When he pulled back, his thumb still pressed to the corner of her lips, he smiled down at her with a new heat. “Ye didn’t bolt.”
She just shivered and shook her head no.
Without the press of his body and the touch of his mouth, Frannie felt exposed, her skin alive and on fire under the thin cotton of her gown. She hadn’t thought it through, bringing him up to the garden, although it didn’t feel wrong. Still, it was strange to see the hills and shadows of her body through the worn chemise and know that even the wan moonlight would show him every place where the thin shift clung to her, the dusky shadows of her nipples and her thatch, farther down. She felt lush and fearless in the night air, laid bare for him as all her secrets now were.
“Ye look like a selkie dusted in starlight.”
His hand traced down her face and neck, making her shiver when he reached her collarbone. Leaning over ever so slowly, he planted a kiss there, and the breath caught in her throat as her back arched toward him.
His palm traced down her arm, and he took up her bare hand and matched his fingers to hers, one to one, a look of wonderment on his face. “Such a wee thing,” he mused.
Frannie’s eyes feasted on him in turn, from the shaggy cut of his hair, just grazing broad shoulders, to the V where his work shirt hung open, showing a patch of gold hair even lighter than the rest. He was stretched out beside her, bigger in every respect, at ease on his side with his kilt draped haphazardly, showing gold-dusted knees and his heavy work boots, carefully polished for their visit to the theater. She ached to touch him, just as she longed to feel his callused hands skim over her every curve.
With a satisfied rumble, he half-settled over her, his body pressed against hers from chest to thigh. The kiss started deeper, faster this time, his hunger showing in the pressure of his lips and the firm movement of one leg, protectively covering one of hers and moving her knees ever so subtly apart. Her tongue sought his, breaking past soft lips in a quick, tender caress, just testing the waters. He met her, moaning into her mouth as his hand slid from her collarbone to her waist, fingers splayed over the whisper-soft gown.
“No corset. Gods, woman,” he murmured, his palm hot as he explored the valley from ribs to hips, the cotton bunching under his fingers. He pulled her to her side, and she slid her leg over his, pressing pearled nipples against the planes of his chest, back arched and still bearing the damp kiss of dew-wet grass soaked up through the blanket.
Thom kissed just behind her ear, moving her hair aside and brushing the tiny curls with a finger between soft presses of his lips. Heat shimmered over her, making her ache inside for more of his body and his mouth. Her hand tightened around the tense knot of his bicep. He skimmed the lacy neck of her gown, leaving a trail of kisses down to the ribbon tie as his hand cupped her breast, his thumb stroking her hard nipple through the cloth. She felt heavy in his arms, soft and opening the way the tree leaves did every morning when the sun rose. Slowly, so slowly, he pulled the ribbon at her throat as his mouth dipped to her breast, suckling through the thin fabric, an echoed heat pooling between her legs and making her gasp.
With one hand cradling her head, he gently rolled her to her back and slung a leg over to straddle her thighs. She watched the play of his kilt and grinned, stretched her hands overhead, and reveled in the strange, leisurely pleasure, languid as a purring cat. His tongue returned, hot and wet through the gown, her nipple still peaked to his touch. With both hands free, he cupped her breasts tenderly and bent his head to lavish the other nipple with warm strokes of his tongue, his breath hot through the cotton. When Frannie ran her hands up the hard planes of his thighs, she was surprised to find that underneath his kilt he wore nothing at all.
“Goodness,” she muttered, and he caught her mouth in another kiss, briefly grinding his pelvis against her to demonstrate with no question that there was actually . . . quite a bit of something else underneath a Scotsman’s kilt. Before she could gasp in surprise, he found her nipple again, teasing with his teeth and making her writhe.
A shadow passed over the moon just then, casting the garden in shadow. Emboldened by the darkness, she ran a hand even farther up his leg and briefly stroked the hot silk of what she found there.
He made a strangled noise, deep in his throat. “Oh, lass. You can’t know what ye do to me.”
