Chapter Eleven

Steven went very still as Rose shut the door and turned back to him. No modest protests, no fluttering. Rose understood what Steven wanted, and she wanted it too.

She came to him, resting her hands on his chest, looking up into his eyes.

Their first kiss was unhurried. Steven cupped Rose’s face in his hands, parting her lips to kiss her slowly, deeply. He tasted the tea she’d drunk, with its bite of lemon and a little bit of raw brown sugar, a taste he remembered from his childhood.

Rosie, lass, a voice inside him whispered. I’ve needed you all my life and never knew it.

Rose locked her fingers around the lapels of Steven’s coat. His heart beat faster as he felt her shaking, knowing she was holding herself back from delving into his clothes.

I’ll let you do whatever you wish, my Scottish Rose.

Steven peeled her fingers away and slid off the coat. He tossed it over the foot of the bed and didn’t stop moving until he’d relieved himself of collar and cravat and unbuttoned the top of his shirt.

Rose moved her focus to his throat, touching his bronzed skin as though fascinated by it. Steven smiled at her, his body warming, finding an answering spark in her green eyes.

He pulled off his shirt and rid himself of the short-sleeved undershirt beneath it. Cold air touched his skin, this room again warmed only by the chimney that rose through it.

Rose’s lashes swept down as she looked him over, taking in his tanned chest and its brush of golden hair, his flat nipples that were also sun-bronzed. She’d seen him bare when he’d lain in this bed that first morning, but she’d blushed and pretended to look elsewhere.

Not so now. Rose gave him the compliment of a half-smile as she ran her gaze over him, as though pleased with what she saw.

The look made his blood burn. More so when she leaned forward and kissed his shoulder. The touch of tongue on his bare skin made him want to groan.

“You’re a wicked lass,” he said, closing his hands around her elbows. “Do you know what that does to me?”

“What?” Rose slanted him the same eager smile she’d worn when she’d agreed to his deception of their engagement. She’d proved that she loved games, like Steven did, but Rose would win every hand she played.

“It makes me want to be a very bad man,” Steven said. He ran his hand up the back of her neck, sinking into her curls. “I’m already a bad man, but I’m holding back for your sake.”

“Don’t,” Rose said, losing her smile. “Don’t hold back for me. I need . . .”

Steven read the rest in her eyes. I need to be held, to be loved, to feel wanted. Or perhaps those sentiments were Steven’s.

“I need it too,” he whispered. Maybe he said that—he wasn’t certain what was inside his head and what wasn’t right now.

He only knew he was stiff with need, and he had a beautiful woman caressing him with both hands.

Steven gathered her close, the press of her body against his hardness, even through his kilt, making him ache. He kissed her as she smoothed her hands over his bare back, and then the kiss turned fierce.

Rose wanted him. That little knowledge made Steven fling away caution and kick self-control out the window. Rose was a beautiful woman, as lonely as he was. They were alone in this aerie, and she was hungry. If she wanted to feed on Steven, so be it. After all, they were betrothed.

Steven finished the kiss by biting down on her lower lip, which made her gasp, then he unbuttoned the front of her bodice and pushed it open.

Her corset cover had little bows on it, white satin ones that beckoned his fingers. Stephen undid one, and Rose laughed at him. Then he saw why—the bows were decorative and didn’t open anything.

The hooks in the back did. Steven unfastened them and slid bodice and corset cover off. He kissed Rose again as he unlaced her stays and pulled them away.

Beneath she wore combinations, the top part made of thin lawn and lined with an edge of lace at the neck. In Steven’s hurry, he tore buttons, but soon Rose was bare to him.

He stood back to admire her. Now free of the dark cloth that swathed her upper body, Rose was truly the angel he’d thought her the first night. Her skin was replete with color—a pink flush across her throat and chest, the red of her lips, the glorious gold of her hair, and the dark red-brown of her nipples.

Steven cupped her waist, moving his hands up under her breasts. The swell of them filled his palms, just as he’d known they would, and he held them while he brushed his thumbs over her areolas. Her nipples tightened still more as Steven caressed them.

