Chapter Twenty-one
Elspeth ran—her feet seemed to know what to do better than her heart. She ran after him, heading back the way she had just come, racing through the orchard trying to catch him before he disappeared forever.
He had said the Cathcart hunting lodge lay a few miles to the northwest, so she headed that way, running as fast as her legs would carry her, and there he was, just passing the last of the gnarled apple trees on the far side of the orchard.
“Hamish!”
He stopped and turned back at her call. “Elspeth. I thought—”
She threw herself at him as soon as she reached him, jumping into his arms and looping her arms around his neck in the most forward manner. But she couldn’t seem to help herself. She needed the support of his arms immediately coming round her back to hold her close. She wanted the comfort of his surprised murmur. “What’s all this?”
“I’ve done it.” She mustered her wits, and pulled herself out of his arms. “I’ve kicked over the traces.” And she was glad of it. “Gone over the hedge.”
“Which particular hedge, Elspeth? There are so many to choose from.”
“My aunts’ hedge. I’ve told them all.” The words tumbled over each other in her rush to get them out. “I’ve told them that I wrote the book, and that you are publishing it, and that I’m going to go to Edinburgh with you, and that I love you.”
The sentiment came as no less of a shock to Elspeth than it could be to Hamish—she had not said such a thing to her Aunts, but now that she had made the declaration, she knew it for the truth, and did not wish it unsaid. “I do.”
“Elspeth.” He met her admission with a kiss that soothed every agitation and was a balm to every concern. “Ye gods, Elspeth.”
She reached for him, pulling his mouth down to hers, and everything else melted away but the persuasive pressure of his lips against hers, his arms holding her tight, his body pressed close and warm. She turned her head, angling to get closer, to deepen the kiss.
His hands cradled her face, holding her still as his tongue swept across the lips and into her mouth, and his kiss was everything he was—strong and confident and hedonistic and raw—and it made her want to be those things. To be as strong and confident in her love—to be his equal in this as in all other things.
She opened to him, to the startling sensations that careered through her body, back and forth from her lips to her breasts, making them feel needy and tight. The hurt and resentment that sent her running to him began to give way to desire—deep in her belly the ache she felt as if she had carried forever began to ease, the agitation giving way to pleasure.
She let him bear her down into the soft fragrant grass, and he was on her, around her, pulling her into his heat and shelter. She held tight to his shirt front, anchoring herself to him—to the only thing still real in her world. The weight of his body pressed her hands between them, and she loosened her grip on his shirt, only to find her hands flat against the solid shape of his torso. Her fingers began to roam of their own accord, up across his collar and along the breadth of his shoulders, out along the sculpted curve of his upper arms, down across the taut flat of his belly.
He made a sound that was equal parts frustration and encouragement, and he ducked his head to kiss and worry at the side of her neck, nosing and nipping until she turned her head to grant him greater access.
And she wanted greater access, too—she fisted up his shirttails so she could slide her hands beneath the rough linen, and set her palms flat against the sleek plain of his back, and feel the heat of his skin.
He let out a fervent sound of near-pain, and almost sprang back from her, kneeling above her to rip off the waistcoat and shirt and fling them away unseen. He closed his eyes when she put her hands back to his bared skin, hissing a breath in through his teeth—a pleased rather than painful sound.
She did it again, stroking across his smooth flesh, and he swore roughly under his breath, and collapsed down onto her, pinning her hands flat to his nipples with his weight.
He lay upon her for only a moment before he levered himself away, and went at the laces of her sturdy quilted jumps with a speed approaching haste, as if he were untying a Christmas present to himself. But no sooner were the laces ripped away and the quilted over-stays flung to join his waistcoat on some lower branch, than he loosed the drawstring of her modest shirt, and was pushing it away with the straps of her lightly-boned stays and chemise to bare her shoulders.
Beneath the confines of the remaining layers, her breasts began to feel full and aching. One hand rounded to her back, and she arched toward him to give him access, her nipples contracting and rasping with painful pleasure against the starched muslin of her stays.
His mouth returned to hers, the rough, taut texture of his lips rubbing against hers, the whisky-laced tang of his tongue tangling with hers as he kissed and kissed and kissed her.
And she was kissing him back, returning his heated, open-mouthed kisses with all the fervor she had kept hidden under the tight lashing across her soul, urging him with her lips to rid her of all traces of clothing until she was as bare as he.
This was the mad pleasure she had tried to write about—this was the intoxicating rush of sensation she had only given expression in words put finally into glorious deed.
And then her blouse and stays and chemise gave way to this hands, and he bared her to the waist, revealing the tight furls of her breasts, aching and sensitive in the cool morning air. His hands closed over them carefully, caressing, worshiping. He dragged his thumbs across the peaks, and feeling and sound blossomed out of her—a gasp that matched the exquisite and unexpected bliss—and she pushed herself up into his hands, letting her head fall back, closing her eyes so she could only feel. Only feel him. And the pleasure that grew like a rose out of the thorns of her life.
He followed his hands with his mouth, closing his lips around one sensitive nipple, licking and sucking at her, sending seeds of want and need falling to ground deep in her belly.
A sound of shocked surprise blossomed from her mouth, and Elspeth opened her eyes to the glorious green daylight, opening her soul to the sensations snaking through her body, the tight tension that twined through her like a vine, clinging and coiling deep. She wanted to move with it, to twist and turn against him. Her fingers curled into his hair, holding his head as her body undulated like a flower bent by the strong summer wind.
“Aye, lass,” he breathed against her skin. “That’s the way of it.” Encouraging her with his words, filling her with something more desperate than anticipation as he kneed her legs apart and settled himself hard against the juncture of her thighs. His lips returned to hers as his body joined hers in movement, creating a dance to music that they alone could hear—the strings of nature’s symphony, the song of the skylark and the keening cry of the hawk.
His work-roughened hands fell to her skirts, dragging up the hem, exposing her legs to the bright summer air. And then his hands were back at her breasts, fondling and fawning until heat and something fiercer, something bright and shining and insistent, budded to life within, pulsing up from her belly. Between her thighs, her muscles clenched in heightened anticipation.
Finally, she was going to do exactly what she wanted.