Highland Awakening Page 2

  Holy hell. Cam took in a shuddering breath. This woman had no idea how sensual her every movement was to him. She had no idea what kind of a man he was. She had no idea of any of the debauched things he’d like to do to her.

  It had been a long time since he had encountered an innocent. And he’d never encountered an innocent who intrigued him like this one did.

  He curved his lips, knowing his smile was a feral, hungry one. But he didn’t care. “Do you think I’ll be kissing you now, Esme?”

  She didn’t break her gaze away from his. “I…I don’t know.”

  He leaned forward, until he could feel her quick breaths puff over his cheek. “Do you want me to kiss you? Are your lips tingling with the anticipation of mine pressing against them?”

  “Yes,” she whispered, her voice a mere tremble.

  “Good. Because I want a taste.”

  Her breath caught audibly, a small choke. He didn’t let her think about it for another instant. He hauled her into his arms and slammed his lips down upon hers.

  Chapter 2

  Oh. Dear. God.

  Lady Esme Hawkins’s muscles had transformed into putty. She knew what she should do. What a lady who was able to function properly in society would do.

  Gasp. Yank away. Scream. Run. Slap him, hard, across the face.

  But she could do none of those things. Because she was putty…melted putty, and her body had molded to his. Her hands moved against the wool of his coat, and her fingers curled into it, holding on, because if she didn’t hold on, she’d faint, fall to the floor, float away on this tide of…what?

  Desire.

  Yes, that was what it was. This man—Mr. McLeod, Mrs. Trickelbank had called him—was so beautiful. Jet-black hair, tall and broad, with thick muscles apparent beneath his form-fitting coat. He wore a pleated kilt of blue-and-green tartan—she’d always found kilts and the Scots who wore them intriguing—and high, dark brown leather boots. His eyes were a shocking blue—she hadn’t known it was possible for a man to be so dark and yet possess such piercing, light-colored eyes.

  And the way those eyes had studied her, as if she was the most fascinating person in the world…Nobody ever looked at her like that. And to have this beautiful man gaze at her as if she were an object of desire…Lord, but that was a heady experience indeed. His gaze had bored under her skin, through her blood, and into her bones until she was a shaking mass of tingling nerves.

  His lips moved against hers in a firm, sensual stroke. Possessive. Dominating. As if through this kiss he was claiming her as his own. She had no choice but to submit. She wanted to submit.

  His lips nudged her mouth open. She gasped, and he swallowed the sound. His tongue grazed her top teeth, and she tentatively swiped her own tongue against his. The wet heat of their touching tongues sent a deep shudder through her. His hands glided up her sides until one of them cupped her breast and his thumb rolled the tip. Through all the layers of material, her nipple beaded, became a hard, aching, sensitive point.

  “Oh!” she whispered into his mouth, arching toward him. Her body had a mind of its own, and she gave it free rein. She had no choice. Reality nudged at the back of her mind, but he had overwhelmed her senses. At some point she’d released his coat and had wrapped her arms around his neck, her fingertips moving up the powerful cords of muscle at the back of his neck and diving into the silky softness of his black hair.

  His arm slid around her lower back, pulling her tight against his hard body, and she came willingly, pressing ever closer.

  Desire. Lust. Need.

  She knew she was capable of these sensations—that they were an intrinsic part of her. But knowing something existed within her and having it brought to life by a man’s touch were completely different things. She’d never expected this. She’d never believed it would come to pass. She’d always expected her sensual nature to remain firmly locked away from the world, only to be daydreamed about and later expressed in her stories…

  Her stories!

  Gasping, she jerked back, wrenching herself from the lock of his arm. His hand fell from her breast. His lips parted from hers.

  Oh God.

  Sweat broke out over her forehead and trickled down the side of her face. She jumped up from the settee, frantically searching for her notebook.

  There it was…on the back of the velvet cushion, half-hidden behind his body. She lunged for it, her arm outstretched.

  She was too slow.

  He snatched it away. Leaping to his feet, he held it up, high out of her reach.

  “My notebook,” she cried softly, standing on her tiptoes and reaching for it, to no avail.

