Chapter 14
Mal smelled of salt and his mad plunge into the sea. He ought to be dead, diving into cold water like that, but no. He’d made for shore, confident that there would be hands to pull him out, and he hadn’t been wrong.
His absolute self-assurance came to Mary in the vibrations of his body, and the strength of his kiss as he leaned to her and took her mouth. He parted her lips, Mal stroking her cheek with his thumb, opening her to him. The sweep of his tongue was hot, also tasting of salt. Mary wanted to clasp this feeling to herself and never let it go.
But when Mal drew away, licking across her lower lip before he pulled back entirely, she saw a flash of vulnerability in his eyes. This man ached deep inside, despite his devil-may-care arrogance.
Malcolm touched Mary’s lower lip, his brows drawing together as he studied where he touched. His fingertips were amazingly gentle.
Mal started to bend to her again, but a thin, pale hand holding a steaming cup came down to them, and Naughton cleared his throat.
“Your coffee, sir,” the man said. “And for my lady. And some bannocks to sustain ye.”
Malcolm straightened up without embarrassment, one tightly muscled arm uncovered. “Thank ye, Naughton.”
He seized a flat cake from a pile on a plate, stuffed half of it in his mouth, and poured coffee down after it. A far cry from the fastidiousness of Halsey, who took minute bites, dabbing his lips with a handkerchief after every mouthful.
Mary had heard of bannocks, of course, but never tasted them. Their Scottish cook was instructed to prepare only English food, or French.
She broke off a corner of one, popped it into her mouth, and chewed. Oats, the warm taste of fat that held it together, and the tang of something she couldn’t identify met her tongue. She swallowed, licked her lips, and reached for more.
“Like it, do ye?” Malcolm asked her, eyes twinkling.
“Indeed,” Mary said, surprised at herself. “It is quite tasty.”
“Our chef is one for a hearty bannock. Gifted, he is.”
She glanced at him as she chewed another chunk of bannock. “You keep a chef?” she asked after she swallowed. “Not a cook?”
Mal briefly studied the ceiling in exasperation. “My father is a bloody duke. Nothing will do but he has fine chefs hauled over from France and forced to make heaven out of Scottish recipes. Me dad will have nothing but the best. Though Will brings most of the furniture. Will likes his comfort, though I’m guessing the king gives it to him in exchange for him going away.”
So perhaps this settee beneath her was straight from Versailles. Mary regarded it with more respect.
Malcolm lifted his cup and took another long swallow of coffee. Then he held it out to Naughton, who was flitting about shaking out Malcolm’s sodden clothes.
“This is plain,” he said.
Mary had no idea what Malcolm meant, but Naughton appeared to.
“Yes, sir. Until ye feel better.”
“I do feel better. I’d be even hotter inside if you added a drop.”
Naughton gave him a look of disapproval but fetched a decanter of amber liquid from a marble-topped demi-lune table. A warm odor leeched from the decanter when Naughton removed the crystal stopper and dolloped some of the liquid into Malcolm’s cup.
“Lady Mary’s too,” Malcolm said.
Naughton smothered a sigh and added a dribble to Mary’s cup.
“What is it?” Mary asked.
“Whisky,” Malcolm said. “Finest Mackenzie malt. The Scots call it uisge beatha. Water of life.”
Mary sipped her coffee as hesitantly as she’d tried the bannock. A warm tingle rolled over her tongue, followed by a wash of heat as she swallowed.
“Is it like gin?” She’d sneaked a taste of gin once out of curiosity and found it sharp and eye-watering. This was more subtle, like very fine but strong wine.
“Nothing at all the same as gin,” Malcolm said, sounding indignant. “This is Scottish art at its finest. It sits in oak for years to mature—some of what we have in our cellars is older than me.”
Naughton, without being asked, brought over two crystal glasses with nothing but the whisky in them, and handed one to Malcolm and one to Mary. Malcolm clicked his glass against Mary’s, and sipped.
