When the Scoundrel Sins Read online

  “Quinton,” she whispered in a soft plea.

  Another kiss, but this time, he took her bottom lip between his and sucked, eliciting a shiver from her as he drew her lip deep into his mouth.

  She inhaled a jerking breath. Then the last of her stubborn resistance melted away, and she slumped bonelessly against him. His arms around her kept her pressed close, to prevent her from slipping down his body to the ground. Instead of pushing him away, her hand at his shoulder now fisted the collar of his wool coat in her fingers to keep him close.

  Joy soared inside him at her capitulation, and he welcomed her response as her mouth softened against his and her body relaxed within his arms. Sweet and delicate, the kiss possessed none of the flaring passion nor the eager fumbling he remembered from six years ago—but it was just as magnetic, just as arousing. Even more so. Because her body was now softer and more yielding with her maturity, which only made him crave more.

  “I remember this, too.” He slid his thumb to her chin and gently tugged down, opening her mouth as he slipped his tongue between her lips.

  A shameless lie. He hadn’t kissed her so intimately that night beneath the rose bower. If he had dared to sweep across her inner lip like this, to delve his tongue inside the dark, moist recesses of her kiss and taste the sweetness hidden there like ambrosia—God help him, because even now her kiss heated him down to his core and left him shaking.

  She whimpered softly. He responded to her growing arousal by cupping the back of her head against his palm, to keep her mouth captured against his as he began to thrust his tongue in rhythmic strokes between her lips. He knocked away her tweed cap and dug his fingers into her soft hair until it tumbled loose down her back, all the while not stopping in his relentless desire to kiss her the way no man had ever kissed her before. If he had to leave with only this memory to remember her by, then damnation, he wanted to make certain she never forgot him, either.

  But when her lips closed tentatively around his tongue and took a gentle suck, he felt the unpracticed pull of her mouth straight down to his tightening gut. He was a fool to think he could control this encounter, now as swept up in the embrace as much as she.

  “Annabelle,” he rasped hoarsely, tearing his mouth away from hers to nip his teeth down the side of her neck and drawing a breathless moan of need from her.

  Dear God, how he thrilled at those little sounds that came from her! Even now his cock tingled at her guileless response. She dug her fingers into his hair, and he gladly let her, because every electrifying scratch of her fingertips against his scalp sent shivers spiraling through him.

  When she moved her mouth against his to kiss him back and nibbled tentatively at his bottom lip the way he’d done to hers, he groaned.

  She pulled back, a worried frown marring her pretty face. “Is something wrong?”

  He cupped her face between his hands and pursued her for another kiss. “Nothing.”

  Just everything. For God’s sake, at that moment, he should have been packing his bags and readying his horse to leave, but he couldn’t tear himself away. He tugged back the collar of her coat to gain access to the side of her neck where it sloped beneath her shirt, then licked at the patch of revealed skin.

  She bit back another moan rising at her lips, and he smiled at her innocence as he sat back on the stone. To fight away the very thing that would bring such pleasure…Yet he understood her nervousness, because his own hands shook as he reached beneath her coat and encircled her waist to draw her onto his lap.

  Trembling hands? He nearly laughed. The woman had all of him shaking! So much for his reputation as a rake if such an unschooled gel like Annabelle had him as nervous as a green pup, so nervous that his fingers could barely unfasten the buttons of her waistcoat.

  “Quinn?” His name was an uncertain whisper.

  “You’re so pretty, Belle,” he whispered, his hands gently pushing her waistcoat open to reveal the thin white shirt and the shadow of her breasts beneath in the blue morning light. He groaned—she wasn’t wearing stays. “I had forgotten how much.”

  He trailed a hand slowly down her front and pulled at the shirt to draw the fabric taut across her breasts. Her nipples, already pebbled in arousal, showed dusky rose through the white material. His breath hitched at the sight of her. Sweet Lucifer, she was beautiful.

  “Quinn.” This time, his name was an aching sigh of permission as she arched herself toward him.

  Unable to resist, he lowered his head and captured her right nipple through the thin fabric, finally taking the taste of her he craved.

  A gasp of surprise tore from her at the intimate contact, but she leaned harder into him, her fingertips digging into his shoulders as she fought to regain the breath he’d so easily stolen from her. His pulse spiked. He couldn’t remember ever kissing another woman who was so responsive to each little touch and caress. Even now as he suckled at her nipple, she trembled beneath his mouth, her eyes closed and her lips parted, as if having his mouth on her like this gave her the most intense pleasure she’d ever known.

