Three Little Secrets (31 page)

“Enough, love,” he choked. “Stop.
Truly
.”

She stopped, and rose up, never taking her hand away.

He pulled her to him, and kissed her passionately. “Lie down, Maddie, on the cloak,” he whispered. “Let me love you.”

Let him love her?
What an absurd question. He had loved her always. He would never stop loving her.

Madeleine’s eyes were warm, but a little uncertain. She rolled back onto her elbows, and he followed her down, reaching out to snag a fistful of clothes to pillow her head. The moonlight washed over her, lovely and pure. She was perfection, this woman. His wife. Her breasts were full, but not large, her nipples dusky pink circles against alabaster flesh. He kicked off what was left of his clothing and crawled almost predatorily over her.

He took her mouth, thrusting languidly inside with firm, sure strokes, offering a promise of pleasure to come. He suckled her breasts, biting just hard enough to make her arch and cry out. Her fingers went to his buttocks, digging into the muscles as her breathing ratcheted up and up.

Merrick slid from her grasp, and set his hands flat against her ribs, then slid them up to capture her breasts as his mouth worked its way lower, all the way down, feasting on her delicate skin as he went. At the soft thatch of curls, he probed gently with his tongue, then slid deeper, seeking the treasure beneath. Her nipples were hard beneath his thumbs, her little nub erect and waiting. He stroked it ever so slightly, again and again, until Madeleine’s breathing began to catch.

“Oh!” she whispered, when he set his hands firmly against her inner thighs.

He bent forward, urging her wider. “Madeleine,” he murmured. “You are perfection.”

She said nothing, but from the corner of his eye, he saw her hand fist hard in the fabric of the cloak. He slid his thumbs up the delightful creases of her thighs and opened her flesh to his hungry mouth. She made a soft sound of pleasure, and, gently, he slipped a finger into her snug sheath, taking great satisfaction when she rode down on his hand.

Lightly, he licked her clitoris again, and this time she did cry out, a breathy sound of agony and pleasure. Soon, she was shuddering. He worked her slowly with his tongue and his fingers until her cries were soft, and sweetly rhythmic in the darkness. Then one last stroke, and Madeleine called out his name. Once. Twice. And then she cried out and rocked beneath him for what seemed an eternity. When it was over, he rested his head against the softness of her thigh, and, strangely, he wanted to cry.

He did not. Instead, he mounted her, squeezed his eyes shut, and thrust inside on one perfect stroke. Madeleine’s flesh was still contracting with pleasure all around him. And later, it was not perfectly clear to him where one orgasm had ended and another had begun. He knew only that he rode her furiously, his every muscle taut, his hips thrusting and thrusting, driving toward that perfect union, that moment of oneness he had missed for so long.

Her fingers dug into his flesh, spurring him on. His name was on her lips again, a soft sound of pleading in each breathless cry. Her body arched like a bowstring, her hips coming up to meet his, stroke for stroke. And then there was a splintering in his head, an infinite moment of pure pleasure and Maddie’s beauty like a white light all around him. His head was thrown back, his mouth soundlessly open, aware of nothing save his own pleasure, and Madeleine almost sobbing beneath him.

Long moments later, they lay wrapped in each other’s limbs, sated and weary. He reached over his head, found his coat, and tucked it around her body. She smiled, stuck her nose into the folds, and deliberately drew in his scent.

“I have always loved the way you smell,” she whispered, her eyes closed. “It was the first thing, I think, that I noticed about you.”

He crooked his head to look down at her. “The devil?” he murmured. “Not my wit and my charm?”

She laughed and opened her eyes. “You have wit and charm,” she said quietly. “Why must you always poke fun at yourself, Merrick? Not everyone finds Alasdair so enchanting, you know.”

He smiled and tucked her head beneath his chin.

Perhaps Madeleine was right. But for years, he had been unable to escape the belief that Alasdair would never have been fool enough to lose her. Women never left Alasdair. No, they flocked to him. Alasdair would have found a way to charm her, and her father, and all her distant kin, too, most likely.

Ah, but this was a moment of happiness, however fleeting. He wanted to savor it. Beside him, Madeleine tucked herself closer and laid her cheek against his chest. It was utter bliss, almost better than the lovemaking itself. They had drifted around to the back side of the island, which was steeped in shadows from the trees. Merrick tipped his head back, and looked up at the night sky. The moon was beautiful, a sharp and shining sphere on the wane. The air was cool, the gentle swell of the water infinitely soothing. He closed his eyes and was at peace.

