Secrets to Seducing a Scot (15 page)

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Authors: Michelle Marcos

BOOK: Secrets to Seducing a Scot
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Instead she felt his fingers begin a slow back-and-forth motion. She expelled her breath, unaware she had been holding it. Had he even noticed she was no longer pure? It didn’t matter, she realized. Whether she had given herself to another man or just to Malcolm right now, she was no longer an innocent.
As the pleasurable sensation grew, she allowed herself the delicious oblivion of putting her shame out of her mind. Languorously, she rested her head back against his shoulder, allowing him greater ease in pleasuring her. The delirium grew as the sensation intensified. She rocked her body against the organ of his hand, her bottom bouncing against his thighs. His own arousal had grown—she could feel it—and it also cried for release. But right now, he wanted her pleasure, and she was prepared to give it to him.
His fingertip made a tight circle against one side of her nub, heating it to beyond tolerance. The pain-pleasure increased, and she grasped his hand, partly to still, partly to guide. But as he cocooned her from behind, he seemed to know precisely what would bring her to release. His hand kneaded her breast harder through her bodice, and she felt enveloped in a sheath of eroticism. His lips nibbled on the spot just beneath her earlobe, sending her spiraling toward a weakening surrender. The place between her legs that was now joined to his hand became hotter, tighter, more insistent—until her pleasure exploded in a blinding burst.
She pulsated onto him for several moments, her hands squeezing his forearms involuntarily. She emerged from the orgasm to find him kissing her tenderly on her cheek.
Contentment flooded her, and she turned in his arms.
She snaked her arms around his neck and gave him a kiss of pure delight. He breathed in the kiss, his chest swelling to enormity.
She’d give him anything at that moment, so grateful was she. His acceptance, his selflessness, his gentleness, his desire for her … she felt beholden almost, and wanted to give him the same experience.
But Malcolm broke off the kiss. He stiffened and pulled away.
Worry quaked within her. Had she displeased him? Repulsed him? Was she about to lose this man’s respect and regard?
Please, dear God, not again.
His gaze focused on a spot beyond her, his ears perking. His eyes bristled with danger.
“Malcolm?”
He looked down at her and put a finger on her mouth, warning her to be quiet.
He reached over and pulled his pistol from the holster. She had no idea what had alerted him, nor even what threat he perceived. Night had stolen upon them, and she couldn’t see a thing under the moonless sky. But whatever it was, in a flash Malcolm had transformed from a lover into a warrior. He shoved her behind him, his weapon leading ahead of them.
His breath made no sound as he crept along the wall like a predator. Terrified, she clutched the back of his shirt, the invisible fear making her own breath falter. Though her heartbeat hammered in her chest, she tried to be as quiet as he was as he advanced toward the end of the wall.
Then she heard it. A faint rustling. Then earth-muffled footsteps, moving in quickly. The sounds seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. In panic, Serena scanned around her, every shadow a potential assassin. Her every instinct was to run from the danger. Yet
Malcolm was advancing toward it. She swallowed her horror and followed him.
The footsteps—a man’s—drew closer and closer. Malcolm stopped before the end of the wall and stretched out his weapon, waiting. A shape walked by, and Malcolm cocked his pistol.
Just as the barrel of Malcolm’s pistol touched the back of the man’s head, the unknown assailant froze in his tracks.
“Ye can either kneel down, or be shot down. Which is it to be?”
Instinctively, the man raised his arms. “Slayter, it’s me, Marsh.”
Serena unclenched and ran toward him. “Father!” Malcolm exhaled and uncocked his weapon. “Ambassador. I thought ye were an enemy.”
Earlington embraced his daughter. “You were so long in returning from your walk, I came looking for you. I thought something had happened to you both.”
“I’m so sorry, Father. It was my fault. I wanted a long walk to clear my head. I just … lost count of the hour.”
“I’m just happy you’re all right. My mind began to imagine the worst.”
“Quite understandable, sir,” Malcolm said, relief straining his voice. “In future, I will give ye a report on Serena’s planned comings and goings.”
Serena glanced at Malcolm. She couldn’t help but chuckle at his unintentional double entendre.
