Midnight Honor (8 page)

Anne might have had the wit to think of a response but for the thrill of feeling his lips part wider and slowly take her breast into his mouth. She melted forward, her fingers twisting into his hair, and he obliged by sucking harder, chafing her flesh with his tongue until she started making small smothered sounds in her throat.

But when she would have slipped off the edge of the chair and joined him eagerly on the hearthrug, he stopped her. His lips released her flesh with a soft, wet suckling sound and his hands went down to her thighs, coaxing them apart. A disbelieving heartbeat later, he was pushing that same warm and teasing mouth into the V of feathery copper curls, and Anne had to grip the edges of the chair to keep from lurching right off.

Her warning cry brought his hands around her hips to brace her through the first ungovernable rush of pleasure. His tongue prowled and probed. It thrust deep between the slippery folds and traced swirling patterns on flesh that shivered and tightened with each wave of gratification.

“Stop,” she gasped. “You must stop. I cannot bear it.”

“You can,” he murmured. “And you will, for I have not even begun.”

He ignored her moaned protest and his tongue pushed deeper, joined now by the wicked skill of long, tapered fingers—skill that had her clutching at his shoulders, and had her writhing so dangerously close to the edge of the chair that eventually he had no choice but to lift her and set her down on the rug beneath him. Once there, with nothing to hamper her pleasure or his, he hooked his arms under her knees and raised them until she was as open and exposed as the harlot she had craved to be only moments ago. This time, when her climax came, she had nowhere to go but up, up, straining into each shattering wave of ecstasy until she was in real danger of fainting.

Angus relented, but he abandoned her only as long as it
took to kick off his boots and peel away his breeches. Anne watched through heavy-lidded eyes as he pulled his shirt up over his head and flung it away in the shadows. She sighed as he removed his smallclothes, for he stood thick and proud before her, his arousal bucking up against his belly. When he saw where her gaze lingered, he lowered himself between her thighs, but stopped just short of touching her. Instead, he brought her hand forward and bade her wrap her fingers around him.

Anne let her hand glide over the hard shaft of flesh. The veins were prominent, the head smooth and sleek with the proof of his own intemperate arousal. She watched the response in the pewter gray eyes as she continued to pull and push, and she knew, when he was about as full and hard as he would ever be, there was no more time for teasing.

He came into her arms again and there was no hesitation, only hunger. She dug her fingers into the hard muscles across his back and welcomed the first powerful thrust with a cry of joy. As big as he was, she stretched eagerly to accommodate him, aware of every heated, surging inch of him. The pleasure shattered her again. And again. She could feel his flesh growing impossibly harder, thrusting into her with the full power and strength of his possession.

He whispered a ragged command and she raised her knees, locking her ankles together at his waist. He reared up, his face taut, the muscles across his chest and shoulders bulging, gleaming with his exertions, and she saw him give an apologetic little shake of his head, as if he could delay the inevitable no longer. He arched his torso and plunged his hips forward one last time, erupting hotly within her. She shared every shudder, every shiver, every liquid throb of his release before the sheer force of their expended energies brought them melting together in utter collapse.

Even then he continued to rock gently inside her, his flesh as unwilling as hers to relinquish even the smallest quiver of pleasure. From somewhere she found the strength to open her eyes; when she did, she saw the mirror image of their bodies twined together in the pattern of shadows on the wall, a sight that was more intoxicating than any ten bottles of fine French claret.

She ran her hands up from where they had been so urgently grasped around his buttocks and smiled faintly at the dampness she could feel on his shoulders and across his back. Angus Moy did not sweat, as a rule, nor did he pant or grin like a cocky adolescent who has just discovered the real reason why ministers spent so much time in the pulpit lecturing against sins of the flesh.

“Forgive me,” he murmured, capturing her lips beneath his. “You said you were tired. I did not mean to keep you from your bed.”

“A bed would be nice,” she agreed. “Eventually.”

“Eventually?” He said it as if the word held a wealth of possibilities and Anne parted her lips around another sigh, feeling him stir inside her.

“I'm still there,” he whispered. “God knows how, but I am still there.”

“Yes,” she gasped, curling her hips up to savor the delicious thickening. “And right there is where you will remain, my lord, until neither one of us has the strength to say nay.”

Chapter Four

W
hen Anne opened her eyes again, the room was completely dark. There was not even a ruddy glow from the fire with which to orient herself, and it took a moment to realize she was no longer in her own chamber; she was in Angus's big bed with the heavy draperies closed to keep out the drafts. Outside the velvet cocoon, she could hear the wind moaning against the window, rattling the panes of glass with frequent wintry gusts. Inside, there was only the sound of her own breathing and a depression beside her that was still faintly warm, suggesting she had not been alone very long.

Her husband's nocturnal habits had always baffled her. While she could remain in bed as long as the covers were warm and the pillow soft, Angus rarely stayed an entire night abed regardless of how long a day he'd had, or how late an evening. A light, restless sleeper, he would often be up well before the first servant rubbed the crust out of his eyes. Many a time Anne would waken to find him reading or sitting at his desk catching up on his correspondence. He claimed it was a habit he had acquired in his travels through Europe. In order to see and do all there was to see and do, he had learned how to get by on a meager two or three hours of sleep each night.

Anne did not think there was a castle anywhere in the world that would inspire her to rise before dawn and travel
twenty miles by horse cart just to glimpse an illusion of battlements floating above a cloud of mist. She was even less likely to cram her feet into shoes with three-inch glass heels just so she could dance the night away in some Russian princeling's court. She preferred the beauty of the glens and ancient keeps right here in Scotland, and there was no greater pleasure on earth than running barefoot through a field fragrant with heather.

