The Scent of Scandal (Rogues and Gentlemen Book 16) Page 11

  “Answer me,” he demanded, and Freddie closed her eyes, his gaze on her too intent, stripping her bare.

  He knew the answer already, they both did, and it both shamed and aroused that he knew her dreams were of him.

  “Yes,” she said, daring to open her eyes and look up at him. Her cheeks felt as if they were on fire, her breath coming too fast. “Yes. I want you.”

  She wanted him to kiss her and yet she wished she could push him away. He didn’t want her, after all; he was just toying with her because he could. Likely he hoped to scare her away, but she was too stubborn for that.

  His eyes had darkened at her words and he leaned in. Freddie turned her head away, refusing him, tears pricking at her eyes.

  “Ye said ye wanted me.” His voice was gruff, not angry but uncertain.

  “Yes,” she said again, trying not to lose all her dignity in one go. “But you do not, and—”

  “What?” he said, the word said on a huff of laughter. “Ye bonnie wee fool, can ye nae tell when a man wants ye?”

  Freddie’s breath caught and she dared to look back at him, seeing amusement in his eyes.

  “B-But you… you said—”

  “Aye, and if I were six years old, I’d hae pulled yer hair.” He leaned in and nipped at her earlobe, making her gasp. “I might just do that anyway.”

  “I don’t understand,” Freddie said, so breathless with desire and anticipation that she could not make sense of his words. “You don’t like me.”

  “Oh, I like ye fine,” he said, moving closer so that his body pressed against hers, eliciting a little sigh of pleasure from her as he did so. “Can ye not feel how well I like ye?” He moved his hips, and Freddie wondered if her knees might buckle as his erection rubbed against her. “I like ye even though ye are the most maddening, pig-headed, foolish lass that ever set foot outside of England. If ye have an ounce of sense left in that pretty head of yours, ye’ll run now and not stop until ye reach London. I’ll not stop ye.”

  Freddie stared at him, too entranced by the soft lilt of his accent and the fact that he liked her and thought her pretty, not to mention the heat of his larger, harder body pressing against her so deliciously. The only thing that would happen if he released her hands was that she’d grab hold of him and not let go.

  “Run home, little girl, before ye find more trouble than ye bargained for.”

  “I don’t want to go,” she whispered, knowing she could not leave. “I want to kiss you.”

  He drew in a shaky breath, the first sign that she was perhaps not the only one out of control here.

  “Kiss me, then,” he said, challenge in his eyes. “Take what ye want.”

  Freddie never could resist a challenge and so she lifted onto her toes and pressed her mouth to his. His lips were soft and warm, and desire unfurled in her belly, demanding more, demanding she take more, except… she wasn’t exactly sure how. Oh, she knew the mechanics of what happened between men and women, but in terms of practical experience … she’d never actually kissed anyone before.

  She pulled back, a little uncertain.

  “Is that all?” he asked softly, his breath feathering over her mouth. “Will ye leave happy now?”

  She gave an indignant snort that made him laugh.

  “Don’t be silly,” she said. “Only….” Freddie trailed off, too embarrassed to explain.

  “Only?” he repeated, ducking his head to press a kiss to her throat, making her gasp and tilt her head back further.

  “Only….” She lost the thread of what she’d been going to say as his mouth nipped and kissed its way down to her collarbone, leaving a trail of fire in its wake.

  “Only,” he murmured, pressing his mouth against hers.

  He kissed her gently, a slow press and release of his mouth over hers. He freed her wrists at last and she did as she’d known she would, grabbing at him, clutching at his shoulder with one hand whilst the other grasped at his hair.

  His hands moved over her, exploring, caressing, squeezing.

  She gasped as one large hand cupped her breast, his thumb teasing the flesh beneath until a wanton sound escaped her. It startled her so much that her eyes flew open.

  “Do ye like that?” he asked, repeating it and then pinching her nipple just hard enough to make her groan again. “Tell me,” he whispered in her ear. “Tell me what feels good.”

  “Yes,” she said, helpless to deny him. “Yes, I like that.”

