Stranded With The Scottish Earl Page 3

  Chapter Three

  * * *

  Despite his cold, wet clothes, Lyle stood for a long time in the center of the room and stared at the abruptly closed door. He felt like he’d been belted in the head with a cricket bat. Dizzy and breathless and befuddled. He’d expected Charlotte to be pretty. He hadn’t expected her to send his whole world reeling.

  He shook his head to try and restore his everyday self. It didn’t help. He should have realized when Cinderella met him on the doorstep that he’d entered a fairytale kingdom where normal rules no longer applied.

  He sighed, turned away, and spent far too long lighting the fire. He could blame his cold hands for his clumsiness, but he knew it was because his mind wasn’t on practical matters, but on a certain outspoken lassie.

  At last the flames licked around the wood, and he stood and tugged fresh, mercifully dry clothes from his valise. He’d changed into trousers and had just picked up a clean shirt when he heard a short knock.

  Before he could answer, Charlotte Warren, the world’s least convincing housemaid, stood in the doorway. She clutched a bundle of towels to her lavish bosom and stared at him aghast.

  Except when he recovered from his shock and took a closer look, she didn’t exactly seem horrified. Instead she seemed…interested.

  Interested was…interesting.

  His body’s response to her arrival was predictable, and given how little he wore, she couldn’t miss it.

  “I’m sorry…”

  “I’m sorry…” he said at the same time, as the hand holding his shirt dropped to his side.

  She bit her lip, her gaze tracing an incendiary line down his bare chest to focus below his waist. Wild color flared in her cheeks and her eyes widened. Lyle stood stock still as confused messages clamored in his brain.

  Turn around. Cover yourself. Tell her to leave. Kiss her.

  The silence extended. And extended.

  His chaotic mind had time to register that she’d changed into a plain blue gown most servants would only dream about. Her luxuriant honey hair flowed loose, curling as it dried. The knuckles holding the towels shone white with tension.

  Of course she should be frightened, alone with a man with obvious carnal intentions. But when he stepped closer, the shirt drifting disregarded to the carpet, it wasn’t fear he read in her amber eyes.

  “Thank you for the towels.” His prosaic words belonged to a different world from the wanton fantasies rocketing through his head. Fantasies of throwing this gorgeous creature onto the big bed behind him and tossing up those neat blue skirts to reveal the treasures beneath. Fantasies of burying his hands in that cascading mane of hair and his lips in the tempting pink of hers.

  Her usually steady voice emerged with a faint tremor. “I was wondering if you needed dry clothes. If you did, I could get you some of Papa’s.”

  She must be as bedazzled as he was, or else she’d never make such a betraying statement.

  “Thank you,” Lyle said, ordering himself to settle down. Without noticeable effect. He’d given Miss Warren to believe that she was safe, and he was a man of his word. Maid or mistress of the house, it didn’t matter. He had no right to lay a finger on her.

  No matter how those fingers ached to discover if that silky skin was as soft as it looked.

  He reached for the towels, but she didn’t immediately release them. Instead she stared up at him, as if unsure whether he meant to leap on her.

  As if she was even more unsure whether she’d like it if he did.

  He gave the bundle a gentle tug, and her lips parted over little white teeth. How the devil could he resist? Thought of conscience, calculation and courtship evaporated.

  All thought evaporated under the imperative of desire.

  “Hell,” he whispered.

  He swept her into his arms and leaned down to claim those plump, glistening lips. Her glorious taste thundered through him. Salty and tart like a mixture of green apples and the sea. He discovered without any real surprise that he’d craved the flavor of Charlotte Warren all his life.

  For a breathless interval, she rested in his embrace without resisting or participating. He plundered her lips, running his tongue across the seam until on a sigh, she parted. Giving up any hope of emerging from this alive, he plunged deep into the sweet ocean of her mouth.

  Heat. Sweetness. Mystery.

  Trumpets blared in his head. Drums pounded in his chest. His loins swelled with a passion as mighty as reverberating chords from a cathedral organ. When her tongue fluttered shyly against his, the fanfare reached a deafening crescendo.