Mary took a very small taste. Once the immediate burn on her tongue receded, the liquid warmed her mouth, spreading down her throat before she’d realized she’d swallowed.
“Take another,” Mal said. “And close your eyes.”
Mary obeyed. Malcolm’s breath was warm as he leaned to her. “It rests in its cask in the heart of the Highlands, overlooking the sea. Ye can taste the sea winds, can’t ye? The crisp air, the openness of the world.”
Mary wasn’t certain she could taste all that in this drop, but she tasted something. Mellow, strong, like Malcolm would be when he aged.
She opened her eyes. “It will make me tipsy.”
“Aye, if ye drink enough of it.” Malcolm looked amused. “But whisky is to be savored, not drowned in. Ale is for getting drunk with, whisky for pure bliss.”
Mary took another tentative sip. While she didn’t hold with spirits, having seen the evils of drink in her charity work with Aunt Danae, she had to agree this uisge beatha was compelling.
Malcolm drank his slowly, like a man savoring his last drop. Mary followed suit, liking the heat that permeated her body. Her skin felt flushed, her corset too tight. She longed to pull her clothes open and exhale in relief.
Naughton took away the tray after they’d enjoyed the hearty bannocks. Malcolm swallowed a final sip of whisky and set his glass on the floor.
“Now, then, Mary.”
His voice was low, rough from his impromptu swim in the sea.
“Now, then?” Mary asked nervously.
“I have you alone, in my bedchamber. Hadn’t planned this tonight, but I’ll seize any opportunity thrust in front of me.”
She should be more worried, Mary thought. Afraid and offended at the same time, but neither fear nor indignation came. She wished she could have the correct reaction to Malcolm, but she never had yet.
“I am betrothed to another,” Mary said, the words lacking conviction.
“For now.”
Malcolm sounded so certain she’d walk away from Halsey without looking back. He’d advised as much from the beginning.
“Breaking an engagement is more than jilting the other party, you know,” Mary said. “There are settlements—my father and Halsey spent months hammering them out with solicitors. If I reject Lord Halsey’s suit now, he can sue for breach of contract.”
“Aye, I know all about settlements.” Mal nodded wisely. “The Mackenzies also have solicitors—extremely practical and tight-fisted Scotsmen, the lot of them. They can squeeze blood from a turnip.”
“They would have to do a lot of squeezing with Halsey,” Mary said dryly.
Malcolm chuckled. “We’ll see. You are a marvel, ye are. Ye can sit so close to me and talk calmly about solicitors and settlements, while all I’m thinking is how much like silk your skin is.”
The skin in question tightened. Malcolm traced Mary’s cheekbone and down across her lips, his fingertips lingering on her chin.
He didn’t demand with this caress. It was gentle, giving. Mary raised her hand, her fingers shaking, and touched his cheek in return.
She felt the burn of whiskers, the twitch of muscle. Mal watched her, his golden eyes giving nothing away.
Mary let her fingers wander down his jaw, brushed with red-gold bristles, to his neck and the sinews there. Daringly, she drew her touch to the hollow of his throat, then across his exposed collarbone to his broad shoulder.
If she’d never seen a man unclothed—other than the very small statues—she’d certainly never touched one. Mal’s skin was warm, despite his swim in the ocean, and smoother than she’d thought a man’s would be. The skin was also tight, covering the steel of muscle.
“Ye can nae do this, Mary,” he said softly.
Mary froze, but she couldn’t lift her fingers. “Why not?”
“Because here I am, bare for ye to touch all ye want. But I can nae do it in return.”
“I know,” she said. “’Twould be improper.”
“As improper as sitting against me while I’m in nothing but a blanket? Ye have strange notions, lass.”
Mary felt giddy. “If you are going to ask me to sit with you in nothing but a blanket, I must refuse.”
Malcolm’s gaze sharpened. “And ye should nae say things like that. My imagination, ’tis an inventive one.”
Mary swallowed. Her imagination was good too, and thinking about being naked in a blanket, the fabric touching her intimately, with Malcolm beside her, scalded her from the inside out. Her breasts felt tight, holding a strange ache.
