He wasn’t about to open his veins and bleed. “The family is eccentric enough without the heir claiming psychic ability. If you’re not planning on flying, what the devil are you doing out here in the cold?”
“Psychic? From the Greek?” She turned, leaning on the wall—which might give way at any minute—and let the wind blow the hood back from her pixie curls.
“My cousin Phoebe came up with the word. Don’t blame me. Could you stand over here where I won’t fear you’ll fly into the night or turn into an icicle?” Gerard indicated the more solid wall enclosing the stairs, where he stood.
“This isn’t cold,” she scoffed, but she obligingly stepped into the lee of the wall. “It’s just a brisk breeze reminding me of home. Craigmore’s bluffs overlook the Moray Firth. You Southerners are thin-skinned.”
“In more ways than one. We’re more inclined to shelter our ladies and children than turn them into Highland warriors. You almost gave me heart failure when I returned to find you gone.” He hadn’t meant to admit that, but the damned female was so slight and fragile that he honestly feared she’d blow away.
Which was sheer idiocy, he admitted. He’d seen her right the hive and manage the hackles and haul buckets of honey. He had no doubt that she’d sheared sheep and dragged them out of sinkholes as well. She was supposed to be a damned countess and sit on tuffets!
She turned her heart-shaped face up so he could almost see the curve of her lips in the dark. “No one has ever cared if I came or went. I seldom give it any thought. I do what needs to be done, knowing Isobel understands and can find me right enough. I’m a little in awe that you bothered.”
“Bothered?” Gerard thought his blood might boil. He blocked the wind with his back and placed a hand on either side of her head. She merely tilted her head up expectantly. “I’d like to show you bothered.”
Surrendering his practiced indifference, he placed his mouth firmly over hers. She didn’t even jerk with surprise but encircled his neck with one slender hand and pulled him closer. Bothered didn’t even come close to his reaction.
He swore she smelled of heather and roses and tasted sweeter than her honey. He consumed her mouth as if she were the honey cakes he loved. Her tongue entwined with his. He didn’t know if she understood the tantalizing offer she extended. Her hand ran up into his hair, and he couldn’t resist touching her in return. He tried just smoothing her hair, twisting the curls in his fingers while his lips sampled and slaked his thirst. But it wasn’t enough. When she raised herself closer, he cupped her breast.
The brazen woman wore no corset under the dowdy gown she’d worn to dinner. She moaned when he caressed her through layers of fabric, and his cock came to instant attention.
She was a Malcolm, he told himself, trying to force himself away.
But a Malcolm beekeeper was of no danger to him, his other half argued.
She was a virgin countess— That kicked some sense into his brain. Virgins meant marriage.
But Iona ran her slender hand beneath his coat, and Gerard couldn’t release her if his life depended on it. It might depend on it. Her touch raced his blood and kept his cold heart beating.
He cupped her bottom and lifted her into his arousal while their tongues battled. She moaned again and wrinkled his waistcoat by clutching it with both fists. When she balanced her precarious position by raising a leg to wrap around him, he almost spent his seed right there.
It had been far too long since he’d sent away his mistress.
He pushed his hips into her so she couldn’t fail to notice his arousal, then regretfully pulled away, setting her back on the solid roof again.
“I want you,” he said with certainty. “But there is no future for you in what I want.”
“And none for you,” she retorted, pushing further away and running her hand into the hair he’d so thoroughly mussed. “But I wanted a taste of what I’ll be denying myself. I understand now why wives might entertain lovers.”
“Especially if their husbands are obnoxious mushrooms.” Gerard straightened his waistcoat as best as he could, but there was no reducing his arousal despite her crude assessment. “That’s what comes of marrying for titles and wealth.”
She shrugged and drew her cloak closer, gazing past his shoulders to the scuttling clouds. “My mother married for love. He died and left her in poor health, with two young children, and an estate she couldn’t manage on her own. Wealth and freedom seem eminently more practical to me.”
That removed some of his starch. Working to regain his normal veneer, he leaned his shoulders against the wall beside her and let the cold wind take care of the rest. “My parents married for love. My father is an irascible curmudgeon, but my mother mysteriously adores him. And he worships her, even after all these years. I’d like to have that someday.”
“Well, you will someday have wealth, title, and freedom, so maybe you can. It’s different for a woman. We’re tied to the man we marry, for better or worse. I’m not impractical enough to throw away what little I possess in return for something as fleeting as love—or even lust.”
Gerard snorted. “What little wealth I may ever have goes to support a large and demanding family and a plethora of servants and estates. The title encompasses so many responsibilities that once I inherit, I doubt I’ll ever have the opportunity to travel again. So I’m not seeing freedom in my future. I’m not entirely certain freedom in your sense of the word is even possible, unless you own nothing and care for nothing.”
Which was what she’d gain if she married Arthur White, he realized.
“You will someday be able to travel, even if it is for only a few months at a time.
