Indiscretion (12 page)

20

"
Y
ou wretch. You demon. You reprobate."

He stared down at her with a shameless grin. "Is her ladyship upset about something?"

She levered herself up on her elbow. Her hair, freed from her chignon, fell in a tumult of black tangled curls across the bed. "I am going to kill you with my bare hands."

"Why?" He put his hand to his chest. "Oh, dear. I have been remiss in my duties again? Did you find a water spot on your spoon?"

She bolted upright as he loosened his cravat and began to unbutton his shirt. "Oh, dear God—what do you think you are doing?"

"Getting ready for my execution. You don't expect me to die dressed as a butler, do you?"

She scooted toward the edge of the bed, but she didn't get far; Patrick dove onto his knees to intercept her, forcing her back into the headboard.

"I did like the part about your bare hands, Lady
Whitehaven," he said wickedly, his shirt hanging open to reveal his muscular torso.

She closed her eyes, praying for strength. One might assume tha
t a woman of her age and experi
ence would not be so affected by the glimpse of a perfectly built man. Unfortunately, one would be assuming wrongly. Anne was horrified at how the sight of his bare chest affected her.

His warm breath flirted with her hair. She felt him cuddling up beside her. "Lord have mercy," she whispered. "What are you doing now?"

"I'm not doing anything. I'm lying here beside you. Having a wee rest after a hard day's work. Is that such a sin?"

She opened her eyes. "Patrick, please remove yourself from my bed. I cannot breathe with you lying against me."

"Let me take off your jacket, Anne. It might help."

"It won't help."

"Of course it will. You can't go to bed buttoned up like a wee pea in a pod."

"I know what you're doing, Patrick. You are so blatantly obvious."

"Good God, Anne, you have the most suspicious mind. There." He helped her out of her snug jacket. "Now unbutton that bodice and draw some deep breaths."

"I will not."

"I'll do it, shall I?"

He brought his hand to her collar, his eyes meeting hers, and even though he knew it was the wrong
thing
to do, even though he'd promised
himself he would behave, he was helpless. Moreover, time wasn't exactly on his side with that moron Sir Wallace about to charge into the room.

He put his hand around her head and kissed her, gently, thoroughly, easing her down until they were rolling across the bed, half undressed, unable to resist each other, like the first time they had been together, but so different.

He pushed his hand under her skirts and rubbed the inside of her thigh. Sexual warmth radiated from her skin, and he groaned; it took every ounce of will power he possessed to stop from sliding his finger into the opening of her drawers. She was wet and inviting, the embodiment of all he desired, and he could feel the faintest pulsebeat beneath her flesh.

She tensed, hiding her face in the pillow. "I'm going to kill you, Patrick."

"You're killing me now," he said, struggling for breath as he imagined stroking between her legs, teasing her, torturing himself. "You know as well as I do we wouldn't be here if we weren't so attracted to each other. Seven years, Anne, and we're back where we started."

Seven years, she thought. How fast the time had gone.

She closed her eyes, amazed that she could recall every bittersweet moment of their encounter when she had fought so hard to forget. How easily it all came back when she allowed it. He had made her feel things she had not dreamed existed, and had not experienced since. So many emotions flooded
her, it did not seem possible to wager a defense. Embarrassment underlaid with a languid anticipation. Guilt that she had never shared anything close to this with David followed by the most powerful urge to simply surrender as she had done all those years ago.

"
I
cannot believe you actually agreed to meet me," he'd said as she r
an into his arms. "It was all I
could do not to come to your house. I have been insane with wanting you."

She'd been shaking uncontrollably; her heart raced as he lifted her into his arms and kissed her until blackness swam behind her eyes. His body was hard and powerful—Anne could not ever remember being held in such a strong embrace, or perhaps even being held at all. Her parents did not believe in displaying one's affections, but Anne had craved physical warmth with a hunger that made her feel ashamed. Surely it was wicked to want a man to touch her.

In no time at all they were both naked on the castle floor. She remembered fearing she would faint as he suckled the engorged tips of her breasts, the pleasure building upon itself until she begged for release.

"I haven't even begun," he'd whispered, catching her sensitive nipple between his teeth. "I'll stop if you want."

"Yes." She drew a breath, her heart contracting as he dragged his mouth down her belly. "No. Oh, Patrick, I am so afraid of you."

He lifted his head to stare at her, and she stared back, thinking she had never seen anything more beautiful than his rugged face in her life. But her parents had warned her he was the worst sort of trouble, and no decent girl in the village would be caught in his company, no matter how violently she might desire him in secret. But they hadn't seen the gentleness in him that Anne could see. They didn't guess he had a good heart beneath his surly behavior.

"Aye," he said. "What I feel for you frightens me too."

"This is wrong, isn't it?" she whispered in panic.

"I don't know." His mouth brushed the apex of her sex. "So help me God, I don't care."

Her mind froze as she realized what he meant to do. "Patrick," she said in a frantic voice. "We should stop."

"Aye, we should," he said as he parted her thighs to eat at her.

And neither of them moved until he brought her to a climax that reduced her to raw sensation, and she began to cry. Stricken, he kissed her again, and made her put her hands around his neck. When he took her in one deep stroke, she did not even cry, so shocked she could only heed his plea to trust him, that he would pleasure her again. And when the storm broke in his body, he held her so tightly she could barely breathe, absorbing the spasms that went through him. They needed so much more than sex from each other, but were too young to know that.