“Turn around,” Malcolm said.
“What?”
“Just here, on the sofa. Turn your back to me.”
“Why?” Mary asked, her body stiff.
Mal gave her a crooked grin. “I love that ye don’t obey without question. Save me from a meek woman who always does what she’s told.” The smile vanished. “Turn around, because I want to touch ye, that’s why.”
The proper Mary would refuse, offering a rebuke. After all, he was a Highland barbarian and she was a lady.
The proper Mary had been banished to the deepest dungeon tonight. Mary gathered her skirts and moved herself on the small couch so her back was to Malcolm. Her panniers pinched her, but she ignored the discomfort.
Malcolm lifted her hair from her neck with a steady hand. Whitman had dressed Mary’s hair in a modish style tonight, much of it drawn up in pins to the top of her head, with a few curling locks falling to her neck. More strands had come loose from the wind and their adventure, and were now damp from mist and Malcolm.
Mary stilled as Malcolm drew his fingers slowly down her neck to the bare scoop of back her satin gown revealed.
“You’re soft here, Mary, do ye know that?” he asked quietly. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen a lovelier back.”
“You look at many, do you?” Mary’s words were breathy, hardly the teasing admonishment she’d meant them to be.
A laugh, hot against her skin. “When ye grow up in a Scottish castle with five men and a crowd of servants, ye see a lot more backs than ye care to.”
Mal’s laughter drifted away, and Mary felt his lips at the base of her neck. “I still have the lock of hair ye gave me, ye know,” he said. “I put it in the box where I keep my most precious things.”
Mary was melting. His touch sent heat down her spine to the base of it.
This was a man, a stranger, touching her with bare, broad hands, kissing where he had no right to. She was violating every propriety, breaking every rule.
And yet she could not imagine doing anything else. It felt right to let Mal touch her thus, forging a bond between them that was different from any connection she had to any other person.
Mary let her head drop to the side, her eyes closing as Malcolm’s lips moved from her neck to her spine. He slid his hands around her waist, gliding them up her stomacher to her breasts.
“One night this will all come away,” he said. “I’ll be able to touch the whole of ye.”
And on that night, Mary would burn up and die.
Malcolm’s arms came all the way around her, drawing her against him, as he continued to feather kisses across her skin. His mouth spread fire through every limb, Mary’s body growing pliant and accepting.
Mal continued to explore what her gown bared with his lips, then his tongue, then he pulled her back to him as he lay against the end of the couch. Mary turned her head to see his eyelids drooping, exhaustion finally claiming him.
Mal’s arms grew heavy around her as he relaxed, locking Mary into his embrace. He hooked one blanket-clad leg around hers while his breathing slowed. In a few moments, his hold went slack but didn’t entirely loosen.
Mary studied his face, so near hers. Malcolm’s tightness had melted, his body relaxed in a way she’d never seen it. His cares eased from his face, as well as his arrogance, sleep erasing any sternness and rendering him the young man Mal truly was. After a moment or two, he began to softly snore.
The room was quiet, Naughton and the other servants leaving them alone. The only noise was the pop of the fire and Malcolm’s breathing.
Mary was warm, comfortable lying back against Malcolm, the whisky chasing all fear from her. She felt her eyes growing heavy, but she was determined not to fall asleep. Now that Malcolm was settled, she ought to rise, go home, tell her father and Aunt Danae what had transpired this night.
But she could not move. Malcolm’s chest rose and fell against her, his even breathing, with the hint of snore, more soothing than a soporific.
Mary’s eyes closed, and she slept.
When she woke, the window was gray with dawn. She was still lying back against Malcolm, her head on his shoulder, his arms securely around her.
The very tall Mackenzie with dark red hair she’d seen at the prince’s ball, his eyes even more wicked than Malcolm’s, was bending down to look Mary in the face.
“Who might you be?” he asked. “And why is my little brother snuggled up to ye so cozy?”