What the Hart Wants - Fiona Davenport Page 0,57

nature, tempered by her caring heart.

The interior of his chamber reflected his tastes, the walls adorned with tapestries and things from home. The huge, canopied bed was covered in a thick woolen blanket bearing the colors of his family’s plaid.

He released her hand and motioned toward the bed. Understanding, she sat, reaching out to caress the plaid covering.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispered.

“Aye,” he said. “I’ve brought my home to London. I’ll have the furnishings taken to Clayton House when the work is completed. Even a temporary home must be furnished in comfort, aye?”

Disappointment flickered in her eyes. “Temporary? You intend to leave London?”

“My heart belongs to the land of my ancestors.” He sat beside her and placed his hand on her cheek. “But, lately, I find my heart yearning to remain in London.”

“Your business must make demands of you here,” she said, turning her head away.

He smiled to himself. Did she know that the tone of her voice betrayed her?

“Not just my business, lass,” he said, “but the needs of my body and the calling of my heart.”

She tensed, and her hands curled into fists.

Stubborn lass! Would she continue to deny her desires? Surely a woman with her intelligence would understand his declaration, even if he were incapable of voicing it directly. Or, perhaps it frightened her? Did she intend, after all, to marry that fool Sir Thomas? She was worth more than that. With her fire and compassion, she was fit to be a duchess.

His duchess.

“Bean mo chridhe,” he whispered.

Woman of my heart.

Together they would forge a bond stronger than the mountain—strong enough to withstand the responsibilities which came with his ancestry—both the Scottish and the English. He closed his eyes and pictured his woman—her mouth parted in surprise as he pleasured her thoroughly. And finally, her eyes sparkling with joy as she placed his child in his arms.

His child.

His eyes snapped open. From where had that notion come?

“Delilah…” he breathed.

She turned her head until their gazes locked. Her nostrils flared, the only sign of her anticipation.

And her need.

“Are ye my willing pupil?” he asked.

“Yes,” she whispered. “Tell me what to do.”

He caressed her face, running his thumb along her lips.

“What shall I teach ye?”

“Pleasure,” she said. “I want you to take command of me.” Her face flushed, and she bit her lip.

His hands itched to remove her clothes, to reveal that lush body underneath. But she must come to him. “Strip for me, lass.”

She didn’t move.

“Must I repeat my request?”

She shook her head, then stood. Arms trembling, she reached behind her gown and tugged at the ties. She gave a little huff of frustration as she fumbled behind her.

“May I be of assistance?” he asked.

He cupped her face and brushed a tear away with his thumb.

“Are ye unhappy, lass?”

“No.” She gestured with her hand. “It’s just…all this…it-it’s too much.”

“Shall we stop?”

“No!” she cried.

“There’s no shame in giving yourself to me,” he said, “but it must be your choice.” He reached behind her and caught the ties at the back of her dress. Her body trembled against him.

“May I?”

She nodded, and he undid the ties. Then he released her and watched as she grasped her skirts and pulled her dress over her head.

He reached for her chemise, and she held up her hand.

“No,” she said. “Let me.”

He backed away and sighed, fighting the disappointment. His whole body throbbed in eagerness to be buried inside her.

Mischief glittered in her eyes.

“I believe you commanded me to remove my clothes, Your Grace.”

Desire surged in him as she peeled off her undergarments, wearing nothing but her stockings. She reached for the top of one stocking.

“No!” he cried hoarsely. “Let me. Lay back on the bed.”

She obeyed, then he took her foot in his hands and lifted it to his lips, kissing the toes through the silk stocking. Then he ran his hand along her leg. Her body trembled, and she let out a soft sigh.

He leaned forward and brushed his lips against the ribbon holding her stocking in place. Her breathing grew heavy as he tugged at the ribbon and hooked his fingers under the stocking. He rolled the stocking down and placed a soft kiss on her bare knee. The skin of her thigh was flushed a delectable shade of pink, and he nearly spent in his breeches at the prospect of her flesh waiting to be claimed.

When she lay naked before him like a delicious offering, he stood back to admire her. Her body was petite yet possessed lovely curves. Perfect breasts