Chapter 11
Arran studied Lucy carefully.
Her head remained bent over the task she’d taken up, her long, capable fingers deftly guiding the wrought-iron turner as she shifted each biscuit from the hot tray to the cool one between them.
Such mundane movements.
Such a placid moment.
And yet nothing inside him was calm—nor was the restless energy humming beneath her innocent frame.
He’d laid himself bare. The darkest, blackest sins he carried.
He wavered between fear of the disgust he’d see in her expressive eyes…
and a quiet, unexpected peace. He’d finally spoken the ugliest chapters of his story aloud, and in doing so had felt—if only for a breath—freed. He had needed to tell someone.
Anyone would have done, as long as they weren’t bound to the McQuoids.
Liar.
It wasn’t about confessing to anyone. It was about confessing to her. This woman. A stranger he’d known mere days, and yet felt more at ease with than anyone in years. She saw him. She listened. She hadn’t dodged his truths or pretended the worst hadn’t happened.
Her silence now threatened to unhinge him.
Lucy’s eyes widened.
His gut clenched, a brutal twist.
Here it comes. The reaction he’d expected. The one he’d prayed he wouldn’t have to see.
She rose suddenly. But she didn’t flee.
Arran followed her swift movements as she crossed to the cupboard, skirts whipping around her ankles—giving him an unintentional glimpse of trim ankle and soft calf.
She stretched up on tiptoe for plates, and he devoured the sight. His breath thickened. He traced the line of her calves, the flex of delicate muscle—
And then she was back beside him, setting a plate before each of them as though nothing had passed between them. As though his sins hadn’t stained the air.
For a moment, he thought she meant to let it lie. To leave what he’d shared here, in this quiet, sacred little pocket of warmth and shadow. And if she never spoke of it—if he never knew her thoughts—he found he didn’t care. Not when she still chose to sit beside him.
Arran reached for his biscuit—and froze.
A heart shape.
Something light flickered in his chest. Ridiculous. Foolish. The kind of feeling a young lad might have—certainly not a man who’d seen the ugliest parts of life.
Why had she chosen that one?
You’re daft, man.
Lucy nudged his plate gently toward him. “Go on now,” she chided. “Have a taste.”
She had already broken a tiny point from her diamond-shaped biscuit. His gaze fell helplessly to the slight parting of her full crimson lips.
His chest tightened.
Her even white teeth closed around the piece.
Arran’s chest tightened.
The elegant column of her throat worked with a slow, languid swallow.
He could sooner snap his own arm off than look away from the erotic glide of her throat.
Wicked thoughts rooted themselves fast—what he could teach her with that mouth. What she’d taste like. What sounds she’d make.
His eyes drifted shut on a wave of hunger so sharp it bordered on pain.
God in heaven. It was a plea to a Savior Arran doubted had time for a man as ruined as he was. The Lord, however, wasn’t finished testing him.
Lucy darted out her tongue—light, quick—and licked a trace of sugar from the seam of her lips.
Heat slammed through him like molten metal.
“Well?” she urged, her Scots brogue thickened from the mulled cider. Elbow on the table, she leaned in. “What of it?”
A bead of sweat crept down his brow. “Delicious,” he rasped.
She’d be even more delicious spread beneath him, offered up as the only feast he craved.
Lucy laughed—a low, smoky sound that fed the fire in his blood. “Still afraid I’ll poison ye?”
Afraid he’d lose his mind with wanting her.
“Go on. Put it in yer mouth,” she coaxed softly. “Ye’ll not regret it.”
It took all his strength not to groan outright. With a strained smile, he bit into the biscuit. “Delicious,” he said again, the gingerbread thick on his parched tongue.
Her smile faltered.
Christ. She knows. All she needed was to glance down and see the unmistakable erection he’d sprung against the fall of his trousers.
“Ye dinnae like it.”
Nay, he despised the lust he felt for his cousin’s future wife.
Arran hated himself even more.
But what he abhorred with the entirety of his being was the sadness that’d threaded Lucy’s words.
Arran popped the rest of the sweet she’d labored over into his mouth. He closed his eyes so he could block out the sight of her and focus on just tasting.
Get a bloody hold of yourself, you blackguard. You’re not a green lad with your first woman. You’ve had countless lovers—wanton widows. Clever courtesans. Skilled mistresses. Experienced women who knew exactly what Arran liked and how he liked it.
Those reminders to himself didn’t make Arran’s hunger for Lucy any less potent.
But the sweet cinnamon and spice biscuit on his tongue came a very distant second.
