Read Online Mad About the Marquess (Highland Brides Book 2) by Elizabeth Essex - Free Book Online
Authors: Elizabeth Essex
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hard boning of her stays through the soft layers of frilly muslin fabric.
He opened his mouth to her, and her tongue stole across his, sly and questing. She drew his lower lip between hers, and he had everything to do to mute the moan of pure, unbridled lust that tunneled out of his chest.
His back came away from the wall, and he leaned into her, hungry for the warm pliancy of her willowy frame. His hands stole up to cup her face, and angle her head just so. Just so he could kiss her more deeply, just so he could hold her steady while he kissed her deeper and deeper still.
She kissed as she was—agile and acrobatic, curious and capricious, delightful and determined. She was light and air and sunshine in the velvet dark of the empty room. She tasted of danger, dark and bittersweet like morning chocolate, and after one kiss, already deeply addictive.
He could lose his head over this girl—he very nearly was losing his head over this girl. She was water, clean and fresh and cold at the bottom of a deep, dark well. And he wanted to drink his fill of her.
It was only when his hand crept down the long slide of her neck, and around the delicate curve of her shoulder, and across the cage of her stays toward those magnificent wee breasts, that something deep within Alasdair’s brain—some cautious, wary shred of self-preservation—told him he ought to stop. Told him he must stop before a lesson in kissing became a lesson in something entirely less innocent.
“Jesus God, Quince.” He let go of her before he gently took her arms, and carefully set her away.
Her eyes opened slowly. “I don’t think God had anything to do with that.” Her voice was full of wonder and lazy happiness. “But if he did, tell him I want more.”
“Sorry, lass.” He held her at arm’s length, and then stepped back himself. He had to. Because warm, welcoming wild roses were wreathing his brain, and giving him permission to do stupid things. Stupid, pleasurable, necessary things.
The moonlight slanting through the window revealed a look of perturbation on Quince’s face that told him she did not share his misgivings. “Why ever not?”
All the reasons he thought he had marshaled quit his brain. Why not, indeed?
He fell back upon platitudes. “Well, wee Quince, this is neither the time nor the place.”
“Why not?” she repeated with more heat as her hands came to rest defiantly on her lovely lush hips. “We’re alone in the privacy of the dark. No one knows we’re here.”
He felt his own frustration rise to keep up with hers. “Because we are alone, in the dark, and someone will soon know we are here, because someone is bound to miss you, and come looking.”
She waved his concern away. “Not for me. No one ever does.”
It was his turn to ask, “Why not? Does no one have a care for your well-being?”
She nearly laughed. “Why would they? I’m perfectly capable of looking out for myself.”
That fact was entirely debatable. Mostly because she was alone in the dark with him. And he had already had his hand on her magnificent breasts. And because she was still in a room with him after he had had a hand on her breasts. And because he wanted his hand back around those breasts. “If that were true, you wouldn’t be here, wee Quince Winthrop.”
He liked calling her that—wee Quince Winthrop. There was music and magic in her name.
“I am here because you agreed to our bargain. But if you won’t keep to your half, then there’s no need for me to keep to mine.” She took a deep, almost purifying breath. “So that’s done, then.”
“Not so fast, my wee lady.” Alasdair reached out, and almost caught her muslin sleeve to hold her from leaving. But he remembered his pledge, and left his hand out between them in the empty air. “We’re not done, Quince. We’ve only just begun. You can’t think you’ve learned how to kiss properly from one wee buss.”
“No, I can’t. But if you aren’t
He opened his mouth to her, and her tongue stole across his, sly and questing. She drew his lower lip between hers, and he had everything to do to mute the moan of pure, unbridled lust that tunneled out of his chest.
His back came away from the wall, and he leaned into her, hungry for the warm pliancy of her willowy frame. His hands stole up to cup her face, and angle her head just so. Just so he could kiss her more deeply, just so he could hold her steady while he kissed her deeper and deeper still.
She kissed as she was—agile and acrobatic, curious and capricious, delightful and determined. She was light and air and sunshine in the velvet dark of the empty room. She tasted of danger, dark and bittersweet like morning chocolate, and after one kiss, already deeply addictive.
He could lose his head over this girl—he very nearly was losing his head over this girl. She was water, clean and fresh and cold at the bottom of a deep, dark well. And he wanted to drink his fill of her.
It was only when his hand crept down the long slide of her neck, and around the delicate curve of her shoulder, and across the cage of her stays toward those magnificent wee breasts, that something deep within Alasdair’s brain—some cautious, wary shred of self-preservation—told him he ought to stop. Told him he must stop before a lesson in kissing became a lesson in something entirely less innocent.
“Jesus God, Quince.” He let go of her before he gently took her arms, and carefully set her away.
Her eyes opened slowly. “I don’t think God had anything to do with that.” Her voice was full of wonder and lazy happiness. “But if he did, tell him I want more.”
“Sorry, lass.” He held her at arm’s length, and then stepped back himself. He had to. Because warm, welcoming wild roses were wreathing his brain, and giving him permission to do stupid things. Stupid, pleasurable, necessary things.
The moonlight slanting through the window revealed a look of perturbation on Quince’s face that told him she did not share his misgivings. “Why ever not?”
All the reasons he thought he had marshaled quit his brain. Why not, indeed?
He fell back upon platitudes. “Well, wee Quince, this is neither the time nor the place.”
“Why not?” she repeated with more heat as her hands came to rest defiantly on her lovely lush hips. “We’re alone in the privacy of the dark. No one knows we’re here.”
He felt his own frustration rise to keep up with hers. “Because we are alone, in the dark, and someone will soon know we are here, because someone is bound to miss you, and come looking.”
She waved his concern away. “Not for me. No one ever does.”
It was his turn to ask, “Why not? Does no one have a care for your well-being?”
She nearly laughed. “Why would they? I’m perfectly capable of looking out for myself.”
That fact was entirely debatable. Mostly because she was alone in the dark with him. And he had already had his hand on her magnificent breasts. And because she was still in a room with him after he had had a hand on her breasts. And because he wanted his hand back around those breasts. “If that were true, you wouldn’t be here, wee Quince Winthrop.”
He liked calling her that—wee Quince Winthrop. There was music and magic in her name.
“I am here because you agreed to our bargain. But if you won’t keep to your half, then there’s no need for me to keep to mine.” She took a deep, almost purifying breath. “So that’s done, then.”
“Not so fast, my wee lady.” Alasdair reached out, and almost caught her muslin sleeve to hold her from leaving. But he remembered his pledge, and left his hand out between them in the empty air. “We’re not done, Quince. We’ve only just begun. You can’t think you’ve learned how to kiss properly from one wee buss.”
“No, I can’t. But if you aren’t
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