Page 18

Mal

Malcolm trailed his fingers over the bare skin of Lydia’s arm and pressed a soft kiss to the top of her head, where it rested on his chest. He inhaled deeply, drawing in her flowery scent, as lovely as a meadow, as bonnie as one, too.

There was no greater feeling than her wrapped around him, his arms around her, bare skin against bare skin.

Yet, it was both everything and not nearly enough.

The way he wanted her, the way she consumed his every thought—it couldnae be healthy.

They hadn’t had many moments like this. Between the constant demands of her children, his responsibilities as groom, the barriers of her title, and the need to be discreet—it was of utmost import to Lydia that the Jennings family image remain strong, especially in her children’s eyes—there was precious little time left for them.

They existed in stolen moments, fleeting and rare.

Moments he feared he lived for. That now that he had…

he didnae know how he’d survive if he ever had to go without.

She played with his chest hair, fingers absently tufting through the coarse curls he had there. And even though she didn’t face him, he could feel that she was far away.

“Where’d ye go, mo chridhe?”

She let out a breath that was far too weighted to be following a bout of lovemaking. His heart rate picked up, tapping against his throat. Sometimes he feared this was all too good to be true. That she’d tire of him. Or he’d wake up only to realize it had all been a dream.

She rose on her elbow, head propped in her hand, and studied him, those blue-green irises searching. “Can I trust you, Malcolm?”

His chin jutted in, and he blinked. “Of course. Always. With anything. Everything.”

Her lips softened, tilting up the slightest amount at the corners. “I’m not sure why I asked that. I knew the answer.”

Another too-heavy breath escaped her, a loose tress of hair fluttering in front of her. He tucked it behind her ear, his fingers lingering. Always lingering on her skin.

“Tell me what has your mind muddled, Lydia.”

“I had a conversation with Felix today.”

“Aye,” he said, studying her carefully.

She gnawed on her pretty pink bottom lip, eyes clouded, reflective. Her brows pinched, and her gaze cleared, coming back to him. “When did you first start”—she waved her hand back and forth—“Oh, I don’t know. Chasing skirts?”

He pursed his lips. “If you’re asking when I first took a lass to bed, it was most definitely no’ at eleven.”

A grin flashed across her face, and a soft chuckle burst from her. “Oh, dear me, no . More…when did you start having infatuations, I suppose.”

He rolled his head from side to side, stretching his neck.

“Ah, I see what ye’re getting at. Young, if what my mam always said was any indication.

She said I was charming the lasses even while in nappies.

But the first time I became smitten with a lassie?

There was a fiery red-haired lass on the estate my da worked at.

I was probably nine or ten at the time. I teased her something dreadful.

And got myself an ear-blistering from me mam when she caught me kissing her behind the pig-shed. ”

Lydia snorted and broke into a fit of mirth, her small form shaking atop him. “Be-behind the p-pig-shed?”

“Och, don’t judge me, lass! I was ten at the time! My wooing has improved quite a bit since then.”

She smiled, eyes glowing. “It has. But honestly, I’d be happy to be kissed by you behind a pig-shed.”

He returned her smile and then leaned forward to sneak a quick kiss.

“Has Master Felix been stealing kisses?”

She looked away and seemed to drift off again. When she met his gaze again, something shimmered in her eyes. Concern? Fear?

“No, he hasn’t. But call it a mother’s intuition. I have a feeling that my son may never steal kisses.” She paused, and he barely caught her hushed words. “From women.”

“Oh,” Malcolm said dumbly.

“I had a similar reaction. Though I did my best to mask it. And it is not as though he stated such outright. But, well… He feels different from other boys. Fears he won’t ever have what Freddy and I have.” She paused, silence settling over them.

“He mentioned how the friends he runs around with talk about girls in ways he doesn’t understand,” she finally added softly. “In a way, he doesn’t think he’ll ever feel. He’s clearly confused.”

A breath escaped her lips, the air dancing over his chest, and gooseflesh rose in its wake.

