And then he was there, buried in her to the hilt, as close to her as he could possibly be. He knew it shouldn’t have seemed as significant as it did, but he was humbled, his throat tight and lungs heaving as he held himself still.
“Callum,” she whispered, her voice light. “Darling, you’re shaking.”
“Aye.”
“I—this is…” She trailed off, leaning up to press a quick kiss to his lips.
He laughed, the tension easing in his chest. “Aye. I cannae think either.”
She kissed him, slowly, sweetly. “I’ll think for you.” Another kiss. “You feel incredible. I still want you to take me, even if you’ll forever ruin me.”
He groaned. “Wasnae that the plan?”
Her palms pressed into the upper swell of his buttocks, urging him to move. “None of this has gone to plan.”
He thrust into her, savoring the heat, the pressure, the undeniable knowledge that this wasViolet, that giving herself to him in this way meant so much, was so profound, a gift that he was unworthy of receiving. The slow glide was not enough, but also too much. He wanted to slam into her, take every part of her while keeping her safe, protecting the fragility she let no one see. No one but him.
Before long, the pleasure was too overwhelming, too powerful, and shockwaves arced down his spine as Violet’s hips churned beneath him. He lifted onto his forearms, and she gasped as the angle changed, his cock rubbing her swollen nub with each thrust.
With her chestnut hair a wild halo around her head, lips parted, and teeth bared as she chased her climax, Violet was a goddess, deserving of her own myth and constellation so the world could tell stories of her beauty. When she came, he caught her cries with his mouth, pressing his lips to hers as he shuddered through his own release.
“Hold me,” she breathed, and he lay beside her, pulled her close and wrapped himself around her, their legs tangling together. “I don’t think I can move ever again.”
Callum kissed her temple and tugged her closer. “No one would notice if we stayed here for the rest of the party.”
She swirled her fingertips in the hair between his pectorals. “I’d certainly be ruined then.”
His stomach plummeted as the reality of their agreement pressed in. “Ye still need me to ruin ye.”
Her nod was slow, resigned. “I won’t marry Sir Phineas, so it’s my only option.”
His mind raced to supply her with another escape, one that would see her on a boat by his side, but it was an impossibility. He would be best to keep a future with her in his dreams. “The ball on the last night of the party. I’ll be sure ye’re ruined then.”
“We’ll make the most of the time we have left.” She curled against him, her spine relaxing. “I can’t thank you enough for… all of this.”
Callum closed his eyes, felt her head settle back on his chest, the weight of her pushing the panic from his body. He could have her as long as they stayed in this bed, would ignore the world around them, the obligations and dreams that would tear them in opposite directions in three days’ time.
When sleep tugged him under, Callum dreamt of a cottage in Hampshire, a whisky-eyed wife, and a full heart.
Chapter 29
Callum kicked a clumpof thistles out of his way with more fury than the weed deserved. The plant claimed its revenge by snagging the fabric of his trousers and holding firm, creating an unruly green train behind him.
He reached the top of the hill—when Valebrook had likened the ridge to a mountain, Callum had chuckled and mumbled about Sassenachs under his breath—and struggled to appreciate the view. Crumbling stone walls and split fences divided the landscape into a patchwork of green fields spotted with grazing sheep and cows. Dark clouds hung from the sky, breaking the sunlight into hopeful tracts of brilliant gold in the crisp, late morning air. Yorkshire was utterly placid, as though the English considered it gauche for nature to be ragged or ugly, dulled to be palatable by those with softer sensibilities, not like the craggy mountains and rough terrain of the highlands that he adored.
Copses of brush dotted the far side of the slope, reportedly flush with the rabbits that had been terrorizing the cook’s spring gardenand thereby sending Bridget into a tizzy. The cook had sent the men out on an impromptu hunting party to preserve the sanctity of the estate’s lettuce crop, provided they kept it a secret from the altruistic lady of the manor.
Perhaps some bloodshed would do him good. Despite the incredible release he’d found with Violet the night before—and the following morning when he took himself in hand after a particularly detailed dream of her spread bare in his bed—his entire body screamed with tension. While he’d enjoyed his eggs and toast, musing about Violet not making it down for breakfast, he’d received a telegram from Edinburgh. Another creditor had called in his debt, another thousand pounds he couldn’t afford to pay. Perspiration slicked his neck as he read, panic pulsing in his temples; there weren’t enough funds to keep everyone silent, and before long he’d have to tell James and Aunt Aileen the truth. Watch their expressions slide into disappointment. Know he’d failed them once again.
Guilt stabbed at him. He’d spent a night when he could have been working ensconced in his bed with Violet. In truth, there was no reason he and James couldn’t leave Yorkshire at that instant, return to Edinburgh, and prepare for his trip across the Atlantic.
But he wouldn’t give up a moment with Violet.
“Christ, Hawthorne,” a voice wheezed from behind him. He turned to see Trembly, his fair cheeks flushed, bent over and clutching his chest as he crested the hill. “Is this what you do for fun in the highlands?”
Callum scowled. “I live in Edinburgh, no’ the highlands.”
Trembly unfolded himself and made a show of wiping his brow before settling his cap over his tawny hair. “This is the most exercise I’ve done in months, and we’ve barely started.” He shot a glance at the rifle in Callum’s hand, then back to his face. “You look ready to shoot at anything that moves, so I’d best stay very still.”
