And then his lips touched hers, landing softly, full, and wet against her dry lips, and as he casually drew her bottom lip between his teeth, she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t catch her breath, and felt precariously close to collapsing.
“No, I think ye donna know,” he murmured. “Ye’ve no idea what ye’ve done, Anna Addison,” he murmured, and kissed her again, only deeper this time, dipping his tongue into her mouth and sparking an inferno within her. One hand slid up her rib cage to her breast, and he cupped it, kneaded it carefully, dragging his thumb over the thin fabric that covered her nipple and back again.
Anna felt as if she were floating beneath him, riding on some cloud of burning sensation, hurtling down some slope into debauchery.
Then Grif suddenly lifted his head and pushed her away.
His abruptness stunned her; she felt her pulse racing, felt her heart leaping in her chest.
He looked at her darkly, the glint in his green eyes hard. And then he pivoted about, strode to the door, and flung it open. “MacAlister!” he shouted.
The dark-haired man she had seen fighting with Ardencaple came striding in, eyeing Anna suspiciously “Aye?”
Hands on hips, Ardencaple shook his head and said something in his language. MacAlister’s eyes bulged at whatever he said, and they had what sounded like quite a colorful exchange, Ardencaple’s voice rising, the other man’s brows going higher and higher, almost to his hairline.
When Ardencaple finished, a long moment passed before MacAlister could look fully at Anna.
And when he did, he burst out laughing.
Fourteen
T hat evening, a morose Dudley, a resigned Grif, and a highly amused Hugh dined on a delicious roast, arguing about what Grif was to do.
“Ye canna go through with it,” Dudley pleaded. “’Tis no’ right! ’Tis untoward, sir!
“What choice have I? If she is truly in possession of that accursed beastie, what can I do? We bartered Mared for it, Dudley! And we canna afford this charade forever—our funds run low as it is,” he said, with a frown for Hugh. “What we’ve no’ lost to Hugh’s gambling—”
“Aye, rotten luck,” Hugh muttered.
“We’ve spent on clothing and food and horses and appearances,” Grif continued. “We pass each day in danger of being discovered and carted off to Newgate Prison to walk the treadmill. So I ask ye again, what bloody choice do I have?”
“None,” answered Hugh without a moment’s hesitation, and grinned. “Ach, but what a fortunate man ye are! She’s a bonny lass—I’ll teach her if ye like.”
“Ye’re a bloody scoundrel,” Grif muttered. “But donna be fooled by her pleasing shape—’tis the shape of the diabhal, I swear it!” He pushed his plate aside, propped his face in his hands. “The worst of it is I’ve no’ the slightest notion of how a woman seduces a man.”
“Quite simple,” Hugh opined, leaning back and casually clasping his hands behind his head. “’Tis all in the way she moves, lad.”
“How so?”
“Ye know what I mean—the way she moves.”
Grif exchanged a look with Dudley; Hugh sighed and came to his feet. “Watch me, then,” he said, and stepping away from the table, he proceeded to walk the length of the table, jerking his hips in a motion that looked almost painful.
“Mi Diah,” Dudley moaned.
But Grif burst out laughing. “Mary Queen of Scots, ye look as if ye’ve something lodged in yer arse!”
“’Tis no’ the walk,” Dudley said, waving a hand at Hugh as he resumed his seat in something of a huff. “’Tis the voice. A woman’s voice is soft and soothing as a sweet dream. And her laugh… so delicate, like the wee flowers that sprout after a spring’s rain.” With a sigh, the old man looked longingly into space.
Grif and Hugh exchanged a look of surprise.
Dudley suddenly seemed to remember himself, and looked sheepishly at the two of them before straightening up in his seat, tugging at his waistcoat self-consciously. “Aye, I’m an old man, that I am, but I’m a man nonetheless.”
“As for me… I’m partial to the skin,” Grif said, still grinning at Dudley. “Smooth like velvet, pale as moonlight.”
“And her scent,” Hugh added wistfully. “A woman’s scent will make a man’s blood boil, aye? And her shape, mind ye—there’s naugh’ more pleasing than the shape of a woman’s bum. Or her bosom.”
“Or her delicate hands,” Dudley added.
“Aye, and donna forget her neck,” Grif added in a murmur. “And her smile. Ye’d think the sun rose in a woman’s smile, ye would.”
“What of the eyes?” Hugh asked, motioning absently to his own eyes. “A woman has a way of looking at ye that makes ye believe she can see all the way to yer toes, aye?”
All three men sighed then, lost in their individual thoughts, their contemplative silence broken only by the entry of Miss Brody, who walked through the service door only to stop dead in her tracks. She looked at the three of them. “What’s gone on?” she asked in a lilting Irish brogue. “Did the roast no’ agree with ye?”