[MacKenzie Sally] The Naked Laird(book4me.org) (5 page)

Forgiven him for what? He’d done nothing wrong. He hadn’t caused her to lose the babe. If later he’d not kept his wedding vows, well, neither had she. She’d left him—and had taken up with Pennington and the rest.

No, he’d been faithful to her until she’d deserted him, but then, well, what could she expect? That he would live as a monk when she barred him from her bed? Not bloody likely.

“Do you wish to reconcile with Lady Kilgorn?”

“What?” Damn, he’d forgotten Motton was even in the room.

“Lady Kilgorn—do you wish to reconcile with her?” Motton met his eyes, then examined his own whisky. “Lady Remington has been putting it about that you are going to divorce your wife and wed her.”

“Lady Remington is not in my confidence.” And she damn well was not going to be in his bed ever again. “I have no idea where she would get such a ridiculous notion.”

“No idea?”

Ian could feel his face flush. Yes, he’d gone to too many society events with Caro. He’d been bored, and it had been easier to let her attach herself to him than cut the connection. No more. If the damn harpy had the gall to approach him again, she would be in no doubt at all as to his sentiments.

“Lady Remington is of no interest to me. None.”

Motton nodded. “Perhaps you should tell Lady Kilgorn that.” Motton’s gaze was steady. “Perhaps you could effect a reconciliation.”

“N-nay.” Could he make up with Nell? He would not have thought so before this damn house party, but now? Was Motton right?
Did
Nell care for him? Long for him, even?

She had certainly looked at him when he’d been naked in their room. She’d not been able to take her eyes off him. And she’d been jealous of Caro…

He should try. He
would
try.

He finished the last drops of whisky and staggered to his feet. “G’night, Motton.”

Motton frowned up at him. “You’re sure you haven’t had a little too much whisky? Perhaps a spot of coffee—”

“I can hold my liquor.”

“Yes, well, you are holding a rather great quantity at the moment. I’m not certain—”

“I am certain—and I’m certainly impatient to go to bed”—he waggled his eyebrows—“if you take my meaning.”

“I’m afraid I do. Look, Kilgorn, you might want to be slightly less, um, elevated before you approach Lady Kilgorn.”

Ian held up a hand to stop Motton—and then used it to brace himself against the bookcase. He spoke carefully. “I liked your earlier advice better, and I believe I shall act on it immediately.”

“Oh, dear God.”

Ian grinned. His melancholy had quite dissipated. “Prayer is very good, Motton. I’ll leave you to continue your devotions.” He turned carefully and headed for the door, taking advantage of the chairs, the desk, and the bookcases to guide and steady his path.

Would Nell be in bed already? Mmm, yes, certainly. In bed. Stretched out under the covers, hair down—surely she didn’t braid it? Well, if she did, he would unbraid it and spread it out over his pillow.

He misjudged the height of a step and had to grab the banister to keep from tumbling up the stairs. See—his reflexes were splendid. He’d always been able to hold his liquor. Hell, he could drink many a man under the table. Of course he wasn’t drunk. Maybe a little elevated, all right, he’d grant Motton that, but only a little. Just enough to take the edge off.

He reached the top of the stairs and turned down the hall. Damn it, someone had carelessly placed a small table against the wall. Didn’t they know people had to walk here? He caught the vase before it tumbled off, but the flowers in it cascaded to the ground. Well, that was easily fixed. Not all the water had escaped. Just scoop the flowers up and shove them back where they’d come from.

Ah, here was his room—their room. He fumbled with the doorknob, pushed the door open…Splendid! Nell was already in bed. He grinned.

“I’m here, lass, and I’m verra ready.”

“Ian.” Nell’s heart slammed into her throat. She tried to swallow it back down where it belonged. It was not moving. She had to whisper the words around the lump. “Ready? Ready for what?”

He looked so…big. He filled the doorway. She pulled the coverlet up as a shield.

Were his eyes a little reckless? Had he been drinking?

“Ready for bed.” He stepped all the way into the room and closed the door behind him. “And to sleep.” He grinned. “Eventually.”

