Rules For A Proper Governess (MacKenzies & McBrides #7)(60)
Author: Jennifer Ashley

“I thought you were beautiful. But we don’t need the dress.”

“It’s gone.”

“Good.”

Sinclair broke her hold of him, but only to strip off his coat, waistcoat, shirt, and undershirt. Bertie’s hands roved his bare shoulders, finding every curve of muscle, tight under his skin.

She thought he’d take off his kilt, but Sinclair only tucked the plaid around her, giving her a wicked smile as he slid himself on top of her.

“Oh.” Bertie let out her breath as he pushed inside her, spreading her. He was large and thick, and everything that was good.

He thrust slowly, pausing between each one, letting her feel every inch of him. Gone was the frenzy from the train—they came together in warmth tonight, locked in intimacy.

Sinclair slid his hands under Bertie’s hips. He rolled her over on the large bed, still inside her, and eased her upward until Bertie was sitting on him, straddling his thighs.

The position lifted him high inside her. Bertie’s head went back, a cry of pleasure escaping her throat. This was why men and women desperately sought passion, this amazing feeling, and the joy of finding it with another person.

Sinclair watched her, his hard-palmed hands coming up to cup her br**sts. He teased her ni**les with his thumbs, sending dark fire to join the one already incinerating her.

Bertie moaned, rising and falling as Sinclair lifted against her. He slid his hands from her br**sts to her hips, encouraging her, until she was rocking shamelessly on him. The movement pressed him even more satisfyingly inside her.

Bertie rode him, her hair tumbling down. She was brazen, she knew, but she didn’t care. She loved this man, and she wouldn’t throw away the joy he was handing her.

By the time she was crying out, drowning in dark waves of passion, Sinclair had lifted himself onto his elbows, thrusting hard. His skin gleamed with sweat, the plaid bunched around them, the lamplight brushing his body and the gold of his hair.

Bertie never knew when it was over. Her mind whirled away, lost in the incredible delights Sinclair gave her body, but suddenly she was lying full length on top of him, holding him, kissing him. Sinclair was inside her, still hard, but he was spent, his breath coming fast, and he was laughing.

“Happy Christmas,” he said, his voice rough.

“Happy . . . Christmas.” Bertie’s words came out between breaths, then she snuggled against him and let all be well.

Christmas morning commenced without Bertie having gotten much sleep. Her eyes were hot and sandy, her body a bit sore, but she dressed and made her way to the nursery for the celebration.

The entire Mackenzie and McBride families were there, mothers, fathers, and children. Elliot and Juliana had a half Indian daughter—Bertie had heard the entire tale of Priti’s origins from Eleanor. Priti was a beautiful child, bright-eyed and full of enthusiasm for opening Christmas gifts. She was protective of her half brother, Patrick, who was not even a year old.

Amazing gifts had been showered on the children, from kites to entire armies of toy soldiers to dolls and doll furniture, to a bicycle for Aimee, the oldest Mackenzie at seven. Andrew eyed the bicycle with envy, but forgot about it when he opened his steam train on a track, with an engine that belched real steam.

Cat received jewelry, ribbons, lace, hats, and slippers, from the Mackenzie and McBride ladies, and her doll had a new frock, given to her by Sinclair. The gown was of the latest mode, a burnt orange color trimmed with brown, with a puffed bustle and long sleeves that tapered into ruffled cuffs. Cat touched the dress, thanked her father, and set the box aside.

Sinclair’s smile when Cat thanked him was strained. Beth whispered to Bertie later that Cat received a new dress for the doll every year, but never put them on her. Bertie had noted that the doll’s clothes never changed—though Cat would undress the doll and let Aoife wash the garments, the same things always went back on again.

Daniel Mackenzie didn’t let the dignity of his nineteen years mar his eagerness to help the children open and sort through their mountain of gifts. The children loved him, Bertie saw, the tiny ones crawling over him, the older ones, including Andrew, shouting for his attention. Even Cat, the oldest child present, favored him with her rare smiles.

“What did you do for us this year, Danny?” Andrew yelled at him.

“Thought you’d never ask.” Daniel rose to his feet, winked at Bertie, and told the children to follow him—no pushing, no shouting.

They filed out obediently, the older ones quivering in excitement as they ran down the stairs after him.

Ian Mackenzie, who’d left the nursery as soon as his son’s and daughters’ gifts had been opened, waited for them on the terrace. Snow had fallen in the night, but the clouds had gone, and the December day was crisp and clear. The nannies had made the children stop for coats, and Bertie adjusted mittens on several pairs of hands.

Daniel held his hands up for silence, then spoke. “Those of you who were here for Christmas last year remember the spectacular show put on by his brilliance, Ian Mackenzie, assisted by your humble servant.” Daniel pressed his hands to his chest and bowed. The children laughed and applauded.

“Get on with it, Danny,” Louisa shouted.

Daniel took another bow. “As you know, I have a fondness for mechanical workings, and Ian has a fondness for precision. He also has a fondness for his children, who are spoiled rotten.” Ian’s two older children jeered at him, while his youngest, Megan, waved her fists from her mother’s arms. “We pooled our efforts to bring to you the launch of the first Mackenzie flotilla—of the air!”

Daniel rotated his arms in a wild signal to Ian, who carefully leaned down and pulled some kind of lever half hidden by the terrace’s wall.

The pops of small explosions, like miniature fireworks, sounded, making the children jump and squeal, some sticking fingers into ears. Puffs of smoke burst up all along the terrace, and with it, balloons, each about a foot in diameter. Dangling from each was a small box.

The balloons, dozens of them, soared up into the air and headed for the garden. The children jumped and danced, or stared, enchanted.

“Those boxes are my presents to you,” Daniel shouted. “Catch them if you can!”

Chapter 22

Another collective cheer, and the children swarmed down from the terrace, racing into the garden, screaming and laughing.

Cameron went off the terrace after his tottering, happy daughter. “Blast you, Danny. I’d dreamt of putting my feet up somewhere warm for the rest of the morning, not rushing around the freezing garden.”