  Miss Warren was no longer passive. Instead, on a melting whimper, she beckoned him into heaven. Her arms slid around him, her hands feverishly stroked his naked back, and her lips were avid on his.

  Moments ago, he’d been cold. Now he burned. Her frantic touch lit an inferno inside him.

  When he dug his hands into that silken fall of hair, it slid cool and satiny against his fingers. He cradled her head and angled her up, changing the kiss. Lightning pleasure zigzagged through him. Left him blind and hot and aching.

  Her hands were greedy on his skin. She touched him wherever she could reach. Shoulders. Neck. Chest. She cupped the back of his head to bring him closer. He drowned in sensation.

  Lost to everything but desire, he swung her around and tumbled her onto the bed. As she fell back, the towels cascaded to the carpet.

  Eagerly he came down over her to lie between her thighs. Yielding to the wonder that was Charlotte Warren, he reveled in his fate. Lost to animal instinct, he moved his hips, pressing into the soft curve of her stomach with a primeval rhythm. A rhythm that promised a more profound invasion.

  Soon.

  A moan of pleasure escaped her, and her body softened in preparation for his. The muffled sound shuddered through him and played sweet counterpoint to the trumpets and drums of victory. Lightheaded with excitement and lack of air, Lyle abandoned that miracle of a mouth to rain wild kisses, wilder than the storm outside, over that lovely, flushed face, the slender length of her neck. The air was thick with the scent of her arousal.

  “Damn it, you’re wearing too many clothes,” he panted, reaching the barrier of her dress. He wanted more of her. He wanted everything.

  Her demure collar fastened to the throat. He needed to touch her breasts or he’d go mad. When he fumbled for the hooks at the back, his usual aplomb fled. He took forever to find the trick of releasing them. By the time he did, he and Miss Warren were both panting, the saw of their breathing rising above the slap of rain on the windowpanes.

  With shaking hands, he tugged until her dress drooped over her chest. The sight of her plain white linen undergarments blasted him with such heat, he felt like he burned alive. When his hand settled on her breast, they both groaned with relief.

  Her nipple was a hard, insistent point beneath his palm. When he brushed it with his thumb, she jerked against him. He teased her until she shook. His other hand slid down her flank before settling between her legs. He found the slit in the drenched cotton of her drawers, and his fingers curled around her mound.

  Before he could venture farther, she stiffened in his arms and gave a muffled protest against his lips. For one breathless moment, they both lay unmoving, then she began to struggle.

  Damn and blast. He’d gone too far.

  “Stop!” She shoved clumsily at his chest. “Stop, curse you.”

  For one blazing moment, he considered ignoring the code of a lifetime. But when he rose on his arms to look down into her face, flushed, frightened, lovely, he couldn’t do it. Somewhere beneath the raging desire, a minute speck of honor remained. He was ashamed how close he verged to disregarding it.

  With a guttural groan, he wrenched away and flopped onto his back beside her.

  For a long time, he stared up at the heavy oak beams crossing the ceiling and battled to contain his desire. His conscience chose this moment to return, armed with a big stick. He couldn’t do this to he
r. He knew he couldn’t do this. But good God, how he wanted to.

  Gradually his breathing calmed until he could hear the rain and the crackle of the fire over the thunder of his blood. Surprise was the last reaction to surface from the mire of shame and frustration inside him. He’d let Miss Warren go. So why the devil hadn’t she fled to safety?

  “Please say something,” she said in a shaky voice. She didn’t sound at all like the stalwart creature who had grudgingly invited him inside the manor this afternoon.

  He turned his head until he could see her lying beside him. Night had fallen, but he’d lit a few candles when he’d set the fire. He watched as she pushed herself up against the pillows. One graceful hand clutched her bodice and her hair fell about her shoulders in shining dark blond waves. Her lips were red and swollen with his kisses.

  She looked utterly ravished—and ravishing.

