Page 92 of Too Scot to Handle
Colin framed her face in his palms. “Hush. If you weren’t worried, I’d fear you failed to grasp the magnitude of the problem. We’ll get through this. You are my bonfire, and the harder the gale blows, the more brightly a bonfire’s flame roars.”
She tugged him over to the desk, scooted back, and pulled him between her knees. “I’m an anxious bonfire. Love me, Colin.”
The need to join with him was a confused welter of worry, determination, desire, and hope. Colin could be arrested by this time Monday, the orphanage doomed, Anwen’s family embroiled in scandal, but this moment was hers to share with him.
“Lass, there’s no need tae—”
“That was your one allotted gesture in the direction of gentlemanly restraint, Colin. Lock the door and make love with me.”
His lips quirked, the dimple creasing his left cheek. “When you put it so sweetly, I can only agree.”
He twisted the old lock, and as he crossed the room, his walk became a prowl. Anwen’s nerves settled, though her heart beat faster.
“This is battle lust,” he said. “You’re fighting for all you’re worth against an enemy who has no honor, and the blood sings.”
“The only battle I want to win is the battle for your heart.”
He stepped between her knees. “Regarding that conflict, I’ve long since surrendered, Anwen.”
“So did I.” And she was desperate to surrender to him again.
Colin had reserves of self-control Anwen lacked. His kisses were deliberate, slow and sweet, then hot. His focus was on her, not scattered in a hundred upsetting directions. Gradually, Anwen let herself be pulled into the loving he wove, despite the dusty shelves, the hard desk, and the missing money.
Despite everything.
Colin made a respite for her, a haven of soft caresses, tender indecencies—he excelled at those—and growing desire. When he eased her skirts up, and moved his sporran to his hip, Anwen was ready.
“You do it,” he said, letting his hands fall to his sides. “Bring us together.”
She wiggled, she scooted, she took him in her hand, and showed him where she wanted him. Then scooted another half inch, and the joining was begun.
“We’ve never made love in a bed,” she whispered as Colin gently rocked closer. “I want to make love with you in a bed. I want to see your home in Perthshire. I want to learn all about distilling whisky. I want to marry you. I want—”
He surged forward. “You’ll have what you want, and you’ll have me.”
She had him until she bit his shoulder to keep from crying out her pleasure; had him until her soul sang with a surfeit of rainbows; had him, until she realized the dampness on her cheeks was tears.
Colin withdrew, and held her close. “None of that now. I’ll be careful, and Winthrop Montague will rue the day he trifled with his betters.”
Anwen’s skirts drifted back down over her ankles. She felt calm, hollow, cherished, and terrified all at once. She stayed close to Colin as he finished in a few deft strokes, and then for a few minutes longer.
“I don’t want to let you go.”
“You’re no’ lettin’ me go. You’re in my heart, and you always will be. I’ve a few plans to make, and some young gentlemen to consult with, but I should see you home so you can tell your family what’s afoot before Montague beats you to it.”
The suggestion was like a pail of cold, dirty water tossed on Anwen’s fragile sense of peace.
“Uncle Percy will be horrified, not only because the money is missing, but also because scandal threatens to touch his family.”
“Then give me one night, and maybe scandal can be averted before Montague spreads his accusations. If Montague comes to call, intercept him, or at least see that his recounting is accurate while you incriminate him with your every question and aside.”
Anwen fluffed the folds of Colin’s cravat, which had got a bit wrinkled somehow. “I can do that. You’re good at this.”
He gave her a naughty smile and put his sporran front and center. “We’re good at it.”
“Not that, though you’re a very skilled lover. I mean, you’re good at seeing what has to be done, assigning tasks to the person best suited to the job, and planning for success.”
“Wars are won and lost in preparation as much as battle, and it’s the same with the whisky.”