But she did know, and she moved her hand gently up and down, grinning slyly when he moaned, cheek hot against the skin of her chest. She moved her hand a little faster, and he growled, going tense all over. His hand tangled in the fabric of her gown before skimming up the inside of her leg, warm and yielding. When he stroked the hot center of her like a question, she answered by quivering and whimpering in turn, her hand locked around him. The sensation of his thumb, rough and wide, rubbing slowly and deeply, woke something in her, and she finally understood that just as Thom’s kisses were something different from the ones Charles had inflicted upon her, so would Thom’s lovemaking be an entirely new experience, one that her body was well roused to enjoy. Every touch, every taste, every look of his shadowed eyes told her that he was determined to take care of her in every way, that he wouldn’t leave her hungry. She closed her eyes, tossing her head back, yielding her body utterly to his care.
“You’re wet, lass. Do ye want this?”
One finger pressed in, ever so gently, and she rose to meet it, holding her breath. “More than I’ve wanted anything in a long time,” she whispered, and he made an affirmative noise and moved the finger a little faster. She felt his lips close around her nipple again, and an exquisite yearning surged through her like a flame connecting where his mouth and fingers met her body.
“Well, then,” he whispered, lips hot against her breast.
He pushed another finger into her, in and out slowly, and she ached for the fullness every time they withdrew. She found herself moving along with him, her body already knowing the dance. After a last, wet pull on her breast, he drew his shirt over his head and murmured, “Let me see you, love.” Watching the play of shadows over his chest, she shifted to help him strip her gown away. In all her years in the garden, she’d never been there naked. She’d never really been anywhere naked, other than the copper tub in the loo, and her lifelong fear of bludrats always urged her to hurry back into a gown, into anything. But now, fully exposed from hair to toes, she stretched in the starlight and sighed at the air’s warm kiss on her skin.
Thom still wore his kilt and boots, but she found that she approved. The brush of wool against her thighs was delicious, and she sucked in a breath as he kissed between her breasts and down the curve of her belly. Finally settling over her, he kissed her gently, sweetly, deeply.
“Ye must promise to tell me if it hurts ye.”
She nodded, biting her lip.
He nudged her thighs apart with a leg, and she opened willingly. Every nerve thrummed, ached, and she knew she was more than ready. The hot press of him where his fingers had recently worked made her shiver with anticipation. As he pushed into her, so slowly, he took her nipple between his teeth and suckled.
Frannie had never wanted anything so badly, never felt such a hunger. When he was fully inside, she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him close to whisper in his ear, “Don’t stop.”
He moved slowly at first, tentative, as if he was afraid of hurting her. She moved with him, learning, feeling, the tension building. He felt so big, filling her, blotting out the stars. It was hot and sweet and wet, and still she wanted.
“More.”
“More, lass?”
“Harder. I don’t know. More.”
He moved faster, pounding against her, making her wiggle and press against him. An ache was building in her, like an itch she couldn’t scratch, and he sped up the pace. She wrapped one leg around him and whimpered, trying to find just the right place. When he unlatched her arms and rolled her over onto her hands and knees while still inside her, she was utterly surprised.
“I’ve heard it said some
women prefer it this way. Let me know, aye?”
She was about to protest when he pulled out and pressed back in, one finger stroking her cleft. Suddenly, everything fell into place. She let out a strangled cry and closed her eyes, finding her rhythm with him, meeting him with every thrust. Oh, the joy of it! That had to be how birds felt, flying into the sky. With every plunge, he struck some fine, secret place, and she felt a sensation building like a song, pounding toward a crescendo. His finger moved faster, their bodies in perfect harmony, the song spiraling on and on, until finally, she held her breath as the world stopped, the note spinning out inside her forever, higher and higher, until she saw stars against the inky darkness of her closed eyes.
“Gods, woman,” he said, and he pounded against her, drawing out that last note, finishing his own song with a groan.
When he collapsed against her back, her knees gave out, and they both tumbled to the blanket in a sweaty heap. She knew him well enough to know that he would be scared to crush her, worried about his weight.
