The Scottish Companion (17 page)

He didn’t look up as he answered. “There was a time when I thought it should be razed to the ground,”
he said surprisingly. “All manner of evil was once done here.”

“What type of evil?”

“It’s better if you don’t know,” he said, glancing at her quickly and then away. “I myself would have preferred to never know. Now I’m beset with memories, and I’d much rather not have them.”

“Then why make this building your laboratory?”

“The palace is only stone and brick. It doesn’t retain thoughts, feelings, or memories. Only people do. Therefore, it is for me to dismiss those memories.”

“Sometimes memories remain with us.”

“Only if we allow them.”

She sat in the overstuffed chair at the other side of the room and regarded him critically. She was not yet his lover, or quite a stranger. Every time she saw him, however, she discovered something new about him. What did he see in her as the days passed?

She sat forward, propping her elbows on her knees and planting her chin on her knuckles.

There was such a vast gulf between them: lineage, history, interests. But there was as much that linked them: grief, loneliness, need, and the grandest of all of these: a physical awareness that thrummed between them.

She watched him as he straightened up his workspace. “Are you not going to explode the other bottles?”

He smiled. “I’m thinking that it would be wiser to do so outside. The gas seems particularly strong this time of year. There’s an area to the rear of the property that I’ve cleared for just such experiments.”

“I commend your restraint, as well as your wisdom.”

“So, the apprentice approves?”

She stood and walked to the other side of the table, bracing her hands on the edge. After a moment, she slid her hand across the table, and it sat there for a moment before he did the same thing, covering her hand with his.

“I don’t want you harmed,” she said. “Whether I remain at Rosemoor or not, I would not like to think of you causing damage to yourself.”

His expression stilled. “Are you planning on leaving?”

“Not now, but one day.”

He didn’t answer, didn’t comment, but he moved his hand, suddenly intent on his equipment.

“You can’t think I would stay here for the rest of my life.”

His fingers stilled on the apparatus, his hand resting against the metal coils. Slowly he removed them, placing them on the table. He didn’t speak, neither to condemn nor to cajole, or even to question her further. But his gray eyes were suddenly smoldering, and she wondered if she’d angered him.

He walked around the table.

“Why are you smiling?” he asked. “I confess to not feeling much humor at the moment.”

“You look so determined,” she said. “As if I am some citadel that needs to be stormed.”

“Do I? A marauding knight, is that what I am? I believe the first Earl of Straithern was similar in disposition.”

“I wonder if most great families began with marauders.”

“How else?”

He was only a few inches from her. His eyes hadn’t warmed, and his expression was still somber. Her smile faded the longer he stood there, silent, intent, and almost intimidating.

“What do you want of me?” she finally asked. Unwise words, perhaps, especially as he answered her.

“I want you.”

His thumbs brushed beneath her chin as the heels of his hands gently pushed her head back. “Shall I kiss you again, Gillian, simply to ensure that the experience was what we both remember?”

“Do you want to?”

He ignored her question.

“Then I’ll take you to my bed.”

“It’s morning,” she said, shocked.

“Do you think that people only make love at night, Gillian?”

“I’ve never given it any thought,” she said. Assignations with Robert had been done in the darkness, furtive couplings when they could both escape their households.

Before she could say another word, he bent his head and kissed her. This kiss was not like the one in the chapel, or even the cupola. Sensations overwhelmed her to the point her words vanished immediately. His lips were warm, his tongue intrusive and hot, capable of inciting so many emotions that she couldn’t keep track of all of them. Abruptly she was in a vortex, spinning in a world suddenly dark and swirling with a multitude of bright colors.

Her hands reached out to grip his shoulders. He was her anchor. He was creating these wonderful sensations, and yet he was the only oasis of safety in her altered world.

Her last cogent thought was that she should be fleeing from him, and not holding tighter.