“You are beautiful, Rosie,” he said, almost reverently. “Like your name.”

“My mother loved roses.” The words were so soft they faded against the thrum of rain on the roof.

“I love them too,” Steven said, drawing her close.

Her back was warm, smooth, her breasts fine against his bare chest. Rose lifted into the next kiss, her movements fluid. She was good at kissing—her lips fitted smoothly to his, their tongues meeting, no awkwardness.

As though realizing she was enjoying it too much, Rose pulled back. “Steven, what did you mean . . .”

“Shh.” Steven quieted her with another kiss. He didn’t know what she was asking and he didn’t care. Some things could be destroyed with too any words.

He loosened her skirt and the petticoat beneath it, stripping off her mourning. Steven liked to think he was peeling back a cocoon, setting Rose free from the confinement of her grief.

Rose’s black skirts dropped away, and Steven unhooked her bustle. Rose said nothing about him knowing how the fastenings worked, but she’d understood him from the beginning. She’d had no illusions about Steven.

With her confining clothes joining his on the bed, Rose was beautiful in nothing but the lower part of her combinations and her stockings. Stimulating as well. Steven’s body urged him to take her now, or he’d make a fool of himself.

She looked best against the whitewashed wall. There, all her color came to life, the bloom in her cheeks, the gold of her falling hair. Steven unbuttoned and pushed down her combinations, helping her from them. Setting her free.

Rose naked was a glorious sight, and Steven was on fire. Her soft hands went to his shoulders, she having no doubt about what they were going to do. She wasn’t a trembling virgin—she was a woman who knew she liked the touch of a man, and wanted it now.

Steven undid his kilt’s clasp and pin and unwound the plaid from his waist. The kilt landed on top of their clothes on the bed, as did the rest of his underwear.

Rose’s gaze went to his cock, hard and tight for her, and her flush deepened. But she didn’t look away. She wasn’t afraid of this part of a man.

Steven couldn’t stay from her long. He pushed her to the wall near the window, close enough to the chimney for its warmth. Warmer here than on the bed, well he knew.

His body told him to hurry, but Steven wanted to savor her. He might never have another chance.

Rose drew a sharp breath as Steven leaned and licked between her breasts. Her hands went to his hair, caressing, drawing warmth. He kissed her skin once more then took one of her full breasts in his mouth, curling his tongue around her nipple.

Another quick breath from Rose, this one lifting her further into his mouth. Steven suckled and nibbled her, memorizing her dusky taste, one he’d recall in lonely evenings to come.

There was more of her body to enjoy. Steven licked between her breasts again, then kissed his way down to her abdomen. He sank to his knees as he went, touching a kiss to her firm belly. The tight lines of it told him Rose had never borne a child, which accounted for some of the sadness in her eyes. Her marriage should have given her that gift.

Steven teased her navel with his tongue, and Rose laughed. She didn’t ask what he was doing, didn’t try to push him away. She only ran a hand over his head and took another breath as he kissed the swirl of hair between her thighs.

Golden and beautiful. Rose made a faint noise in her throat as Steven leaned forward, nudged her thighs apart a little, and closed his mouth over her opening.

With my body, I thee worship. Steven had always liked the titillating words of the marriage ceremony. I worship you, Rose. I treasure you.

He slid his tongue into her, tasting her delights, wondering that he’d waited so long. He’d wanted to fall upon her the very night he’d . . . well, fallen upon her. Or that morning, when he’d lain in this room, unclothed, and she’d leaned over him to gather up his breakfast tray . . .

As Steven rested his fingertips on her thighs and drank her in, he let himself imagine how that would have gone. The tray on the floor, the dishes smashing. Rose on his bed, clothes coming away. The covers pushed aside, she straddling him. Her head back, her breasts moving softly in the rhythm of what they did.

Steven closed hands on her, his tongue doing what he’d wanted to that first morning. Rose made sounds of feminine pleasure, her fingers gripping his hair, but he didn’t mind the pain. Steven flicked his tongue over the tight part of her, smiling as she started, her body meeting the wall with a quiet slap.

