"Scandalous Weddings" - читать интересную книгу автора (Smith Barbara Dawson, Joyce Brenda, Jones Jill, Becnel Rexanne)

Chapter Three

The deep hush of night shrouded the castle.

As Helen slipped out of bed in the small upstairs chamber, she could hear only the whine of the wind down the chimney and the soft snoring of Miss Gilbert, who lay burrowed beneath the pile of blankets. Nestled at the foot, M'lord lifted his head and wagged his tail, but Helen whispered, "Stay," and he obeyed, his liquid brown eyes watching as she crept toward the door.

The fire had burned down to smoldering embers during the hour she had waited to make certain her companion was soundly slumbering. Helen had spent the time in dreamy romantic fantasy until her every nerve hummed and she could bear the suspense no longer.

It was now. Or never.

The icy floor caused her toes to curl inside her thin silk stockings. She'd left off her shoes, which were still damp from the snow. Luckily, she had retrieved her cloak when Abbott had been moved to a bedchamber, for the air held a frosty nip that penetrated her thin shift and petticoats.

When Gillie had innocently suggested she remove her gown and corset before retiring, Helen had complied. She had also unbound her hair and let it tumble to her waist. Now she felt deliciously daring as she opened the door and stole out into the gloomy corridor.

Where did the master of the castle sleep?

MacBrut would have chosen the best room for his own-the laird's chamber. This was his castle, after all. Questions clamored in her. Where were his servants? Did he have another home elsewhere? Who was he, really? Helen sensed there was more to him than he let the world see. Much more.

With one hand on the cold stone wall, she slowly felt her way through the darkness. A frisson of excitement scurried over her skin. She could scarcely believe she was on her way to meet a man in his bedchamber. Such scandalous behavior could ruin an unmarried lady.

And if all went as planned, who would ever find out? Certainly no one from her social circle. This was her one night of adventure, her one chance to learn the truth behind the mystery of the sexes.

After tomorrow, she would never see. MacBrut again.

She stumbled into a chair, and the legs scraped the floor with a loud screech. Helen froze, her heartbeat surging. The passage was pitch-black; belatedly she realized she should have brought a candle. She had the eerie sense of being watched by a ghostly presence, and the image of that dusty abandoned table in the great hall flitted to her. But she deliberately put it out of her mind. She would let no morbid thoughts intrude upon her quest.

Carefully she moved on until she reached the bedchamber. The door stood halfway open. Feeling giddy, she tiptoed closer. From within came the glow of a fire and the faint crackling of logs. Helen pictured MacBrut lying sprawled in the four-poster bed: His eyes would widen with surprised appreciation when she walked into his room. He would be stunned by her offer; then he would sweep her into his arms and kiss her and do the wicked deed and at last she would know…

It would be as simple as that. Or would it?

She paused, her palm frozen against the studded oak door. All she had to do was to push it open and walk inside. But her hand disobeyed the edict of her brain. Her legs had all the strength of frostbitten flower stalks. What if MacBrut scorned her overture? What if he gave her that stony look of his? What would she say to persuade him?

Hello, I wondered if you would mind taking my virginity. Too blatant.

Ithought you might be feeling as lonely as I am. Too dreary.

It's frightfully cold. May I join you in bed? Too childish.

A draft of chilly air eddied down the corridor and slapped her cheeks. Helen shivered, hugging the ermine-trimmed cloak in an effort to contain the heat of her fantasies. Now that the moment was nigh, however, cold common sense asserted itself. What madness had brought her here?

She was no seductress. She couldn't offer herself to a stranger. Especially not a Highlander who hated her. What if MacBrut treated her ill?

Perhaps she had only deluded herself into believing he had a kind nature beneath his gruff exterior. Caring for an injured servant didn't necessarily make MacBrut a hero.

Perhaps she should find another man to be her teacher. A civilized gentleman whom she could trust.

She turned to go. And ran smack into the solid bulwark of a man. «

He crowded her against the wall, and her mind registered danger in the fingers gripping her upper arms. In the musk of his male scent. In the massiveness of his muscled chest pressing into her soft bosom.

Tilting her head back, she could discern only his large black outline against the gloom. But she didn't need to see his face to identify him.

MacBrut.

A secret thrill pulsed deep in her belly. It was part fright and part fascination. Like a wolf, he'd crept up and caught her. "What are you doing out here?" she asked in a breathy voice.

"Better I should ask that of you."

His deep, rolling brogue stirred her senses. The heat of his large body sparked a blaze of carnal curiosity, the feeling so powerful she forgot her change of heart. In a rush she blurted out, "I came to see you. To be with you."

