Susan Johnson (20 page)

So the journey passed in companionship and conversation, and Munro noted with astonishment that his cousin even agreed to partake of dinner with neighbors who’d been previously invited to dine.

“I
could
change plans,” Elizabeth had said, “but George Baldwin’s sister is scheduled to return to London on Thursday, so we’d made arrangements for a small gathering on Wednesday. I’d really hate to disappoint her. She’s very pleasant … and an excellent harpist. Do you enjoy the harp?”

A man who studiously avoided amateur musical entertainments, Johnnie Carre nevertheless tranquilly replied, “Very much.”

Munro’s amazement took the form of a sudden coughing fit.

“I hope you haven’t taken a chill, Cuz,” Johnnie smoothly observed as his cousin attempted to regain his composure.

It was a journey of fascinating revelations—with Johnnie Carre on his very best behavior. Munro considered the three-hour ride to Three Kings the most faultless example of lust-driven prevarication he’d ever had the good fortune to see.

But the lust was mutual, he realized, when they arrived at Three Kings, because Elizabeth was as anxious as Johnnie to disappear into her bedroom. He and Redmond spent the evening together, both careful to avoid the topic of their absent hosts.

“I adore having you in my bed,” Elizabeth was saying at that moment, the remains of a barely eaten supper on a table near the balcony door, their clothes scattered pell-mell around the room where they’d been discarded in haste, their nude, sweat-sheened bodies lying side by side in abandoned sprawls.

Their hands twined.

Their hearts and minds overcome with pleasure.

“I’m feeling a lively sense of gratitude at being here, Lady Graham,” Johnnie murmured, his drawl beguiling, “and once I’ve sufficiently caught my breath again, I’m thinking about expressing my appreciation”—a smile drifted through his words—“in some shamelessly salacious way.…”

“Ummm …” Elizabeth purred, Johnnie Carre’s talents still very vivid in her memory. “I don’t suppose Parliament could do without you for a week or so, while I indulge in sexual excess.”

Johnnie thought for a moment of the fascinating possibilities, as eager as she to explore the boundaries of sensation. He found the wild yet curiously innocent Elizabeth Graham endlessly provocative. But Hamilton’s dubious evasions, Queensberry’s double-dealing, and Goddphin’s generosity with English gold threatened the very existence of his country. And much as he wished to stay, he had to be back in Edinburgh by Sunday morning. Which meant leaving on Friday to meet his schedule.

He couldn’t tell her that he and Fletcher of Saltoun were planning on introducing an overture to stop the discussion of the army allotment on the first day back. One never knew who were England’s paid spies, so he only said, “I wish Parliament could do without me for a month, and we could both expire of carnal license. But I’ll do what I can tonight and tomorrow to make you remember me.”

She heard rather than saw his smile. “Cheeky rogue,” she murmured.

“While you’re preeminently bashful and retiring.”

“And don’t forget virtuous,” she playfully interjected, “while you’re cataloging.”

He laughed, his deep voice velvety in the candlelit chamber. “And celibate. I think I like that most about you.”

He tugged on her hand at the sudden vivid reminder of her personal celibacy. “Do we have to see those people tomorrow?” He wanted to lock himself
away with her and not come out till Michaelmas or, at least Friday morning.

Elizabeth half turned toward him, her lush body like gleaming alabaster in the dim light. “I think it’s too late to reach them … but certainly you needn’t join us.”

“How long will they stay?” he grumbled, not wishing to relinquish her company. It was a first for Johnnie Carre, had he bothered to analyze his feelings.

“A few hours.”

A low rumble of displeasure.

“I’m sorry. You said you wouldn’t mind.”

“A statement predicated by lust.”

“Isn’t everything with you?” she teasingly noted.

“You don’t know me.” There was none of his habitual irony in his declaration.

“In some ways I do,” she archly reminded him.

“Do you ever travel?” he abruptly asked, ignoring her allusion to their intimacies, his voice oddly speculative.

“Very little. Have we changed the subject?”

