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HIS FUTURE AT SUGAR Hill?
Where had those words come from?
Margaret kept her eyes on Mr. Banner to keep from looking at the washstand mirror in wonder of who’d look back, because she was certain it wasn’t any woman she was familiar with. Mouth dry, unmentionables damp, she fairly vibrated with kinetic energy, a flame dancing on the end of a dry twig. And Mr. Banner was the forest of tinder, awaiting her touch.
She licked her lips and resisted plucking at the bosom of her gown that suddenly fit too tight or rubbing her thighs together to counter the ache at their juncture.
“What is this?” he demanded.
She angled a look at the bottle.
“Usher’s Special Reserve Old Vatted Glenlivet Whisky.”
He narrowed his eyes. Some of the pulsing ache in her lower abdomen, and much of her anticipation, faded in the light of his hostility. She tipped her head to one side.
“Do you have a problem with gifts in general, Mr. Banner, or is it this gift in particular? Or perhaps it’s me you have a problem with?”
His nostrils flared, green wolf-like eyes boring into hers and jaw hardening to immobility beneath a sheath of dark stubble as she slid her hand over the ridged knuckles that held the bottle. She took a step closer, close enough to feel the heat of his body radiating through his shirt.
He’d bathed, washed off the soot and sweat from his earlier excursions, and he smelled of soap. And desire.
She raised her eyebrows. “Is it me you take umbrage with, or—”
His mouth landed on hers, bruising and possessive as he grabbed her with his free hand and hauled her closer.
She grasped his shirt with both hands and returned the force of his kiss with equal measure. No thought, no reason. Just want. Pure, unadulterated want.
“Jesus,” he whispered as he broke the kiss to stare at her, disbelief and guilt in his expression. She cupped his face and dragged his mouth to hers before he could change his mind.
“No guilt,” she murmured against his lips. “Just us. Just this.”
With a growl, he walked her backwards to the bed.
The bottle of whisky landed with a thump on a pillow, and then he lifted her onto the mattress’s edge. Bracing her face in his warm hands, he nudged her knees apart to stand between them. She shuddered as he freed her hairpins with surprising dexterity, the heavy, rolled bundle of her hair falling in a coiled mass down her back. Threading his fingers through it, he tugged and lengthened the curls before dragging handfuls over the fronts of her shoulders, the backs of his hands grazing her nipples through her gown.
“Stand up,” he whispered, his tone gentle but without compromise.
Trembling, she obeyed, and bowed her head to his chest to permit him access to the uppermost button of her gown. His fingers were warm on her nape.
More shudders and tingles rippled through her with each button he undid.
It was like he was stripping away layers of her, one pearl button at a time, one thin façade after another until he peeled away the last opaque semblance of the proper woman she portrayed to expose the vulnerable—feral—creature she was.
She tipped back her head as he shimmied the dress down her torso until it pooled at her feet.
“Lift your arms,” he murmured, and when she did, he rucked her chemise off and tossed it aside, pausing to nibble on her shoulders before springing her corset loose.
She immediately reached to cover her bosom, but let her hands fall when he shook his head. Cupping her bare breasts, he skimmed his thumbs over her exquisitely sensitive nipples.
“Oh, heaven,” she murmured.
He directed her to lie flat on the bed with her arms raised above her head, and as though under hypnotic command, she did, trembling as he floated his hands along the length of her, tracing the outer edges of her breasts, rib cage, hips, and legs all the way down to her feet. Over and over, he retraced his movements, drawing a tighter circle each time, until he concentrated only on the soft mound of her sex. She gasped as he grazed his thumb over her swollen centre.
Never had she ever felt this...bothered. Needy. It was painful. And agonisingly sweet.
She gripped the bedcovers, whimpering as he feathered his thumb along her damp cleft, her hips lifting of their own accord to spread her thighs and welcome his exploratory caresses.
When he paused, she tipped her head back and angled her hips in anticipation of him shifting to lie atop and enter her, and gasped in shock when instead, he knelt and pressed a kiss to her slick centre.
“No,” she rasped, and reached to push him away.
“Yes,” he said firmly.
Shock gave way to indescribable pleasure the moment his tongue found her nub and laved, slowly. Then with more rapidity.
She was helpless against the pleasure he offered, moaning as he lifted her buttocks higher to give him greater access. She almost screamed, and grappled at his hair when he trapped her swollen bud in his teeth to suckle with tender ferocity.
Moaning, she writhed as the final layer of her propriety ripped away in a storm of pleasure so strong it carved a bow in her spine as she shattered—a shooting star exploding into a million tiny pinpoints of hot, white, pulsing light.
~~~
JOE EASED UP WITH HIS tongue as she convulsed in his hands, soft gasps escaping her with each twitch. When he drew away, she fell limp momentarily before disentangling her hands from his hair to sink into the mattress. Very gently, he planted a kiss on her swollen flesh, eliciting another shuddering gasp as her thighs flexed inward.
