Susan Johnson (5 page)

The sound of footsteps in the hallway suddenly intruded into the quiet of the room and Roxane stiffened under his hands.

“You’re going to die over this,” she warned him.

“But willingly, darling. Hush.” And moving slightly forward, he placed his erection against her vulva.

Stifling her urgent longing, forcing herself to a prudence he was ignoring, she pushed at his chest. “It’s too dangerous,” she whispered.

He brushed her hands aside, guided the swollen crest of his arousal just inside her pulsing cleft, and said on a soft sigh, “I know…”

Fortuitously, the footsteps died away, for hot-blooded temptation burned through her senses, all feeling suddenly converging on the hot, needy core of her body, and enraptured, heedless to peril, she moved her hips to ease him in more fully.

Pushing forward another small distance, he smiled down at her, his hair brushing her face. “Changed your mind?” He flicked his hair back behind his ears with a quick, fluid gesture—much practiced, she jealously thought, wishing for a moment she could be blase about him, as she was with so many of her suitors.

“Maybe,” she equivocated, uncomfortable with her insatiable need, with his knowing smile.

“Maybe you’d rather have Argyll. You were enticing the hell out of him not long ago.”

“I was trying not to.”

“And not succeeding from the sounds of it.”

“You’re jealous, too.” Her smile was lush, gratified.

“He can’t have you, just remember that,” he whispered, his violent need for possession adding dimension to his erection, an unconstrained fierceness to his
sudden plunging descent. She gasped. Opened wide, invaded so deeply, she shivered at the acute, riveting rapture.

“Tell me there’s no one else.” His voice was heated, peremptory as his strong, young body arched hard into her, impaling her.

“No, never,” she breathed, wanton desire raging in her mind.

Appeased, he slid back a fraction, his fingers sliding under her bottom, holding her, before he forced himself deeper again, filled her to the mouth of her womb. “How does it feel when someone really loves you?”

“It feels heavenly”—she moaned as he moved inside her—“unspeakably sweet…”

“I can make you feel like this all night,” he whispered, withdrawing marginally, penetrating again. “All week, if you want.”

And she knew he could. His body was a fine-tuned instrument for making love, well-practiced, accomplished, indefatigable.

“How darling you are,” she lightly said, jealousy underscoring the flippancy.

“Don’t do that.”

“What?”

“Use that practiced tone—like a courtesan,” he growled.

“And yet you tell me how practiced you are.”

“Men are.”

“So are women.”

“You can’t be anymore,” he brusquely ordered. “Agree or I won’t let you come.”

“Yes, yes,” she quickly agreed and she could feel as well as see his sudden smile.

“I could get you to say anything right now, couldn’t I?”

“Yes.”

“No matter what I’d ask.”

She laughed. “Yes.”

“To have this.”

“To have you.”

“You can’t talk to Argyll.”

“I don’t want to.”

“You can’t dance with him.”

“Be realistic.”

“I don’t have to be realistic at the moment, do I?” He moved his lower body in perfect, long strokes, his lush, slow rhythm of thrust and withdrawal impossible to resist.

“This reality will definitely do,” she purred, holding his lean hips, pulling him closer so she could feel him inside her with more flagrant intensity, wanting to absorb him body and soul—his sweet whiskey taste and sandalwood scent, the fragile transience of his wild-ness and youth and love.

“I’m going to come in you now.”

She should have said no, she should have seen that he used a French
lettre?
³
She shouldn’t be so derelict. And yet she only sighed and held him close and wanted him inside her forever.

He waited, though, because he was indulgent in all things to her, because he was back in Scotland for this, for her, for these feelings. Only when her climax began peaking did he allow his own release.

And they came together in an endless, hot, ravishing orgasm that left them damp with sweat, panting.

Catching his breath, he whispered, “You’re mine forever, blythsome lass … for all eternity….”

She smiled up at him, her heart beating wildly. “Always, always my bonny, braw lad.” And she lay breathless and content, no longer unsure.

While he’d known without question he was here to stay.

They made love that night for hours more, as though making up for lost time, for the weeks of their deprivation, reveling in the feel and scent and taste of each other, exploring the limits of desire, delighting in the new, fresh enchantment of their love.

But at last she said, “Enough,” already half-asleep in his arms, and he gratified her because he was home and she was his once more.

He dozed off, too, after a time, although his rest was light, a reiver’s style of repose. He knew better than to actually sleep.

N
EAR DAWN, WHEN THE SKY WAS STILL DARK
but the stars were fading, Robbie lifted his head minutely and listened. A second later, he woke Roxane and put a finger to her mouth, then rolled away and sat up. He was reaching for his weapons hanging from the headboard when the crash of an ax blade splintered the door.

Queensberry’s intelligence system had improved, Robbie thought, leaping to his feet, snatching up his pistols in a blur of movement, searching the darkness for intruders.

None.

Yet.

As if in emphasis of their precarious safety, another ax stroke cracked into the door.

Grabbing his breeches from the chair, he quickly stepped into them while gauging the strength of the door against the assault. It looked as though the thick oak would make their attackers sweat before giving way, he decided. Swiftly buckling his belt, he slid his pistols into place and leaning over the bed, murmured, “There isn’t much time. Go into the dressing room so you won’t be hurt.”

A shrill voice exhorting the attackers to more speed screeched above the sound of battering axes.

Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, Roxane came to her feet as though galvanized by the sound of her mother-in-law’s commands. “No one’s getting hurt, least of all you, so don’t take that well-bred, chivalrous tone with me.” She shrugged into her dressing gown. “As if I’m going to play docile maiden while they shoot you dead. Now get out of here!” she ordered, throwing his shirt at him, picking up his boots and holding them out.

