Chapter Nineteen
“Do you have it?” Mal asked the maid, less than an hour later. She was showing him out of the castle, but she stopped when she saw the glint of a coin.
His fingertips still tingled from playing the fiddle. They’d done three more songs, and Mal had ended the evening feeling like he was in a daze. He didn’t know how, in spite of all the conflicting things he felt, he could still play with Georgina so easily, as if the music moved through both of them, like they were sharing the same breath.
The maid accepted the coin, and he waited while she disappeared into one of the castle’s narrow halls. She emerged from the shadows a minute later, clutching a paper bag. She looked around and then dropped the bag into his open hand.
He peeked inside. The scents of almond and sugar assaulted his nose, making him grimace.
“What is it?”
“Marzipan,” she said, like it should be obvious.
Mal had never had it, but he didn’t think it smelled very appetizing. Well, he supposed the little bastards just wanted the sugar. They probably didn’t care much about the flavor. Hopefully, it wouldn’t hurt their teeth too badly.
The maid tapped her foot. Held out her hand.
“What?”
“Cook wants her share.”
Mal sighed and pulled another coin from his sporran. “Tell her to make more next time.”
A flash of red caught his attention. Georgina was coming toward them. He tried not to notice the way the dress slithered around her hips when she moved, or the generous swell of her breasts just below that plunging neckline.
It was impossible. She could be wearing a burlap sack and he’d still notice every detail.
“You may go, Jane. I can show Mr. Rochester out.”
Jane dipped into a curtsy, leaving Mal and Georgina alone in the hall, facing each other.
“What did you just buy from our maid?”
If she was expecting something scandalous, she was going to be sorely disappointed. She moved aside the lip of the bag with her finger.
“Marzipan?”
“For the little bastards. It’s the easiest way to get them to shut up and do their work.”
“Oh, Mal.” She shook her head, lips quirking. “I thought you were better than that.”
“I’m not,” he said. “I’m the worst sort of blackguard. I don’t care if their teeth fall out, or even if they get a stomachache.”
“A true cad,” she said.
It occurred to him that there was some boundary between making polite conversation and flirting, and he was straddling it…if he hadn’t already crossed it. He wasn’t just a blackguard and a cad. He was an idiot. And still, he couldn’t seem to stop himself.
“But at least their minds will be sharp.”
“I’m not sure how much good that will do if they can’t eat because they don’t have any teeth.”
“There are worse things than a life without teeth. They’ll just have to learn to love milk toast.”
“No one loves milk toast.”
He lifted his shoulder. Then winced. His wound was healing nicely, but sometimes when he moved his arm a certain way, it hurt like the devil.
Georgina drew her lower lip between her teeth. “Is it all right?”
“Aye.”
“May I see it?”
His first instinct was to say no. He was already vulnerable enough around her; he didn’t need to make himself more vulnerable. But if she wanted to touch him, he wasn’t about to deny her. He was starved for contact, starved for her, and whatever dignity he had went straight out the window at the thought of her cool fingers on his skin.
With his uninjured arm, he shrugged off one side of his coat and unbuttoned his waistcoat. Then he pulled the neck of his shirt to the side, revealing the wound on his shoulder.
She touched his elbow, angling him into the light from the nearest wall sconce. He felt her breath on his skin as she leaned forward to look.
“Who removed the stitches?”
“Lachlan.”
Her fingertip traced the bumped laceration, ghosting over the rough edges as if she was trying to smooth them out. “He did a good job.”
“You did a good job stitching it,” he pointed out.
“I was terrified.”
“You didn’t show it.”
She huffed, a gust of warm air on his shoulder. “If I’d let myself show it, my hands would have been trembling so badly I might have stabbed you to death.”
She looked up. Mal stood in the light; Georgina’s face was shadowed. He couldn’t read her expression, and she was still resting her hand on his bare shoulder, touch as light as the weight of feathers. They were so close. Close enough to kiss. And she made no move to step away from him. Mal felt unmoored, off balance. Like the power between them had shifted.
But then, between the two of them, had he ever really been the one in control?
He raised an eyebrow, trying to look calm and collected, even though his heart was pounding. “With a sewing needle? That would be quite a feat.”
