Highland Awakening (5 page)

She tasted so damn good. She'd reeled him in tonight, and he'd gone willingly, eagerly, a fish eyeing the bait, then wanting to devour it.

Her big brown eyes, that flushed, fresh skin, that thick, dark hair. He'd thought she was delectable at Mrs. Trickelbank's. Here…she was like some erotic goddess who made him hard as a rock and his self-control a distant memory.

The Duke of Trent's
sister.
Good God. He never would have guessed it. Not in a million years.

On the other hand, it explained a lot. Like her charming, sweet innocence. He wanted to take it and wrap himself in it. It was warm, comforting, so sweet he wanted to devour it like a confection.

And right now he ached to kiss her until that innocence was part of him—until she was part of him. She tasted like nothing he'd ever experienced, and he'd kissed many women in his time. She was hesitant and shy, but there was heat, a deep, throbbing sensuality in her. He could taste that, too, and it made him crazy.

He slipped his arms around her, around the dip in her waist hidden by the straight line of her dress. His fingers slid over the pink silk, and he flattened his palms on her lower back, feeling the slope of her arse at the bottom of his hands. He ground against her, dizzy for it, for wanting her.

She gave a soft moan that he swallowed up like the greedy bastard he was.

Scenarios ran through his mind. Of how to most quickly rid her of this annoying silk that was between him and his pleasure. Top down, revealing her skin bit by bit? Unwrapping her like a delectable gift? Or bottom up, ripping it off her so he could see all of her faster?

Bottom up, he decided. He had never been a patient man.

She gave a little gasp. Her hands cupped his cheeks, and she drew back, holding him at arm's length. “Stop, Mr. McLeod. We need to stop.”

He looked at her through lust-clouded eyes. No woman in his entire life had ever asked him to stop. He didn't exactly know what to do, so he just gazed at her.

“Someone might come out onto the terrace,” she breathed. “The scandal…it would be…it would be unbearable.”

Who gave a damn about scandals? He sure as hell didn't.

But then he remembered her position. Her brother was a paragon of society, well loved, and very much in the public eye. Society would have no compunction about throwing her to the wolves.

And surprisingly, he didn't want there to be any kind of carnage. Not with Esme, and not because of him. He didn't want to analyze the protectiveness that surged through him at the thought of those bastards tearing this woman apart.

He pressed on her lower back. That exquisite feeling—the pressure of her body against his—would sustain him. He hoped. “Esme,” he said, and his voice was gruff as hell, “I canna wait to unwrap you.” And he meant that in every way possible.

Her eyes widened, but then she shook her head slightly. “That's impossible.”

“Nothing's impossible. Not if we both want it. I definitely want it, and I ken you do, too.” She did want him. He could sense these things—he had a nose for it. The woman wanted him, maybe even to the same extent he wanted her.

This knowledge only made him hotter for her.

She glanced toward the door that led from the drawing room onto the terrace. “Who
are
you, Mr. McLeod?”

“It doesna matter.” It didn't. None of it mattered. He could be a gravedigger or the king. He was a man when he was with Esme. He didn't care about anything else.

“You came with Lord Pinfield,” she observed.

Cam pressed his lips together, annoyed at the intrusion of Pinfield on this moment. “I did.”

“You are good friends?”

He raised a brow. “You're full of questions, aren't you now, milady?”

“I am merely curious.”

He loved her voice. It was hesitant, but it was clear and smooth, a bit lower-pitched than most female voices.

His lip curled. “Nay, we are not good friends.”

“Then…why did you come tonight? My sister-in-law said you and he were friends and he asked for an invitation for you.”

“Ah, is that what he told her?” Cam tried not to roll his eyes.

“It wasn't the truth?” she pressed.

He narrowed his eyes at her. “There is a price for my secrets, Lady Esme.”

She pulled farther back from him. “What…what would that be?”

