A Scot to the Heart by Caroline Linden

Ilsa stood by her door, her heart pounding and her skin tingling. What a magnificent lark! Even if Mrs. St. James had seen through them at once, the expressions on Winnie’s and Bella’s faces had been priceless, when Drew lurched at them with that dusty sheet draped over him, moaning like a wounded stag.

Just the thought made her convulse with a silent laugh again. Dear God, what fun they had together . . .

She never wanted that to end.

This was their last night at Stormont Palace. Tomorrow they would travel back to Edinburgh, where she would go back to her house and he would go back to Felix Duncan’s rooms, before he packed up and left town entirely to go to England, to his English dukedom, to his future English bride.

If she wanted to seduce him, tonight was her chance.

After an interminable delay, during which she counted to five hundred, toed off her slippers, and listened at the jamb for any late-night wanderers, she cracked open the door and peeked out. The corridor was dark, illuminated only by the moonlight from the staircase hall at the far end. The house was asleep once more. She took a deep breath and slipped out, leaving behind her lamp and all her reservations about being wild and wicked.

She knew which door was his; it was, naturally, the farthest from hers, at the head of the stairs. Accordingly she sprinted, feeling her heart nearly burst from her chest, half in anticipation and half in anxiety that Mrs. St. James would open her door and step out to order her back to her own room. Surely it was a sin to seduce a man when his own mother was under the same roof.

When she reached his door, she didn’t dare knock. Every squeak and creak of the house sounded loud to her overexcited brain, and she was here because she was being bold and daring anyway. Gently she turned the knob and slipped inside.

It was dark within, though the drapes at one window were open. She stayed still, clutching the door, searching the darkness as her eyes adjusted.

A rustle of cloth. “Is something wrong?” Drew asked, his tone guarded.

“No,” she whispered.

“Ilsa,” he said in surprise, but she could make out the shadowy room now and was on her way to the bed, where he sat up, bare-chested and rumpled.

She touched his face and put her finger to his mouth. “Do you want me to stay?” she breathed, her lips at his ear.

He shuddered. “Yes.”

She smiled. “Good.” And then she bit his earlobe, thrilling to the shudder that went through his broad shoulders.

Without a word he turned his head and kissed her. Ilsa opened her mouth and kissed him back, inviting, tempting, seducing.

All her life she had been told to be sensible, to do what her father, her aunt, her tutors, her husband wanted her to do. It had taken Malcolm’s death for her to realize that no one ever asked if she were pleased with that state of affairs, and that other people acted to please themselves as well as the world around them. No one tried to please her, and Ilsa had finally realized that was up to her. For a year now she’d been trying to learn to do that, allowing herself to do things that weren’t sensible or typical.

She could not think that this was a mistake.

Her heart had tugged her toward Andrew St. James from the moment she saw him, even before he had tempted her to be carefree and bold. She’d never had that—no siblings, few friends, no one to have fun with. She’d never felt so alive as she did with him, whether racing across the hills of Stormont on horseback or rattling an old chain in the attics. He tempted her to think she wasn’t mad to crave some adventure, at the same time he proved it needn’t come at the expense of responsibility and duty.

So here she was in his bedroom, his hands moving over her back, his mouth making love to her skin. This was mad, and it made her so wild she could hardly bear it.

She plowed her fingers into his hair and tugged his lips, which had wandered over her jaw, back to hers. She kissed him hard, deeply, and felt his fingers flex on her hips in surprise. With an impatient yank she pulled up the hem of her nightdress so she could climb onto the bed, straddle his thighs, and press even closer to him.

Gently he set her back on her heels. Ilsa leaned toward him impatiently until he put up one hand in silent admonishment. Much too leisurely for her taste, he untied her dressing gown and slid it from her shoulders.

She arched her back to shed it faster. His breath turned rough. Reverently his palms skimmed up her bare arms to her shoulders, then back down. Even in the dim moonlight she could see his eyes, hot with desire.