She shivered in a most embarrassing place and pulled the coverlet higher. “What do you mean exactly?”

“Exactly?” He unbuttoned his waistcoat. “Hmm, what
do
I mean exactly?” The waistcoat hit the floor. “Let me think on it.” He pulled his shirt out of his waistband and jerked it over his head.

Oh, dear God. She could only stare at him. Her mouth was dry—but another part of her anatomy was exceedingly wet. It shivered again, anxious, eager.

Her stomach shivered with…fear?

Should she really do this? Could she feel only physical sensations or would she feel more? Did she want to feel more? And if she…if his seed…if she became pregnant…

She couldn’t think.

The firelight played over Ian’s skin, revealing and then hiding. He was definitely larger than she remembered. Well, he’d been hardly more than a boy when they’d wed. Now he was every inch a man. Chiseled muscles bulged in his upper arms and his chest down to his flat stomach and—

Oh, my. His muscles were not the only part of him bulging. Had he always been so large there or had his…his…had
that
grown, too?

“Care to have a closer look, lass?”

“What?” She tore her eyes from his, um, well…she tore her eyes away to look up at his face. The blasted man was smirking. And he was coming in her direction.

She swung around to face him as he approached, her feet dangling over the side of the bed, the coverlet still held in front of her.

Ian laughed and twitched the cloth out of her fingers. He reeked of whisky.

“You’re drunk.”

“Nay.” He smiled, the blasted dimple she hadn’t seen in forever appearing in his right cheek. “Weel, maybe a wee bit bosky.”

More than a wee bit. She’d get bosky herself just inhaling his fumes. This was a bad idea.

He took her hands and held them against his naked chest. His skin was warm; the hair, soft and springy under her fingers. She felt his heart beating.

“Your hair’s like night; your skin like cream, so soft and smooth.” He brushed her hair back from her face, his hands tangling in its length. She closed her eyes to concentrate on his touch.

His fingers skimmed over her forehead, her cheeks, down to her chin. He tilted her face up—dear Mother of God, was he going to kiss her? Her lips felt swollen; she parted them in anticipation….

His mouth touched hers, his tongue slipped inside.

Mmm. He filled her with heat and whisky and a taste that was his alone. Desire pooled between her legs, hot and wet. Her lips felt swollen there, too. She spread her knees and Ian’s leg came between hers. His fingers plucked at the skirt of her nightgown and pulled it up to her thighs so he could push her knees farther open. He stepped closer.

It was good. It felt good, the night air cooling her heat.

Now his fingers were brushing down her front, slipping her gown’s buttons free. That was good, too. She was much, much too hot. She could hardly wait to feel the cool air on her skin there as well.

She slid her hands up the hard plane of his chest, over his broad shoulders, to his neck. Her fingers burrowed into his hair and she held his head steady.

Oh. He was pushing back the sides of her gown, exposing her—

Mmm. His palms slid over her breasts. His hands cradled them, lifting while his thumbs—

“Ahh.” She broke free of his mouth. “Oh.”

“Like that, do ye, Nell? Your breasts were always so sensitive. I loved to touch them, loved to hear you squeak.” Ian nuzzled the spot on her neck just under her ear. “Do ye still squeak?”

“Uh, no, uh—eek!” Ian’s thumb flicked over her nipple, which was budded hard and yearning. He chuckled and kissed her jaw.

“Aye, ye do.” He rubbed both nipples.

“Ohh.”

“And ye moan, too.” He moved his hands to her jaw, holding her face so he could look into her eyes. “God, Nell, how I’ve missed you.”

His eyes were so…hot.

They hadn’t changed. Oh, there might be a few wrinkles at the corners, but his gaze was as compelling as ever. He had looked at her this way before, when they were young and in love.

No, don’t think of love. Don’t think at all.

She moved her fingers from Ian’s hair to his waistband.

“Ah, that’s it, lass.” Ian rested his forehead against Nell’s. He should not have had so much whisky. He knew it, in a vague sort of way. He was in a bit of a fog at present. He wished he weren’t. He wanted to remember every single moment of this.

