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Entirely naked.
He swallowed and touched himself, running his fingers up hot flesh made iron, surrounding the aching head in his fist. His foreskin was already pulled back by the swelling of his cock, and his seed gleamed between his fingers. His imaginary Mrs. Halifax knelt before him and cradled her own white breasts in her hands. She lifted them, offering them, at once wanton and shy, her lower lip caught between her teeth. He squeezed the head of his cock, feeling the shaft of pleasure shoot to his balls. Her breasts were big and bonny, overflowing her little hands. She took her red nipples between thumb and forefinger and pinched them hard, giving him a wicked look. He groaned and fisted down, pulling gently. If she pushed those soft mounds together, if he leaned forward and thrust his cock between her sweet, hot breasts . . .
Beside him came a small canine whimper.
He instinctively jerked and grabbed for the covers. “Shit!”
Then he remembered and let his body flop back on the pillows. He looked down. The puppy cringed against the bedding, half buried in the sheets that had covered him.
“It’s all right, laddie,” Alistair said. “It’s not your fault I’m a daft man.” Nor was it the puppy’s fault that he still remained erect and aching.
But then he’d woken many a morning in this state. And since he’d returned from the Colonies, he’d had naught but his own hand to satisfy his animal desires. Once, several years ago, he’d reached a point of such frustration that he’d journeyed into a wretched section of Edinburgh. There he’d sought out the services of a woman paid to relieve men of their erotic urges. But when the whore he’d settled on saw his face in the candlelight of her rented room, she’d asked for a higher price. He’d left, humiliated and disgusted with himself, the whore shouting curses behind him. He’d never repeated that awful experience. Instead, he’d settled for his own hand whenever base lust overcame his reason.
The puppy bumbled out from the covers at the sound of his voice, its rear end wiggling in delight. It was a brown and white spaniel with floppy ears and a speckled nose. The puppy had come from a litter belonging to a farmer living just beyond Glenlargo. Saddling Griffin and riding out in search of a puppy yesterday had been a whim. The sight of Jamie scattering petals on Lady Grey’s grave had stayed in his mind, nagging him for hours yesterday. Even more disturbing was Abigail running so determinedly away from the burial. Poor lass, so stiff and unlikable. Not sweet and biddable as a girl should be. He snorted softly. In a way she reminded him of himself.
The puppy stretched on too-large paws, his round belly nearly touching the bed, and yawned. No doubt he would need to relieve his bladder soon and, being a baby, wouldn’t care where he did it.
“Hold on, laddie,” Alistair muttered.
o;You may leave me here,” he grunted when they reached his door.
She ignored him and pushed the door open. “You’re an idiot.”
“Several imminent scientists in Edinburgh and the continent would beg to differ.”
“I doubt they’ve seen you half-dead and clutching a wet puppy.”
“True.” He staggered toward the bed. His room was huge. A bed with massive posters squatted between heavily draped windows, the coverlet trailing on the floor. On one wall was a large ancient fireplace, made of the same rose stone as the rest of the castle. For a moment, Helen wondered if this room had been used continuously by the master of the castle since it was built.
Then she shoved the thought from her mind. “Not the bed. You’ll get it wet.”
She guided him toward the fireplace. A single enormous chair sat before the cold hearth. Sir Alistair sank into it, shuddering, while she bent and stirred the fire. A feeble ember still glowed there. Carefully she heaped coals upon it and blew until the fire caught. Rainwater ran down her face from her hair and dripped to the floor. She shivered, but she wasn’t nearly as cold as he.
She stood and faced Sir Alistair. “Take off those clothes.”
“Why, Mrs. Halifax, such daring.” His words were slightly slurred as if he’d been drinking, though she had detected no alcohol on his breath. “I had no idea you had designs upon my person.”
“Humph.” She picked up the shivering puppy and placed it near the fire, where it sat in a forlorn wet heap. She’d worry about the dog later. At the moment, its master took precedence.
Helen stood and started peeling the soaking coat from Sir Alistair’s shoulders. He leaned forward to help her, but his movements were clumsy. She flung the wet coat on the hearth, where it began to steam. Then she knelt before him and worked the buttons through the soaking fabric of his waistcoat. She could feel him watching her, his eyes heavy-lidded, and her heartbeat could not help but speed up. She got the waistcoat undone, pulled it off, and threw it on top of the coat. When she started on the buttons of his shirt, she was conscious that her breath was coming harder. She concentrated, staring at the white translucent material plastered to the hard planes of his chest. Crisp hair was shadowed under the cloth. She could feel his hot breath on the top of her head. This position was too intimate.
She determinedly drew off his shirt before she could stop and think about it, but she still faltered when his nude torso was revealed. His body was ever so much lovelier than her imaginings. The wide strong slopes of his shoulders led to surprisingly thick muscles on his arms, and his chest was broad and covered with dark curling hair on the upper part. Brown-red nipples peaked through the hair, hard and pointed and shockingly bare. His taut belly had only a fine line of dark hair that circled his navel before widening below and then disappearing into the waistband of his breeches. She’d stretched out one hand toward that seductive line of hair before she’d even realized her own movement.
Helen snatched back her wayward hand, hid it in her skirts, and said briskly, “Stand up so we can get the rest of these clothes off you. You’re nearly blue with cold.”
“Mrs. Halifax, your regard alone is enough to heat m-me,” he drawled as he stood. The rakish words were only marred by the chattering of his teeth.
“Humph.”
She knew that her entire face was enveloped in a fiery blush, but she still needed to get those wet breeches off him. She began on the buttons, waving his fumbling hands away when he tried to help her. He swayed as she got the last button undone, and suddenly she was no longer worried about her flush or what he might think of her.
“Get to the bed,” she ordered.
“Bossy woman,” he muttered, but his words were slurred again, and he shuffled toward the massive bed.
Once there, she had him lean against the mattress as she stripped his boots, breeches, hose, and smallclothes from him. She had only a glimpse of long hairy legs and a dark patch of fur at their apex before she was shoving him into the bed and heaping the covers on top of him.
She expected some sardonic comment from him then—perhaps along the lines of her hurry to get him into bed—but he merely closed his eyes. And that forbearance shot a bolt of pure fear through her. She stopped only to scoop the puppy up and plop him beneath the covers next to the man, and then she was running to the kitchen.
