Rules for a Proper Governess

“Open it, Bertie,” Sinclair said, impatient. “It’s a private gift between us.”

Bertie tore off the paper then opened the lid, looked inside, and drew a sharp breath.

A photograph in a slim frame rested among the tissue paper, a picture of Cat and Andrew. Caitriona sat primly on a chair, every hair in place, her legs in white stockings crossed at the ankle. Her doll smiled serenely from her lap. Andrew sat on the floor with his arm around a large dog—one that lived here at Kilmorgan Castle. Andrew was grinning, and slightly blurry, as though he hadn’t held still during the exposure. But the camera had caught him as he was—sunny-natured and busy, while Caitriona’s smile was quietly pretty.

A sob caught in Bertie’s throat. “It’s beautiful. I’ll treasure it always. Thank you. I love them so much.”

Tears came from her eyes. Sinclair gently took the photo from her and closed it into the box, setting it on her night table. “Shh, lass.” He gently rolled her over, the rough wool of the kilt warm through the covers. “Damn it; I keep making you cry. I want to make you smile.”

“You do.” Bertie wiped her eyes. “You always do.”

“Shall I tell you what you do to me?” He lowered himself to her, his body warm with his clothes. “I’m a bit drunk, so I might say too much. I tamed myself, so I could have a family, do everything right. But it went too far, and there was nothing left of me. And then you charged into my life. You ripped the lid from the powder keg. You lit the match. Now I, the model widowed father, want to run rampant like a crazed youth. If you think Andrew unruly, he has a long way to go before he surpasses me.”

Bertie started to smile. “I’d like to see that.”

“No, you wouldn’t. But it doesn’t matter. You’ve made me live again, Bertie, you wonderful, beautiful woman.”

He kissed her mouth, a swift, rough kiss before he pulled Bertie up with him and yanked away the blankets. She hadn’t bothered with her nightdress, so she was bare, nothing between her and the wool of his kilt.

The kilt held his warmth, but didn’t keep out the fact that he was hard underneath it. Bertie, as she kissed him, wormed her hand under the wool, until she found the length of his shaft.

“Damn.” Sinclair lifted his head, frowning fiercely, but he kissed her lips again. “What are you doing to me?”

“What you do to me.” Bertie stroked his cock, loving the way he groaned as though he couldn’t stop himself. “You make me want you.”

“And I want you.” He made another sound in his throat, and shifted his position so she could reach more of him. “Tonight, I wanted to dance you into a corner and peel off that pretty dress, didn’t matter how many people were in this bloody house.”

“Did you think it was pretty?” Bertie asked, wistful.

“I thought you were beautiful. But we don’t need the dress.”

“It’s gone.”

“Good.”

Sinclair broke her hold of him, but only to strip off his coat, waistcoat, shirt, and undershirt. Bertie’s hands roved his bare shoulders, finding every curve of muscle, tight under his skin.

She thought he’d take off his kilt, but Sinclair only tucked the plaid around her, giving her a wicked smile as he slid himself on top of her.

“Oh.” Bertie let out her breath as he pushed inside her, spreading her. He was large and thick, and everything that was good.

He thrust slowly, pausing between each one, letting her feel every inch of him. Gone was the frenzy from the train—they came together in warmth tonight, locked in intimacy.

Sinclair slid his hands under Bertie’s hips. He rolled her over on the large bed, still inside her, and eased her upward until Bertie was sitting on him, straddling his thighs.

The position lifted him high inside her. Bertie’s head went back, a cry of pleasure escaping her throat. This was why men and women desperately sought passion, this amazing feeling, and the joy of finding it with another person.

Sinclair watched her, his hard-palmed hands coming up to cup her br**sts. He teased her ni**les with his thumbs, sending dark fire to join the one already incinerating her.

Bertie moaned, rising and falling as Sinclair lifted against her. He slid his hands from her br**sts to her hips, encouraging her, until she was rocking shamelessly on him. The movement pressed him even more satisfyingly inside her.

Bertie rode him, her hair tumbling down. She was brazen, she knew, but she didn’t care. She loved this man, and she wouldn’t throw away the joy he was handing her.

By the time she was crying out, drowning in dark waves of passion, Sinclair had lifted himself onto his elbows, thrusting hard. His skin gleamed with sweat, the plaid bunched around them, the lamplight brushing his body and the gold of his hair.

Bertie never knew when it was over. Her mind whirled away, lost in the incredible delights Sinclair gave her body, but suddenly she was lying full length on top of him, holding him, kissing him. Sinclair was inside her, still hard, but he was spent, his breath coming fast, and he was laughing.

“Happy Christmas,” he said, his voice rough.

“Happy . . . Christmas.” Bertie’s words came out between breaths, then she snuggled against him and let all be well.

Christmas morning commenced without Bertie having gotten much sleep. Her eyes were hot and sandy, her body a bit sore, but she dressed and made her way to the nursery for the celebration.

The entire Mackenzie and McBride families were there, mothers, fathers, and children. Elliot and Juliana had a half Indian daughter—Bertie had heard the entire tale of Priti’s origins from Eleanor. Priti was a beautiful child, bright-eyed and full of enthusiasm for opening Christmas gifts. She was protective of her half brother, Patrick, who was not even a year old.