  Without thinking, he lifted one hand to touch her mouth, meaning only to soothe. She flinched away with an incoherent murmur of denial.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said, even as some wicked element reveled in the transformation of his self-contained hostess into this ruffled, irresistible, brazen creature.

  He wanted this wanton woman. But then, he’d wanted the confident lassie who had stood her ground when he’d arrived.

  What had started, at least in part, as a game grounded in idle curiosity became more important than his next breath.

  “I don’t understand what happened,” she said dully.

  “It’s quite simple.” He pushed up until he sat beside her, leaning against the bedhead. “I wanted to kiss you the moment I saw you.”

  Astonishment flared in her caramel eyes. And dangerous pleasure. He fought the urge to draw her back into his arms. He’d managed to stop once. Nothing on God’s green earth would restrain him if he succumbed to temptation a second time.

  “But why did I let you?”

  “Perhaps because we’re trapped here,” he said, knowing that the attraction went much deeper than mere propinquity.

  “It must be more than that.” She studied him with a troubled expression. “I’ve never acted this way before.”

  “I generally don’t leap on virtuous young women either,” he responded, stung.

  “You seemed to know what you were doing.” It sounded like an accusation.

  Lyle knew she picked a quarrel as a distraction. But he refused to oblige. He was experienced enough to know that a loss of temper would lead to a different loss of control. He stared into the fire and answered in a mild tone. “Does that mean you liked it?”

  “I don’t have much to compare it to,” she muttered.

  Shocked, he turned back to her. Shocked and disgusted with himself. He’d jumped on her like a starving man snatched at a cheese sandwich. “You make me feel like a beast.” He paused as he pondered just what she’d said. “Much or nothing?”

  She frowned at him. “What?”

  “You said you didn’t have much to compare my kisses to.”

  She blushed. “You have no right to ask that.”

  “I had no right to kiss you either. Yet I did.” His gaze sharpened. “Who’s been trifling with your favors? And where do I need to go to kill him?”

  She didn’t smile at his absurdity. Nor was he convinced he was joking. “I’ve been kissed before,” she admitted ungraciously. “It was…nice.”

  A grunt of laughter escaped as he sagged with relief. “I don’t need to kill him after all. Heaven help your swains if that’s the best they can do.”

  Miss Warren regarded him with displeasure. Thank God. He preferred her snap and fire to seeing her crushed with mortification.

  “Your kisses weren’t nice.”

  “I should hope not.”

  “And I do wish you’d put a shirt on,” she said crossly, shifting to the edge of the bed but still—interesting again—without making any move to leave.

  Feeling absurdly optimistic for a man who had been stopped in his wicked tracks, he rolled to his side of the bed and stood. The temptation of having her near tested what small restraint he retained.

  Sending her a sardonic glance, he retrieved his shirt from the floor. Miss Warren lolled on the pillows like a sultan’s favorite and studied him with a hunger he knew she was yet to recognize. The problem was he recognized it—and it made him itch to kiss her again. To do more.

  He arched a mocking eyebrow. “Do you plan to stay and watch me dress?”

  Her blush intensified as she stumbled off the bed. “You’re a devil.”

  She planted her feet on the floor and struggled to do up her dress. While she fiddled, he wrenched the shirt over his head. Hearing a frustrated hiss, he bit back a smile and the impulse to tell her she was adorable.

  He stepped up to her. “Let me help.”

  To his surprise, she presented her back and swept the curtain of hair aside to reveal the graceful line of nape and shoulders. For a forbidden moment, he didn’t move, but inhaled until her flowery scent flooded his senses.

  “What on earth are you doing?” she asked, turning her head to give him a glimpse of her profile. Her features weren’t delicate. There was too much character in her nose and defiance in her chin. But he dared anyone who saw her ever to forget her.

  “Considering artistic matters,” he said gently. He set to doing up her gown. Much against his deepest inclinations.

  Her lips tightened. “Oh?”

