Hurst 02 - Scandal in Scotland Page 6

  “And a lady wouldn’t have such details in her past,” he retorted.

  She supposed she deserved that. He was right, anyway. She didn’t used to wear a night rail to bed, but after she’d left him all those years ago, she’d been achingly lonely, especially at night. Wearing a night rail had made her feel less exposed and vulnerable. She shrugged. “A lot has changed since then.”

  He dropped the night rail beside the chemise. “I’m sure it has.” He glanced around. “Did you bring any other luggage?”

  “No, just the trunk.”

  He went to the dresser, and methodically removed each drawer, looking under and behind them as well as inside.

  “You’re wasting your time, Hurst.”

  He ignored her, searching the entire room before finally coming to stand before her with a frown.

  While he’d been busy, so had she. Behind her skirts, she’d used her one booted heel to press hard against the portmanteau. It had shifted a tiny bit, then slid out of sight.

  She shot a glance at the door. What if Miss Challoner arrived now? Both of them were intent on getting the onyx box. She had to get William out of here as soon as possible. Somehow, some way, she had to. “As you have seen for yourself, the artifact is gone.”

  He crossed his arms over his chest and rocked back on his heels as if readying himself for a gale. “I know you, Marcail Beauchamp, and I know you are lying.”

  The quiet, certain way he spoke gave her pause. She regarded him from beneath her lashes, annoyed by how he so easily dominated the room. He was so large and so present.

  His gaze suddenly narrowed. “Stand.”

  She gripped the bedclothes on each side. “William, I don’t—”

  “Get up now.”

  “Why? You can see that I’m—”

  “If you don’t stand up I shall lift you—and there will be a price to pay.”

  She was so damned frustrated with being ordered about by everyone! The unknown blackmailer, the mysterious Miss Challoner, and now William. She crossed her arms over her chest. “I am staying right where I am. You forced your way in here, tossed me about like a rag doll, threw all of my clothing upon the floor and stepped on it with your nasty boots, and now you think you can tell me what to do? I’m done with having no say in the matter. You can see that I don’t have the artifact so there’s nothing more to be said.” She lifted her chin.

  He watched her with a deadly calm. “Don’t push me.”

  Her temper hot, she said haughtily, “Didn’t you hear me? There is no reason for you to stay. You will leave now.”

  To her surprise and unease, he turned and grasped the chair she’d been sitting in earlier, and placed it beside the bed. He sat in it and gave it a not very gentle shake. “Seems firm enough.”

  “Firm enough for what?”

  “For this.” With that, he leaned forward and grasped her wrist. With a hard yank, he pulled her off the bed and toward him.

  She wore only one boot and that one unlaced. She tried to keep her one shoe on, but as he propelled her forward, she stepped on her own lace, tripped, and fell toward him.

  His other hand shot out as quickly as a snake, and he caught her easily, pulling her across his lap, facedown, her hair spilling over her so that her vision was obscured. In that instant, she knew what he intended to do and her hands went to cover her bottom, but he was too quick. He caught her wrists, gathered them in his hand, and easily held them to one side. “Oh no, my little liar. There is no getting out of this. You’ve deserved to be spanked since I first met you, and now I shall finally have my wish.”

  A letter from Michael Hurst to his brother William from old Alexandria.

  While looking among some ancient texts located in the private library of a sulfi with whom she’s become very familiar, Miss Smythe-Haughton found something very interesting last night. She has a tendency to become a “favorite” of men of power. While it has opened some doors, it is most annoying.

  My assistant seems to think she’s found a reference to an amulet that might be the Hurst Amulet. If she’s right, it could mean that I’ve been looking for the blasted thing in the wrong country. Perhaps even the wrong continent.

  It is very exasperating to expend so much effort trying to find something and then be told bluntly that you were “wrong, wrong, wrong.” Why do I put up with that woman?