  “Want me to try something else ye’ll like even more?” he asked, the words urgent.

  “Yes,” she said, knowing it was foolish and reckless and all kinds of insanity, but she wanted him too much to stop now.

  He unbuttoned her spencer and tugged it off her, throwing it to the ground like a rag before yanking at the sleeve of her gown until it slid over one shoulder and then did the same to the neckline. Freddie gave a squeak of alarm as he revealed her breast, the nipple puckered and dark pink against her pale flesh.

  “Holy God,” he breathed, staring at her with such a look in his eyes that Freddie realised he really wanted her.

  It made her feel powerful, and rather bolder than she had. Which she suspected might not be a good thing, but there was no backing down now.

  He touched the swell of her breast with the back of one finger, his breath a ragged burst of warmth against her skin. She watched his face, surprised by the reverence there, as if she’d given him the most profound gift, one of which he felt unworthy.

  “I never saw anything so lovely in my whole life,” he said, the words making her throat tight with emotion. No one had ever told her she was pretty, let alone lovely, and she’d never imagined such a compliment, spoken with such awe, could be directed at her.

  “I want to put my mouth on ye, to kiss ye, here,” he said, circling her nipple with a fingertip as if his words hadn’t been explicit enough.

  Freddie arched, just his words sending a hot pulse of pleasure through her.

  “Yes,” she said, shivering with anticipation.

  She watched, like watching herself in a dream as he lowered his head, sighing at the gentleness of his touch. He nuzzled the side of her breast and brushed his lips over the full curve. Freddie held her breath, dizzy with desire, waiting for the moment he did as he wanted.

  Heat encompassed her as his mouth closed over her nipple and sucked and Freddie made an incoherent sound when the sensation tugged at an altogether different location. He kissed and licked and nipped at her breast until she felt weak, drugged, as if she might dissolve into the wall at her back. He was murmuring to her. She thought perhaps it was Gaelic as it made no sense, but perhaps her poor brain was too overcome to make out the words. Whatever he said it sounded soft and caressing and full of tenderness, and she was too lost to need to know more than that.

  He tugged again at the dress, easing her other breast free of her stays, and moaned his approval against her skin, feasting on her as if he was half starved.

  Freddie felt her legs tremble. The place between her thighs was throbbing, everything inside her heat and liquid and want. She was afraid she might not be able to stand up much longer. She didn’t want to, she wanted to lie down and feel his weight upon her, and a little voice in her head told her that was a bad, bad idea but her body was clamouring far louder.

  “C-Captain Moncreiffe,” she stammered, clutching at his shoulders.

  “Ross,” he said, tearing his mouth away from her breast to kiss her mouth again.

  Freddie pressed against him harder, feverish as his tongue swept in, sliding against hers. So, this was how it was done.

  He pulled back for a moment, regarding her with heavy lidded eyes. “My name is Ross.”

  “Ross,” she repeated, staring up at him in wonder. “Mine is Freddie.”

  “Freddie?” he repeated, an amused quirk lifting one side of his mouth.

  “Fredericka,” she amended, feeling a little irritated at his teasing her at such a moment. “But I hate it. You can cal
l me Freddie.”

  “I think I’d rather call ye, darlin’, bonnie lass, mo leannan, m’eudail.” He carried on, murmuring words against her skin, kissing his way down her neck, over her breasts, as one hand slid down her thigh and back up. “Do ye need me here?” he asked, the barest touch of his fingers discernible through the fabric of her gown, but Freddie leapt as the sensation jolted through her like lightning. He gave a low rumble of laughter that she felt in his chest. “I’ll take that as a yes, shall I?”

  Freddie nodded, there was no possibility of saying words. She’d been struck dumb. She clutched at his arms, registering how hard they were beneath her hands, the muscles flexing as he moved.

  “More?” he asked, gathering the skirts of her gown and hiking them up until his hand burrowed beneath. She felt her breath catch as his hot, coarse hand found the tender flesh of her inner thigh, stroking gently. “Tell me, mo cridhe. Say the words.”

  She tried to speak, but she was too dazed, so she simply nodded again.