“What’s so funny, poppet?” asked her father.
“Nothing, Father. I’m just happy you weren’t hurt.”
Earlington chuckled weakly. “I wasn’t. But with Mr. Slayter around, I pity the man who comes at you from behind.”
Her nervous laughter intensified. She reached for Malcolm’s hand. “I pity him, too.”
Embarrassed, he squeezed her hand. “Serena,” muttered Malcolm, a warning clear in his tone. “We should be getting indoors. Now.”
“Certainly, Malcolm,” she replied, unable to stop giggling. “Whatever you say. I know I’m in good hands with you.”
He narrowed his eyes on her as she walked past him, arm in arm with her father back toward the house.
The morning room glowed with the light of a rare sunny day. The cerulean wallpaper reflected the color of the cloudless sky, and sunbeams fell upon the landscape paintings hanging on the walls.
Zoe sat on a settee in her pretty pink frock. Promenading across the squares of light cast upon the rug from the windows was her French master, Monsieur Leveque.
Or as Zoe liked to call him when she fantasized about their wedding,
Luc.
Monsieur Leveque—Luc—was reading a passage from Molière’s
L’École des Femmes,
a comic play that clearly brought him a great deal of pleasure. He laughed as he conveyed the madcap machinations of Arnolphe, a man in his forties, in trying to marry a girl of seventeen because he desired, above all, a virtuous wife. Luc acted out each part, and Zoe was having a great deal of fun watching him.
He was, in fact, a good actor, and his fresh masculine beauty would be welcome on any stage. He wore his hair in the style of the day, his mahogany curls feathering forward around his face. His tan tailcoat hugged his slender frame, and his white cravat was modestly arranged under his cleft chin. His eyes were the same emerald green as Mr. Slayter’s, though not
nearly as fierce. In fact, they were gentle, playful eyes, and when they looked at her, her heart skipped a beat.
Luc had the pale, smooth skin common to French people, with generous lips and an aquiline nose. He looked younger than his twenty-three years, but it didn’t matter to Zoe how old he was. She wanted to marry him.
It was a blessing that her governess, Miss Tracey Archibald, did not speak French. Even though she was always present when Luc gave her lessons, she could not understand a word they said. It allowed Zoe and Luc to have the most delightful conversations. Luc spoke to her not as if she were a child, but as a woman, and she was immensely grateful to him for it. He told her all about his fruitless search for a wife—in French, of course—and Zoe dreamed of becoming that woman for him. She even practiced writing her married name … Zoe Leveque. She signed it with such a lovely flourish, she hoped it would one day become her own.
It didn’t matter that he had made no overtures … yet. She understood that he was trying to establish himself as a dramatist. He loved the theater, and—being equally proficient in English and in French—he dreamed of seeing one of his plays produced in either language. He spoke often of his literary models, William Shakespeare and Pierre Beaumarchais, and he dreamed of being as famous as they.
Zoe was counting down the days until his birthday. She had been feverishly embroidering a sweetheart pillow, and she couldn’t wait to give it to him. It was fate that their birthdays fell in the same month. He would turn twenty-four on the first of September, and two weeks later she would turn fifteen. Past the age of consent.
She clapped as he came to the end of the first act.
“Bravo,
Monsieur Leveque.
Très génial.”
“Merci bien,”
he replied, effecting a curt bow and smiling sheepishly at her.
“Avez-vous tout compris?”
“Parfaitement. Vous avez donné une exécution magnifique.”
There it was again, that fresh, honest smile that made her feel as if she were the only one in the world he would share it with.
Please, Luc, just one kiss! I will be yours forever!
His lovely eyes danced across her face, with those long lashes that were too beautiful to belong to a grown man. Bashfully, she smiled, her breathing suspended in expectation of a look, a whisper, a peck—anything that would tell her that he loved her as much as she him.
Suddenly, a rap at the front door echoed across the entrance hall, turning Luc’s head.
Zut!
Zoe grumbled to herself. A pox on whoever it was for breaking this spell!
“Allow me,” he said to Miss Archibald, who sat nearest the door. Luc rose and went to answer it.