Smiling, he remained on his knees, admiring the slender length of her body, from the unruly patch of brilliant red hair between her creamy thighs to the perfect crescents of her breasts tipped with dusky-pink nipples.
She was beautiful, if too thin in his opinion. Her hip bones formed sharp points either side of the taut concavity of her lower abdomen, which sloped sharply to her narrow, heaving ribcage. Eyes closed and red hair like wild flames around her head, fingers curled into the bed covers, she was a perfect portrait of sexual abandon.
The fierce ache in his groin intensified. It took every ounce of his reserve not to tear off his breeches and drive into her with the blind madness of a rutting boar.
As though sensing his thoughts, her eyes snapped open, and she tilted to look at him, green eyes sensual slits and cheeks flushed. She started to roll to her side, but he stopped her with a hand on each hip bone. When she met his gaze with a frown, he smiled and held out his hands.
She hesitated before reluctantly accepting his help.
Easing her upwards, he tugged her to the edge of the mattress, and cupped her face.
“Good night,” he whispered.
“What? No—”
“Yes.” He kissed her mouth to silence her protest, and before he could change his mind, he grabbed the bottle off the bed and headed for the door.
“But...what about you?” Her voice was soft, bewildered, the most hesitant he’d heard it since the day they met. It drove through him like a spike.
He paused, hand on the doorknob. “This isn’t about me,” he rasped. “Or even you.”
A rustling sound alerted him to movement behind him, and a moment later, she laid a palm on his back.
He closed his eyes and inhaled against the urge to swing around, carry her to the bed, and explore her delicate frame in exquisite detail. Trace every contour and valley with his lips, count every freckle with a kiss, unravel every red-gold curl.
“If it’s not about me or you,” she whispered, “then who? We are the only ones here—”
“No. We’re not.” He faced her but kept his hands at his sides, the one holding the whisky almost melded to the glass by the force of his hold. “We’re not the only ones here. This house is full of people. So is this land—”
“I’m talking about right now.” She’d sheathed herself with the satin coverlet, its shimmery material pooling on the rug around her feet like sea water. With her fiery curls tumbled over her pale shoulders to cover the small but firm mounds of her breasts hidden below the green satin, she looked much as he imagined a mythical mermaid would—a very beautiful, fragile, and faintly annoyed mermaid. “We’re alone. It’s late. And everyone is abed.”
“Not everyone,” he said. “Coral knows I’m here, and the longer I delay, the more she’ll wonder—”
“She’s gone to bed.”
He snorted softly. “For such an astute and intelligent woman, you can be foolishly naive.”
“I’m not naive. I’m...” She looked away. “You’re right. Go. I’ve made fool enough of myself—”
“No.” He touched her chin and applied gentle pressure until she looked at him. “You’re not a fool. You’re alone, and lonely. Like me. But we can’t...” He shook his head. “There’s nothing I want more.” He traced a fingertip over her lower lip. “But we can’t. I work for you. You deserve better. Better than to be raked through the gossip wheel. And then there’s Maisie. I can’t—I won’t—hurt her. I’m sorry, but I won’t.”
He turned, opened the door quietly, and shut it with equal silence behind him before striding along the empty corridor towards the stairs.
If she opened the door to look after him, he didn’t know. Didn’t want to know. He kept his gaze firmly forward until he was safely down the stairs and in the guest wing.
Maisie’s door was closed, no sound behind it. He paused in the process of reaching for the knob.
Every night for almost ten years, he’d gone in to check on her and press a kiss to her brow before taking himself to bed. But things were changing, and he was no longer certain what he should or could do.
“I’m not a baby. I don’t need to be tucked in.”
Grinding his molars, he turned into his room. Once behind the closed—and locked—door, he opened the Glenlivet and tipped it to his lips, downing a long swallow. Then another. Drawing a deep breath, he very carefully replaced the lid and returned the bottle to the dresser where he’d found it. Stripping off his clothes, he turned down the lamp and crawled into bed. On his back, he stared at the shapes dancing on the ceiling, shadows of trees cast by moonlight through the un-shuttered window.
“No,” he muttered.
But the crushing ache in his loins refused to heed.
With a hiss, he snatched his shirt off the chair where he’d tossed it.
It didn’t take long. He hadn’t expected it would. Not with her scent clinging to him, the taste of her still on his lips.
Wadding the shirt in a ball, he tossed it in the wicker basket meant for dirty laundry and stretched on his back, the bedsheet drawn to his waist, and resumed staring at the waltzing shadows on the ceiling. His mind immediately conjured her in the satin coverlet, her titian curls caressing her breasts through the sateen material. And, despite having experienced release not moments earlier, his cock stirred.
He flopped to his front, bunched the pillow under his head, and squeezed his eyes shut.
“Go to sleep, you selfish bastard,” he muttered, guilt flowing through him like gutter sewage.
