Once Upon a Tartan

thereof—on Spathfoy’s part.

Or maybe it had to do with a lack of courage on hers.

* * *

Tye had two days left before he had to leave or risk his father indulging in rash behavior. Two days and two nights to convince a shy, headstrong, passionate young lady not just to get back on the horse but to accept possession of the beast for the remainder of her earthly days—and nights.

He didn’t even knock on her door this time, just pushed it open to see Hester sprawling belly-down on the hearth rug, a book open before her, her feet pointing toward the ceiling and her hair in a golden rope over her shoulder.

“I trust I am not intruding?” He strolled into the room and did not permit himself to stare at the soft, warm, wool socks on her upthrust feet.

“Spathfoy.” She glanced up but did not rise. “You were very quiet at dinner. I thought perhaps you’d need to catch up on your rest tonight.”

She was teasing him. She knew how to tease; he did not. It left him feeling at a disadvantage, until another thought popped into his head: perhaps she was not teasing so much as seeking reassurances.

He came down beside her, arranging himself so she was between him and the fire. “What are you reading?”

“A journal I wrote when I was Fee’s age. My penmanship was atrocious—I doubt anybody else would be motivated to decipher it, which is probably a mercy.”

“Were you very serious as a child?” He ran his palm down the length of her braid while she set the book aside and rested her cheek on her folded arms.

“I was a happy child as long as I could stay out of Papa’s gun sights. Girl children were fortunately beneath his notice for the most part, until Genie became of marriageable age, and then he mostly tormented her and Mother.”

She sounded forlorn. “Do you miss your mother?” God knew, he missed his—particularly since coming to Scotland.

“No, I do not.” She rolled to her back and heaved out a sigh. “I wish I did, but I’ve tried to miss her and I can’t. I envy Fee having a mother and stepfather she can miss terribly.”

Which topic, Tye was not about to explore any further under present circumstances. He settled his hand on her belly, let it ride up on her next breath. “Will you miss me, Hester Daniels? I leave shortly. I’d have your answer to my proposal before I ride off to the south.”

“This is a time-limited proposal, then?” She captured his hand and turned her cheek into his palm, the tenderness of the gesture at variance with the pragmatism of her question.

And with her query, Tye found himself on tricky ground. In the manner of women the world over, she’d dropped him square in the middle of a conversational quagmire, where every reply was fraught with risk.

“Either you want to be my marchioness and bear my children or you do not. I am hoping you do, though I will not beg.”

She regarded him by the firelight, her expression so unreadable—so unencouraging—Tye would have gotten up and left the room had she not wrapped a hand around the back of his neck. “When I left London, I did not know you, Tiberius, and now you want to give me children.”

“I want to give you legitimate children.” With Hester, he could envision having a big family. The thought had never appealed before.

“I do not intend to buy a pair of boots without trying them on, Spathfoy.”

“I speak of holy matrimony, and you want to go shopping.” He kissed her, because a woman could prose on about her shopping at tiresome length. And Hester would prose on while Tye watched and felt the rising and falling of her breathing, and slowly lost his mind with the pleasure of it.

“I do adore the scent of you, Tiberius.” She wound her arms around his neck and scooted closer, which reassured Tye he wouldn’t be stomping from the room in a rejected huff. The thought that she might, indeed, turn down his offer was… untenable. Leaving Scotland without Hester did not bear contemplation—and not because it would ease Fiona’s adjustment to a new household.

“You are in the mood to tease me, Miss Daniels. Am I only to have kisses of you tonight?”

“About my new boots.” She levered up and kissed him—really kissed him—her fingers trailing softly along his jaw then stealing down to slip inside his dressing gown and stroke over his bare chest. “I want to ask a favor of you, Tiberius Flynn.”

Her thumb grazed his nipple, sending an electric current racing down through Tye’s body. “I am disposed to grant favors to you in my present situation.” He was also disposed to shift his hand so he covered the fullness of her breast through her nightclothes. Her nipple peaked against his palm, which had to be one of the most erotic sensations a man could endure.

“It’s a small favor.” She pushed him onto his back, though it took him a moment to realize what she was about. He’d never made love on the floor before, but it loomed as a capital notion in those regions of his brain still capable of thought.

“You have to close your eyes.” She brushed her hand down over his face. He caught a whiff of sweet flowers and tart lemon, probably from the lotion she rubbed into her skin.

“My eyes are closed.” He found the bottom of her braid with his hands and slipped the ribbon off it. “What is this favor you seek?”

“In a minute.”

He felt her untying the sash of his robe. This too struck him as a positive development. While she parted the folds of his robe, he unraveled her braid and enjoyed the knowledge that she was in all likelihood looking at his rampant erection. If anything, the knowledge made him harder.

“Shall you blindfold me, Hester? I’d enjoy it, I think.” The night was rife with firsts—he’d never meant such an offer so sincerely: he would enjoy it. “I’m told it heightens the other senses, so I could better revel in the scent, feel, sound, and taste of you.”

“Taste.” She didn’t make it a question, or maybe he didn’t give her time to elaborate. Using a hank of her unbound hair, Tye tugged her closer, cradled her cheek with his free hand, and guided her down to his mouth.

“Taste,” he echoed. With his eyes closed, the kiss became a lovely, voluptuous, opening ceremony for what he sincerely hoped was another step in the seduction of his future wife.

Or possibly, of her future husband.

“Keep your eyes closed, Tiberius.” Fabric rustled and brushed against his ribs. “And you must not move.”

At her admonition, he found himself blindfolded and bound by nothing more than the desire to please her, to be whatever she needed him to be for however long she wanted to keep him sprawled naked on her hearth rug.

“Hester?”

“Hmm?” A silky strand of hair wafted across his chest.

“Do I, or does marriage to me, perchance, in some way resemble a new pair of boots?”

More rustling. When he reached out this time, his hand encountered the smooth curve of her naked back, but the position wasn’t the right one for kiss—

“More a parasol, I think.”

The weight of her head settled low on his belly, and Tye’s heartbeat slowed to a dull, pounding thud against his ribs. “My dear, what are you about?”

“Eyes closed. You mustn’t stop me.”

As if… He licked dry lips. “How do I resemble a parasol?”

He felt her fingers trace up the length of his erection, felt her breath waft across the engorged glans.

“You appear all unassuming, folded up and waiting in the corner for an outing, and then”—she licked him, a delicate, catlike swirl of her tongue over the most sensitive spot—“one unfurls you and reveals your beauty, and all manner of interesting uses come to mind.”

He should say something, before she—

She took him into her mouth, slid her lips along his shaft, and withdrew, but not all the way. He fisted his hand in her hair and prayed for fortitude. “Hester, you must not.”