Chapter 8 #2
August’s slightly flared eyes stayed fixed on her face. Then, cursing roundly, he jumped up. He gave Meghan a last, heated look. Cursing, he pulled the threadbare hangings around the ancient bed so hard it was a wonder the thin material held.
Her heart skipped a beat.
Melting inside, she crawled on all fours to the thin gap left in the makeshift coverings and followed August’s measured march to the door. As he went, he unfastened his black multi-caped greatcoat.
Wide-eyed, Meghan drank him in as he disrobed. She read naughty gothic novels and immensely enjoyed them. None of the intimate things could prepare for August stripping before her.
Without missing a beat, he divested himself of the heavy fabric and tossed it towards Meghan’s cloak. His midnight wool hit atop her jewel-encrusted white and ivory silk and sent drops of water spattering.
She stared dreamily at those intimate articles twined like soul-bound lovers.
At the entryway, he paused to loosen the buttons on his waistcoat.
Ensnared, she swallowed hard.
He removed the garment and added it to their fast-growing pile of clothing.
August reached for the handle.
Reality reared its head.
My family! Worse, Hartwell and all the McQuoid men. Her heart pounded in her throat. They would kill him.
Meghan made to stop August, just as he opened the panel a fraction.
Wait. Her family wouldn’t bother knocking. They’d have battered the door down.
While he spoke to whomever was outside, Meghan leaned in and tried to make out the words being exchanged.
A pair of servants came in carrying a wood tub between them. Children with steaming buckets of water followed close behind.
August had ordered Meghan a bath. Touched by that gesture, she turned her adoring eyes to August and stopped.
He conversed with the woman clearly in charge of the small operation. Meghan found herself studying the other woman.
What a striking sight they made.
How could August not desire someone of such otherworldly beauty.
“Scarlet…” he purred.
Air scraped painfully in Meghan’s throat. She forced herself to breathe.
The maid—blonde, buxom, blue-eyed, beautiful in every way, offered a sultry laugh at whatever jest August made.
As if she felt Meghan’s jealous stare, Striking Scarlet looked to Meghan’s hiding place.
Meghan dipped back.
The woman’s plump, heart-shaped face grew pinched. She squinted like Uncle Frances did when he had no spectacles to read an ancient text. That scrunched-up face didn’t take a scrap from the servant’s natural beauty. Scarlet caught her glance of Meghan.
Meghan’s lips thinned.
Scarlet smirked.
The servant had seen her.
“You are always so attentive, Captain,” Scarlet purred, fingering the second waistcoat August had yet to remove.
“You take care of a woman better than anyone I know.” She ran her tongue over her lips, slow and deliberate, and sinful enough to convey exactly what she meant in terms of her relationship with August.
He chuckled; his husky laugh suited the perfect secret only they two were in on.
Jealousy scissored like venom in Meghan’s veins. The same insupportable resentment that filled her daily at how August loved Linnie when he would never love her.
Coins exchanged hands.
Scarlet sank into a curtsy. Bending forward, she put her big breasts before him.
And as the party took their leave, Meghan scrambled into a prone position. She had just settled her palms on her stomach and eyes on the ceiling when August drew the curtains wide with one hand.
He used his other hand to work off his waistcoat.
While he disrobed, her mouth parched.
Towering over Meghan, he frowned. “You need to change and bathe before you take chill, Meghan,” he said quietly. “I will summon Scarlet.”
August was already turning to the door.
Scarlet? The hell Meghan would have that woman back here.
She caught August by the wrist.
His gaze swung to where Meghan touched him. His eyes smoldered.
Meghan trembled.
He had spoken about working himself up to bedding her, but the unmistakable desire in his eyes was his truth.
“August,” she said softly, “I trust you.”
A tight, rhythmic throb appeared on his cheek.
August awaited her approval.
Too overcome for words, Meghan, fighting to swallow, managed only an uneven nod.
Like a falconer with a restless hawk, August guided her to stand. Twining his fingers in hers, he guided Meghan about with the languid grace of the Minuet de la Cour, until the very heat of him poured onto her.
Her lashes grew heavy, and her eyes slid shut.
A tremble took hold.
The sough of his breath fanned warmth down her neck, a sensation that tingled and tickled, and it brought her shoulders up.
He glided his fingers along her shoulders and trailed them to the top of pearl buttons down the back of her wedding dress.
Meghan stilled, her breath caught.
Pop.
Her lashes fluttered and she arched in the direction of that faint pull of fabric.
Pop.
Meghan’s neck moved towards that next tug.
August worked the tiny pearls with a skill the Queen’s own lady’s maid couldn’t have mastered.
Pop.
Another button surrendered to him.
Pop.
Pop.
Pop.
With every fastening released, her chest rose and fell harder.
There came a discernible pause.
August brushed the pad of his thumb along the naked base of her spine.
Suspended in breathless anticipation, Meghan stilled.
Pop.
The entire back of her gown fell open, and the cold brushed her skin.
Her eyes slid closed.
She would have the wedding night she’d always dreamed of after all.
And with the man she always wanted as her husband.