A Borrowed Scot (10 page)

Chapter 11

V
eronica had never stayed at a hotel before, but The Royal George Hotel had been visited by the Queen herself, they were told. The manager who made that announcement also escorted them into the building under a wide umbrella before ringing for a chambermaid to escort them to their room. They were given demonstrations on the various amenities, the location of the buzzer to ring for assistance, and directions to the hotel’s dining room.

When they were left alone, she was surprised at how much smaller the room suddenly felt.

The iron bed was enormous, taking up most of the space. The mattress looked as if it were double the size of her bed at her uncle’s home. A small table, two straight-backed chairs, and a washstand comprised the rest of the furniture in the room. A small fireplace was set into one wall, while two windows on the far wall boasted a view of the river through a curtain of rain. Although it was early afternoon, the day was as dark as night.

The chamber was pristine. The hotel was lovely, the staff amenable. She could find no fault with her accommodations.

The problem was her husband.

“Are you hungry?” Montgomery asked.

She shook her head. They’d eaten the contents of Mrs. Gardiner’s hamper during the first part of the trip, and taken tea when they’d arrived at the station.

“Then we’ll begin, shall we?”

She glanced at him, her eyes widening.

He walked up to her, brushed aside her hands, and began unbuttoning her bodice. She slapped his hands away, as useless as batting away the sun. He just waited until she stopped before beginning again.

“It’s still daylight!”

“Somewhere,” he said, unconcerned.

He finished unbuttoning her bodice and moved to her cuffs. Soon, she was divested of her bodice, watching as it sailed across to room to land in the corner.

One of them should behave with some decorum. Shouldn’t she? After all, this business of losing her maidenhood was a serious one.

“If you mean to scare me,” she said, “I have to tell you I’m not frightened.”

He halted in the action of unlacing her corset to glance at her.

“What a hell of a thing it would be if you were,” he said, once again concentrating on his task. “Intimidation is equally shared, you know. After all, you’ve demanded I take your virginity from the moment the ceremony was finished.”

She blinked several times, trying to act nonchalant as he loosened her corset and pulled it off. In seconds, it, too, was flying across the room.

“I suppose I have,” she said, considering the matter with what attention she could since he was working on the fastening of her skirt.

Something sparkled in his eyes, something she couldn’t identify. At that particular moment, she didn’t know if she’d made him angry or if he was amused. Nor did she have the concentration to use her Gift.

Bending his head, he pulled her skirt free and watched as it sank to the floor. He extended a hand to help her step out of it.

“Let’s just get this done, shall we?”

“It’s not a chore,” she said, frowning. “Or is it?”

He took her hand and pressed it against his trousers until she felt something very hot and very hard there. He felt as large as a mastiff she’d once seen, trailing after a bitch with his mouth hanging open and his instrument fully erect.

“Oh.”

“Yes,” he said. “Oh.”

“I quite enjoyed what we did in the parlor,” she said.

“Did you?” he asked absently.

She was down to her shift, hoop, stockings, and pantaloons.

“Shouldn’t you close the drapes?” she asked.

“I would, but I don’t want to stop.”

“Oh.”

“I want to see you naked again,” he said, pulling at the tabs holding her hoop. “Have I rendered you speechless, Veronica?” he asked, as it collapsed to the floor.

She nodded as she stepped out of it.

“I shall have to remember exactly what I was doing when that happened.”

“I believe I can remember,” she said, since he was kneeling before her, reaching up to roll down her stockings. Her pantaloons had a large slit in them to accommodate certain personal needs and were hardly any protection from his eyes.

She looked anywhere but at him.

He pulled the ribbon of one garter free, his fingers trailing a path of heat from her thigh, over her knee, down her calf, to stroke around her ankle.

Veronica wasn’t the least ticklish, but she could feel each movement of his index finger.

She licked suddenly dry lips and wondered when it had become so warm in there. Why wasn’t he undressing?

Were they going to have relations with the curtains open?

