Waking the Princess (29 page)

"Why, Miss Burn," he whispered against her lips, his fingers undoing more buttons, pulling gently at delicate, beribboned fabric, "my beautiful Miss Burn—no stays?"

"None," she said, on a little gasp. "You were right. I could not breathe well when climbing the hill—and it was so—so—"

"So hot," he finished for her, his lips moving over hers as he loosened her chemise. The flimsy fabric was slightly damp with rain and perspiration, redolent with the warm, floral fragrance that seemed so natural to her.

He lowered his head and took her nipple with his lips again, feeling it tighten while his hand encircled and teased her other breast. She cried out softly, a kittenish, needful cry as she arched across his lap. The subtle rubbing of her rounded bottom over his sensitive, hardened erection nearly drove him mad.

Capturing her around the rib cage with both hands, he rolled his thumbs over her nipples while he sought her mouth again with his own. When she sucked delicately and quite deliberately on the tip of his tongue, he knew that she wanted and needed what he had to have, knew she felt all the desperate intensity he himself felt. The enticing thought that she might allow it to happen made him as hard as rock, as hot as fire.

He shifted, holding her, kissing her, driving her mad, for she bucked gently in his embrace. He pushed at her skirts and slipped his hand up her leg, found her knee, poised there.

She did not stop him; indeed, she pressed against him with a little whimper, so that he lowered his head again to her breast and kissed her there, slipped his tongue into the hot crevice between her deliciously full breasts. He breathed in her fragrance, closed his eyes, trembled for control.

Though she wore long cotton knickers over her stockings and garters, he knew from previous experience with ladies and their undergarments that the long garment might open quite easily, and he let his hand slide slowly over the soft fabric that covered her lean leg. Amid the folds, he found the opening he sought, a slitted gap in the cloth, and felt the warm female nest hidden there. He traced his fingertip delicately over the tender crevice, taking his time, giving her every chance to protest.

She cried out, gasped, and took his head between her hands, drawing him upward to meet her mouth. But she did not kiss him, only hovered, lips to his, as if waiting.

He waited, too, ready to withdraw his hand. She made no sound, did not move, but her breaths came fast and her heart pounded through her back, where he supported her with one hand.

His own heart thundered, and somewhere outside—far beyond, in the world he had forgotten even existed—he heard the crack of lightning, and the increased sheeting of the rain on the tarpaulin overhead.

"Someone might—" she whispered.

"No one will find us here," he murmured. "We are safely hidden.... No one... But if you do not—please, my darling lass, tell me now, before I—"

"Oh p-please," she murmured, her voice shaking, and she pushed gently downward, so that his finger, still resting motionless upon her intimate entrance, slipped inside, into exquisite heat, and she whimpered from what he knew was splendid, unmatchable joy.

He groaned, a low rumble, as he touched her there, where she was hot and honeyed and ardent, already swollen for him. She trembled as he moved his fingers slowly, easing her toward her release. He did not know how long he could endure it, but he was determined to give her this pleasure, though he strained against the searing demand in his own body, felt passion burn a path through him, but he held back, denied himself release.

He found her nipple again—she offered it, asked for the touch of his mouth there with the arch of her body—and he tasted there while he touched and teased her elsewhere with his fingertips. She turned in his arms as the thrill finally shuddered through her, and she whimpered a little in his ear.

Closing his eyes, he felt the delicious undulations of her body, heard her soft cries. He could scarcely bear it, nearly groaned aloud, nearly spilled himself out without fulfillment, just for the intense excitement of touching her, wrapping himself in her embrace.

Somewhere in the midst of heat and passion, even while she rocked with the final easing of the thrill that she had felt, she shifted in his arms and he felt her fingers eagerly upon him. He was surprised, for he had not expected or anticipated her help, her boldness. Her palm fitted to the hard bulge he could not conceal, and she worked the buttons and the drawstring of his trousers. Silently, swiftly, he opened his belt, nearly losing his control entirely when her fingers, slim and heaven soft, captured him, velvet over hot iron.

Her caresses turned up his passion like the wick of a lamp, bright, hot, flaming fast through him. Closing his eyes, he let the storm engulf him, and it slammed through him like thunder.

He came shuddering and vulnerable and needful in the generous fire of her touch, and he gasped out, drawing her tightly to him. For one moment, he let go of every lock he had ever had upon himself, just this once, just for her, only for her.

Chapter 19

"You haven't seen this bedroom since we finished it," Amy said to Aedan. She opened a door along the hallway. "Come look. The queen should stay in this one, I think."

Aedan stood back, allowing Amy to enter first and careful to leave the door open while they were alone in the room. "Ah, dark green," he commented, looking at the newly painted walls. "Stylish—and economical," he added wryly.

The room had been used by his mother when he had been a child, and the gleaming maple furnishings had been hers as well. This had been her private bedroom, but Aedan remembered that when he had been a lad, the adjoining door separating his parents' bedrooms had always been open. Now it stood closed.

"The other bedroom will be used by the prince consort," Amy said, seeing his glance. "Because that was your father's, we left it just as it is."

He nodded approval, then looked at the bed with its coverlet of ivory damask and an overhead canopy in floral chintz. The same pattern draped the windows. "That flowery stuff seems to be your signature mark, Cousin," he commented. "If there is chintz on the windows, Miss Stewart has been here." He gave her a quick, amused smile, and she laughed, clearly pleased.