She reached up and undid the top button on her nightdress. There was a long row of them down the front. The modiste had smiled knowingly when she made this for Ilsa’s trousseau years ago, and murmured about buttons piquing a man’s curiosity. Malcolm had never once undone the buttons.

But Drew . . . His gaze focused on her fingers and stayed there, even as his hands continued to wander over her back.

She undid another button, and a third.

He smoothed her hair over her shoulders and ran his thumb along her collarbone, nudging aside the strap of her nightdress. Ilsa slipped loose another pair of buttons.

Drew was barely breathing now. His fingertips skated lightly over her skin, leaving scorch marks in their wake. Ilsa shifted restlessly atop him and undid more buttons, less languidly now.

The nightdress gaped open. He inhaled, a needy rasp of breath that acted like oil on the fire smoldering inside her. Good Lord how she wanted him, for his teasing winks and easy laugh and bulging arms and muscled chest. Without thinking, she dragged her fingers through the crisp hair there, shivering at the hard, hot flesh behind it and the way his abdomen flexed under her touch.

He opened his mouth and she quickly touched one finger to his lips. No, no, don’t say a word; let her look, let her marvel at him. His eyes glittered but he lay back, sliding his hands up her thighs, beneath her nightdress.

ʼTwill all be at your desire or not at all . . .

She desired. She wanted him so much. She wasn’t a wicked widow, just one who ached to feel and do and be. She yearned to be wanted for more than her fortune or social standing, to be understood and trusted and allowed to follow her own heart.

And he was the one who made her feel it all. This big, rough, handsome devil of a man, who would be a duke but played pranks like a lad.

She stripped the nightdress over her head and flung it away.

Drew let out his breath with a hiss. His hands went still on her, his fingertips digging into her flesh. His hands were large and warm on her thighs, mere inches from where she wanted him. He was waiting for her to decide things, letting her touch him while holding back himself—

“You’re magnificent,” she said softly. Not just physically, although she was hardly blind to that. She had never guessed a man could be so playful, so leisurely seductive in bed.

She didn’t even realize she’d said it aloud until his hand cupped her cheek. “Ye make my mind go blank when ye say things like that,” he whispered.

She gave a gasping little laugh. “’Tis a pity. I prefer you aware—”

With a growl he lurched upright, bracing himself on one powerful arm. “I’ve never been more aware of a woman in my life,” he murmured, and then he was kissing her, his mouth hot and hungry on hers, and Ilsa forgot how she’d been planning to explore him and tease him. There would be time for that later—not now, when she wanted him so ferociously that she almost passed out when his hand swept up her ribs to cover her breast possessively.

And now . . . she was pressed up against his bare skin, so hot next to her own. His chest expanded on a sharp inhale; his arms closed around her, and then with a sudden twist he flipped them over, so they were face-to-face, the bed linens tangled around them, swamping her in his scent.

“I wanted to have my wicked way with you,” she gasped as he raised her arms overhead, clasping her wrists in one large hand.

“You shall,” he promised. “Just let me . . .” His voice trailed off as he lowered his head to her breast and touched his tongue to her nipple, hard and aching for—for just this. Ilsa sucked in desperate breaths as his fingers ran down the underside of her raised arm, his nails lightly scoring her flesh.

“You like that,” he whispered against her breast. His whole hand curved around it now, reverently lifting and stroking her.

“Aye, sir.”

His shoulders shook on a soundless laugh. “Good. I fair love it . . .” Now both his hand and his mouth were on her breast, and Ilsa forgot all about wanting to have her way with him, because his way was every bit as pleasurable as she could have dreamt of, and more. Now she wanted him to ravish her, fast and hard like a conquering army.

But he seemed bent on taking his time. His tongue did wicked things to her breasts, then wandered to her belly. Ilsa pulled against his hold on her wrists and he let go, allowing her to plow her fingers into his hair and urge him onward. She wrapped her legs around his chest as he tormented her.