“And now that he’s brought it up… I find myself looking back on instances I previously hadn’t thought twice about. Because now… I can’t help but wonder if those may mean something.” Her face pinched. “I’m nervous for him.”

“Because of the implications of that.”

She nodded. “It is considered a crime. Punishable by…”

“Aye, but that doesnae have to be his fate.” He cradled her face, thumb brushing over her chin and jaw.

“You have the privilege of title, wealth. The Bentley name is protection in itself. And he has ye , Lydia. I am sure you can come up with a way for him to live his life without repercussions. If I know ye at all, ye’re already plotting in that bonnie head of yours. A battle plan to protect yer son.”

She leaned into his hand. “I’ll admit, I have been. I’ve been scanning through my memory of every whisper and rumor I can recollect. I know there are others who live discreetly and have no trouble.”

“And if it were ever brought to light…many have fled to the continent. No’ ideal, and I’m sure not what you’re hoping for. But he’d be safe there. You have the funds for something such as that.”

“I won’t let that happen,” she said, her voice turning hard.

“I won’t lose my son. I am going to speak with Freddy as soon as he returns home.

We will come up with-with…” She struggled for a moment and then burst out, “Contingencies! We won’t be like that awful family.

The Trentons, ” she spat. “Sentencing their own son to hanging.”

A growl ripped from her, and Malcolm’s mouth gaped open. What a vicious wee thing she was. A bonnie wee badger.

“Easy, lass.” His fingers trailed down to her neck, where her pulse beat sharp and insistent against his palm. “Remember, he escaped.”

“No thanks to his family,” she burst out. “They wanted him to hang. Good lord, how could a mother ever—” Her voice broke off on a dry sob.

“Because the world is sorely lacking in people like you, love.” He pulled her close to his chest, tucking her beneath his chin. “But ye can fight for that to change. Being in the position you’re in.”

“I will,” she murmured into his skin. “I’ll fight. The Jennings will. And I’ll find others of like mind.”

“Aye, lass. And ye have me. No’ that I have any sort of influence. But I’m braw, as you recall. I’ll give you strength when you’re lacking.”

She hummed softly. “I appreciate that,” she finally whispered. “More than you know, Malcolm.”

Happiness whirred through his chest, a glowing warmth. Knowing he could be that person for her.

“Tell me something about yourself,” she said. “Something not many know.”

His gaze automatically went to his small desk. To the letter that lay atop it. The glowing warmth turned cold, sinking. But he wanted to tell her. Wanted her to know he trusted her the same way she trusted him. Wanted her to know there’d never be any secrets between them.

“Sometimes…” he started slowly. “I receive wind of horses being treated cruelly.”

She shuffled back and propped her chin on her arms folded over his chest, her curious blue gaze giving him her full attention. Small lines dusted her forehead as she waited for him to elaborate.

“I…rehome them.”

A small furrow built between her eyes. “You…rehome abused horses.”

He nodded. “Aye.”

“And these horses are—Where do they come from?”

“Any place with a cruel master.”

“So, you’re saying. You…” She trailed off again. But her eyes remained clear. Clear of judgment. Clear of reproof.

“I thieve them, Lydia,” he said quietly and watched her. Waited. His lungs banding tight and not allowing him air.

Her lips formed a silent oh , and she blinked slowly up at him.

“I know it’s…” He shook his head from side to side, weighing the best way to describe it. The only word he could think of being—

“Illegal, Malcolm.” Her fingertips dug into the flesh of his arm. “It’s illegal, is what it is.”

He winced. Aye, that one.

She searched his face, her brows knit in concern, a myriad of emotions flashing through those sea-blue eyes. Turbulent. Conflicted.

He glanced away. Would this be enough to lose her? Perhaps he shouldnae have told her. But it wasnae his nature to hide something from those in his life. Communication. Openness. Trust. Honesty. They were the pillars he lived by. And it was what she deserved. He just had to hope…

“Shhh,” she crooned and crawled up his body, delicious naked skin coasting over his, until they were face to face, her forearms framing his face, hands sifting through his locks. He closed his eyes with a groan, some of his fear fading as her fingers gently drifted over his scalp.