Aedan walked around the room, noting the silver brushes and the mirror on the dresser, the bowls of fresh flowers, the high polish on the furniture, the little framed paintings on the walls and the silken cushions on the chairs, all the lovely touches that made the room both cozy and beautiful.

"Ah, more Scotch carpet," he said, looking down. "We must have acres of it throughout the house by now."

"It mixes so nicely with the flowery stuff," Amy said, with a little twinkle in her blue eyes. "And the term is Scottish, if you please, Aedan. Your father always insisted that 'Scotch' was a vulgar Anglicization."

"And so it is. Even we Scots are guilty of it at times. What is this?" Aedan walked toward the marble fireplace. "John Blackburn's painting of Robert the Bruce with Isabella is here now?"

"For the time being," Amy answered. "It looks so handsome in this room, and I thought the picture would please the queen."

"True, it's a good expression of the noble Scottish spirit, which the queen seems to admire."

"It's such an excellent work," Amy said. "So smoothly painted and highly detailed. I hope the dining-room mural proves half so nice as this one."

"From what I've seen of his preliminary drawings, I'm confident of the outcome," Aedan said. "I think even Aunt Lillias will be pleased."

"There is some Pre-Raphaelite influence in his work," Amy said, studying the painting for a moment. "Though Mr. Blackburn is a better draftsman than some of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, I think."

"I didn't know you knew much about their work."

"I do now," she said. "Mr. Blackburn has been educating me. We've been looking at the books of engravings that your father added to the library. John—er, Mr. Blackburn's technique is precise, yet he has a lovely decorative flair. He had classical training under his father, which shows in his disciplined drawings. He's a remarkable talent. And you've said yourself that anything by a Pre-Raphaelite artist, even of the outer Scottish circle, will prove a solid investment."

"And might even pay for more carpeting," Aedan remarked.

Amy wrinkled her nose playfully. "You could always sell some old something-or-other out of Dundrennan if you had to."

"Never, my dear cousin, and you know it well."

"I do understand. Auntie says you will have a tussle with Sir Edgar Neaves when he arrives."

"No doubt," Aedan agreed, and he left it at that.

"Aedan—that picture you keep in your study, painted by that other Blackburn," Amy began. "That's a beautiful thing, if rather shocking, as I remember—I haven't seen it since you moved it to your rooms a few years ago. It's far darker and more passionate in mood than John Blackburn would paint, I think. Christina posed for that one as well, did she not?"

"Aye, but that was several years ago. Her late husband, Stephen, painted it. He was a brilliant artist, though of a callous and troubled nature, from what I gather."

"How sad," Amy said. "Is that why she seems such a sober little thing? She keeps herself in somber colors and is usually quiet and bookish. I get the sense that she is hiding her true self, her true strengths. Perhaps it is her spectacles that lend that impression. I think Christina could be a dazzling beauty, if she would ever wake up to that fact."

"I agree. That's an odd way to put it, waking her up, but somehow... very apt."

"I suppose I was thinking of that painting. The girl is asleep in that one, like the fairy tale of Briar Rose, or the legend of the princess of Dundrennan." Amy smiled. "Christina is such a dear girl, with a good heart and a pleasing manner. I will be sorry to see her go when she finishes digging on that hill."

He gazed at the painting, which held Christina's precise likeness as the medieval woman with Robert the Bruce. "Aye," he said. "She has become... a favorite of all of us here, I think. But she's not always... sober and bookish."

"No, she's not," Amy said. "When she's with you, she fairly sparkles. I think you are much improved in her company, too."

He raised a brow. "I am?"

"Oh, yes, not nearly the grumphie you can be with me. Auntie Lill says Christina has put a polish to your tarnished old soul, and it does you good. You smile more than growl these days."

Aedan studied his blond, fair cousin thoughtfully. "I do?"

"Definitely. I think you do not know, do you?"

"Know what?"

"That you're... well, thunderstruck, Dougal says."

"Thunderstruck?" He made sure to glower a little. "Me?"

"Yes, and what are you going to do about it?" Amy asked.

"Do about what?"

"Do not be a daftie, Aedan. What are you going to do about your interest in Christina Blackburn?"

"What interest?"

"Aedan!" Amy pouted, then paused. "I have been wanting to speak with you about something, but I... hesitated to bring up the subject."

"What? Are you perhaps thinking of doing the library in flowery stuff? Or, God forbid, my own apartments?"

"I wouldn't touch your apartments," Amy said. "No, it's another matter. I thought... well, that someday we might..."

"I thought so, too," he said gently, "once upon a time."

"Aedan... I am truly fond of you, but I do not think I could ever marry you."

He stared at her. "You what?" He frowned as if he did not comprehend what she had said. A rushing began in his ears. "You do not... want to be my wife?"

Amy shook her head. "I am so sorry, dear Aedan. I know this means a great deal to you, and I do not mean to disappoint you, but... well, I think we are just not suited to each another."

"Not suited?" He felt not thunderstruck but dumbstruck. This revelation was an unexpected gift, he realized. He had never been keen on courting and marrying Amy, as fond as he was of her.

"You are a little dull, my dear, sweet Aedan," she said. "I suppose it is because you are so very practical and economical and so involved in your work. You do not mind dirt on your jacket or long days in the sun that brown your cheeks, and you never seem to quite know what color the drapes are in your own house."