Chapter Eighteen #2
He inhaled, exhaled sharply. “We never saw eye to eye on the matter of highways and byways in Scotland, let alone this local road. I have done my best to cope with the matter of roads to be built and the estate I must protect. I care about improving Scotland, and I care about Dundrennan.”
“Very deeply. Did he realize that?”
“Not really.” Aedan looked away. “He intended Dundrennan for Neil, my older brother,” he went on. “They agreed on everything to do with the estate.”
“What was he like?”
“A fine man,” he murmured. “More handsome than I and less of a grump, as Amy calls me. He was very knowledgeable about history. I believe he actually read many of the books in our library,” he added wryly. “You would have liked him.”
“I’m sure I would. Though I like the current laird very much,” she said. He heard the smile in her voice. In the candlelight, he saw her cheeks go rosy.
“Do you, now.”
“I do.” She leaned closer, slid an arm around his back waist. “You are a good laird, perhaps the best for Dundrennan just now, since you understand the need for improvement for Scotland to thrive. I think you very handsome,” she said quickly.
“And if I were your father, I would have trusted you to do the best thing always.”
He gazed down at her, not expecting the depth of her loyalty. “You, who argue with me when you have the chance?”
“Only because I feel strongly about things too. I see how deeply you care about Dundrennan. You would never compromise its integrity as a home and a historical site.”
“That means more than you could know, lass. And I will not lose Dundrennan. I will do whatever I must to keep it intact, even if it must become a museum.” He scowled and thumped a fist on his upraised knee.
“What if we find something more, Aedan? A tomb, for example?”
“Arthur’s gold?” He half laughed. “Then a road would never go across this hill.”
“What can you do to protect Dundrennan?”
“Not much if the museum—and Sir Edgar—want their just due out of this.”
“I am not thinking of Sir Edgar. You should know that.”
“Why,” he said, turning toward her, “should I know that?”
Her lifted her face to his. “Because you should just know it.”
He huffed. “Charming, lass, but wildly obscure.”
“I do not much care for Sir Edgar. He is a good director. That is all.”
“Aye?” He leaned still closer. Her gaze locked with his.
“I have been swayed by…another,” she said on a breath.
“Who?” His voice thrummed through her.
“You,” she whispered.
“I would never sway you. Do what you want. I see I cannot prevent it.”
“Best not try.” She tipped her face upward, a breath away.
“I would not dare,” he breathed.
She laughed softly, leaned close, and kissed him.
He gave in to her sweetness readily, hungrily, drawing her to him as she looped her arms around his neck.
Her lips moved under his, warm and heavenly, and when they parted for an instant, she kissed him again.
Leaning against the wall, he pulled her into his lap, her legs and her skirts flowing over him.
He had controlled himself, yet she had surprised him utterly, and he surrendered completely, gratefully.
He kissed her with fervor, traced a hand over her fine-boned jaw and found the shell of her ear.
She sighed, mouth opening under his, meeting the slip of his tongue.
That sweet, delicate contact made him burn so hot that he could hardly bear it.
He knew he must pull back if he could not master himself.
Tilting her face upward, he gently slid her eyeglasses down and away, setting them aside.
She blinked, the purity of her face lovely, innocent yet seductive.
He took her deeply into his arms to kiss her as she curved against him, her hands sliding up to cup his shoulders.
Supporting her in one arm, with the other hand he spanned her waist, shifting his fingers, resting them on the tiny buttons that fastened her blouse.
That unspoken question quickened his heartbeat.
She arched against his torso, giving his access so that he loosened a few buttons, and she moaned softly, shifting as his hand found the fullness of one breast, felt the nipple stiffening, the sensation plunging heavily through him.
Another kiss, another, and she framed his jaw with her hands, the soft kid of her gloves sliding over the rasp of his beard.
He turned his head to bite gently at the gloves, drawing them off playfully, letting them fall.
She gave an airy laugh and cupped his face in her warm hands, kissing him again, mouth open and seeking now, hungry, eager.
Her openness and boldness, her ease in touching him and being touched by him, let him know that she felt comfortable with him in this secret and ancient place, as he felt with her.
As their kiss lingered, he slipped his hand over her clothed breast again, and she sighed, moving slightly, allowing his fingers to cup and gently caress.
Some of the upper buttons of her blouse were undone—he had noticed earlier the creamy skin that peeked through—and he slipped another button free, then more.
As her upper blouse fell open, she caught her breath on a sharp intake and arched against him again.
He slid his fingers inside, encountering fragile lace and cotton, and her breast, warm and exquisitely soft, spilled into his hand.
She gasped when Aedan found the nipple and took it in his fingertips.
Feeling her heart slamming under her ribcage, he kissed her deeply, lingering his lips on hers, while his fingers brought first one breast, then the other, to life.