Zoe pouted until Luc escorted the visitor to the morning room.
“Monsieur … eu … Weston,” Luc began, his French accent lifting her spirits, “may I prezent La-dee Zoe, and her governess, Miss Arsh-ee-ball. Make yourself comfortab’. I will return with Monsieur Slayter.”
Zoe curtsied before the guest. Mr. Weston was a handsome man, with a bright sparkle in his brown eyes. His sandy hair was lovely, and his finely tailored navy-colored coat exuded a fragrance of sandalwood.
“Good morning, ladies. Please forgive my unexpected visit.”
“Mr. Weston,” said Zoe, “won’t you sit down?”
“Thank you, no. I’ve come all the way from London, and after four days in that wretched carriage, I’m quite relieved to be able to stretch my legs.”
“We have some guests with us from London. Ambassador Marsh and his daughter, Serena. Do you know them?”
Mr. Weston smiled. “I have the honor of knowing them both. I know Miss Marsh quite well, in fact. I was hoping to be able to see her. Is she in?”
“That depends,” Malcolm’s voice rumbled from the doorway. “May I ask the nature of yer business?”
Mr. Weston turned to face him and extended his hand. “Yes. I’m her publisher, Archer Weston. I’ve had a letter from her. I hope I didn’t arrive at an inopportune time.”
“Archer?” Serena’s voice carried from down the hall. In a moment she shouldered past Malcolm. “Oh, Archer, I’m so glad to see you!” Serena wrapped Archer in a firm embrace, and only Zoe seemed to notice the thunderous look that stormed over Malcolm’s face. “What brings you here?”
Archer smiled and pulled a lettersheet from his coat pocket. “Your
crie de cœur
. You sounded quite despondent. I came as soon as I could, firmly resolved to cheer you up. Here … I’ve brought you a little gift.” Archer handed her a parcel wrapped in brown paper.
Serena put a hand on his face. “What a dear man you are! Oh, I missed you so! I can’t tell you how much it’s gladdened my heart to see you. Why didn’t you tell me you were coming so I could have it to hope for? Archer, have you met Lady Zoe? This is her governess, Miss Archibald. And this is Malcolm Slayter—” Serena was startled by the look on Malcolm’s face. Though tightly leashed, his anger was palpable. “—my … protector.”
It hit her full force. To call him her protector now presumed a great deal. At that moment, it seemed as if it was she who needed protection from him. Her expressions of affection toward Archer had earned her a lightning bolt of jealousy from Malcolm.
“Protector, you say?” remarked Archer. “Has it come to that?”
Malcolm looked him up and down. “I’m afraid so. And before I can allow ye to converse with Miss Marsh, I must ask ye to submit to a private interview. If ye please, sir?”
He waved a stiff hand toward the library. For a moment Serena was afraid for Archer’s welfare.
“If you wish it.” Archer took some hesitant steps ahead of Malcolm, who closed the door behind them.
Serena mouthed a silent prayer. Foolish, foolish girl! In light of her and Malcolm’s growing fondness, she had been too effusive with Archer. She had to tread more carefully.
“Zoe, would you mind continuing your French lessons in your father’s study? I’d be very grateful.”
“Who is that man, Serena? Is Mr. Weston your suitor?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“But I thought you said that you and Mr. Slayter were—”
Serena interrupted her. “If you leave right now, I promise to tell you everything.”
Zoe smiled. “He must be quite special to perturb you so. You look like the cat that swallowed the canary.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m just happy to see an old friend.”
“Papa used to tell me that a guilty conscience needs no accuser. And you, Serena, are standing amid a cloud of yellow feathers.”
Serena pursed her lips and whispered a warning. “Go on, you insolent brat, or I’ll tell Monsieur Leveque that you were the one who stole his gloves. I wonder what he would think of you if he knew you slept with them under your pillow.”
“Very well, I’m going. But I want to hear more. Mr. Slayter looked as if he was fit to kill someone.”
“Leave it to me. I’ll get him to calm down.”
Zoe turned around in the doorway. “When you do, you must let the vicar know. It’ll be the first time we’ve had a miracle at Copperleaf.”
