The Capture of the Earl of Glencrae by Stephanie Laurens
There was only one way to find out.
Angelica awoke to the shiveringly intimate sensation of long, strong fingers stroking between her thighs, sliding over the already slick flesh from behind.
Even as her mind locked on the sensation, the fingers probed, testing, then opening her.
Before she’d caught her breath, before her wits had caught up with her senses, Dominic shifted behind her, and the blunt head of his erection parted her folds.
The fingers that had been preparing her splayed over her belly, angling her hips so that he could press deeper and fill her. His other hand had slid under her hip and now held her steady, anchored before him.
Eyes closing on a shuddering exhalation, she let her senses feast on the delicious, indescribably glorious sensations the intimate invasion sent pulsing through her. He pressed slowly, deliberately, in, and her flesh parted, gave way, surrendered—and claimed.
He filled her, and her body delighted.
Finally seated deep inside her, he curled his body around hers, his chest to her back, his legs behind hers. He bent his head; his lips cruised her bare shoulder. “There’s no need for you to move. Just lie there, and let me show you.”
He drew back on the words, then surged slowly in again. Sensation rolled in a long, dreamily somnolent wave through her. The feel of his hard body, naked and hot, cradling hers, the abrasion from the crinkly hair that decorated his chest, thighs, and groin as with every surging thrust his body shifted against hers, brought her pleasure, and a subtle, scintillating joy.
Smiling, eyes closed, she did as he asked and gave herself up to his expertise, to experiencing this slower, yet equally intimate, possibly more erotic, dance.
Appreciated what it revealed.
To be as she presently was, her body surrendered, his to use, to fill and pleasure as he would and from which to take pleasure as he willed, required precisely the sort of trust she’d wanted to find. That she’d wanted to learn to have in him.
In their veins, the thud of desire had steadily escalated, albeit, this time, to a measured and tightly reined beat. Lips curving, she felt confident such rigid control wouldn’t last, not through the final, cataclysmic moments. Where that confidence came from she didn’t know, but it was real and absolute.
Their fire had ignited and flared long ago; passion’s flames had raced through them, claiming them both. Their skins were heated, yet still the internal conflagration built.
Soon. The end had to come soon.
She was already panting, nails digging into the forearm he had locked around her. Need raked her. Passion coiled, hotter and tighter, deep in her belly; his increasingly hard, deep thrusts fanned the furnace. She felt the end fast approaching. Could feel the inevitable coiling tension gripping his body, investing the heavy muscles surrounding her, holding her in passionate supplication.
Up to then she’d obeyed his injunction to just lie there, but that was denying herself the pleasure she most enjoyed—pleasuring him. Yet he had her in an unforgiving hold, one she didn’t truly want to break . . . his next thrust brushed some point of such sensitivity that she gasped, senses spiking, and instinctively tightened about him.
Remembered she could. She did it again and realized she didn’t need to move to caress him, to pleasure him. Blatantly, flagrantly.
He’d stilled at her first experimental attempt, breaking his rhythm of thrust and retreat, but then, at her back, his chest swelled, and he resumed, then picked up the pace, thrusting harder, more powerfully—and she found her own rhythm and matched him.
Head bowed, his breathing harsh, Dominic shuddered, felt the reins slip, tried to hold on. Couldn’t. He let them fall, gave up his futile attempt to control the apparently uncontrollable, and let himself—his body, his senses, his all—ride the glorious tide.
Her intimate caresses were the last straw, but the firm press of her bottom to his groin as she accepted each hard, heavy thrust and pushed back to take more of him, wordlessly inviting even deeper penetration, was simply too much.
Too much temptation for him to withstand.
He held her and filled her and their senses spiraled, twining inextricably, merging and converging on some other plane.
Nothing else mattered but this—this pleasured joy, this profound togetherness.
Now he’d tasted it, and knew that it lay within him and her to create such glory between them, he couldn’t hold back, couldn’t deny his soul this ultimate bounty.
