air swirled about her calves. He was undressing her in the corridor. He
wanted
her. She tugged at his coat, pushing it over his shoulders. “The servants,” she barely managed.

He tore off his coat and lifted her entirely off the floor, sweeping her into his arms, and went through the nearest open door.

“The kitchen?
Leam
.”

He set her on the counter, closed and bolted the door, and went directly to the scullery closet. She watched, bemused, quivering in anticipation. Behind her hung rows of copper pots gleaming immaculately in the red glow of the hearth's remaining embers.

“No maid on a mat within.” He came from the closet and moved to her. “I am glad to see you are compassionate employers.”

“Yes, she has a bed in the upper st—”

He seized her mouth with his and dragged her against him. She sank her fingers into his hair as he pushed her skirts to her hips and her knees apart. His hand around her thigh was deliciously hot, his other unfastening his trousers as he kissed her again.

“Leam?” Her voice trembled.

His palm surrounded her nape, holding her close, then smoothed down her back swiftly to her behind, pulling her closer, forcing her legs open.

“You mayn't say no.” It was a growl. His cock pressed against her aching flesh, hot and rigid, and she was dizzy with it.

She shook her head. “No.”

His brow compressed, his eyes squeezed shut. “
Kitty
”—in agony.

“I mean I will not say no! I could not. You—
Ohh, Leam
.”

He pulled her onto him, guiding her until he was inside her fully, hot and thick, as she had dreamed. His hands grasped her hips beneath her skirts, and his breathing against her brow was taut like his every muscle, it seemed.

“Dear God.” He barely whispered it.

She grabbed his shoulders, quivering, momentary satisfaction growing swiftly to aching need. She shifted on him.

“
No
.” His grip tightened, holding her still. “
Don't
move.”

“But—”

“Be still.”

She obeyed. But her whole body thrummed. After a moment he smoothed his palm to her breasts that pressed tight against her bodice with her quick breaths. Gently he eased her back, and she leaned onto her palms. His thumb stole beneath the fabric and stroked her tight nipple.

“
Oh
.” She felt it everywhere. She throbbed for him. This time he did not bid her remain still when she moved her hips against his, drunk on the friction inside her and wanting more. He let her swivel on him, to feel him fully and remember how he had taken her before and need that now. Then he grasped her hips and thrust into her. Then again so hard her elbow jarred against the cabinet.

“Oh, God.
Again
.” She heard the words in her throat, on her lips, dropped back her head and let him take her. Begged him to do it again and again. His fingers dug into her flesh, tilting her hips. She whimpered her need.

She barely felt her shoulder nudge the pot, then strike it. It dislodged from its hook and crashed to the counter, then the floor, with two mighty clangs.

She gasped. He pulled her up and covered her mouth with his again, dragging her to him harder. She reached back, seeking a purchase, the pleasure inside her aching for completion. Her hand met porcelain, a soup tureen. Leam jerked her hips forward, driving sensation through her. She moaned and grabbed the cupboard. The tureen teetered, smashed to the ground. He did not ease, his thrusts fast. With one hand she grasped his shoulder, the other reaching out, meeting metal as her climax rose swiftly, a spinning spiral of pleasure. She clutched, he drove high into her, her back arched.

“
Oh, God!
”

She swept her arm round his shoulders, knocking copper against copper. He reached for the wall, pressing his palm into it and hitching up her knee. Pots cascaded.

“
Kitty
.” With deep, powerful thrusts he forced them together. She threw back her head and gasped, crying out sounds until he gripped her tight and suddenly stilled. He filled her. She felt it, and she wanted to weep and laugh at once, breathless and shuddering in his embrace.

She gulped in air, their chests moving hard against each other, his arms around her tight, bodies thoroughly joined. He rested his mouth on her brow. He kissed there, then her temple, beside her eye, the bridge of her nose.

A light flickered at the edge of the broad windows at the street level. Then it bobbed, moving quickly to set the kitchen aglow.

“Good heavens.” Her eyes popped wide. “Can it be the Watch?”

He pulled away and they dragged their clothing in order. Trousers fastened, he tugged her skirts around her legs and lifted her off the counter and put her before him through the door just in time for the full lantern light to shine through onto the pots and broken dishes strewn over the floor.

Leam pulled the door shut and Kitty looked around to meet the wide-eyed stares of the footman, the housekeeper, and her mother's prim French chef. John was blushing, the chef glowering. The housekeeper's brows were high, her lips twitching.

Mrs. Hopkins curtsied. “Is everything all right, milady?”

Kitty smoothed her hair. “Of course. I—Oh, good
heavens
.” She rolled her eyes and against her back felt Leam's chuckle. “Mrs. Hopkins, Monsieur Claude, I regret tha—”

The doorknocker echoed in the foyer on the floor above.

For a moment, no one moved. One hand on her waist, Leam turned the knob on the kitchen door and cracked it open. Light from the front stoop shone clear as day through the kitchen windows.

