Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
“We need to speak,” he stated, his voice low, devoid of the earlier pleasantness. “Now.”
Elspeth and Hugo had ascended the sweeping staircase to Arrowfell House in silence. The only sounds had come from the distant carriages on cobblestone streets and late-night passersby.
They’d gone through the ornate front door and entered the foyer, the soft glow of candlelight illuminating the intricate paintings on the walls.
Now, Hugo turned to her, and she lifted her chin. He sensed defiance in her movements. The subtlety of it made his blood boil.
“Indeed? I thought we were quite clear on the dance floor about where I stand, Yer Grace.”
“You will not flirt with Sarford again,” Hugo said, his voice low and tightly controlled. “Is that clear?”
She laughed—sharp, defiant. It scraped against his skin like flint.
“And why ever nae, Yer Grace? Were ye nae the one who insisted I find a suitor? Am I nae to employ every charm at me disposal?” She stepped closer, her green eyes ablaze. “Or do yer rules only apply when they suit ye?”
His jaw tightened. “Aaron is off-limits.”
She blinked. “And why, pray tell, is the Marquess of Sarford so uniquely forbidden?” Her voice was pitched just to provoke. “Is he too grand for a Scottish widow with eccentric Highland ways? Or do ye think so low of me, I should be grateful for whatever scraps Society tosses me way?”
Hugo took a breath, slow and deliberate.
“He is my friend,” he said evenly. “He is not looking for a wife. You’d be wasting your time.”
“Wastin’ me time?” she scoffed, tossing her hair. “He is the only man who’s shown me a scrap of courtesy since I arrived in this city.”
The words struck harder than they should have.
Hugo stepped forward without meaning to.
“That’s because you make it impossible,” he said. “You push and prod and provoke.”
Her eyes narrowed on him. “Better that than clinging to every smiling liar who promises the moon.”
Hugo’s heart pounded. “Yet here you are, flirting with a man you barely know, who will never offer you anything real.”
“And what would ye offer me, Hugo?” she demanded. “Judgment? Leashes? Ye think ye can play savior and jailer both?”
No one had ever spoken to him like that. No one had ever looked at him like that—like they saw past his title, his authority, right down to the storm beneath.
His fists were clenched now. “You are twisting everything.”
“No,” she said, stepping into his space. “I am finally seeing clearly. And ye cannae bear it.”
He stared down at her, his breathing ragged. “You drive me mad.”
“I intend to,” she said, her voice low and trembling with rage. “But at least I am honest about it.”
They were standing too close now, her defiance crackling like lightning, his fury taut as a bowstring.
“Elspeth…” he warned.
“What?” she taunted. “Say it.”
His restraint tore like fabric. One moment, he was glaring at her; the next, he had closed the space between them, drawn to her like a moth to flame.
She gasped, and for a heartbeat, he hovered, close enough to feel her anger shiver against his skin.
He meant to walk away.
Instead, he kissed her.
Elspeth gasped into his mouth.
She hadn’t meant to; she had meant to keep her composure, her cool disdain, her barbed defiance. But the heat of him overwhelmed her.
Her hands pressed hard against his chest, as if to push him away, but her traitorous fingers curled, clutching at his lapels like a woman starved.
The world tilted wildly, teetering off its axis, and she with it. She was falling into space, into him, into something deeper and far more dangerous.
His kiss grew rougher, deeper. He took her mouth with wicked certainty, sweeping his tongue against hers in a rhythm that made her stomach clench and her knees go weak.
It wasn’t sweet, it wasn’t careful—it was consuming, confident, claiming.
She was aching, trembling with the intensity of it. Her body was alive with heat, flushed and needy, every nerve ending screaming for more even as her thoughts resisted.
I cannae stand this man, but why do I need him so badly?
It wasn’t a need of the heart.
No, never! her mind screamed in protest.
But her body—oh, her traitorous, longing body shivered with want.
Her lips parted, helpless against his possessive kisses. She licked him, tasting the remnants of the wine he had earlier, mingled with something darker, something uniquely him—earth and salt and desire.
She wanted to bottle the taste and sip it slowly during sleepless nights.
When he tore his mouth from hers, she was left gasping, dazed. Her chest heaved as if she’d run miles.
His lips left hers only to blaze a trail down her jaw, then her neck, burning a path to her collarbone. She moaned as he kissed her there, soft and slow, as though he were mapping her pulse with his tongue.
Her hands twitched at her sides, wanting to grab him, hold him still, pull him closer.
His hand slid from her arm, gliding down her waist in a slow, reverent stroke that made her shudder.
He found her hip, cradling it firmly, then moved lower, letting his hand curve around the back of her thigh.
His thumb brushed upward, where her skirts were bunched and tangled, and through the barrier of her undergarments, he pressed a touch that made her breath catch.
A jolt. Hot. Undeniable.
“You defy me,” he murmured against her skin, his breath hitching, ragged and full of barely held restraint. “Then you tempt me. You are as wicked as the whispers that follow you, Highland minx.”
The words wrapped around her, thick with danger. She should have shoved him back, slapped him, fled. Instead, her thighs parted slightly, her whole body thrumming with unbearable heat.
His fingers teased the lace of her underthings, tracing the delicate edge with maddening patience.