Until Alasdair’s voice came bellowing across the loch. “Lady Bessett?” he cried. “Hello! Hello!”

“Oh, God!” Madeleine jerked to her knees in a flash, looking like a schoolgirl caught in a prank, and tipping the raft precariously. Swiftly, she snagged her shift, and jerked it on. Merrick started to caution her to silence, but Alasdair’s voice sounded worried.

“Lady Bessett!” he called. “Madeleine? Are you there? Are you all right?”

She looked like a startled deer. “I am fine,” she called, frantically snatching her stays. “We—we are fine.”

Merrick had his trousers on now. “We are fine, Alasdair. Just…punting about.”

“Ah.” Though the voice was quiet, the word still carried across the water.

Madeleine was pawing like a rabbit through the pile of clothing, extracting shoes and her gown and God only knew what else. Swiftly, Merrick snatched up their drawers, stockings, his neckcloth—anything not essentially obvious—and stuffed the wad down the back of his trousers. Then he yanked on his shirt and coats, cuffed up his trousers, and untied the pole.

In moments, Madeleine had made herself outwardly presentable, though Merrick feared Alasdair would have little doubt as to what they had been up to. He punted slowly to shore as Madeleine repinned her hair. But as they approached the pier, he could see Alasdair in the puddle of yellow lamplight, still staring out across the water, his expression stricken. Something white dangled from his hand.

“Good heavens, Sir Alasdair,” said Madeleine brightly as the raft gently bumped the piling. “You gave us quite a start.”

Alasdair reached his empty hand down to help her onto the pier. Merrick began to tie up the raft while glowering up at his brother. What a damned intrusion this had been.

But Alasdair had eyes only for Madeleine. “I heard a noise on the loch,” he said, his voice fretful. “A—A sort of human cry. And so I came out, and made my way along the shore. When I got here, I found this lying on the planking.”

He was holding a lady’s handkerchief in his hand. It was sodden and rather disheveled, but even in the lamplight, Merrick could see the dainty M embroidered on its corner.

Madeleine snatched it. “Oh, thank you, Sir Alasdair,” she said. “I certainly did not mean to worry you.”

Merrick shoved his feet into his shoes. That done, he stepped up onto the wooden planking. Alasdair grinned down at his cuffed trousers. “You look fourteen again, old boy,” he said. “Still playing the Pirate King?”

Merrick looked up at him grimly. “Aye, something like that.”

Finally, his brother blanched. “Ah,” he said. “I collect I have intruded.”

“Not at all,” said Madeleine hastily. “We were just on our way in. We were laughing. A little raucously. We apologize.”

“Laughing. Yes, of course.” Alasdair was nodding like an idiot and trying to keep his mouth from twitching into a grin. “The loch is lovely by moonlight, is it not, Lady Bessett?”

“Very lovely indeed,” said Madeleine briskly. “Thank you, Merrick, for that delightful excursion.”

“It was my pleasure.”

She yawned almost theatrically. “I believe that I am for bed now,” she said. “Merrick?”

“I am not yet tired,” he said. “Go, by all means. Take my lantern.”

A look of uncertainty flitted across her face. He could see her desire to linger, and Merrick was beyond giving a damn what Alasdair thought. But for Madeleine, propriety won out.

“I know my way like a cat in the dark, Lady Bessett, if you trust me?” Alasdair offered his arm, and, together, they strolled sedately down the pier.

Grimly, Merrick set one shoulder against the piling and watched them until they had vanished from the flood of lamplight. Damn Alasdair to hell for interrupting! Though admittedly, his concern had not been misplaced. The loch could be dangerous to those unfamiliar with its secrets. But it had felt to Merrick as though he and Madeleine were so close to…well, to
something
. An understanding? A compromise? He was not sure. But he was sure she still desired him as much as he still desired her. And damn it, they were husband and wife. He had a right to…

No
. He had a right to nothing. His grandmother had been correct. He had let his pride, not Maddie, play him false all those years ago. Whatever Maddie’s mistakes, he had to remember her youth and inexperience. He thought again of Lady Ariane Rutledge, a mere child at seventeen—and she was a sophisticate compared to Madeleine at that age. Was he to punish Madeleine forever for her choices? Was there anything left of their marriage save for that damned piece of paper he kept threatening her with?

