His Rebellious Lass (Scottish Hearts 1)

Was her spirit lacking? She seemed to be holding herself back. Not exactly angry with him anymore, but certainly not the warm, loving woman he’d grown to know over the past few months.

Afraid that words would put a wall between them that was already halfway built, he took her chin in his hand and kissed her. All the passion and wanting in his heart was in that kiss. He wanted her, desired her like no other woman in his life. Did that mean he loved her?

He’d been so adamant about never marrying that he’d never thought much about love. This was lust, he convinced himself. He desired her body, liked many things about her person, and felt those things were the only necessities for a successful marriage.

He was pleased when Bridget allowed her hand to wander down his chest, her fingernails raking his skin, past his belly button and the wiry hair at his groin to cover his swollen cock with her delicate hand. He drew in a sharp breath between his teeth and closed his eyes.

Heaven.

He returned the favor by covering the warmth and moistness between her legs with his hand. His fingers caressed and stroked the stiffened piece of flesh at the entrance to her opening as Bridget moaned and pressed her pelvis against his hand. “Yes.”

Again he watched her, but this time her eyes were closed, her plush lips slightly parted, ragged breaths coming from her mouth. He stepped up his ministrations, smiling at the flush on her face, the strain in her muscles as she thrashed, attempting to reach her climax.

He moved his mouth close to her ear and nibbled on her lobe. “Relax, sweetheart. Don’t strain. Let me do the work.”

Her head tossed back and forth on the pillow, a fine sheen of sweat covered her body as she continued to moan. Cam edged down and took her breast in a strong suckle, his teeth grazing the pebbled nipple. Within seconds, she called out his name and arched her back, pressing her center against his hand, her fingernails digging into his flesh.

Slowly, she lowered he

rself to the mattress and opened her eyes. He felt as though someone had punched him in the gut at the look on her face.

She loved him.

Before he could dwell on that and what it meant, he moved on top of her and settled between her opened legs. With one swift thrust he was inside her warm, tight moistness. He leaned his forehead against her, his eyes closed as he slid in and out in the timeless dance of lovers, all his senses focused on the one spot.

With as much as he’d desired her and the waiting game they’d been forced to play, he didn’t last very long. As he poured his life force into her, he was thankful that he’d given her pleasure before he took his own. He rolled over her and tucked her against his side, both of them still attempting to catch their breath.

He was nearing sleep when Bridget rose up on her elbow and leaned over him, her glorious hair falling around them like a silk curtain. “I need the use of the carriage in the morning, my lord.”

Cam awoke, confused at this request and the odd time she raised it. He stared at her. “Why?”

She rolled off the bed and shrugged into her nightgown, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “I am moving into the women’s house.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

The next morning, Bridget looked around the room she’d occupied only long enough to take a bath and sleep one night. After her announcement to Cam, she’d left his room and returned to her bed—her cold, empty bed—and cried herself to sleep.

He’d said nothing in response to her words, either because he didn’t care now that his honor had been restored, or he didn’t believe she would do it.

But do it she would. She would not live day and night with the man who did not return her feelings of love. The pain would be too great. Perhaps, given time, he would one day feel love for her, but too much stood between them for that to happen. He had forced her into marriage by threatening to take away her dreams. He hadn’t yet apologized for his accusations about her lack of virtue, which told her he still didn’t trust her or believe her claim of innocence. And he hadn’t even seemed interested enough in her to try to stop her from leaving.

He obviously had very few feelings for her.

All her belongings had been packed. They’d barely been unpacked from Dunmore’s Townhouse and here they were being loaded onto Cam’s carriage for the trip to Southwark Street.

With furniture scarce at the women’s house and no need for elaborate hairstyles and fancy gowns, she had arranged for Fiona to be sent to Lady Dunmore’s estate in the country. Mrs. Dressel had been happily pensioned off. For herself, she would make do with what had been left behind by the previous owners. It was a good thing she knew how to cook so she wouldn’t starve.

She looked around the room that she barely knew, searching for anything she’d forgotten, and then went down the stairs. Fenton opened the front door with a nod, and she stepped outside. The day was as dreary as her mood. She looked through the slight mist to the carriage at the end of the pathway.

Cam stood in front of it, his body stiff, his face pale.

So, he was here to see her off. Probably anxious to make sure she left.

Her heart hurt.

My, aren’t I full of self-pity today?

He looked uneasy as she approached the vehicle. “I am sending two armed footmen with you to stay there. I don’t want you in that neighborhood without protection.”