Her fingers flexed against his skin, and he felt it through his whole body.
“Were you that worried about me?” He asked it half in jest, half in seriousness. She didn’t answer. “Georgina?”
When she smiled, he saw the shadowed curve of it, even in the dark. “That’s the first time you’ve said my real name,” she whispered. The raspy timbre of her voice shot straight to his cock. “Say it again.”
“Georgina.”
Her head fell, bringing her lips into contact with his skin. She kissed the scar from the gunshot, softly, sweetly.
“I missed playing with you next to me.”
Mal had missed that, too. Mostly he’d just missed her.
Georgina tilted her head toward him. After everything that had happened, he wasn’t foolish enough to assume she was offering her heart, but he would take what he could get.
He closed the remaining space.
The last time they’d kissed, she’d told him they could only kiss once. She didn’t make the same demand this time. She didn’t say anything this time. She simply fell into the kiss like she’d been waiting for it, all these days they’d been apart.
She pulled on his hand, and he followed her, mouths still connected, into the nearest room. The door shut, plunging them into darkness. His back collided against the wall as Georgina crowded him. But she’d always had the upper hand, ever since they’d met, and for once, he wasn’t satisfied with simply letting her take it.
He touched his fingertips to her collarbone, traced the pale, jutting slope of it, like he’d wanted to since he’d first seen her tonight, ablaze in her red dress. He traced the cool chain of her necklace, the bloodred drop at her throat. And then, slowly, his fingers delved into the cleavage at her bodice. There was no fabric between his hand and her skin, nothing between Mal and the heat of her flesh. Through the swell of her breast, he could feel her heart pounding.
His knuckle brushed her nipple, already tight and peaked, and she gasped into his mouth, so he did it again. He caught the tip between his fingers, squeezed and pulled. She bit his lower lip, pressing her hips hard to his.
Suddenly, he couldn’t take it anymore. He grasped the edge of her bodice and wrenched. The sound of tearing fabric filled the room—a sweeter sound Mal had never heard. He jerked her chemise and stays down and bent over her, found her bare breasts in the dark with his mouth.
“Mal,” she breathed.
“What?” He licked at her nipple.
“I need…I need…” Her hips jerked a little as she spoke. He obliged her, slipping his thigh between her legs.
She moved against him as they kissed, tentatively at first, but then gaining confidence. Eventually, though, the fabric between them seemed to annoy her. She pulled at the hem of her dress, lifting it so she could straddle Mal without obstruction. His kilt got pushed up in the process, and he felt her sex, soft and hot and wet, against his thigh.
His cock ached with each pulse of his heart.
He turned them, so her back was against the wall. He found her hands in the dark and lifted them over her head, pinning her wrists together. He wished he could see her, helpless, wanton, riding his leg with her upper body exposed and bound.
Would she blush and look away from her desires?
No.
She’d stare into him, through him—their eyes locked as she came. Even in submitting to him, she wouldn’t be submissive.
Maybe it was a good thing they were in the dark. Mal didn’t want to spill like an overeager boy.
He swallowed Georgina’s fitful gasps. Followed the contour of her bowed back with his palm, before settling at her waist, gripping, feeling the motion of her body through his hand. He broke from her mouth to slide his lips against her throat, catching on the necklace briefly and then continuing down.
He closed over her breast and sucked, so hard his cheeks hollowed. Her movements grew quicker, hands straining against his hold. Her cunt felt impossibly slick on his thigh.
And then she cried out and stiffened, bearing down on him with her hips.
She sagged against him, afterward, and they stayed like that, half supported by the wall and half supported by Mal, for a long moment. Mal could feel Georgina’s heartbeat against his chest, could feel each deep breath she took, matching his own.
Before he quite realized what was happening, she’d slipped her hand under his kilt.
“What should I do?” she asked. Her voice came out a bit stilted. He could tell she didn’t like asking. Didn’t like that there was something she didn’t know much about, if anything at all. It nearly made him smile.
Bold, clever, restless woman. There were still some things she didn’t know. Still some parts of life she hadn’t sucked the marrow from.
But Mal could teach her.
“Touch me,” he said, taking her hand and guiding it up.
