Page 60 of Who’s That Earl

“Our plans? Dragon?” Ross echoed before shaking off his incredulity and tipping his hat. “Aye, ma’am. As you wish it.” He sent a glance toward Thomas and winked. “I won’t wait up for you,” he added in a voice that was not as low as Thomas would have liked. Then, with a chirrup to the horses, he was off.

It was Thomas’s turn to feel heat spread over his face. “I would not have you think, Jane, that I told Ross—”

Her lips quirked. “People don’t always need to be told.” The mischievous twinkle in her eyes was matched by a saucy tilt to her chin. “For instance, I don’t believe Mr. Ross has actually proposed marriage to Elspeth Shaw. And yet...Ah, here we are.” The dogs raced up the steps of Number 17, nearly jerking the leashes from Jane’s hands.

“I do not like the thought of leaving you here alone, lass.” He glanced uneasily up and down the street. “We’ve no idea what your father intends nor when he might arrive.”

“I’m afraid tomorrow will have to be time enough for talking,” she said, fishing for a key. “My landlady lives beside me, and she does not allow me to entertain gentleman callers.” Once unlocked, the door swung open, and the dogs surged through, their leashes dragging behind them. Jane climbed two steps before turning back to him, now meeting him eye to eye. One finger came out to touch his lips. “So if I let you in tonight, you’ll have to promise to be very, very quiet.”

Desire bolted through him. A gentleman would surely refuse to come in, to say nothing of stay. Then again, she might be in danger. How could he bear to leave?

When she turned to ascend the remaining stairs and enter the house, he followed on the silent feet of a well-trained spy.

Chapter 22

Inside the door, Thomas paused to take in his surroundings: a small sitting room, simply furnished, and beyond that a dining room whose good-sized table was presently covered by stacks of paper. Stairs, presumably to the bedchamber, rose before him. All seemed pleasant enough, but he could not help but wonder why a woman who could afford to rent a castle would have chosen to stay in a cramped Edinburgh flat. Had at least some small part of her hoped he would come looking for her, despite her avowal to the contrary?

Jane was busying herself with untying the dogs’ leashes and giving them fresh water and food in the other room. As at Dunnock, their plush cushions lay before the hearth. While they ate and drank, Thomas laid aside the books, then toed off his boots, the better to maintain the directive of silence, and stood them near the door. His greatcoat he hung on one of a row of pegs above them, and in another moment, Jane had come to hang her pelisse and hood beside it. At last, she locked the door, then turned to him, an uncertain smile barely curving her lips.

He took her head between his hands, searching her face by the fading evening light. She had not lit so much as a candle. Still, he could see traces of sorrow, of worry, in her bright eyes. If he could have spoken, he would have told her what was in his heart, would have begged her to lay every burden she bore on his broad shoulders.

Then again, there was an unexpected appeal to the unbroken silence, to the necessity of showing her all he felt. Perhaps sometimes, even for a famous novelist, words were not enough.

Slowly, he lowered his lips to hers for a single kiss, soft, though not without heat. Then he dropped to one knee before her, cushioned only by the thin wool rug that lay before the door. Before they took another step, she must understand the place she already held in his heart. Surprise flared in her eyes as he took her hand, circled the finger that would soon bear his ring, kissed the path his fingertip had traced. Finally, he laid her palm against his chest, pushing aside both coat and waistcoat so that nothing but the thin fabric of his shirt separated them. Scottish law required very little more than the joining of hands to declare a man and woman husband and wife.

If she’d have him, then tonight would be the first night of the life they would build together, their true wedding night.

Her lips parted, as if she would speak. The sound of a woman’s voice would not alarm the landlady, of course; Jane must on occasion at least talk to the dogs. But she too seemed to sense the power of the silence that surrounded them. For once, even Athena and Aphrodite were quiet, worn out by their walk and curled together on a single cushion, already near sleep.

Instead, with her free hand, Jane gathered her skirts and knelt, never lifting her other hand from his chest. Taking up his right hand, she kissed his palm and laid it on the stretch of bare skin over her left breast, linking them heart to heart. Then she looked into his eyes and nodded solemnly. Yes. A vow seven years in the making.

From this moment forward, they belonged only to one another. Forever.

When their lips met again, he could feel her pulse rise beneath his hand and knew she must feel his heart too, hammering in his chest as if he’d just raced a mile. Or perhaps a hundred fifty miles, not knowing whether agony awaited him at the finish line. Now, though, he tasted nothing but sweet, sweet victory, her mouth moving against his with tenderness and gentleness and, yes, love.

