Chapter Twelve

It was time to go. Louisa anticipated difficulty having to coax Will away from the game and his new friends. He was having so much fun. But the captain called to him once, and, like a dutiful member of his crew, Will responded immediately. The lad, generally not one given to long speeches, gave them a running commentary of the entire game: the names of the other boys, their ages, their levels of skill and speed, and how they measured up as players. Nonstop chatter all the way back to the carriage where Mr. Foley waited. It was half three, just as they had planned, but no sign of Reverend Wynterbottom.

“Where did he say he was going?” Louisa asked.

“He said he had business to see to. Since he didnae say what business, I thought it was none of mine,” Ian said.

She asked Mr. Foley, “Have you seen the reverend?”

“Not since he entered the Pettibone Tavern about three hours ago.”

Louisa glanced at the captain to confirm her suspicions.

“You and Will stay here with the carriage,” Captain Sinclair said. “Mr. Foley, would you mind leading me to the Pettibone Tavern?”

Less than half an hour later, Reverend Wynterbottom came staggering down Main Street, the captain and Mr. Foley propping him up on either side.

“Oh dear,” she said to herself.

Will said, “I ken the reverend’s going to have to start all over again.”

Captain Sinclair poured Reverend Wynterbottom into the carriage amid his repeated apologies for his unseemly condition. They let the man curl up on one bench while she and the captain sat on the other.

“It’s my fault. It’s all my fault,” the reverend kept repeating. “God will never forgive me for abandoning them.”

“I hope he stops talking,” the captain said.

“I hope he doesn’t vomit,” Louisa said.

“I left them. I left them,” the reverend said between sobs. “All my little chicks, I left them.”

Wynterbottom ceased his nonsensical chatter, fell asleep, and snored all the way back to Quaker Hill. The captain ordered Will to stay with the horses and carriage while Louisa led the way, opening doors as Mr. Foley and the captain carried the reverend into the house and up to his room to sleep it off.

“His head will hurt like the devil tomorrow morning, but my missus has a tincture to cure that,” Mr. Foley said and excused himself.

“I wonder where Mr. Kirby and Miss Robertson are,” Louisa said, standing in the hallway with the captain.

Captain Sinclair scratched the back of his neck and averted his gaze. “Perhaps you should have a rest afore supper?”

“But I’m not tired.”

One side of the captain’s mouth kicked up in a rakish grin. “Aye, but ye will be once I’m done with you.”

Louisa went to her room and removed her lightweight summer gown. While she washed the heat of the day from her face and neck, she considered the comment Captain Sinclair had made. It bothered her. He’d meant it as a jest, yet there must be some truth in it.

He’d implied she was going to be tired when he was done with her. What on earth did that mean? Kissing made her breathless and a wee bit weak in the knees, but it wasn’t what she would call strenuous. She lay on her bed wondering how coupling could exhaust her. Surely all that naked nonsense with parts inserted into other parts etcetera wouldn’t be the sole cause for collapse. What else did he have in mind and just how debauched was Captain Sinclair?

Eliza woke her some hours later and announced supper would be ready in thirty minutes.

“Has Miss Robertson returned?”

“Yes, miss. About an hour ago. She and Mr. Kirby are in the parlor with the captain.”

“Please tell them I’ll join them soon.”

She dressed and tidied her hair as quickly as possible. Louisa needed to talk to Mairi. In matters of the bedroom, she was experienced, at least more experienced than Louisa. Mairi would know what Captain Sinclair meant by her being tired “once I’m done with you.”

Louisa thought she’d be able to pull Mairi aside before supper. No such luck. She’d attached herself to Mr. Kirby like a barnacle and would not let go. Even at supper, she kept reaching over and holding his hand. Didn’t she know the man needed two hands to eat? At this rate, she might starve Mr. Kirby to death before she got a chance to marry him. If only she could find a moment to pry the woman off of the man.

“Mr. Kirby and I are going for an evening stroll,” Mairi announced as they rose from the dinner table.

“Actually, could you spare a few minutes to talk about some wedding details?” Louisa asked sweetly.

