Secrets to Seducing a Scot

NINETEEN

Serena sat at her vanity desk, slowly brushing out the wet strands of her long blond hair. Her bath had left her scented of English roses, and her afternoon tea was still warm in its cup. Her muddied dress lay in a heap on the floor like a shed skin, and her elegant evening clothes were laid out on the bed. Though everything had returned to its normal routine, nothing was as it had been. And at the heart of the transformation was the man who lay just beyond that secret door …

The memories of the eventful day swirled about her like a snow flurry. The sheen of the rainwater on Malcolm’s skin; the feel of his hand on her wrist in the carriage ; the elation at his arrival on the battlefield; the mortifying sensation of being chastised like a schoolgirl. The remorse at putting his life in danger.

A soft knock sounded on her bedroom door, bringing her daydreaming to a screeching halt. “Miss? It’s Caointoirn, miss.”

“Come in, Quinny.”

The petite maid ventured in. “I’ve come to do yer hair.”

For the first time, the prospect of pinning her hair up in an elegant coif depressed her. “Very well,” she said with a sigh.

“I’ve brought some salve for Mr. Slayter. Would it be all right if I go through here rather than the library door, miss?” She nodded in the direction of the secret passageway, a place where Serena’s thoughts had been just moments before.

Serena glanced at the brown glass bottle and white cloth, and an idea came to her. “No. Leave it with me, Quinny. I’ll take it in to him. Come back later. You can do my hair then.”

“Very well, miss.”

Medicines. How she hated them. They were a reminder of how imperfect the world was … and how mortal. Her father was reduced to taking powders and restoratives every day, each of them foul and unpleasant, in an effort to extend his life. The thought that she was the cause of Malcolm’s need for them needled her with guilt.

She tightened the dressing gown around her and knocked on the secret door.

A moment passed. And then the door swung open.

The sight of him took her breath away. He was back to trousers, but he didn’t have on a stitch of clothing above them, displaying a torso that seemed sculpted from gold. His chest was smooth, like marble statues of old, with just a smattering of hair down the middle. Muscles fanned out from his neck and connected with two chiseled shoulders. Odd scars told a tale of a tortured life.

A look at his face brought a fresh stab of guilt. His cheek had purpled, and now she could see a tiny cut on his lower lip.

“I-I’ve some salve for you.”

He looked her up and down. There was no judgment in his expression, only a reserved air. “Thank ye,” he said, holding out his hand.

Ill at ease, she clutched the bottle tighter. “May I come in?” she heard herself ask. There were dozens of reasons why it was a mistake to suggest it. Impropriety, indecency, shame … spiders. She put all those out of her head as she stepped over his threshold.

For the first time, she got a close look at the chamber he now used as a bedroom. The walls were bare of plaster, and he used the interior wood framing as shelves. A few books, probably borrowed from Lord Askey’s library, lined one shelf, and a comb and razor lay on another. A narrow bed, certainly too short for a man of his height, edged the wall separating them. On the framing above his pillow lay his pistol holster and daggers. The smell of antique wood and mold permeated the room. It was surely a misery having to live here. And yet he put himself through it willingly. For her.

“Let me help you apply it,” she said.

“I can manage.”

“No. I want to. It’s … the least I can do.”

His frown softened, but only a little. “Very well.”

She glanced nervously at his semi-nude body. “Show me what pains you.”

He raised his right hand before her eyes, palm downward. The knuckles were discolored, and a tear sliced through the middle knuckle. She couldn’t look him in the eye, lest he see how remorseful she felt.

She opened up the bottle and poured some of the grassy-smelling liquid onto the cloth. She placed her hand beneath his to sustain it, and gingerly dabbed at the broken skin. The branding scar on the back of his hand was visible to her now, and she drank in each of the ugly details with her eyes.

“Is that better?”

“Aye.” His expression had gentled, and he regarded her thoughtfully. “Thank ye.”

“What else pains you?”

He raised his left elbow up to reveal a dark bruise on his rib cage. “I can’t take a breath without remembering the face of the bastard that gave me that.”

She sighed, and moistened the rag once more. He winced a little as she applied the unguent, so she took her time. He had a lovely warm smell to him. His abdomen was strong and sturdy, each muscle well defined. Too late she considered how wonderful it would have been if she had thought to apply the medicine with her fingers rather than a cloth.

“And your cheek?” she asked.

“Aye. It throbs a good deal.”