He’d taken advantage of her. Stripped her naked, pleasured her, and then fled like an embarrassed schoolboy caught peeking in the neighbour girl’s bedchamber window.
Yanking the pillow out from under his cheek, he clamped it over his head, leaving only a small space for him to breathe, and clenched his buttocks against an urgent need to go back to her.
It was too late. The damage was done. He’d only make it more awkward, more embarrassing. She was probably already in bed, asleep, if not lying awake and hating him.
Flipping to his back, he jerked the sheet to his chest, closed his eyes, and tried to wrest Lyons, and Mrs. Sweeney, Maisie, and every other goddamn person weighing on his heart and mind out of his thoughts. Which only served to incite them.
Their voices echoed louder, angrier...sadder. Their rejections, advice, and visible hurt collided in his head like the clash of swords on a battlefield.
With a resigned sigh he let his muscles go slack, helpless against the serrated cacophony of sensation and sound.
It was going to be a long, long night.
~~~
A SHIVER PROMPTED MARGARET to the realisation that she was cold and forced her to stir from the chair in the corner of the room where she’d slumped after Mr. Banner’s abrupt exit. Standing, she glanced around, at a loss for what to do.
Her body knew what it wanted to do, for it sent a rash of gooseflesh along her skin to remind her it wanted more warmth than the cooling air in the cavernous bedchamber could currently provide.
Hiking the hems of her improvised gown, she moved to the credenza, poured a finger of whisky into a crystal tumbler, gulped it down, refreshed her drink, and faced the bed.
The smart thing would be to crawl in it and go to sleep. She had a busy morning ahead. Educational materials to sort. A classroom to create.
A child to tutor.
But when she thought about climbing on the broad mattress and burrowing beneath the duvet, all she could think of was how lonely it would be.
She turned away and paused, staring at her late husbands’ portraits. An inexplicable and entirely unreasonable rush of shame welled in her.
George was dead. What did he care what she did now?
Still, she couldn’t shake the irrational feeling that he was watching her. He and William.
She crossed to the dresser and, setting the tumbler on it, carefully faced all the frames to the wall. Reclaiming her whisky, she crossed the short distance to the bathing screen, and, sliding the whisky glass on the table beside the tub, she dipped her hand in the bath water. It was surprisingly still warm.
She brought her fingers to her nose, closed her eyes, and inhaled, letting her shoulders lower as some of the tension left her.
Jasmine was her favourite floral scent. She'd fallen in love with it on her nineteenth birthday when William had given her a flacon of Guerlain’s Sillage he’d bought for her during a trip to France. She’d used the fragrance in her morning and evening ablutions ever since. Coral had started adding a lavender extract to her evening bathwater as well, insisting it would help improve Margaret’s sleep.
Though she couldn’t confirm Coral’s belief in lavender’s slumber-inducing properties with any certainty, she had noticed a definite uptick in her overall mood in recent days, despite what seemed to be a never-ending stream of tragedy at Sugar Hill. Though the improvement could be potentially attributable to a fuller night’s rest, in truth she believed it had more to do with Mr. Banner’s approval of her helping Maisie learn to read.
Her throat tightened, thoughts of her overseer and his sweet daughter sending a riot of conflicting emotion tumbling through her.
Neither of her husbands had ever put his mouth where Mr. Banner had. Or done anything with their tongues like Mr. Banner had with his. And though she should have found the whole event humiliating, if not reprehensible given the unsanitary nature of it, all she felt was...She shivered, and mentally stamped on the rush of sexual desire tingling through her.
Dropping the coverlet to the floor, she stepped into the tub and sank down the sloped back until water lapped her jaw. Grasping the tumbler, she closed her eyes and nursed the spirit.
Her nipples, already taut, contracted with the dual pleasures of scented bath water caressing her skin and the unbidden memory of Mr. Banner’s tongue caressing her. She gulped the whisky, set the tumbler on the table with a clack, and, pressing her palms against the bottom of the tub, willed the silvery threads of lust coursing through her to subside and dilute in the floral-scented bath water. But the tingle at the juncture of her thighs refused to ease.
The harder she tried to quell it, the stronger it grew, feeding off her resistance the way flames gained intensity from each panicked fan of air meant blow them out.
It was all she could do to keep her hands on the tub bottom and away from the escalating fire.
She forced her palms downward, imagined them melding with the copper. But the urge was too strong, a lightning-sparked fire ripping through primordial forest. And, as though commanded by a force outside her, one of her hands floated up to slide between her thighs. A moan escaped her as her fingers found her nub, swollen with anticipation and the remembered passion of Mr. Banner’s hands and mouth on her.
When her release came, it was with agonising relief. And pelvic-shuddering shame.
Aching isolation.
Eyes closed, she sank deeper in the water until it covered her mouth enough to muffle her sobs and capture her tears.