“Bloody hell, this is good,” he exhaled his praise around the bloody finest dessert he’d ever tasted.
When he swallowed down the treat, he opened his eyes.
Lucy watched him closely, her eyes somehow soft and serious. “Ye never did mention where Linnie and Captain Tremaine are.”
Of course, a bounder like him had no right to even fleeting moments of paradise with angels like Lucy LeBeau.
“They’re in London for the Yuletide season.” While he spoke, he grabbed the pitcher and eyed its contents. Nearly empty. He added some cider to his mug. The rest he gave to Lucy. “Steering clear of me.” And for the best of reasons.
Lucy didn’t touch her drink; she just fiddled with the porcelain handle. “Is Linnie…unhappy in her marriage?” she sounded brokenhearted at the prospect.
“On the contrary.” Arran took a drink. “She and Tremaine are head over toes in love with one another.”
Lucy gazed at him with an adorably confused gaze. “What?”
“Oh, yes. Immensely.”
“But…but…?”
“Should they not be?” he asked, lightly teasing her.
“Aye, all husbands and wives deserve a loving marr…” She caught the glimmer in his eyes. “Oh, you’re teasing.”
Arran winked. “I was.”
“I dinnae understand,” she said, her brogue growing thicker. “Why should they be surly towards ye, Arran, if they are happy?”
He was touched by her full-throated defense, but he didn’t deserve her absolution for sins from which he shouldn’t be pardoned.
“Lucy,” he said gently, “I told you about my machinations after Linnie’s union to Tremaine.”
“Aye, ye did!” She exploded to her feet, slashing at the air while the words flew from her fiery Scot’s tongue.
“Arran, the actions ye took for Captain Tremaine…for Linnie, came from a place of love.” Lucy didn’t let up.
“Jingle and Christmas! Ye were willing to challenge the church, the laws of marriage that bound Linnie to a man who deceived her, in order to see her happy, Arran.” Lucy snorted.
“I dinnae see anything but selflessness and good in that,” Lucy spat.
Beguiled by the fervency in which she defended him, Arran couldn’t take his eyes off of her.
Lucy began to pace, whipping back and forth on her heel—and suddenly, Arran couldn’t take his eyes off Lucy for entirely wicked reasons. Lucy’s exquisite mane of black curls danced wildly about her waist—a waist meant for a man’s fingers.
The healthy fire cast a glow upon her modest white skirts, leaving little to Arran’s imagination.
Arran drank.
“He used her the way the English kings have the Scots since the beginning of time, and he abandoned her after they wed.” Lucy scoffed. “And what were yer crimes? You thought to save Linnie from a monster of a husband and reunite her with a gentleman who loved her?”
He was captivated by the healthy glow to her cheeks. The fire in her eyes.
He’d never spied a woman so spirited and as breathtaking as the one before him.
And she carried that outrage on Arran’s behalf.
Lucy stopped quick before him. “And that is another thing!”
He found a soft smile forming on his lips. “And what is th—?”
Lucy collected his hands in her own and dragged him to his feet.
In fairness, he allowed himself to go, saving her the effort. Wanting to go. Fearing he’d follow her to the Earth’s end in this moment and never look back with guilt, shame, or regret.
“Ye said ye committed the greatest betrayal a fellow captain can, but he wasn’t a captain to ye, Arran. He was first, foremost, and most importantly, yer friend and brother of the heart. “Ye saved the mon’s life,” she exclaimed. “That is no crime. Ye gave him a gift.”
How vigorously she defended him.
Even as he didn’t deserve it. And he was a bastard enough that he wanted it anyway.
“What is it?” she whispered.
“Everything, love.”
Neither moved.
Love. A rogue, he’d never tendered that endearment.
Until now.
A charged energy moved in the air around them.
Their breaths tangled as one in a joining more intimate than the wickedest acts in a bedchamber.
Until her.
From where their bodies touched, heat radiated.
At some point, Arran’s hand had found its way to her sinfully curved hip, a hip made for a man’s hands. His fingers curled reflexively. Mine.
Lucy didn’t step away.
He could not step away.
She possessed a voice that compelled his stare, the song of her voice, the rising, musical lilt at the ends of her sentence. A slight lyrical roll to her R’s. The melodic Scot’s intonation that softened her English.
She was a siren.
And Arran?
Longing for this woman as he did, Arran was on a direct path to hell.
“You’re a marvel, Lucy LeBeau,” he whispered.
“A-Aye?” Her breathless whisper rang with an endearing shyness. Sweeter than the confectionary treats they’d together baked. It left him—she left him—ravenous for a taste of her.