G
rant bent and lifted Gillian into his arms, taking her to the back of the laboratory, to a series of rooms hidden by a raised panel in the wall. He’d never known about the hidden rooms until after his father’s death. He’d made them his own, installing a comfortable bed in one for when he was too tired to make the trip back to Rosemoor. A second held a small room where he sat and transcribed his notes, and the third chamber was for his manservant, never far away.

He set her down near the bed, but didn’t kiss her again. He would not attempt to convince her, would not cajole her, because he wanted her to be here of her own volition.

This would not be seduction but rather complicity.

She didn’t speak, as if knowing somehow that words would scratch at this moment like a diamond on glass. Instead she looked down at herself and then pressed her fingers against her bodice as if measuring the swell of her breasts. Slowly, she began to unbutton each fastening.

When the bodice was open, she turned, bending
her head, one hand holding up the mass of hair at the nape of her neck.

“Would you unfasten my skirt ties, please?” she asked softly.

His fingers trembled on the knot, and for a moment he was tempted to return to his laboratory for an implement to slice his way through the blasted thing. At the last moment, before reason was buried beneath desperation, the knot finally loosened, and he had succeeded in his task.

He should have known that she would be different, that once she was set on a path, she would not veer from it but embrace it wholeheartedly. She slowly turned and faced him, her fingers plucking at the sleeves of her bodice and slowly drawing them down. She removed the bodice first, and then stepped out of the skirt, retrieving both parts of the garment and laying it over a chair. But still, she didn’t turn from him, didn’t ask for time or privacy. Nor did she ask him to avert his eyes from her disrobing.

Sunlight bathed her body, brushing against the ivory of her shoulders, the perfection of her arms. Shadows pooled at the base her neck and between her breasts.

Paradoxically, he wanted her to slow her movements so he could look his fill, and to hurry so that he could see her naked.

He knew, from previous experience, that layers of underclothes lay beneath her dress. A chemise, drawers, corset, and no more than two petticoats, if she’d been truthful.

But Gillian was as swift with these as she was in her decision, evidently. Each time she removed a garment,
she folded it neatly and it joined her other clothing on the chair.

“How very neat you are,” he said, gently teasing her.

She inclined her head but didn’t speak. Perhaps she thought if she did so it might break the spell that stretched between them. Nothing could. The entire building could explode and he wouldn’t care. His conscience could suddenly awake, and he’d ignore it. Only one thing could keep him from bedding her, and that would be Gillian herself.

Blessedly, however, she remained silent. Not one protestation of virtue slipped past those lovely lips. Not one look of regret entered those beautiful blue eyes.

She left her chemise on while she bent and removed her shoes, holding on to the bed with one hand for support while the other hand stretched toward him. He grabbed her wrist, placing a kiss along her fingers.

She smiled, but still did not speak.

Her stockings, plain and serviceable white, were next. She slipped the garter down her thigh first, then over her knee, past her calf to her ankle. She bent and retrieved it, but before she could place it on the chair, he took it from her and held it like a talisman in his hands. It was warm. Gillian’s warmth.

He wanted a kiss, but she stepped back.

The stockings were quickly dispensed with, and then suddenly there was not much between her and nakedness. He removed his coat and threw it, not as neatly as she had, atop her dress. He would just as soon have torn the buttons from his shirt, but he
forced himself to patience, and restrained himself in the face of her smile.

While he was turning to remove his shoes, she divested herself of the rest of her garments. It was only when he saw the chemise hit the chair that he realized she must be naked.

He turned slowly, each tiny clicking second marked in his mind as important and rare. Again, she did something totally unique and so Gillian-like that he almost expected it.

She stood in front of him, her gaze unwavering. Her hands were at her sides, her palms pressed against her thighs. Her shoulders were straight, her pose that of one of the statues outside the palace. But this female form was not draped in a diaphanous garment. No toga covered her. She was without artifice or covering of any sort, not even false modesty.

He raced to be as naked as she.