He couldn’t wait any longer. Steven gave her one final lick, then he rose up the length of her, in contact with her all the way, his skin already slick with sweat in spite of the cold.

Rose started to laugh as Steven lifted her, giving him a look of surprise from her languid eyes that he wasn’t carrying her to the bed. But Steven was in too much of a hurry for something so tame.

Her laughter changed to a gasp when Steven parted her legs and slid straight up into her.

***

Rose clutched at Steven as he pressed her open, filling her, finding spaces inside her she didn’t know existed. He was hard and hot, and she was wet from what he’d done with his mouth and hands. No man had ever touched her as Steven had today—she hadn’t even realized men and women did such things.

But his mouth on her had wiped away all rational thought, erasing propriety and the need for self-control. Rose had fallen against the wall, her legs parting for him, the fires he’d started when he’d drunk her incinerating her from the inside out.

Just when she thought she’d roll away on a wave of incoherence, Steven had risen, the look in his gray eyes intense, and had lifted her into his strong arms.

Her body welcomed him.

“Rosie,” he said, a smile spreading over his face. “Ye feel as beautiful as you are.”

His accent had deepened, anything civilized stripped away from him. This was raw and basic, nothing to do with civilization.

The world thought Rose a scandalous woman, and now here she was in the heart of scandal. And what a wonderful place it is, to be sure.

Rose laid her head back against the wall, amazed that she had this man around her, in her.

She’d never made love like this before. She’d thought they’d be on the bed, Steven on her, his weight warming her. Not this primal coupling, with him holding her, thrusting up into her. He was high inside her, making her ache and feel wonderful at the same time.

All Rose could say was his name. It came out of her mouth again and again, as the rain beat on the window and rushed across the sill. If someone could look in from the outside, Rose imagined they’d see a blur of bodies against the white of the wall and the red brick of the chimney. The rain would run the colors like together like a beautiful painting that had been tipped while still wet.

The plaster was hard and cool at her back, the warmth from the chimney touching her side. Steven’s body in contrast was hot, living flesh, but every bit as hard as the wall behind her. She could see his that his tan ended where his waistband would be, then started up again on his lower legs. That meant he ran about in his kilt and nothing else, or only the lower portion of his military uniform, perhaps with legs rolled up.

The thought of Steven wandering about in the sunshine, half-dressed, his golden hair burnished, flooded her with pure desire. Rose felt herself opening even more, embracing him, her body knowing what to do.

Steven responded. His eyes were heavy, a gleam of gray from between his lids. A beautiful man, his face softened, the lines of care smoothed from it. His shoulders worked as he loved her, sweat gleaming on his skin.

Rose touched his face, and Steven kissed her. The kiss was hot, opening her without the sweet touches of lips leading up to it. The flirtation was finished, and this was real.

Steven abruptly pulled away from her mouth. “No,” he groaned, his brows drawing down.

His thrusts increased. Steven’s fingers bit into her flesh, and at the same time, the wave that had dissipated slightly when he’d ceased drinking her, crashed over Rose again.

She heard her voice ringing, crying his name, and his answering words, low and fierce. “Rosie, you’re beautiful, lass. Och, damn it.”

He held her firmly against the wall, thrusting hard, his face set, while Rose moved with him, body rocking with her pleasure. Sweat beaded on Steven’s skin, and trickled from hers, the cold in the room no longer having meaning.

Steven continued to thrust, but gentler now, slowing, his face easing from frustration to warm relaxation.

“I didn’t stand a chance,” he said breathlessly. “Didn’t stand a chance against the completeness of you.”

Rose didn’t have the speech to ask what he meant. She understood somehow.

Steven kissed her, his mouth warm with what they’d done. He turned around with her as he did so, and lowered her onto the bed, sliding out of her.

Rose lay alone, suddenly cold without him. Instead of joining her at once, Steven paused a moment and gazed down at her. He took her in with a slow glance, the brush of it tingling, as though he touched her.

Steven then trailed his fingers down her body, tracing her nipples, sliding his touch over her soft belly to the join of her legs.