“All the wedding plans are set, are they not, Mr. Kirby?” Mairi said. “Dinnae fash yourself.”

Mr. Kirby beamed. “I love it when you say those charming Scottish expressions.”

Louisa stole a glance at Captain Sinclair who looked like he was about to squash Mr. Kirby like a bug.

“Yes, well, there are a few additional things I need to discuss with you. Alone.” She leaned forward, opened her eyes wide, and stared deeply into Mairi’s, hoping she would catch on. She didn’t.

Before Louisa could object, Mr. Kirby wrapped a shawl around Mairi’s shoulders and swept her out of the house. Damn. She’d missed her opportunity.

“Come. We’ll have a brandy, aye?” The captain ushered her across the entry into the parlor.

She arranged herself on one end of the settee while Captain Sinclair poured the brandy. He handed her a tiny glass of the spirit and settled next to her. The settee was meant for two, but he seemed to be crowding her on purpose, one arm draped over the back behind her, his leg crossed and his boot nudging her leg slightly.

“What were you so desperate to talk to Miss Robertson aboot?”

“As I said, wedding details.”

He chuckled that deep, rich baritone, the one that was just right. “You get red patches on your cheeks when you fib.”

“I do not.”

“Aye. Ye do.” He ran the back of his finger down the side of her face. “Right here.”

“Maybe it’s none of your business what I was going to ask Mairi—Miss Robertson, I mean.” Dear Lord. She needed to calm down or she’d make a dreadful mistake.

He gave her an odd look, then took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. His face was so close to hers, she felt it on her neck. “Lass, dinnae fash aboot tonight. I’ll go slow. Slow and gentle.”

“But what…” She stopped herself from finishing. He’d only think she was foolish and ignorant.

“Dinnae look to little Miss Robertson for answers, lass. Believe me. She can tell you nothing aboot what you and I will share tonight.”

She could stand the suspense no longer. “What did you mean when you said you would make me tired?”

For a split second, she registered surprise on his face. Then he did the worst thing. He laughed.

She shot to her feet. “Stop laughing at me.” She punched him in his sore arm on purpose.

“Ow!”

“You’re a bloody imbecile, Ian Sinclair.”

He launched himself at her, giving her no time to escape. He wrapped his long, muscled arms around her, hauled her against his chest, and kissed her with such ferocity, it made the private spot between her legs hot and damp and tight. Oh Lord, he was grinding his body against hers, his muscles trembled, and all she wanted was… What was it she wanted? Why didn’t she know?

He dragged his lips to her ear and growled. “When a man wants a woman like I want you, the passion between them will spark a fire that will consume them, incinerate them, leaving nothing but ashes. I plan to love you all night, make you come apart in my arms over and over until you are spent and boneless. Do ye ken what I mean now, love?”

“Aye. I do.”

“Say my name,” he rasped.

“Ian.”

“Again.”

“Ian.”

He squeezed her tighter. “Again.”

“Oh God, Ian. Kiss me. Please kiss me.”

…

Ian was going to have to kill Reverend Wynterbottom. The reeking sot had stumbled into the parlor and interrupted them at the best part. Well, maybe not the very best part, but close to it. He was about to ruck up Miss MacQuarie’s skirts and have her up against the wall. He’d always found that a fun and satisfying way to—

Damn. He was a frigging animal. Literally. He’d promised slow and gentle. Instead, he was about to roger her in the parlor. He should thank the reverend for barging in on them.

“Did I miss supper?” the bleary eyed clergyman asked.

Miss MacQuarie straightened her gown and discreetly drew the back of her fingers across her lips. “I’m afraid so, Reverend, but Mrs. Foley left you a cold plate in the pantry.”

“Ah. Thank you.” He waved a hand. “Carry on,” he said and toddled off.

They stood there, six feet apart, staring at each other and still breathing hard from their close encounter, until Ian said, “Forgive me for forcing myself on you like that. I had planned to go slow and—”

“Oh dear, I’m out of breath.” She swallowed and put a hand to her chest. “I understand what you mean, now. About the fire and the ashes.” She smiled, and his body went hard as a rock. “I, em…” She pointed to the door. “I’ll go to my room now and…wait for you.”

