Bride (24 page)

He needn't have asked. Already her hips writhed. The unguent mingled with her own juices and her strong fingers quickly gave her what she wanted.

Panting, she let her legs splay and spread her arms on the wool-covered pallet.

“Very nice,” Mr. Smith said. “Too bad you can't service quite all your needs yourself, my dear.”

Glory licked her lips. “I'm glad I can't, and so are you. So what's all these other things we're to do, then?”

“Tonight Hunsingore learned what it is I want.”

“We want,” she corrected him.

“He will be shocked. And he will become even more alert. It would not be surprising if he were to attempt to isolate himself and his brood entirely.”

“So how will I get in?”

“The woman's name is Lady Justine Girvin. She's a cripple. Also very pious.”

Glory raised herself on her elbows. “He's marrying a cripple?”

“So it seems. Tricked into it. You'll get at him through her. I'll tell you how to do that. Then you will help me force Hunsingore's hand.”

Rolling her ample hips from side to side, Glory smiled up at him. “Why don't we have a little fun before you finish telling me all about this?”

“He'll marry her soon. Within days, unless I miss my mark. Once she's his wife he'll be looking for diversion. But he'd still try to turn you away. You'll approach the woman and explain how he always said you were to come to him if you were in trouble. Show her how much trouble you're in.”

Glory turned onto her stomach. “Then she'll take me in? And I'll have a chance at Hunsingore? I shall like that very much.”

“Not too much,” Mr. Smith said, turning his cold face toward her. “Do not become distracted. Remember, I and only I can truly fulfill you, my dove.”

“I'll remember,” she said demurely, cupping her breasts. “So, is that it?”

“Only the beginning, I fear. He won't be easily frightened. That's where you will be so useful. You will keep me in the information I cannot get without living with the man. With your help we shall—if necessary—make sure he loses one or two things he cherishes more than his own life.”

Glory's gaze flew to his face. “The woman?”

He shrugged. “That will depend upon whether he appears to care anything at all for her. And there are others who may be more easily disposed of.”

“You make it sound like …” She'd better be careful what she said or he'd lose his temper again.

Smiling, he pushed away from the wall. With ease, he rotated her until her knees met the floor and her body folded across the pallet. “I believe this is what you were waiting for.”

He forced his rod into her. Glory scrabbled at the twisted tartan and screamed afresh. “Go on! More!”

Mr. Smith's hips met her bottom and she almost fainted with pleasure. “So,” he said. “What was it I made it sound like?”

She couldn't talk, not now.

He withdrew and lifted her to face him. “What?” The rutting began at once.

Sweat coursed between her breasts and down her back. Each thrust pushed her farther across the pallet until her head met the wall.

“What? I asked you a question, Glory.”

“Don't stop!”

“I won't—if you answer my question.”

“Oh—” This was why she could never leave him—even if she hadn't been afraid to try. “You talked like you were going to kill someone.”

Just as she would have had it all, he pulled out of her. His grin chilled the protest on her lips. “Good. Very good. I'm glad you understand me so well.”

Chapter Fifteen

J
ustine didn't waver until Struan began to lead her through the door to his bedchamber.

He looked deep into her eyes. “You don't trust me?”

“With my life,” she told him.

“Then trust me not to do anything that will frighten you or make you unhappy. I'm tired, my love. Will you lie with me?”

“On your bed?”

“I thought that might be more comfortable.” “More comfortable than what?”

He sucked in the corners of his mouth before saying, “Oh, I don't know. The windowsill, perhaps, or my desk, or even the floor.”

She smiled. “You do enjoy funning me, sir.”

“I should enjoy lying on my bed with you in my arms even more.”

The nameless place within her squeezed together. Such a thrilling squeeze. “I don't suppose this is appropriate,” she said. “Really?”

“Really, it is.” Struan settled her hand on his palm and smoothed her knuckles with his thumb.

Justine put her free hand on top of his. “I have quite tossed my virtuous reputation to the wind, haven't I?”

“Quite.”

“Isn't that wonderful?” She sighed and traced the veins on the back of his hand. His cuff showed very white against a sprinkling of dark hair. “After all, we are to be married.”

