Scandal's Bride (14 page)

They shifted; she felt his fingers slide up the back of her neck, splaying into her thick hair. He angled her head—his lips closed over hers.

Hungrily.

She was kissing him back, exchanging breath for breath, caress for fiery caress, before she had a chance to think. Heat rose, pooling within her, radiating from him. As her wits whirled and desire danced in the air, she didn't think she'd have much trouble carrying out her plan. Provided she could get him to the bed.

With an effort, she drew back from the kiss. He let her go; her head tipped back—and back—as he trailed fire down her throat. “The bed,” she gasped. “We have to get to the bed.”

“Later.”

Catriona's temper kicked in. She opened her mouth—and lost her breath on a gasp as his hands closed possessively about her breasts, protected only by thin lawn. His thumbs circled, then finger and thumb closed tightly. She bit her lip hard, denying her instinctive shriek.

His hands left her breasts and she breathed again. Only to feel long fingers, hard palms, tracing her body, investigating every curve, subtly caressing yet with a deeper purpose—as if he was learning her.

Licking lips suddenly dry, she managed to gasp: “Richard—the bed.”

His hands stopped; she sensed his attention—and held her breath. Would he wake? What had she said to focus him so?

Slow and sure, his hands resumed their meandering, imparting heat through her thin gown.

“That's the first time you've said my name.” He breathed the words against her jaw, then feathered a kiss across her already swollen lips. “Say it again.”

Catriona dragged in a breath too shallow to steady her head; she lifted a hand and brushed back the heavy lock of hair falling across his forehead. “Richard?”

He kissed his name from her lips, then drank deep while his hands continued to roam, tracing breasts, hips, the long muscles of her back, the backs of her thighs, the globes of her bottom. Slowly arousing her—and him. When next he lifted his head, she was quivering. “Richard—take me to your bed.” She had no difficulty investing the plea with believable feeling.

His reply was a wicked chuckle—a sound that played havoc with her overstretched nerves.

“Not yet. What's the hurry?” He tipped her chin up and nibbled his way down her throat. “We've all night—and time stands still in dreams, anyway.”

Not this one.
Catriona struggled to harness her wits. “Just think how much more confortable we'll be in your bed.”

“I'm perfectly comfortable here—and so are you. And we're about to be even more comfortable yet.”

Catriona righted her head, registering as she did that one large hand was presently cradling her bottom, fondling far too knowingly, leaving her flesh heated, fevered. She looked down—and saw long fingers, dark against the white of her nightgown, artfully slipping the tiny buttons free.

Her eyes flew wide; she sucked in a desperate breath—and lost it in a shuddering, achingly desperate sigh as his hand flicked back the open bodice and his fingers brushed the peak of her swollen breast.

His artful fingers returned, caressing, tracing, teasing, then possessing.

She let her lids fall, felt her bones melt, felt her will evaporate like mist before the sun. But . . . “
The bed,
” she whispered.

“Later,” he insisted. Cool air caressed her heated breasts as he pressed back her gown and bared them fully. One hand closed firmly, gently kneading. “This is
my
dream. I intend to enjoy it—and you—to the full.”

Catriona bit back a groan. Cracking open her lids, she studied his face, lit by the fire's glow. Saw the sleepy smile of lustful anticipation on his lips, felt the heat of desire in his gaze, fixed on her breast, on the throbbing, aching nipple his wicked fingers teased and taunted.

He sensed her gaze, and glanced at her—then smiled, oddly confiding, and returned his attention to her breast. “There are ladies in London who imagine they're cold.” His smile deepened—for an instant distinctly predatory. “Some like to believe their flesh is chilled, that their passion is locked in ice.” His knowing fingers played over her aching flesh—never forceful, always teasing. His lips twisted, wryly triumphant. “I've melted quite a few of them. There's a knack to it.”

As if to demonstrate, he shifted her in his arms, exposing her other breast, simultaneously letting her feel how intimate was his hold on her bottom.

“You, however, are going to be no trouble—you're like that mountain in whose shadow you were born.”

Dazed, Catriona blinked. “Merrick?”