“The Watch, I'm afraid,” he murmured, a smile in his voice. She wanted to turn around, take his face into her hands, and kiss him with everything in her.

The doorbell rang like Easter church bells in a full peal. Then a second time.

“What on earth?” she whispered.

“He'll wake the whole neighborhood,” the housekeeper warned, glancing back and forth between Kitty and Leam.

“Someone must go,” Kitty said. “John.”

He bit his lip and headed for the stair. Leam followed to the landing and halted in the shadow. In the pregnant silence they all heard the bolts thrown. Then muffled voices.

Monsieur Claude stepped forward and set his nose in the air. “Madame, may I?” He gestured with a nod to the kitchen.

Kitty moved aside. Gingerly, the cook pressed the panel open and peeked within. He gasped, palm flat on his chest, and his eyes fell back in his head.

“
Sacre bleu
.” With a pointed glare, he passed her by into the chamber.

Laughter welled sweetly in her, then tumbled forth. Leam's dark eyes sparkled.

John appeared on the landing. “He wants to see the gen'leman of the house.”

“Hm.” Kitty went up the steps. Leam's smile was nothing less than perfect. She felt too full, her nerves singing. He grasped her arm, the gentlest touch, and held her back.

“Allow me.” He studied John. “May I borrow your cap and dressing gown?”

The footman promptly removed his night gear and handed them to the nobleman. Leam disappeared up the stairs.

“If you don't mind me saying so, milady,” the housekeeper whispered, “that one is a right fine gentleman.”

Kitty simply could not reply.

“Weel, whit're ye caterwalling aboot, man?” His rough accents careened down the stairs, louder than all the pots and pans put together. “Ye've gone an woke ma wifie, nou A'll ne're hair the end o it, ye glaik. Och! An thar's the babe ye've gone an woke too, crying. Ye canna hair him? Weel dae ye like tae be chynging hippins nou, man? Acause ma wee one's nurse be abed wi' the croup, an ma wifie ower-worn tae rise in the mids, an A'll nae be chyngng the thang masel!”

A mumbling sound filtered down the stairs for at least a minute. Kitty's ears strained, her nerves a jumble of pleasure and hilarity.

“A dinna ken, lad,” he said in much more reasonable tones. “Mebbe the baudrons.”

Mumble.

“Cats, man. Cats! An ye dinna ken the odd atween a cat an a brigand, ye best be seeking ither wirk.” The door shut with a thud and the bolts slid. A moment later, he appeared on the landing again, dressing gown over his arm, tugging the floppy cap from his head. A smile lurked at one corner of his mouth.

“Apparently the neighbors were concerned over robbers. I do not believe he will be back.” He handed the garments to the footman. “Thank you for the loan.”

“John,” Kitty said, and turned to the housekeeper and cook. “Monsieur Claude, Mrs. Hopkins. Thank you for your assistance. We will see to the kitchen in the morning. You may return to bed now.”

With a quick curtsy the housekeeper nodded and passed the earl on the landing and went up, the grinning footman following, and the chef at their heels still holding his palm against his head. When their footsteps and murmurs had faded into the upper story, Kitty finally found the courage to look up. Leaning against the wall, he was smiling ever so beautifully. He had not put his coat back on, and with his arms crossed over his chest she could see his muscles well defined through the damp linen.

“I daresay they will have plenty to tell the others first thing in the morning,” she said somewhat quaveringly. “Or perhaps right away.”

He came down the steps, curved his hand around her face, and tilted her head up. His gaze scanned her features, resting finally on her mouth.

“No. They haven't enough fodder for gossip quite yet. We must give them more.” He bent and nuzzled the corner of her lips, sending tingles of pleasure all the way to her toes. “Where is your bedchamber?”

Kitty trembled. He did not intend to leave.

“I suspect you can guess well enough.” She tilted her face so that he could continue kissing her throat, her hands seeking his hard arms.

“In inquiring, I am trying to be civilized,” he murmured against her skin. “Belatedly, and relatively speaking.”

“But I find I quite like you barbaric. Barbaric in the kitchen just now suited me perfectly well, in case you hadn't noticed.”

“I noticed.” He lifted his head and looked into her eyes. His were gloriously dark. “Kitty, I want to stay.”

She drew out of his arms and moved toward the stair. She glanced over her shoulder.

“Second story, first door, overlooking the street. We can watch the chastened Watch from the window.”

H
er thundercloud eyes twinkled as though lined with silvery sun and Leam's heart beat harder than it ever had. He maintained his voice with the greatest effort.

“I have no intention of watching anything but a beautiful woman in the throes of passion.”

Marvelously, her cheeks glowed.

“Then what, my lord,” she whispered, “are you waiting for?”

She went swiftly up the stairs before him, her hips a sweet enticement draped in the sheerest linen and silk he had shoved aside so he could have her because he could not wait another moment. To slow the heat still pounding in his blood, at her door he slipped his hands around her waist and bent to her ear.

“Kitty.” He passed his cheek along the satin of her hair. “You enchant me.”