  CHAPTER 6

  For a moment, Marcail tried to catch her breath, intensely embarrassed by the way she’d landed. She put her hands on the edge of the chair and tried to right herself, but William’s arms came to rest on her, one just below her bottom and the other over her back.

  Marcail grasped William’s calf and tried to push herself upright, but he held her tight. Had any other man held her thusly, she would be concerned for her safety, but while angry, no flicker of fear touched her. He would never purposefully hurt her. He was far too protective of his own sisters to ever cross that line.

  Still, she wouldn’t tamely accept being held in such a ridiculous position. She twisted so she could see him.

  “Let me up!” she demanded, pushing with all of her strength, but to no avail.

  “I warned you there would be a cost if you made this difficult.”

  “William, don’t you dare—”

  His hand rested on her bottom, warm through her skirts.

  She stilled, her heart beating an odd rhythm against her breastbone. She was a mish mosh of emotions, frightened by the ease with which he wielded power over her, angry with her own inability to dismiss him, and infused by an odd yearning at the feel of his hands on her.

  At one time, she’d felt she would never get enough of his touch, an illness she thought she’d cured. But had she?

  His hand cupped her bottom through her skirts, and then slid gently down her legs.

  She tried to swallow, but couldn’t. “William …” She clenched her teeth over the rest of the sentence, her ears burning with the husky yearning she’d heard in her own voice. She wished he’d … what? What did she want?

  He reached her ankle and slowly caressed it, sending a shiver through her. Her body began to ache, craving that touch even as she flinched from it.

  He flipped up her hem and she realized that his hold had slackened and she could rise if she wished to. But she remained where she was. Sheer, pure desire held her in place as she quivered for his touch.

  He slowly slid his hand up the back of her leg, pausing to cup her calf.

  She shivered as the air hit her bare leg. “William, I’m not going to—”

  He pushed her skirt and chemise up, the cooler air tickling the skin on her now-exposed bottom. She was instantly aware of William’s physical reaction as his cock pressed against her stomach.

  She froze on the brink between frustration and fascination. It had been so long since a man had touched her—years. In fact, the last man who had touched her had also been the first, William Hurst.

  Her cheeks burned as she realized her inclination was to squirm more, to entice him, to tease him until he satisfied her longings. Did she dare do it? Would it work? Or was he—

  “You haven’t changed much over the years.”

  Marcail closed her eyes, trying to force the waves of desire down. After a moment, she managed to grit out, “Neither have you.” She indicated his stiff cock by rocking her hips.

  William almost groaned at her motion. Damn it, I’m supposed to be in charge here! He’d lost his temper when he’d pulled her across his lap and he’d fully intended to spank her for her sins. But somehow, having her prone across his lap, her luscious form within reach, had completely wiped his mind of everything—why he was here, all the pain she’d caused in the past, everything except how exquisitely well she fitted to him.

  How could he have forgotten how his body reacted to hers? How it had always reacted? How, even now, years later and many painful hurts ago, he couldn’t stop his cock from yearning to sink into her softness.

  It was weakness on his part
that made him continue with his “punishment,” though he was no longer sure which of them he was now torturing—himself or her?

  His hand came to rest on her bare bottom, but this time he cupped her bared skin, sliding in slow circles as if to rub away the sting he’d once thought to inflict.

  Marcail’s heart leapt in her throat as she shivered through and through.

  “Marcail, you stubborn woman.” He continued to rub her bottom in slow circles and she caught herself holding her breath, wondering if he would move his hand lower to where she was beginning to ache for a touch. And oh, how she ached. She closed her eyes against an onslaught of pure, shivery need, wishing and wishing that he would reach for her. Unable to help herself, she pressed upward, arching her back so that her bottom pressed into his hand.

  William took a deep breath, his heart thudding as hard as a mallet against his chest, his hand still cupped over her pink ass cheek. Smooth and rounded, it begged to be touched. He’d been so angry with her stubbornness, so furious to see the fine lawn chemises that Colchester had bought her, that there’d been no thinking.