His gaze on the coffered ceiling, he said, “No.” Gruff, almost forbidding, the single word vibrated with relevancy. She felt his hand tighten minutely on hers. “Why don’t you come to Edinburgh with me?” Even as he uttered the words, he wished to retract them, their significance terrifying, the actual sound of them shocking to a man who prided himself on freedom.

Good God, he thought, wondering immediately how to diplomatically recant. He didn’t want a permanent mistress; he’d never tied himself to one woman. And an English woman who was the daughter of Harold Godfrey—it was unthinkable with his political affiliations. Bringing Godfrey’s daughter to town would be like bedding Marlborough’s daughter and insisting your principles were still pure and patriotically Scottish. No one would believe it.

He wouldn’t blame them.

“I’d love to, but I can’t now … with the house,” Elizabeth replied, rolling closer so she half lay across his chest. “Maybe later …”

And he found himself breathing again, saved from his own stupidity.

“But thank you for asking,” Elizabeth added, pleased at his offer.

“You’d probably be bored in any event,” Johnnie replied with what he hoped was casualness. He could still feel the hammering beat of his heart. “Between Parliament and the heated debates at Patrick Steil’s tavern, I’m hardly home long enough to change clothes.”

He was reneging already, she thought, less surprised than she’d been by his sudden suggestion. But she knew as well as he that her presence in Edinburgh would bring with it rumors of her or even him spying for England. Her father was notoriously in Queensberry’s employ. His name tainted her as well. She’d not be an asset to Johnnie Carre. “Perhaps you could come back to Three Kings instead when the session is adjourned.”

“When they break for the harvest,” he said with relief, the danger averted. His heartbeat had almost returned to normal.

“Yes,” she agreed, thinking him the politest of men.

But his impulsive invitation was a terrifying lesson learned, and caution curbed any further spontaneous expressions of affection. In no way, however, did it affect his seductive charm, or his performance.

Very late that night, Elizabeth murmured, “No … I can’t …” Her palms pressed against his chest. “Not again … not right now … I’m too sore.” But she wanted him still, even as she refused him. And she wondered how one could so lose command of one’s senses.

“I can fix that,” Johnnie soothed, easing away, his voice confident. “Just relax.…” he murmured, positioning himself lower on the bed, gently touching her swollen slit. “It’s so small.…” Looking, feeling, inserting the tip of his finger, he examined the site of her discomfort. “You’re not used to unbridled excess, Lady Graham,” he whispered. “Or a large man …” he added, spreading her legs apart with the gentlest of pressure, settling between
them leisurely, his head resting on her inner thigh, his hair like silk on her skin, his breath warm on her throbbing bottom.

And his tongue touched her swollen flesh a moment later, lightly slid over its distended surface, then slipped inside the pouting entrance.

She stirred restlessly, a lush heat licking at her senses, her fingers twining through his thick hair, the weight of his head on her thigh tantalizing as though she were yielding already, prisoner to that pressure, that strength and power.

She could feel the sweet liquid of desire drench her swollen tissue; she could feel herself open to him as his tongue slid deeper, as his fingers gently spread her labia.

Her eyes shut as the familiar heat spread upward through her body, the throbbing between her legs echoed in her blood, the sensation of cool air as her skin grew hot, the small whimpers fluttering up the back of her throat. Nothing hurt anymore—only the exquisite ache of wanting, only the sweet affliction of carnal need.

And short moments later he moved into position between her legs, his erection stiff against her pulsing flesh, the taste of her on his mouth when he kissed her. “You see how easy it is,” he whispered, “to make the hurt go away.…”

And she hated him for a flashing moment, for his proficiency acquired with too many women in too many heated encounters. But she wanted him more than she resented his fluent finesse. She could no more stop herself from yielding to him than she could hold back the march of Marlborough’s army. And she rose into his hard length and felt the merciless rapture of his entry. She was liquid, slick, panting for him, twined and clinging and hot with need, and he found the added tightness only intensified his arousal.

Exhausted, replete, they slept at last toward dawn.