Rose jerked when he touched her there, too sensitive. Steven smiled as though she’d done something pleasing, and slid himself onto the bed next to her. He lay on his side, propped up on his elbow, and moved his hand again to the join of her thighs.

One stroke there made Rose half-rise. “What are you doing?”

“Giving you pleasure, love. I was a bit hasty, but you had me too eager.”

Hasty? It had been full, wondrous. Steven brushed two fingers over her opening, and Rose jumped again, realizing they weren’t yet finished. “I never knew . . .”

Steven chuckled, a warm sound. “There are many avenues of pleasure between men and women. Fortunately, I know most of them.”

He knew this one, that was for certain. A few more strokes, and Rose was arching up, her thoughts scattering, as they had when he’d put his mouth to her. She knew she was behaving shamelessly, but she had no intention of stopping herself.

Steven caressed and rubbed her, then thrust a finger inside her. Rose’s world narrowed to that feeling—his finger was nowhere near as thick as his hardness, but the small movement made her choke back a cry.

A second finger joined the first, and then a third. All the while, he brushed his thumb over the tightness of her, until Rose bucked against his hand, begging him—for what, she didn’t know.

“Hush now, sweet Rose,” she heard him say. “I’m only giving you what you gave me.”

Rose’s cries continued, incoherent, and she couldn’t stifle them. Steven laughed again and covered her mouth with a kiss.

When the world went dark, nothing existing but Steven against her, and his hand pressed firmly to her, Rose ceased trying to stop her cries. She let the pleasure wash over her, her joy at being here with Steven become her only thought.

Just when she knew she’d die of this feeling, Steven took away his hand, rolled her into the mattress among their jumble of clothes, and entered her again.

He thrust into her faster this time, pushing them both down into the bed, his kisses hard. They moved as one, body to body, solidly joined. Their breaths came quickly, gazes holding each other’s, both too far gone now even for kisses.

Steven groaned as he lost his seed for the second time. He was holding Rose’s hand, his fingers squeezing hers, his face relaxing with his release.

Rose touched his cheek, kissing his lips with her swollen ones, and marveled at what they’d done this day.

***

Steven lay beside Rose long into the afternoon, not leaving her even as the window darkened with the end of the short day. They’d nestled down under the covers, the blankets heavy with their clothes. Steven had pulled his plaid up over the quilts, adding another layer of warmth.

Rose slept for a while, Steven dozing with her. When she’d awakened, she’d smiled at him, a little shy, but betraying no shame. Steven had touched her, savoring her, before his needy cock had him entering her one more time.

After that they both slept, then awoke and spoke in low voices. About nothing. About everything. Steven heard himself telling her stories about his childhood, how he’d run wild in Scotland with his sister, Ainsley, until their three older brothers dragged them home again. He spoke of the army, his friendships there, his adventures. Rose told him of her life in Edinburgh with her father, her sorrow when he died, her astonishment when a lofty duke asked her to be his wife.

They talked of dreams they had for now and later, and laughed about things they’d seen together. They had only a few memories, two days of them, but it gave them so much to talk about.

Steven could talk to her forever.

The coachman and his wife left them alone. The two downstairs had to know what the two upstairs were doing, and yet, they gave them their privacy. Miles and his wife must have recognized that Steven had come to take care of Rose, and they were letting him get on with it.

“Sittford House tomorrow,” Steven said, kissing her shoulder. “I want your legacy in your hands—I don’t trust Albert not to sell everything sellable before we can go through it.”

“You’re still determined to help me win against him?”

Steven noted the surprise and faint worry in her eyes. “Yes. Why wouldn’t I?”

“Our bargain will soon be at an end,” Rose said wistfully.

“Endings are sad.” Steven brushed his fingertips along the softness of her breasts. “I don’t like them. Beginnings sometimes can be good. But the middle of the story is always the best part. I like middles.”

Rose laughed. “I like the middle of this one.”

“That’s because all the villains are leaving us in peace.” He pressed his palm against hers, their splayed fingers touching. “So are our friends. I’m enjoying it.”

