Bewitching (60 page)

He nodded toward a wall where stood a square table laden with silver warmers and serving dishes.

"Dinner will grow cool."

Her fingers fumbled with the studs on his shirt and she removed one, then another, until she held them all.

"Not now," she said, dropping the studs on the floor and turning her face toward his. "Kiss me, Alec.

Please. I don't want anything else." She slid her hands up his chest, but he grabbed her wrists.

"Wait." He released her and stepped back, pulling closed the doors, sliding the bolt in place. He closed the distance between them in two strides and slid one hand around her neck and commanded, "Turn around."

He caressed her neck as she turned, his hand spanning it, rubbing in a soothing lover's caress of tendon and flesh and bone, then he undid the closures on her gown, pausing to kiss her back, brush his mouth across her skin until the white silk of her shift blocked his damp lips. With a tenderness that made her ache, he moved his mouth to her neck, ran his lips along the feminine line of her neck, then down to her collarbone. A flick of his hands and her gown fell away and pooled at her feet.

Holding her bare shoulders he turned her around, then knelt before her, his hands skimming the stockings down her legs, his lips and tongue caressing her thighs through the silk of her shift and teaching her what the sense of touch was all about. She stared at his bent head and gripped it, gasping when his mouth grazed her cleft. At the sound, he looked up, and she met his heated gaze. She knew that all her want and need were reflected on her face, but she didn't care. This desire was stronger than either pride or fear.

Wordlessly he rose and slowly pulled the pins from her hair. It tumbled down to her thighs, and she heard his breath stop. He stood stone still, as if he needed to just take in the sight of her.

He had stoked a pride in her femininity that she had never before experienced. A woman's power she hadn't known she possessed. Restless for his touch, she slid the straps of her shift off her shoulders, sending the slick silk garment sliding down her body like a caress of his hand.

She stood before him, naked, waiting, wanting. "Please," she whispered, and he reacted to her husky voice by tearing off his shirt and tossing it away. Then she was in his arms and he carried her across the room, laying her atop a down-soft daybed. At the sound of his boots hitting the floor she opened her eyes, her vision caught for an instant by the moon and sky above, but a second later his mouth traced the inside of her calf, upward where his tongue grazed her inner thigh. His hands slid beneath her knees, continuing to warmly slide upward, spreading her legs over his wide shoulders until his hands cupped her bottom.

His breath whispered a caress against her dampness just before his mouth kissed her mind away. She cried out his name and her hands twisted the fabric beneath her. With each stroke she moaned, moved her head, unable to do anything but feel the flaming touch and lick of his swirling tongue. It sent her higher and higher, to a place known only by lovers.

He paused. So did her breath.

"Come, Scottish, against my mouth. I want to feel the pleasure I give you. Taste it."

Tears of passion blinded her, but she cared not, lived only for this instant and this need, the intimate feel of his mouth, knowing she'd die if he paused again. The moment his tongue slid inside her she pulsed with ecstasy so strong her legs shook. Roses rained down in bursts that matched Alec's throaty sound of male pleasure, until the petals littered his head and back, her breasts and belly. The scent of satisfaction mixed with that of rose oil and wrapped itself around her till the throbbing slowed, faded. His mouth still kissed her, but it was slower, only the slightest brushing movement of his lips. He lowered her hips, gave her one brief kiss, then gently slid her legs from his shoulders.

She opened her eyes and watched him lower his head again and move up her body, blowing the petals from her belly and ribs, then moving his tongue across them until her breast was in his warm mouth and there was nothing but dark passion in his eyes. The rough hair on his chest rasped against her belly and she arched upward, threading her hands through his thick silver hair and pulling his mouth to hers. He pulled back, rose petals in his hands, and rubbed them over her lips, then over his own.

His mouth touched hers. She tasted musk and roses, then felt the probe of his hardness and drew her knees up in open welcome. He sank inside her, and she gave a small gasp. He pulled back, then thrust again, drawing another small gasp.

"God, what that sound does to me." He stilled, savoring the moment, then lightly brushed her mouth with his. "Tell me what you feel."

She took a breath and whispered against his damp lips, "Only you. My Alec." Her words seemed to catch him off guard and light some hunger within him. As if driven to do so, he gripped her hard against him and turned them both over, sliding his hands through her hair and down to her bottom. He pulled her knees against his hips, opening her, and stroked her from behind, trailing his finger over the tender private flesh between. One hand continued the touch, but the other moved to the back of her head and held her firmly against the power of his mouth and tongue. Then he rolled his hips and his hard shaft touched the very heart of her, once, twice, then slowly rocked and rocked making her aware of his size and length and strength as his body bonded in splendid ecstasy with hers.

Seconds drifted into minutes, eternal minutes of long, slow loving, their hearts moving closer in time and unison. Soon he moved in long thrusts till the mating of their bodies matched heartbeat for heartbeat. Moisture beaded between them and dewed slickly inside her and she felt the rise, the sparkle of bliss, felt the waves of fulfillment coming faster and faster, the same tempo of his hips. She cried out for him; he called her name again and again, never once missing the perfect beat of his possession—the taking of her body, the giving of his.

His lips moved to her ear and he rasped, "So good, Scottish."

Her breath halted in pleasure. But the rush came faster, flooded her.