They crested and broke. She went first, but he was only seconds—two deep thrusts—behind her. The familiar cataclysm awaited them, but more intense, almost unrecognizable in its power.
Ecstasy caught them, held them, shattered them.
Utterly. Completely.
Wracked, broken, and emptied—of thought, of will, of self—they floated in that golden glory where the aftermath of pleasure spread like a benediction, soothing, refilling, overflowing.
Then satiation rolled in and pulled them down, into oblivion, and sated slumber.
His last thought before he succumbed shone beaconlike in his mind.
He’d bedded Angelica Cynster, his countess-to-be, and life as he’d known it had changed irrevocably.
They left Glencrae House at nine o’clock to walk to the stables in Watergate.
Angelica glanced back at their little procession—Brenda, Mulley, Griswold, Jessup, with Thomas walking alongside one of the footmen, who was dragging a hard-cart piled with their bags, her bandbox perched on top.
Facing forward, she glanced up at Dominic, striding beside her, her gloved hand in his. Not on his sleeve, not tucked into the crook of his elbow, but firmly locked in his grasp.
Shifting her gaze ahead, she kept her smile within bounds. This morning when Griswold had tapped on the bedroom door, then called to wake them, Dominic had grunted, but had made no attempt to hurry her back to her rooms or to hide her presence in his bed. He’d risen, donned a robe, waited until she’d reclaimed her own robe and the slippers that had slid under the big bed, then had shown her the private door that connected their suites. After waving her through, he’d shut the door. She’d listened, and had been pleased that he hadn’t relocked it.
The first and biggest hurdle in getting him to fall in love with her had, she judged, been successfully overcome.
Further heightening her excellent mood, her emerald velvet riding habit had lived up to her expectations; when she’d swept into the breakfast parlor arrayed in it, Dominic had paused, rendered momentarily speechless by the sight, then had complimented her, patently sincerely, before continuing with his meal. The modiste who’d supplied the severely cut habit, with its contrastingly delicate, frothy, lacy blouse, would remain on her list of Edinburgh modistes to be favored with her patronage.
Reaching Cannongate, they turned toward Holyrood Palace. In society’s terms, it was still early; there were few people about in the more well-to-do streets, few to see their little procession marching along.
She looked around, breathed deeply, then exhaled. The morning was fresh and clear, with a light breeze scudding fluffy white clouds across a cerulean sky. According to Jessup, the weather looked set to remain fine through their days of riding to the castle. All in all, she was looking forward to the day, to the start of this last leg of their journey.
They reached the stables to discover their horses saddled and waiting.
Dominic checked the girth of the sidesaddle on the prancing black filly, then lifted Angelica up. Having her lithe body between his hands instantly evoked memories of the night; grimly blocking out the distraction, he set her in her saddle, then held the bridle, watching as she efficiently curled her leg about the crook, slipped her feet into the stirrups, then rearranged her skirt.
Picking up the reins, she nodded, the feather in her cap bobbing above one eyebrow. He released the bridle, holding himself rea
The filly sidled but, without apparent thought, Angelica brought the skittish black under control, then turned her and walked her to where the others were gathering.
Jessup appeared by Dominic’s shoulder; eyes shrewd and keen, he nodded at Angelica. “Thought you’d taken leave of your senses, but she has excellent posture, and her hands are good and steady.”
“Hmm.” Dominic watched for a moment more, then said, “I’ll keep a close eye on her nonetheless.”
Jessup nodded and headed for his own horse.
After checking that all the baggage—including her bandbox—had been loaded securely on the sumpter horses, Dominic accepted Hercules’s bridle from Griggs and swung up to the saddle.
It felt good to settle into his own saddle again.
To, at least in this, be in control again.
