The Scot. Lyn Stone
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Well, that was an understatement of gigantic proportions, she admitted. They’d had confrontations that stopped just short of violence, if the truth were known. But she loved him and would feel like dying herself if anything tragic happened to him. Pride stood in the way of her cautioning him fervently, however. His pride as well as her own.
Nevertheless, she couldn’t quite allow him to go, knowing the danger involved, and say nothing. The carriage had stopped in front of their hotel and the Scot had climbed out to help her down. Before leaving her seat, she cleared her throat and spoke to her father. “You will take care on your journey, I trust.”
He smiled brightly. “Of course. And your husband will ensure nothing untoward happens, so you mustn’t worry.”
She searched his face in the light of the coach lamp, hoping for something besides the surface expression he wore. Some softening in his noble, imposing manner. Some sincere wish that she survive this marriage and some small indication that he would miss her. When she didn’t find that, she sighed impatiently and busied herself with arranging her skirts for a decorous exit.
The Scot—Garrow or James, she must remember to call him one or the other—stood waiting, his large hand offered to assist her. She took it, placed her foot upon the steps he’d let down and alighted.
“Suz, darling, we are in rather a rush to be off,” her father called, having slid over to the nearest side of the coach, his head out the window. “Won’t you be taking sweet leave of your husband before we go?”
Sweet leave? She shot him a glare over her shoulder. He wanted sweet leave did he? She experienced the wicked urge to shock her father to the marrow of his bones. Well, thanks to the Scot, she now knew how. A kiss to seal a union in a church was appropriate and perfectly acceptable, however…
She turned abruptly to face her new spouse, grasped his wrinkled cravat in one hand, stood on her toes and pulled his face down to meet hers. With her other hand, she clutched the back of his neck and planted her mouth on his.
As forcefully as she could, she ground her lips against his, opening her own, insinuating her tongue into his mouth as he had done to her. Yes, this should do it, a wild and passionate kiss under the bright street lamps directly in front of the Royal Arms Hotel. Scandalizing enough, surely!
Suddenly the Scot’s arms clasped her to him so firmly her feet left the street. Before she knew it, he’d wrested away every jot of power she exerted and took complete control of the kiss. Angling his head, he all but devoured her whole, stealing breath and thought and freedom of movement. She didn’t care. Oh, my.
On and on it went, her body plastered so tightly against his, the stays of her corset bit into her ribs and her breasts ached from the pressure of his stone-hewn chest. She breathed through her nose and the wild heathery scent of his skin filled her. His groan of pleasure vibrated through her body as if it had come from her. She returned it without thinking. Her head swam in dizzying circles, lights flashed behind her eyes. Fainting had never felt this good before.
Then his lips were parting from hers. No, she wanted to cry. Not yet. She wasn’t finished. Still holding to his neckcloth after his grip on her loosened, Susanna drew him back, kissing him more gently this time, testing, tasting, playing tongue to tongue, subtly changing position the better to feel, to gather in the sensations she craved like air.
Where his hands gripped her sides, her stays dug into her like steel rods, that pain the only thing saving her from total immersion into mind-drugging euphoria. It was then she began to notice the almost desperate flexing of those strong agile fingers, the almost audible thunder of his heartbeat against her hand that was buried in his shirt-front. A heady thrill of power overtook her. She did this to him, obviously affecting his composure as much or more than he did hers. What a marvelous revelation of newfound capabilities. What a wonder!
Susanna smiled against his mouth, abruptly let him go and pushed away. When she lifted her lashes to look up at him, he appeared quite stunned. His hands unclenched from her waist and retreated. Her own body pulsed with feeling, sang with desire, but she tamped it down as best she could.
She took a deep breath, then tossed the gaping earl a triumphant nod. “There. All done. Do have a pleasant trip, Father.”
Again she glanced up at the Scot and quickly smoothed out the fabric she’d so recently clutched in her fist. “And you, dear heart, may ride as far south as you care to. Farewell, then.”
Swinging the beaded reticule that hung from her wrist, Susanna lifted her skirts daintily with her free hand and marched briskly inside the hotel past the slack-jawed doorman.
James watched a groom bring a saddled mount for the return trip to the city and attach its long lead rope to the back of the coach. The delay proved fortunate since James had to wait a wee while before he could comfortably climb back into the coach.
He ought to turn that cheeky lassie over his knee and give her bonny backside a sound drubbing at the first opportunity. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the uppermost wish in his heart at the moment.
There wasn’t the slightest hope that she’d give any encore performances of that kiss in private. If he thought there was a chance at all, he’d not be riding out with her da right now. The assassins down the road would have to bloody well wait a while.
She’d be a willful handful, that one, James thought, his eyes now trained on the third floor window where he hoped she would appear. Exasperated with himself for mooning like an untried lad with the first steelie beneath his kilt, James shook his head, scoffed and tore his gaze from the hotel back to the coach.
When he did manage to reenter the conveyance, he immediately noticed the earl’s consternation. It might be politic to ease the father’s mind about the daughter’s future welfare after the shocking display the lass had provided out there in the street, but James wasn’t inclined to discuss it now. Not in his present condition. That aside, he wasn’t altogether sure he could promise anything with regard to Susanna.
“You won’t beat her, will you?” the earl asked. “Even when you think she deserves it?”
James hesitated. He’d given her his word on that already and he doubted it would make a difference anyway. “Nay, I’ll not and that’s the end of it.”
But he thought to himself she could have used a swat or two when she was a bairn. Might have made life easier for her later on. And for him now that she was his. His. Well, he wouldn’t be dwelling on that until he could do something about it.
He changed the subject. “We’d best be making some sort of plan. The weapons? I have none, save a blade.” He patted the scabbard strapped just above his ankle. No self-respecting Scot felt dressed without his sghian dhub, though the knife was of little use against a firearm.
The earl fumbled around beneath the seat, opening a compartment with a small hinged door. He withdrew two pistols and handed one, butt first, to James. “Here. These should do. Webley revolvers. Five shots each. Coachman’s loaded them for us. You say you can shoot?”
James examined the newfangled gun, unlike any he’d ever seen or used. “I’ve a good eye and my aim’s true enough, but you must show me how to work the thing.”
They spent the next quarter hour discussing the assembly and operation of the repeating percussion revolver. Fascinated, James wished they had time to stop and get in a few practice shots before he was required to defend the earl’s life with this. The only pistol he’d ever fired was his father’s old brass flintlock, which he had not even thought to bring with him.
“You will keep one of these as a gift, of course,” the earl told him. “When you oust that steward of mine from Drevers, you might have need of it.”
James agreed, cocking and releasing the hammer, getting used to the feel of the weapon and sighting out the window, though he could see little for a target other than the silhouettes of trees in the distance. The moon was on the rise, full and soon to be bright enough to cast shadows, he figured.
Several miles before they reached Solly’s Copse