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“Mr. Grant requested a bottle of claret,” she stated.
He nodded and his mouth lifted at one corner. Lust simmered in his eyes and the sight of it made Morag’s breathing grow hampered. A moment later he pushed the door wide open but made no effort to move, which meant that she had to sidle past him to enter the room. So close was she that she felt the heat from his body. The place where his chest was bared at the opening of his shirt captured her gaze. It made her want to put her hands inside his shirt and measure the breadth of his chest.
Several candles lit the room and she noticed immediately that one was placed near to the four-poster bed, where the curtains had been tied back securely. Mr. Grant sat in his winged armchair close to the fire, which was low in the grate. Morag hastened over to where he sat and set the bottle of claret down on the wine table at his elbow. Stepping over to the cabinet, she sought out the fine crystal glasses that he kept there. He’d previously told her he carried them everywhere, for the wine tasted better from crystal than pottery. She extracted two of the glasses from the cupboards and put them next to the wine. Brushing her hands on her apron, she dropped a quick curtsy. She knew she should leave, but there was a strange feeling in the room, as if both men had something on their minds.
Clasping her hands in front of her apron, she looked at Mr. Grant. “Is there anything else you will be requiring of me, sire?”
Mr. Grant looked, as ever, quite different to his companion of the evening. He was a much wealthier man, for he worked for the crown, traveling about with several other men, collecting taxes for King George’s coffers. That meant that he was reviled by many, for King George was hated by the Scots, and no one liked to part with their coin at the best of times. Morag did not know much or even care about such things, for they were far beyond her experience. Folk took their work where they could, herself included. What she did know was Mr. Grant was a knowledgeable man and that he had fine clothes and dressed like a nobleman. He had been kindly to her, too.
Tonight he was not wearing his frock coat, and his waistcoat was undone, his necktie abandoned. He still wore his powdered wig, however, as if he were recently out and about on his business. In contrast, Duggan wore knee breeches that were well worn, as were his shoes. His shirt was long and loose, hanging open across the chest. The disheveled appearance made him seem all the more attractive to her eyes, however, for he was a wild man.
“Bring another glass if you will, Morag.” Mr. Grant gestured at the cabinet and gave her an encouraging smile.
Were they expecting company? Riddled with curiosity, Morag did as instructed. Mr. Grant poured wine into all three glasses, then lifted one and handed it to her. “Join us, if you will.”
She was so startled it took her a moment to gather her senses before she reached out and took the glass from his hand. This was quite out of order, and she blushed to the roots of her hair, unsure how to respond. Her duties were limited to scrubbing, fetching and carrying, and occasionally attending any ladies who stopped there and needed help with their dresses.
“Thank you, sire.” She dropped another curtsy, and then glanced at Duggan. Like her, he was a worker, and she looked to him for guidance.
Duggan still stood close to the door, with his feet placed widely and his arms folded across his chest. He looked across at her with an air of authority, as if he was the nobleman here, as if he was the one who held the power. How strange it was, and the immensity of it made her chest feel tight as a drum. It was as if the room had grown suddenly smaller and the air hot and heavy. There was a brooding expression in those eyes of Duggan’s and it made her falter. It was as if he was imagining what she might look like beneath her clothing. Damp heat built between her legs and beneath her breasts, and her stays felt suddenly tight and restrictive. She shifted from one foot to the other.
Prowling like a tomcat, he made his way over and lifted a glass from the table. He concentrated on her, nodding at the glass in her hand. “Share a drink with us. Come now, don’t be afraid, you are among friends.”
Following his lead, Morag took a mouthful of the wine. It tasted good and was potent stuff, and she tried not to gulp it. She noticed that Mr. Grant sipped from his glass while he smiled at the pair of them. He had kind eyes, and today they were bright with expectation.
Duggan drained his glass and relieved her of hers once she had done the same. Taking her into his arms, he looked down at her intently. “The last time we spoke, you assured me that no man warmed your bed at the present time. Is that still the case?”
Morag’s eyes rounded. “It is, but why speak of it now?”
Duggan ran his finger along the top of her bodice. The other hand was firmly planted against her back, holding her in place. “Would you like a man to warm your bed?”
There was mischief in his eyes, and Morag quickly sensed his intentions.
He rested a kiss in her hair and then added, “To warm where you want it most of all, perhaps…between your legs?”
With a quick intake of breath, Morag urged herself to respond well. She sought the right words and as she did she noticed that Mr. Grant seemed quite attuned to what was being said, and watched with interest. Did he wish to observe them together? It was something she had experienced before—the urge some folk had to look, rather than to partake—but nevertheless she was surprised.
“Are you offering to take on the task?” She looked up at Duggan as boldly as she could, hoping that was the case.
Duggan smiled broadly and responded by ducking his head to kiss her neck. It was a hungry kiss and his hands locked around her waist. Morag swayed, her heart pounding, her head swimming. His hands tightened on her, for which she was grateful, for he held her upright when otherwise she might fall. He surely was a strong man, and a moment later she found her feet swept from under her as he lifted in his arms.
Morag wondered briefly if she were dreaming, but when his breath warmed her face and his hair brushed her forehead, she knew she wasn’t. Resting there in his arms, she stared at him in awe, her lips parted.
“A ripe fruit, ready and eager to be picked and enjoyed,” Duggan said, and glanced in Mr. Grant’s direction. “Don’t you agree?”
Morag clasped Duggan around the neck and glanced at Mr. Grant from under her lashes. His lips were pursed as if in thought, but he nodded. There was a mixture of curiosity and nervousness in his expression, and his cheeks were stained with color. Again Morag had the feeling that it was Duggan who made the decisions here.
He turned away and carried her to the bed, where he rested her and kissed her hungrily on the mouth while he reached for her skirts. He seemed to recall their earlier discussion about a firm hand, because he made no pretence at politeness as he elbowed her legs apart.
Morag could not, however, forget the other man’s presence. Did Duggan expect her to ignore him? The nature of their game was not at all clear, and whilst she had dallied with other folk who had taken their lodgings at the Drover’s Inn, none had been like these two were. Her understanding of their situation—if it was correct—was that they were forbidden lovers, men who were attracted to their own kind. It made her even more curious about the arrangement, as well as her part in it.
Duggan’s bold approach affected her though, making her wanton. She opened her mouth to his tongue and grappled for the hem of her skirts, which she hauled up to assist his approach. Morag wanted nothing more than to feel his weight over her. She desired him above all and was brazen in her responses, despite the onlooker.
“A willing wench,” he said, and sighed as he plucked at the top of her woolen stockings.
She leaned her head close alongside his and whispered, “That I am.”
Duggan pushed her stockings down her legs so that he could examine her legs.