“Och, I can imagine many things that you could give me in recompense.” He let his eyes make a hot trail over her body. “But…let's begin with a secret for a secret. I'll tell you one of mine; you tell me one of yours.”

Her lips pursed, and she turned to face Green Park, clutching the railing. “Then, no. I don't need to know your secrets that badly.”

“Don't you now?”

She shook her head, and he studied her. Her secrets—What was in her notebook? Why had she been at the whorehouse?—they were deep ones. So deep, he'd wager the clothes on his back that even her family didn't know them.

And they were driving him mad. He
would
learn them. He didn't know how—not yet. But if this beautiful, exotic, stimulating woman thought she could hide from him forever, she was in for a great disappointment.

She slid her eyes to him. “You're staring at me.”

“There's nothing else I'm interested in looking at,” he answered honestly.

She took a shaky breath, gripping the railing so hard he could see the whiteness in her knuckles. “I can't…I shouldn't even be talking to you. I am engaged to Mr. Whitworth. He is to be my husband.”

A wave of disgust washed through him at that. “Nay.”

It was her turn to cock a brow. “Nay?”

“That's what I said.”

“You have no say over what I do.” Her words were harsh but her tone was soft, and she watched him carefully, as if curious as to how he might react to her statement.

“Oh, but Lady Esme, I would very much like to have a say over what you do.”

Her lips curved ever so slightly, but then she shook her head. “Alas, it is too late for that…any of it,” she murmured.

“ 'Tis never too late.”

“You're wrong about that, Mr. McLeod.” She said it with such certainty it felt like a slap.

He hesitated only a fraction of a second. “Aye, well, I concede, sometimes it is. After the vows have been spoken and a marriage consummated. Only then is it too late.”

She was silent for a moment, and then her lips curved higher. “That, of all the things you've said tonight, impresses me the most.”

He tilted his head at her, not comprehending.

“Many of the men in our society believe a consummated marriage doesn't mean it's too late to engage in flippant affairs,” she explained. “In fact, many believe that after they're married, adultery is the next logical step.”

Cam thought of his father, and bitterness rushed through him, so potent he had to look away from Esme and turn to gaze out over the park. “ 'Tis a good thing I'm not part of society, then,” he said quietly.

“But you are part of society. You are here tonight,” she argued.

“Only because—” He broke off, then slid her a glance. “I nearly forgot, I'm not to be telling you why. But I'll say my presence here is in no way an effort to reestablish myself into society.”

“Hmm,” she said. “I think I believe you. You possess little regard for society, don't you?”

“Very little,” he agreed. “But back to your belief that it's too late. That you are already well and truly tied to Whitworth. I'm going to say again—'tisn't too late. Engagements can be broken. You must break yours.”

“You cannot be serious.”

He gave her a dry look. “I'm completely serious.”

She simply stared at him.

He gave a patient sigh. “Esme. I've made no secret of my interest in you. Now I ken where you live. I ken your true identity. D'you really think I'll stay away?”

“I…” Her voice dwindled, and he shook his head firmly.

“I wilna stay away,” he said softly. “Because I want you.”

She closed her eyes. “I cannot break my engagement. I would not do that to Henry. I could not hurt him like that.”

Cam held back a snort of disgust. Because he was fairly certain that Henry Whitworth was exactly one of those men who considered adultery the natural next step after marriage. But he couldn't prove it—he hadn't seen Whitworth in years and had no idea where and with whom he spent his time.

Obviously Esme thought the man was some kind of a saint.

He gave her a slow smile. “You'll change your mind.”

She looked away from him, smoothing out the nonexistent wrinkles in the skirt of her dress.

Her lovely, expensive, stylish dress. The dress of an English duke's sister. A part of him was amazed by the intensity of his attraction for her. Even knowing that she was an English duke's sister—the
Duke of Trent's
sister—hadn't dampened his interest.

“I don't think so,” she said quietly. “I made my decision, Mr. McLeod, long before I knew you.”

He shrugged.

