Rules of Attraction (21 page)

"That wouldn't be impressive," she mumbled.

"The royal party will stay the night. The Queen. Theroyal consort. The royal children. They'll need bedchambers, sitting rooms, a nursery that's not covered in dust and cursed with rotting floorboards!"

"Oh."

"Oh." He mimicked her savagely. "Shall we talk about how many servants will be traveling with them? And where we'll put them up?"

"No."

"How shall we transport them all from the railway station to the castle when we have a limited number of vehicles, none of them less than fifty years old?"

"Alfred's cart?" She used her smallest voice, and retreated when her joke caused his glower to become a snarl.

"What were you thinking?" He paced across her tiny bedchamber. "
What
were you thinking?"

"That Her Majesty wouldn't come?"

His nostrils flared like a stallion's scenting a challenge. "Hannah, this sewing project better be bloody wonderful."

She was aghast. "You haven't even seen it?"

"No! Why should I care how four old women use their time?"

"You're truly the biggest toad in the puddle, Dougald! I thought you knew, and I suspected you were using the aunts' tapestry to get Her Majesty here for your own glory."

"Using the aunts for my glory? That's silly!"

She experienced no end of satisfaction when she retorted, "Perhaps, but I couldn't ask you because you wouldn't ever allow me to speak to you in private."

He stopped pacing. He glared. "Tell me I'm worried for nothing. Tell me the tapestry is grand."

She thought of the tapestry. The beautiful, big, richly colored tapestry on which the four old ladies had worked for twenty-four years. She took a breath, then let it out in a long, quavering sigh. "It… was."

In a strictly composed voice, he asked, "What do you mean, it
was
?"

"It's a… um… tapestry. Very splendid. Very large. Very worthy."

"But?"

"But the aunts didn't quite have Prince Albert's features right, so I suggested they take that panel apart—" His low growl brought her stumbling to a halt. "I'll help them finish it?"

"You have a fortnight." He backed her into the corner between the wardrobe and the wall and leaned so close his hot breath touched her cheek. "A fortnight before Her Gracious Majesty, Victoria, Queen of England visits our little castle. Make sure this tapestry gets done."

She wanted to tell him it was impossible, but his eyes were slits of fury and… well, probably just fury. He used his closeness to intimidate her, and he was making a fine task of it. Certainly it was his threatening posture that made her heart pound, her knees weaken and her insides contract. She should not choose this moment to notice the scent of him— leather, soap and Dougald. And she had backed away from him because she feared he would put his hands on her in violence, not because if he touched her, she'd quiver and sigh and want more than she should want from such a cold-hearted beast.

"The tapestry," he said.

"It will get done," she promised.

Turning on his heel, he stalked out and slammed the door.

Hannah slumped into the corner and covered her eyes with her hands. What had she gotten herself into? A fortnight to reweave and sew a tapestry that had taken twenty-four years to complete— and do it better than before? It seemed an impossibility.

And sadly, the tapestry was the least of her problems. By some mad quirk of nature, she now discovered that no matter how thoroughly Dougald ignored her, no matter how aggrieved she was with him, when he came close she still trembled and yearned.

Obviously, her presence did not affect him in such a manner, or—

The door slammed open and Dougald stomped back in. "And where have you been?"

Perplexed, she repeated, "Where have I been? When?"

"Today. Tonight. Why weren't you in the castle?"

The events of the day rushed back at her. Her grandparents. She, wanting to speak to them but not having the nerve. She, staring with her nose pressed against the fence like some homeless waif. No power on earth could have made her tell him where she'd been or what she'd done. He would think himself a great success. He would laugh.

"It was my half day off, and therefore none of your business." She was proud of her inscrutable answer until she saw the flare of his red wrath.

He looked her up and down. "You're dressed up.
I
haven't seen you so dressed up. Not since you've been here." His fists clenched. "If you were out with that little pudknocker Seaton—"

"It would still be none of your business." Was he jealous? How lovely.

He leaned back over her, only this time he wasn't angry about the Queen. This time, his fury was personal. "It bloody well is my business where you go and what you do."