A miracle was indeed what she needed. Serena sat in the airy room, perspiration sheeting her brow. She’d had no intention of giving away her feelings for Archer, especially not in front of Malcolm. Malcolm had been kind to her, and their recent tryst was unforgettable. But she had been so long away from home, and Archer represented many aspects of the life she left in London. Perhaps she had been just a trifle too demonstrative. She waited for the door to the library to open, fidgeting as if she had a corset full of toast crumbs.
Finally, Archer emerged tugging on his coat. Annoyance marred his features.
“I say, what goes on here? I’ve just ridden six hundred miles to see you, and I’m greeted by a behemoth of a servant who paws at me searching for weapons that I don’t carry.”
“I’m sorry, Archer,” she said, with snap of her eyes to Malcolm. “Precautions are being taken.”
“Why, for heaven’s sake?”
“It’s a tangled story. I’ll ring for tea.”
Archer adjusted his cravat. “Well, does he have to be here? With us?”
Serena glanced at Malcolm. His carefully tethered anger was reaching its limit. She spoke in gentle tones.
“Malcolm, would you kindly wait outside?”
“I’m afraid I canna. Yer father is not here at the moment.”
“Archer is an old friend from London. I’d like to reacquaint myself with him and hear of home. It’s perfectly all right.”
“I can be assured of it if I remain here with ye.”
“It may be a tick or two south of proper, but there’s no need of you to serve as abigail. Archer is a perfect gentleman.”
His gaze slithered to her face. “My presence is compelled by duty. And I feel an obligation to remind ye that a lady
such as yerself
should not be permitted to be alone with a man.” His tone reeked of a hidden meaning, and she knew exactly what he was getting at.
Fury rose to her cheeks. “
Mister
Slayter,” she began in her most imperious tone, “I do not appreciate the insult to the propriety of either myself or Mr. Weston. Your presence is
not
required in this salon. You will wait outside until you are summoned.”
Her dismissive attitude seemed to have stung both his pride and his heart.
“For once,
Miss
Marsh, I am only too happy to comply.” He turned on his heel and slammed the door behind him.
 
That infernal woman!
Blood thundered in his ears as he stormed off to the solitude of the stables. The stable yard was silent except for the birds chirruping in the pear trees, but if his anger were a sound, it would shake the very hills.
Inside the stable, the pungent smell of animal assaulted his nose. He walked his horse, Old Man, out of the stall and tethered him in the stable yard.
By God, he had half a mind to quit this assignment, and let the devil take his own daughter back. He grabbed a boar’s-hair brush and dragged it through Old Man’s long grizzled mane.
He didn’t understand that exasperating creature Serena. They spent half the time in each other’s arms, and
the other half at each other’s throats. Just when he thought she had come to really appreciate his devotion to her, she turned and embraced that … that … English fop!
The horse craned his neck in Malcolm’s direction and neighed in protest.
Malcolm stilled his brush. “Sorry, Old Man. Dinna mean to take it out on ye.”
A piece of straw crunched behind him. Instinctively, he turned in the direction of the sound, his hand ready to access any of the four weapons that he had at his disposal.
“Who did ye mean to take it oot on?”
It was Gabby Walker, the housekeeper.
Malcolm untensed. “Just bletherin’ to my horse.”
“Shouldna wonder why. He seems to have more sense than ye do.”
Malcolm’s eyebrows met as he looked down at the copper-headed woman. “Eh?”
Gabby advanced to the horse and caressed its neck. “The beastie forgives yer rough treatment because he knows ye mean him no harm. Ye would be wise to do as much with Miss Marsh.”
“How did ye—” Zoe must have told Gabby about Archer Weston’s arrival; little wonder, that. But how did she know—
Gabby put a hand on his arm. “Any woman who’s had a sweetheart can see the coddlin’ ye have for her. Biting and scratching is Scots folk’s wooing.”
Malcolm sighed in frustration as he leaned on Old Man. “I must’ve been mad to take up with a Sassenach wench.”
Gabby shrugged as she caressed the horse’s ears. “Thoroughbreds may be better than quarterhorses, but what’s the difference if ye’re going to ride them the same?”

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