He was too tall for her to get to it comfortably. “Please sit down.”

He perched himself on the edge of the bed, and she wedged herself between his open legs. The hair at his temples was still wet from washing. She lifted the damp cloth and dabbed it on the swell of his cheek. It was an ugly bruise, discoloring and deforming his otherwise handsome face. Another pang of guilt damned her. That mark was a direct result of a deformity in her own character. If it hadn’t been for her, none of this would have happened to him. She glanced into his eyes, which were looking straight at her.

Her tattered pride was unable to contain her true emotions any longer. “I’m so sorry for getting you into all this trouble.”

“So am I.”

His agreement stung. “I shouldn’t have stormed off as I did. Never mind that I left Zoe unchaperoned, which on its own was a thoughtless thing to do. But to put you in harm’s way was inconsiderate and foolish … and cruel.”

He closed his eyes, revealing silky white lids above thick black lashes. “Apology accepted. Glad I am to know that ye’ll not be doing it again.”

But there was more that she had to say. “You stood up for me. Not many men would have done what you did, especially after the way I’d treated you. I’m really very grateful. And I just … wanted to …”

Everything in her being told her not to do it, but she refused to listen. She put her hands on his bare shoulders, and brought her lips to his.

It was a gentle kiss, nothing more, bestowed upon him while he sat before her. His lips were soft and warm, yet surprised by the affection. But then he wrapped his thick arms around her as he stood up, and suddenly, she was engulfed by him. His head descended over hers, and he returned the kiss, transformed into a passionate thing.

His lips smoothed over hers, igniting her body. She closed her eyes as she inhaled the soap-and-water smell of him. Wrapped in a blanket made of skin and flesh, Serena hummed in contentment. The kiss of gratitude had become a kiss of need, and he was quick to give her what she demanded. She could taste the salty-sweet blood from the cut on his lip, and it roused a carnal desire that she could not subdue.

The feel of his bare skin under her hands reawakened her passion for a man. But this was so very different from her first love affair. Back then, that one fumbling tryst was born of a need to win a man’s love, and a curious desire to be pleasured. This embrace was compelled by her need to show Malcolm Slayter her own feelings, and a desperate longing to pleasure him.

But his kisses were like nothing she’d ever known. No practiced techniques, no contrived approach. At first, his mouth opened softly to her, his response to her as guarded as a wild animal. But when he tasted her desire for him, the truth of his own yearnings broke forth. His kisses were foreign and strange, but artless—as if his whole heart expressed itself through his kisses.

A crease formed between his thick black eyebrows as his kiss deepened. She felt his fingers spread into her still-damp hair, gently directing her in the dance of his possessive kiss. A familiar hunger pulsed in her feminine opening, desperate to be fed by his flesh.

How glorious that his body connected with hers at every point! Their legs touched, their hips pressed against the other’s body, her breasts were flattened against the ridges of his abdomen. A rush of eroticism flowed inside her.

Her arousal must have provoked his own, for she began to feel a thickening against her belly. And just as it started, he pulled away.

His hands gripped her shoulders and held them at bay. “I canna carry on.”

She could not disengage from that paralyzing bliss. “What?”

He fought to catch his breath. “Yer da has entrusted ye to me. I canna betray that.”

She had never resented her father until just that moment. “But …”

“Ye should go back now,” he said, jerking his head toward the secret door. “Before I forget myself.”

It was precisely the thing she wanted to do … forget herself. Forget Society with its fashions and foibles, forget the need for ease and eminence, forget the pursuit of ostentation and adoration. Above it all, she desired the colossal simplicity of just her … and just him.

He bent his head over her hand, and kissed it tenderly. She found herself shaking her head. She wanted to lie down on the too-small bed and let him open her dressing gown. To let him kiss her breasts. To give her willing hands the freedom to possess every part of his body. She wanted more …

A lingering look from his emerald-colored eyes told her he wanted more, too. But it also begged her to help him be strong.

Disoriented by the thrumming inside her, she let him lead her back to the doorway in the wall. But when she stepped through it, the room no longer felt like hers. She gave a last look toward Malcolm, and slowly, he shut the door between them.

She stood against her bed for some time, reassessing her surroundings. The vanity with its ornate brushes and hairpins; the wardrobe bursting with the best of London’s fashions; the elegant bedspread covering a down-filled mattress—all the accoutrements of a lady—looked like mere toys in a child’s playpen.

And she had very quickly outgrown them.