• • •

The maid woke them at eleven when she knocked to remind them of the arrival of their guests.

Wrapped in his arms, still half-asleep and drowsy, Elizabeth felt luxuriously alive, as if the beauty of the world were laid out before her, delectable and within reach.

An overwhelming contentment rang through Johnnie’s languorous senses, all the wrangling critical issues of politics momentarily forgotten, all the sharp-set danger of Scotland’s future disregarded on a warm summer morning with Elizabeth Graham in his arms. She could almost make him forget his hatred of English rule.

Almost.

The guests had all assembled in the drawing room before Johnnie and Elizabeth had readied themselves. Munro found himself in the difficult position of playing temporary host to people he’d never met before. Conversation was desultory, although the two Gerard sisters, attuned to local gossip, had already heard the identity of Elizabeth’s absent guest.
Their
questions were more pointed.

Munro’s replies were politely evasive. He didn’t know what dissembling story Johnnie would prefer. And he quite literally exhaled a sigh of relief when Elizabeth and Johnnie walked into the room.

Introductions were repeated for Johnnie’s benefit. George Baldwin and his sister, Anne, both fair and slender, greeted their hostess and her guest with identical smiles, polite, tactfully bland. They prided themselves on their Christian charity and overlooked the Earl of Graden’s scandalous reputation for Elizabeth’s sake. Although George Baldwin was hard-pressed to graciously disregard Ravensby’s unnerving handsomeness.

Lord Ayton and his rotund wife, Elizabeth’s most
immediate neighbors, talked immediately of the new construction project.

“Looks as though you’re right on schedule, Lady Graham,” the bluff, heavyset country squire remarked. “If your crew needs any help, I could send some of my men over.”

“Thank you, perhaps later,” Elizabeth said, politely declining. Avery had nothing to do between hunt seasons, and she preferred not having him overseeing her project.

“Have you selected your drapery and room colors yet, my dear?” Lady Ayton breathlessly inquired, her portliness contributing to her shortness of breath. “I’ve found the dearest little mercer in Newcastle who would
love
to advise you.”

“It’s so early yet, Lady Ayton, to be considering the interiors, but I’ll have his name from you for future use.” Charlotte meant well, imbued with a genuine kindness, Elizabeth knew. “He must have advised you on your new rose sitting room,” she graciously added.

“Isn’t it a dear little room? So cozy.…” Lady Ayton glanced quickly at her husband, whose attention had wandered at talk of decorating. “Although Avery says he can’t abide so much satin,” she quietly added. “But then,” she went on with a bright smile, “he has his estate office to sit in with his muddy boots. You’ll quite adore Monsieur Hugeau, Elizabeth. Although we mustn’t talk of the French now, must we, with this dreadful war going on.”

“Marlborough’s damned war has brought the price of my brandy too damned high,” Lord Ayton exclaimed, apparently heeding the conversation with a censoring ear, his high-Tory attitude typical of most small landed gentry. “And I can’t get fine riding gloves either. Bloody inconvenient!”

“Marlborough’s deep into Austria now,” Johnnie casually remarked, his access to news on the Continent often superior to the government’s with the speed of his ships, his factors posted throughout the trading cities of Europe.

“There’s rumor of a decisive battle,” George Baldwin noted. “Have you heard as much?” His news came
from a cousin in Whitehall, an undersecretary in the Treasury.

Johnnie nodded. “As soon as Tallard and Marlborough decide on an arena.”

“Have you ever
killed
a man?” Lucy Gerard addressed Johnnie with a kind of breathless awe.

And a sudden silence fell as the discordant, extremely personal query constrained the flow of conversation.

“I’m sorry,” Elizabeth said, speaking first, “you haven’t been introduced yet. Lucy and Jane Gerard, the Earl of Graden.”

And the Gerard sisters made their curtsies to the notorious Laird of Ravensby, well known on both sides of the Borders. Jane’s greeting was distinctly flirtatious. Lucy, the younger of the sisters, her blond curls bobbing, rushed on to explain, “I just meant you seem to know so much about the war and all.…”