Page 85 of The Scot Who Loved Me
Her exploratory hand rucked the sheet over the finest hill any woman could conquer. But there was the rub. Will MacDonald was not a thing to be vanquished or a prize to be claimed. He was the gentlest of hearts . . . if one dusted off his rough charm and unwrapped layers of stubbornness and brood.
A man like that deserved more kisses. Everywhere.
She bent over and placed a sweet kiss on his arse, so tender, it bordered on quaint.
“What are you stirring up, lass?” His voice was a drowsy rumble.
Long hot kisses were her next answer.
His skin pebbled under her lips. Will’s fingers dug into the bed, an eyes-closed clutch of pleasure.
Her hair fell around him, and her medallion landed on his skin. Her heart was galloping and the peculiar dryness in her throat was gone. With her mouth, she boldly sought the twin dimples at the small of his back. The curve of his arse. Will’s hamstring and the side of his knee.
Her gown shushed against bedsheets.
Will’s hips were grinding slowly on the bed. She leaned in and let his fine arse rub her breasts.
He was worthy of this... this worship. She dug her fingers in bed linens with furious need.
She wanted him. She scooted fully onto the bed, needful and desperate.
This was more than desire... it was—
A door slammed below. She dropped her forehead on Will’s thigh, her breath ragged. She needed to collect her wits, scattered as they were.Desire thickened her blood to the sweetest honey. Its nectar dripped through skin between her legs.
With a reluctant push, she sat up, the mattress moaning, Will moaning. She’d sprawled herself half over him.
Her feet hit the floor. She wobbled like a newborn foal and set a hand on the bedpost to steady herself. Will was in no hurry to change position. He lay as she found him, belly down, legs wider. The same ballocks which swung into view at Marshalsea were snug in the apex of his legs. Hairy and comfortable. How Will’s bits ought to be.
Aunt Maude and Aunt Flora’s voices rose and fell in sisterly rhythm. Cecelia was among them. The Fletcher sisters would follow. Dinner would be on the table soon. This would be their last meeting to go over the details for tomorrow night.
The time to steal Jacobite gold was almost upon them.
She tucked the medallion in her cleavage and cuffed hair off her cheek. Will’s mirror showed flushed cheeks, starry eyes, and moist lips. Mussed hair was life on the wharf, but the former traits were all Will MacDonald’s affect. Cold water splashed on her face would help. Lots of chilly water.
“Anne?”
Her name on Will’s lips was a question laced with... hope? Did they have another chance? She grasped plain cloth between her breasts. It hurt too much to hope.
“Will.” She turned around, and he noted her cloth-gripping hand.
The clench was necessary, it kept her together. She wouldn’t tell him about the Countess of Denton’s offer. It was beneath him, and she’d already scored Will’s pride when he first met the league. She could never make up for her unintended ambush—could anyone? She’d hurt him, he’d hurt her. Theirs was the impossible spiral that wanted closing. True atonement was impossible, and forgiveness too deep and wide to comprehend.
Still, she’d try.
“Will, you don’t have to wear the bigamist’s clothes or his shoes. I know you don’t like them, most of them, anyway. Go to that art salon as you are—dock worker, former highland rebel... take your pick.”
His head lifted off the pillow. “I’ll be whatever you need me to be.”
“I want you to be you.” Each word sunk an arrow into her heart.
For some reason, this need burned fervently inside, as if she would replay their history and see the brash, kilt-wearing foot soldier she fell in love with. But nothing could erase the years and change between them. Worn-out burgundy velvet shimmered modestly on a wall peg near the window. There was a history behind that coat. One day she would hear it. For now, she’d be content for Will to wear it. It made him happy, that coat and his boots.
That had to be true love—wanting someone just as they are.
Will rotated, a leisured turn in which he bunched linens strategically. Propped up on hiselbow, dark blond hair at his shoulder, he was regal as a lion . . . or a pagan. Definitely a foreign prince, naked on his throne bed. They were both eyeing his favorite coat.
“Wear it every day,” she said. “Wear it to the night of the art salon... I don’t care. I want you to be comfortable and happy.”