Picking up the reins, he had to admit that, despite the not-entirely-to-his-liking outcome of the night, he was feeling remarkably positive. That said, he couldn’t understand why he was feeling so damned at ease. Last night hadn’t been a victory, not for him, yet his instincts were reacting as if they’d stumbled on some new, unexpected, but excellent way forward and were now focused on exploiting what had fallen into his hands.
Even though he was, clearly, going to have to learn to share reins that, until now, had been solely his.
Inwardly shaking his head, he walked Hercules toward the other horses.
Angelica turned; her gaze swept over Hercules, then slowly rose over Dominic, until she met his eyes. She smiled. “He really is a magnificent specimen.”
He narrowed his eyes at her, but inwardly preened.
Her smile deepened and she turned back to the others.
Drawing Hercules up alongside her, he spoke to the group. “We’ll go down Holyrood Road onto Cowmarket, then on through Grassmarket and past St. Cuthbert’s.”
Everyone nodded. Wheeling their mounts, the others fell in behind as, with Angelica beside him, he led their company out of Edinburgh.
Ten miles out, they reached South Queensferry on the banks of the Firth of Forth.
Riding beside Dominic as they picked their way down a steep street running from the High Street to the shore, Angelica said, “I read about Queensferry. It was named after your Queen Margaret, the one who married one of the Malcolms. She was very religious and used to go back and forth from Edinburgh to Dunfermline Abbey, and so set up the ferry. Hence, Queensferry.”
Dominic nodded. “It was originally operated by monks.”
They emerged from the street onto the road following the shoreline. Several piers were located at various points around the cove.
“There.” Dominic pointed to where a large ferry was tied up at the farthest pier. He nudged Hercules in that direction. “They use whichever of the piers best suits the prevailing conditions.”
The ferry was still loading. Dominic bought their fares, then their small cavalcade dismounted and walked their horses on.
They didn’t have long to wait before the ferrymen cast off and the ferry started its slow journey across the choppy waters.
Standing at the railing beside Angelica, Dominic glanced down at her. Small hands gripping the rail, she was looking ahead, the brisk breeze whipping loose tendrils of her hair about her cheeks. Her face glowed with eagerness.
The ferry pitched. Catching her elbow, he steadied her, anchored her. The ferry righted and forged on; he released her, but shifted closer, locking one hand on the rail to one side of her and angling his body so that if she lost her grip, she’d bounce against him and he could catch her.
He glanced at her face. “Not queasy?”
She looked up at him, smiled, and shook her head. “Mind you, I’ve never been on such open water before—it’s much rougher than the Solent, at least during summer, and that’s the largest stretch of water I’ve been on. Then again, we’re not going that far.” Raising a hand, she pointed ahead. “At least, if that’s the other side?”
Dominic glanced ahead. “Yes, that’s Fife. The ferry runs here because it’s by far the narrowest part of the firth.”
Overhead, seagulls wheeled, raucously cawing. The wind strengthened, bringing with it the scent of the open sea. Together they remained by the railing and watched as the opposite shore drew nearer.
Several times, Dominic checked her face, her expression, for any signs of malaise, but she remained unperturbed, unconcerned, caught up in enjoying the moment, the adventure. The third time he looked, he caught himself, realized why he was looking, checking. Why he was standing as he was, with her literally within his protection.
Facing forward, he waited for some inner recoil, some instinctive resistance to his changed focus . . . instead, all his instincts remained in accord over how he was dealing with and reacting to her, as if accepting as natural that his well-being should now be contingent on hers.
After several long moments of dwelling on that, he shook aside the distraction. He’d never been attached to anyone else as he now was to her; doubtless he’d grow used to the ramifications.
Just over an hour later, they landed at North Queensferry. Walking off the pier and halting beside Dominic as they waited for Jessup and Thomas to bring their horses, Angelica looked around in some surprise. “It’s barely a hamlet.”
Dominic, who’d been watching Jessup lead Hercules off the ferry, glanced at her, then turned and surveyed the scattered roofs lining the road north. “People rarely stop here, not overnight. Everyone off the ferry is on their way somewhere else, just passing through. However, there are several taverns that serve excellent lunches. We’ll stop at one before riding on.”
