Page 19 of The Scot’s Seduction (Heirs & Spares #2)

U hm—” Murdoch said, glancing around the empty foyer. They were alone. It was at a dangerous hour of the night, and they were alone.

Not that any hour with her wouldn’t be dangerous; he would imagine, if he were to ask her, that she would scoff at the notion of one period of time being more significant than another.

But still. It was closing in on one o’clock, and the house was still. Even the rambunctious kittens seemed to be off somewhere, hopefully sleeping. A few candles burned on tables set in front of the windows, lending a soft, golden glow to the space.

“Would you like a glass of port?” she asked, gesturing to the room where she spent most of her indoor time.

She wasn’t actually asking if he’d like a glass of port; he knew that. She was asking so many things: Would you like to kiss me some more? Would you like to share intimate moments without any expectations? Would you like to indulge yourself with me?

And he would, of course he would, but he felt oddly trepidatious. Or perhaps not oddly so, since he’d never been in this kind of situation before. Not with someone so bold, so forthright about what she wanted. And what she did not want.

I have no desire to wed.

That should appease him, shouldn’t it? Since he had no desire to wed either. At least not here, not to her kind of woman, not because of an indiscretion.

No. When he married, it would be because he’d thought it all out and chosen someone who would suit his quiet lifestyle. Who would wake at dawn when he did, who would be as interested in the comings and goings of his flock, who would be able to debate when to trim the sward.

The thought of Lady Drusilla in that role was ludicrous.

Her liking anything about his life was ludicrous.

It made him feel oddly defensive, how he assumed she would loathe his way of life.

It wasn’t fair, she hadn’t said anything of the sort, but still.

It hovered in his mind, a reminder that this was all temporary.

“My lord?”

They’d somehow made it to the room she used for daytime work, which felt more intimate because of the darkness outside and the few flickering candles. One was burned halfway down, and he could imagine her sitting here late in the evening as she closed out her day.

She was holding a glass in one hand, the bottle in the other.

“Yes, thank you.”

She poured, then handed him the glass and gestured to the sofa where they’d sat before.

He took a seat, watching as she filled her own glass and then sat beside him.

“Here is to Miss Emily’s first party,” she said, raising her glass to his.

He clinked the glass against hers, then took a sip. “This is excellent,” he said, in some surprise. He’d only had port a few times, what with Scotland being the land of whisky and all, and he had to assume now that the port he’d had was inferior.

This was rich and luscious, like a swollen berry bursting in his mouth.

“Yes, a few of the families I’ve helped have done well, and one of them imports this from Portugal. I save it for special occasions.”

The silence after her words felt heavy.

“Is this a special occasion?” he asked, after a long moment.

She cocked her head at him. “You can tell me. Either we are going to enter into all this, or we are not. I will be fine, no matter what your decision.” She sounded sincere, as though it truly would be fine.

So equanimous. While at the same time, his insides were churning, what with the wanting and the yearning and also that this was so new to his understanding, that a man and a woman could have this type of relationship with no consequences.

“I didn’t mean to distress you,” she continued, setting the glass down. Her expression was concerned.

“I’m no virgin, if that’s what you’re saying,” he blurted, then immediately felt completely awkward.

Though to be fair, he’d felt completely awkward before he’d said anything.

She chuckled, shaking her head. “No, I did not think that. I can’t imagine a virgin knowing how to kiss like that. Really, quite an excellent kiss. Thank you.”

“Thank you,” he replied.

“But beyond that, it feels as though I have done something to perturb you.”

He gave her an incredulous look. Did she not know?

“Is it unusual, in your experience, for a gentleman to accept your proposal with a measure of sangfroid? I imagine it is because I am a Scottish oaf, not a fine London gentleman, that I take things under deeper consideration.”

His words poured out of him like a torrent, and once he’d finished, he felt as if he’d just run uphill in a rainstorm.

She didn’t reply, just gave him a measured look, picking up her glass and taking another sip. Still keeping her eyes locked on his face.

“I apologize,” she said at last, startling him. “For making you uncomfortable. For demanding you do something you didn’t—”

“Bloody hell,” he said, reaching for her, her glass falling out of her hand and onto the floor as he yanked her onto his lap.

They stared at each other for a moment, his breath caught in his chest, and then he lowered his head and kissed her, savagely, without regard to nuance or softness or anything but pure lust.

And she responded in kind, gripping his shoulders, pulling him down closer, arching her back to press into him.

W ell. She had not expected that, although she had thought, alone and in the dark, how she would like him to exert all his strength on her.

The reality was better than her imagination.

In the first place, he felt a lot stronger than he had in her mind. He had hauled her onto his lap as though she were a book, and not even a heavy tome like Thackeray’s Vanity Fair but something light like a collection of Tennyson’s poetry.

