Chapter Four
I prefer to dance naked around the fire. I fear it is the pirate in me.
Inside, Maura cringed, in utter mortification as her words played through her mind again and again. Lord, had she really said that? What had she been thinking? Something within her administered a stern admonishment, reminding her that pirates were adventurous. Pirates had no scruples.
She and the Black Scotsman had parted inside the ballroom, so as not to arouse suspicion. They met again at the landing of the stairs. He laughed softly when he saw her wave down a servant bearing a tray. An instant later a full bottle of wine and two goblets were in her hands.
He didn’t realize it was the means by which she would tame him.
And the fortification of courage for her.
From the moment he presented himself before her, panic threatened. A part of her longed to flee. To hide. It was as if all time had stopped. The pulse of her own heartbeat resounded in her ears.
Despite Eileen’s prattling on about how the ladies flocked to him, he was nothing like she expected—yet exactly as she should have expected.
His breeches were of skintight leather, tucked into high, cuffed boots. Like her, he wore a loose white shirt. The strings were untied, revealing a hair-roughened chest. Over the shirt was a vest, much like hers.
There the similarity of costume ended. He wore neither hat nor scarf, as she did, but rather a narrow bandanna tied around his head. Eileen had not exaggerated, Maura decided with a flutter of her pulse. He was handsome, disturbingly so. Disarmingly so. Almost wickedly so!
Jet-black hair tumbled over his forehead. It deeply emphasized the contrast between the pale blue of his eyes and the pitch-blackness of his hair. A patch covered one eye, and only served to heighten the aura of danger he exuded.
It spun through Maura’s mind that this was exactly how his ancestor must have looked. Raw. Dangerous. Deadly.
Added to it was a sense of tightly leashed control. A coolly disguised arrogance. She was certain she didn’t imagine it. Most disconcerting of all was his regard. Bold and almost possessive, it trickled slowly down her body.
And it was scarcely that of bored indifference.
When their eyes finally met, it was as if a bolt of lightning shot through her. In that fraction of a heartbeat, she knew…
Alec McBride, Duke of Gleneden, was a man who got what he wanted, she was certain of it. He was a man of unrelenting purpose—and she, she realized shakily, was what he wanted! Whatever had she been thinking, to presume she could control a man like this!
But everything had been set in motion, the players—herself and the Black Scotsman—ready and in place.
It was too late to turn back. Whatever trepidation she felt must be stifled.
Whatever uncertainty she felt must be smothered.
She had a part to play, that of coy seductress. Play it she must—and play it she would!
With that, Maura mustered her purpose. It was steady and firm. She would not stray from it. After all, she had just proved she could assume the role of flirtatious lady. The ease of it had shocked her a little.
But in truth, thus far all had gone according to plan. She must remember that. And, appalled as she was at the discovery, kissing the Black Scotsman had proved…well, exciting. Exciting in a thrilling, dangerous sort of way, she scrambled to assure herself…and that, too, would serve her purpose.
He took the wine, along with her hand, and led her up the stairs.
When they reached his bedroom, he relieved her of the glasses and gave a nod toward the door.
Maura opened it, quelling a fleeting sensation of dread.
She closed it with both hands. For the space of a heartbeat she stood as if transfixed, one hand splayed wide on the wood, the other curled around the handle.
It occurred to her that there was still time to yank it wide and—
“Lock it, will you, Irish?”
His tone was casually offhand. All at once Maura was not feeling casually offhand. But resolve prevailed. She was strong. Resolute. She’d made it this far, hadn’t she?
The lock clicked shut. Slowly, she turned. The duke deposited the wine and glasses on a long, low bureau angled across one corner of the room. Turning, he slanted her a wicked half smile and extended a hand, one pale blue eye smoldering.
Their fingertips touched. Fire. Heat. It raged all through her.
“Shall we begin where we left off?”
He sat on the bed and tugged her between his knees.
His gaze was level with her breasts. When she realized where it dwelled, she longed to smack that approving smile from his face.
It struck her then that she was breathing hard, as if she had just run a very great distance—which only obliged him more!
He trailed a fingertip down the deep hollow between her breasts. Maura sucked in a breath, reining in her instinctive impulse to pull back. A blunted male fingertip lifted the ribbon with the pouch from her neck. “What is this?” he murmured.