“If there are only a few, I can handle them.” He calmly slid his shirt on as though men with axes weren’t hacking her door to pieces. Pulling his boots on, he listened to the raucous tumult for a moment. “I’ve plenty of ammunition.”

“Don’t even think of staying,” she heatedly said. “That old harridan is shrieking for your blood. If you don’t go, she’ll
have
it! Damn her anyway—this is
my
house. I’m going to wring her scrawny neck.”

“You might need help for that.” Robbie reached over to loop the ties of her robe into a bow at her waist.

“I prefer not having you killed tonight because of me.” Irritably, she brushed his hands aside, taking exception to his reckless disregard for his safety. “Go!” She shoved him hard with the flat of her hand.
“Right
now!”

The assault on the door increased in a rising crescendo of sound, additional reserves augmenting the cacophony of male voices shouting orders, Agnes’s screeches and squawks escalating to earsplitting proportions, the thunderous crash of axes ripping into wood reverberating through the room.

“Please, Robbie!” She was desperate for him to go. “Don’t even consider some damnable male code of honor that tells you to stay. No one’s going to hurt me. They want you. And consider,” she said in what she hoped was a reasonable voice that would encourage him to be reasonable, too, “I’ve been taking care of myself since you were in leading strings.”

“Perhaps it’s time you had someone taking care of you.”

“It might help if you were alive for that,” she tartly replied.

“You’re sure?” The axes had settled into a workmanlike rhythm.

She glared at him. “Keep up this bloody conversation and I’ll see you on the gallows.”

“It doesn’t seem right…”

The destruction of the door had reached a point where the hinges were creaking, beginning to pull away from the door frame.

He was recklessly considering taking on the attackers; she could see it in his eyes.

“If you stay, I’ll shoot you myself,” she furiously whispered. “You’re putting my children at risk.”

The predaceous look vanished from his eyes. “Lord, I forgot.” He pulled his jack from the bedpost. “Forgive my selfishness. Leave a message for Holmes at Steil’s Tavern if you need anything. Take one of these.” He offered her a pistol. “Just in case you need to shoot anyone besides me,” he added with a teasing smile.

“I will
not
be getting in touch with you. I never saw you before in my life. I don’t need that—Oh, very well,” she finally agreed, taking the pistol so he’d leave. “For the love of God, go!”

He looked at her for a another moment, clearly indecisive.

“I want you alive, Robbie.” Tears glistened in her eyes. “Please.”

He pulled her into his arms and kissed her with unbearable sweetness. And then with an achingly beautiful smile, he turned away and disappeared into the dressing room.

S
ECONDS LATER THE BEDROOM DOOR BURST OPEN
and when the attackers entered, stepping over the splintered debris, their lanterns held high, they found the Countess of Kilmarnock, silent and poised, holding a pistol.

Numerous male gasps resonated in the sudden silence, the troopers arrested in the doorway.

The stuff of legends filled their eyes.

Edinburgh’s reigning beauty stood before them, bewitching in dishabille. Her long red hair was loose on her shoulders, tousled; her cheeks were flushed, her voluptuous form conspicuous beneath the pale silk of her robe, the overlapping neckline askew, offering a partial glimpse of one breast.

“What’s the meaning of this intrusion?” Roxane stood straight and tall, her arm was steady as a rock, the pistol cocked.

“There’s no need to shoot anyone,” Queensberry gently said, moving forward through the throng, his gaze focused on the weapon.

Shoving her way through the host of troopers, the dowager sharply said, “Where is he?”

“Isn’t it past your bedtime, Agnes?” Roxane met her mother-in-law’s gelid stare with her own.

“I know he’s in here. Have her tell you where he is,” the dowager ordered, turning her beady eyes on Queensberry.

“We’d like to check your apartments.” Queensberry signaled one of his men to hold Agnes back. Returning his gaze to Roxane’s weapon, he courteously added, “If you don’t mind.”

“I’m quite alone. Agnes hears things at her age.”

“If we might just look, for our peace of mind,” the duke replied. “Reports of a—” he paused, searching for the least provocative word “—stranger in the neighborhood alarmed us.”

Roxane’s brows rose delicately. “So you broke down my door?”

“We were told that he—that is, someone was in your room.”

“Have you taken on the role of chaperon for me, James?”

“I would never presume,” he murmured, his gaze sweeping the shambles of her bed. “But in these times of political unrest everyone suffers inconveniences.”

“I want my door repaired,” she curtly said. “And an apology.”

“Of course.” He wondered if Agnes was becoming senile; this episode was quickly turning into a farce. But just as he was about to apologize, he saw a pair of men’s gloves partially concealed beneath the bed. Walking over, he plucked them from their shelter. “Yours?” He examined the black suede gloves, the padded backs designed to guard against sword blades.

“Not that I recall” Her heart was racing, but she forced her voice into a moderate tone.

“I told you.” Agnes cackled. “Hear things, indeed.”

Ignoring Agnes’s outburst, Queensberry smoothly said, “Some friend’s gloves, no doubt.”

“No doubt.” She took care not to avoid his eyes.

Queensberry lifted the gloves to his nose and delicately sniffed. “Citron and sandalwood. From the Levant.” He sighed. “I’m afraid my men are obliged to search if given cause.” He waved the gloves. “You understand.”

“If you must.” She lowered the pistol, considering sufficient time had elapsed for Robbie’s escape.

Queensberry ordered his men into the suite.

“They’ll find your young lover,” Agnes said with delight, “and you can watch him hang.”

“You’re hallucinating, Agnes. There’s no one here but me.”

“The Carre whelp writes the most passionate love letters,” she mocked. “He was pining for you most dreadful.”

The old witch was still dressed in her ball gown, so she’d been spying instead of sleeping. “Last I heard,” Roxane casually replied, not about to trade insults with Agnes, “he was in Holland.”