Page 53 of Walk on the Wildsyde

He only laughed, though, taking her face between his large hands and gazing down at her. “Ye are lying again. For a vicar’s daughter, ye are terribly sinful, Clara Halliday. I’ll have to break ye of such habits, I reckon.”

Clara shoved at his chest, mortified, but he didn’t budge so she buried her face against his waistcoat instead. “You are the most odiously conceited man in the world,” she complained hotly.

“Aye, but I’m nae wrong,” he said, and she could hear him smirking, the devil. “Tell me, Clara, tell me ye think of me.”

There was a different note to his voice now, no longer smug and teasing, but closer to desperation. Clara forced herself to meet his gaze once more and her breath caught at the need in his eyes, the desire for her blazing in the wide, dark pupils that swamped the beautiful copper and gold.

“I think of you,” she murmured, though the words were breathless. “I think of you all the time,” she admitted, too far gone for caution.

“Clara,” he said, speaking her name in a way she had never heard it said before.

It was the name of a woman who was desired beyond reason, a woman who was bold and loving and unafraid to take what she wanted. It made Clara want to be worthy of it, to be that woman. To be his woman. So when his mouth captured hers, she met him with equal passion, curling her arms about his neck and pulling him down to her, holding on tight. All the same, when he reached down and grasped her bottom, lifting her up, she gave a squeal of surprise. He carried her and though the indignity of it was shocking to her, Clara wrapped her legs about his hips as he crossed the room and sat her down on a tabletop. He did not move away, however, his body insinuated between her thighs, only the bunched-up fabric of petticoats and skirts keeping them apart.

“I ought not,” Clara fretted, cheeks blazing now, but he stared down at her with such affection in his eyes that she could not be afraid.

“Nae, ye ought to be at home, safe with Mrs Macready, but ye came to me,” he said, his voice soft, satisfaction blazing in his eyes. “I cannae pretend that I’m sorry. If I were any kind of gentleman, I would send ye away, but I cannae bring myself to do so. Not yet, at least. I shall, I promise, but… but not yet…”

He kissed her again, deeply and passionately, clouding her mind as the feel of him so close chased good sense far away. The slide of his tongue was an intimate delight of the kind she had never dreamed, and she could not get enough. With his arms supporting her, he lowered her down, his large body pressing her against the tabletop. Too late, Clara realised she was laying down with Hamilton Anderson on top of her, her thighs parted and his very male, very hard body in a position no young lady ought ever to allow.

“Hamilton?”

“Aye?” he asked, his voice husky as one hand tugged at her skirts. She gasped at the feel of his warm fingers curling about her calf and sliding higher. He tickled the tender skin behind her knees with light caresses, making her breath catch before his hand slid higher, moving over her garter to make contact with bare flesh. “I will speak to yer da, Clara. First thing in the morning. I swear it.”

Clara relaxed, any reservations she’d had dissolving like warm honey with his reassuring words, along with her resolution to not behave badly.

“Ah, but ye are like the finest silk, mo leannan.”

“You never told me what that meant,” Clara said, momentarily distracted.

“It means ‘my sweetheart,’” he murmured, rubbing his cheek against the swell of her breasts. “mo chridhe, a thasgaidh, mo ghràdh,” he continued, tugging her skirts up and out of the way and pressing his body harder between her legs until she felt the hard length of what she realised with a jolt of shock was the inescapable evidence of masculine arousal through the fine fabric of her drawers.

Clara’s breath snagged in her throat as the intimate contact sent a bolt of sensation lancing through her body. Without thinking, she chased it, her hips lifting to meet his and pushing against that forcefully male part of him.

Hamilton made a choked sound and smothered a groan as he responded in kind, rubbing himself against her with rhythmic thrusts, kissing her over and over, sliding his hands over her body in slow caresses, making her dizzy as time passed in a passionate fog until she was beside herself, uncaring of what he did, of what she allowed, only that he make it stop, or make it better, or do something!

“Hamilton?” she said urgently, hearing the question in his name but not knowing what she was asking for. He seemed to know better than she did, however, as he pressed his mouth to hers once more, kissing her hard and deep as his hand slid between her legs, finding the slit in her drawers and sifting through the silken curls. Clara jolted, stunned by his touch in a place so secret and entirely forbidden. Her mind reeled, wondering how she dared let him, but her body wanted, aching and clamouring for more. His deft fingers sought and found the tiny bud that ached and throbbed and caressed her, his touch just firm enough, just fast enough, and he devoured her shocked cry as her body convulsed in his arms, giving itself over to him for it seemed to belong to him, anyway. She buried her face in his shoulder as the sensation faded, shocked and bewildered by what she had done.

“Ah, but ye are the sweetest thing,” he crooned, kissing her tenderly, stroking her face. “Lord but I will die of wanting ye, but I have behaved badly enough for one night, devil take me. Can ye forgive me, mo ghràdh?”

“Forgive you?” she said unsteadily, still not quite believing what had happened, what she had allowed.

“Aye, forgive me,” he said gently, pulling her upright and rearranging her skirts until she was decent again. “I am a wicked fellow, but I’ll be on yer doorstep first thing, ye understand? I dinnae take such things lightly. I wouldnae have touched ye so if I had nae the best of intentions. I would never dishonour ye in such a way.”

Clara sighed. She had believed him, trusted in him, but it was still reassuring to hear him repeat his words.

“Did ye still think I would take advantage and walk away?” he asked, frowning down at her.

She shook her head. “If I had believed that, I would never have come when I got your note,” she said, smiling up at him. “But all the same, I am glad to hear it.”

“My note?” he repeated, frowning at her. “What do ye mean? I never sent a note.”

Clara stared at him in consternation and reached for the note she had stuffed in her pocket. “Yes, you did. It’s here in black and white,” she said, handing it to him.

Hamilton’s frown deepened as he scanned the words. “That’s nae my hand, lassie,” he said, his tone suddenly grave. “Someone is playing games, I reckon, and I dinnae like it. Up ye come. I fear ye have walked into a trap and—”

As he spoke, the sound of singing reached their ears, a flickering light visible outside, reflecting on the windows. The singing got louder and louder and the familiar sound of a hymn was now unmistakable.

“What on earth…?” Hamilton muttered, crossing to the window but keeping to the side, out of sight as he looked out.