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Ian hooked her bodice with his fingers and tugged it up in one smooth motion. Then he put one finger beneath her chin and raised her face to his. She was still shaking, her eyes wide and frightened. His poor wee bonnie lass.

“You did well,” he whispered, then pressed a soft kiss to her lips.

She immediately relaxed against him, her shaking subsiding. Ian let go and made sure that his attire was all buttoned up, and no papers were sticking out, and then he took Helen’s arm and together they unhurriedly made their way out of the study.

“My lords.” Helen curtsied gracefully as they passed the two old men standing on the other side of the door.

Ian wrapped his arm possessively around her waist and tipped his head toward the men before turning away and disappearing out of their sight.

They made their way to Helen’s bedroom in silence.

Ian took the documents out of his waistband and hid them in the drawer, beneath some books, and locked it. He would take a look at them later. He would decide what to do with them tomorrow when his mind was clear.

For now… He stepped toward Helen and pressed a kiss to her lips.

He had wanted to kiss her ever since that night in the conservatory. And he wanted to keep kissing her, never letting go. The taste of her lips had been haunting him every day and night, almost driving him mad.

That kiss, earlier, in the study, had been like a fevered dream. Now, he wanted to kiss her slowly, remembering her every sigh, every moan, memorizing her taste, the shape of her lips.

Helen stood on her tiptoes, running her hands over his chest and up to his neck, tugging him closer and kissing him back.

Her tongue entangled with his, and her body moved in unison, mimicking the salacious act of love. He moved his hands from her waist to her arms, then up to her neck, and tilted her face back to get better access to her mouth. Her fingers dug into his shoulders, igniting the passion within him. He was as hard as a rock, his skin burning as if it were set on fire.

He wanted to rip the clothing off her body, throw her onto the bed, and take her like a ravenous animal.

But the other part of him wanted to take it slow. He wanted to feel, to see, to hear every little change in her body. He wanted to worship every little inch of her.

His hands moved higher, his fingers entangling in her hair. He removed the pins that held her coiffure one by one, freeing her silky hair, and running it against his fingers.

It lay in heavy waves against her shoulders and her back, and suddenly he wished he could see only her hair covering her bare skin.

Helen clawed at his shoulders, tugging on his clothing, then hooked her leg behind his knee and pushed her pelvis against his until she could feel his cock rub against her center even through all the clothes separating them.

She twisted her face away and bit on his chin, then moved lower to his neck and repeated the light, but stingy bite.

Ian chuckled. She was so passionate, his little love. But he didn’t want raw passion, not this time. At least, not just raw passion. So he tugged on her hair until her head fell back again, and he took her mouth in a gentle kiss.

“No.” She turned her face away again. “Don’t be gentle. Don’t kiss me like this. Be rough with me. Please.”

He moved away so he could look into her eyes and shook his head. “No. Not now.” Then he slowly, tenderly kissed her lips, reverently licking at the seam, running his thumbs up and down her cheeks. And then he felt it.

Her tears.

Ian drew away once more and frowned. Her eyes were closed, tears trickling down her cheeks. “Dinnae cry, my love,” he whispered. He dipped his head and peppered kisses down her cheek, tasting her salty tears. “I want tae be gentle with ye. Let me.”

Her throat worked at her swallow, and she licked her lips. “I don’t.”

“Why not?” He whispered back, but she wrenched away, tears lining her eyes, and shook her head.

Ian swallowed and nodded, understanding dawning on him. He wasn’t worthy of gentle lovemaking with her. He was there only for animal passion. To satisfy her basic needs. It grated on him that after all this time she was still using him, so his voice came out harsher than he intended when he asked, “It’s because of him, isn’t it?”

“Because of whom?” She wiped her tears with the back of her hand, not meeting his gaze.

“You know who. Your late husband.”

She looked at him, devastation clear in her eyes, but she didn’t say anything. And she didn’t have to. He already knew the answer.

“Why are you so damn loyal to him even in death when he was never loyal to you?”