Page 83 of Taming the Heiress
"What the devil are you doing?"
Without answer, she stood and reached under the voluminous hem of her dress, tearing at the tapes of her crinoline. The cage dropped to her feet and she stepped out of it, still struggling with other hidden drawstrings. She wriggled out of a white flounced petticoat, another of cotton, a third of red flannel.
He strode toward her. "What the devil are you up to?"
"You want Meg MacNeill," she muttered, "and so you shall have her." Stepping out of the pool of cottons and laces, she then ripped off her embroidered half sleeves and tossed them outward. One of them flapped over his face. He tore it away.
Pulling at the black net that bound her hair, she tugged it free, scattering silver hairpins with it. She whipped her head from side to side, and her hair spilled out, gloriously wild and rippling with natural curl, full as a golden cloud.
"There," she said, lifting the limp hem of her skirt to reveal her bare feet, small toes deep in the plush of the blue-and-gold carpet. "There. Meg MacNeill."
He stared at her, heart pounding, head reeling with surprise and with a hope so fragile he hardly dared express it.
"I like my freedoms, too," she said, chest heaving. "I have lost them. I want them back." He heard a faint trace of the Gaelic in the rhythm of her speech, as if she had tossed aside her perfect English with her fancy clothing.
God, how he loved her.
"What else do you want?" he asked softly, coming closer.
"You," she said, watching him. "I want you."
He gave her a slow, quizzical smile. "And what of Frederick and your promise to marry him?"
"He is an odious bully. I will not let myself be afraid of him any longer." She paused."Youare not afraid of him."
He huffed to express the truth of that and walked carefully over what seemed an acreage of lace, silk, and cotton scattered at his feet. "Now you're showing some sense."
"I will need some help to break free of him, though." She lifted her head as he stopped a hand-breadth away. "It will not be easy. I owe him loyalty for all his help to me in the past, but he has proven himself lately not a... pleasant man. Nor will you will be pleased with me, once I tell you the rest."
"So there's more," he murmured. "Miss MacNeill, you are never dull. You are more a challenge than any I have ever faced. Far simpler to charge into a storm or dive into the sea than to keep pace with you, with all your turnabouts."
He reached out and tipped up her chin, and with a thumb wiped the damp traces of tears from her cheeks. Her delicate nose and exquisite eyes were touched with pink.
She sniffled, tilted back her head. "You said you needed Meg MacNeill. I have found her for you."
"So you have," he murmured. "And the baroness, too. The lass tends to herself quite well, but the lady needs reassuring."
"But you do not care for the baroness."
"Did I say it? The bonnie lady is a fetching creature," he said, "and she has all my heart—but for the deepest part, which belongs to the bonnie lass." He bent down, slipping his hands along the fine-boned frame of her jaw.
Unable to help himself, he felt his anger dissolve under the magic of her winsomeness. Later, he thought, he would seek the rest of the truth, for he sensed there was far more she had not told him. Now, though, he felt trust and faith return full force. He wanted only to love her and leave the rest until its time. He lowered his head and kissed her.
Caught in the spell of his lips, Meg felt herself melting into his kiss, turning to flame as his fingers gentled over her throat and downward. She pulled in a quick breath as he found the swell of her breast, his hand lingering there, a warm cradle. Her knees turned buttery, and she grabbed his arm for support. He broke the kiss, drew back and dragged a fingertip over the shell buttons that closed her bodice.
"What about," he murmured, "your stays, madam? Will you dress again, now that you have made your point, or will you revel in a little more freedom?"
Freedom. She longed for it, had been caged too long as the baroness. He understood her need, shared it himself. Her fingers flew to the neck of her gown, slipping off the lace collar, working the long line of buttons. Dougal reached out, and his fingers worked the buttons slowly, his knuckles next to her skin, grazing over the swells of her breasts.
She tipped back her head, closed her eyes, sighed as he worked down to her waist and opened the bodice of her gown. He drew the separate blouse away from the skirt, exposing the corset cover, the bothersome stays, and the ruched chemise.
Silently he turned her to work the laces at the small of her back, drawing away the stiff whaleboned canvas. Then he spun her to face him, and she came willingly into his arms.
Her body felt free and sensuous, clothed now only in chemise and knickers, for Dougal quickly loosened the tapes of the satin skirt and let it fall to the floor. She looped her arms around his neck and leaned into him, reaching up to work off his coat and his waistcoat, while he kissed her so deeply that she faltered where she stood, moaned breathily.
He lowered her with him to the floor, down to the thick blue-and-gold carpet that reminded her of the beach at Caransay. They sank down behind a blue horsehair sofa, and Meg stretched out beside him, the silky thickness of the Aubusson carpet cushioning her back.
Kissing him, she sighed as his lips, the tip of his tongue, swept the shell of her ear. Her fingers were nimble at the buttons of his shirt, and she tugged the linen away, finally sliding her palms over the firm planes of his chest. Leaning forward, she touched her lips to his warm skin, its taste slightly salty. He streamed soft kisses along her jaw and down the arch of her throat until his lips touched her upper breast.
