Page 11 of Wouldn’t it Be Scottish?

“What is it?” Donal’s voice was sharp, his expression concerned as she contorted herself.

“Water,” she gasped. “Down my b-back.”

He looked at her, hesitated, and then reached to rest his hand between her shoulder blades. “Is that better?”

“Yes,” she gasped. “You’ve stopped it traveling south at least.”

His eyes seemed to darken. Suddenly she was very conscious of the warmth of his palm on her back. Agatha found herself wondering what it would feel like to have his hand on her naked skin, which was an exciting and rather shocking thought. Perhaps Donal was thinking inappropriate thoughts too, because suddenly he was very close, his face inches from hers, and his gaze dropped to her lips, and he licked his.

Just like that, Agatha’s stomach swooped, and heat rushed through her. She felt as if a fire had been lit, and although she knew she should damp it down, she really didn’t want to. She moved at the same time as Donal, and their lips made contact.

Donal’s mouth pressed to hers. His lips were so much softer than she expected, and the sensation of them brushing against hers was very pleasurable. Agatha had not been kissed often. Richard was always very respectful, and lately she had begun to regret that, because if he never returned to her, then she would probably die a virgin.

The awful idea of never knowing what it was like to have a man in her arms, in her bed, led her to reach out as Donal began to draw back. She looped her arms about his neck, causing her body to be pressed to his in an intimate way that made her very aware of his hard chest and the strong clasp of his arms. She was startled by the strangeness of it and may even have changed her mind, but he was holding her now, one arm about her waist while his other hand was still pressed to her back where the water droplet had been captured.

Her lips brushed against his again. This was different to being with Richard, and she suspected that Donal was more accustomed to kissing. He ran his tongue along the seam of her lips, which caused her to open her mouth in surprise. As soon as he had access, he plundered her like some hero in a swoony romance novel.

Agatha had never understood the word before. Plunder. She knew what it meant, but to have one’s mouth plundered . . . This was what it was like. That sense of intimacy, the taste and heat of his mouth, his tongue, the feeling that she might run out of air. It was all rather wonderful, and she found she liked it. She liked it very much.

Perhaps she wasn’t quite as proper as she had always believed herself to be.

The kiss went on until she felt quite lightheaded. She had to pull away, her heart pounding and the blood rushing in her ears. Donal was looking at her, and even in the dim lighting of the lanterns in the trees, she could see his lips were swollen and his eyes were dark. He appeared very different to his usual mopey self—more like a man who was thinking of kissing her again.

“Should I apologize?” he asked in a quiet, husky voice.

Agatha shook her head slowly. “I don’t think that will be necessary,” she said, and was surprised how normal her voice sounded when her head was spinning.

He smiled. Good heavens, that smile did things to her! She swallowed. “Perhaps we have been going about this thing in the wrong way,” she heard herself say.

A pinch appeared between his dark brows. “What do you mean?”

“Well, thus far, your Mary doesn’t seem to think I am a threat to replacing her in your heart, no matter how much we try to persuade her. Perhaps we need to be more . . .”—she sought for the right word—“more forceful in our efforts.”

His brow quirked, and his eyes lit with amusement. “You mean more kissing and less talking?”

Agatha gave a puff of laughter. “Something like that.”

He looked thoughtful. “I’m no’ sure we can kiss on the dancefloor.”

“But we can touch.” Agatha tapped a fingertip against her lips. “A brush of the hands here, a squeeze there. You know what I mean. We need to show affection even in public.”

Donal nodded. “I know. My brothers and their wives touch all the time. I usually leave the room.”

“That is exactly what I mean!”

Donal looked over his shoulder, back toward the house. “Should we try it now?”

“Yes,” she said. “Let’s.”

Chapter Seven

No one inside the ballroom seemed to have noticed their absence, which only went to show Agatha had been right. Donal was sure if Mary and Belvoir had slipped outside alone together, there would have been an uproar. He was still reeling from their kiss in the garden, but the music was already starting up for the next dance, and Agatha was giving him a meaningful look.

This time Donal held her much closer, enjoying the sensation of her soft and voluptuous body against his. Mary was slender, and he had never really thought about his preferences when it came to women, because for him it had always been Mary. Now he had discovered he enjoyed looking at Agatha and thinking of her without her clothes on. Not that he would ever tell her that.

She gave him a little smile, and now he noticed how soft and full her lips were, and how long her dark lashes were as they swept down over her pale eyes. There was a blush in her cheeks as if she were remembering that kiss in the garden too. The kiss that Donal found himself reliving in intimate detail as they danced.

His fingers tightened on hers and he rested his hand on her back and drew her in even closer. Her bosom pressed to his chest, and once again he found himself wondering what she would look like naked. As if his cock agreed that she would look very nice indeed, it began to grow firmer than he would have preferred in a public situation.