How to Seduce a Scot (19 page)

Once he watched Catherine walk up the stairs ahead of him, Alex went to take his own bath. Sadly, all three bathing rooms were occupied, so he stood outside the one that held his angel and listened to her splash.

He would go to the kitchen, wash himself off in the sink, then take an urn up to his dressing room and finish washing himself there. He did not need warmed water, for it was his soap that would get him clean. The water down south would never run as cold as the burn next to his father's castle, not if a new ice age came and froze the world.

Still, he lingered outside her bathing room, feeling like a cad and a bounder. He stayed and listened, thinking of her smooth skin with the water running off of it as she stood up in her bath. He left then. The pain in his loins was a good enough punishment for his thoughts. He would never touch her. Not until he had his ring on her finger.

Which, from the size of the pain he was in, had better be soon.

He did not sleep after washing up, of course, but listened to the sounds of the house finally settling down. He stared at the wooden canopy above his bed, at the crest carved into the walnut. He supposed some Northumberland duke had commissioned it during Elizabeth I's reign, to remind the guest in question whose house they slept in. He sighed and wondered how much longer he would have to wait before he could marry his girl, and go home.

And that was when she walked into his room, the firelight gleaming on the pure white of her borrowed dressing gown, and he could no longer think at all.

“Catherine, why are you wearing my sister's boots?”

It was the only thing that Alex could force himself to say. His tongue was cleaving to the roof of this mouth, and he thought for a moment that he might choke on it.

His angel looked down at her footwear, her borrowed wrapper and nightgown still tight about her. Her soft, clean hair was braided, and his blood-deprived mind thought that he could sense a touch of jasmine on the air, much like his mother's favorite soap. He focused on that scent, but instead of dampening his ardor as it surely should have done, his ardor transformed the scent into something altogether new, something that had nothing to do with any woman save this one standing before him.

He would have her, and he knew it. He would make love to her, then marry her and ask God for forgiveness afterward.

He sat up, careful so that the bedclothes would not fall too low and frighten her away. As it was, she looked up at him, her eyes as round as saucers, taking in the expanse of his bare chest, where it shone in the dark above the bedclothes. She seemed to want to pull her eyes away, as any decent young lady would, but she didn't do it. Alex watched the pulse jump in her throat like the sudden leap of a rabbit in the garden. He needed to say something soothing, so she wouldn't flee.

“Why don't you step into my sitting room, Catherine, and I will be out in a moment.”

His angel swallowed hard, her eyes still on his body. He almost took her under him then and there; it was clear she wanted him. But he was a gentleman, and she a lady, and they had more than one thing to settle still between them.

She, who was usually so graceful, stumbled a little over her unlaced boots as she slipped into his parlor. He did not take long, but drew on trousers and the shirt he had left by for the laundry woman, and walked out to her barefoot.

But his girl was brave as well as bold, for she sat where he had first set her in that room, on the settee close by his favorite chair. He sat beside her, so that she might get used to the scent of him, and accept his nearness before he touched her. She stiffened in fear at first, but when he did not reach for her, as he so often had in the past, she relaxed against the cushions behind her and sighed.

“You should be sleeping, Catherine. Why are you up and about, wandering the duchess's house in a wrapper and boots?”

“And a bag,” his angel said, gesturing to a leather satchel that sat oddly by his door. “I'm going away tomorrow, but I wanted to tell you good-bye first.”

He loved the singular turn of her mind, and the odd fancies she gave herself over to. He knew that he would love exploring those turns of mind, and talking her out of her fancies, for the rest of his life.

Now that he had her alone in his room, half-dressed, he would never let her go. He would be pleased to escort her to his Lordship of Love's house on the morrow, that she might set him down easy, and explain things to him. And if she did not wish to do so, Alex would visit the young lord himself, and put him at his ease. He would call on the Waterses's charm of Glenderrin fame. With any luck, the man wouldn't get too hotheaded and try to shoot him with a dueling pistol, or brain him with a walking stick.

Alex looked at the curves of his angel in the firelight. The man would be right to brain him and steal her for himself. Of course, as a man and a Scot, Alex would not allow it. Still, he had a bit of sympathy for the English bastard, now that he had won.

All this passed through his mind in an instant, and then he rose slowly from the settee so as not to frighten her, and knelt beside her feet on the plush carpet.

She looked alarmed in truth then, and he realized that the rutting bastard must have proposed to her that day in the woods, kneeling down much as he was now. He set such an unpleasant thought aside, and smiled up at her. At the sight of his smile, she relaxed a little, and he started talking.

“I am sorry to hear you're going,” he said. “But you're not leaving this instant, are you? Not in my sister's best dressing gown?”

“I—I suppose not.”

Catherine looked down at her attire as if seeing it for the first time. She drew the top of the robe together tighter under her chin, which served only to draw the fabric close against her magnificent breasts. She was not wearing stays, and he could see the outline of her softness pressed against the cotton and silk. He swallowed hard and managed to keep his voice even, though it had grown a bit raspy.