The minutes ran into hours. They could not tear themselves away from each other's arms, aware they might never be together again. She was exhausted when he finished with her.

"I've never met anyone like you
,"
he said as they parted, but by then she was so frantic to go home, so afraid of what would happen if her father found out, that she barely heard his voice.

I
t was that same voice that brought her back to reality. Patrick's voi
ce was laden with concern as he
regarded her. "Are you all right, Anne? You look as if you are a thousand miles away."

She sat up, hiding her mortified face in her hands as she began the co
mplicated business of rebutton
ing herself. She had closed her mind again to the memories. "Not miles, Patrick. Years. I cannot believe we have come to this again."

He lay unmoving on the bed, his voice heavy with a desire for her that went so deeply he thought he might die of it. His body ached to the marrow, but he would not touch her again until she desired it. "I don't quite believe it myself."

"If I were a man," she said, "I would challenge you to a duel and shoot you through the heart."

He closed his eyes. "What a preposterous thought."

"Preposterous?" She slid off the bed, reverting to her prickly self. "I am not the one wearing the breeches and pushing the tea trolley, which you wield with all the grace of a brace of oxen, I might add."

"Did David ever spank you?" he asked softly.

She took a step backward. "Don't you dare."

"Why not? We can categorize it under the list of my duties such as
polishing the knives, supervis
ing supper." He came off the bed, his blue eyes narrowing in amusement. "Keeping her ladyship in line."

She picked up a hairbrush. "If you touch me again—"

"What?" He chased her around the chair. "You'll give me a hundred strokes of the hairbrush?"

"We were supposed to be discussing what killed Uncle Edgar."

"A woman with a hairbrush?"

"I'll—"

They both turned at the echo of footsteps outside the door, and then Nellwyn's voice, sounding so slyly amused Anne wanted to pinch her.

"Whatever is the matter, Anne?"

"The lock is stuck, and the door won't open," she answered meekly.

"Well, do not give way to panic," Nellwyn said. "After all, Sutherland is in there to see to your needs, isn't he?"

Patrick dropped back down to the bed, reclining
with his arms folded under his head. "I certainly
am.
"

"Shut up," Anne said in an undertone. "Just shut your mouth."

"What was that?" Nellwyn said.

"I wasn't talking to you," Anne said in irritation. "I was talking to the big ape on the bed."

"What did she say?" Sir Wallace asked Nellwyn in a bewildered voice.

"I'm not sure,"
Nellwyn said dryly. "I believe it was something about big grapes on the bed."

Anne advanced on Patrick. "Are you going to stay there all night?"

"Are you talking to me or the ape?"

"Why don't you go through the damned closet and help them from outside?" she said.

He was pouring himself the whiskey he had brought up the night before. "Because then they'll know we spent almost a half-hour together under false pretenses. I wouldn't want to embarrass her ladyship."

"Is that right?"

"All I am asking is for you to give me another chance."

"Why should I?" she said incredulously.

"Because I want you badly enough to endure the humiliation of being your bloody servant."

She stared at her disheveled reflection in the mirror. "Perhaps you cannot have what you want this time, hard as that might be to believe."

"Aye, I can."

"No. You can't."

He came off the bed to stand behind her. "Aye, Anne. I can. I'm just being polite about waiting, but make no mistake. I do not plan to wait forever."

She smiled coldly. "Good."

"I'll just take you."

"Anne." Nellwyn pounded lightly on the door. "We could use Sutherland's help on our side. We don't want Sandy to use his battle-ax, do we?"

Patrick stared at her for a long moment before he turned in resignation to the door. "Sweet dreams, Anne."

T
he upper servants called an emergency meeting in Mrs. Forbes's parlor later that same night. Gracie summoned Patrick from his room, and he complied. He was in a good mood because he knew that there was no way in hell Anne would have allowed him to even lay beside her if she did not care for him. There was a chance for them, after all.

The fragrance of her lingered in his mind, so sexual and sweet, so Anne. She hadn't been speaking to him when he left her room; he had looked Sir Wallace straight in the eye for a few seconds after the lock mysteriously unjammed.

"Is Anne all right?" the older man asked tersely.

Patrick suppressed a smile. "She seemed satisfied enough when I left her, sir."

Which Patrick himself was not, nor undoubtedly was she. Undressing Anne had been an exercise in self-torture, and he was probably going to prowl outside her door all night like an animal because he wanted her so badly.

He would have walked right past Mrs. Forbes's parlor, except for the single gaslight glowing in the center of the table, and the three gloomy faces seated around it who watched him worriedly.

He stepped into the room. "All right. Confess. Is this to be another
séance
, or the Spanish Inqui
sition?"

"We know your secret, Mr. Sutherland," Gracie said quietly, hanging her head.

He stopped midstride. "Do you?"

"Sit down, lad," Sandy said in a somber voice.

"Have a glass of brandy." Mrs. Forbes pushed a bottle across the table.

"Cooking brandy?" He smiled, taking a seat. "Now, this must be a serious matter indeed."

"We know about you and her ladyship," Gracie blurted out.

"About me and—"

"We know you're in love with the mistress." Mrs. Forbes put her hand over his. "Come clean, lad. Confession is good for the soul, and in the end, you can count on us."

"Fine." Patrick shrugged. "I love her ladyship."

"Oh, my God." Gracie blanched, hand covering her mouth. "It is true."