Her eyes widened at the touch of his fingers on the drawstring of her pantaloons. He was standing in front of her, gently pushing them off her hips. Not simply content to allow them to fall, he was following the garment with his palms, feeling every inch of her.

Her heart was beating so furiously she was breathless, incapable of speech. Incapable, too, of telling Montgomery he really should not look at her in quite that way.

The same way the mastiff had when the bitch glanced over her shoulder at him, slowed, and braced herself in the dirt.

Oh my.

A lock of hair had tumbled onto his forehead. He wore the strangest smile, an expression that was definitely not amused. Intent, perhaps, as if this task took all his focus.

His fingers hooked in the scoop neckline of her shift and began to pull. She slapped a hand over his.

“Please don’t rip it. It’s my only shift.”

“Only?”

She nodded.

He frowned. “The Earl of Conley is a wealthy man.”

She bent her head, concentrating on the floor, his shoes, and his trousers. Her gaze crept up his legs, hesitated. If she placed her hand there again, would she feel the same hardness? Or was it possible that he’d gotten even larger?

“Veronica.”

Her face warmed as her gaze flew to meet his.

“Why don’t you have more than one shift?” he asked gently.

“Uncle Bertrand had not expected to bear the expense of clothing and housing me,” she said.

His face changed a little, but the emotions she suddenly felt from him were like tinder exploding in a fireplace.

“Just how many times did he utter that little comment to you?”

She placed her hand against his chest.

“You cannot blame him, Montgomery. I was his sister’s daughter, not his own child.”

“You’re family.”

“Should we be discussing Uncle Bertrand now?” she asked. “I’d just as soon we didn’t.”

He nodded, bent, and grabbed the hem of her shift before pulling it over her head.

She was naked again.

His large hands cupped her breasts, his thumbs brushing against the nipples. His attention was not on the action of his hands, however, but on her face.

Veronica could feel heat rush through her body, pool in the core of her.

What did he want?

Her hands reached up to grip his wrists. Instead of pulling his hands away, she merely kept her fingers there, feeling the beat of his heart at his wrists. A beat as rapid as her own.

Her legs trembled; her entire body shivered, not from the cold or even anticipation. What she felt was something different, something that hollowed out her insides, pushed aside all reticence and shyness.

Anything he wanted, she’d do.

“Will you kiss me?” she asked.

“Now?”

He smiled, an almost wicked smile, one that fascinated as much as it charmed.

“Please.”

He leaned forward, placed his mouth softly over one nipple.

That wasn’t what she’d meant.

His tongue flicked her nipple, his lips gently surrounding, sucking.

Her hands moved to curve around his shoulders.

“Montgomery,” she said. That was all, just his name.

He stepped back, removed his jacket and vest, his eyes never leaving hers. Instead of touching her again, he turned her slowly, wrapped his arms around her, his shirt and trousers gently abrading her bare back.

His arm covered her breasts, one wrist resting against a nipple, while his fingers brushed against the right. His other hand pressed against her stomach, pulled her back against him as he kissed his way down her neck.

She felt cut off from him in that position, distanced, as if he wanted to touch her but didn’t want her to reciprocate.

His hand moved lower, his thumb playing across her navel, fingers combing through the soft hair at the apex of her thighs. She laid her head back against his shoulder, and he took advantage of the position to place a kiss beneath her jaw, his lips hot, his tongue tasting her skin as if to measure the frantic beat of her blood.

She felt as if she were melting against him. Her hips wanted to move from side to side, to guide his exploring, intrusive, talented fingers, but each time she did so, he pressed his hand flat against her stomach to still her.

Her skin felt hot, too tight, as if she were growing out of it.

The pleasure mounted until she could think of nothing but the strumming of his fingers. Her breath caught painfully, her hips moving as if he’d set them in motion. He was relentless, seeking another spot with his fingers, rubbing so gently she sighed and surrendered. Her nipples hardened, and a warm rush of heat pooled between her thighs.