He reached out and placed his hands on her upper arms, noting the difference in the textures and shading of their skin. She was pale, a delicate ivory, and he was nearly brown. The contrast was startling and oddly arousing.

Now, right at this moment, at this exact second he should halt, draw back his hands, and give her a moment to arrange her thoughts. At this exact second, he should give her time to refuse him, or banish him from the room. Would he go? Reluctantly, most reluctantly, but he would go. All she had to do was say the word, and he would turn and gather his clothes and leave her.

He actually gave credence to the idea of saying such words to her. He almost said to her:
There is time, you
know. There is time for you to refuse me. This must be your decision as well as my need.

But he was feeling selfish, and not inclined to give her the opportunity to change her mind. Instead he closed the distance between them, until her breasts were brushing against his chest, and his cock felt the springiness of the hair at the apex of her thighs and began gloriously hardening even further. He had been semi-erect ever since he’d seen her before dawn in the light of the lantern. He’d been erect ever since he’d kissed her, and now he was an iron pole, harder than he could ever remember being.

Sex was as necessary as water or food; one of the elements to life that should never be ignored. He’d never stinted himself, never refused an invitation. But he was less lover than he was animal at this moment. Nevertheless, he forced himself to breathe deeply and loosen his grip on her arms. He savored the delicate touch of her nipples against his chest, and gently pushed his cock down until it was aiming at her like an arrow. Still, he did not move further, didn’t force himself on her. Nor did he speak, simply experienced the sharp pleasure-pain of need.

Her breathing was as rapid as his, but her hands were at her sides. He wanted her to reach out and touch him in curiosity or wonder or even admiration. But she did nothing, surprising him yet again.

He wanted them to have been lovers for months and years. He wanted to avoid all the awkward phase of getting to know what she liked and what he liked. He wanted to simply know her as well as he did himself. He would pleasure her with his mouth and fingers and make her nearly beg for release.

She sighed. A gentle, almost innocent sound that almost made
him
beg at that moment.

Slowly, so slowly that the moments were measured not in a heartbeat but in days, she raised her hands and placed them on him, sliding them, fingers splayed, through the hair on his chest and up to his shoulders to link behind his neck. And then she swayed against him using her body like a brush, painting a picture of her nakedness against his skin, letting him feel the softness of her thighs and the dampness at the juncture of them.

She rubbed her breasts against him as he stood there, speechless, wordless, amazed, and delighted. Her eyes were fixed on his face, and not once did her gaze lower, not even when his cock slipped between her thighs and nestled there like an animal seeking its burrow, homeward bound.

He bent and kissed her, an almost savage caress. There was no gentleness, no tenderness, only a hunger he couldn’t hide.

She met him measure for measure, her tongue dueling with his, her openmouthed gasps a signal that she was as nearly desperate as he. He bent over her as she fell back against the bed. He almost slid into her then, but he’d never been a selfish lover.

He bent to lick a nipple, and it stiffened in response. He did the same for the other, and it, too, was just as quick to harden. His hand slid down her body, exploring, the tips of his fingers gently smoothing over her belly to the top of one thigh, then the other. He combed through the curls that had so welcomed his cock, his fingers seeking proof that she was as aroused as he.

His finger softly flicked the flesh between her legs, and she made a sound in the back of her throat.

Her eyes, dazed, opened and fixed on his face. He spread the dampness over the swollen folds, and smiled. Tenderly, he kissed her, and when she would have deepened the kiss, he pulled back and suckled a hardened nipple.

Her breathing grew even shallower as her hips tilted, and she seemed to reach for his hand. Biting her lower lip, she lifted her hips off the bed. He increased the speed of his finger, and then slowed it. Faster and slower, over and over, once and again and again.

“Yes,” she murmured as he kissed her lightly, and then bit her nipple softly. She gasped, and he licked the nipple.

He gently pushed two fingers into her, sliding in and out. Her hips arched in time to the movement.