The lovely girl was unbuttoning his fall. Her fingers were so white against the black cloth of his breeches. So slim. They brushed against his belly. Ah, so soft. He sucked in his stomach to give her more room to work the buttons free. Thank God he dispensed with drawers when he traveled. Once she got the fall open—

Had she undone Pennington’s breeches for him?

No, he would not think of that bastard.

Perhaps it was good he was drunk. The whisky-fog made the waiting less…agonizing. He could tear the thing open himself, couldn’t he? But that wouldn’t be very gent-gentlemanly.

No, it was good he was a bit fuzzy with drink. He didn’t want to attack Nell like a satyr, did he?

No. No, he didn’t. No satyrs. Just sex…sexual con…congress.

They’d been good together all those years ago, hadn’t they? He remembered that they had, but how could he be certain? They’d both been so young. He’d been a virgin….

Had she found Pennington more satisfying? Bloody hell. Ah, but he’d learned a few tricks over the years. He’d make her forget Pennington.

If he weren’t so drunk…but he’d still be sure to make it good for her.

He moistened his lips. Patience. They had the night before them. There was no hurry. The waiting was part of the delight…

Ah…delight. A dream come true.

The damn whisky made it seem too much like a dream.

Nell paused in her button struggles to cup his poor straining cock. Her touch was muffled by the damn cloth of his damn breeches, but he was grateful for it anyway. Once he was naked, once this damn cloud cleared from his head—and the blasted cloth from his cock—ah, that would be delightful.

Clever girl, she got another button free.

Zeus, how he’d missed her. He’d done this thing countless times—well, not countless, perhaps, but many times. Been in many different bedchambers over the long, lonely years—London was full of women willing to entertain a lonely lord—but it had never been like this. There had never been delight in it. Release, yes, but no delight and no real satisfaction. It had all been just bodies.

Well, that had been all he’d been looking for. Just physical release, not lo—not anything else.

But with Nell…with Nell it had never been just bodies. It had been hearts and souls, too. Not that he’d understood all that then.

Ah! Lovely Nell had finally got his fall open. She pushed his breeches down to his thighs. Cool air and her lovely, smooth hands touched him.

He shuddered with desire and delight. This was splendid. Beyond splendid. She cupped his cock and stroked it lightly as if it were a…lapdog.

Well, he certainly wished to lay it in her lap.

They’d married so young, been married such a short time. Not even a year before she’d conceived. They’d loved with such intensity, there’d been no need for skill or subtlety.

Ah—no need tonight either, at least for him. Her fingers traced his length and he’d swear he grew another inch. He hoped she felt the lust as strongly as he because skill and subtlety were beyond him at the moment.

Oh, Nell’s clever fingers had moved to explore his bal-locks. He bit his lip. Zeus, he’d never felt anything so wonderful.

He reached up and grabbed the bed curtain rail. She was rubbing her cheek against him now. Bliss. Bloody bliss.

Would she use her lips next? They had not played that game when they were married; he had learned it from his first lover, the Countess of Wexmore. She’d been lush, alluring, sinful—and very experienced. Well, she’d been ten years older than he and married to a very rich and very old man. She’d sampled most of the male members of the ton—pun intended. He’d learned many interesting bed tricks in her boudoir.

He frowned. Had Nell learned this trick from Pennington or one of the other men she’d dallied with?

Ah. He closed his eyes, biting his lip again. She was kissing him now. And now…yes…the tentative, wet sweep of her tongue…

“Do you like that?”

Did he
like
it? Couldn’t she see he was just about bursting with enthusiasm? “Aye. It’s wonderful.” He reached to touch her hair. “Did Pennington teach you it?”

“
What
?”

That had obviously been an extremely stupid thing to say.
Extremely
stupid. He didn’t need to hear the fury in Nell’s voice—he felt it in her grasp. Her fingers tightened around the sensitive bit of flesh she was holding. Thankfully, she did not have the world’s strongest grip, but it was strong enough. He gasped, pain surging up his body to lodge in his muddled brain.

At least she hadn’t had him in her mouth. If she’d bitten down…

Perhaps she still would bite. She looked angry enough. He stepped back out of range. Unfortunately, his breeches were still at half mast. Fortunately he didn’t hit anything
too
hard on his way down to the floor.