“Bide a while,” she murmured, one eye on the stars. “I like how you pin me down.”
He chuckled and rolled to his side, taking her with him and making her yelp in surprise. “I won’t pin ye down, but I’ll hold you close enough.” Curling around her, he draped an arm over her side, pulling her against him.
Frannie relaxed into his chest, letting her head drop. Cradled by the warmth and magic of the secret she’d shared with a tender man who wasn’t about to leave, she drifted off to sleep.
14
Frannie peeked through her closet door, Thom a secure wall at her back. All was silent and still in her room, everything as it should be, right down to the puffball kitten curled on her pillow. She pushed past the coats and walked confidently into the cool darkness, her body chilled beneath the wet places on her gown, now that she was beyond the garden’s midnight warmth. Now that she was out from under Thom.
He shut both doors behind them and sauntered into the room with a leisurely stretch, his knuckles nearly raking the ceiling.
“We’ve still a few hours until morning. D’ye want me outside the door again, or . . .” He jerked his chin toward her bed with a warm grin.
She jerked her chin right back at the bed. “You go ahead. I want to check on the shop first. Make sure Casper didn’t break anything on his way in.”
He had been drawing his shirt over his head, but he paused and let it fall. “Let me check for you, or go with ye, at least. I can’t keep ye safe if I’m curled naked in your bed, lass.”
Hands on hips, she shook her head. “If you’re going to be around, you’ll have to get used to me being unruly. I’ve kept my own house and run my own business for too long. I’ll not tiptoe around my home. The walls are solid. The doors are locked. And the animals will let me know if something’s amiss. They’re silent, you’ll notice.”
He cocked an ear and looked her up and down, and she wondered what he saw. A wee wisp of a woman in a worn nightdress still stained with his mouth? Or a resilient London sparrow, accustomed to fighting her own battles and making her own way? The scales must have tipped toward the latter, or maybe he just knew well enough what was good for him.
“As you say, little love. I’ll be here if you need me.” He sat on the bed, fully dressed and alert. Waiting.
But that was his business. He’d have to get used to it.
Taking up her second-favorite but far less damp shawl, she wrapped her shoulders against the night’s chill and opened Casper’s door a few inches. It was too dark to see much, but she could hear him breathing. She rolled her eyes prematurely, dreading the braggadocio to come once he was awake. Plus, he’d probably want to know where she’d escaped to at intermission. The arrow had been wretched and unwelcome, but in hindsight, the night had gone rather well, and at least she hadn’t had to meet the bloody Magistrate.
She shut his door softly and headed down the stairs and into the pet shop. Everything was exactly as it should be, the room warm and sleepy, the silence broken only by the occasional tweet or the dry slither of scales on glass.
The puppies were fine, too, although their cage was messier than it should have been. She’d neglected them, and she would make up for it tomorrow with a couple of nice knuckle bones from the butcher. The kittens’ straw was empty, and she was startled for a moment before she remembered that she’d left them in a deep box in the warmth of the kitchen. They were more independent and on solid food now, but they couldn’t keep themselves warm without a mother during the long night.
Satisfied that all was well, Frannie passed into the parlor and went to bank the fire a little more carefully, as the kitchen was still a touch cool. She tripped on a bottle, sending it skittering into the corner.
“Drunk bastard,” she muttered. She would have to talk to Casper in the morning about the responsibilities of lodgers. Just because he was the most celebrated musician in the world, that didn’t mean he could leave wine bottles lying about. The bottle hit the wall with a clank, and the kittens sprang into motion, a chorus of desperate mews erupting from the crate.
“Hush, now. It’s coming, lads.”
She went to the icebox and doled out a bit of the mush she’d made for them of goat’s milk and bread and finely ground chicken and spread it around the plate so they’d all have a chance of a bite. With such tiny stomachs, they still needed to eat quite frequently.