He could feel tiny shivers on the surface of her skin.
She moaned and leaned back in his arms, allowing him greater access, and he dipped his head, mouth slipping along the arch of her throat and down, until he tasted the warm pearl of her breast with his lips, teased it with his tongue until Christina shuddered and sighed and undulated against him.
He lifted his head to kiss her mouth again, tasting her sweet and eager tongue, then kissed her cheek where the heat of her blush had grown so strong.
“Miss Burn,” he whispered against her lips, his fingers undoing more buttons, pulling gently at delicate, beribboned fabric, “my beautiful Miss Burn—no stays?”
“None. I could not breathe well when climbing the hill—and it was so—hot.”
“Aye so,” he murmured, his lips moving on hers as he loosened her chemise. The flimsy fabric was damp with rain and redolent with the warm vanilla and floral fragrance that seemed so natural to her.
He lowered his head to tease her breast with his lips again, feeling the nipple tighten as his hand caressed her other breast until she cried out, kittenish and needful as she arched across his lap.
The subtle press of her rounded hips over his hardening body nearly drove him mad.
Careful, he told himself. Slow. It took all he had.
Capturing her around the ribcage with both hands, he rolled his thumbs over her nipples while he sought her mouth again with his own.
When she sucked delicately and quite deliberately on the tip of his tongue, he knew that she wanted and needed what he had to have, knew she felt all the desperate intensity he himself felt.
The enticing thought that she might allow it to happen made him as hard as rock, as hot as fire.
He shifted, holding her, kissing her, driving her mad, for she bucked gently in his embrace. He pushed at her skirts and slipped his hand up her leg, found her knee, poised there.
She did not stop him; indeed, she pressed against him with a little whimper, so that he lowered his head again to her breast and kissed her there, slipped his tongue into the hot crevice between her deliciously full breasts. He breathed in her fragrance, closed his eyes, trembled for control.
Though she wore long cotton knickers over her stockings and garters, he knew from previous experience with ladies and their undergarments that the long garment might open quite easily, and he let his hand slide slowly over the soft fabric that covered her lean leg.
Amid the folds, he found the opening he sought, a slitted gap in the cloth, and felt the warm female nest hidden there.
He traced his fingertip delicately over the tender crevice, taking his time, giving her every chance to protest.
She cried out, gasped, and took his head between her hands, drawing him upward to meet her mouth. But she did not kiss him, only hovered, her lips close to his, as if waiting.
He waited, too, ready to withdraw his hand. She made no sound, did not move, but her breaths came fast and her heart pounded through her back, where he supported her with one hand.
His own heart thundered, and somewhere outside—far beyond, in the world he had forgotten even existed—he heard the crack of lightning, and the increased sheeting of the rain on the tarpaulin overhead.
“Someone might—” she whispered.
“No one will find us here,” he murmured. “We are safely hidden…. No one… But if you do not—please, my darling lass, tell me now, before I—”
“Oh p-please,” she murmured, her voice shaking, and she pushed gently downward, so that his finger, still resting motionless upon her intimate entrance, slipped inside, into exquisite heat, and she whimpered from what he knew was splendid, unmatchable joy.
He groaned, a low rumble, as he touched her there, where she was hot and honeyed and ardent, already swollen for him.
She trembled as he moved his fingers slowly, easing her toward her release.
He did not know how long he could endure it, but he was determined to give her this pleasure, though he strained against the searing demand in his own body, felt passion burn a path through him, but he held back, denied himself release.
He found her nipple again—she offered it, asked for the touch of his mouth there with the arch of her body—and he tasted there while he touched and teased her elsewhere with his fingertips. She turned in his arms as the thrill finally shuddered through her, and she whimpered a little in his ear.
Closing his eyes, he felt the delicious undulations of her body, heard her soft cries. He could scarcely bear it, nearly groaned aloud, nearly spilled himself out without fulfillment, just for the intense excitement of touching her, wrapping himself in her embrace.
Somewhere in the midst of heat and passion, even while she rocked with the final easing of the thrill that she had felt, she shifted in his arms and he felt her fingers eagerly upon him.
He was surprised, for he had not expected or anticipated her help, her boldness.
Her palm fitted to the hard bulge he could not conceal, and she worked the buttons and the drawstring of his trousers.
Silently, swiftly, he opened his belt, nearly losing his control entirely when her fingers, slim and heaven soft, captured him, velvet over hot iron.
Her caresses turned up his passion like the wick of a lamp, bright, hot, flaming fast through him. Closing his eyes, he let the storm engulf him, and it slammed through him like thunder.
He came shuddering and vulnerable and needful in the generous fire of her touch, and he gasped out, drawing her tightly to him. For one moment, he let go of every lock he had ever had upon himself, just this once, just for her, only for her.