Rules For A Proper Governess (MacKenzies & McBrides #7)(49)
Author: Jennifer Ashley

Bertie’s head went back, her eyes filling with wonder as her first cl**ax hit her. Her thrusts met his, her body knowing what to do, her cries beautiful.

Sinclair was coming now, thrusting into her. He had no idea where he was or when, only that Bertie was hot and welcoming, and he needed her.

Bertie fell back to the mattress, breathless, her skin filmed with sweat. She was laughing.

Sinclair, spent, collapsed on top of her, the wretched tears trickling from his eyes. Bertie smiled at him as she reached up and wiped a tear away.

Women in Bertie’s life had told her that men, after lying with a woman, started lying to a woman. Men also fell fast asleep right after, paying no more attention to the lady once his bodily needs were satisfied.

Sinclair showed no sign at all of falling asleep. He stretched out, facedown, next to Bertie, watching her with warm gray eyes as he lifted a lock of her hair and let it trickle through his fingers.

Bertie wanted to freeze this moment in time—lamplight touching Sinclair’s back and hips, brown against the tangle of sheets, his slow smile, his gray eyes holding sin.

“I couldn’t steal anything from you now,” Bertie said, her voice shaky. “Nothing on you to take.”

Sinclair’s smile deepened, crinkling the lines around his eyes, which the bruises in no way marred. “You’ve stolen something from me, don’t worry.”

Bertie gave him a mock skeptical look. “You don’t mean your watch, do you?”

He made a rumbling noise. “You’ve stolen all sense of my place in life. I thought I knew the road I was on, but now I have no idea.”

Bertie didn’t know what he was talking about, but she couldn’t help smiling back. “You ain’t making any sense.”

“I haven’t made sense, lass, since you tripped into me outside the Old Bailey.” He touched the tip of her nose. “My world turned upside down that evening.”

“Well, it hasn’t been all that right side up for me either.”

Sinclair stroked another lock of her hair. He had a scar on the inside of his wrist, a perfect circle, like the end of a cigar. Bertie touched it. “What happened here?”

Sinclair glanced at the scar, almost as though he’d forgotten about it. “Youthful larks.” He shrugged. “Nothing important.”

Bertie rubbed the puckered skin. “Must have hurt.”

“My language was unfortunate. But Steven was stricken—poor lad didn’t realize what would happen.” Sinclair was silent a moment, as though remembering that long-ago injury. “Thank you,” he said.

“For what?” Bertie should be thanking him, for this breathtaking feeling.

“For watching over Andrew. For helping me save his life.” Sinclair moved his hand to her shoulder, his touch warm. “You were certainly cool and steady while I sewed up his wound.”

Bertie had been anything but cool and steady, but she shrugged. “Many’s the time I’ve stitched up me dad when he got himself stuck with a knife. He’s prone to picking fights with men stronger than him. Never was very bright, my dad. And he yells a lot more than Andrew.”

Sinclair’s smile vanished. “I’m glad you’re away from him.”

“He won’t be very happy about Jeffrey. They were great pals, Jeff and my dad, even if Jeffrey was younger.” Bertie touched an angry cut on Sinclair’s face. “The idea was to have Jeffrey marry me and take over Dad’s business when he was gone. I mean the business of robbing and thieving.”

“Which you are out of,” Sinclair said sternly.

“’Course I am. I’m a governess now, ain’t . . . aren’t I?”

Sinclair laughed. He was beautiful when he did that, especially when it was a genuine laugh. “We’ll make you one yet, lass. How is the training going?”

“Coming along. We’ve got about a quarter of the books read. I like the history ones the best.”

He looked interested. “What do Cat and Andrew like to read?”

“Well, Andrew likes the astronomy ones, and so does your cook, by the way. Andrew says he wants to build a flying machine that will reach the stars.”

Sinclair’s laughter came back. “What about Cat?”

“Not sure. She reads everything, remembers everything, but she doesn’t care. That’s not right, is it?”

Sinclair let out a breath. “Poor Cat. I’ve not been the best father to her. To either of them.”

Now Bertie’s anger stirred. “Rubbish. You’ve been fine. Don’t they have a fancy house and fancy clothes and all they want to eat?”

Sinclair slanted her an ironic look. “There’s more to being a father than that.”

“All I can say is, I wish I’d had a dad more like you. Wouldn’t have been knocked about, then, or told I had to marry a bully.”

Sinclair rolled on top of her again, his weight and warmth a fine thing. “And you are wise beyond anyone I’ve ever known. I complain, and you slap me with perspective.”

Bertie touched his cheek. “Aw, I’d never slap you.”

His eyes heated, showing even more wickedness. “I know that, wretched woman. Come here.”

Bertie was already there with him, but he drew her up into his arms. Sinclair’s next kiss was hot, his body tight, as he parted her thighs and firmly slid into her, starting the loving again.

When Sinclair woke in the wee hours of the morning, Bertie was gone. He stretched his hand to the empty pillow, his blood growing cold when he didn’t find her there.

He rose and sought his dressing gown, which had been folded neatly over a chair. He couldn’t help a touch of amusement through this alarm. Bertie had tidied up after him.

It was four in the morning by the clock on the bedside table. Sinclair fastened his dressing gown and opened the door to his study to find a lamp burning and Bertie standing at his desk.

His heart beat faster, his breath starting its constriction. Bertie was looking at one of the blasted anonymous letters that must have slipped out from where he’d thrust it among his papers. She raised her head as Sinclair strode in, her eyes wide, shock and anger on her face.

Chapter 18

“Put that down,” Sinclair said, unable to stop the snarl. He dragged in a breath, forcing himself to exhale normally. “It’s nothing for you to see.”

Bertie didn’t obey—she never did. “That’s vile, that is.”

Sinclair came to her and pried the paper from her fingers, her hand warm even in this chill room. Bertie had dressed again, though she hadn’t laced and buttoned herself all the way. Her hair hung down her back, loose. Her dishevelment made his blood grow hot, Sinclair’s need for her in no way sated.