As Frannie held her shawl with one hand and set the plate of mush in the box, the kittens began to leap and mewl furiously, each little puff of fur crawling over the others to reach it. One took up hissing, and she let go of her shawl to swat it gently, saying, “Calm down, fussy. There’s plenty for everyone.”
And that’s when it wrapped needle claws into her wrist and dug tiny teeth deep into her palm.
The plate dropped from Frannie’s hand and shattered against the stones as she tried to shake the kitten off. She’d been bitten dozens of times before, by dozens of animals, and her response was always calm, firm, and quiet. But something was different this time. This wasn’t a kitten clinging or learning or playing. The thing was dug into her skin, gnawing at the meat of her hand with razor-sharp teeth, growling as it ripped the hole bigger. She caught the scruff of its neck, trying to dislodge it, but it only dug its claws in with wicked tenacity. When she stepped back, scanning the parlor for a spatula or a spoon or something to smack it with, she stepped barefoot on the shards of the plate and stumbled to the ground, falling hard on her knees.
Two more kittens plopped out of the box, and the sound of claws on wood told her more were on the way. She shook her hand, thrashed it, her instinct to toss the kitten away even if it was cruel, but the fuzzy gray creature only hissed and bit deeper.
A small weight landed on her leg, tiny claws pricking deep in her thigh as another kitten clumsily climbed up her body. Years of training and familiarity and softheartedness had given Frannie the patience and sacrifice to deal kindly with helpless creatures, but her heart’s frantic thumping and the ice-cold fear wrenching down her spine told her that something was deeply wrong. She rolled her eyes upward and whispered, “I’m sorry.” Then she bashed her hand on the hard stones, knocking the kitten off and flinging her own blood across the hearth.
The kitten leaped up and bunched its tiny legs to pounce, its eyes glowing red as it hissed at her.
Fear shot through her. These weren’t kittens.
“Thom!” she screamed. “Thom, help!”
She yanked the kitten-thing off her leg, its claws shredding her nightgown. Another one jumped on her back and skittered up to her neck, leaving a trail of red-hot welts that fueled her panic. By the time she had tossed the animal off her legs into the shadows of the kitchen, the one on her neck had burrowed under her hair, sinking teeth into the nape and ripping deep into the flesh as if hunting for her spine.
She felt the blood running down her neck before the small, scratchy tongue began to lick. And then she heard the rumbling purr. On insti
nct, she wrenched it off and dropped it in the box, where it licked her blood off dainty paws.
When one of the kittens started up her leg again, she grabbed it tightly by the scruff of its neck and held it up to the fire’s meager glow. Red eyes glared back, and the little pink mouth opened with a hiss to reveal sharply gleaming fangs.
Footsteps pounded down the stairs as Thom landed in the kitchen, clad only in a kilt, knife in hand. “What is it, lass?”
“Bludkittens. Don’t kill them. They can’t help it.”
She scrambled to her feet, slipping in a puddle of her own blood and diving for the drawer where she kept carefully folded grain sacks. Thom reached down to pluck a fast-crawling kitten from the hem of her nightdress.
“Gah! Bugger bit me!”
“Put it in here.”
She held open a sack, and Thom pulled a kitten from his thumb. It held on as long as it could, stretching long, like a furry leech, before its teeth came unstuck with a little pop and a dribble of blood. He held it up to his face, and its eyes went wide and round, its miniature paws swimming in the air and its stubby tail twirling.
“Mew?”
“I don’t think so, moggy.”
He dropped it neatly into the sack and went for the box, grabbing two more and tossing them in. Their claws immediately sank into the rough cloth, their little bodies swarming upward, but Frannie’s fist cinched the neck of the bag, trapping them.
“There are two more. I threw one in the corner.”
“Where’s the other?”
“Ah! On my ankle!”
She hopped on one foot, trying to dislodge the little orange tabby wrapped around her foot. It purred while it sucked blood from the meat of her calf, and Thom knelt to pull it gently away. Its legs wheeled in the air as it hissed, and Frannie held open the bag, jiggling it to knock the others away from the opening.