“Well, take your rest awhile here. Have a sip of cider with me.” His hand slid down her leg, from her knee to her toes, and she did not jump away, but shivered. He looked up at her and saw the heat in his eyes reflected in her own. He did not speed up his movements, though, or pull her down to him on the carpet as he so sorely wished to. He would make her first time a time of pure bliss, if he was lucky enough to get permission to touch her.

Had she been any other woman, alone in his room with him in the dark of night, he would have been sure of the outcome. But it was his angel sitting here beside him. He never knew with any certainty what she might do. She might fly into a fit of irritation suddenly if he moved too quick. She might flounce out, leaving both boots and bag behind.

As she took a deep breath, and her breasts rose and fell above him, he knew he could not bear it if she left him flat. Not this time.

For the moment, he settled for slipping his hand over her ankle. “Might I help you remove your boots, at least while you're here?” He slid his hand beneath her gown, up to her bare knee, and back down again. She wore no stockings, and all he could feel was the soft give of her firm calf beneath his fingertips. She shivered again, and it seemed to him that her mossy-green eyes grew darker.

She did not answer, and he suppressed a smile of triumph. So far, it seemed he was winning. But his girl could turn on a farthing, so he kept his face smooth of the passion he felt, though his own breath was coming hard and his heart pounded in his ears like the hooves of a runaway horse.

“Or should I lace them for you, as we have no maid present?”

His angel laughed then, even in the face of her own desire. “I suppose we can take them off, for a little while at least. They are uncomfortable without the laces done. And I have no stockings on.”

“So I see.” Alex tried to stop himself, but he found his hand moving up to her knee again beneath the cotton of her nightgown. His other hand traced the curve of her leg, stopping—with difficulty—at the knee. He wanted to trace higher, and feel the soft skin of her inner thighs beneath the calluses of his palms. As it was, her eyes had grown heavy-lidded with wanting, but she tensed beneath his hands, so he took them away again.

“Are your feet cold?” Alex said. “I have a thick pair of wool socks that might suit you.”

She laughed at that too, her body relaxing against the cushions behind her once more.

“It's May, Alex. I'm warm enough, I think.”

He drew her boots off, one at a time, caressing her instep as he did so. She was not ticklish it seemed, or at least not under his hands. He began to massage her feet and she sighed deeply.

“You're tired, Catherine. Perhaps you should leave your journeying for tomorrow.”

“No,” she said, her voice dreamy with pleasure as his large hands encompassed her small feet, soothing the tension and soreness out of them. “I have to go soon,” she said. Her voice trailed off, and she moaned a little.

The sound went straight to his loins, and he had to swallow the lust that rose like a beast inside him. “But not yet,” he managed to say.

“No,” she answered. “Not yet.”

He was sure she would sleep then, no matter what she said, but when he stopped rubbing her toes, her eyelids fluttered open and she smiled at him. “Thank you, Alex. I don't know why I feel so at ease with you. So safe. It is not right, but there it is. I feel as if I have known you for much longer than we have, as if we grew up together in the same house, under the same roof, since I was a girl.”

Alex did not move, for fear he might break the spell. He stared up at her, taking in the soft golden strands of her braid as it fell over one shoulder, crossing her breast. He took in the sight of her sweet face, relaxed in a sleepy smile. He would make it his life's work to make her feel this safe and happy, and to keep her that way for the rest of her days.

If she had been a more experienced woman, he would have raised her foot to his lips and kissed her instep, trailing his mouth and tongue up her leg slowly, to discover other pleasures. As it was, however, he simply kept his hand over both her feet where they rested on the fancy ducal carpet.

“You will always be safe with me,” he said. “Every day of your life, from this day forward.”

Catherine seemed to hear the vow within his words and she frowned a little, a shadow crossing her beautiful face. “Alex—” she began.

But he raised one hand and smiled at her. “Don't trouble yourself just now, Catherine Middlebrook. Take another sip of cider with me before you go, either to bed down the hall or on your journey to back of beyond.”

She relaxed at his odd compliance, and he almost laughed out loud. How on God's blessed earth she could think that he would ever let her go after she had clung to him in the midst of the fire, after she had come to his room in the dark of night, he could not say. Still, he would never know the all workings of this woman's mind, and he supposed he did not need to. He need only love her, and honor her, and all the rest would follow.

His hands rubbing her feet had made her almost fall asleep. But the pleasure was too great, so Catherine stayed awake.

When he vowed to keep her safe for the rest of her life, her heart almost burst in her chest. His touch was so gentle, so tender for such a large man. She should leave him. She should go to her room and change, then sneak out to find Lord Farleigh. She knew this, but she still had hours until morning, hours until full light. She wanted to keep these stolen hours, and spend them with him.

What would happen if she kissed him?

She was a bold, wanton woman. She had known this since she first touched him in her front hallway. And now she sat with him, alone in the middle of the night, in the middle of his sitting room, thinking about how it would feel to have his lips on hers again.