  His piercing eyes burned her. His smile was a slow, wicked curve. “Well, aren’t we easily distracted?”

  “Yes…I mean, no! Please…”

  She allowed no one to touch her notebooks. No one. Ever.

  “What’s in here, Esme? Weren’t you enjoying our kiss? What could be so important to drag you away from me?”

  Once again, her face burned. What had she done? It was wrong. She was wrong. She shouldn’t have gone near him. She was wicked for touching him.

  “Please,” she whispered. “I’ll go away. I’ll leave you alone. Just…please. Give me my notebook—”

  “Do you think that’s what I want?” Incredulity laced his voice. “For you to leave me alone?”

  “I…don’t know…” She couldn’t make sense of this conversation. All she could think about was the enormity of what she’d just done. The enormity of his hands on her notebook…on her.

  He shook his head and bent down until his face nearly touched hers, their noses a hairsbreadth apart.

  “Don’t leave me alone, Esme. Don’t ever leave me alone.” He straightened. “Now let’s be seeing what’s in here that has you so agitated.”

  Keeping the notebook out of her reach, he opened it.

  “No!” she cried. “Please—”

  Just then, the door to the bedchamber opened, jerking their attention to it. A round woman with a shock of curly carrot-colored hair peered out, kohl smeared beneath her eyes. It was Betty, Esme remembered. She’d met her once before. Esme recalled Betty’s earlier exuberant shouts, and her face grew even hotter.

  The woman gave them a bright smile. “Hullo, luvies. I didn’t mean to interrupt. Pinny and me was just wanting to get a bite from the kitchen.”

  Mr. McLeod lowered Esme’s notebook and gave the woman a terse nod. “Of course. I’ll see that something’s brought for you.”

  It was odd how quickly his tone changed from the wicked rake to the sensible, curt man of business. Who was he, anyhow?

  “All right, then.” Flashing another toothy grin at them both, Betty shut the door. At the same time, the door to the corridor opened and Mrs. Trickelbank bustled in.

  “Well, that’s taken care—” Mrs. Trickelbank stopped speaking abruptly. She frowned at Mr. McLeod, then turned her gaze to Esme. Seeing Esme’s expression—Lord, she didn’t even want to think of what she must look like at this moment…flushed, disheveled, alarmed, terrified, guilty, thoroughly kissed…

  “Mr. McLeod,” Mrs. Trickelbank said crossly, “might I ask why you are in possession of the lady’s notebook?”

  Mrs. Trickelbank knew Esme’s rule of never allowing anyone to look inside it. The older woman was one of the very few people privy to Esme’s biggest secret.

  Mr. McLeod cocked one sleek black eyebrow. “She misplaced it,” he said smoothly. “I was merely returning it to her.”

  “I should hope so.” Mrs. Trickelbank gave him a warning look.

  Pursing his lips, he handed Esme the notebook. She took it, suddenly unable to meet his eyes, which spoke to her clearly nonetheless. I intend to discover the secret of your notebook, they told her. I intend to discover all your secrets.

  That was impossible. He couldn’t discover any of her secrets, because she wouldn’t allow it.

  Her lips still tingled from his hard kisses. Her nipple was
still sensitive, still ached, yearned for his touch. Wetness seeped between her thighs. Despite everything, she was still aroused.

  She looked away even as shame flooded her.

  Mrs. Trickelbank threaded her arm into Esme’s. “Come along, dear. Let’s go to my private sitting room. I’ll order some tea, and we can talk.”

  She allowed Mrs. Trickelbank to lead her out the door. But she couldn’t resist casting a quick glance over her shoulder.

  Mr. McLeod was gazing at her, those piercing blue eyes offering both a promise and a threat: This isn’t over.

  “Goodbye, Esme,” he said softly, and Mrs. Trickelbank closed the door.

  She would never see him again, she reassured herself.

  That should have been a relief. So why wasn’t it?

  Chapter 3

  Esme woke late the next morning—well, “early afternoon” would be more accurate. She hadn’t arrived home until after four o’clock in the morning, but no one in Trent House was aware of that. As far as the household knew, Esme had been dreaming away in her bed since ten o’clock the night before.

