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“Alistair, I have a fish!”
He finally turned at that news and sauntered over to where his sister was wrestling with her line. Jamie, too, was attracted by the excitement, and for a few minutes no one paid attention to Helen as she got her breathing back under control.
When she looked about again, Sir Alistair was trading jibes with his sister over the size of her fish. He didn’t notice that Helen’s little feathered fly had drifted into the shallow water almost at the bank of the stream, where no doubt there were very few fish. The bright blue sky arched overhead, gauzy clouds drawn across its expanse. The stream bubbled along, the bright water revealing smooth rocks at the bottom. The banks were green with fresh grass, and on this side there was a small copse of trees where Lady Grey had been laid to rest. It was quite lovely, Sir Alistair’s stream, a magical spot where ordinary cares didn’t seem to have sway.
Sir Alistair gave a sudden shout, and a silver fish leapt out of the water, dangling from the string on his pole. Jamie came running to see, Abigail jumped up and down, and Miss Munroe exclaimed and helped catch the string. In the excitement, Helen dropped her pole into the stream.
“Oh, Mama,” Abigail said mournfully when the fish had been safely stowed inside a rather tatty-looking basket. “You’ve lost your pole.”
“Not to worry,” Sir Alistair said. “It’s probably caught on the bank just past the copse. There’s a bit of a whirlpool there. Sophia, mind the children, please, while Mrs. Halifax and I fetch her pole.”
Miss Munroe nodded, already watching her line intently, and Sir Alistair took Helen’s arm to help her up the bank. Even that small touch, his strong fingers wrapped around her upper arm, made her breath grow short. Silly, she chided herself. He’s only being polite. But he didn’t let go of her arm once they’d made the top of the bank, and she began to be suspicious. He led her swiftly along the grass, saying nothing. Perhaps he was cross that he’d had to leave his pole to help her fetch hers. She was foolish, she thought morosely, losing her pole like that.
They made the copse of trees and turned to the stream bank, completely hidden from the children and Miss Munroe.
“I’m sorry,” Helen began.
But without saying a word—without any warning at all, in fact—he yanked her against his chest and captured her mouth with his. A great involuntary shudder shook her frame. She hadn’t realized how much she’d been waiting for this, unconsciously anticipating when he’d make his next move. Her breasts were mashed against the hard plane of his chest, and his hands grasped her arms as his mouth moved with fierce determination on hers. Oh, it was lovely.
So lovely.
She tilted her head, melting against him like warm custard over apple pie. Her skirt was a simple one, without panniers, and if she moved closer, maybe, just maybe, she might feel that most male part of him. It’d been so long since she’d been wanted. So long since she’d felt the flash of desire.
His hot lips parted over hers, and his tongue demanded entrance to her mouth. She opened willingly, eagerly even. To be wanted like this was intoxicating. He claimed her like a conquering knight, and she welcomed him. His hand moved, drifting over her laced stomach and up to where her breasts were covered only by the thin material of her dress. She waited, breathless with anticipation, distracted even from the heat of his mouth, for that hand to act. He didn’t disappoint. His fingers dipped tenderly beneath the edge of her gauzy fichu, stroking, probing, tickling, and teasing her flesh. Her nipples had tightened to almost painful arousal, and, oh, how she wished that she could fling aside her clothing and let his hot palms cover her breasts.
She must’ve made some sound, for his mouth broke from hers, and he murmured so low that she had to strain to hear, “Hush. They can’t see us, but they might hear.”
He stared at his hand, still inserted under her fichu. She couldn’t help it—she arched to his gaze. He shot a smoldering look at her. Then he closed his eye and bowed his head over her bosom. She felt his tongue, hot and wet, probe the edges of her dress.
Dear God.
From up the bank, Jamie’s high voice called, “Mama, come see this bug!”
Helen blinked. “Just a moment, darling.”
“I can’t get enough of you,” Sir Alistair muttered low.
A streak of desire shot through her.
“Mama!”
He straightened and swiftly smoothed her fichu, his hands sure and steady. “Stay here.”
He slid down the bank and deftly caught the fishing pole, which was indeed spinning lazily in a whirlpool. He mounted the bank again and took her elbow casually. “Come.”
And she wondered as they walked back to Jamie and the others, did he not feel the same incredible yearning when they kissed?
Madness, pure madness, Alistair thought as he resumed his fishing spot. Mrs. Halifax was dipping her line into the stream in an entirely ineffectual way downriver from him, but he didn’t trust himself to go and help her. What was he about, kissing his housekeeper? What must she think of him, a great, ugly beast of a man, forcing himself on her as he had? Surely she was appalled and distressed.
Except she hadn’t seemed particularly appalled or distressed as she’d opened her sweet mouth to his tongue and pressed her body against him. The memory had his cock rearing eagerly and nearly made him drop his fishing pole in the water. He caught Sophia’s suspicious gaze at that moment. God only knew what she’d say if he lost his pole. Something cutting, no doubt.
He cleared his throat. “Mrs. McCleod packed some bread and such for us, I believe.”
That got Jamie’s immediate attention. He came scampering over with the puppy, and Mrs. Halifax set aside her fishing pole only too eagerly to go digging in the basket. “Lovely! There’s a ham and some bread and fruit. Oh, and a meat pie and some small cakes.” She looked up at him. “What would you like?”
“Some of everything,” Alistair called back. He watched her out of the corner of his eye. She was smiling at her son and chatting as she put together plates of food, and every once and a while, she’d dart a quick little glance at him when she thought he couldn’t see.
What was it about her? She was beautiful, yes, but that if anything would normally be a deterrent for him. Beautiful women merely made him more conscious of his own repulsiveness. She was different somehow. Not only had she seemed to have recovered from her shock at his appearance, but she also made him forget what he looked like. With her, he was simply a man flirting dangerously with a woman.