“I…” She paused, shook her head, her fingers trembling across his skin.

He met her gaze, hated the fear and torture he saw there.

“You’re safe with me, Malcolm. But that doesn’t mean I like it.

God, I hate it.” Pain lanced across her face.

“Not because of what you’re doing, but because of what the consequences mean.

It’s the same as it is for Felix. If you’re caught—”

“Hanging. I know,” he said, voice thick. Because her pain caused him pain.

“But I understand,” she added, blue irises growing tender soft. “You’re a good, honorable man, Malcolm Campbell. Protecting those who cannot save themselves.”

Aye. And that was why he did it. The palomino stallion, emaciated and beaten, flashed in his visage. If he didn’t, no one else would.

“How often do these…expeditions occur?”

He rolled his lips in, running over the past few that had taken place. “It varies, anywhere from a few in a year, to just once a year.”

“And do you know of any happening in the near future…”

His gaze darted to his desk, and hers followed and then snapped back to his.

“Malcolm?”

“Next week. There will be another one next week.”

Her shoulders drooped, and she sank into him, burying her head in his neck. But it wasn’t the kind of melting that alluded to comfort or contentment. Nae, it was sad. Like catching snowflakes on one’s palm, only for them to disappear before one could truly appreciate their beauty.

“I don’t know if I’ll sleep a wink until it’s over and I know you’re safe.” Her muffled words drifted up to him.

He tightened his arms around her and buried his nose in her hair. “I’ll be careful, lass. I promise. I’m well-seasoned at this by now.”

“If something were to happen to you—” Her voice broke, and everything in him rebelled. Rebelled because she was hurting. Because of him. “Malcolm, you’re not just risking yourself. You’re risking us .”

His pulse stalled, and his eyes sank closed. She was right. He hadnae ever had something to risk before.

She pushed up and then gripped his jaw, turning him so they were nose to nose. His eyes flew open. And through her tears, a blue fire burned. “You better be bloody careful, Malcolm Campbell. Because I love you, and I am nowhere near done with you yet.”

His heart skipped a beat. Or five. She loved him. And she was adorable. With her fierce demand. A warrior resided beneath her fragile exterior. He’d seen it in the way she spoke about protecting her son. And he saw it now. And to have that ferocity of love aimed at him? It was the highest honor.

His lips crashed down on hers, unable to stay away a moment longer.

His hands tangled into her hair, and he put every ounce of feeling into that kiss, tongues sliding, lips brushing, teeth nipping and grazing.

It was a kiss that promised love, unbendable devotion.

Her own small hands dug into his face, holding on like she’d never let go.

Like she was bound to him, wanted to be bound to him.

He broke away, ragged breaths bursting from his laboring chest. “I love ye, Lydia. I think I always have.”

She gently nudged his nose with her own.

“I am forever bound to ye,” he whispered against her lips. “No’ even my last breath could stop me from loving ye.”

Forever her devotee.

She settled on his chest and wove their fingers together. She brought his knuckles to her lips, passing kiss after kiss over each one.

“I should return to the manor soon,” she finally said, her tone faint and forlorn. “Would you recite to me? Just one poem before I go. From that Scottish poet you love.” She traced her fingers over the tops of his knuckles. “You know how I love when you speak to me in your brogue.”

“Of course, mo chridhe. Anything for ye.”

And he pulled her even closer, as though he could take hold of the moment and never let it go, sinking into the mattress, sinking into happiness. The words of Robert Burns rolled from his tongue, as smooth and rich as aged amber whisky.

“Oh, my Love is like a red, red rose

That’s newly sprung in June;

Oh, my Love is like the melody

That’s sweetly played in tune.

So fair art thou, my bonnie lass,

So deep in love am I;

And I will love thee still, my dear,

Till all the seas gang dry…”