  He lowered his head at his own weakness. She’d squirmed in his lap in an attempt to free herself, unwittingly inciting his passion even more. She apparently hadn’t noticed that he no longer held her in place.

  A gentleman would put her skirts to rights and apologize. A gentleman would also feel regret for treating her thusly.

  But to her, he was no gentleman, which was the reason why she’d spurned him all those years ago. It was also the reason why he no longer cared what she thought of him. Her actions of long ago burned still, though they did little to excuse his treatment of her today.

  He noted that she’d stopped squirming and lay quietly across his lap and he wondered if she was fighting back tears. He’d seen her do that one time before—on the day he’d left after their final argument. The memory gripped him and he shook his head at his own impulsive temper. “Marcail?”

  She shifted in his lap, her bottom pressing upward as her hip grazed his cock. He gritted his teeth and forced his mind elsewhere, though it was difficult, especially with her rounded bottom within his line of sight. Unable to resist, he smoothed his hand over it once more, aware that she stilled at his touch and was lifting up to meet him even more. She wants this. The thought circled his mind, astonishing him.

  He slid his hand off her ass to her thigh. Instantly, her legs parted just enough that, had he wished, he could touch her most private area.

  He blinked. She wasn’t angry but aroused, as was he.

  As if to confirm his thoughts, she whispered, “William, please.” Her voice shivered through him and left him thick with need.

  William didn’t think twice; he slipped his hand between her silken thighs, her dampness welcoming his touch. He stroked her carefully, slowly, each touch lingering on her hardened clitoris. She moaned and arched her back, her hips rubbing his cock with each move.

  He was so aroused he couldn’t think, couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything but continue to stroke her. She was wetter now, her movements more urgent.

  Finally, he could take no more. He slipped an arm under her waist and flipped her over so that she was sitting, her head tucked under his chin, her bared bottom pressed into his lap. He lifted his hips and let her feel his thickened cock. “See what you’ve done to me?” he growled in her ear. “You are the most stubborn, challenging, unfaithful, scheming woman I’ve ever met.”

  She tilted back her head, her passion-bright eyes meeting his. “And you are the most intractable, rude, uncouth, arrogant—”

  He kissed her, thrusting his tongue between her lips, and she melted against him. He deepened the kiss and she moaned into him, opening her mouth to his, pressing her chest to his.

  Their passion, always just a red-hot ember away from full flames, burst into fire and for a heady moment, William wanted to throw himself into the seductive heat.

  But only for a moment. This woman was a tantalizing armful, but there was a price for giving into this passion; there always was with women like Marcail. She also held something that belonged to him. Something worth far more than a romp between the sheets, even with such a delicious armful.

  Pressing away a deep regret, he loosened his hold on her, pulled her arms from around his neck and then stood, setting her on her feet.

  Her skirt fell about her ankles and she blinked up at him, her eyes smoky with passion, her expression uncomprehending. “William, I—”

  An urgent knock sounded on the door, pulling him out of the madness that had held him in his grip. Good God, what in the hell had just happened?

  The knock sounded again, even more forceful, and William went to the door. “Right yourself,” he ordered gruffly, not sparing her a second look.

  Hands shaking, Marcail crossed to her dresser, located some hairpins, and made a deft job of securing her wayward hair. In the mirror, she watched as William replaced the chair before he unlocked the door. Please don’t let that be Miss Challoner.

  To her relief, the man she’d seen across the street stood in the doorway. “Cap’n, there’s a fire at the docks!”

  William swiftly went to the window, flipped open the sash, and leaned out. “Damn it!”

  Marcail came to stand at his side. Seeing the bright glow, a sudden fear filled her. “Hurst, how did you get here?”

  “By ship.” He swiftly headed toward the door. “Get the coach,” he told the messenger.

  “I’ve already ordered it, sir.”

  “Good.” William pulled her cloak off the peg by the door, then grabbed her wrist. “You’re coming with me.”