When her fingers, callused from playing the guitar, wrapped around his throbbing cock, he almost groaned out loud. He jerked into her hand, an involuntary reaction. She’d barely done anything, and yet, his body was tuned to her, aching for her.
“Now—”
He broke off when he heard a soft rustle behind him. “What was that?”
The sound was followed by a low hiss.
Georgina let go of him and he felt like crying. Except, of course, he was an adult, and he didn’t cry over things like missed orgasms. Even if he wanted to.
“Willoughby?”
Mal stiffened. “Who the hell is Willoughby?”
“A cat. My sister-in-law’s cat, specifically.”
He looked around, but he couldn’t make anything out in the dark room. “Has it been here the whole time?” The thought was a little unsettling, even if Willoughby was a cat and not a person.
Georgina cracked the door, and soft candlelight seeped into the room. Mal made out a small shadow, slinking away from them.
“I suppose he got tired of waiting to be let out.”
Her face was just visible now, in the dim light. She was flushed, but she didn’t look embarrassed.
He felt a little embarrassed, though, when he noticed the damage he’d done to her dress. There was a tear about six inches down the center of the bodice, and she had to hold it to her chest to conceal the fabric of her underclothes.
“I’m sorry about the gown,” he said. And he truly was. He wouldn’t have ripped it open quite so enthusiastically if he hadn’t liked the way she’d looked in it.
She glanced down. “You did quite ruin it. Between bleeding on my gowns and tearing them apart, I wonder if you have a vendetta against my wardrobe.”
He had a vendetta against any scrap of clothing that separated them, but he didn’t say it. Now that the heady pulse of lust was fading, he wondered about what they’d done. At first, it had just seemed inevitable. They’d been attracted to each other almost from the start, had danced around their desire from the start—of course there would be an explosion. It was like storing gunpowder in barrels. All of that want, building, layer upon layer. Until all it took was one little spark.
But now, in the wake of Willoughby’s interruption, it seemed tawdry—a quick tumble in a darkened room, hidden away, groping at each other with eyes closed.
Was she ashamed of him?
What a stupid question to ask—Mal had never been ashamed of who he was. Why should he care about one woman’s lack of regard for him? Why should he care if she was willing to writhe against him in the dark, but would never consider making their relationship known by the light of day?
But he did care.
And he knew, oh, he knew he’d fallen in too deep somewhere along the way. There’d been a ledge he hadn’t seen, some sign he’d missed, and it was far too late to turn back.
“I’d like to make love to you in the daylight,” he said abruptly. He heard her breath hitch, but he didn’t stop. “I want to see you, sprawled across my bed, afternoon sunlight streaming in through the windowpanes. I want to see you, finally, laid bare.”
“You want me to surrender.”
“Aye.”
“Do you want me to be weak?”
“Surrender isn’t always a weakness, lass.” The endearment slipped out before he could stop it.
“It’s not…it’s not that easy for me.”
He huffed, wryly amused. “It’s not easy for anyone.”
Her lips parted. She looked like she was going to say more—to argue or acquiesce, he wasn’t sure—but she cocked her head toward the door, brow furrowing. “I thought I heard something.”
“You should go,” he forced himself to say, though it was the last thing he wanted. Even when she confused him, hurt him, caused him pain, he still wanted to be close to her.
He must be a complete and utter fool.
She paused halfway out of the room, hand lingering on the door frame. There was something in her eyes, soft and warm and sad, all at once. “Will you tell me before you go?”
Mal knew, then, that she would never ask him to stay. Even if she wanted to. He assumed it was some mix of her damnable pride combined with an unwillingness to chain someone else, when she’d spent her whole life chasing freedom.
But, the stupid thing about that was, if she ever did ask him, he had a feeling he’d fall at her feet and lift his hands for her to bind.
What the hell had happened to his pride? Maybe he hadn’t had much to begin with where Georgina was concerned.
“Aye,” he said, and watched her go. Counted her steps until they faded.
He left the room quietly, making his own path down the corridor, when a voice, low but clear, masculine but polished, made him halt in his tracks.
“Did you take a wrong turn, Mr. Rochester?”
Mal pivoted slowly and found himself face-to-face with the earl of Arden.