Beguiled (28 page)

“I see. He took them to his chamber to make love to them.”

“ 'Twas the scullery he used most often.”

“So you grew up with a rather twisted understanding about getting a scolding.”

“There was nothing twisted about the way my father looked when he emerged from an afternoon of scolding.”

Edward laughed again, but as his humor abated, another much stronger emotion took its place. Familiarity filled the distance between them, and Agnes felt it in her soul. His probing gaze moved over her, lingering at her mouth and the satin belt at her waist.

Suddenly serious, his eyes met hers. “You should not have come down here in that robe.”

A
PPREHENSION THRUMMED THROUGH
A
GNES, AND
she knew without a doubt, if he she didn't leave the room, she'd surrender to him. Taking pleasure in his arms was a sweet treason she could not commit. “Then I'll leave now.” She started forward, hoping to ease around him and get to the stairs.

He did not move. “Were you bothered by the possibility that I had gone to my mistress tonight?”

How dare he mention that woman now, when Agnes struggled to hold on to her pride. “Go there to live, for all I care.”

“Liar.”

His voice surrounded her, and the words echoed in her ears. She paused before she reached him. “Good night.”

He stepped into her path. “You do care.”

She could not look away from him. He towered over her, a giant in his world of invention, but Agnes MacKenzie was only a visitor in his life. She had promised to find his assassin, and she would. After that, she'd get on with her search for Virginia. But denying any feelings for him would be unfair.

She told him the truth. “Of course I care.”

“Why, Agnes?”

“Because I cannot have you for myself.” There, she'd said it.

He reached for her. “Oh, but you can.”

The roguish remark buoyed her resolve. “You stormed from the tower.”

“For good reasons. You were indifferent to me, and you lied.”

The indifference had been an act, the lies a necessity. But she couldn't lie now, not when the promise of death hung in the air of Napier House. “You said your whereabouts were your own affair.”

“Let me see if I understand.” He raked a hand through his hair. “Your mind worked on the assumption that if I couldn't have you, any woman would do.”

She edged closer, but the going was not easy. Her heart tripped fast, and her feet had turned to lead weights. “Aye, you said you wanted me. Then you ruined it by saying your desire for me was base and raw. But—”

“Physical desire is a hunger, no?” His gaze dropped. “Tell me your belly doesn't ache for intimacy between us. Swear you did not feel passion the very first time I kissed you.”

Her stomach tightened. “Let me recall your words. You said that first kiss was born of lust and nothing more.”

Challenged, he lifted his brows. “If that is so, then why do I recall each beat of your heart and every breath you took?”

“ 'Twas not a tender moment for you. You said any milkmaid could rouse you as well.”

In mock bewilderment, he said, “And you believed me?”

“We were strangers at the time, and you were—”

“A stranger at being shot at!”

His fury fired her determination. “You turned from me in Whitburn when—”

“Because I was eager to get myself and my children home to Glasgow alive.”

He had a valid point. “I allow you that one defense, but I will not believe that you wanted
me.
So we needn't—”

“Then listen, my delicious skeptic, and I shall remedy that. Our first kiss lasted the better part of four minutes, hardly milkmaid-and-master fare. Your pulse ran fast—above one hundred beats for each of those moments, and you breathed twenty-one times. On three occasions you tried to wrap your right arm around me, but the pain in your wound stopped you.”

Agnes stared, struck dumb by his detailed recollection.

“Now that I have your attention,” he went on, bolder than before. “Would you care to know how often you thrust your tongue into my mouth? Or how often you caressed me with that very agile left hand? 'Twas a memorable time for me, I assure you.”

Beguiled by his seductive words, she dredged up the teachings of her youth. “What of honesty, then? What of belonging and of trusting? Are they not as important as physical desire? You cannot lessen the need for honesty.”

