Chapter 15 #2
He thought her hand on his coat when he had come through her door in Dunburn might mean something.
Her eyes meeting his. Then, the press of her cheek and her whisper when he left, the gift of the tartan scarf the next day—but no, he had been wrong.
She had just been happy to see someone associated with her family.
She was just expressive and affectionate in a way he had never been.
And what she had said just now. Her calling him her personal physician.
She was pushing him away, reminding him he was a servant, a man who served others.
He would never have any intercourse with her, outside of that between a doctor and patient.
She was, like her sisters, destined for a life as a lady, the wife of a lord, no matter what had happened two years ago. He was beneath her and always would be.
He let go of the hand he had been clutching so tightly. He sat back, crossed his arms over his chest, and ducked his head, avoiding her eyes.
“I am sorry. I ask yer forgiveness, Miss Lovelock. I forgot myself.”
“I wish we could,” she said abruptly, too loudly.
That made him raise his head and look at her. He had not heard this tone from her before. Her voice was harsh. She had gone from tearful to angry in a flash.
“If only we could forget ourselves, Dr. Andrews. That is what I wish for. I cannot again be the girl in the bishop’s study, meeting the man of my dreams for the first time.
That girl is gone. And I am glad of it. Because that girl could only be hurt and damaged.
I want to be free of her. I want to be a woman whose expectations of the world are appropriate. What do you want to be, Dr. Andrews?”
It took every ounce of Alasdair’s brain to pay attention to anything Arabella said after man of my dreams. He had thought— He had hoped— He had wished for so long that the feelings he had for her were in some small way reciprocated.
And, now, to hear her say those words.
He had been a very great fool, indeed.
But she was asking him something.
“I want to be a woman whose expectations of the world are appropriate. What do you want to be, Dr. Andrews?”
What did he want to be?
There could only be one answer to that.
“I want to be the man who exceeds yer expectations.” He was startled by how strong his voice was.
He willed himself to get up and was equally surprised to find his will had overcome his writhing intestines, and he was, in fact, moving across the short distance between them.
“And I dinnae. “
He sat beside her.
“Want.”
He took both her hands.
“To be appropriate.”
He leaned down and put his lips to hers.
He had never kissed anyone. Long ago, he had practiced kissing by putting his lips to a mirror.
He had been eighteen, about to finish his training as a physician, and he thought his medical degree meant he might look for a wife.
But he joined the navy and never courted anyone.
He had no opportunity. And he had no interest—French Letters or no—in seeking paid female companionship.
He had spent his adolescence treating the ravages of syphilis and the clap in the whores of Edinburgh and the men who went to whores and the wives of men who went to whores. He knew enough to avoid that.
He was completely without experience. And kissing a looking glass had no relation to kissing Arabella.
Her mouth was so soft, so warm.
He had not expected to kiss her today—well, not ever, in truth—so he was glad he had shaved carefully this morning, thinking of her cheek against his. Yes, he was glad there were none of his ginger whiskers to abrade those delicate pink lips, that cupid’s bow.
He took off a glove and cupped one of her cheeks.
He kissed her again.
She was allowing it. No, more than that. She gazed up at him and angled her mouth towards his. Her lips were slightly parted.
He felt such a rising excitement in himself. Yes, naturally, his member was engorged—how could it not be?—but it was more than that.
Could the kissing mean to her what it meant to him? That she was to be with him, now and forever? Should he say this to her?
No. Let him continue to kiss her. She seemed to like it. He knew he liked it. If she did not want to look into the past, let him not look too far into the future.
For now, there was kissing. And it was glorious.
It was the lightest of brushes, a tender and brief pressure. So different from the other kisses she had had. The only other kisses she had ever had. Those from Giles. Those grasping, greedy kisses.
But this was different. The first kiss and the kisses that followed were a giving, not a taking. They were offers. They seemed to ask nothing of her. Even the hand on her cheek was a gift—his tenderness, his warmth suffusing her cheek already flushed by her outburst of temper.