How utterly wicked and wanton she was. She wanted to smile, to laugh in recognition of her own decadence. Montgomery was her husband and surely such actions were sanctioned. Even if they were never whispered about, or never discussed.

Reaching up with both hands, she gripped the arm binding her breasts, holding him as he explored her. Her knees felt weak. Her eyes squeezed shut on the feelings: anxiety to excitement, anticipation to pleasure.

She arched against his hand, needing the touch of him, craving the circular motion he’d begun between her thighs. She bit her lip as the pleasure mounted, laid her head back against his chest as the tension built.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured against her ear. “So responsive, Veronica.”

She was almost weeping from the pleasure. He pressed himself against her bare bottom. He was hard, his breath ragged.

His fingers brushed against her nipple, then tugged at it.

Her hands dug into his arm, her hips pressing back against him, then against his relentless fingers.

He murmured words of praise, decadent comments that shocked and pleased her. His clothing was abrasive against her skin, the stubble on his cheeks was scratching her hot cheek. His lips were warm against her ear, his teeth sharp against her earlobe.

Nothing existed but Montgomery and pleasure. Nothing but pleasure then, the molten heat of it spreading through her, summoning her keening cry.

She sagged against him, but in the next moment, turned in his arms, pulled his head down, and caught his lower lip between her teeth. She gripped his shirt, wishing he were naked, hoping he’d soon be naked, needing him naked.

A pleased laugh rumbled in his chest as he lifted her in his arms, placing her gently on the bed. She lay there, spent, surrounded by pleasure as if it were a cloud. She watched him, marveling at the body revealed as he removed his clothing. Shirt, shoes, trousers, underclothes all flew into the same corner with her garments.

A moment later, he stood there, naked, the part of him that made him male standing erect. Fascinated, she reached out and touched him, feeling him hard and hot beneath her fingers. She stroked one finger down his length, watching as he quivered at her touch.

How magnificent he was.

What they’d done in the parlor hadn’t hinted at this.

What was the proper word?
Coupling?
Ravishing?
Thank God she was about to be ravished by this man. Or was
ravish
the proper term since she very much wanted what would come next?

She moved over on the bed, holding her hand out for him.

He joined her, supporting himself on his hands. Leaning down, he kissed her.

This was not a gentle kiss, or one in which he’d held something back. This kiss scorched her lips, sucked her breath, hinted at pleasures she’d never felt. This kiss darkened the room and sent her spiraling out of control.

A sound escaped her as her hands reached up and gripped his shoulders, fingernails digging into his skin.

The throbbing beat was back, hammering at her, transforming shyness into a primitive need as he worked his way across her breasts, nipping at them with his teeth, soothing her skin with his heated lips. She curled her hands around his head, pressing him to her.

His hands were busy, stroking her curves, palming her, fingers splayed, both gentle and intrusive. His mouth was on her again, breasts, shoulders, the inner curve of her arm, the base of her throat. Never leaving, never giving her a chance to recover or become herself again. She didn’t know who this woman was but slipped into her heated body without protest, glorying in the sensations Montgomery gave her.

He moved away, and she answered his departure with a sound of protest. He smiled, then the smile faded as he lowered his head to kiss her once more. When he drew away again, she stroked her hands up his muscled arms, rested on his shoulders, and looked up at him, grateful she could see him in the faint light.

His eyes were heated, his face bronzed by passion.

Slowly, he raised himself.

She needed to brace for the pain, close her eyes and think of the Queen. She needed to remind herself that women through time had faced this anguish and survived it.

Her legs widened involuntarily, her hips rose to the exact angle to allow him penetration. He entered her gently, allowing her to accommodate herself not only to his size, but to the act itself. Yet what should have felt so foreign was oddly right, as if she’d been waiting for him to do exactly that. As if her body had patiently waited all those years to experience those very sensations.

He lowered his forehead to hers, his breath harsh.

“Am I hurting you?”

She shook her head from side to side. “It’s quite an unusual sensation, isn’t it?”

He raised his head.