Throwing back his head, he held out his arms in surrender. “How much more honest can I be? I did not think I had to color up the truth for the woman who saved my life.” He sighed and looked at her again. “Sweet Saint Columba! I am a changed man since Edinburgh, and seeing that poisoned quarrel through my family crest solidified my determination. Life has greater importance to me now, and I am quicker to fight for what I want.” Narrowing his eyes, he quietly added, “And I want you.”

Being the object of his desire filled her with joy, but Edward Napier was not for her. Gathering her robe about her, she held his probing gaze. “We were and are still newly met.”

“Perhaps in the number of days we have known each other, but under the circumstances, that can hardly be counted. Much has occurred between us, Agnes MacKenzie, and you harbor deep feelings for me.” Gently, he touched her wound, and his voice dropped to an intimate whisper. “You spoke of trusting. I have and do trust you with my life and with the safety of my children. As for belonging—” His hand curled around her neck. “You belong to me, Agnes.”

“No.” She turned toward the door. “I cannot, Edward.”

“Aye, you can.” Grasping her waist, he lifted her onto the workbench.

Her long chemise and silken robe offered little protection from the cold slate, but she couldn't mount a protest.

The warmth of his lips on hers burned the last of her resolve to cinders, and hands that had tended her in doctorly fashion now stroked and comforted in a way that made her heart soar and her conscience protest. When he eased her legs apart and stepped closer, she embraced him freely.

His manly growl of approval spurred her on, and she kissed him with certainty, with freedom, and with gratitude. He had not meant those cruel words in Whitburn; he'd been preoccupied with the safety of his family.

“The truth, Agnes,” he insisted.

Words begged to be said. She whispered, “I do want you.”

As if she'd given him his heart's desire, he closed his eyes to savor the moment. Happiness wreathed his handsome features, and she couldn't resist kissing every one. She touched her lips to his chin, his nose, his eyes, and when his lashes fluttered, Agnes sighed with satisfaction. “I shall never be happier than at this instant,” she pledged.

“Then let me see if I can improve upon that.” He melded his mouth to hers, and she opened for him, welcomed him, savored the desire that raged between them. The kiss both drained and inspired at once, and she couldn't get close enough, couldn't feel enough of his skin beneath her fingers.

Tearing his mouth from hers, he kissed her cheek, then moved to her ear. Hovering there, he whispered, “I've dreamed of having you here, of feeling your hands touching me just so.”

“I want to touch more of you.”

He pulled back and gave her a boyish grin. “You do?”

“Aye.” To prove the point, she splayed her fingers and slid her hands up his chest.

Boyishness fled. He removed her dagger and put it on the table. “You've given me an idea.” As agile as ever, and without even glancing at his hands, he freed the knot in her belt, moved her robe aside, and revealed her long chemise. “What have we here?” He encircled her breasts. “Attributes draped in black silk. My very favorite kind.”

Lightness bubbled inside her, and she couldn't resist saying, “You're an expert on the subject of . . . breasts, as I recall.”

“I'm not sure.” With a sly grin, he moved down. “I'll need a closer look.”

The instant his hot breath touched her nipple, Agnes gasped. When he licked her there, she shivered and clutched handfuls of his tunic. In a deliciously slow rhythm, he alternately stroked her with his tongue and bathed her in his warm breath, and as a swoon curled up her neck, he stopped. A protest died on her lips, for he moved to her other breast. Knowing what to expect made her hungry for more, and she fidgeted under the urge to twist her shoulders and shed the undergarment. She wanted no barrier between them, but he worked his magic again, and thoughts mingled with sensations.

She felt heavy and light at once, her head spinning with anticipation and her body yearning for a respite from desire. At their own direction, her hands pushed his tunic above his waist and her fingers mapped his tautly muscled belly. He sucked in a breath, and as if answering a call, she reached into his breeches. His manliness felt like velvet against her palm. With her other hand, she moved to free the buttons.

“Oh, no.” He jerked away, threw off his tunic, and grasped her wrists. His eyes blazed with banked need, and perspiration glistened on his brow. He moved her arms back and placed her palms flat on the table. “If you'll stiffen your arms.”