Suddenly, in those few short moments, Merrick was forced to weigh the options for the rest of his life. Was it to be the Bess Bromleys of this world? Was it to be heat and darkness? Or sweetness and light? Pleasure? Pain? Could a man so jaded have a love that was pure?

With Madeleine, he could. He was sure of it now. But he recalled an old saying of his grandmother’s; one which he’d always thought trite.
If a man loves a thing, he maun sometimes let it go.
It no longer seemed so trite. He took down his lamp and returned to the castle.

Fifteen minutes later, he stood at Madeleine’s door. Rapping softly with the back of his hand, he waited impatiently. She opened the door in her nightdress, her blond hair down about her shoulders.

Her green eyes widened, joyously, he thought. “Merrick.”

He managed a smile and handed her the lace-trimmed drawers and neatly folded stockings. “I thought I’d best not let Phipps find these on the morrow.”

Blushing, she took them.

“Madeleine, may I come in?” he said. “I have something else, which I should like to give you. Or
show
you, perhaps, is the better word?”

Her eyebrows lightly lifted. “Yes,” she said, pulling the door wide. “Yes, of course.”

It seemed strange to see her in her nightclothes again. Her hair swung nearly to her waist, and her bare toes peeped from beneath the white lace hem of her gown.

He turned his attention away. There would be other times to admire her hair and her toes—if he were a very, very lucky man. And there was only one way to find out. He felt like Alasdair betting the whole of his fortune on one turn of the cards—except that this was so much more than his fortune. This was his life.

A lamp burned on her dressing table. He extracted his pocket case and withdrew the precious paper within. She followed him to the dressing table. “Merrick?” she said sharply. “What…what are you doing?”

Merrick sent up one last prayer, curled the document around his finger, and dropped it down the glass chimney. Her hand darted for the lamp. “Merrick! My God!”

He seized her hand and jerked it back, lest she burn herself in some foolish act of gallantry.

They watched wordlessly as the corners of their marriage lines curled into hot, glittering cinders, then burst into full flame. In moments, it was over. A pile of gray ash lay around the wick, and the walls of the chimney were black with soot.

Madeleine had set her fingertips over her mouth, her eyes wide. “Merrick,” she whispered. “Dear heaven, why did you do such a thing? And why do it now, after keeping it all these years?”

Merrick stared at what was left of his marriage. A teaspoon of ash. Ah, well. Perhaps that was all it had ever been—or ever would be. However his gamble played out, he must live with the consequences; he no longer had an ace to stick up his sleeve.

He looked up from the lamp and caught the eyes of the woman who had once been his wife. “I kept it not because it was some sort of evidence, Maddie,” he said, “but because it was all I had to cling to. Now it is gone. Our names in the marriage register are gone. Mr. and Mrs. MacLachlan are no more.”

She had gone pale as if with fear. “Wh-What are you saying?”

“That I have no hold on you,” he said quietly, “nor you on me.”

“But I thought—I thought…”

He pinned her with his ice-blue gaze. “Aye what did you think, Maddie?” he whispered. “When I spoke my vows thirteen years ago, I meant them, and for all my life. I thought we would be together always, in the good times and bad.”

She shook her head a little desperately. “I believed that, too.”

He set his hands on her shoulders. “But you were young—too young—and you knew nothing of adversity. I
did
know it, Maddie. I knew it well, for I’d never been sheltered. But I had pride, and the sin of my temper to weigh me down. And now the whole damned mess is naught but cold ash, to be swabbed out tomorrow by one of Alasdair’s footmen. It is over, Maddie. All we have between us now is what we choose.”

She looked a little sick. “Merrick, I do not know…I hardly know…what to say.”

He nodded. “Aye, so think on it, Maddie,” he answered. “And for God’s sake, do not let what we did tonight cloud your thinking. This is your second chance. You are a free woman. You may marry where you please, go where you please, and live as you please. I can force you to do nothing.”

“But—But what about Geoff?”

Merrick shook his head. “The paper’s burnt, Maddie,” he said. “Whatever Geoff and I build now will be up to us.”