He and Lucy trailed unblinking stares upon one another’s face.
Their mouths moved in concert.
He curled his fingers into her waist at the same moment she climbed her hands around his nape. She rose onto her tiptoes, pressing herself to him. It wasn’t enough. Arran gripped her harder, drew her closer—tighter—against him. His cock pressed against the softness of her belly.
He took her mouth. Claimed it—claimed her—as though she belonged to him. In this moment, she did. In this moment, he did not care. Right or wrong. Sin or salvation. Nothing mattered but this embrace…this woman. Honor be damned. His soul had been past saving long ago.
“Open for me,” Arran rasped against her mouth. He’d go mad if he didn’t taste her. Hell, he’d crossed that point long before now. “Let me taste you…please.”
Breath coming fast, her chest rising and falling, she caught his face between her hands. “You do not have to beg me for anything, Arran. Certainly not something I am all too happy to—”
Arran kissed the rest of that confession away. There were too many words. The more they spoke, the sooner reality would creep in, and he was selfish enough to slam the door on it—and keep reaching for a woman he had no right to want.
He swallowed her breath, burying his tongue inside the hot, welcoming cavern of her mouth. She responded—soft at first—but he didn’t want tenderness.
Nor did Lucy.
The Scottish enchantress came alive like a lone ember that had finally found ancient, dried-out kindling.
And she blazed—ignited—into an explosive conflagration.
She twined her tongue with his. Met and matched every bold stroke.
Moaning, Lucy gripped the fabric of his shirt, her nails biting through the cloth into his chest.
The primitive beast within him roared awake. With a savage growl, he kissed her until her back bowed. His fiery enchantress arched beneath him, her body moving in perfect concert with his. The quivering cry of his name didn’t make it past her damp, well-loved mouth—he devoured it.
“So bloody beautiful,” he rasped, dragging a trail of kisses along her throat. “So damn perfect in every way.”
His praise set her off.
She arched her back completely.
Groaning, Arran bent her until she lay spread out before him like some forbidden Yuletide feast.
Panting his name, Lucy reached up and twined her long, calloused fingers around his neck. She dragged his mouth back to hers. The hold she had on Arran was tender but powerful—a warrioress of Sparta’s hands, capable and confident.
All the while, their tongues twisted and tangled like ivy. Arran glided a hand along the gentle curve of Lucy’s waist, lower to the generous flare of her hips, then down to her supple thigh.
Lucy moaned and bucked her hips against the hard line of his erection.
He used his tongue like a brand, mating his mouth with hers. Marking her.
Possessing her. Wanting—dangerously—to keep her.
Through the thick, hot haze of desire, his captain’s instincts sparked. A sound—small, distant—cut through.
Sucking in great, heaving breaths, Arran wrenched himself away from the only place he wished to be.
All his senses snapped to alert. Lucy lay sprawled, her arms flung to either side, cheeks flushed, generous breasts rising and falling, confusion heavy in her desire-dazed gaze.
Catching her eye, Arran lifted a finger to his mouth. Silent.
Fear and horror flickered through Lucy’s confusion.
She started to push herself upright. Arran caught her and set her on her feet.
While Lucy frantically and silently smoothed her skirts and combed her fingers through those magnificent midnight coils, Arran went to investigate.
He pressed his ear to the door, straining for sound.
Only the dull, suffocating hush of midnight met him.
Still, he hesitated. Then, slowly, he eased the panel open and ducked his head outside.
Arran swept his gaze along the corridors intersecting with the kitchens.
Empty.
Reassured they hadn’t been discovered, he closed the door with a noiseless click.
Reality crashed over him—what they had done, what he had taken, what he had wanted to keep taking.
Shame dragged his eyes closed.
Somehow, he found it within himself to face her.
Lucy’s heart-shaped features were contorted with regret. The sight hit him like a fist to the gut. Of course, she regretted their embrace. She should.
She was good. Honest. Everything he was not.
“Lucy…” His voice emerged as a croak.
She lifted both arms as if warding him off—warding off whatever he meant to say. “Go, Arran. I’ll see all this set to rights.”
The gentlemanly thing would be to insist she leave. Yet they both knew if someone found her here, she could explain her presence far easier than he could explain his.
Arran nodded.
Lucy looked at him, as if she wished he’d say something…or wished she could.
But any words would be dangerous. Any more minutes with this woman would be catastrophic. Now that he’d kissed her, he’d be haunted by the taste of her for the rest of his miserable, wretched life.
And he did the first gentlemanly thing he’d done since meeting her.
Arran bowed—and left.