Ian had another brandy, fortification for the long night ahead, before retiring to his room. He thought it best to go above stairs before Kirby and Miss Robertson returned to the house lest he find himself in an extended conversation with his host as he had the night before.

Like last night, he removed his coat, waistcoat, and neckcloth. Tonight, however, he removed his boots. For stealth, he told himself, stealth and ease of trouser removal. He lay on his bed with his member straining to be released. He was so hard, that if he opened his drawers, he was certain his cock would point to the sky on its own like a flagpole.

Soft scratching on his door made him think of a cat, and he rolled out of bed to see. He opened his door to the dimly lit hallway and a gossamer sylph slipped inside his room.

“Lass?”

“I couldnae wait any longer,” she whispered, and reached up to pull his face down to hers. Her kiss, filled with the unskilled passion of an innocent, threatened to undo him. He would spend in his trousers if he didn’t slow the hell down. He swept her into his arms, carried her to his bed, and laid her there gently.

“Let me lock my door and light some candles,” he said.

And let me gather my wits and cool down before I embarrass myself.

He’d had this fantasy ever since he was fourteen, the one where a beautiful woman comes to his room and asks him to bed her. He’d replayed it in his head a thousand times, all the things he would do and say. The woman never had a face, only a body with silky skin, plush breasts, and a plump, round bottom. And in the fantasy, he was a masterful lover. He said things that made her sigh, stroked her until she came, and plunged inside of her over and over until she called out his name. A thousand times he’d brought himself off to the daydream and yet, as he lit the last candle and took her in, he couldn’t remember a single clever thing he’d said or done.

She’d taken off her shift and was sitting naked in the center of his bed, her legs tucked under her bottom, her ample breasts pert, the nipples tiny tightened beads pointing at his cock. Her hair tumbling about her shoulders and so long, it reached her narrow waist. And her hands, those birdlike, velvety magic hands, were clasped demurely over her lap to hide her thatch of curls.

“Aren’t you supposed to be naked, too?” she asked.

His mouth had gone dry. Fortunately, his flask of whisky sat on the floor next to his bed. He took a long pull and replaced it. He tugged the shirt over his head, unbuttoned his fall and shoved his trousers to the floor. Next, he loosened the string on his drawers and let them drop. Finally set free, his cock waved joyfully at her nipples.

“Oh, Ian,” she said, raking her eyes up and down his body, “you are beautiful.”

He climbed onto the bed, facing her, one leg tucked under him, the other leg dangling off the side. He looked at her, every inch of her gorgeous body, especially those breasts. He’d imagined they would be on the large side, the way he liked them, but hadn’t imagined the shape of them would be so…perfect. And the nipples like two brass bullets. He would have to kiss those, lick them, suck them, tweak them. But that would wait. Right now, he needed to see everything. He unclasped her hands and drew them away from her lap revealing the dark triangle of curls. He resisted slipping a hand between her thighs to see if she was ready for him. There would be time for that, too.

“What’s next?” she whispered.

“This,” he said. Leaning forward and bracing himself with one fist on the mattress, he slipped his other hand through her hair around the back of her neck. He kissed her. She opened to him, let him play with her tongue and tease her lips. She slid her hands up his chest and paused to rub her fingers over his nipples. Jee-sus. He sucked in a breath and stilled her hands.

“What?” she asked.

“We’re going to play a game,” he said. She tilted her head quizzically. “We’re going to take turns kissing each other’s bodies. First, you lie still on the bed while I kiss and touch every inch of you to my satisfaction.”

“And then I get to do it to you?”

“Aye. That’s the way it’s played.”

“How do you tell who’s the winner?”

“Oh, you’ll know, love. You’ll know.”

…

Louisa thought there wasn’t anything more thrilling than wearing trousers on stage. She was wrong. The most thrilling thing in the world was wearing absolutely nothing in Ian Sinclair’s bed. Dear Lord, the way he looked at her made her feel as if she was the most interesting, the most beautiful, the most desirable woman he’d ever seen. It was a deliciously wicked feeling. Did that mean she was a wanton woman?