She jutted out her chin. "Why?"

"You're my wife."

Indignation came boiling up from her frustrated self. "When? Nine years ago? Not today, that's for sure. Not now. Not when you won't even speak to me to instruct me as to your orders."

He stepped back and surveyed her, scrunched in her corner. She stepped forward and glared at him, the egotistical pompous cad who thought to control her money and her fate.

And he swept her into his arms.

And she grabbed his hair and brought his lips down to hers.

They kissed in a whirlwind of passion, frustration and anger, their bodies pressed together, her feet dangling, his tongue in her mouth. Damn him! To treat her so insolently again, still, as if she were a girl of eighteen and he the superior older man. But he wasn't superior now; he wanted her, for his arms crushed her to him, his hands searched through the layers of her skirts and petticoats to find her thighs and lift them around him. And she… she wrapped her legs around his waist, pressed her bodice against his waistcoat, kissed him with her lips open and her tongue thrusting against his, and wished the clothes that separated them would vanish in some magical puff of smoke.

He tore his mouth from hers. "You dreadful tease." Swinging her around, he headed toward her narrow bed.

"Not me." She could scarcely think to answer him, but some instinct made her reach up to bite his lower lip. "I don't tease. This isn't teasing."

"No." He tumbled her onto her back on the mattress, his body between her legs, his chest pressed to hers. "Not now. But since you've been here. Every day." He stared into her eyes. "Prancing around the castle. Up the stairs. Down the corridors."

"I did not prance, sir." She ran her fingers through his hair and decided he should never cut it. "I am not a horse!"

"Talking so that, while I work in my office, I strained to hear you speak to Charles."

"Is it your command that I not speak?"

"Laughing with that knave Seaton."

"You come from a family of knaves, and you are the worst of the lot."

"Dressing provocatively."

"Provocatively!" She squinted down at the chestnut gown.

Climbing to his knees, he wrestled her skirt and petticoats to her waist, and like a magistrate proving guilt, he pointed at her ankles. "Look at this. Lace on your pantalettes!"

"I never showed you." She kicked her leather slippers off.

"I knew about the lace. I sensed it was there." He untied the string at her waist.

"I cannot help if you have developed clairvoyant abilities."

"Only where you're concerned." He rolled her pantalettes down. "Only about you."

He was exposing her in a way she hadn't been exposed in nine years. Nine long years. Deep in her womb, she experienced that slow, warm, deep slide of desire. Nine years. Too long. She'd been ignoring her body, telling herself she didn't want, didn't need, didn't care. Now, at the first taste and touch of Dougald, she was ready. Embarrassingly ready, completely ready, and not willing to slow or stop and certainly not to think.

His mouth curved in a slow, wicked smile. "I've dreamed of you." His fingers opened her.

Her eyes shut in an excess of sweet, warm longing.

"I've dreamed of touching you here"— the slightest of caresses brought her up off the bed— "and here"— he stroked with impertinence— "and I have wanted to fill you with my fingers."

As he thrust a finger inside her, she pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, trying to stifle her groan of delight.

"You never wanted me to hear you." His thumb massaged her while his finger slid in and out, in and out. "Always you tried to deny your pleasure."

"Only"— she caught a breath— "only after you made it clear this was not love. It was only duty and—"

The compression of his palm against her pubic bone stopped her resentful speech. When he held her like this, with one finger inside her and his hand rubbing her, and rubbing her, she no longer remembered old rancors. All she could think of was… grabbing his lapels, she pulled him forward and glared into his eyes. "Do it now."

He chuckled. Chuckled like the high-hat, self-important ass that he was. Until she loosened her grip on one lapel and slid her hand down his chest, across his belly, and down to the satisfying obvious bulge in his groin. Then, as she shaped his length, caressed his testicles, his laughter stopped. His eyes half closed, and as he lifted his head she saw the strain of the tendons in his neck and the bright flush of desire that lit his cheeks.

"Do it now," she repeated.

This time he didn't laugh. Stepping back, he pulled her pantalettes all the way off, then opened his trousers and shoved them down past his knees.