He gripped her head and groaned, "So good." Her body clutched him in hard spasm. The first of the new petals fell. He drove deeply, matching her throb for throb. She cried out his name, in one last weak plea for consciousness before the little death swept her over the dark edge of passion.

***

"I'm hungry again."

Alec watched his wife slide from the bed and cross to the serving table through an ankle-deep carpet of pink rose petals. His shirt covered her. Her petal-sprinkled hair covered his shirt and hung to the backs of her thighs. She wore nothing else. He rested his hands behind his head and watched that loose hair of hers sway while she hummed, popped pinches of gingerbread into her mouth and appeared to fill a plate with one of everything, for the second time that night.

She turned back around and, heaping plate in hands, walked toward him. His shirt hung to her knees, but covered little since she could only find one of his studs amidst all the petals. With each step she took, the shirt split to reveal the thighs that had tightened on his hips, his waist and shoulders, had cradled him and ridden him through most of the night.

But the image that seared itself into his memory and fed his pride was her face, the delight, the pure joy and still innocent love that sparkled from her eyes. She scrambled back on the bed, plucked a chicken leg off the plate and bit off a mouthful, chewing with relish and comically widening her eyes as if roasted chicken were the food of the gods. He shook his head at her antics, but couldn't for the life of him take his eyes off her mouth, the mouth that could set him afire, could issue little gasps that made him pleased he was a man; yet it was the smile on that mouth that taught him the power of happiness.

"Here." She shoved the chicken leg in his face. "Take a bite."

He gave her chest a pointed look. "I prefer the breast."

She gave a delighted gasp and set the plate aside. "Oh, Alec, you do have a sense of humor after all." But before he could respond, she glanced down at the open shirt and tried to pull it closed with one hand. "I can't imagine where those studs are." She glanced over the edge of the bed. He took in the rear view and smiled.

"Seems odd that I could only find one. How many were there?"

"Eight." He sat up and moved toward her while she frowned at the petals on the floor. He slid an arm around her small waist, then pulled her on top of him and closed his mouth over the tip of a breast.

"Hmm," he said. "Not cold at all."

She gasped, half outrage, half laugh.

"So you do remember," he said, moving to test the other breast for temperature.

"Aye." She slid her hands to his shoulders as he moved over her. "And I remember thinking when Jem said that you wanted to say something."

He looked down at her, a million thoughts flying through his mind, but he said nothing, instead just kissed her.

A minute later she pulled back. "You did want to say something, didn't you?"

He trailed his mouth downward again. "Not half as badly as I wanted to test the theory."

In response, both her laughter and her arms surrounded him. A few seconds later his hand drifted over the edge of the bed. He opened his fist, and seven shirt studs fell to the floor.

***

In almost no time the estate came alive, as if it had been awakened after a cold, dark spell by the warm magic and light of laughter within. There was always a song—a Caribbee tune or a Scottish ditty—to set the servants' toes to tapping, their heads to swaying, and skirts to swirling. Forbes, who'd been appointed silver steward, would hum completely off key as he supervised the polishing and care of seven hundred years' worth of Belmore silver. Beezle's fur was fast reddening into his spring and summer coat. Henson's hair had grown back. Hungan John's braid had shrunk. Three of the stable cats were bald.

But the true sign of change was something that startled every Belmore servant. His Grace was seen whistling as he strolled down the hallway one morning. He even stopped on occasion to ask a servant's name, nod, then appeared to mentally catalog it before going on. Such uncharacteristic behavior from their previously cold and rigid employer caused a gabble of talk for a few days. Some speculated that he'd fallen and knocked his knob when he spent that one week riding hell-bent over every blade and brook of Belmore Park.

And even more queer and unexplainable were the pink rose petals that trailed from his boots and sometimes littered even the most peculiar and secluded places. The general consensus was that all that blue blood made the aristocracy a smidgen looby.

Alec rode into the stable yard after his morning ride. He dismounted, gave the stallion a word of praise and a quick stroke, then tossed the reins to a stableboy and moved toward the gardens. He stopped after two long strides and turned, eyeing the lad. "What is your name?"

The poor lad stiffened. He turned a worried freckled face toward Alec.

"Not to worry, boy. You've done nothing wrong."

The lad gulped with relief and answered, "Ned Hoskins, Your Grace."

"Ned," Alec said to himself. "That will be simple to remember. I haven't encountered a Ned yet." He frowned and muttered thoughtfully, "'Tis all those Marys that have me befuddled. If I ever had a daughter I shall not name her Mary." Remembering himself, he glanced up at the boy again. "That's all. Run along now." He turned and strode up the path, mentally adding Ned Hoskins to his rapidly growing list of servants' names.

He slowed at the stone steps that led to the maze outside the topiary garden, remembering yesterday morning when he had stood in this same spot, listening to Scottish and Stephen talk. They had been standing near the maze entrance waiting for him to join them. Both he and Scottish had spent time playing hide-and-go-seek with his brother in the intricate mazes, making sure he found them when he was "it." The changes in Stephen had become evident very quickly. He had readily adapted to the knowledge of who he was, as if he had been starving for a family. Like Alec.

His wife had charmed them both despite their early uneasiness and fear. The awkward questions from Stephen had made Alec shake with anger at the cruelty and stupidity of his parents. Yet through kindness, patience, and love, Scottish had given his brother confidence and comfort, and had given Alec a family, a life he'd never have known had it not been for her.