Rules of Attraction (29 page)

She untied the intricate bow and unpinned his starched collar. "There's something so tantalizing about the first glimpse of indecorous male skin. It's so soft right here"— she stroked the curve above his breastbone— "and gets to be deliciously wicked almost immediately." Her hand spread his shirt and burrowed down into the hair on his chest.

What maggot was in his brain that he thought he could send away a woman like this? Even for her own good?

She stroked him with her palm, with her fingertips, finding the sensitive places he knew of, and a few he didn't.

He eased the buttons free on his trousers.

She pulled his shirt over his head, then kissed the length of his collarbone— and lightly bit his nipple.

He grabbed her waist. "Woman, I ought to—"

She turned her back to him. "Unbutton me?"

He did, and with complete efficiency. After all, anything worth doing was worth doing well. "This is the ugliest dress you own," he said conversationally.

"I'm glad you hate it." It fell to her feet. "I picked it out for just that reason."

Their battle still raged, and the reminder renewed his disquiet. He had started it; he'd kissed her. But she had readily joined him; she had demanded his clothing. So she wasn't going to change her mind… was she? She wasn't going to slip away and leave him wanting, and justify her actions by telling him he deserved it… was she? He needed to unlace her corset and untie her petticoats, and that would take time. Time for her to think. To remember what he'd done since she'd been here. To remember what he'd said in her bedchamber.

He didn't want that.

A pile of folded white linen napkins caught his gaze. They stood stacked on a shelf, pristine and orderly, and an idea sprang into his mind full blown. Without considering the wisdom, he seized the corner of a napkin.

Hannah tried to twist around. "What are you doing?"

He caught her shoulders and faced her forward again, then with a flip of the wrist twirled the napkin into a long band and laid it over her eyes.

"Dougald!" Her hands went up to push the blindfold away.

But he was ready for that. With one hand he fended her off, with the other he held the ends together. "You'll like it," he said.

Actually he had no idea whether she'd like it. He only knew if she couldn't see she couldn't leave, and he needed her naked and in his arms.

"You must be mad." But she stood still while he tied it at the back.

"I have begun to think so," he acknowledged. What other explanation could account for his actions now?

With cautious hands she explored the band across her eyes. "I can't see at all."

She was, he realized, going along with his odd, guiltily pleasurable scheme. "Are all your other senses working?" He slid a fingertip down her neck and along her shoulder.

She shivered. "Yes…"

In a race against good sense— her good sense— he loosened her corset and petticoats. As he worked, her chemise slipped off one shoulder and he realized— she had been doing her part. She had untied her chemise and now he could lean over and look down. A breast from this angle looked different than a breast straight on, and the contrast made him want to do experiments. Look from the side, touch from the top, lick…

Even considering the care he took of her hurt foot, he had her out of all her clothes in record time.

But where to place her? The table was hard and cluttered, the sideboard was high and stacked with silverware, the floor… no. In the corner. In one of the master dining chairs with its shining wood, upright back, and softly curved arms.

He supported her as he led her, making sure she stepped softly on her injured foot. "Sit here."

She groped, then slowly lowered herself onto the chair as he watched. He saw the shiver she gave as her bottom met the cool wooden seat. With ever-increasing haste, he divested himself of his remaining clothing, and watched the sensual exploration of her fingertips across every polished surface. Everything about her charmed him, enticed him. He wanted her so much he would gladly spend the rest of his days in this pantry, giving her pleasure. He loved her so much, he wanted to shout her praises up and down the corridors of Raeburn Castle.

And he couldn't keep her, or say a word, because someone wanted to kill her.

23

W
ithout her sight, Hannah's world shrank, became a place confined by touch, scent, sound and odor. The chair where Dougald placed her was a craftman's pride, with curlicues and posts smooth to the touch and scented with beeswax. Her nakedness loved the lustrous wood, glossy as silk, supporting her limbs. The floor was cool beneath her soles, easing the ache in her foot. The chair sat in the corner; she investigated with her hands, finding the walls stretching out in either direction. Dougald stood near; she could hear the soft pant of his breath and the rustle of his clothes. He watched her; she could feel the heat of his gaze and sensed the gratification he got from seeing her so helpless.

