Chapter 33
Eleanor hesitated once she was outside Brice’s rooms, torn between two worlds. Thomas looked at her expectantly, and on the other side of the thick wooden door, she could practically feel Brice’s disappointment.
“Eleanor,” Thomas said softly. “I know you have been through so much. There were choices you had to make that may not have—”
“That’s enough, Thomas. The choices I made were mine to make.
I’m not asking for permission or approval.
Yes, I’ve been through a lot, and what I have been through has changed me.
I’m not the same sister who left London as a new bride.
I will never be that Eleanor again. I’m sorry if that disappoints you. ”
Thomas sometimes liked to act more like her father than a sibling, and she had always accepted that. But he wasn’t her father, and she wasn’t the same young, naive girl who traveled to Edinburgh with stars in her eyes and a polished soldier on her arm.
“I’m not disappointed,” he said. “Shocked, maybe, but not disappointed.”
Cecilia stood to the side, waiting for them, pretending not to listen, but Eleanor knew there was little Cecilia missed and even less that she kept to herself. Eleanor looked pointedly at her maid, then back at Thomas. “You should go to bed. We have a lot to discuss in the morning,” she said.
“We discussed so much tonight that my head is spinning. I truly am sorry, Eleanor, for not being there for you. For taking the army’s word that you were well instead of coming straight to Edinburgh to get you.”
“It wouldn’t have mattered. Blackwood moved too quickly.”
Thomas’s gaze moved over her shoulder to the closed door behind her. The door she ached to walk back through, but she feared that by leaving Brice to go with her brother, she had crossed a line that she wouldn’t be able to cross again.
“Cecilia, take Thomas to his room, please.”
“Yes, my lady.”
Thomas looked like he wanted to say more. He looked at the door again, then back at her. “Tomorrow we’ll discuss when we’ll begin our journey back to London.”
She pressed her lips together but didn’t agree or disagree with him.
Instead she walked to her door and entered her own room.
She stood in the middle of the bedchamber, feeling the silence.
She’d had no idea that silence had a feel to it, but it did now.
It was heavy, stifling, making it hard to breathe.
For so long, locked in that cell in Fort Augustus, she’d been alone.
Since Brice had found her in the middle of the road, she’d rarely been alone.
She missed Brice and she’d just left his presence.
What would happen when she was in London?
If she missed him now, his absence would be unbearable there.
But she couldn’t stay here. Her family was anxious. She’d already caused them enough grief. And she needed to speak to the Hirsts to tell them that she didn’t believe Charles had been a traitor. She needed to tell someone about Blackwood.
She rubbed her arms and looked at the cold fireplace, then at the bed she hadn’t occupied in weeks and the blue walls that she hated. She couldn’t stay in here, not when her heart was in the other room.
Quietly she opened the connecting door to Brice’s rooms and peeked in.
He’d lit the fire and was standing at the window overlooking the sea beyond, sipping his whiskey.
She closed the door behind her and walked up to him to put her arms around his waist and rest her cheek against his back.
He smelled so good, of the sea and horses and the distinctive spicy scent that was Brice.
“Deep thoughts?” she asked.
“Aye.” He took another sip and put one hand over hers. They stood like that for the longest time. She didn’t know what to say to him, how to make all of this better. She was torn between two worlds, and there was no way to make everyone happy.
He set his glass down on the window ledge and pulled her around until they were chest to chest. He wrapped his arms around her and leaned his chin on the top of her head. “I didn’t think you would come to me tonight,” he said, his voice rumbling through her.
“I couldn’t stay away.”
“Not even with yer brother down the hall?”
“Thomas is not so fierce. Not once you get to know him.”
He let out a disbelieving sound. “Ye’re not the one sleeping with his sister. He’s no’ overly fond of me.”
She squeezed him tight. “It’s none of his concern.”
“Ah, but it is, mo ghràdh. If ye were my sister, I would run me through with a dagger and be done with it.”
“And if you were my brother and did that to my lover, I would…Well, I don’t know what I would do, but it wouldn’t be pretty, and you would regret it the rest of your days.”
He chuckled. “Ye make me laugh, lass.”
She pulled away just enough to be able to look up at him. “Make love to me, gaolach.”
He raised an eyebrow at her endearment. “Ye’ve been learning the Gaelic, have ye, now?”
“Aye. That I have.”
“What will yer parents say when I send ye home wearing breeches and wielding a sword and speaking Gaelic?”
She stood on her tiptoes to look him in the eye, though he was still quite a bit taller than her. “I don’t care what they say, just like I don’t care what Thomas thinks. And I’ll never, ever be ashamed of anything that happened while I was in Scotland.”
The smile faded from his eyes. “Ah, lass. I know ye believe that now, but when yer friends look on ye differently because of everything that happened, ye’ll think otherwise.”
She dropped down on her heels and regarded him in disappointment. “I’d hope you would know me better than that.”
He pulled her in for a quick hug. “I know ye well enough to know ye speak the truth on this. But yer countrymen are not like ye, and they will change ye back to what ye were. Ye need to be a proper English miss, not a heathen Scot.”
She’d rather be a heathen Scot, but she kept that thought to herself because she feared Brice was right.
“Make love to me,” she whispered, desperate to cling to what was left of the heathen Scot inside her. Already she felt it slipping away, with her brother here to remind her of what and who she really was.
—
Brice kissed her with a desperation born of fear and anger and sadness.
He held Eleanor tight, crushing her soft curves.
He wanted to always remember the feel of her in his arms, the way she sighed after she was well kissed.
