“No.” The answer was abrupt, swift. Hart’s hand, heavy and strong, landed on hers. “You’re all wet. Let’s go inside. I want to show you the boat.”
He half guided, half pulled her down the few stairs to the cabin door. Hart wrenched open the swollen wooden door, towed Eleanor through, and shut it again.
The sound of rain turned to a hollow drumming on the roof and a pattering against the windowpanes. This, coupled with the quiet hiss of coals in the little corner stove, was soothing. Eleanor understood Hart’s reluctance to leave.
“I’ve never been on a canal boat before,” she said, looking around in delight.
The Romany might be itinerants, but their home was cozy. The tiny stove gave off good heat. Pots and pans hung above the stove, scrubbed gleaming clean, and bunks at the far end were piled with colorful quilts and blankets. The bench that ran along one wall under the windows held embroidered cushions she recognized as Ainsley’s work.
“I thought you’d like it,” Hart said.
“I take it you had no run-ins with assassins on your jaunt?”
“No.”
Just the one word, when she’d been worried to death. “I am speaking lightly of it, because, Hart, I was so scared…” She trailed off, her hands balling. She wanted to fling her arms around him, and at the same time, she wanted to beat her fists against his chest. To stop herself from doing either, she folded her arms across her stomach.
She felt Hart’s warmth as he came to her, smelled the wet linen of his shirt and damp wool of his coat. Hart slid off the coat and set it aside, then he cupped her elbows with his big hands and drew her against him.
The kiss, when it came, was hungry. No teasing, no playing, no cajoling. A desperate kiss that wanted her.
Eleanor pressed her hands against his wet shirt, feeling his heart racing beneath her touch. His skin was too cold, his mouth, hot as flame.
She pushed at his shirt, the buttons already loose. “You need this off. You’ll catch your death.”
Hart impatiently shrugged off the shirt and let it fall to the floor. He was bare beneath, no flannels covering his bronzed, tight skin.
He pulled her into the circle of warmth near the stove and drew her up to him again, thumbs opening her mouth. His next kiss was even more fierce, more desperate.
Eleanor’s fingers curled into his shoulders as she kissed him back. He kissed her harder, tasting her mouth, licking the rain from her lips. Eleanor ran her hands down his naked back, feeling hot, smooth skin.
Her body was on fire. Eleanor kissed his warm lips, chasing his tongue with her own. She felt the top buttons of her bodice open, then Hart’s fingers, easing the placket apart. His palm slid behind her bared neck, strong and warm, holding her.
He broke the kiss to swiftly unbutton the rest of her bodice and peel it down her arms. He didn’t pull off the bodice entirely—his eyes darkened as her arms were pinned to her sides by the fabric. Hart growled softly and kissed her again, she lifting her hands as much as she could to place them at his waist. She felt the in and out movement of his breath, the warm wool waistband of his kilt, the hotter skin of the man inside it.
“Eleanor. El.” He raised his head, eyes dark in the shadows of his damp hair. The smile, when it came, was sinful. “I keep having visions of you in nothing but your corset.”
Eleanor’s heart beat faster, a tingle of heat racing through her. “I’ve been having visions of you in nothing but your kilt. In fact, I have photographs to pore over if necessary.”
His smile went wider, and the Hart Mackenzie she’d fallen in love with years ago shone through. “What am I going to do with you, minx?”
“My father sent for some photographic apparatus so he can take pictures of the Berkshire flora. Perhaps he will let me borrow the camera.”
Hart stopped, and then his wicked grin returned. “Do your worst. But only…” He pulled her bodice all the way off, then slid his hand behind her back and smoothly untied the cord that closed her corset. The laces loosened and spread under his fingers. “Only if you do the same for me.”
“Pose for pictures for you? Good heavens, no. I’m far too modest.”
The laces came undone, the little straps that held the corset over her shoulders sliding off under Hart’s large hands. He leaned close.
“These will be private photographs. Very private. Only you and only I will see them.”
“Hmm,” she said. “I will think on it.”
Hart smiled against her mouth, followed by a lick across her lips. “If you want me in only my kilt, you must agree to the terms.”
Eleanor’s face heated. “I told you I’d think on it.”
“I knew the moment I kissed you in that boathouse that you were a wicked lass. Prim and proper for the world, wild with passion behind closed doors. The perfect lady for me.”
“I’ve only ever been wild with you, Hart. You taught me.”
“Did I?” Hart was laughing, hands on her back, nothing between him and her but the thin linen of her camisole. “You were eager to learn.”
“You were an interesting… instructor.”
He smiled, his forehead against hers. “El, you make me young again. You make me…”
His smile died with his words. Hart’s hands went to her waist, fingers unfastening her skirt and the petticoat beneath. Eleanor’s skirts fell—she’d donned no bustle to wander the rainy meadow this morning.
“I make you what?” she whispered.
Hart’s warm hands glided to her buttocks, his laughter completely gone. She saw stark need in his eyes, and loneliness, and fear. Fear of many things, all complicated, all too real.
“I can’t do this alone,” he said. “I need you, El.”
She knew he didn’t mean for ravishing in a canal boat while the Romany raced off to see Cameron work the horses.
“I…
Eleanor slid off her camisole and twined her arms around Hart’s neck.
“I’m here,” she said.
Hart slid his thumb across Eleanor’s lower lip, in wonder, as always, at her softness. He was a hard, hard man, and Eleanor was all things warmth and comfort. He’d been a fool to let her walk away.
He drew her up to him and sank himself into another kiss. She tasted like rainwater, heat, and desire.
He’d taught her, yes, he’d taught her. Not everything—not by a long way—but he’d taught her.
Eleanor looked up at him with her warm blue eyes, her passion shining unashamed. He loved that about her—Eleanor had never seen any shame in her need.
Her skirts were on the floor, she standing in nothing but her drawers. Hart smoothed the fabric that cupped her buttocks, linen so fine it was almost silk. She’d obeyed him and gotten new ones.
He ached for her, his cockstand berating him to get on with it. But he did not want to go too fast, did not want to rush. The Romany and Ian had given Hart this gift—a gift of time with Eleanor.
More than that. Eleanor might consider this a stolen moment, but Hart was not going to keep it to a moment. He had to keep her safe from the world, and now from Sinclair bloody McBride. McBride was a handsome Scot with two small children and badly in need of a wife, and here was Eleanor ripe for the plucking. He saw what Ainsley was up to, asking him here.
Hart had to move swiftly, never mind his plans. No more waiting.
He untied the tapes that held her drawers closed and slid his hands inside them. Softness met his fingers, the silk of Eleanor. He circled his thumbs on her skin as he kissed her, then moved one hand to the warmth between her thighs.
She was hot, wet, ready, as needy as Hart was. He moved his fingers, rewarded by her little noise of pleasure as her body loosened. Anything maidenly and resistant in her dissolved and floated away. The prim young