She locked her elbows, but her attention was fixed on the breadth of his chest and the strength of his arms. A doctor, she mused, and so much more. A teacher. A scholar. An inventor. A wonderful father. The man who owned her heart.

“Oh, yes,” he said. “That's it exactly.” Involved in his lusty task, he reached around her and scraped aside a stack of books. Then he pressed an index finger into her cleavage and drew a line to her navel.

“What are you about?” she asked.

“A poor idea.” But the gleam in his eyes spoke of excitement.

“Tell me.”

“I warn you. What I'm thinking is out of the main.”

“A place to which I aspire. Tell me.”

“I'd very much like to rip this garment off you.”

Agnes looked pointedly at her stiletto. “Why not cut it?”

New interest sparkled in his eyes. “May I?”

He could have been asking her to dance, so cordial was his tone. “You think I am serious.”

He licked his lips. “I am as serious as sin on Sunday.”

It was completely unexpected, but so was the man himself. “Sounds thrilling.”

“Doesn't it?”

She looked at the spot where he touched her, his skin a rich golden color against the black silk. Her gaze moved to him. To her fascination, the swollen tip of his manhood peeked from the open placket of his breeches.

Boldness invaded her. “Only if I may return the favor.” When his brows shot up, she went on. “I'm very good with a knife myself, and if you have no objections, I could rid you of what is left of your clothing.”

“I care nothing for them. Less than nothing. These breeches are completely dispensable. Do with them what you will.”

“Truly?”

He realized she was teasing him. “This, my dear Agnes MacKenzie”—he kissed her nose—“is not the time to lie or tease. So I will say to you that if you use that knife to slice the breeches from my body, I will recall it fondly on the day I die.”

A chill of pleasure rippled through her. “Cut away, my lord.”

Unsheathing the knife, he held it gently, as if it were an instrument, rather than a weapon. Put to the sharp blade, the silk parted without a sound. He cut the cloth cleanly, precisely, in a line so straight it defied measure. A narrow gap opened between the two halves of the cut chemise. But the cloth didn't part completely; moisture from his suckling of her breasts made the silk cling to her nipples.

At her lap, he paused. When she'd spread her legs, the undergarment had bunched up around her hips. In deep concentration, he said, “I must be very careful here.”

Expectation thickened her throat, and she swallowed loudly. The blade cut through the folds like a hot knife through porridge and exposed her dampened skin to the cool air. She could feel his visual exploration of her most private place, and the knowledge set her elbows to quivering.

Lifting his head, he grinned like a man who'd accomplished a great task. “You're beautiful everywhere.”

Agnes choked back a moan and held out her hand for the knife.

He looked at her askance. “Patience.”

“But I want the knife now.”

“You may have it in a little while.” He put the knife out of her reach and opened the chemise completely. “But for now, I'd like to bask in you.”

Words of protest failed, and she watched him slip a hand between her legs. His graceful fingers parted her and found her feminine core. Instinctively she tried to close her legs against the delicious agony, but he was too strong and too determined. She gave up the fight.

He worked her tenderly, touching a spot and bringing it keenly to life, then moving higher to stroke and circle the place that gave her the most pleasure. She couldn't bring enough air into her lungs or breathe fast enough to keep control of her wits, and as she surrendered to passion, she glimpsed true harmony. The elation crested, and she teetered on the brink of falling, until an instant later, with one touch, he brought her to rise again and again and again.

She felt the student to his teacher, for he seemed to know her body better than she knew it herself. When the last ripple of passion flowed through her, she felt cleansed and wanton and oddly empty.

He reached for the placket of his breeches, an apology in his eyes. “I must get inside you now, love.”

An end to her emptiness was in the offing, but Agnes squeezed her legs together, trapping his hands. Their pleasure should be equally shared, and she knew what to do. “You dallied with me. Now I shall dally with you. Give me the knife.”

He gazed at her lap, then looked down at himself. “You are primed, and I am at the ready.”

“Still . . .”