  Ross made a tsking sound of disapproval and shook his head. “Nae, lass. Ye’ll get nothing that way. Tell me what ye’d have of me.” All the time his fingers trailed up and down her thigh, tantalisingly close to the aching heat that was consuming her from the inside out. “More, Ross,” he said against her mouth, coaxing her. “Say the words.”

  “M-More, Ross,” she managed, the words barely a whisper, but he heard them well enough.

  It was him that moaned, long and low and harsh, as his fingers parted the curls at the apex of her thighs and slid into the wet heat. Freddie couldn’t make a sound, couldn’t even breathe, the sensation was too overwhelming.

  “I told ye,” he said, his voice a little desperate now. “I told ye to stay away. I warned ye, and now look. God in heaven, what have ye done to me?”

  Freddie didn’t have the slightest idea, too consumed with what he was doing to her. His fingers caressed and teased, gentle, circling the little nub of flesh that seemed to have become the centre of her world. She trembled in his arms, sensing there was more but too afraid to reach out for it.

  “Ross,” she said, bewildered and uncertain of what she was asking for. “I can’t—”

  Her legs gave out and he caught her, lifting her into his arms with ease. “Dinnae fret, lass,” he murmured her, kissing her as he moved. “I’ll take care of ye.”

  She clung to him as he hurried down the hallway, kicking open a door and slamming it shut in the same manner. It was a room in flux, the furniture nothing more than ghostly shapes, shrouded against the daylight.

  Ross sat her down on a chair, the white material billowing out around her for a moment before he tugged her to the edge of the seat, pushing her skirts up and returning his clever fingers to their work.

  “So beautiful, mo leannan,” he breathed, staring down at her with wonder as she writhed under his touch, too lost in pleasure to feel the least bit shy at his heated gaze. “The things I want to do with ye would make those pretty cheeks of yours scarlet as a redcoat.” He smiled as her eyes widened and leaned in to press a soft kiss to her mouth. “I’ll nae take more than this, lass, dinnae fret. This is for your pleasure alone, but p’raps it will bring ye to some sense now ye see how easy virtue is to lose once the heat of lust is upon your skin.”

  As he spoke, he slid one finger inside her and Freddie gasped, her body bowing with the force of sensation.

  “Aye, like that,” he said, his dark eyes intent upon her as he repeated the motion. He continued as she trembled, her body beyond her own understanding or control as he played her like an instrument he knew far better than she. A second finger joined the first and Freddie’s breath caught. For a moment her world stopped, suspended, frozen with surprise as something unseen and unfamiliar waited to consume her.

  It did, all at once, crashing over her and making her cry out with astonishment and joy.

  Chapter 11

  “Wherein…regrets and revelations.”

  Ross watched with his heart in his throat as Freddie came apart for him. Never in his life had he seen anything so beautiful, never had he wanted anything so much. He could take her now, he knew he could. She would not deny him. He could taste her, devour her, take her to his bed and keep her there until they were both too exhausted to move. He could sink into her warmth and the comfort of her body right here and now, and she’d welcome him.

  The thought alone was almost enough to send him over the edge, but he was damned if he’d lose control now. Any more control, at least.

  He’d meant to send her away again, had promised himself he would, but he never did as he ought to when she got near him. She was too sweet and too brave, she’d call him out for being an ill-mannered brute, but she was too ready to trust in him, and he was an utter bastard.

  Even bastards had to draw the line somewhere though, it seemed.

  Once he’d eased every last tremor of pleasure from her body, he tugged her dress back down, covering her lovely limbs with deep regret before lifting her and sitting back down with her in his lap.

  He closed his eyes and stifled a moan as her bottom nestled against his aching cock and prayed for the ability to endure. With more determination that he’d known he possessed, he straightened her gown, putting her back to rights, though he could not deny himself the pleasure of placing one last kiss to her breast before restoring her to order.

  She was pliant in his arms, her head resting on his shoulder, allowing him to move her this way and that as he desired, like a doll, making no protest.

  “There,” he said, hearing the rough tenor of his voice. “Good as new.”