  “But I—”

  They were out of the room before she could gasp. “Put your cloak on.” He locked the door and pocketed the key.

  “But I—”

  He tugged her cloak from her unresisting hands and tossed it about her shoulders, then grasped her wrist again and ran down the steps. When she stumbled on the bottom landing, he swooped her up with a curse and carried her out the door.

  “Put me down!”

  “No.”

  “But I can’t leave!”

  His gaze narrowed on her. “Why not?”

  She couldn’t tell him she was waiting to deliver the artifact she’d already sworn was gone. A swirl of wind made her toes tingle from the cold, and she said, “I have no shoes.”

  He gave her stockinged feet an impatient glance. “You won’t need shoes; you’ll be staying in the coach.”

  “William, just leave me here and—”

  “No. I’ll be damned if I let you out of my sight.”

  The coach pulled up and Hurst unceremoniously dumped her onto a seat, then sat opposite her, issuing terse instructions to the man who’d alerted him of the fire. He nodded at William’s instructions, then shut the door. A moment later, she heard him climb onto the coach box and shout ‘gee’ at the team.

  As the coach leapt forward, Marcail caught a glimpse out the window of another coach turning in. It was a dainty coach, trimmed in blue, and seemed oddly out of place in the yard. Is that Miss Challoner? Marcail had no way of knowing, but her heart sank when she thought of how angry her blackmailer would be if Miss Challoner returned empty-handed.

  She twisted her hands in the ribbons of her cloak. “William, please release me. This is ridiculous. It’s just an old box of little value.”

  “It’s worth a lot to me. My brother Michael is being held prisoner by a sulfi who refuses to release him until that damned box is returned,” he said grimly.

  A sick weight pressed into her stomach. “I—I didn’t know. William, I—”

  The coach rounded a corner and the scent of smoke became thick, shouts and screams echoing ahead of them. William cursed and lifted the curtain.

  She knew what he saw by the whiteness of his face. Oh, no! She looked past him and saw his ship tied to the dock, flaming as if lit from the furnaces of hell. The dark sky was alive as hungry red and orange flames licked at the
blackening sails and mast.

  The coach rocked to a stop and William thrust open the door. “You, madam, will stay here.”

  Marcail’s gaze strayed to the flaming ship and she knew in an instant where he intended to go.

  She grabbed his wrist. “William, I didn’t know about your brother and the artifact. No one told me. They just said they wanted it and I had to give it to them—”

  “So you’ll return the box to me?”

  She almost nodded, but the image of her young sisters’ hopeful faces rose before Marcail’s eyes. Her shoulders slumped under the weight of so many difficult decisions. “Damn it, it’s not that easy. I want to return it to you, but I can’t.”

  He yanked his arm free. “I don’t have the time to discuss this. Poston!” he yelled up to his groom.

  A second later, the man stood by the door. “Yes, Cap’n?”

  William jerked his head toward Marcail. “She is not to leave the coach. Do what you must to keep her here.”

  The man eyed her up and down and, apparently satisfied that she would be no challenge, nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  A huge boom shook the air, the ground shaking as the ship rocked violently and then shuddered. Marcail gasped as wood and flames shot into the air and then landed in the water, hissing like snakes.

  She couldn’t look away, unable to take it all in: the ship burning brightly, the people running to and from the dock, the thick smoke billowing toward the sky, the cacophony of noise.

  And William’s broad back disappearing into the milling crowd on the dock.

  Marcail turned toward Poston, her chest aching from the pounding of her own heart. “You must stop him!”

  The square man shook his head regretfully. “There’s no stoppin’ the cap’n. The Agile Witch is his ship. He’ll fight that fire with his bare hands if he has to.”

  Good God, he’s going onboard! He can’t do that; he could get killed!

  Marcail gathered her skirts and started to jump down from the coach, but Poston was too fast. He set her firmly back onto the seat and shut the door.