The look in Rose’s eyes said she was enjoying it too. “We’ll have to go back to the real world sooner or later.”

“Later,” Steven said. “Not right now. Right now is for . . .” He released her hand and slid over her again. “Right now is for loving you. I’m going to do it for as long as I can.”

“Good,” Rose said with a smile.

That was all Steven needed. He was already aching for her again, a pain that eased only slightly as he slid himself inside her one more time.

***

The bloody settee was nowhere in the house.

Steven sat on a dusty couch in one of the attics—the be-damned mansion had five—and looked with disgust at the furniture crammed into it. Couches, divans, chairs, tables, bedsteads, most of it rickety and broken. Nowhere had they found an Egyptian-style settee in ebony and gold, decorated with sphinxlike heads.

Rose stood, dejected, near the dusty window. She’d resumed her black clothes, which hid every inch of her. All very proper, but Steven would never look at her the same way again.

He’d seen her beauty. It glowed from her even now until it filled all the spaces in this dingy attic, and all the spaces inside Steven.

“It’s not here,” Rose said. She made her way carefully through the mess to Steven and sank down next to him. “Albert must have sold it. How could he have known?”

Steven shrugged. “We’ll find him and pound its whereabouts out of him.”

Rose did not look hopeful. She leaned into Steven, an intimate move, one she did unselfconsciously.

Steven turned his head and kissed her cheek, which led to a kiss on the lips. That kiss lingered, brightening the gloom around them.

They’d arrived while Albert had been finishing his midmorning tea. The man, it seemed, rarely left the estate—he’d told his housekeeper he’d be in London the day Rose and Steven had first come searching, only so the servants wouldn’t bother him.

The man was a fool, Steven thought in contempt. He obviously had no respect from his staff, or else he’d have told them he wasn’t to be disturbed, and they’d have obeyed. Steven knew that if servants didn’t like an employer, they could find plenty of little ways to irritate him without going so far as all-out rebellion. A man who had no control over his household was a sorry thing indeed.

Steven, brooking no argument from Albert, took Rose on a search of the house. Rose led Steven into every room on every floor, and they looked into every cabinet, cranny, closet, nook, and niche. They’d searched the cellars, rooms down there no one had opened for years. They’d even looked in Albert’s private rooms when Albert had gone off with his steward to the home farm.

The home farm would be next. Steven wouldn’t put it past Albert to try to hide a priceless antique in the garret of a leaky farmhouse.

The settee, however, was nowhere in sight. They did find the two Egyptian-style chairs depicted in the sketches from the cabinet, but that was all. Steven turned each chair upside down and stuck his hands under the upholstery but found no further clues inside them.

“You can always take one of these,” Steven said, motioning to the chairs, which were right side up again. “They’d bring something at a sale.”

“I know.” Rose eyed them disconsolately. “But I want to know why Charles pointed me to the settee. Why he wanted me to have it, in particular.”

Steven slid his arm around her and pulled her close. “No disrespect to your husband, Rose—he was a fine man—but I wish he’d written you a plain note that told you where he’d left you a cache of diamonds.”

“Albert would have found that, wouldn’t he?” Rose shook her head. “Charles had no illusions about his son.”

“Which is why I don’t understand why Charles didn’t make your settlements and what you received in the will more clear. Why he didn’t confound Albert before he began.”

Rose sighed. “I don’t know. Charles was fond of little jokes, but truth be told, they were jests a child could see through. That’s because he had a kind heart, did Charles. Not a mean bone in him.”

Steven wondered if he could ever live up to the paragon Charles seemed to be. The man had been kind, yes—Steven had seen that in him, even on brief acquaintance—but Steven had also noted that Charles had not been advanced in intellect. Steven had often been praised for his quick wit and clever mind, but Rose valued softness of heart over cleverness.

Steven cupped her cheek as she looked up at him, and leaned down to kiss her again. He couldn’t help himself.

Rose tasted of sunshine and summer days. He’d never be cold with her next to him.

Someone cleared a throat. “Begging your pardon, Your Grace.”