His hurry satisfied her pride, at the least, and her desire… my God, he was big and bold, wanting her in the most explicit way, and if he didn't put himself into her soon…

"Dougald, please." She held out her arms to him.

He fell on her like a ravaging beast, bothering with none of the niceties, responding to her demand for union with a satisfying instinct that had him impetuously pushing into her.

She sucked in her breath. She had been without satisfaction for too long… she was too tight. Pain threatened, then became a reality. Digging her nails into his arms, she said, "No."

He glared at her, glared like a drowning man deprived of rescue. Then he took in her expression: fierce, tortured, unsatisfied. Swallowing, he slowed, and in the warm, hushed voice of her lover, commanded, "Let me fill you, darling. Just relax and let me in."

When he talked to her like that, she responded like any female creature to the claim of her mate. She relaxed, adjusting her body around him, and he slipped right in to the hilt.

She whimpered. It felt so good. This was so bad. He had her. Again. But…

He hadn't wanted to do this, either. Only tonight, when his unimpeded frustration and anger had broken through, had his restraint been vanquished.

So it was all right. This was not manipulation. This was truth.

She lifted her hips. She flexed her inner muscles. And in a voice as warm and caressing as his, she said, "Please, lover. I want you."

17

D
ougald knew he shouldn't be doing this. This was not at all what he planned. He had planned to drive Hannah mad with desire while he held tight rein on his passions. Then he would dictate the conditions of their reconciliation, and she would recognize her master.

But the heat of her… the scent of her… her voice saying, "Please, lover. I want you." He was weak, but he had to take her. Every primitive instinct within demanded he fill her with his seed. She was his possession, his fief, his wife.

Without elegance, without restraint, he gave himself over to his passion. Every important drop of his blood, every important part of his body, fought to get inside her. He entered her and withdrew, entered her and withdrew. Beneath him, he could hear the mewling noises she made. Her hips rose and fell with the rhythm he set. Her arms gripped him as if she feared he would disappear. He feared it, too. Feared good sense would prevail before he had his fill of her. He was going too fast, he knew it. She wouldn't be able to come, not with him pounding at her like this, but he couldn't slow down, couldn't wait…

"Hurry," she urged him. Doubling up a fist, she struck him on the shoulder. "Hurry!"

He redoubled his efforts. She scratched at his back in a catlike frenzy, fighting to reach her peak, taking her frustration out on him in the most primitive way possible. Later he'd be glad he still wore his clothing. Right now it was nothing but a bloody damned nuisance. Hell, he still wore his cravat tied like a noose around his neck.

Hannah was so beautiful with her hair coming undone. It spread across the dark coverlet like a river of scented gold. Those startling brown eyes opened and shut, alternately languid and desperate, as if desire and need fought a battle for her soul. Her gown, her idiotic satin gown, was buttoned all the way to her neck.

"Dougald, Dougald, Dougald."

He heard that note in her voice. The note he hadn't heard for nine long years, yet he recognized it.

Deep in his groin, pressure grew. Instinct demanded that he thrust as hard as he could. He wanted to finish inside her. He needed to drench her with his seed. But first… he had to watch her. He had to.

Her eyes closed. A flush started at her collar and rose up her neck, her cheeks, her forehead. Her nose scrunched up, her lips opened in a long series of gasps. Her hips lunged at him, demanding satisfaction. Her legs clutched at him, bringing him close. Deep inside her, the spasms took her, rocking her, bringing her gratification of the most primitive type.

He exulted in this primitive outbreak, this unstoppable passion. She hadn't been able to resist him. Her body had hungered, just as his did. She was his.

Then he couldn't wait.

He pressed her down on the bed with his hips. He held her with his hands. He forced her to take him. She writhed against him, waves of ecstasy rocking her, moans of pleasure breaking from her. He invaded her, going as deep as he could. His balls tightened. Then, irrevocably, he came, filling her with himself. He plunged, wildly, blindly, branding himself on her, demanding that she acknowledge she was his, coercing her physically to overwhelm her mentally.