The way her lips looked so rosy and juicy.
He wanted to memorize the exact yellows and golds of her hair and the specific blue of her eyes.
He wanted to never forget, even though eventually her image would fade in his memory and the sound of her voice would be whisked away from him.
He held her tight because he knew all of this and yet he didn’t want to admit the truth of it.
This was their last night together. He knew in the depths of his soul that there would not be another one.
Her brother was here to take her away, and she would go with him because she had a family and life in England, people who loved her and needed to know she was safe and well.
He understood, but that didn’t mean he liked it.
Damn it, he needed her, too, and he needed to know she was safe and well.
He took her hand, twined their fingers together, and pulled her toward the bed.
He sat on the edge and spread his thighs so she could stand between them.
He looked up at her, running his hands up and down her hips, her thighs, her waist. She was still dressed in her breeches, her white shirt far too big for her slight frame.
He loved her best like this, with her hair wild and untamed, the outdoors her perfume.
“Tha mo ghion ort,” he whispered. I love you.
She smiled down on him. “I don’t know what you said, but it was beautiful.”
He grinned back and slowly unbuttoned her shirt, pushing it off her shoulders.
He was already aching for her, so hard it was painful, but tonight he would go slow, take his time.
He would pledge himself to her, without words, silently.
Forever and always he would be hers, even as he sent her off to her world.
After unfastening her breeches, he slid them down her legs until she was standing before him, naked. Her skin glowed in the morning sun as if lit from within.
He leaned forward and took a breast into his mouth, circling her engorged nipple with his tongue. She tasted of sunshine and love and Eleanor.
She placed her hands on his shoulders and arched her back. A low moan escaped her. It was deliciously sensual, being completely clothed while she was completely naked. His hands roamed over her as he tasted and nipped at her breast.
She gasped and said his name, but when he looked up, her head was thrown back, her eyes closed, ecstasy written in every line of her face.
“That feels so good,” she moaned.
Thank God that he was wearing a kilt, for his erection would split the seams of breeches. His kilt was tented, and the brush of the fabric against his sensitive skin made him squirm. He ached to be touched but didn’t voice that need. Not yet.
He put his hands on her rear end and pulled her forward. He slid off the bed until he was kneeling before her. She looked down on him, her eyes alight with desire and excitement, her lips parted in expectation.
He drew her closer, parted her folds with his tongue. She gasped, her fingers digging into his shoulders. “Brice…”
With his tongue he found her secret spot, that small nub that was just as erect as he was, and he played with it, using only his tongue.
She cried out softly as he licked and sucked, tasting her juices that leaked down his chin. He pushed his finger into her channel, hearing the wetness suck him in, feeling her muscles contract around him. He moaned, barely able to control himself.
Above, he could hear her panting. He sucked harder, catching her rhythm, his finger moving in and out. She was close, so close. So was he, but he held back, not wanting to reach his completion without a single touch from her.
And then she exploded in his mouth, crying out, her fingers digging so hard into his shoulders that he knew his newly healed wound would ache, and he didn’t care. The muscles around his finger pulsed.
Her knees gave out; he caught her before she fell. She bent over and kissed him hard, their teeth scraping, tongues colliding. The thought of her tasting herself excited him so much that his penis began to throb in preparation for its own release.
He turned his head, panting, his eyes clenched, his body fighting the release that was upon him. “Wait,” he forced out, holding up a hand and throwing his head back. “Don’t touch me. Please.”
Eleanor fell to her knees in front of him and looked at him in worry. “Did we break something?”
He laughed softly. “Nay. Well, almost. God, Eleanor, what ye do to me. It’s no’ healthy. I swear it’s no’.”
She grinned and lifted his kilt to see his enormous erection. He didn’t think he’d ever been so hard and in so much pain that equaled so much pleasure.
“I think I see the problem. And I think I know of a solution.”
He drew in a deep ragged breath. “I wanted it to last long, but I’m afraid that might no’ happen.”
“That’s all right. We can always do this again until we get it right.”
“Ach, lass. Ye’ll kill me, but what a way to go.”
He managed to get himself to a standing position and divest himself of the kilt faster than he’d ever done. The shirt landed on top of the pile of clothes, and then they were facing each other, naked.
“Turn around,” he commanded.
She lifted a brow but did as he’d said. She was facing the edge of the bed, her back to him.
He leaned over her, his penis brushing her very nicely rounded arse.
He took her hands and placed them on the bed until she was leaning over, her arse in the air.
He groaned and ran his hand over the swells of her hips, the dip of her waist. She moaned beneath his touch.
With one hand, Brice guided himself into her, sliding into her channel effortlessly. He put his hands on her waist and withdrew, then plunged in again. Eleanor pressed her forehead into the bed. The bedsheets muffled her moans. She took fistfuls of the covers into her hands.
Brice moved inside her, watching his manhood, wet with her juices, slip in and out.
By now Eleanor’s moans were one long cry.
He reached around her and thumbed her nub until she screamed, her muscles clenching down on him, drawing his seed out of him in an explosion that turned his vision black.
He buried himself so far into her that he couldn’t have gotten any farther if he’d tried.
When they were finished, Eleanor crawled onto the bed and collapsed face-first. Brice fell on top of her, unable to move another inch. They lay like that for the longest time, catching their breath, waiting for their hearts to cease thundering.
When they crawled under the covers, Brice pulled her to him, fitting her curves into him. Almost immediately she drifted off to a deep slumber, but Brice lay awake, memorizing everything about her.
“Tha mo ghion ort,” he whispered.