Her fingers closed over his. She wouldn’t allow him to open it. “What else could it be?” She tossed her head with a breathless laugh. “Pirate’s booty.”
His chuckle was low. “Yes. Of course. I’d forgotten.”
Deft male fingertips dispensed with the front leather fastenings of her vest. The vest parted. He tugged it from her shoulders and tossed it toward the chair beneath the window. Her breasts spilled forth, as if to protest their confinement—and bolster his enjoyment, the cad!
She bemoaned her modesty as well as his avid scrutiny.
Beneath her blouse her nipples formed tight little buds, while her breasts swelled heavy and full.
A lamp burned on the bedside table. She was well aware her nipples were clearly visible.
One corner of his mouth tipped up, conveying his approval.
It took every ounce of willpower she possessed not to clamp her arms over herself.
Instead she flicked a finger at the front of his vest.
“Your turn, Scotsman.”
He gave a soft laugh. “You give no quarter, do you, Irish?”
“No quarter asked, none given. A heartless pirate, am I not?”
He laughed again. His vest joined hers on the chair. He dragged off his bandanna, and then his shirt, which landed on the floor behind her.
Maura smothered a gasp. She hadn’t expected that.
It wasn’t as if she’d never seen a man’s naked torso.
The farmers and tenants in the fields often worked shirtless.
But she’d never been so close to a man’s naked chest. She tried not to gape.
He still wore his breeches, but for all the clamor inside her, he might as well have been naked!
Curling dark hair covered his chest, the flat of his belly narrowing before disappearing into the waist of his breeches. It scarcely registered before a hard arm slid around her back, bringing her down on the muscled stretch of a powerful thigh.
“Come here, Irish.”
Self-conscious did not even begin to describe how she felt.
Warm hands settled on her waist, nearly burning her with heat.
Confronted with the brazen masculinity of the man before her, she had no idea what to do with her hands.
Where to put them without touching bare, naked flesh.
Or bare, naked, hair-roughened flesh. She battled an almost hysterical desire to laugh.
She was supposed to be a sultry seductress, well able to negotiate her way around a man’s naked body, not a maidenly virgin.
Which, of course, she was.
Almost desperately she framed his face with her palms. The skin of his cheeks and jaw was faintly rough. Absurdly, she liked the slightly abrasive feel of it. “Your patch,” she said. “Remove it.”
“What if I have but one eye? What if it has been gouged out in battle and I am so horridly disfigured you will scream in horror at the sight of me?”
She arched a brow. “Will I?”
His smile seemed even more devilish than before. “I would much rather that you scream in pleasure than in fright.”
Maura’s smile slipped a notch. To hear him say it aloud made her want to run screaming from the room.
“Well, Irish? Do you still wish to see me without my pirate’s patch?”
Her tone was as level as she could make it. “I do.”
A faint light flickered in the one eye visible to her. “Then remove it.”
Despite her banter, her heart was already pounding hard, almost painfully. She started to reach for the tie fastened at the back of his head.
He shook his head. “Not that way,” he said.
Bemused, she frowned.
He bared his teeth, a gleam in his eye. A most challenging gleam.
For a heartbeat she didn’t understand…Her heart began to thunder. She couldn’t back down. She wouldn’t, no matter how much she wanted to.
Her heart was pounding madly. “Ah,” she murmured playfully, “you may regret this, Scotsman. I might nip you.”
“Please do,” he invited with a rakish grin.
With a kittenish growl, Maura half raised herself and caught the end of the string in her teeth.
Her breast brushed his jaw and her pulse leaped.
But then his scent seemed to envelop her—soap and the fresh woodsy fragrance of his cologne.
She gave a little tug on the string. Rats, she’d pulled the tie into a knot!
Now she was forced to catch it fully between her teeth and tug it clumsily up over his head.
A tremor shot through her. His hair was soft. Silky. Somehow she hadn’t expected that. And it appeared her effort was futile, for now that cursed patch was half on, half off. It took three tries before she succeeded, and by then she was laughing.
The patch fell to the floor. Maura plopped down on his knee again.
Her laughter faded.
For now she beheld a face that was starkly masculine, yet utterly striking. So striking that for one heart-pounding moment it stole every last breath from her lungs.