“Hmm.” He turned his head and looked into her eyes. “Snow and ice on the peak . . .” Looking down, he lifted his hand from her bare breast and trailed his fingers down, over the curve of her stomach, into the hollow at the apex of her thighs. “But fires burn beneath.”

Catriona sucked in a breath as his fingers lightly traced the line between her thighs. She couldn't suppress the impulse to squirm, and felt his fingers firm about her bottom. He held her still and continued to play, tracing the long lines of her legs through her fine gown. His touch was tantalizing; she was breathing rapidly—her heart thudding in her throat—when he reached down and caught the gown's hem.

He lifted it slowly, then slid his hand beneath; the gown rose on the back of his hand as he traced, caressed, assessed her ankle, calf, knee, and thigh. He pushed the gown up over her hip, then, with complete and utter absorption, fell to caressing the expanse of thigh thus exposed. Beneath his fingers, a thousand fires sprang up, heating her, dewing her skin.

Caught in his play, as absorbed as he, Catriona knew he was right. She didn't need him to shift her again, so he could study the copper-bright curls at the junction of her thighs, didn't need to feel his fingers stroke them, then part them, then slide past, into her softness.

Didn't need him to look at her with unfocused eyes lit by blue flame and say: “You're just like that mountain—you're a volcano inside.” He looked down again. “A dormant one, perhaps.” Very gently, he stroked the soft flesh between her thighs, which had parted of their own accord. “I'm going to stir you to life. Until passion pours like lava through your veins. Until you're hot and aching and wet. Until you're so slick and needy, you spread your lovely thighs wide and let me enter you. Fill you. Until I bathe in your heat.”

Catriona closed her eyes and felt her body surrender—felt the slickness he drew forth. Felt his fingers slide and glide, over and between the throbbing folds. Then his lips brushed hers. On a gasp, she kissed him back, sliding her hands from where they'd lain passive against his chest, around and about, holding him to her.

The kiss reached deep, then he drew back and chuckled—a wickedly devilish sound. “You're not like those ladies in London at all. The most intriguing thing about you is that you
know
you've fire in your soul.”

Eyes closed, her body so heated she felt liquid, Catriona felt him open her, felt him press gently, then slowly, deliberately, slide one long finger into her.

She felt the invasion keenly, felt it in her soul.

Welcomed it in her heart.

He shifted within her, gently stroking; the sudden tension that gripped her eased. She softened about him, about his probing finger, relaxing against him, sinking into his embrace.

“You're not a woman of ice and snow.”

She heard his words, and felt them, a breath across her temple, a deep reverberation in his chest. She tightened her hold on him, spreading her hands across his back, hanging on for dear life as if he was a rock anchoring her against the waves of heat beating through her.

Waves he incited with every smooth slick stroke, every subtle twist of his finger, every probing caress.

“You're heat—pure heat. Elemental heat. The heat of the earth, the purest fire.”

He was right—she was burning now with a flame hotter than the blue of his eyes. She'd always known this was how it would be—that passion for her would be hot and heated, steamy and searing. How she'd known, she didn't know, but the knowledge had always been there. And it had been so hard to hold the fire in, to quench it, tame it, hide it through all the years she'd waited.

Waited for this.

She was long past asking him to stop and adjourn to the bed. That would necessitate him taking his hands from her, and she couldn't bear that. His hands were pure magic, wicked fingers made to tease her, to light her fires.

And there was a tidal wave of flame bearing down on her.

She cracked open her lids just enough to find his head—to drag his lips to hers. She kissed him deeply, urgently, wantonly. Let her thighs part farther, urged him to reach deeper.

Instead, he drew back. And chuckled wickedly again. “Oh, no. Not yet, sweet witch.” He withdrew his hand from between her thighs.

Breasts heaving, Catriona lay back in his arms and stared at him. “What do you mean?” she finally managed to gasp. “Not yet?”

He grinned. “This is my dream, remember. You have to wait until you're frantic.”

Lips parted, she stared at him. “I
am
frantic.”

The look he bent on her was patronizingly dismissive. “Not
nearly
frantic enough.”