Not that she was. Like their marriage, her subjugation was an illusion. She could discard the blindfold at any time. She could stand up, put on her clothes, and leave him if she wished.

She didn't wish. This was farewell. All those times they had said,
Never again
, and met again in furtive desire. This time, she meant it. She loved partaking of pleasure with Dougald. The taste of him, the scent of him, the demand of his body moving on and in her. He had imprinted himself on her, and she would never want another man.

But his cruelty had no end. His vindictiveness ate at her soul. And while she was willing to give herself wholeheartedly to her husband Dougald now, after this last good-bye she would ruthlessly end the love affair with the man Lord Raeburn. For the rest of her life, she would try to remember the passion and forget the pain.

Conscious that Dougald must be almost nude, she arranged herself in the seat. Head up, back straight, hands on the chair arms, knees and feet together.

If he wished for her, he would woo her.

"Darling, let me serve you." Dougald knelt before her, a supplicant mortal before his goddess. His belly pressed against her knees, his palms stroked her thighs. He wanted her to spread her legs. He urged her subtly, using his body to guide her.

She didn't wish to take his guidance. Instead, she leaned back against the chair, allowing the slats to cool her back. She lifted one arm, turned her head to the wall, and tucked her hand under her cheek. "Make it good for me," she commanded.

He chuckled, quiet and deep. "As you direct, my dearest." Taking her free hand, he lifted it to his lips and kissed each finger until he reached the little one. He slipped his mouth around the knuckle, sucking it in a manner that suggested… well, suggested a motion she much enjoyed. Then he nipped the end. She jumped, and tried to retreat, but he said, "No. Sit still. If I'm to make it good for you, you must sit still."

So she settled back as he kissed her palm, and trailed that kiss up the inside of her wrist, up the inside of her elbow, over each sensitive freckle and mole. His hands held her shoulders. In her darkness, the caress and texture of his callused fingertips enthralled her. When she realized that her turned head had bared her neck to his exploration, she began to wonder at the wisdom of her decree.

He loved to kiss her neck. Normally when he ran his lips over that tender skin, her toes curled, her breath hurried and she tried to push him away. Now, because of her command, he had carte blanche. But he must have sensed her wariness, for he whispered in her ear, "Trust me, dear heart." With one hand on her shoulder, one on her head, he kissed so lightly she almost didn't know he was there. Almost… except for his scent, that combination of spice and leather, so close to her. The way the fine hairs all over her body rose toward him. The tightening in her womb. The lift of her breasts. She wanted to turn toward him, to hold his head in her hands and open her mouth over his. She wanted to do to him what he did to her, and more.

Mates. They were lifelong mates, and this was their last time.

Sorrow filled her, but he couldn't see her eyes. He didn't know. That was best. She didn't want him to realize how very much she would miss him. Today she would hide her sorrow. Someday perhaps the pain of loss would fade.

He toyed with a fallen tendril of her hair. "When I see a single lock loose, I want to take it all down, to spread it across a pillow, to bury my face in your hair and breathe your scent." His fingers cruised along her cheekbones. They caressed her lips. They followed the curve of her chin downward to her chest, then separated to support her breasts. "I love these. When I see the curve of them hiding in your gown, I want to come to you and open your bodice, and view again the mystery of your body."

His praise made her smile in her grief. His touch made her forget everything but desire. In a voice husky with pathos, she said, "There's no mystery. It's a woman's body."

"You're wrong. It's your body. It's my mystery to try and puzzle out. And when I do, I always think— I understand her now. She'll be mine forever. And you stand up and clothe yourself, and I don't know you at all."

Ardent, vibrant, earnest, his voice wove a spell that held her as surely as the darkness. To hear him, he worshiped her— and perhaps he did. Perhaps that unwilling worship spurred his pride and made vengeance a necessity for this imperious man.

"You'll never know me," she whispered.

