Flirting with Ruin (4 page)

‘Two adults, in the open air. Why, nothing at all!’ Rosalind declared, laughingly surrendering to temptation and the shocking hope that he would prove her utterly wrong. ‘Wait for me while I fetch my hat.’

* * *

‘Tell me your history, Lady Rosalind. Tell me what brings you to Castonbury. Tell me your hopes and your dreams and your nightmares. But before you tell me anything,’ Fraser said, grabbing hold of her wrist and pulling her up into the gig beside him, ‘tell me that you are not married.’

‘Of course I am not.’ She met his serious look with one of her own. ‘I am many other things, but I am not unfaithful. Are you?’

Fraser shook his head. ‘Many other things, but not unfaithful,’ he said with just the right note of mockery in his voice. ‘I have never been wed, unless you count the army as a wife.’

‘Do you?’

Fraser picked up the reins and urged the horse into a trot. ‘It’s the only family I’ve ever known, that’s for sure. I joined up as a drummer boy when I was twelve.’

‘What of your real family?’

‘I am the bastard son of a Highland laird and his laundrywoman. Or so they told me at the orphanage in Glasgow. No, don’t look at me like that, I have no need of your pity. It was a tough rearing, but if nothing else it was a right good grounding for soldiering. It taught me to fight, and it taught me that you have to fight to survive.’

‘It’s a lesson you obviously learned very well, since you’ve survived nigh on twenty years of war.’

‘Aye, though there have been times when I’ve wondered if I would.’

Rosalind touched the scar on his cheek. ‘Is it painful?’

‘To look at, certainly.’

His tone was sarcastic, but Rosalind was not fooled. ‘When I saw you today, I thought only that it looked as if it was still healing. I thought it must have been very deep to have taken so long to heal since Waterloo. What I did
not
think was that it was in any way repellent. On the contrary. As you must be perfectly well aware, Major Lennox, if I did not find myself quite bafflingly attracted to you, I would not be seated by your side in this rather smelly gig, which I fear must have been used at some point in the recent past to transport livestock, allowing you to drive me out into the country without an escort. Do you, incidentally,’ she asked, looking around her at the country lane upon which they were now travelling, ‘have any idea where we are headed?’

‘Do you care?’

‘Do you always answer a question with a question?’

‘Would you prefer, Lady Rosalind,’ Fraser asked, pulling the gig to a halt, ‘if I answered you instead with a kiss?’

His smile did strange things to her insides. The way he was looking at her too, with intent, made her stomach churn, made perspiration break out on the backs of her knees, of all ridiculous places! ‘Fraser, you cannot mean…’

‘Rosalind.’ He pulled her towards him. ‘I can.’

Chapter Four

And he did. And the moment his lips touched hers, she was extremely glad that he had. He tasted the same. The feel of lip on lip, tongue touching tongue, was exactly the same as last night. Desire and wanting positively surged through her in a way that she would have scorned, had anyone else suggested that such a thing could happen. She opened her mouth, she let out a soft little moan, she wrapped her arms around his neck to pull him closer, and she kissed him back with what could only be described as fervour.

She kissed him, and he kissed her. He nipped at her lower lip. She nibbled on the little dent in his top lip. He kissed her hard, mouth-crushingly hard, and then he kissed her with just the lightest touch of lip on lip, and the most tantalising lick of tongue, and she teased him back, as if they were fencing. They found new ways to kiss, leaning this way, leaning that, open more, closed more, sucking, licking, succouring, demanding, until they were both panting heavily, until they were both left staring dazedly at each other, clothing in disarray, hair in disarray, emotions in disarray.

‘I believe you,’ Fraser said finally, with one of his stomach-clenching smiles.

‘What?’ Rosalind gasped. She feared she must look like a fish out of water, but that is how she felt. ‘Believe what?’

‘That you don’t find my scar repellent.’

‘Oh. Well, I am glad to hear that. Is it your only scar?’

‘Lord, no, I have several more. Why?’

‘Are you perhaps a little worried that I mind find some of them repellent?’ Rosalind said, matching his smile with one of her own, which she hoped would also have the same effect.

‘Would you — are you offering to reassure me, Lady Rosalind?’

She could see, with immense satisfaction, from the way his pupils dilated, feel from the way his hand tightened around her waist, that she had been successful. ‘These injuries you suffered, they were all in the course of duty, were they not?’ Rosalind murmured, nibbling on his ear. ‘I would be failing in my duty as a patriot if I did not show you my appreciation of your suffering.’

‘And it would be quite wrong of me, I suppose, to deny you?’

She laughed. ‘Oh, I would not wish to force myself upon you, Major. If you feel that it would be too much to bear…’

Fraser swore, put her from him and picked up the reins. ‘The only thing I could not bear,’ he said, urging the horse, which had been quietly cropping at the verge, into as near a gallop as the staid beast could manage—which was not very near, truth be told—’would be if you changed your mind. You have until I find us a suitable place to continue this conversation in private to do so.’

Rosalind clutched at the side of the gig, for though the horse was not exactly cantering, the track was deeply rutted and full of holes, and the gig was making contact with almost every one. ‘Do you mean private, as in indoors?’ she asked after a while.

