Page 98 of The Scot Who Loved Me
He tried to swallow the knot in his throat and tried to tear himself away. He couldn’t.
Wild and wicked, that’s what lowland Scots thought of their highland brethren. Picts and Norse-Gaels once carved out homes in the isles, history written in blood. The highlands ran in his veins, the brisk winds and peaty bogs. A place of pagan warriors. His ancestors. He could feel their roar at what had become of him. Of rebellion and loss. The City left its grit, a brand to be sure. Here were different warriors, the victorious ones and those who lost. Defeat was a scar that would stay forever, a reminder of what could have been. Yet, his forefathers had carried on in the land they’d loved.
Why couldn’t he do the same?
These years had changed him with one constant in his heart, the woman he’d thought he’d lost.
“Anne...” Cecelia’s voice rose in caution.
Anne was walking toward him. The woman was a warning and a prayer, snatching another glass of champagne from a passing tray. “I’m fine. If I can hold my own with sailors, I can certainly hold my own at—” her glass-holding hand arced at the room “—an art salon.” Her last words were delivered with the faintest sneer. “What do you think?”
Anne took a drink, her eyes seeking him. Clear emeralds, cosmetics enhancing sooty lashes and sharp cheekbones. The near-emptied glass wore her carmine lip print on its rim. She’d leave her stamp. Always.
“I think you will do what you will, lass. You always have.”
Her seductive laugh tumbled low. He watchedher delicate throat work while she finished the champagne, her green eyes sparkling through her lashes. Mr. Hadley’s Spruce Prigs were spreading out. They blended in, making a show of studying the artwork. One Spruce Prig discussed the merits of a horse’s portrait with an older gentleman. Others took the stairs, sharks on the hunt for silver and soft-paste porcelain figures, anything they could lift. Paintings were dull custom for the likes of them.
Cecelia watched them go, her eyes catching Will’s.
“The two of you keep out of trouble, will you? I hear the countess changed her mind about serving red wine.” She smiled deviously. “I am about to correct that.”
His cousin sauntered off.
Anne reached out and came short of touching the painting. “Is that—”
“The Isle of Benbecula,” he said reverently.
The gold medallion, its curlicued nine, rested over her bodice. Anne didn’t bother to hide it. She was bold and wounded, as tortured and trapped in this gilt refinement as he. A black curl unmoored itself, this one resting high on her breast. The curl seemed to ride the swell, up and down with her breaths. When his gaze met her eyes, he found her wounds bared, her heart broken.
“Take me from this place, Will,” was her hoarse cry.
“The gold,” he murmured.
“Anywhere. Just away from this... Please.” Her plaintive whisper was enough.
He took her hand and led her out of the drawing room and down the hall to an alcove near the dining room. Ferns and a marble bust on a pedestal provided cover, their oasis. He folded Anne into his arms or she folded herself into his. It was hard to tell with his heart beating out of his chest. She nestled her head under his chin and that was enough.
Contentment and satisfaction was a calm island in their storm. More truths had been shared this past week than one dare put in a lifetime, and they wore down the heartiest soul. Her hair under his chin, her hands on his back, the lavender she preferred. It all came back to him. The feel of Anne’s body molded to his and the deep-seated satisfaction it brought.
She belonged in his arms.
His hands seemed to agree. They began to move with pride of ownership and remembrance. The slender line of her back and the stays hugging it. Beyond their slice of heaven, voices rose and fell, champagne-slurred, cheery, oblivious to the pair comforting each other ten or twelve paces away. Music drifted from the drawing room, but Anne’s sigh was the sweetest music.
Her head tipped up, and he would nurse those sighs. Play them for the fine music they were. Down, down he went. His mouth to hers, soft and tender as spring. Falling into a peaceful place with the woman who held his heart. This was nothing like hot sexual need. Her arms around him, her mouth moving against his.
Softer than velvet. Warm and wet. A taste of Anne long overdue.
She quivered in his arms. The sensation rocked him. It went through silk petticoats to his thighs. He groaned in her mouth, feeling Anne and hungry for more.
Her hands circled his back and slid forward. They parted, a slight break.
“This is not enough.” Anne’s voice was a purr as she set both hands on his chest and pushed him against the wall.
With the wall at his back, his stance widened. He dragged Anne close—or she fell into him. Their reconnection sizzled. Her hands sliding over his chest, finding his nipple through silk and linen and stroking it to a fine point.
He bunched her skirts in one hand, desperate to hoist them and see her fine legs. To touch them, find the tender skin of her inner thighs, the slick skin high between them. Anne’s husky laugh tickled his neck. She pushed up on her toes and nibbled his neck.
Her lips grazed his earlobe, and she sucked.