And his kiss—unlike in the carriage the day before, there was no preamble.

He kissed her as though he had a right, a claiming, to do so.

She felt as though she were drowning in him—the feel of his body everywhere, where she lay on him, to how he held her, to their mouths connecting.

She shifted up to get closer, to burrow into his skin if possible, her hands roaming his body, from his shoulders, down his arms, to press against his chest, to clasp around his neck.

Their breathing was short and ragged, the only sound in the room. The gasps themselves were erotic to her ears, the rough, harsh noises heightening the sensation of being held here in his arms.

His mouth moved suddenly, and she braced herself for the disappointment of his coming to his senses and telling her it was a mistake, as he had the day before. But then she felt his lips against her neck, biting her as she heard him groan against her skin.

She ached for him to touch her everywhere, but she also wanted to savor every moment, keep themselves in frantic, needy desperation until they burst from it.

He raked his teeth against her throat, then moved down, still dragging his teeth against her. She wanted him to bite her properly, to consume her whole, and she couldn’t help the moan that came unbidden.

“I can’t wait to taste you,” he said, the Scottish burr more intense, his voice a low growl.

She moaned again, every cell of her body focused on what he was doing with his lips, his teeth, his hands.

He held her tightly against him, almost uncomfortably so, but she drank in every discomfort as though it was nectar.

“I want you to—” she began, but he swallowed her words when he took her mouth again, making her lose whatever thought was in her mind.

The only thing that existed was this, was him, was them.

She could feel the evidence of his arousal underneath her bottom—not surprisingly, it felt as though he was as large there as he was in other parts, and she wished she was flexible enough to reach behind and stroke it through his trousers. To make him writhe and want as much as she did.

Though it did feel as if he was having the same reaction—he was thrusting his tongue into her mouth in a carnal imitation of actual fucking, and she clenched his chest, finding where his shirt met and yanking the fabric away.

And there it was. His skin, warm against her touch, his muscles hard and heavy, his chest rising and falling with his harsh breathing.

This was nothing like she’d experienced before. And she was quite experienced.

This was savage and brutal and raw, without any of the niceties.

It was what she craved, but she hadn’t known that before.

One hand was still holding her, but the other was curled around her breast, squeezing the soft flesh as she twisted in his grasp.

Dear God, if I die now, I would die happy , she thought.

Though if she died now, she wouldn’t be able to see what he looked like as he climaxed—the shout, the strained face, the clenching of muscles all over his body.

Never mind, God, I’ve changed my mind , she thought.

He slid two fingers inside her bodice and was stroking her skin with the work-rough pads of his fingers.

She’d had her eyes closed since he’d begun kissing her, but now she opened them, startled to see his brown eyes focused on her.

She could see the passion, the want, the need in that dark gaze, and she pushed herself up a bit more, kissing him with as much urgency as he was kissing her.

This was a battle, but a delicious one. One which both combatants would ultimately win, since they would end the war with pleasure, she had no doubt.

Someone who kissed like this, who claimed her mouth with such power, was going to be deadly in bed, she knew. She could not wait.

“What now?” he said eventually, his lips still against her mouth.

What now? Now I might burst into erotic flame, or take to my bed—with you—and refuse to leave until I’ve been satisfied.

Which might be never.

Of course she didn’t say any of that. “What do you want to happen?” she asked. She nipped his bottom lip, and he groaned. His erection pulsed against her bottom.

“I want so much, Drusilla,” he said. It was the first time he’d used her name, and it resonated through her, making her shudder in pleasure. “But first—” he said, and then they both froze as they heard noise in the hallway.

They immediately scrambled away from each other, Drusilla’s hands going to her bodice to straighten it, and then her hair, looking at him with wide eyes.

He, meanwhile, had grabbed a pillow and had put it on his lap to disguise his excitement and was clutching the two edges of the shirt together, trying to make it seem as though he was still respectably dressed.

He was not.

They heard voices now, increasing as whoever it was walked closer, and Drusilla bit her lip, wondering how she could forestall anyone in the household coming in and seeing what was obviously happening.

She’d had her lovers to the house before, but her staff and other guests never had to actually see the moments as they happened—she generally confined her activities to her bedroom, even if not always the bed. It was remarkable what could be done with a well-upholstered bench, for example.

They waited, both of them holding their breath, until the voices began to fade.

“That was a near miss,” Drusilla said, exhaling in relief.

“It should probably be a warning that we shouldn’t be—”

“Or that we should be in a proper bed in my room, my lord.”

He gave her a wry smile. “I think, given the circumstances, that you should use my name. It’s Murdoch.”

“Murdoch,” she repeated. “Nearly as good as ‘Scottish ram.’” She hesitated, then spoke again. “So, Murdoch,” she said, aware her voice sounded huskier than usual, “when are you going to fuck me?”