“We are indeed. You are my fiancée.”

Married.

Fiancée.

Bride?

“You are suddenly very quiet, Justine.”

“I am often quiet. I had never expected to be a bride, Struan—not since I became old enough to realize it couldn't happen.”

“Old enough to be wrong, you mean? Lie in my arms, sweet.”

“What if we fall asleep?” And she awoke to find this was as fictitious as Hannah's ghost.

“I shall not fall asleep. If you fall asleep, you may miss some of those things your curious mind spends so much time trying to imagine.”

“Oh.” She walked forward with him to his ebony bed with its golden tiger sentinel atop each post. “Your grandfather liked extraordinary things.”

“Yes.” The response was automatic.

Justine ran her fingers over a bedpost. “What was his name?”

“Edward. Why do you ask?”

“Curiosity. One must wonder about the man who gathered such a fascinating collection into one place. How did he die?”

Struan didn't answer until she looked at him when he said, “You are a curious creature. He was injured in a hunting accident. He lingered for several years but never regained his strength.”

A chill slithered up Justine's spine. “How sad.” What had been written in the book was accurate. But surely her imagination had conjured the apparition…

“Enough quizzing for now, dear one.” Struan flung back the dark-green counterpane and turned to Justine. Without fuss—and without asking permission—he proceeded to undo the tiny buttons that closed her robe from neck to waist.

She stood quite still. And she found she could not breathe at all.

“Who would think of such infuriatingly small buttons?” he said, frowning.

“I would,” Justine said. “I made them.”

“I see.”

“That means you don't.”

“Not always.” He completed his task and slipped off the robe in a businesslike fashion. After setting the garment over a chair he swept Justine into his arms and deposited her on the bed without ceremony. “There. I shall not bother with the fire. We shall keep each other warm.”

Justine didn't need his physical touch to make her skin blaze.

“You do not appear comfortable.” Studying her, he adjusted a pillow beneath her head, straightened her night rail, brushed her hair away from her face with his fingers. “Better?” He pulled up the covers.

Unable to make a move to assist him—or herself, Justine nodded.

“Wonderful,” he said, too heartily. “This will be a fine opportunity to deal with several matters.”

“What matters?” she asked through loudly chattering teeth.

Struan peered at her but made no mention of the clatter she'd made. “Just
matters.
You'd better be ready to make notes in your mind again.”

He'd taken off his cloak. His coat and waistcoat followed. Sitting on top of them all, he worked off mud-spattered boots, then stood up again.

Now he was undoing his shirt!

“Um. What was the name of the waltz you played for me?” she asked in a rush.

Struan paused in the act of pulling his shirt free of his breeches. “Damned if—I mean, I'm not sure I remember the title.” His shirt slid from his shoulders, down his arms to land on the floor. “No. I never knew it, did I?”

“D–didn't you?”

“I'll ask Arran.” Hair on his chest, smooth and soft-looking, shone as black as the hair on his head. The dark pelt became a slim line over his muscular belly and disappeared beneath the waist of his breeches.

“You are quite differently made.”

“Hmm?” His gaze settled intently on her face.

“Different. I said you are very differently made.”

“Different from what?”

“Oh”—she shrugged beneath the covers—“from me, I suppose. I haven't seen a great many men without clothes.”

“Well, well. You
do
surprise me.”

“It's true, you know. This is quite an unusual event for me.” “I always do my utmost to provide my guests with entertainment.”

“Oh, I
am
entertained. Most entertained. You do not need a great deal of padding and so forth, do you?”

Struan's lips parted—then he placed them precisely together.

A lot of gentlemen do, you know?” Justine told him. “Require padding, I mean. In their jackets and so forth.”

“The other gentlemen you've seen without their shirts, d'you mean?”

“Sin's ears, no! I mean, no. It's only that I've heard some gentlemen have their clothes made with certain enhancements because they wish to appear larger. You are quite large enough. Your shoulders are very large. And your chest is so … so… It's just
so.
And you certainly must be grateful to require no stays.”

