“Vixen.” Mac’s voice was ragged. He liked to call her that whenever she instigated play.
The word slid into a groan as Isabella leaned forward and closed her lips around him. His hands balled to fists over the fabric. Mac didn’t reach for her, didn’t touch her, just held the tartan out of the way in a white- knuckled grip.
Isabella suckled his tip, letting her tongue trace all the way around the flange. She dipped her tongue to the underside of the shaft to catch the cream that had dribbled there.
Mac rocked a little on his heels, but he didn’t try to pump into her; he barely even moved. Not that Isabella didn’t react herself. She was hot between her legs, and her breasts were tight, her heart pounding behind her corset.
They used to play games like this with each other—stealing pleasure without removing their clothes, seeing how far they could take each other. Even more enjoyable when they did it in an unusual place, such as in a deserted hall outside a ballroom, a summerhouse, Mac’s studio. Isabella remembered how they’d tried to stifle their sounds of pleasure and their laughter.
Mac wasn’t laughing now. “Little vixen,” he whispered. “Naughty minx. My beautiful, wicked wife.”
Isabella reached for more cream. Mac’s cheekbones were flushed, his eyes desperate. Isabella focused on his cock again, slathering it lovingly with the cream.
Mac furrowed her hair with one hand. “I can’t hold out, love. It’s been too long.”
Isabella couldn’t answer, too busy nibbling and licking and suckling. She swallowed the cream she’d coated on him, and now she enjoyed the hot, velvety taste of Mac himself.
Mac touched the nape of her neck. “Pull back, sweetheart. I’m about to lose myself.”
He used to warn her like that in case they were in danger of being caught, or were too near a public place, or in case Isabella didn’t want to take the game to its conclusion. The courtesy warmed her, and she responded by sliding one hand to his bare buttocks and staying put.
She felt him move in little pulses, and then his warm seed spilled into her mouth. He bunched her hair, his hips rocking as Isabella took all of him. “I love you,” he said brokenly. “I love you, my little Sassenach vixen.”
Isabella savored him until he had no more to give. She pulled away and Mac collapsed to the sofa, breathing hard, his kilt draping him modestly once more. Isabella reached for her teacup, but Mac jerked the cup from her hand, clattered it back to the table, and wrapped his arms around her.
They sat together a long time, Mac holding her, Isabella’s head on his shoulder. Isabella felt the thrub-thrub of his heart under her ear, his warm lips on her hair. If it could only be this way always, the two of them quietly absorbing each other, they could possibly live in peace. But they were both too volatile, too selfish, and Isabella knew it.
“Three and a half years,” Mac was saying. “Three and a half years since I’ve felt that. Since I’ve felt you. Thank you, love.”
Isabella looked up past Mac’s sandpaper chin to his copper-colored eyes, which were tired but fixed on her. “You seemed to need it.”
“That wasn’t charity you just gave me, my sweet. You enjoyed that.”
She gave him a faint smile. “Perhaps I felt it my duty as a wife.”
“Pull the other one. It’s got bells on.”
She widened her eyes. “Good heavens, it has bells?”
Mac burst out laughing. His breath smelled of strong tea and cream. “Lord, I’ve missed you. I’ve missed you so much.” He stroked a languid hand through her hair. “If anyone can tame the wild Mac, it’s you.”
“I think I don’t want you tame. I like you wild.”
“Do you? That’s encouraging.”
Isabella pushed away from him and reached for her now-cold tea. It was fine tea, but its taste was lost after the headiness of Mac.
“I won’t rush you, Isabella,” Mac said. “I won’t. Promise.”
“But you’ll risk freezing your goolies off and move yourself into my house?” She smiled, and he smiled back. It was dangerous, Mac’s smile.
“I never promised not to torment you. Or tease you, plague you, or make your life hell.”
“That is for certain. Thank heavens we are heading to Doncaster where we’ll be surrounded by the rest of the family.”
“Yes, I’m looking forward to moving in with my three brothers and nephew, all bent upon invading our privacy and driving me insane.”
“I think your family is lovely. Four brothers looking after each other.”
“Brothers who can’t mind their own damn business.” Mac picked up his cup and took a long drink of tea. “I prefer my valet. He keeps his opinions to himself—unless I’m bent on ruining my clothes—and he brews one hell of a pot of tea.”
Isabella took a thoughtful sip. “You know, I read a novel as a girl, about four sisters in America. They paired off rather like you do—the oldest sister looked after the youngest, as Hart does with Ian, and the two middle sisters looked after one another, as do you and Cameron.”
Mac’s eyes widened in mock horror. “Good Lord, are you comparing the wild Mackenzies to four virtuous girls from America? I beg you to never say this in public.”
“Don’t be silly. It was a sweet story.” Isabella clenched her teacup. “Come to think of it, one of the sisters was called Beth, and she died.”
Mac’s arms came around her, his smiles gone. “Don’t even think it, love. Beth is made of stern stuff, and Ian won’t let a thing happen to her. Just as I won’t let anything happen to you.”
“How can you know that?”
“You have my word on it. Mackenzies never go back on their word.”
“Unless it’s expedient.”
Mac chuckled into her ear. “I’m crushed. Although being crushed against you has its compensations. By the way, love, I’ve not gone down one fraction of an inch. Very uncomfortable for tea drinking.”
Isabella sent him a sly look, happy to turn the conversation from her worries. She put her hand on his knee and slid it swiftly under his kilt.
Mac inhaled sharply. “My, my, you’re good at that. Is that the sort of thing you learned in finishing school, young lady?”
Isabella gently twisted her hand around his shaft, and perspiration formed on Mac’s upper lip. “On the contrary. I learned deportment and how to wear a fine hat.”
“Nonsense, you had lessons in this. Miss Pringle must have handed out models of cocks, made of plaster of paris maybe.” He took on a high falsetto. “Like this, girls. One, two, one, two. Come along, ladies, don’t slack.”
Isabella burst out laughing. “Just for that . . .” Isabella sped her attack until Mac was arching back on the small sofa, stroking her hair, crying her name, and moving his hips in time with her rhythm.
When he spilled his seed all over her hand, he gathered her into his arms and kissed her until she couldn’t breathe, think, or worry about anything but dissolving into his warmth.
Mac warmed as he watched Isabella rush into Beth’s arms when they disembarked the train at Doncaster, the pair of them shrieking as though they hadn’t seen each other in years, not weeks.
The journey had been a restless one for Mac. He’d conceded to Isabella’s request that she ride alone in her own compartment, but the temptation to leave the one he shared with Cam and Daniel and make his way to Isabella’s was overwhelming. Playing with Isabella in the drawing room, ending with her bringing him off in that skilled fashion, had only inflamed Mac’s already potent desire for her.
Mac didn’t want games or the occasional tickle in the drawing room. He wanted all of Isabella—her love, her friendship, her trust. Passion without love and trust was empty, he thought as he watched Beth and Isabella hug each other. He’d learned that brutal lesson too late.
Hart had hired a house a little outside of Doncaster, the country home of a gentleman whose income had dwindled too drastically for him to keep up such a large abode. The gentleman had decided to rent his house to other aristocrats rather than sell it to be turned into a hotel or hospital. His staff, local people, stayed on to be paid by the guests.
The large boxlike structure contained enough rooms for the four brothers, two wives, one nephew, their