Fraser grinned. ‘No, I mean private as in right here.’ He pulled on the reins and brought them to a halt by a small wood. Leaping down, he looped the reins over a tree stump, then held his hand out to Rosalind. ‘I spent most of last night regretting that we came to our senses. When I saw you there, in that great big house, I couldn’t believe my luck. If all this war-making has taught me anything, it’s that you don’t often get a second chance. I don’t know what it is about you, Lady Rosalind, but I haven’t ever wanted any woman the way I want you. I don’t know what that means or if it means anything at all, except I want you now. Right now. Here, in the open air, in the full light of day. I want you. I just want you. Just Rosalind.’

No pretty speech, no flowery stream of complements, no fancy declaration could have had anything like the impact of his words. Rosalind jumped down from the gig. ‘I felt the same when I saw you. I feel the same now. I thought the same too, almost exactly. Life is too short to let it go by. I want you every bit as much. Just Fraser,’ she said, taking his hand and leading him into the woods.

* * *

The track through the trees led them to the edge of a small body of water. Too small to be called a lake, it was in the shape of a figure of eight, the banks mossy, the water obviously shallow, judging by the thick reeds that covered most of it. Above them, the autumn colours formed a canopy of russet, gold and brindled yellow. Below, the leaves that had fallen were darker shades of copper and brown, already softened by the damp, peaty soil underfoot. A hush hung over the place, their steps were muted, the light filtered through the trees was dappled. The place had a magical quality about it.

‘Did you know about this?’ Rosalind whispered, looking about her in awe.

‘No idea.’

‘I think we must still be on Montague land. The Castonbury estate is extensive and we have not come so very far, but I have never been here before. What do you think that is?’ Rosalind nodded to the small wooden building that clung to the edge of the little lake.

‘Privacy,’ Fraser said, smiling. ‘It’s your last chance, Rosalind.’

‘Not
my
last,
our
second, and I think we have already both agreed not to let it go by.’

He laughed at that, just as she had intended, but his laughter had an edge to it that told her he was not immune to the nerves fluttering in her stomach. A swift kiss reassured her, but as he led the way to the wooden structure that was not much more than a hut, Rosalind’s anxiety threatened to get the better of her.

‘It’s not much,’ Fraser said, throwing open the door, ‘but it’s dry and it’s clean.’

It was a square space, lit by a skylight in the roof. A wooden chest revealed a thick rug, which Fraser threw onto the floor. There were several small stools, the type used by fishermen, stacked in a corner, along with a selection of angling rods. Was she really going through with this? Rosalind wondered. Because if she was not, now would be the time to tell him. Did he think her experienced? Did her lack of any real experience, save the vicarious kind, matter? The need to reclaim her life, fuelled by the infinite sadness of the young life lost forever from Castonbury, and flamed by desire for this man, looking quizzically down at her, had brought her here. But was she sure?

‘Is this really what you want?’

Rosalind could not help but smile. ‘Can you read minds?’

‘I know my own.’

‘Tell me.’

‘I want you, but only if it’s what you want too. It’s important that you feel the same.’

‘I do. About both things.’

‘But?’

She gave a little shrug, blushed a little, but forced herself to meet his eyes. ‘I’m not very experienced.’

‘Rosalind, do you care about my experience?’

‘I—I hadn’t thought about it.’

‘I want you. Just you. Don’t you understand?’

She nodded. She put her arms around his neck and pressed herself against him. ‘I do now,’ she said, and kissed him.

This time their kisses followed a more defined path. They sank down together onto their knees, still kissing, but their hands roamed more, anxious for contact, to learn shapes and contours, anxious to please. Rosalind’s hat went first. Then Fraser’s coat. Then her pelisse. She had always thought that the removal of clothes was an awkward thing, but this was a delightful game. The buttons of a waistcoat. The buttons of her morning gown. A necktie. The laces of her corset. Why was it that an exposed throat against a white lawn shirt could be so alluring. She breathed in the scent of him as she kissed him there and licked over his pulse. Male skin, masculine skin, manly skin. So different. So foolish, her thoughts, but she didn’t care.

He returned her caresses, licking down the column of her throat and making her arch back in pleasure. The curve of her breasts now, exposed by the loosening of her gown. His kisses gave her goose bumps. She tugged his shirt free from his pantaloons. There was the groove of a scar on his back. His stomach muscles rippled under the flat of her palms. He pulled her gown down, over her arms to her waist and then yanked his shirt over his head. Pressing her tight against him, her breasts flattened against the hardness of his chest, he kissed her mouth savagely but not brutally, and she liked it. It was as if he had turned up her internal temperature with that kiss. The rough hairs of his chest felt scratchy on her breast, and she liked that too. She scraped her nails down his back. He eased her down onto hers, and pulled her gown off.

And all the time he murmured her name, told her how lovely she was, what she was doing to him, what she was making him feel. She was silent at first, afraid to speak lest she sound foolish, but gradually she joined in, telling him that she liked this, and that, and wanted more of that. He untied the ribbons at the neckline of her chemise, and pulled it down to reveal her breasts. For a breathless moment he stared down at her, his eyes dark, his cheeks flushed, his scar pale by comparison. Then he caught her nipple between his lips and sucked hard, making her cry out with pleasure.