Would he understand her meaning? Would he accept her bold offer? She waited in agonizing hope.

Silence throbbed around them. The tensing of his fingers betrayed a response in him, though whether it was disgust or desire, she could not tell. In contrast to the furnacelike warmth of him, the frigid stone wall pressed into her spine. From a distance came the scolding of the wind like the voice of her conscience. Turn back, make an excuse, flee while there's still time…

He parted her cloak and cupped her breasts. A shocking fervor melted the remnants of her resistance. His touch felt so right, so perfect, and she leaned into him, wanting more.

Abruptly he ground his hips against hers. "Out whoring, m'lady? I shouldna be surprised."

"Don't speak to me like that." She drew an indignant breath at his crude remark. "I'm not what you think."

" 'Tis pretty words you ladies want. And fancy trappings for your lust. But underneath you're all the same."

His hands descended, following the curve of waist and hips, moving downward over the layers of petticoats until he captured the prize between her legs. Gasping, she instinctively clamped her thighs together, but succeeded only in trapping his hand in place.

She shoved at his arm, a futile effort against iron muscles. "Don't."

"Don't? You came here wanting this." He rubbed slowly, provocatively. "But perhaps my manner is no' so genteel as your other lovers'."

This was how a man touched a woman? With harsh insistence? And to her utter shame, why did she like it? "I have no lovers. And I won't tolerate you acting like a brute." She gave him another, harder push. "That's brute with an e."

He jumped back half a step, removing his hand but remaining so close she could feel his body heat. His grimace flashed through the darkness. "You've a husband, then, I trow. Well, it doesna matter to me how many men you've had in the past."

"I have no husband, either," she retorted. "I've never done this before."

"You've never sought out a man in his chamber?" He fingered a silky strand of her hair. "No doubt the rutting curs grovel at your doorstep."

"Blast you." Helen slapped at his hand. "The truth is, I was curious. I'm twenty-four years old, and I've never been with a man. Not ever"

He stood unmoving. "You. A virgin."

She hated the skepticism that roughened his voice. She hated him for ruining her golden dream of discovery. "Step aside. I was mad to come here. If you must know, I was returning to my room when you appeared and started pawing me."

He didn't budge. Rather, he placed his hands on the stone wall to form a prison around her. "Were you now?"

"Yes, this was all a mistake. A momentary loss of reason." She ducked under his arm, but he moved with the swiftness of a predator, catching her against his hard form, his grip deceptively loose.

"Coward," he said softly.

Was he laughing at her? Certainly not MacBrut; he didn't possess a smidgen of humor in his muscle-bound body. She tugged at his arm to no avail. "Let me go."

"Not so quickly, lass. 'Twould seem I must voice an apology."

"So say it and be done."

"I shouldna ha' spoken so ill to you just now. If you are truly untouched-"

"There's no if about it."

"Then you canna be used to a man's ways. I shouldna ha' fondled you so." He was fondling her now, his fingers sliding beneath her cloak to trace her waist and spine with masterful delicacy. In contrast to his earlier scorn, his voice was pure honey, sweet and thick and addictive. "But you canna blame a man for going a bit daft over you. You're soft and curvy and warm the way a woman should be."

Her legs felt weak again, but she clung to her displeasure. "Release me. I wish to return to my room."

"First, here's something to take back to your lonely bed."

His dark head swooped down and the heated pressure of his mouth met hers, his tongue nudging apart her lips. The surprise of it held her motionless; her mind resisted his appeal. But her body thought otherwise. Her arms slipped around his neck and she gave herself up into the deep pleasure of his kiss. He tasted of the wine they'd drunk at dinner, and she could feel herself growing warm and giddy. All the while he caressed her in loving strokes that caused her skin to tingle and her blood to surge. She touched him tentatively at first, then with bolder forays over his chest and shoulders. His strength awed her, the muscle and sinew beneath the roughness of male skin. She loved the differences between them, the way they complemented each other, man and woman. This was what she had dreamed of, being kissed with passion and tenderness, held as if he could not bear to let her go.

He slid his mouth to her ear. His hand kneaded her breast and stroked the aching tip. "Tell me to stop, lass, fell me lest I do more."

A small shuddering sigh eased from Helen. She arched up on tiptoe and nuzzled his throat. "Do more, please. Do whatever you like."

His breath hissed out through his teeth. His arm tightened in a fierce grip. For a moment he didn't speak; then he muttered, "As m'lady wishes."

Taking her by the waist, he drew her into his chamber and kicked the door shut. A fire burned low on the stone hearth, casting a glow over the stately four-poster with us tall canopy and tattered silk hangings. Rather than lead her to-the bed, he brought her to a pallet of blankets he'd laid out before the fire. He released her, went to the woodpile, and tossed several logs onto the hearth. The flames leapt, biting and hissing in a shower of sparks.