With that, he lifted her and set her on her feet between his thighs. Her legs quaked; his hands steadied her. Her gown slithered down to cover her legs; the bodice gaped.

Catriona yanked the two halves together and ignored the teasing quirk of his brow.

Once she'd steadied, he rose—and immediately tottered;
she
had to steady
him
.

His frown was only fleeting; another chuckle banished it. “I must have had more of that whiskey than I'd thought.”

All but collapsing under his weight, Catriona, suddenly suspicious, looked up into his face. His eyes met hers, still dark as the night, his gaze still vague and unfocused; his lips were still set in that boyishly open smile.

He was still . . . dreaming.

Shifting her feet so she could better support his weight as he slumped, unrestrainedly heavy, against her, Catriona muttered a curse and struggled to ease him around the chair.

“The bed,” she stated.

“Oh, indeed,” he averred. “It's definitely time for the bed.”

His devilish chuckle ensued; she shut her ears against it. If she hadn't known she'd drugged him, she would have thought him drunk—he could barely set one foot before the other. Certainly not in a straight line.

“Keep looking at the bed,” she instructed as they lurched heavily toward the door. “Look—it's over there.” Exerting all her strength, she managed to turn him and get them back on course.

“Never had such trouble in my life,” he said, not sounding terribly concerned. “Usually know precisely where the bed is.” After two more heavy steps, he added: “Must be that whiskey. Hope I'm not too drunk to accommodate you.”

Gritting her teeth with the effort of holding him steady, Catriona didn't reassure him. And then wished she had.

“Never mind,” he murmured, and threw her a lecherous leer. “If I am too debilitated, I'll just tease you until the effect wears off.”

Catriona closed her eyes fleetingly and stifled a groan. What had she done? She'd willingly taken the principal role in the dreams of a rake. She must have been mad.

But it was too late to draw back. Far too late. Aside from anything else, no matter how frantic she had to get, she wanted to reach the end of the hot, steamy, heated road he'd started her upon.

She definitely wanted to be hot and needy, and to feel him enter her.

Three more lurching steps and they reached the side of the bed—the opposite side to the one they'd started out for. Catriona was simply relieved. “There!”

Swinging him around so his back was to the bed, she placed both palms against his chest and shoved. He obligingly toppled back across the bed—but took her with him.

Landing half-across him, Catriona couldn't manage even a squeak. She immediately wriggled, fighting free of his arms but not of his hands—they were everywhere. She tried to ignore them. “We have to get you undressed.” At least undressed enough.

Predictably, he chuckled. “Be my guest.” Flinging both arms wide, he lay back. And grinned.

Catriona narrowed her eyes at him and tugged his cravat free. She flung it over the end of the bed, then, kneeling beside him, grabbed the lapel of his coat. No matter how she tugged, she couldn't get it even close to his shoulder. Exasperated she sat back, and noticed that his chest was quaking, even though his expression remained guileless.

She glared at him. “If you don't help me undress you, I'll leave.”

Laughing softly, he rolled onto one shoulder, then sat up. “It's impossible to get a well-cut coat off me without my help.”

Catriona humphed. She watched as he shrugged the coat off and sent it to join his cravat. Impelled by she knew not what, she reached out and ran her hands over his chest, pressing aside his waistcoat to explore the wide expanse. Beneath her questing hands, muscles shifted, rippled, then set. He caught her wrists and yanked her to him, then bent his head and kissed her.

She sank into his embrace, felt the heat surround her, rise within her, lick tantalizingly up her spine as he gathered her closer. With a mind of their own, her fingers quickly undid the buttons of his shirt, then slid inside, spreading wide over warm tight skin, over ridged muscles, hard bands of hair-dusted flesh.

He broke from the kiss with a soft curse. From beneath her lashes, she saw him fight free of both waistcoat and shirt and fling them aside. She also saw one hand drop to his waistband, undoing the buttons there. Closing her eyes quickly, she reached for him, relieved when he captured her lips with his and kissed her witless.

He shifted, coming up on his knees and guiding her back, down onto the bed. She sank back obediently, eyes closed, silently willing him to be quick.