“Yes,” she whispered, her voice sounding low and husky. He took that as an invitation, entering her with a slow, deliberate movement.

Her eyes opened, her gaze still filled with pleasure. Her legs widened, and she whispered, “Yes.”

Grant pulled back, and then thrust forward. She widened her legs, planted her feet on the bed on either side of his legs and lifted herself up, grinding her body against his. He moved one hand between them, sliding his fingers against her slickness. Her eyes flew open, and she stared at him, the look in her eyes helpless and yielding. Stroke after stroke, she matched his thrusts. Her breathing was as ragged as his, the beat of her heart as rapid, measured by his open lips against a trembling nipple.

She moaned in response, and he bit the flesh at
the juncture of her neck, and then licked where he’d bitten.

He pulled her tight against him, thrusting, driving his hips forward. He ground his cock into her, incapable of restraint, insensate and desperate for his waiting orgasm. His buttocks clenched as she widened her legs still further and took him deep. Her hips tilted, her body arching up to meet his, her internal muscles milking him with each downward stroke.

He could feel the heat of her body as she found her pleasure. He held his fingers against her as her hips slowly lowered to the bed.

A second, an instant, a heartbeat later his head tilted backward, an inarticulate cry emerged from his throat, and he was lost in mindless, piercing pleasure.

Perhaps she was a fallen woman because right now, with her cheek against Grant’s chest, with his arms around her, Gillian was content. For however long she could retain this emotion, she’d be grateful for it.

She could feel the beating of his heart against her ear, and placed her hand flat against his chest. Slowly, she traced a path from one male nipple to another, claiming him with her fingers. Was it possible for emotion to be carried from her heart to her hands? Could affection, fondness, gratitude, and perhaps something even deeper, something she didn’t want to name, be transmitted by touch?

He reached out and placed his hand on hers, pressing her palm against his skin.

“Gillian,” he said.

She kept her eyes closed, but she smiled.

“Dearest Gillian.”

At the endearment, she opened her eyes to meet his gaze.

“It’s a fine morning, is it not?”

“A very lovely morning,” she said, smiling at him. “Or afternoon. One of the loveliest I can remember.”

Delight traveled through her as he bent to kiss her. She raised her arms and wrapped them around his neck, and then a moment later pulled back and pressed her palms against each side of his face.

“No wonder other women think you are so handsome. You truly are.”

He looked a little discomfited by the comment, and she smiled even more.

He kissed her lightly on the nose and moved to sit up against the headboard.

When he’d first brought her here, she’d no other thought in her mind but him. Now she looked around the room, surprised it was as large as it was.

The four-poster bed in which she lay dominated the room. A small bureau sat against one wall. A fireplace took up most of the second wall, while a small washing stand was set against the third. The small window revealed a bright, sunlit day.

Blazing white squares of sunlight framed the bed. Gillian reached out her hand, feeling the warmth on her skin. The day was a beautiful one. Too precious for regrets.

Or thoughts of death.

“Why would anyone want to harm you, Grant? Or your brothers?”

“A question I’ve asked myself numerous times,” he admitted. “The only answer I can come up with is the better to inherit the title. But even that doesn’t make
any sense. The closest relative is an elderly second cousin. Even so, I’ve asked my solicitor to do some checking on him, to ascertain that his financial condition isn’t so dire that he’s willing to do anything to ascend to the title.”

She sat up beside him, needing to be close.

He bent and kissed her, a sweet kiss that led to something deeper and more emotion filled. As he laid her against the pillows, she looked up at his face, a face she’d known for such a short time but which was coming to mean a great deal to her. She placed one hand against his cheek, her thumb brushing the corner of his lips.

Was it so wrong to want to be loved? Society would say it was. If other people could read her mind they would declare her an outcast, a fallen woman with only thoughts of her own pleasure. They would be right, for she had no concerns for a society as narrow and condemnatory as it was.

Earls might occasionally—and surprisingly—marry doctor’s daughters but they do not marry fallen women.