And slowly, surely, breath by longer breath, she began to soften, thawing by degrees until her lids fluttered shut, and she melted against his chest. “Oh, aye.”
She tasted like apples and clean fresh water. She tasted like ease and simplicity and everything perfect and right. She tasted like a summer evening’s soft breeze and a night full of dancing stars. And she was holding on to him—her hands fisted in the lapels of his coat—just as tenaciously as he was holding on to her, that he didn’t care about innocence or experience. He only cared about deepening the kiss. About tracing the lush curve of her back, and wrapping his arm around her waist to pull her flush into his chest. About cupping the back of her head to angle her jaw just enough to deepen the kiss and sweep his tongue into her mouth to slake his thirst for the tart taste of her.
“I knew it,” he breathed as he moved to kiss the sensitive tendon at the sweet slide of her neck. “I knew the lass who had written those words and thought those thoughts would kiss like a dream. I knew under that guarded, innocent exterior would beat the wild, daring heart of a poet. I knew.”
He brought his mouth back to her soft lips, already missing her, already hungry for another taste of her lips, another drink of her shyly questing tongue. Wanting to discover just what it was that made him hold her like he never meant to let her go.
And not even that particularly dangerous thought could keep him from sliding his fingers into her artfully arranged hair, disrupting pins that pattered like raindrops onto the path as he let the smooth strands slide through his hands. “Elspeth.” Her name was like a gift he gave himself, an incantation that transported him to places unknown. Places of lush wonder and graceful, careless ease—a garden of “Elspeth”.
“Hamish?” Her answering whisper was filled with wonder and a little bewilderment, as if she had not yet decided if this were really happening. If they really were kissing like experienced lovers trysting in the dark of the garden.
They were.
He drew her hard against his chest, wishing she were wearing less, cursing that he was wearing more. He wanted to peel off his cravat and waistcoat, and tear off his linen shirt so he could feel the febrile heat of her body flush against his skin, and taste more than just the flesh of her lips.
He skated his mouth down the long slide of her swanlike neck to the hollow of her collarbone, and she tipped her head away, tacitly granting him access. His hands followed where his lips led, rounding over her shoulders, pushing aside the whispering silk of her sleeves, brushing aside the fall of lace that edged her bodice.
The lovely curve of her breasts filled his palm, and he wanted more, wanted to feel the weight of her in his hands. Wanted to see and taste the pink tips hidden beneath soft chemise and tight-laced stays.
He put his mouth to her sweet, satin-smooth skin just above the upper edge of her chemise, and she gasped with the same wonder and delight and joy that he felt to be with her, and alone. His own body responded to hers in the most primitive, savagely pleasurable way, and it was everything he could do to keep himself from backing her against the ivy-covered wall. To keep himself from taking down the rest of her bodice, and hiking up her skirts to give them both a greater taste of paradise.
But he could not.
Because she was not only sweet Elspeth Otis, the adored niece of Lady Augusta Ivers, and deserved better, but he was Mr. Hamish Cathcart, of a long and mostly-noble lineage and a moral code of his own. One he meant to keep.
Chapter 13
“Darling Elspeth, we have to stop.” Hamish’s lips pressed against her forehead in gentle warning. “Before I give in to the unholy urge to take you against the bloody wall.”
His words only half-penetrated the fog of pleasure permeating Elspeth’s brain. But when he disentangled himself from her arms, and set her as far away as the low privet hedge bordering the path would allow, Elspeth began to understand—she could hear his breath sawing in and out of his chest.
Her own breath was just as unruly—she was as winded as if she had run all the way round the orchard. Twice. But his kisses were well worth the trip—her lips still throbbed and her cheeks still tingled with the sensation of his rougher skin against hers.
“Devil take it. Someone’s coming.” Hamish immediately began to scoop hairpins off the ground.
“Elspeth?” Aunt Augusta’s voice floated up the path. “Is that you?”
Elspeth’s hands flew to her hair, trying to twist and jab pins back into some semblance of order, but it was too late.
“Well.” Aunt Augusta took in the two of them at a glance. “No need to ask what you two darling children have been up to.”
“We were just—”
“Talking,” Hamish finished.
“Of the book,” Elspeth clarified.
“Books,” Hamish corrected. “Miss Otis and I were discussing some of the difficulties she anticipates having with the revision.”
“Does she?” Aunt Augusta’s tone was as dry as it was amused. “From what I saw there didn’t look to be any difficulties at all.”
“Michty me.” Elspeth couldn’t possibly maintain her composure. Not with her aunt’s clear-eyed gaze taking in each detail of her mussed hair and clothing. Elspeth tugged her gown back into place upon her shoulder. “Please forgive me. I don’t know what came over me.”
“Mr. Cathcart, one can only suppose, came over you,” was Aunt Augusta’s wry response. “And your own natural human nature. You’ve proved yourself to be a faster learner than I would have given you credit for, dear child.” Her aunt mercifully turned her keen gaze upon Hamish. “And you, Hamish Cathcart. Letting no grass grow, I see. Well, my dears, what a pretty pickle you seem to have gotten yourselves into.”
“Your ladyship.” For the first time in their—albeit short—acquaintance, Hamish Cathcart’s face was flushed with riddy color. “My apologies.”
“I am not the one to whom you should apologize. You young men today—always in such a rush.” Aunt Augusta shook her head as she took the hairpins from his hand. “My niece has been acquainted with you less than a day, Cathcart. To attempt seduction on her first night.” She gave the two of them such an exasperated sigh, Elspeth began to feel ashamed of her own enthusiasm.
“It wasn’t entirely Mr. Cathcart’s fault, Aunt Augusta.” Her first true kiss, with her first true beau, and she had abandoned all the principles she had been brought up with. One moonlit ball, and she had thrown herself at the first man to offer her any attention.
If the Aunts could see her they would be horrified. Even without their censure, she was heartily ashamed of herself.
“Nay.” Hamish quickly contradicted her. “Your aunt is right. But Elspeth, you must know I meant no disrespect. Quite the opposite. My feelings quite carried me away.”
“Yes. They seem to do that to you, don’t they?” Aunt Augusta would not make it easy for him. “Well, let them carry you off for the remainder of the evening, so we’ll have no more public displays of over-affection. I must speak to my niece.”
Hamish bowed to the inevitable. “As you wish, my lady.” He bowed to her aunt, and then turned to take Elspeth’s suddenly chilly hand—she was suddenly anxious not to be parted from him.
But he seemed just as anxious for their next meeting as she. “Elspeth, if I may, I’ll call on you tomorrow, so we might discuss our further plans.”
“Yes.” She tried to curtail her smile. “I should like that.”
“Then it is set.” He bowed once more. “Good evening.” And he strode off through the crowd, leaving Elspeth to repair the damage to her coiffure.
“I am afraid, dear Elspeth, that you may not be able to make the appointment with Mr. Cathcart.”
Elspeth whirled to her aunt. “What do you mean? Surely you do not mean to forbid me the association? I thought you liked Mr. Cathcart?”