Gran had always said there was nothing sinful about sex, and women who maintained a distaste for the marriage bed were either lying or unsatisfied with their partner. Apparently, pretending to be prudish about the subject was a sign of virtue. Louisa wanted no part of that. Men could be rather prudish, too. Captain Sinclair more so than most, always pretending to shield her from seeing his body, but she knew better. He wanted to show off for her.

Well, he wasn’t shielding his body from her view now. He stood before her in all his naked glory, proud as a peacock. And he had a right to. Shoulders, arms, chest, belly, all perfectly sculpted with muscle. She let her eyes fall to where his sun-brown chest met his pale white nether region just below his belly button. Her gaze traveled even lower to the wild nest of auburn pubic hair. Oh, for the love of God. Even his ugly bits were beautiful. Elegant. Longer and thicker than she’d ever imagined that part of a man could get. It bobbed as if it had a personality of its own.

“Oh, Ian. You are beautiful.”

He slid one knee onto the bed and sat. Was she supposed to do something now? Was he waiting for her to…to do what? Were there other things that came before the connecting parts business? She should probably ask, but she didn’t want him to think she was stupid. He pulled her hands away from her lap. She hadn’t even realized she’d clasped them there. Up until now, he’d been preoccupied with staring at her breasts. His interest had shifted to her lower anatomy.

The anticipation was too much. “What’s next?” she asked.

“This,” he said and kissed her. She didn’t have other kisses to compare with his, but she was certain Ian Sinclair was a more than competent kisser. Like when he’d kissed her before, she became a little dizzy, and her nipples tightened into painful knots. The lazy, languid way he kissed her seemed to indicate the way in which he planned to take her. He did, after all, promise slow and gentle. She was also growing more and more aware of the spot between her legs that often tightened and throbbed when he kissed her. Tonight, it was very insistent, demanding attention, touching. So wicked. She was going to hell.

She put her hands on his belly, his hard, tight belly and slid them up toward his shoulders, but got distracted when she encountered his nipples, tiny beads of flesh that delighted her touch.

He hissed and took hold of her wrists. Did she hurt him? Maybe his nipples ached as much as hers? Didn’t he know touching them would help with the ache?

“What?”

“We’re going to play a game,” he said.

A game? Why would he want to stop in the middle of all this thrilling business to play a bloody game? But once he explained the rules, the game made a kind of wicked sense. Hadn’t she heard it referred to as bed-sport? Of course. Sex was meant to be fun. And not just for men. Why would women pretend not to like something that was fun?

Without him having to ask her twice, she unfolded her legs and got into position. “On my back?” she asked.

“Aye, and tuck your hands under your bottom. When it’s my turn, I get to touch you, but you cannae touch me.”

She nodded and slid her fingers under her hips.

“Close your eyes and no peeking.”

“Can I talk?”

He chuckled deep in his chest. “You can make all the little sounds you want, love. Just dinnae be too loud, aye?”

“Loud?”

“No screaming.”

That was alarming. “Is it going to hurt?”

“Nae, it’s going to feel so good, you’ll want to cry out.”

“Oh.”

“The next time, I’ll make sure we’re all alone so you can scream as much as ye want, I promise.”

There would be a next time? He straddled her legs and braced himself with a palm on either side of her. She inhaled, surprised at how big and dominating his dark figure looked looming over her.

“Close your eyes, love. The game begins now.”

The first flood of sensation came when he buried his nose in the crook of her neck, and groaned, “God, you smell good.” His full day’s growth of raspy beard prickled her skin and made her turn her face into his silky hair and inhale.

“Mm. So do you.”