He worshipped her breasts, there was no other way to describe it, and she worshipped him for worshipping. There seemed to be no end to the pleasure he took in stroking, cupping, licking and suckling. She thought there could be no end to her pleasure either, but it was becoming unbearable. He had set up a path, from her nipples to her belly to her thighs, centring between them. Inside, deep inside her, she felt so tight and hot, so tense, so desperate for release, but she did not want her release to be alone.

Pushing him onto his back, taking him by surprise enough to do so, Rosalind straddled him. Her hair was coming down, long curls of it bright on his skin. There was a round, jagged indent in his shoulder. A bullet wound, old. She kissed it, feeling its contours with her tongue. Another scar on his belly, white with age, the shape of a sickle. She kissed that. Her breasts brushed against his chest. The rough hair felt delightful on her hard, aching nipples. She moved, teasing them both, nipples on skin, excited by the way his belly clenched in response, but much more excited by the hard, solid length of him she could feel between her legs, through her chemise and his pantaloons.

Determined to raise him to the same fever pitch as he had raised her, she kissed his nipples, sucked at them and licked. His hands clutched at her bottom, fingers sinking into the soft flesh of her thighs, pushing her hard up against his erection. She wriggled down his body, wrestling with the buttons of his falls as he kicked off his boots with some difficulty. Panting now, both of them, he helped her remove the last of his clothing. Still on top of him, she surveyed the result. Naked man beneath her. Sold. Muscled. Scarred. And potent.

She touched him carefully, the length of him, the girth of him, weighting and caressing. Imagining. Watching his face to see the effect of her touch. Relishing it. He cupped her breasts as she cupped the potent heat of him. She leaned towards him to kiss him, hot mouth, different now, their thrusting tongues a definitive prelude as he rolled her onto her back, rucking her chemise up, lifting her legs up so that he could kneel between them, kissing her mouth, then swiftly moving down, pushing apart the legs of her drawers, and kissing her sex.

Rosalind cried out. She knew of such kisses, had heard much discussion of such kisses in the low company she kept of late. Women lamented the lack. Men demanded reciprocity. But no one had ever described just how it felt. Hot. And incredibly intimate. And unbelievably arousing. She felt as if his mouth had found the centre of her, the tight, curled, pulsing centre of her, and his kiss, his delightfully circling tongue, was making that centre swell, take over her world, until she had no option but to surrender to it, to let it drag her up, over, and then explode, splinter and shatter.

But even as she did, she was crying out for him, for more of him, clutching frantically at his shoulders, her mouth seeking his, her hands feverish on his skin, tugging and clutching and stroking, her nails digging into him, tearing at him, in her desperate need for them to meld, join. In the unstoppable, driving urge to have him inside her.

He rolled onto his back and once again she was straddling him, but this time there were no layers of clothes to impede their joining. The tip of his shaft, then the length of him, slid into her as he supported her. She leaned forward to kiss him, and felt the frisson of friction as her movements made him move inside her. She needed no encouragement then to ride him, and he let her set the pace. Slipping and sliding, then pounding and pulsing. Holding him tight inside her, then letting him go. His thrusts, the slick, thick feel of his length picked up the echoes of her climax and sent her over the edge once more. She cried out wildly, leaning back, grinding down on him, then thrust hard, several more times, deliberately slow and hard, watching his face all the time, watching him unravelling, losing control underneath her, feeling him thicken inside her, feeling the first ripple of his own climax, just in time to roll from him as he came, his cries muffled by her mouth, her lips, kissing him hard, drinking in his pleasure, pouring forth her own.

* * *

They lay panting, damp, hot, on the musty blanket on the wooden floor of the hut, spent and sated. Rosalind gazed in wonder at Fraser, at the marks she had added to his body, at the slick of sweat, at his heaving chest, his still-tumescent manhood. She felt glorious. Full of life. Inflamed with life. She felt utterly and completely satisfied, though pretty certain that within a very short time she would be ready for more. She couldn’t help smiling. Catching Fraser’s gaze, she saw her joy and pleasure reflected on his face. He laughed, a deep, skin-bumping laugh, and pulled her to him. Her hair was a curtain over them. There was no need for her to ask if she had pleased him, any more than he needed to ask the same of her. Something wonderful had happened. They just knew.

But later they did talk, and she finally answered the questions he had asked what seemed like a lifetime ago when they had set out in the gig. She told him it all, right up to the frustration she felt with her life, the need for change, the desire to have a life, though she had no idea what she meant.

‘Any more than I do,’ Fraser said. He had pulled his coat over her back, but his hands were stroking her rhythmically beneath it, up from the swell of her derriere along the line of her spine and back down. The tails of his coat were tickling the backs of her knees. Her breasts were crushed against his chest. Their legs were entangled. She couldn’t tell, lying here, which parts were his and which hers. No, that was not wholly true. There were some parts that were unequivocally his. They were skin and flesh and blood and sweat mingled. Even the scent of them was different. A new scent, salty and musky. Sex.