With one possible exception, of course.

Her smile was decidedly complacent, as was her whole body. It had been so long … too long, since she'd wakened with her nose buried in pillows that smelled of the sandalwood oil Angus used to dress his hair. The scent was distinct and uniquely his, another luxury acquired abroad, for he disliked the chalky feel of powder and rarely tolerated the itch of a wig.

Mewling through a delicious stretch, she savored the feel of soft linen sheets against her naked body. She felt woolly and drugged, as if someone had given her laudanum and the effects were slow to wear away. Her lips were tender, her cheeks lightly chafed by stubble, and when her hand brushed over her breasts, she found they were still responsive enough for the nipples to gather instantly into tight, crinkled peaks. A languorous shifting of her hips brought attention to a welter of other sensations, most notably the throbbing sleekness between her thighs.

A faint sound from the other side of the curtain made her lift her head off the pillow. She listened a moment, then rolled quietly to the edge of the bed and ran her hand along the velvet until she found the break where the curtains joined. Careful to guard against the rustling of the mattress, she leaned over and used the tip of her finger to open a sliver between the panels.

At first she saw nothing for the lack of light. The night lamp glowed in its sconce beside the dressing room, but the wick was turned low, the flame too miserly to give off more than a pinpoint glow and a smudge of smoke. Something in the texture of the shadows drew her gaze to the desk, however, and after a few moments of concentration, she saw Angus seated in the leather chair where he usually scratched
out his letters. He was not writing anything now, however; he sat with his elbows propped on his knees, and his head bowed forward, his chin cradled in his hands.

Anne nudged the velvet wider. “Angus?”

When he did not move, or acknowledge her whisper, she moistened her lips and tried again. “Angus … are you all right?”

He expelled a long breath. “I'm fine. Go back to sleep.”

“Why are you sitting in the dark?”

“It isn't dark,” he said, raising his head. “It's just… quiet.”

Anne drew her legs up and swung them over the side of the bed. She had been carried into the room naked and it was measurably cooler outside the curtains. He was wearing the robe he normally kept beside the bed, and with nothing else at hand, she pulled the top cover off the bed and wrapped it around her shoulders before she emerged.

“I trust that is not your subtle way of telling me I snore, milord?”

His face was just a pale blot against the shadows, so she could not see if her remark won a smile as she approached. The robe was dark blue, the quilted brocade cool to the touch when she ran her hand across his shoulder.

“Anne, honestly I am fine. You should go back to bed before you catch a chill.”

“Will you at least let me stoke the fire for you? See, there are still some embers—”

“If
you
want a fire, I will build one for you, otherwise … please. I just want some time to
think.”

Anne recoiled slightly from the sudden sharpness in his voice—a voice that only a short while ago had been reduced to low and silky groans against her flesh.

“I'm sorry. I… certainly did not mean to intrude.” She pulled the blanket higher around her shoulders. “Perhaps you would rather I just returned to my own room?”

He caught her hand before she could turn away. “No. No … Anne, I'm the one who is sorry. I… I don't want you to go. Not at all. Please. Here, come and sit with me for a minute. My head is pounding like thunder and my belly feels full of lead ballast.”

“So much for feeding you a gallon of claret each night,” she murmured.

“What?”

“Never mind. 'Twas a silly thought anyway.”

Angus pulled her into his lap, and she curled warmly into the curve of his shoulder. “I truly am sorry.” He ran a hand down her back to smooth her straggling waves of hair into place. “I did not mean to bark at you.”

“And I did not mean to interrupt you. I will go back to bed if you want me to.”

He debated the offer for a moment before pressing a kiss into a crush of her hair. “No. I like you right where you are.”

Anne sighed and snuggled closer. A few seconds later, the soft edge of regret she had heard in his voice made her tilt her head surreptitiously upward to study his face in the gloom.

With the effects of the claret worn away, was he now embarrassed by their behavior during the night? As much as she imagined lust would be regarded as a decided weakness by a man who always kept such a tight rein over his emotions, he had seemed determined to make up for his lack of attentiveness over the past weeks. Was he now wondering how to face her across a plate of breakfast sausage, knowing where she had had her mouth only hours before?

An uncomfortable flush spread through her body and the lush, rich sense of contentment so recently acquired threatened to vanish between one heartbeat and the next.

“Is it something I have said … or … or something I have done that is troubling you?”

Angus took a moment to ponder his answer before he shook his head, dismissing the question. “No, it is nothing to do with you. Nothing you need concern yourself with, at any rate.”

His tone could not have been more patronizing had he patted her on the head and offered her a sweet.

“'Twere a fine romp, lass. Ye've done a bonny job distractin' me,” she said with gentle mockery, “now off ye go an' peel the tatties. Aye, milord, I'll just do that, I will. An' should I muck out the stables whilst I'm at it?”

He stared at her through the gloom, one dark wing of
brow curling upward. “A distraction? Is that what you think you are?”

“It's not what I want to think, but you leave me little choice when you as much as shout: ‘Go back to bed and don't bother me.’”

Angus opened his mouth, then snapped it shut again, the warning implicit if he tried to discount the charge with more platitudes.

“I did not shout.”

“You said it yourself: You barked. At any rate, you sounded angry.”

“Not with you, Anne. With myself, maybe, but not with you. Well, yes, all right, I will confess I was angry earlier tonight, but that was only because I was worried. I had a lot of time to think about a good many things, including what your presence in my life means to me.”