Her skin had never seemed so sensitive and delicate. Each stroke of his fingers made her want more, harder, deeper, driving her wild. But when she tried to yank free the linen still twisted around him, he stopped her hand.

“Leave it,” he rasped. “It’s the only thing keeping me sane . . .”

“I don’t want sane!” She pressed against him and dug her nails into his back.

“Oh?” He moved, sliding down her and taking the sheets with him. “You want madness?”

“Yes . . .”

“Desperation?” His head dipped. His tongue circled her navel.

“Yes,” she gasped.

“Passion?” He licked her and she almost jolted off the bed. “You want this?”

“Yes!”

“Shh,” he whispered, nipping her inner thigh. “You’ll wake up everyone . . . again . . .” And then his mouth was on her, his hands spreading her legs, and Ilsa arched upward as if her body would soar right off the mattress. Pleasure coursed like lightning through her veins, throbbing in time with every purposeful stroke of his tongue.

When he slid a finger inside her, she spasmed, almost climaxing before the wave of heat receded and rose again—but then blinked out of her daze of bliss. She wanted this—so much she was shaking from want of it—but she also wanted to see him, to watch his eyes change, to hear his voice grow wild, to know she gave him as much pleasure as he was giving her.

“Drew.” She pulled at his ear, then his shoulder.

He glanced up, sliding a second finger inside her. “Aye, my lady?”

She gulped for breath. All her nerves were clamoring for release. “I want—I want it together.”

“As you wish,” he said after a startled pause. Awkwardly he levered himself up and over, landing on his back beside her. “Be gentle with me, lass,” he said through his teeth, draping one arm over his eyes.

“You want it gentle?” She scrambled up and crawled atop him, her mouth going dry at the sheer size and strength of his body spread before her.

“Well—no,” he said, his voice muffled by his arm.

“Don’t you trust me?”

“I do.” The words were strained.

Ilsa rose above him, taking his shaft in her hand. He was thick and long, fiery hot and satiny smooth. The veins in his forearms stood out as his hands gripped the linens. “I should repay you in kind,” she murmured, swirling her thumb over the head.

His stomach hollowed out, he inhaled so hard. “You could.”

“I will. But I think this time . . .” She went up on her knees and guided him between her legs. “This time I will just have you like I’ve wanted since the night we met.” She sank down, taking him inside her.

She had to pause a moment there, hands clenched on his stomach, dizzy at the way he filled her. Beneath her he lay taut, humming with tension but motionless. He had uncovered his face and watched her with eyes glowing like embers in the darkness, burning into hers.

Slowly she began to move, taking each stroke to the full length. His hips rose up to meet hers, matching her pace exactly. His hands stole up her legs to that spot he had suckled so devastatingly, and Ilsa leaned back with a moan to allow him better access. Her hands came to her breasts until Drew made a choked sound and sat up, taking her nipple into his mouth.

Now she could brace her hands on his shoulders and ride him. She could feel the tremors shaking his body, as hard and excited as the ones going through her. She could feel the moment his control broke and he came without pausing his ravishment of her breast, his hand between her legs sending liquid flame into her until it all pooled low in her belly and ignited every nerve. She broke with a gasp, clinging to him for balance as they both shuddered.

It took several minutes for her head to clear. She was still cradling his head to her breast, and pressed her lips to his temple, reveling at how slick with sweat it was. In turn he kissed her chest, right over her heart, before looking up.

“Since the night we met?” he whispered.

She smiled, combing her fingers through his damp hair. “Do you remember it?”

“Every moment.” His eyes were half-closed in pleasure as she ran her thumb over his upper lip. “Why did you kiss me?”

Ilsa paused. “I wanted to.” His mouth curved in delight. “It was the impulse of the moment.”

“Mmm.” He settled his arms more comfortably around her and turned until they lay facing each other. “Like tonight?”

She blushed. “Oh goodness, tonight was something I’ve thought about for days. Tonight was when my restraint gave way.”