"No." Something grazed her nipple: breath, and soft lips. "Never all of you. I will come back again and again until I do."

"No." She shook her head and tried to confront him.

"Not yet." He turned her face again, tucked her hand back under her cheek, put the other on the arm of the chair.

Then… nothing. He was still there, but unmoving, barely breathing.

Looking at her. She knew it, and without self-consciousness knew the sight moved him.

"I should have you painted like this," he said.

"No."

"Taut, regal, glorious."

Her hands went up to the blindfold. "No."

He caught them. "Wait." He kissed the curl of her fingers, then each palm. "I've barely begun." With renewed fervor, he kissed her nipple, then with slow relish drew it into his mouth. He tasted it as if he savored the flavor. His hands settled on her hips, his thumbs brushing her belly. Pleasure prodded her again, a little more intensely, bringing a warmth between her legs. She began to want his hands proceeding with explicit intent along her skin, his mouth kissing more than tasting, his body stroking against hers. She wanted to move restlessly. Soon she would. Soon this would all be too much… a tiny moan escaped her. For now, she would let the craving build.

He kissed her belly, and in a moment of madness she let him part her thighs. His lips slid lower. She knew what he intended. Would she let him? Then his fingers brushed her curliest hair. He opened her and settled his mouth in precisely the right spot. Melancholy disappeared, thought scattered, coherence ended. Ecstasy conquered with chills, with delight so irresistible it was almost agony.

His tongue swirled against her, delved inside her. She whimpered with the rapture. His lips drank at her. Her head fell back. One foot rose. She braced it against the seat of the chair. Unable to stop herself, she arched her back. "Dougald." She groped for his head. She caught handfuls of hair, slid her fingers along his scalp. The scent of his excitement acted as an aphrodisiac. "Dougald."

He slid his hands beneath her and lifted her higher. Relentlessly, he followed the movement of her hips, giving no quarter, demanding nothing less than surrender.

At last, with a cry, she gave him what he required. Instinct triumphed. Dimly she was aware her hands clasped the chair arms. Her back braced against the spindles and her thighs spread. But mostly she knew the pure bliss of release, of a luxurious climax dedicated to her. Only to her.

She finished, finished at last, and as she began to collapse, Dougald invaded. Her bottom rested at the edge of the seat, and he entered her urgently, filling her with his need— and dragging her back to ecstasy. Immediately her body spasmed in his arms, her inner muscles clasping him, requiring that he give everything in him.

"Embrace me." His voice was ragged, commanding.

Her arms rose and enfolded his back. Her legs clamped around his thighs. His hands clamped on the chair, he plunged at her so hard the chair rocked and thumped on the wall. They didn't care; hearing the rhythm of their debauchery increased their vigor. Her blindfold fell away, the knot unbound by their impetus.

His gaze met hers. She saw his beloved face. The beautiful green eyes shot with gold. The blunt, short nose. The high cheekbones. That stubborn jaw, and the long, shining black hair with its streaks of white. And she realized she was crying. She didn't know why. Too much pleasure. Too much pain. Too much bliss. Too much, and never again.

"Darling," he said powerfully. He didn't look away. He claimed everything in her. "Darling."

She was his. Forever his.

He was hers. Forever hers.

This time they climaxed together, pressed together, giving each other everything. She welcomed the surge of his seed, the warmth, the wetness inside her. She had this, at least.

At least he had given her the possibility of his child.

"Darling," he said again. Gradually he came to rest on her. He nuzzled her neck, wiped the tears off of her cheek. "Darling." His voice was fainter, but no less vibrant.

They cleaved together, not wanting to separate, but at last he slipped from her body and knelt before her. "Hannah, I forgot."

He cupped her injured foot and pressed a soft kiss on the curl of her little toe. "Poor foot." He stroked the swollen part with gentle fingers. "So bruised." Surprising her, his palm flattened against her chest. "Poor Hannah. So brave."

She clenched her teeth against the sudden, urgent compulsion to sob aloud. Did his admiration mean so much to her?

No, she was just prone to the weakness pain brought.