She drank the cider he brought her. He warmed it over the fire in front of her, and then handed it to her as if it were tribute, and she, the Queen of Sheba. She took a sip and the taste of sweet apple slid down her throat, warming her insides as much as his smile did.

“Cider is the one thing the English do right,” he said.

She smiled at him, feeling coquettish. “I must remind you again that I am an Englishwoman.”

“Do remind me.” He sat down beside her, his big body a wall of heat. He sat close this time, so that his thigh rested against the softness of her gown. The strength of him was like a bulwark against the world, and she wished again, and fervently, that she might be free to choose him, and take shelter with him for the rest of his life.

He knew nothing of her thoughts, nothing of what she owed to another. He ran his fingertip along her jaw, pushing one blonde curl gently back from her cheek. “You are from Devon, are you not?”

His lips brushed her temple, and she almost dropped the mug she held. He took it from her in one deft motion, setting it aside she knew not where, for her eyes were closed, that she might feel only the heat of his body and hear only the honey warmth of his voice.

“Yes,” she said, her voice sounding breathless in her own ears.

“I have it on good authority that Devon is practically Cornwall, and Cornwall is practically civilized.”

His lips were on hers then, moving with the soft insistence that she remembered from her dreams. The taste of him was sweet and salt together, the feel of his tongue on hers a temptation she could not turn from. He kissed her deeply, his mouth covering hers with a hunger that rose like the flames of a flash fire, threatening to consume her. She let her reason go, and gave herself up to the way his lips felt on hers. If she was to have this bliss only once, let it be tonight.

Just as that wicked thought filtered through her mind, he drew back, taking his warmth with him, leaving her unsatisfied.

She ached deep in her belly. Her throat was dry and all she could think about was the way he tasted—and that she wanted that taste on her tongue again.

“Catherine,” he said, his voice rasping against her skin, though he now sat a foot away, reclining backward on the cushions of his bedroom's settee. “My angel, we must stop. You must go to bed. We will speak in the morning.”

Catherine knew that she might live to be a very old woman. She might live out her life in Devon, or wherever Lord Farleigh's seat was, and never be touched by a man like this again. No. She would never be touched by this man again.

She knew now why her mother was so loud and despairing. Her mother despaired because she had once had a love like this, and lost it.

That would not be Catherine's fate. She would not grow wild as her mother had, but once she lost Alex, a part of her heart would fade away from disuse. Her children would have her heart; her husband would have it. But there was a piece of her that would always be in this room, sitting in the firelight with Alexander Waters of Glenderrin.

That part of her deserved something to take with her when she left.

“All right,” she said, standing. Her legs were weak beneath her, but they held her weight. The look of surprise that crossed Alex's face shored her up as well. She might be young and inexperienced, but she had seen this man cut a swath through the ladies of the
ton
. She knew he was not a man who was used to women walking away.

But she did not leave the room, taking her bag with her. She walked into his bedroom instead, without looking back.

She stripped off her dressing gown and laid it over a chair. She did it carefully, laying it down precisely, as if she were in her own room. She heard him in the doorway then, and she turned to smile at him.

Alex was not smiling.

“You can't sleep here,” he said.

“I don't mean to sleep,” she answered.

His voice was strangled. “What do you mean to do then?”

“I don't know,” she said. “I had hoped that you might show me.”

He walked out, and she felt the first flash of humiliation slide up from the ground, burning through her body. She felt her hated blush, and prayed that the horror might consume her as the heat from his touch had threatened to do. But it did not. Her blush subsided, for she saw him step back into the bedroom with her bag in hand. She watched as he closed and locked the door behind him.

He held up the key. “I have locked the outer door. As you can see, I have locked this one.”

He tossed her bag down and held the key aloft. He laid it on his open palm and offered it to her.

“The servants cannot come in now and catch us. I am giving this key to you. But in return, I would ask for your pledge that you won't leave this room without me.”

Her heart pounded in her ears. She shook with the need to touch him, but she held her ground. She would not lie to him, and she did not.

“I promise, Alex. I will not leave by that door, not unless you walk beside me.”

He nodded then, and laid the key on his dressing table where it gleamed in the candlelight. He did not come to her, and she realized that he was still waffling, no doubt wrestling with his honor.

She would have to go to him herself.

Catherine pushed all thoughts of Lord Farleigh, of duty, of her grandmother's teachings, out of her head. She would forget them all, and be with this one man. She would think about all the rest later. This hour, and all the wonders it held, was for her.

She stepped toward him, and stood close until her breasts brushed the white linen of his shirt.

“I still think you should go, Catherine. But if you stay, know that you'll be mine. Not just tonight, but always.” He looked into her eyes, searching her face as he had down by the river. She hoped he could only see her love for him, and not her real plans for the future. She hoped that he saw the desire that matched his own, the heat she did not know what to do with, but which she wanted finally to indulge in with him.

“I am yours already,” she said. “Now kiss me.”