  Except she wasn’t. He’d taken something from her, not as much as he might have, but he was a thief, nonetheless. He’d stolen a boon meant only for her husband. Though he loathed himself for his weakness, he could not bring himself to regret it.

  She sighed and wrapped her arms about him, pressing a kiss to his neck that for some inexplicable reason made his throat tight. He held her close, pressing his face into her hair and breathing deep. Lemon soap, he thought with a smile and closed his eyes against the idea that such knowledge wasn’t meant for him.

  All the intimate details of her body and her life would go to someone else, someone who could make her happy. Rage and jealousy thrashed in his heart, but it wasn’t as if it would change anything.

  “Why do you smell like vanilla?”

  The words were soft and sleepy, as if she’d just woken from a lovely dream. Ross wished for her sake that it had only been that, for she’d awaken to the truth soon enough.

  “You smell good enough to eat,” she added, unaware of the havoc she was playing on his aching body. “I want to take a bite.”

  Small teeth nipped at his ear and Ross sucked in a ragged breath. A moment later he dropped her unceremoniously back in the chair, moving to the far side of the room. He turned his back on her, ignoring her look of bewildered surprise and giving his cock a vicious pinch that made his eyes water with the pain, but that seemed to have little other effect.

  “Did I do something wrong?” Her voice was hesitant, and Ross cursed himself. He folded his arms over the mantelpiece and laid his head on them, breathing deep and trying to get himself under control.

  “Na, lass,” he said, the words muffled, but wishing they were softer still and less aggressive. “But unless ye want to risk leaving here with my bairn in yer belly, keep yer distance.”

  “Oh,” she said, and then fell silent.

  He could feel the weight of her gaze, feel her curiosity and prayed she’d just sit quiet and still for a bit. Too much to hope for, naturally.

  “Isn’t there something—?” …

  “Na.”

  “Couldn’t I—”

  “No!” he thundered, so loud she jumped in alarm.

  He ran a less-than-steady hand through his hair.

  “Ye need to leave,” he said, forcing himself to meet her gaze and not beg her forgiveness at the hurt he saw there. She’d clutched he
r arms about herself, a protective gesture that made him want to howl. “I warned ye to nae come back. I cannae be trusted around ye, and ye have not the first clue about self-preservation so I must do it for the both of us. Go, Miss Wycliffe. Go now, and dinnae come back.”

  “You called me Freddie a moment ago,” she said, such a look in her eyes that he wanted to cut out his tongue for having put it there, but she needed to regret this, she needed to regret him. It was all he could do for her.

  “Go, Miss Wycliffe. I’ve no use for a fine English lady, ye are no good to me. Find that useless excuse for a chaperone and get out of my castle and my life. Keep away from me, go back to London and find a husband to torment. Go to bloody Timbuktu for all I care, but dinnae come back.”

  He walked out, slamming the door behind him and refusing to remember the tear he’d seen spill down her cheek.

  God forgive him.

  Except he’d long since given up believing in God, or anything else. There was no one to forgive him the unforgiveable. He was a bad-tempered brute, an unthinking beast who acted first and thought later. The men in the village knew it. Though he’d tried hard to behave like a gentleman since he’d returned, they still eyed him with suspicion, and rightly so. He’d fought nigh on all of them at once time or another, usually with little or no provocation.

  So he could pretend to be a gentleman as much as he liked, the laird of Tor Castle, but they knew better than to think he’d changed. He’d do well to remember it himself—much as he’d like to imagine otherwise. Now, he’d hurt someone who’d done nothing but try and befriend him.

  Anger and regret and loathing filled his heart and he knew he had to get away.

  Mrs Murray appeared at the far end of the corridor, drawn by the echo of the slamming door. He paused, as furious with her and Digby as he was with himself.

  “I hope ye are well satisfied with your meddling,” he said, knowing it was no fault of hers that he was no gentleman, no better than some rutting beast intent on having what it wanted. Mrs Murray had put more faith in his honour than he’d ever deserved, as had the girl’s foolish uncle. “She’s in there. See she gets home and have a care not to let her near me again.”