When his hand began to move over her skin, his fingertips skating over her collarbone and tracing the little hollow at the base of her throat, his thumb slipping beneath the gathered neckline of her dress, she responded by curling her fingers into his shirt, tugging at the hair on his chest. His thumb dove lower, teasing the puckered edge of her areola, then finding her pebbled nipple. Their kisses grew more frantic, little nips of pleasure, the clash of teeth as she opened beneath him, surrendering to his plundering tongue.

With very little urging, he could have taken her there on the floor, his pleasure only heightened by the cool, hard wood and the rough burn of the carpet. But wedding nights were for proper beds and a least a modicum of gentleness, weren’t they? Awkwardly, he hoisted himself, hoisted them both, to standing, unwilling to break their kiss, though he was forced to concede the necessity of removing his hand from her strained bodice, despite her quiet whimper of disappointment.

Finally, he lifted his head and turned her toward the stairs, prompting her ascent with a playful tap on her bottom with his palm. Through her skirts and petticoats, she could have felt almost nothing of his touch, but nonetheless, wild desire flared in her eyes, and she scrambled up the steps with such eagerness she nearly stumbled.

He followed without hesitation, catching up with her on the landing when she paused to fumble with the latch, and pinning her against the door for another searching kiss. Behind her back, she managed to get the door open, and they nearly fell into the room. A quick glance took in a washstand, a plain-front armoire far smaller than the wardrobe at Dunnock, and a narrow rope bed—made for one. Or two, lying one atop the other.

He dragged his lips along her jaw, down her throat, to the swell of her bosom, relishing every sweet inch of her soft skin, then turning her to kiss the back of her neck, the top of her shoulder, the tender places he’d watched her rubbing anxiously as she read. His fingers went to the fastenings of her dress. Pleasant and easy as the banyan had been, tonight, he’d have the pleasure of unwrapping her: first the light wool gown, and then her corset, and finally her silky shift, at each step letting his hands sweep over the plump curves he revealed.

She was panting with need by the time he finished and came around to face her, her eyes dark with desire. Just her stockings remained, and she gave a startled gasp as he knelt to untie her garters. Only the discovery that she was wearing the charming pair he had rescued from the snow stopped him. The clocked design marched temptingly up her calves toward her knees. His little bluestocking. He ran a hand up each leg, one at a time, suddenly glad he had spent the last few weeks laboring with no implement heavier than a quill, for work-roughened palms would have snagged the delicate silk.

He liked the sight of her this way, naked but for the lace-edged garters encircling her dimpled thighs. Laying a string of kisses across her soft belly, he breathed in the musky, womanly scent of her. Once more he swept his hands up her legs, over her hips, across her bottom, at last dipping his fingertips into the hollow at the apex of her thighs, brushing the damp, crisp curls that guarded her entrance.

She shifted, ready to part her legs for him, pressing against the band of his arms encircling her. Slowly, he rose, following the soft lines of her hips, her back, her waist to her breasts. Cupping their weight, he took each lovely, large nipple into his mouth, one at a time, laving, then suckling until he heard a strangled cry gurgle in her throat. So marvelously sensual and responsive—one day soon, he would bring her to release that way, then start over again with his face between her thighs. But right now, he needed...

Lightening his touch, he caught her hands, which she’d kept clenched at her sides since her shift had fallen to the floor, almost as if she were fighting some foolish impulse to cover herself, to try to hide her beauty from his eyes. With his thumbs, he pried her fingers loose, uncurling her fists, massaging her palms, and finally kissing the sharp, half-moon indentations carved into her soft flesh by her fingernails.

When her hands were pliant, he laid them against his chest, beneath his coat, silently pleading with her. Claim me. Make me yours, as I need to make you mine. For the space of a breath, she hesitated, watching her hands, not meeting his eyes. Then, in a rush, she pushed his coat over his shoulders and down his arms, sending it to the floor to join her clothes. Next, her fingers flew to the buttons of his waistcoat, the knot of his cravat, the fall of his breeches, each yielding readily to her. With a very little assistance, he was soon as bare as she—barer, for his stockings did not seem to exert an equal fascination to hers.

First her eyes, then her hands explored his body, muscled and tanned and dusted with coarse hair, so unlike her own. On each pass, however, her questing fingertips skirted his cock, and he was not certain how long he could last before he broke down and begged for her touch, for never in his life had he been so hard and hot with need.

At long last, her cool fingers encircled him. Too much. Not enough. He kissed her to forestall the string of epithets that rose to his lips. Placing his own hands on her shoulders, he steered her toward the bed. When they reached its edge, he intended first to lay her down. At the last moment, though, he switched their places, tossing back the coverlet and reluctantly freeing himself from her hands to lie on his back against the cool linen. Crooking one finger, he invited her to come on top of him this time.