She lay in a sort of delirium while he kissed her ears, cheeks, nose, chin, brow. Then opened her mouth for a deep kiss, his tongue dancing in and out, tangling with hers, teasing her lips. He paused, leaving his lips lightly touching hers, and then whispered. “My beautiful green-eyed sorceress, you’ve bewitched me. You are all I think about. All day I pictured you like this, naked, under me, letting me touch you.” He trailed a kiss down her neck and over her shoulder. “In all my fantasies, you never tasted this good, or smelled this good…” He shifted on the bed and his cock grazed her thigh. He growled, “Or felt this damn good.”

He covered her left nipple with his cool wet lips and sucked.

She cried out and her back arched at the shocking sensation.

“Shhh,” he said. “Tell me quietly now, how does that feel, love?”

“Good,” she panted, “so good, too good.”

“Shall I stop?”

“Nae, dinnae stop.”

He chuckled into her breast. “I wonder, does the other one taste as good?”

“Ah.” She arched again. “You are a wicked man, Ian Sinclair.”

He lifted his head. “If I am, you make me so.”

While he sucked and nipped her right nipple, he cupped her left with his hand and squeezed. He pinched the hard nub and rolled it between his fingers. She moaned and pleaded for more, begged him not to stop. Her hips had started to rock and twist and squirm because she needed something—

He hooked his hand under her left knee and pulled her leg up, then snugged his thigh firmly against the spot between her legs. Yes. That’s what she needed. Contact. Pressure. Something to rock against.

His big warm hand skimmed the inside of her thigh all the way up to her— “Oh.”

“Christ, you’re so slick and wet.” He said it as if it was a good thing. Which was fortunate because that wasn’t something she had any control over. In fact, she was losing control by the second.

Her eyes flew open when he slid a finger into the cleft of her womanly part. She lifted her head, but he didn’t notice because he had bent his head to look at her parts. He scraped his teeth over his bottom lip and his tongue slipped out in concentration as he began to stroke her experimentally. He rubbed up and down, then in small circles. “Which feels better?” he asked.

“More,” she gasped. “More. More. More. Oh God.”

He slid one finger inside her and she thought she might fly off the bed and hit the ceiling, it felt so sinfully good.

“Keep your eyes closed,” he whispered in her ear. “Concentrate on that spot, think naughty thoughts, whisper dirty words.”

She did as she was told and concentrated on the burning, tightening, throbbing feel of his finger swirling circles around that wild spot on her body. His private part was the naughtiest thing she could think of. Even naughtier, she pictured her hand wrapped around it. She couldn’t bring herself to utter the dirtiest word she knew out loud, so she mouthed it over and over.

“You’re almost there, love,” he whispered. “Say the word out loud and let yourself go.”

“Please, please, oh,” and then she said the word out loud.

The world splintered into a thousand shards of colored light and her body shuddered.

“That’s it, love. Come for me.” He slid his finger inside and her body pulsed around it.

“Oh, Ian, Ian, I didnae ken it was like that. Oh Lord. That was so wicked.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face in his shoulder. She felt like sobbing but she was too happy. No one had prepared her for how intimate this would be, sharing something like this, whatever it was called.

She lifted her head. “What was that?”

He settled next to her and stroked her belly with the back of his hand. “You had an orgasm. Did you never touch yourself before?”

“Was I supposed to?”

“When someone isnae in your bed to give you pleasure, you can always give yourself pleasure.”

What an incredible idea. Ian wasn’t nearly as prudish as she had originally thought. In fact, he was a wicked, wicked man. And she loved that.

“There are people who will tell you there is shame in it, but dinnae listen to them. There’s no shame at all.” He kissed her then, a long sweet kiss. A kiss so natural it felt like they’d kissed a thousand times before.

She suddenly remembered her recent wanton behavior and her hand flew to her mouth.

“What is it?”

“I said that word out loud.” The back of her neck burned with embarrassment.

“Aye, ye did.” He nuzzled her ear. “And now I ken your secret word, the word that brings you off.”

…

Ian had brought many women to completion. He’d gotten quite good at it. It was the polite thing to do, after all. An exchange of favors. He’d felt obliged to give the woman pleasure before he took his. The more efficient he was, the quicker he could achieve his own and be on his way.