The crinkling of his eyes left her in no doubt that she knew more about the artifice some gentlemen used than he did. The idea amused her.

“Have I said something funny, Justine?”

She wrinkled her nose. “Not really. But you probably would laugh if I told you Calum explained to me that he'd seen gentlemen put on stays to make their waists seem smaller and their chests appear larger. What do you think of that?”

“I think Calum is less than circumspect to discuss such matters with you.”

“I asked him. It was because of Lord Belcher. He struts and sometimes seems perilously close to missing the chair when he sits because his back is held so straight. Lord Belcher has a very red face and at least three chins. He wears diamond buckles on his shoes—in the morning. And his shoes have heels to make him taller. And he favors cochineal to color his cheeks and lips even more pink—and the backs of his hands.”

“God! A fop.”

Justine wrinkled her nose again.

“Forgive me,” Struan said, and began unbuttoning his breeches. “I'm sure you don't appreciate blasphemy.”

“Actually not. But you are right. Lord Belcher is a fop—an ancient fop. Are you going to take your breeches off?”

“Yes.”

“I see.”

“We both tend to see a great deal, don't we?”

“Sometimes more than on other occasions.”

His sudden wide grin made it impossible for Justine to stifle a chuckle. As quickly as she'd laughed, she grew serious again. “Do you think you ought to take off your breeches?”

“Absolutely.”

“I see.”

Struan grinned again. “I'm glad you do. We must be certain that book of yours provides all the information it will advertise, mustn't we?”

“Mmm.” There was always the book. My, she had gathered a veritable mountain of information in one single day. “Should you be offended if I pulled the bedsheet over my head?”

The sound Struan made resembled that of a strangling hawk.

“Are you all right?” she asked anxiously.

“Quite all right. But I should definitely be offended if the sight of me offended you so much that you hid your face.”

“I see.”

“You're going to, dear lady.” Bending over, he stripped his breeches and stockings off in a single motion and straightened again. “What do you think? Horrifying? Passable? Intriguing, at least?”

Oh, my. Oh, sin's eyes … She thought … She thought she couldn't think of a single thing to say.

“Come along.” He crossed his arms. “You could hurt a man's feelings greatly by refusing to give an opinion at a time like this.”

“Can't,” she muttered. “Speechless.”

“That bad?”

Justine shook her head. Tiny muscles pulled in that soft place between her thighs—a soft place that began to feel less soft and a great deal more wet! Embarrassment brought blood rushing to her face. Why on earth should she grow wet? Thank goodness he didn't know.

“A flop, then,” Struan said, shaking his head. “Not quite what I'd hoped for in the reaction department. Don't suppose you'd care to tell me the name of the man who puts me to shame?”

“Sin's ears!” She struggled to sit up and held the counter-pane to her breasts. “No man! What can you be thinking? Other than in statuary I have never seen a man without clothes before. And if I had he certainly would not look like you.”

“How do you know? If you've never seen one before?”

Her heart threatened to fly into pieces. “It wouldn't be possible. I had expected… I mean, I had not expected anything … anything even close to what you are, Struan. You are all muscles. Muscles on top of muscles. Your legs are …
magnificent.
Did you know some gentlemen wear sawdust in their—”

“Stockings? Yes, I had heard that.”

“I see.” Her reactions could not be normal. She should be overcome with shocked modesty—fainting away, in fact. “I do not find you fearsome, Struan. I find you—
beautiful.
I should like to put my hands on you. I should like to stroke you all over to see how each bit of you feels. Does that mean I am extremely abnormal?”

His throat moved sharply. “It means you are a marvelous woman,” he said in a husky voice quite unlike his own. “It also means this night may prove more—taxing than even I had imagined.”

“My age,” she said, more to herself than to Struan. “It must be because of my maturity. Of course it would make a difference—to many things. I must make a note of that possible factor.”

“Would you care to share that thought with me?” Struan asked.

“I think not. At the moment.” She studied the thatch of dark hair that flared from a few inches below his navel—and that part of him she'd felt when he danced with her. It was even bigger than she'd thought, and it did not quite resemble the way she had imagined it to be. Statues were not exactly true to life.