“And even now I hardly know you at all. I know you're an earl's son.” He stiffened, but she didn't seem to notice. “And that you're Scottish. But that's all. How can I break an engagement based on those simple facts?”

Simple? Hardly. “You ken more,” he said.

“Such as?”

“My name. What I look like. What my lips feel like on yours. How much I want you.”

Even in the dim moonlight, he could see the blush spread over her cheekbones. He wanted to touch her there. Feel the heat rushing over her skin against his fingertips.

She lowered her eyes, her lashes lush on the light olive tone of her skin.

“Mr. McLeod…you…” She shook her head. “The things you make me…”

“Feel?” he said softly.

“Yes.” She raised her gaze until it met his. “Yes. The things you make me feel…The things you say to me…I don't know how to…what to…” She pressed her lips together.

He couldn't help himself; he slid a finger down the side of her cheek. “ 'Tis all right, love. You will understand those feelings one day. Because I wilna be stopping until you do.”

She leaned into his touch, her lashes lowering once again. “A part of me doesn't want you to stop.”

“Good,” he said huskily.

“But you must.” She drew away from him.

He ground his teeth. He needed her to stop worrying about Henry Whitworth. Cam wished he could just demand pistols at dawn and be done with it. But no. He was going to have to woo himself out of this one.

He was better with pistols than with wooing, unfortunately. His previous women had been more than willing to join him for a romp or two. After that, more often than not, they realized what an ass he was and disappeared. He never much cared—it was what he expected. His father's blood ran in his veins, after all. Like his father, he couldn't hold on to women. The one woman his father had managed to hold—Cam's mother—had died at a young age, of misery and unhappiness more than anything else.

Cam had always made it a personal policy to avoid becoming too close to any woman. He promised himself never to marry so that he'd never destroy a woman like his father had destroyed his mother.

He didn't want Esme to think he was an ass after one or two meetings with him, though. He wasn't anywhere near finished with her yet.

In truth, he didn't know if he'd ever be finished with her.

Cam pressed his lips together, startled at the thought, because he couldn't know that he would even want her more than once. The only way to know if you wanted to bed a woman a second time was to bed her the first time. With this one, he wasn't even close to that point yet. Unfortunately.

“Mr. McLeod—”

“Call me Cam.”

She blinked at him, her eyelashes fluttering. Then she said, slowly and softly, as if tasting it on her tongue, “Cam.”

“Mmm,” he said. Because the way his name rolled off her tongue was delicious.

“You must leave me alone, Cam.”

He gave a mirthless snort. “You're too entrenched in your English society's expectations, Esme. You ken I hold them in no regard. Be true to yourself and damn the lot of them.”

Her eyes were glassy when she shook her head. “I cannot.”

“Why?” he demanded.

“For my family,” she said quietly. “They have been through so much. I cannot disappoint them.”

He gazed at her. He was uncertain how to respond—he'd never owed his family any loyalty. Except Anna. He'd do anything to ensure her safety and welfare. Was that how Esme felt about Trent and the others?

He searched his memories, considering her family. She and Trent had several more brothers—four or five of them, if he recalled correctly—and their mother still lived. He was acquainted with one of the brothers—Sam Hawkins, the illegitimate eldest one, who worked closely with the Highland Knights.

Did she mean all of them? Probably.

“ 'Tis honorable to be loyal to one's family,” he told her. “But sometimes a person needs to make her own choices, not allow them to be dictated by those whose motivations aren't her happiness.”

“You're wrong again.” She seemed to strengthen before him, growing a bit taller. “Their motivation
is
my happiness. Which is the main reason I cannot disappoint them.” Again, she glanced back toward the drawing room. “We have been out here far too long.”

Well, if she wanted to remain pure and virginal in her family's eyes, she was right about that.

He sighed heavily. “Go back inside. I'll wait a while out here before I reenter. I'll tell them I went for a walk in the park.”

She smiled at him, and he nearly stepped back at the sheer radiance of it.

“You surprise me,” she said.