Rules For A Proper Governess (MacKenzies & McBrides #7)(48)
Author: Jennifer Ashley

Sinclair fumbled with the clasps that closed her skirts, and the hooks tore off in his impatience. Bertie helped him push the skirts down, her shaking fingers bumping against his solid ones. Now she was bare to the world except for her combinations, her fine, new undergarments.

Sinclair lifted her into his arms and carried her away from her clothes on the floor. He laid her on the bed, which had been stripped and remade after Andrew was moved upstairs, the tight covers cool against her back. The photo of Mrs. McBride had gone from the bedside table as well, to keep Andrew and Cat company in the nursery.

Sinclair didn’t join her on the bed. He stood looking down at her for a long time, his gray eyes still, his breath swift. Bertie curled her fingers on the covers, waiting.

Without taking his gaze from her, Sinclair unfastened his dressing gown and let it drop. His body came into view, hard, tight, and beautiful. Bertie’s heart thrummed.

His wide shoulders were sunbaked, the red-bronze color fading to paler skin on the rest of his torso. Blond hair dusted his chest, and his navel was a deeper shadow in the dim room. Another swirl of hair, darker than that on his chest, curled between his legs.

His staff was hard and ready, stiff and long. No need for a lady to tickle him up, as Bertie had heard women say about their men. Sinclair looked down at her, paying no attention to his own nudity, his gaze all for Bertie.

He put his knee on the mattress and climbed onto the bed with her. His hands landed on either side of her head, but he didn’t kiss her again. Sinclair only looked at her, his eyes dark in the low light, the same light brushing gold into the unshaved whiskers on his face. He continued to hold her gaze as his hand went to the buttons of her combinations and began unfastening them.

Bertie’s heartbeat sped. Cool air touched her skin, the placket parting. Sinclair pushed the combinations’ sleeveless top down her body, then lifted her h*ps to slide the drawers from her legs.

There. Bertie was bare before a man for the first time in her life.

Sinclair nuzzled her cheek, then kissed it, his lips brushing so lightly it might have been a breeze. His hand went to her chest, moving to cup her breast, his thumb on her nipple, his touch a dart of fire.

“I never . . .” Bertie’s whisper was loud in the stillness. “I never been with a man before . . .”

“Shh.” Sinclair lifted away from her breast, leaving Bertie craving him, and touched her lips. “I won’t hurt ye, sweet.”

Any Englishness dropped away from him—Sinclair’s voice was all Scots. His arms were tight but his hands gentle, his fingertips skimming her face before he leaned in to kiss her again.

Fine heat—Bertie found hard muscle under Sinclair’s smooth skin, then the warm silk of his hair, the rough bristles of unshaved beard. The cuts on his face caught at her fingers, as did the swollen bruises. Jeffrey had hurt him.

The thought made Bertie furious. “He shouldn’t have done that. I’m sorry.”

Sinclair raised his head, eyes glittering in the half-light. “I needed to fight him. We Highlanders like our vengeance.”

“But . . .”

“No more talking.” Sinclair’s voice turned to a growl. “It’s only you and me tonight, and the very bad thing I’m doing.”

“Not bad.” Bertie smiled. “It’s not bad at all.”

“Yes, it is.” Sinclair’s answering smile burned her. “But I don’t care.”

He stilled further talk by kissing her. His mouth tasted of whiskey, his whiskers burned, and he pushed her thighs apart with a firm hand. Bertie held her breath as Sinclair lifted his head, his gaze drawing hers, and began to slide himself into her.

Bertie’s eyes went wide, the tightness of her telling Sinclair more than words that he was her first. He didn’t like the triumph that swelled through him, but he couldn’t stop it. She was his.

Soft woman met his body, hers moving with its first taste of passion. Sinclair knew he could hurt her without meaning to, so he slid in slowly, letting Bertie get used to him before he went on.

It wasn’t easy. The small cry that escaped her lips beat heat through his blood, his need escalating with every heartbeat.

He held off as long as he could, but Bertie slid her hands down his back to cup his hips. “Please,” she whispered.

Sinclair dipped his head to the mattress, breathing the warm scent of her hair. “Bertie, what are you doing to me?”

She didn’t answer, but her intake of breath was enough for him. Sinclair kissed the curve of her neck, then bit it as he slid himself all the way inside.

Something woke in him, a wild spark that had been dead for a long time. Sinclair felt it race through his body, and his attention focused to one point.

Bertie. Roberta.

Sinclair moved his h*ps forward in one hard thrust, crazed magic entwining him fast.

He remembered how, when facing death on the battlefield, his mind had emptied of all other thought. Fear had fled, and rage, and all he’d experienced was a kind of floating freedom. Hard to come out of that when he was back at camp doing ordinary things; hence his mad pranks and the quantities of drinking he’d done.

His marriage and children had floated him free again, to be dashed to pieces five years later when Daisy had gone. Sinclair had lain in those pieces since, believing himself finished. He went through the motions of daily life, and honed his skills to deadly sharpness, but without much interest. His work filled the hours, made the pain more distant.

At this moment, with this woman under him, all the pieces of himself charged together again. It hurt, more than had Jeffrey kicking him in the stomach in the East End gutter. Pain radiated through Sinclair’s entire being, sharp like flesh being pulled from a wound.

A shout came from Sinclair’s throat. Bertie’s eyes widened—her blue eyes he could drown in. She’d come to him out of the fog, her eyes crystal brightness in a world of gray.

Now she was shining a light so bright it seared him. Sinclair wanted to hide his face and not look. But a Cockney pickpocket was dragging him out of the land of grayness, forcing him back into the fire. And he wanted to run into the flames.

He thrust into her, hearing his shouts, unable to stop himself. The hot ferocity of the coupling boiled around him, ecstasy wound with pain.

Bertie cried out softly, her fingers hard points in his back. Sinclair knew she was unused to a man inside her, and he tried to slow, tried to gentle himself, but he couldn’t stop.

He needed to go on, on . . .

He heard words come out of his mouth, curses at himself, tears hot in his eyes. He wound tighter as his body pressed down into one need—to be in her, one with her.