She had not expected this from him. First, because she thought he did not share her feelings. In the past and now. Second, because he was a man bound by propriety. He had not wanted to sit in her cottage with her alone until she begged him to stay. For him to do this meant—
He pulled away.
She looked at him, and her surprise at his kisses turned into longing at the sight of his mouth, his gentle green right eye and the mischievous lock of auburn hair that tumbled over the left.
“You kissed me,” she whispered.
“Aye.”
“That,” she swallowed, “exceeded my expectations.”
He took off his other glove and put both hands on her face. Such gentle hands with those careful long fingers. They smelled of soap. She stared at his mouth. Those generous lips. She could not wait to hear what he would say next.
But he did not speak again. He cupped her face and kissed her once more. A longer kiss this time, his lips slightly less gentle on hers. And then again. And again.
And each time, between each kiss, he would pull back and look at her with his green eyes as if he were performing a test and assessing her reaction to it. She hoped her reactions were encouraging to him. Perhaps she should voice her appreciation of his efforts.
“Dr. Andrews,” she said as softly as she could. “My expectations continue to be exceeded.”
There were stirrings down below, a wetness between her legs, a piercing in her breasts. But she told herself to ignore those. Just, for now, let there be kisses. There could never be enough kisses for her. From him.
Alasdair noted their breathing grew more ragged as their kisses grew longer and longer.
Arabella’s gloves were removed, and she had her hands in his hair.
Their exhalations mingled, and the windows of the carriage became steamed.
Just before the carriage began to slow for a stop, Arabella let her mouth open a little wider, and he felt the moistness of her mouth and the brush of her tongue.
It was unbearable, delicious, tantalizing.
He had to push away thoughts of other lips and other penetrations, of what she might permit him with marriage and time.
The carriage halted completely, and they pulled apart.
After they had walked a bit around the ferry landing and eaten something and performed necessary but unspeakable functions and spoken to Paterson and Ewen MacEwen about the plan for the afternoon and where they might stop at nightfall, they got back into the carriage.
He handed her in and when he climbed in himself, he hesitated. Beside her? Across from her?
“It’s growing colder,” she said, taking off her gloves, her actions not matching her words. She patted the seat next to her. “Sit next to me, Dr. Andrews.”
Yes, it was getting colder, and he was glad of it as it gave him reason to sit as close to her as possible. And as he sat beside her, she moved so her body was touching his from knee to hip, and she leaned forward, and he quite naturally put his arm around her and drew her upper body against his.
She put her hand on his leg, on the inside of his thigh, just above his knee.
Her warm hand sat there as the carriage loaded onto the ferry, along with a few other carriages and some wagons.
He suffered through that and the crossing.
And then the unloading and, finally, the carriage was moving at a good clip, and no one could possibly be looking in.
She turned her head. He turned his. Again, their mouths met.
Dozens of kisses later, he felt that wetness and a brush of her small tongue again. He opened his lips wider, and she licked his tongue. He then did the same to her, and her taste was so sweet, the inside of her mouth even softer than her lips.
And warmer and wetter.
He felt a surge of lust, his cock was like a cricket bat in his trousers, and he wanted to press into her, to ravish her with his tongue, to take her mouth, to fill it and conquer it and make it his.
To mark it. To own it. Like a savage might. This is my woman, my woman’s mouth. No one else can have it. Mine.
He very nearly growled.
But as he both pulled her even closer to him and pushed her down so she was forced against the seat, he felt Arabella tremble and swallow.
He took his mouth from hers and pulled his body away, taking his arm from her shoulder so she was free to move away from him.
But she did not. She sat up with him. So he kept his face close and kissed her cheek with closed lips.
Now her other cheek. Her forehead. Her trembling stopped, and he kept his hands by his sides and looked into her blue eyes.
“Forgive me,” he said. “I grew too frenzied.”
“I did, as well.”
“Shall I sit across from ye now?”
“No! But perhaps we should not kiss anymore.”
It was over.