Never, never in all the years he’d spent swiving as many women as he could coax into his bed had he ever derived as much pleasure as he did watching Miss Green-Eyes open like a flower in his arms. And Christ, when she’d uttered that word—which happened to be his favorite trigger word, too—he’d nearly spent himself on her belly.

“Did I win?” she asked.

“Nae. The object of the game is to please the other. I believe I won.”

“Is it my turn now?”

“I’m no’ done with you.”

She rolled onto her stomach and propped herself on her elbows. “What’s next?”

“My bed’s too small for what I have in mind. Shall we make a dash for your room?”

They semi-dressed and snuck down the hallway one at a time. His heart thundered in his chest with the possibility of being caught, but he doubted Kirby would think poorly of him since he had the same lurid intention of debauching Miss Robertson. Once inside Miss MacQuarie’s chamber, he locked the door behind him and skimmed off his trousers and shirt. His vixen was already lighting candles.

“Wait,” he said. “Take off your night things. I want to watch you walk about the room naked.” He hopped onto her bed, stretched out his legs, and folded his arms behind his head.

She lifted one elegant eyebrow. “Comfortable?”

He smiled. “Very. Begin the performance.”

She swept off her shift and very casually—as if a debauched ex-soldier with a cock as hard as brass wasn’t watching her—draped the item over a chair. She lit a taper off the burning candle, then went about the room lighting six more, just as natural as can be. Not a self-conscious tic or twitch.

She was a performer.

Finished, she looked to him for more. He twirled his finger in the air. Miss MacQuarie gracefully turned full circle and curtsied low for him.

He sat up and mimed clapping his hands, whispering, “Brava, brava.”

She burst into giggles, trotted to the bed with breasts and curls bouncing, and jumped in next to him. He gathered her into his arms and planted kisses on her head, cheeks, ears, neck, anything within reach of his lips. She straddled his hips and sat back on his thighs.

“Do ye ken you have a very fine arse, Miss MacQuarie?”

“I do now.” He reached for one of her breasts and she batted his hand away playfully. “What did you want to do that required a bigger bed?”

“That comes later.”

“Then is it my turn now?”

He pushed himself up to sitting. “Just let me feel them one more time.” She leaned forward and stuck out her chest so that he could cup them with his hands. “These are the most perfect breasts I’ve ever seen in my life. I’d insist they should be displayed in an art museum, except I’d have to kill any man who looked at them.” Jee-sus. Where did that come from? He sounded like a jealous lover. He leaned back on the pillow and refolded his arms behind his head. “Right. I’m closing my eyes now. Do your worst. But remember, I’m ticklish.”

She remained still for a long minute until he was compelled to open one eye. As far as he could tell in the dim lighting, she was inspecting his arms and chest. He felt the skin on his body flush. “Eyes closed,” she said. The heat of her body left him and the bed dipped.

“Where are you going?”

“Dinnae move. I have a candle in my hands.”

“Why?”

“I need to see you better.” Her cool hand trailed slowly down his chest and belly, and he tensed with anticipation. No fannying about for her. The lass was going directly for the prize. To his dismay, her hand took a detour down his flank, over his hip and thigh, and paused on the ugly scar. “What happened here?”

“Saber cut. That’s what brought me down at Quatre Bras. Nearly killed me.”

“But my—but General Robertson carried you off the field.”

“Aye.” He opened his right eye enough to see her bend and kiss the angry red ropey-looking thing. Standing at the side of the bed—instead of in it with him as she should be, as he wanted her to be—she continued her close inspection. When her hand reached his foot, he flinched. “I told you. I’m ticklish.”

“Do ye ken you have a very fine pair of feet, Captain?”

His belly bounced with silent laughter. “Feet?” He whispered. “Of all the parts of me, you choose to comment on my feet?”

“But they’re beautiful.”

“Come here, ye daft woman.” He sat up, took the candle from her and set it back down on the table next to the bed. She climbed back in and resumed her straddle. His cock stiffened and jumped between their bellies, drawing her attention.

“Did you do that or does it move on its own?”

He laughed again and wrapped his arms around her back. Ian couldn’t remember having this much fun with a naked woman before. “Most of the time, I can control it, but no’ when it comes to you.”