Jessup and the others arrived with the horses; remounting and forming up once more, they clattered up the street.
Dominic halted at the second of the three taverns the town boasted. The Wayfarer’s Halt had fed him many times; he felt confident their food would pass muster. Dismounting, he handed Jessup his reins, then lifted a waiting Angelica down. While Jessup and Thomas led the horses to the yard behind the inn, with Angelica on his arm, he led the rest of their party into the tavern.
The tavern keeper, Cartwright, looked up from behind the bar, then smiled hugely and came hurrying forward. “A pleasure to see you again, my lord.” Halting, Cartwright’s eyes went to Angelica, rounded a trifle in surprise, then he bowed and looked inquiringly at Dominic.
“Good morning, Cartwright. I know it’s early, but we require a full luncheon, in the parlor for myself and the lady, and at a table here for my people.” Dominic glanced at Brenda, Mulley, and Griswold, who had followed him and Angelica in. “Jessup and my groom are stabling our horses and will be joining the others.”
Cartwright beamed. “Of course, my lord. Your people are welcome to take the big table in the window, or the one closer to the fire if they prefer. And if you and the lady will come this way . . .” Bowing several times, Cartwright ushered Dominic and Angelica into a parlor overlooking a small garden. “Very quiet and private, you’ll find it.” Cartwright, his gaze, a little dazed, fixed on Angelica, backed toward the door. “I’ll send the missus in to lay the table.”
“Thank you.” Dominic dismissed Cartwright with a wave, then drew out a chair at the round table for Angelica.
Her gaze on the closing door, she sat. The instant the latch fell, she looked at him. “I just realized. Me not wearing my disguise might be a mistake. I hadn’t thought of it, but clearly I’m going to attract attention—people will remember I passed this way.”
Drawing out the chair opposite hers, he looked down at her and couldn’t fault Cartwright, or the other three patrons in the main room, for staring. It wasn’t often that a lady of her quality graced their lives. He sat and shook his head. “I thought of it, but on balance it’s preferable that you appear as you are.”
She frowne
“Because as you just saw, I’m well known along this road. I might not have been to London for years, but I travel to Edinburgh at least six times a year.”
“Ah—which is why the Edinburgh house is in such excellent state.”
“And the closer we get to the castle, the more well known I become, so trying to pass you off as my charge, a charge I’ll be sharing a bed with, will raise more talk than the notion I’ve brought my countess-to-be home and happen to be sharing her bed. And once we’re married, you’ll be traveling this road frequently, too, so how you appear now will fix your status in the innkeepers’ minds—”
“And me appearing dressed as a lad, which might very well not pass undetected in such circumstances, would not be a good way to start my rule as Countess of Glencrae.”
“Exactly. However, to ease your concern that your appearance along the road might lead your brothers and cousins to the castle gates, while I feel safe in guaranteeing that no one who sees you is likely to forget you, I’m even more confident that, were your cousin St. Ives to walk through the door in the next minute and ask Cartwright if he’d seen a lady with red-gold hair”—he glanced at her crowning glory—“Cartwright and the other patrons out there would deny having seen any such being.”
Angelica searched his eyes, but could see only the confidence he claimed. She widened her eyes in query. “Because Devil’s English?” When he nodded, she frowned. “How can you—they—tell? You could be English—you fooled me and, apparently, all of the ton.”
“I pass for English easily enough south of the border, even perhaps south of Edinburgh. North of Edinburgh, however, not only am I known, but”—he shrugged—“I’ve never been taken for anything other than Scottish, and a highlander at that.”
“Hmm. Richard said that the men at the tavern at Carsphairn—the ones you asked about the manor—identified you as a highlander, without question.”
“They were Scottish, and I wanted information. I didn’t try to hide what I am.”