Despite the radiant heat and her enveloping cloak, Helen trembled. She felt awkward and uncertain without the reassurance of his arms. It was not that she regretted her decision. It was that she did not know what to do. Should she undress? Should she lie down?

MacBrut unwound his plaid and cast it onto the blankets. His coarse linen shirt outlined the solidity of his shoulders and chest. As he kicked off his boots, her gaze was riveted to the long, bare legs leading up to his kilt and she wondered what-if anything-he wore beneath. "Having second thoughts, m'lady?"

That mocking note was back in his voice. She lifted her chin and decided to be honest. "No. I… just don't know how to seduce a man."

His lips quirked to the verge of a smile-but not quite. Yet it was enough to soften the fierce angles of his face. "Aye, lass, that you do."

Striding to her, he undid the fastening of her cloak and let the garment fall to the floor. His hand lingered a moment on the curve of her neck, beneath the curtain of her hair. Then his moody blue gaze moved lower, and she felt the brush of his fingertips as he let down the sleeves of her shift. The loose fabric clung protectively until he peeled it to her waist and bared her breasts.

Flushed with embarrassment and desire, she lifted her hand to her bosom,, but he caught her arm before she could cover herself. His thumb caressed the tender inner skin of her wrist while he gazed at her. How strange to let a man look at her so. It made her feel wicked and wonderful. The frank admiration on his face was gratifying, especially when he slid an arm around her waist and pulled her close against him, using his other hand to stroke her.

Sighing, she leaned her head onto his wide shoulder and closed her eyes. Her self-consciousness faded as she focused on the tactile sensations aroused by his callused fingertips. Then something wet and warm closed over her nipple. His mouth.

"Oh … I never dreamed…"

" 'Tis no dream. Remember that." And he blew on her dampened flesh.

While she whimpered from the rush of delight, he untied the tapes of her petticoats, pushed his hands inside, and found the curve of her bottom. He squeezed gently, setting off a reactionary tightening deep within her, and he caught her up in another long, openmouthed kiss.

Sweet heaven, she had been right. So right about him. Despite all his gruffness, MacBrut could be tender and loving and oh so exciting.

Somehow her undergarments fell away and she stood naked and unashamed in his arms. The world tilted as he pressed her down onto the pallet, and she felt the softness of his plaid beneath and the roughness of his clothes against her front. His kilt had ridden up, and a rodlike shape pressed into her thigh. Helen felt breathless and wanton just thinking about it, wondering why she ached to touch it, wondering what exactly he would do next. Then she could think no more when he brought his hand to her leg, smoothing up and up until his palm rested lightly at the top of her thighs, where he had handled her so crudely out in the corridor.

She stiffened, but he showed no anger now, only finesse. The tip of one finger moved… and touched a place so private and sensitive that she cried out, clutching at his arm.

"Sshh, lass. Let me stroke you. Let me prepare you."

"Prepare me?" she asked, mystified.

"Aye… I'll show you now."

He caressed her again, and the tension inside her dissolved, generating a moist heat coaxed forth by his skilled hand. She meant to lie quietly on the blankets, but her hips moved in rhythm to the rising beat of pleasure, and MacBrut crooned encouragement, his breath hot against her ear. Never had she imagined allowing a man such intimacy… or enjoying it so greatly. She shuddered with pleasure when he settled himself between her legs, his body comfortably heavy. Something hot and hard probed her tenderness, and before she could wonder at his intention, he entered her.

It hurt. Especially when he plunged deeper, driving himself to the hilt. He lay still then, his arms braced on either side of her. His chest heaved, the muscles in his neck straining as if he fought for control. In the firelight, strands of black hair gleamed around the harsh beauty of his face and the midnight eyes that gazed intently at her. Helen only realized she was biting down on her lip when he leaned down and brushed his mouth over hers in a soothing gesture.

"Steady, lass. Give yourself a moment, and you'll like it more."

She did already. His size stretched her to a pleasant fullness, and a sense of awe enveloped her. So this was how it was done, this mysterious act of mating. Never had she dreamed of such an intimate joining, or the warm, insistent yearning that made her reach out and draw him down onto her.

"I do like it," she whispered. "Very much."

He nestled his face in her hair, his voice husky in her ear. "And now I'll make you love it."

He moved slowly. In and out, commencing a rhythm that called to a primal craving buried within her. She lifted her hips to take him in deeper, but it wasn't enough. She wanted… something more. Something beyond her reach… something that wrested small moans of frustration from her as she surged with him, clinging to his shoulders, feeling the urgency build and build in her. She closed her eyes, focusing on the place where they were linked, the place that clenched to a tightness beyond belief.

