“What the . . .?” Holland whispers, her eyes as wide as saucers. “Is that?”
Alexander presses a finger to his wife’s lip, his own curled in wry amusement.
The thud sounds again. It sounds like an arse. Don’t ask me to explain why.
A low, masculine murmur says something in a language I don’t understand. It was obviously something silly, or sexy, judging by the woman’s responding giggle. The door rattles in its frame once more before quick footsteps draw away.
“Someone’s eager,” Flynn says in a knowing tone.
“Who was that?” Chastity asks, intrigued.
“I believe that was my recently divorced sister, Isla,” Alexander intones. “Along with her completely unsuitable divorce rebound.”
“Awkward,” Holland singsongs, clearly amused.
“It is a little. Van is, after all, my oldest friend. I’m going to have to have a quiet word with him, aren’t I?”
“Erm, no!” Holland laughs. “You’ll pretend you don’t know, just like the rest of us. And that’s not what I meant by awkward. Even I know not to air dirty laundry at the dinner table. And to think I’ve been telling people you have the soul of a diplomat.’
“It just sort of fell out of my mouth,” he says with an unrepentant grin. “The thing is, there isn’t a thing that goes on in this castle that I don’t know about.” At this, his gaze shifts very deliberately to Chastity, who begins to snicker behind her napkin.
“In my defence,” she offers, “it was for private, not professional reasons.”
“Oh, Jesus.” Flynn pitches forward, pinching the bridge of his nose. He angles his gaze his wife’s way. “What have you been up to?”
“I only asked to be shown the dungeons. Not for filming or anything.”
“That’s not what I was referring to.” The corner of the duke’s mouth hitches. It’s quite a sardonic look. “But I should probably point out that the public rooms are monitored by security cameras.”
Chastity presses her napkin to her face, her shoulders heaving with silent mirth.
“What the hell have you two been up to?” I ask. To which my new brother-in-law replies,
“Just indulging in a little public sex.”
* * *
“Jesus, I’ll be surprised if they get invited back.” I have my arm around Kennedy’s waist as we make our way back to our suite through the maze of hallways hung with portraits and landscapes in heavy gilt frames. We’re not walking exactly. More like weaving. Like I said, I love it when Kennedy’s tipsy. I slow us to a stop as she purses her lips together and stifles a snicker. “What was that for?”
“What?” She turns to me, blinking innocently.
“The smutty laughter.” My eyes coast over her. It was a casual dinner, not the full evening affair of earlier in the week when Alexander wore his kilt and drew such admiring compliments that Flynn and me thought we might drive into Inverness and buy our own to ensure our own wives still fancied us. The TV show Rory Roy has a lot to answer for. Where was I? Ah, casual. Kennedy’s wearing a sweater dress that slashes across her neck and coats the rest of her like a second skin. Shoulders. Wrists. Knees. They’re all covered. It would be easy to whip it up and over her head, but the way it clings to her makes me want to peel it from her body very, very slowly. Did I mention the knee-high boots? So sexy.
“Of course they’ll be invited back,” Kennedy says. “We’re all part of one big extended family now. Besides, Alexander knows my husband and his brothers have access to some excellent wines.”
“Are you trying to butter me up because I should tell you, I’m already a sure thing.” I take her face in my hands. “But you’re not going to distract me from that naughty laughter of yours.”
“Who says I want to distract you?” She slides her hands around my hips before her fingernails dig into the muscles of my arse. “In fact . . .” She takes a step backward. I, of course, follow, the lead in my pencil keen to see where she’s going with this. “I just had an idea. Holland told me that Alexander likes to relieve her of her underwear in the most unlikely places. He teased Flynn and Chastity, yet last week, he lost a pair of Holland’s panties when they were almost disturbed by an elderly member of the public. He had to crouch down behind a chair to stop from being busted.”
“They were doing the dirty in public? “I ask, scandalised. Or titillated. Maybe a bit of both. “And he was giving Flynn grief for doing the same?” The cheeky bastard.
“Well, not really in public. This is their home. Holland says you just have to know where the security cameras are.”
“And you do?” I glance over her head. There’s a room she seems to be leading us to.