“Because I’m naked?”

He kissed her quick. “Because you smell like lavender, and you have emerald-green eyes that flash when you’re angry, and you have magic hands that take away my pain.” He licked her neck. “And ye wear trousers under your kirtle, and put loaded guns in your pockets.”

“But I thought those were the things that made you angry.”

“Anger. Desire. My cock doesnae ken the difference.” He cupped one heavy breast in his hand. “And ye have the bonniest chebs I’ve ever seen.” He trailed more kisses down her shoulder.

She arched into his touch with a gasp. “But what about the game?”

He paused between kisses. “I concede the game. You are the winner.” He wrapped one arm tightly around her waist and using his other for leverage, spun them both around so that her back was on the mattress and he was on top of her. She let out a little sound of surprise. He snugged himself between her legs and the thing inside his head—the itch that constantly reminded him when things needed to be straightened, or squared, or counted, or put back into place—calmed. This is where she should be. Under him.

“Is this when our parts go together?” she asked. He detected a hint of trepidation.

“If that is what you want, love. Do you want me inside you?”

“Will it hurt? You’re awfully…big.”

“A quick pinch, but after that, pleasure. And I promise you, I will fit.”

His balls had drawn up so tight they began to ache. Please say yes, please say yes.

“I want you inside me, Ian. Now.”

Thank Christ.

As he had promised, he went slowly, gently, mustering every ounce of control. His cock screamed for him to close his eyes and thrust. But the one corner of his sanity still functioning kept his eyes open, monitoring her for discomfort. Any time she winced, he withdrew an inch. Two steps forward, one step back, until he was halfway—the point of no return.

“Are you all right, love?”

“Aye.”

“Shall I make it quick, then?” She nodded and he buried himself to the hilt. She let out only a little gasp. He stilled until he got himself under control, and her breathing quieted. He moved experimentally, a short withdrawal and back.

“Oh. Is this the pleasure part?” she whispered.

“Aye,” he groaned, on the very edge of losing it. He began a slow incremental rhythm.

She uttered in a high-pitched, surprised, “Oh.” And then a low, “Oh. Oh, Ian, that is nice. That is—oh. I had no idea. Oh.”

Her words encouraged a faster pace, longer thrusts, harder thrusts. The thing inside his head began to uncoil, releasing tension he’d grown so used to, he hadn’t known it was always present. At last. He was in his proper place. This was where he was supposed to be. Inside her.

“Oh, Ian, Ian, it’s happening again.”

It was happening for him, too. He was close, so close. His trigger word formed in his head, traveled to his tongue and he opened his lips to speak it…but instead of his word, it came out as, “I love you, lass. Oh God, I love you.” The first pump of release brought him satisfaction like he’d never known, a glorious, overwhelming sense of peace and joy. The second pulse jolted him back to his senses and he pulled out, finishing himself on her belly.

Dazed from the power of his release, he collapsed in a sweating, heaving heap, completely oblivious to the woman under him.

“Ian, you’re squashing me. I cannae breathe.”

He rolled off, still panting, and draped his forearm over his eyes. Had he really just told Miss MacQuarie he loved her? Had she heard him? Another thought, darker than the first: he’d pulled out too late. Some of his seed was in her. It could be taking root even now.

A sickly sensation overcame him. A soup of guilt, shame, and regret. Bloody hell. Why did he always let his basest desires undo him? Was he doomed to repeat his same mistake?

“Are you all right?” he asked, unable to look at her.

“Yes. Are you?”

He got out of bed, padded to the basin, and dampened a towel. Returning, he said, “Sorry. It’s a bit cold,” and attempted to clean her belly.

She took the towel. “I’ll do it.”

“I should probably go back to my room. God knows what time it is.” He searched for his trousers.

“It’s not late. There’s hours and hours left. Must you go?”

He winced. “We both need sleep, lass.”

“Ian,” she said, sounding grave. “Are you sorry it happened?”

He punched his way into his shirt. “I hope not, lass,” he said, and left her.