Unfortunately, the change in altitude didn’t completely clear his drunken brain. “So you didn’t do that with Pennington?”

A pillow hit him squarely in the face.

How could Ian have said such a thing? How could he have
thought
such a thing?
He
might have taken mistresses by the cartload, but
she
had kept her marriage vows.

Nell glared down at the man sprawled on the bedchamber floor. He was snoring, the coxcomb, had been snoring all night. She’d barely got a moment’s sleep.

She’d taken pity on him during one of her many waking periods—why, she couldn’t say—and had kicked one of her blankets down to him. Perhaps she’d hoped he’d sleep more soundly and stop his racket. He hadn’t snored like this when he was younger—of course, he hadn’t got so drunk when he was younger. And he’d used to sleep on his stomach. The floor did not make a very soft bed; perhaps that’s why he was sprawled on his back.

The blanket had slipped to his waist, revealing his muscled arms and broad, naked chest. It was no wonder women lined up to climb into his bed. The man was a classical statue, a god come to life. Every inch of him—
every
inch—was impressive.

And she should not have been touching those inches last night. What had come over her? She’d never been that bold before.

“Snorkz.”

Good heavens, he wasn’t going to wake up now, was he? He couldn’t find her staring at him like this…. No, he was just turning over—

Oh, my.

The blanket slipped off. Sometime during the night, Ian had divested himself of his breeches. His lovely muscled arse was displayed for her inspection, and if she peered over his hip, she could almost see—

She was not doing any peering. No, indeed.

She scrambled out of bed—on the side opposite from the sleeping devil—and splashed water on her face. The cool liquid felt very good on her heated skin. She took care of a few private tasks and then pulled on an old frock and cloak to slip outside for a brisk walk. She was used to exercise at Pentforth, and she most definitely needed to put some space between her and Lord Kilgorn.

She glanced at him—carefully keeping her eyes on his face…well, after a very small peek at—ahem. She glanced at his
face,
her hand on the doorknob. He looked so young, so innocent. Ha! He should be made to wear a placard proclaiming “womanizer.” Well, and “drunkard.” And “seducer.”

That was redundant. He’d spent time in London, hadn’t he? And been corrupted there. All the British ton were rakes and ravishers and harlots and whores. Mutton dressed as lamb, every last one of them.

She slipped out the door—and almost collided with Miss Smyth.

“Good morning, Lady Kilgorn.” Miss Smyth gave her a sly look. “I trust you slept well?”

Slept well? Why did her face bloom with sudden heat? She must look so guilty—but she was innocent. Completely innocent.

Well, perhaps not
completely
innocent. There had been those few brazen moments when she had actually touched Ian’s…

Miss Smyth was smirking at her!

This would never do. She closed the door firmly behind her and straightened her spine. “Actually, Miss Smyth, I did not sleep well at all. It is most awkward having to share such a confined space with Lord Kilgorn. Have you made any progress in locating an empty room for one of us?”

Miss Smyth considered the bedroom door. “I am so sorry. It really is very difficult.” She shrugged. “Awkward, don’t you know.”

“No, I don’t know.”

Miss Smyth frowned. “You’re certain you didn’t have a, er, pleasant night?” Was the woman waggling her eyebrows? What in the world was she implying?

Nothing, of course. “I am completely certain. In fact I slept hardly one wink.” Did Miss Smyth’s expression brighten? “I tossed and turned all night.”

“That must have kept Lord Kilgorn awake.”

There was no point in hiding the facts. Perhaps if the woman was aware of the extent of the problem, she would be more diligent in finding a solution.

“I couldn’t say. Lord Kilgorn was a gentleman”—perhaps not the
entire
truth—“and slept on the floor.”

“The floor!” Miss Smyth looked quite shocked and rather, well, crestfallen. Good. Perhaps she would be jolted into action. “That will never do.”

“Exactly. So you see it is quite important that you locate a spare room for one of us. Perhaps another guest would not mind doubling up? Mr. Wilton, for example. Could he not share with his nephew, Lord Dawson?”