Scandal In Scotland Part 6

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 c.o.c.k 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 c.o.c.k by rocking her hips.

William almost groaned at her motion. d.a.m.n 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 p.r.o.ne 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 c.o.c.k 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 a.s.s 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 pa.s.sion 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 c.o.c.k. 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 a.s.s 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 c.l.i.toris. She moaned and arched her back, her hips rubbing his c.o.c.k 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 c.o.c.k. "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 pa.s.sion-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 pa.s.sion, 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 pa.s.sion; 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 pa.s.sion, 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 G.o.d, what in the h.e.l.l 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. "d.a.m.n 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 d.a.m.ned 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 d.a.m.ned 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 h.e.l.l. 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. "d.a.m.n 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 G.o.d, 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.

"We have to stop him!" she cried. "If he goes onto the ship-"

"He'll be fine, miss."

"But it exploded. He could be in danger right now as we argue!"

Poston turned to look at the ship, the flames roaring into the sky, his expression increasingly dark.

A sail caught fire, making a distinctive whoosh as the flames raced across it. "No mere fire caused that," she pointed out. "What if there's another explosion while the captain's aboard ship?"

His jaw firmed. "Ye're right, miss. I need to see to him."

"I'll come with you-"

"Ye'll stay here, miss." The coachman pulled down the shutter and latched it, blocking sight of the burning ship and the mayhem about it.

"Poston, no!" In reply she heard the sound of something being drawn through the shutter handles. "What are you doing?"

She grabbed the door handle and tugged, but it was firmly tied in place. Heart sinking, she lunged across the coach for the other door but he got there first.

Desperate, she placed her hands on the window ledge. "You can't-" The shutters came whizzing down and she yanked her fingers out of the way just as they banged into place, leaving her in total darkness. "Poston, please don't-"

"I'm off to see to the cap'n. Ye'll be fine if ye stay quiet as a mouse."

"I won't keep quiet!"

"Then don't be surprised if'n ye attract some attention ye don't like. I don't know the people hereabouts, and I'll wager ye don't know 'em, either."

Blast it! She doubled her hands into fists and banged upon the door. "You can't leave me here! I demand that you-"

"Good-bye, miss." And with that, he was gone.

A letter from Michael Hurst to his brother William, from the deck of a cange as it set sail down the Nile.

After two false starts and endless paperwork, we're finally under way. You would be amazed by the bribery system here; it makes the thieves in Parliament look like amateurs. I must reluctantly admit that my intrepid a.s.sistant, Miss Smythe-Haughton, proved to be worth her weight in gold today. When the port authorities began to question our harmless cargo-digging tools, sifters, pickaxes, and such-her basilisk stare cowed them into speechlessness.

Never underestimate the power of a bossy woman.

CHAPTER 7.