"Let go," he said, panting. "Fall into it, lass."

"Into… what?"

Even as she asked, she knew. Rapture flooded her body, and she cried out with the swift plunge into paradise. She lost herself in the pulsations of pure white light, barely conscious of his final drive, his savage shout. ₉

Limp and replete, she drifted by degrees back to herself. The fire crackled into the silence, enhancing the sense of cozy well-being. She knew a contentment deeper and richer than anything she had experienced in her life. And it was all due to the massive man who lay sprawled atop her, his body still joined to hers in that wondrous way.

MacBrut. Who would have thought she could find such incredible joy with a man she'd met only hours earlier? A man who hid his true sensitivity behind the bristly skin of a beast.

A great tenderness washed through her, a feeling of closeness to this man who had initiated her into the secret society of womanhood. Snuggling against him, she breathed in his scent along with that ineffable sweetness…

"Roses," she murmured in surprise. "These blankets smell of roses."

He said nothing, his face turned from her, his cheek resting on her hair.

Helen glanced past him, at the chamber with its fine mahogany furniture in contrast to the rough stone walls. "These blankets must have belonged to the lady of the castle. What happened to her?"

The muscles of his back tensed beneath her hand. Still, he did not raise his head, though he grunted his displeasure.

His refusal to speak only endeared him to her. He was a pussycat beneath that lion's growl. Then a horrid thought struck her: what if this room had once belonged to his wife? What if he had suffered the terrible loss of her?

Sympathy brought tears to Helen's eyes. If he didn't wish to be questioned on the matter, then she owed him the courtesy of turning her curiosity elsewhere. And she did have so many questions. She ached to learn everything about him.

She stroked the rough silk of his hair. Softly, she said, "I don't even know your first name."

He mumbled something indistinct.

"I beg your pardon?"

He lifted his head slightly and shot her a wary glance. "Alexander."

"Alexander." She smiled, studying his fierce features and deciding the name fit, for it reflected the blend of civilized man and wild beast. "Alexander MacBrut."

"Nay. Alexander, the MacBrut. 'Tis the way the laird of the clan is known."

Startled, she blinked. Of course. He was no ordinary Highlander.

And that explained why he lived in this castle. Why he carried himself with an aura of command. "If you're the laird, then where are your people?" "They live in the village."

"But they must have lived here once. That pitiful dining table-"

"Enough of your bletherin'." His expression hardening, he levered himself to his feet. "Women like to natter on about matters that dinna concern them. 'Twould seem you're the worst of the lot."

In half-naked magnificence he towered over her, and Helen could scarcely think. "I merely wondered-"

"Then take your wondering back to your own bed." He snatched up her shift and tossed it at her. "Now."

As she sat up, the chill of the air seeped into her, chasing away the warmth and lassitude of their lovemaking. "How can you speak so harshly after what we just shared?"

"I had my pleasure, and you had yours. But 'tis over, and I've no stomach for useless chatter." Pivoting away, he turned his attention to adjusting the folds of his kilt.

Despite her determination to see the good in him, his rejection hurt. How could she explain her longing for romance, for soft words and parting kisses? She hadn't anticipated this brutal ending to her night of discovery. It left her feeling vaguely used and unclean.

With trembling fingers she donned her clothing, covering herself with the cloak. She paused a moment, looking at Alexander the MacBrut, who had shown her such ecstasy.

He stood gazing into the fire, one of his hands braced on the stone chimneypiece. She had a hundred questions she'd like to ask him, to enable her to understand him better. But he acted as if he'd already forgotten her presence and the deeply personal experience that had seared her soul.

After tomorrow, she would never see him again. The knot in her throat prevented her from saying good-bye. She left quietly, slipping out into the cold, dark corridor and feeling her way back to her bed, where Miss Gilbert still snored in blessed oblivion. M'lord awakened and wagged his tail, and Helen hugged him briefly before crawling beneath the covers. She closed her eyes, remembering the joy and beauty the MacBrut had shown her. No, not the MacBrut. Alexander.

Alexander had made love to her. With his tender touch, he had transported her to paradise. Belatedly she realized the folly of believing she would be content after learning the mystery of it. Once was not enough. Already she missed the warmth of his arms and the excitement of his kisses. Already the place between her legs ached to be filled by him. Only him.

Alexander.

She turned restlessly, hugging her pillow. It was foolish to desire the unattainable. She would leave here on the morrow and never return. She'd had her adventure and now it was over.

Yet as she fell asleep, Helen wished with all her heart for the chance to charm him into doing it again.