  “You know, I’d never cast you as Cinderella.” He fastened the top hook and lowered his hands to her slim hips. He tempted fate—and self-control—but he couldn’t resist stringing out the physical contact. “You’re more queen than ingénue.”

  “Well, you’re no Prince Charming.” She wriggled free and faced him. To his regret, her dress once more covered her to the collarbones.

  “Tch, tch, no need to take your bad temper out on me.” And received a killing glance for his trouble.

  “It’s a cursed ill wind that landed you on my doorstep,” she muttered, just loudly enough for him to hear.

  His lips twitched. She wasn’t much good at deception — an appealing quality in a wife. She kept forgetting that she was meant to be a humble housemaid. Humility, like deceit, wasn’t easy for this imperious creature.

  Any man who took her on would never have the docile wife touted as ideal. But then, Lyle had never settled for the general run of things. If he married Charlotte Warren—and every moment inclined him more toward the outlandish idea—there would be fireworks.

  Luckily he loved fireworks.

  “On a night like this, you can’t sit around in your shirtsleeves,” she said, returning to playing the efficient chatelaine.

  “I can take it off again.”

  Alarm flashed in her eyes, but the way her gaze clung to his chest was deeply gratifying. When a man fell into instant lust with a pretty lassie, he liked to see his interest reciprocated.

  “You’ll get cold.”

  “I know the perfect way to warm up.”

  That blush was charming. She was such an enchanting mixture of strength and uncertainty. Aye, she’d make a grand wife, would Miss Charlotte Warren.

  “What are you thinking about?” she asked in a suspicious tone, stepping forward.

  He made no attempt to control his salacious smile. “Do you really want to know?”

  For once, she chose discretion. Quickly she shook her head. “No. No, I don’t.” She glanced down at her dog, who lay in front of the fire, bored with his human companions. “Come on, Bill.”

  The terrier reluctantly rose on his short legs. When Lyle patted the square white head, the black eyes turned adoring. Whatever his hostess thought, Bill liked him.

  “Traitor,” Miss Warren muttered and headed for the open door behind her.

  “He’s an excellent judge of character,” Lyle said drily.

  “Don’t imagine everyone at Bassington is such an easy conquest.”

  The challenge was irresistible. Two quick strides and h
e caught her arm. When he whirled her to face him, he read the shock and anger in her face. But he also saw wild excitement.

  His lips captured hers in another blazing kiss. Through the brilliant light that flooded his head, he felt her mold herself to him. This kiss crackled with quick fire. It threatened to rage out of control, until a sharp pain at the back of his head seized his attention.

  Even so, it took him too long to register that while she might kiss him back as if she starved, those capable hands wrenched at his hair. Hard.

  Dazed and utterly bewildered at his overwhelming reaction to her, he raised his head. Only because if she pulled any harder, she’d tear out handfuls of hair.

  Her face came back into focus, her expression an alluring combination of surrender and self-castigation. “How the devil do you do that?”

  Lyle smiled down at her. What a braw lassie she was to own the attraction raging between them.

  “Magic,” he said, and again, he wasn’t entirely joking.

  “I don’t want to kiss you,” she growled. “Then you touch me, and—”

  “The world disappears.”

  “You feel it, too?” she asked, sounding as displeased as if she’d caught him eating peas off his knife at a state dinner.

  “My dear, I’m completely besotted.”

  His declaration didn’t please her. “This is stupid. I don’t know you.” She paused. “I’m not even sure I like you.”

  “Another kiss might help you decide.” He linked his arms around her waist. “I’m really an excellent fellow.”

  She regarded him from under lowered brows. “I have my father’s pistol.”

  The masquerade had served its purpose, but the time for disguises passed. “That’s an odd item for a wee housemaid to have in her possession,” he said in a silky tone.

  She was so lost in the sensual storm sparking between them, she needed a few seconds to realize what he meant. “My…my father is the gamekeeper here,” she stammered.

  He grinned with evil satisfaction. “Even odder that he’s got time for that, between the estate, a string of racehorses, and his parliamentary work, Miss Warren.”