She whimpered, a soft sound from deep in her throat. Not quite a protest. Not quite a plea. And yet it seemed to ignite a fire inside him.
He growled low in his throat and pressed closer.
Her knees buckled. She sagged against him, letting his shoulder take her weight as her head tilted back, exposing her neck to his mouth once more. He kissed her just below the ear, and she gasped at the intimacy of it.
It was too much and yet not enough.
“We are lucky it is so late,” he whispered, the sound deep and husky, hot against her ear. “I am going to teach you a lesson, temptress.”
Before she could catch her breath, he scooped her up into his arms.
She made a startled sound—half gasp, half protest—but it was no use.
He was already moving, striding up the grand staircase like a man possessed.
She curled into him out of instinct, her arms wrapping around his neck, her breathing shallow.
He smelled like soap and spice and smoke, like fire and skin and everything that should not make her heart stutter but did.
He carried her down the quiet hall, deeper into the manor, toward his quarters. She had never been there before. Her heart beat wildly in her chest. Her limbs trembled with anticipation, thick and intoxicating.
He opened the door to his chambers and carried her inside.
She barely registered the opulence of the room—the heavy gold brocade curtains, the carved fireplace, the massive four-poster bed draped in burgundy velvet—before he laid her down.
The mattress dipped beneath her, and she sank into the softness, breathless, as he knelt beside her.
His hands were on her hips. Large. Hot. Strong.
His gaze pinned her in place, dark and intense, as he pushed her skirts aside, revealing more of her with every breath. She tensed for a moment. There was something reverent in the way he looked at her. Something that made her feel dangerous and wanted all at once.
She was nervous. Eager. Confused. Utterly ready.
The breeze from the window swept across her skin, lifting the fine hairs on her thighs. She shivered.
Then, his mouth replaced the breeze, and the world vanished.
His tongue licked a slow, deliberate path, and her hips jerked involuntarily. He was careful, almost tender, in his exploration, as though he were memorizing her taste.
She felt as though her soul were leaving her body.
She whimpered, tried to close her legs on instinct, feeling too vulnerable, but he caught her thighs and held them open, spreading her gently, firmly, like she was his to feast upon.
“Look at me, temptress,” he growled, his voice tight, almost broken. “I know how badly you need this, and I will lick up every last drop of you.”
Elspeth gasped, clawing at the sheets beneath her. Her thighs parted fully, her body arching in desperate invitation. She felt flushed, ruined, and alive in a way she never had before.
“Show me,” she breathed.
He dove in, and she cried out at the first drag of his tongue. Her fingers tangled in his hair, holding on for dear life as her back arched. His mouth worked magic, soft strokes and teasing licks, then harder, wetter pressure. Her hips bucked helplessly, chasing every touch.
He pulled back for a moment, just long enough for her to whimper at the loss. Her sex was throbbing.
She reached for him, mindless with want, but he caught her wrist and held it firmly, his gaze blazing.
“Say my name,” he growled, sliding two fingers deep into her aching heat. “Say it, Elspeth. Now.”
“Hu—Hugo,” she gasped, shuddering as he filled her, his thumb pressing against her most sensitive spot.
“Again.”
“Hugo,” she cried, her voice trembling with urgency as he descended on her again, devouring her with slow, relentless skill.
He sucked and licked, his fingers plunging into her in rhythm with his mouth. The sensation built and built; every nerve, every thought, focused on the growing storm inside her. She clung to him, her legs trembling, the sound of his breathing and hers tangled in the air.
He pushed her higher.
And higher.
Until at last, the wave crashed.
Pleasure, pure and devastating, tore through her body in a long, rippling climax that left her weak and gasping. She moaned his name again, barely aware of it.
He rose, his chest heaving, his face flushed, his eyes stormy.
Without a word, he reached for her skirts and pulled them down with a detached, practiced touch. It felt like ice after fire.
“Next time you even think to defy me,” he said, his voice low and steady, “remember whose name you were whimpering, Elspeth.”
Then, he turned away.
He walked toward the dressing room and shut the door behind him, leaving her sprawled across his bed, her limbs limp and her heart hammering.
Does he expect me to leave now?
Elspeth sat up slowly, her body humming with aftershocks. The night breeze kissed her skin. Her face burned with humiliation and heat. The way she had moaned, begged…
How utterly, shamelessly she had wanted him.
It was mortifying. And yet, beneath the shame, something dangerous burned. A need. A hunger. A spark that would not die.
He doesnae ken that I dinnae lie with me late husband, the sick drunk that he was. He doesnae ken the power he holds over me And how I hate and crave it in equal measure.
But she knew one thing: she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her like this.
She rose, silent and swift, gathering her scattered dignity like a cloak. She slipped out of his chambers, her bare feet padding against the cold stone, and returned to her own.
Once there, she shut the door and leaned against it.
Aye, that was the greatest pleasure I’ve ever known. But the feelin’ of bein’ so out of control, that’s the very opposite of everythin’ I’ve ever been.
She undressed, slowly, carefully, and slid into her bed, seeking the comfort of linen and solitude. But her skin still tingled from his touch. Her breathing quickened at the thought of his mouth on her.
And as her eyes fluttered closed, only one word echoed in her mind.
Hugo.