  Her brother and sister-in-law never said so outright, but Esme was certain they thought she was lazy. Esme wished she could tell them the truth about what she did—if she wasn’t off researching in secret late at night, she was penning her stories. But that would only lead to more shame on her family’s part—they’d been shamed more than enough in the past few years—and ultimate heartbreak for her. Her brother would want her to stop writing, and Esme wouldn’t risk that, because she couldn’t stop writing.

  No doubt damaging her reputation with her family even more, Esme remained in her room for another two hours, writing and daydreaming, before she rang for her maid to help her prepare for the day.

  As she waited for Polly, she rested her chin in her palms and gazed at the wall.

  Last night had been…inspiring.

  No, it had been more than that. She couldn’t stop thinking about the wicked, handsome Scot. Lord, how she wanted to see him again. But that was unlikely. She did plan to visit Mrs. Trickelbank’s establishment again next week to complete her research, but it was doubtful he’d be there. Although it was possible…

  He was so different from her kind and gentle brothers. He was forceful and commanding. He was the kind of man who knew exactly what he wanted, and he went after it with single-minded intent.

  And last night, he’d wanted her. She’d felt his desire for her shimmering around them both. He’d wanted shy, stuttering Esme, the shamed, awkward spinster who could never say anything appropriate for the moment. He’d wanted her even while she wore a dull brown cloak and with her messy braid lying loose down her back.

  The man knew nothing of Lady Esme Hawkins, who wore silks and furs and glittering jewels and whose brother was the Duke of Trent, one of the most influential men in England.

  She’d have to be that Esme tonight, unfortunately. Trent was hosting a grand dinner party—he’d invited twenty people, mostly prominent politicians and their wives. It was going to be excruciating. It was going to take everything Esme had not to embarrass her brother and his wife, Sarah.

  Sighing, she dropped her arms and glanced down at the open page of her notebook. Today would be a busy day, and she’d already spent most of it locked up in her room.

  He gazed down at her, his eyes such a piercing, light blue, they reminded her of ice reflecting a clear winter’s sky…

  She stared at the line, her mouth dropping open. She’d written her hero, the Duke of Rockwell, to have brown eyes. When she’d been writing this morning, she hadn’t been imagining Rockwell at all but a certain blue-eyed Scottish rogue who’d held her in his arms last night…

  Her maid knocked softly on her door, and Esme slammed the notebook shut, vowing to fix the mistake later. She had to push all thoughts of Mr. McLeod—and Rockwell—out of her mind, for now. Those two men belonged in her secret life, which never overlapped with her real life as the youngest sibling of the House of Trent.

  —

  An hour later, dressed in a white muslin day dress, Esme entered the drawing room, where she found her sister-in-law on the sofa embroidering while her little sons, Lukas and Theo, played with wooden toy horses and knights on the carpet.

  Sarah looked up as Esme walked in, and gave her a bright smile. “There you are, Esme. Did you have some breakfast?” She glanced at the clock on the mantel. “Luncheon?” she corrected.

  “I did, thanks. How are you feeling?”

  “Oh, just fine. The little one never seems to sleep, though.” Sarah patted her rounded belly. “He kicks me day and night.”

  “He?” Esme teased.

  “Or she,” Sarah said with a grin.

  “I think you’re due for a sweet girl after these two scoundrels,” Esme said affectionately as she crouched down beside her nephews. Fifteen-month-old Theo toddled toward her, his thumb in his mouth, and she drew him into her lap, kissing the top of his downy blond head. Three-year-old Lukas looked up at her, then retrieved one of the horses from the group on the floor and held it out to her. “I don’t want it,” he proclaimed. He leaned forward, his little mouth curling into a scowl. “You have it, Auntie. It’s a French horse.” He pushed it into her hand.

  Setting her notebook beside her, she turned the horse over in both her hands, looking at it curiously. It appeared to be no different from the five or six still on the carpet. “Why do you say it’s a French horse?”

  “Because its name is Jean-Paul.” Lukas said “Jean-Paul” with a perfect little French accent. He didn’t like speaking French, but he understood it perfectly—his nurse had been speaking in that language to him since he was in the cradle.