His laugh was a low growl in his throat. “Being ghostly does that to women, I hear . . .”

She tried not to, but the laugh escaped her. That laugh grew and grew, fueled by the giddy afterglow of lovemaking, until tears ran down her face and she had to swab them away with a corner of the sheet. And Drew laughed with her—perhaps a little at her—and gathered her close, nestling her against him so perfectly she forgot it was to be this way only for one night.

“I never knew lovemaking could be so playful,” she gasped without thinking.

He raised his head. “No?”

She covered her eyes, mortified. “Forget I said that.”

“I don’t think I can,” he said after a moment. “I think I shall reflect upon it with enormous pride and happiness. No man could be more flattered.”

She swatted his shoulder, and his chest rumbled with laughter. Helplessly she smiled.

“I gather Mr. Ramsay took a more prosaic approach to the matter?”

She nodded. Malcolm had kept a mistress. She supposed he enjoyed making love to that woman more. “’Twas a duty, for an heir.”

That sobered him. His hands stopped on her. “Ilsa . . . if there’s a child from this night—”

“Oh!” She blushed. “I doubt it. I was married six years without conceiving.”

“Unlikelier things have happened,” he said. “And if it did, I would do right by you and the bairn.”

Ilsa went still. He was meant for someone else and she knew it. She didn’t believe a child would happen, but it touched her that he would promise that. “Would you?” she murmured, thinking that most men in his position wouldn’t. They would wait for the wealthy, well-born English bride.

“Of course I would.” He kissed her and pulled her close. “Happily, I might add, for it would lead to more of this . . .” His fingers tickled down her ribs, making her twist and laugh again, the moment of dark thoughts fading away.

That was the moment Ilsa realized what was happening to her. His company exhilarated her. His kisses made her burn. His lovemaking made her feel like that hawk, soaring free into the night sky, and for a moment she wished with every fiber in her being that she could be in his bed every night, making love to him every night, and she suspected he wanted the same thing . . .

She was falling in love with him, and it looked to be a very hard fall. One that could leave her broken beyond repair.

“Ilsa.” His voice was velvety soft and rough with concern at the same time. He had sensed the change in her even though she hadn’t moved. “Don’t be frightened.”

She wasn’t—not of him. Of what he could do to her, if she lost her head and gave in to the yearning burning through her veins and muscles—through her very soul. Yes, she was right to be afraid of that.

For once in her life she would be sensible and cautious for her own sake, not because someone else forced it on her. She would remember her promise to Agnes, and why she had made it.

She made herself smile. “Afraid of you! ’Tis you who ought to be frightened of me, the notorious wild widow . . .”

“Stop,” he said. “You’re not that.”

“And here I’ve just seduced you like one.”

He smiled, but it was thoughtful and focused now. “When we return to town—”

“No.” She put her hand on his mouth. “I don’t want to talk about that. I want only to savor this. Tonight we are free like the hawks and the dolphins, able to go where we choose and frolic as we please. There will be time to talk about thornier subjects later, aye?”

He was quiet for a moment. “You must know I care for you . . .”

“And I care for you!” She managed a carefree smile. “Enough to wonder if you will make love to me once more before we must face the new day, and the long trip back to town.”

“Once?” His brow rose. “Twice more at least, I think. ’Tis hours until dawn.”

“When will we sleep?” she protested with a small laugh as he rolled over her.

“Sleep?” He nuzzled her neck. “I’m accustomed to guard duty all night. I don’t need sleep, particularly not when there’s a wild, ravenous beauty in my bed.”

“That would be . . . acceptable,” she gasped as she felt him, once again hard between her thighs.

He laughed as she curled her legs around his hips. “I’ll make you scream that someday: ‘Acceptable! God almighty, that was so—bloody—acceptable!’”

She was laughing as he pushed home, but then she stopped and lost herself to him.

And when he murmured later, as she lay exhausted and replete in his arm, that he did mean to talk about it later, she didn’t argue.