Page 56 of Lyon of Scotland
They hurried, laughing as they washed up and set food and dishes away; brushing past each other, they paused for kisses while finishing the kitchen task. Another kiss, then another until Dare lifted the oil lamp and led Hannah up to the main level. Crossing the parlor in darkness and moonlight and the oil lamp’s glow, she tugged him toward the foyer and the staircase.
“Wait,” he growled. Stopping, he pulled her into the circle of one arm, lamp held in the other hand, kissing her so fervently that she curved back, hands on his shoulders, hips pressed against him through layers of wool and fabric. He stretched out an arm to set the lamp aside on a table, then took her in his arms fully to kiss her deep and hungry now, rousing the same in her as she felt her body tingle and rouse and crave. Lifting her in his arms, he carried her a few steps to a sofa and set her down.
In the mottled light she lay back on its satiny damask surface and reached for Dare. He snatched a small pillow, soft and round, to stuff it behind her head, then sat on the edge of the sofa. His hip and the long, hard line of his thigh nudged against her body as he bent down to kiss her again. His fingers began work the buttons of her gown.
The dark-blue wool she had worn for their wedding and on the steamship came away now, tossed to the lovely thick carpet, followed by her shoes, then her stockings, the garters released, his fingers nimble as he drew each one the length of her legs, his lips tracing the path, then his touch grazing up her inner thigh. Arching, mewling, she sought another deep kiss even as she pulled at his jacket, his cravat, his shirt.
Undoing his cravat with one hasty hand, he tossed it aside. Next she pulled at his shirt, which came away, followed by the leather belt and then the red tartan kilt, its wooly texture rubbing against her bared hip, her cotton chemise rucked up. She tugged at the ties of the simple linen corset that tied in front; having no maid with her, she had kept her garments easy tomanage. His fingers joined hers to loosen the ties of the bodice corset.
“My dear lass,” he murmured, leaning down to cover her with kisses, lips and throat and peaked breasts, and cover her with his body, the satiny damask beneath her, his firm, warm, smooth skin over her, his hands finding creases deserving of kisses as she surged and pulled his hips toward her, knowing what he wanted, what he could do, how she craved that with him.
“Love,” she whispered on a breath, and he caught her mouth with his, caught the word, gave it back. And moments later, as his fingers sought and caressed and she arched close as could be, then even closer, she opened herself to him, and his body found hers, pushed, eased, merged into her. She arched to meet him, breath and body, trust and soul.
He whispered something as he separated, and she gasped and tried to hold him close even as he drew back. Turning slightly, he tipped, causing them to roll from the sofa’s edge to the gorgeous pale carpet, soft and thick in the moonlight. Hannah lay laughing, half beneath him, feeling his laughter move through his chest and abdomen, and they parted, still laughing, to gather clothing and senses.
“Love,” he said, in his long shirt now, standing, kilt bunched in one hand, long legs, muscled and lean in the shadows and light. He reached out his hand. “Come up.”
She stood in her chemise and loosened corset to gather her things. Then Dare lifted the oil lamp and they crossed the foyer to climb the long, curving staircase.
In the morning light, he stood by the bed finishing the knot on his cravat. Dare did not want to wake Hannah. She looked so peaceful and lovely, eyes closed, hair like a golden fan on the pillow. He felt a quick desire plunge through him, remembering the passionate delights in the dark before they finally slept. He leaned down to kiss her.
“Dare,” she whispered.
“Hush. Sleep. I will go down and see to tea.”
“I can do that,” she murmured, eyes still closed, lashes dark and luxuriant on her pink cheeks. He brushed his hand over her hair.
“I can manage. I made tea in the army often enough. Rest. We had a late night.”
“Late and lovely,” she murmured sleepily. He smiled as he left the room.
Walking down to the ground level, he crossed the foyer and heard noises. Frowning, he paused to listen. Surely that was the chink of dishes from the kitchen, and the door to below stairs was partly open. Perhaps his housekeeper, Mrs. MacGowan, had arrived to look after the house, expecting his return. Had she heard of it from the Pringles? He took the stairs to the lower corridor and stepped into the kitchen.
A young woman was bent over the hearth, dark hair coiled and shining, one hand shaped to her thickened abdomen. Stirring the contents of a kettle, she looked up.
“Dare!” She smiled.
“Nell!” He widened his arms.
His sister hurried toward him, her pretty face more round than when he had last seen her, and her cheeks flushed from the heat of the hearth.
“Dare! I did not want to wake you. I hoped you would not hear me down here.”
He embraced her, then stepped back. “How did you know I was home?”
“I saw Linhope last night at my mother-in-law’s house. Linhope stopped in to see my brother-in-law, Hugh Cameron. When I heard you had just arrived, I thought there might be no one here to ready things for you. So I took a gig and came over. It was just a short distance.”
“Efficient and thoughtful as always. But driving yourself now—should you? How are you feeling?”
She patted the high arch of her belly. “Very well. Linhope thinks I should be fine for weeks yet. He has promised to help if needed. Ewan expects to be home before the birth. We have until nearly Yuletide, several weeks yet.”
“Your surgeon husband should prove useful.” He smiled.
“Indeed. Linhope said you brought a surprise from London, but did not say what.”
“I am glad he left it to me.” Dare smiled.
“What is it? Did you bring the bonnet I asked for?”