  “Who told you his name is Jean-Paul?” she asked him.

  He pointed an accusing finger at the horse. “He did.”

  “Ah.” Esme nodded sagely. “I see.”

  She glanced at Sarah, who was watching the exchange with a look of motherly love and concern on her face. It was something that made Esme’s heart feel so full—and yet so melancholy at the same time. These days there was no scarcity of love in the House of Trent, and while some of that love was bestowed upon her, she didn’t have the kind of romantic, passionate love her three oldest brothers had. She didn’t have anyone she could spill her heart out to. Anyone she could share her secrets with. Anyone who knew her to the very depths of her soul.

  She’d made her choice—set her future in stone. And now she doubted she’d ever have any of those things.

  She squeezed the “French” horse in one hand. “Is everything ready for tonight?” she asked Sarah.

  Sarah gave a small laugh. “No. But we’re never completely prepared, are we? And yet everything always turns out lovely in the end. I refuse to allow myself to fret about it.”

  “Good.” Esme nodded in agreement. She settled in beside Lukas and steadied the wooden horse on its four legs on the carpet.

  “Are you looking forward to seeing Mr. Whitworth tonight?” Sarah asked softly.

  Esme jerked her head up. Lord. Mr. Whitworth. Henry. Last time she’d seen him, he’d asked her to call him Henry.

  Forcibly, she pressed her lips into a smile, but she looked back down, unable to keep eye contact with Sarah as she murmured, “Of course I am.”

  In truth, she hadn’t thought about the fact that he’d be here tonight. Of course she knew Trent had invited him, but she hadn’t given it a second thought.

  What was wrong with her? Henry was honorable, kind, and quite handsome to boot.

  “Are you sure you’re—?”

  Thank heavens Lukas interrupted. “These are all English horses,” he announced, gesturing to the small group of horses he’d gathered. “They will crush Jean-Paul into bone dust!”

  Esme raised her brows and glanced at Sarah, wondering where the boy had heard such language. Evidently, no age was too young to learn bigotry.

  Sarah frowned and shrugged as if to say, Who knows? Then she spoke firml
y to her son. “Jean-Paul looks like a very nice horse. Why would you want to hurt him?”

  “He’s French!” the boy exclaimed.

  Though almost a year had passed since the Battle of Waterloo, it was still very popular to dislike the French. But not to the Hawkins family—Esme’s oldest brother, Sam, had married a Frenchwoman a year and a half ago. “Your Auntie Élise is French,” Esme argued, “and you wouldn’t want her crushed, would you?”

  Lukas’s scowl deepened. “No.” He looked at Sarah. “Mama, don’t let Auntie Élise be French anymore.”

  “But she is French, darling. There is nothing I can do about that. And I wouldn’t want to even if I could.”

  Lukas drew back, stunned, a look of such dismay on his face, Esme pulled him onto her lap beside Theo and wrapped her arms around both boys. “Aunt Élise is part of our family. I love her, your mama and papa love her, and so do you, right?”

  Lukas nodded hesitantly. “But—”

  She tapped the tip of his blunt little nose. “No buts. Not all French people are bad. Your Auntie Élise is a perfect example.”

  “They are all bad. Very, very bad,” Lukas said stubbornly.

  Esme glanced at Sarah, alarmed. Sarah sighed. “He’s been eavesdropping on too many adult discussions.”

  Esme nodded and squeezed her nephew. She pressed a kiss on his blond head, then turned at a knock on the door.

  Trent entered. He came first to Esme, smiling as he bent down to kiss her cheek, then he wrapped his arms around his wife, drawing her up off the sofa. He pressed his hand to her belly and his lips to the top of her head, then laughed as little Lukas barreled into his knees. “Papa! Papa!”

  Theo left Esme’s lap and toddled over to his father, too, at a much more sedate pace. Trent included both boys in the family hug.

  “I see you’re playing with your new horses this morning, Luke.”

  “I am, and they’re all good English horses. Except for Jean-Paul. But that’s all right, because we’re going to kill him.”

  “You’re going to kill one of your horses?” Trent asked, one blond brow quirking upward.