  When he lifted his head, he saw the wet circle his mouth had left through her shirt, the now translucent material tantalizingly encircling her nipple. He couldn’t resist tracing his thumb over the hard bud and making her shudder before he leaned up to capture her mouth again. This time, she welcomed him eagerly with a hot, openmouthed kiss. One that left him hard between his thighs and throbbing for her.

  He wanted to make her ache just as much as he did. With his left arm around her to keep her close, he shifted her on his lap, until she straddled him as he perched at the edge of the stone.

  Her eyes flew open, and all of her tensed. She stared uncertainly up at him but didn’t pull back. Instead, her arms tightened boldly around his neck, her breath coming in small pants of arousal. She bit her bottom lip.

  He understood her hesitation—she didn’t know if she could trust him with this embrace when he’d so foolishly wounded her after the last one. “I would never do anything to hurt you,” he reassured her, despite the husky rasp of his voice, now thick with desire. “I only want to bring you pleasure.”

  Which was the God’s honest truth. He’d never cared about pleasing another woman in his life the way he did with Annabelle. He found his own satisfaction in giving pleasure to her, and even now that sweet reward pulsed through him and left him insatiably wanting more. He wanted to bring her to bliss.

  Not breaking eye contact with her, unable to tear his gaze away from her beautifully flushed face even if he’d wanted to, he lifted his right hand to his mouth and removed his glove with his teeth. He dropped it to the ground.

  Her eyes widened nervously. “What are you doing?”

  “I want to touch you, Annabelle,” he purred and felt her sharp intake of air. He hadn’t meant to sound so wolfish, yet he couldn’t keep the arousal from his voice. “I’ve wanted to touch you for six years. Will you let me?”

  His heart pounded so fiercely as he breathlessly waited for her answer that he suspected she could feel it—

  “Yes,” she whispered, the word shivering from her lips.

  His body flashed hot at her soft permission. He leaned forward to place a tender kiss on her throat, making her eyes close again. A soft, shuddering sigh seeped from her. He placed his hand on her leg and slowly, so not to frighten her, slid it upward along her inner thigh.

  She dug her fingers into his shoulders as his hand reached the juncture where her legs met. Her name fell from his lips in a low groan as he lightly stroked his thumb against her, down between her legs along the seam of her trousers. She trembled.

  “All right?” he asked.

  “Good,” she whispered, simultaneously nodding and holding her breath.

  With a smile at her contradiction of alluring innocence, he stroked against her again, this time harder and tantalizingly slower than before. She gasped, only for the soft sound to turn into a low moan of pleasure.

  “Oh, that’s—” She licked h
er lips as he continued to caress her through her trousers. “That’s very good.”

  Her mouth found his again, and she kissed him ardently as her fingers ran through his hair in silent encouragement. She widened her thighs in shameless invitation, one he very much wanted to accept—

  A shout went up from the fields below.

  With a startled gasp, Belle slipped off his lap and staggered away from him, brought back to her senses by the intruding world around them. Her hand flew up to her mouth as she stared at him, moon-eyed and stunned, as if she couldn’t believe what they’d done.

  Instantly, he missed the warmth of her and the light weight of her small body pressing into his. He reached for her. “Belle—”

  “No.”

  The single word cut him to the quick. Dropping his hands to his sides, he tightened his jaw as he watched her fumble to fasten up her waistcoat.

  “Damnation, Belle,” he growled, unable to tamp down his anger over her rejection, or hide the frustration evident in his stiff cock. “You don’t get to kiss me like that and run off the—”

  Another shout went up. This time closer.

  Her eyes locked with his for one pained heartbeat. In that moment’s connection he saw both her desire for him and her regret. “Good-bye, Quinton.”

  As she turned away and ran down the hill, he saw that familiar fire blazing inside her, the one he loved so much to rouse. Always had, even when they were children. But they certainly weren’t children anymore.

  With a pained jolt, he realized, finally, why he so enjoyed tormenting her.

  It wasn’t because he enjoyed seeing the fire inside her, but because he enjoyed being the man who put it there. The only man who could stir the anger and passion inside her until it flamed through her like the shimmering of shaken foil.

  And he’d never get to experience it again.

  * * *

  Belle hurried down the path and across the field toward the irrigation ditch. With each step she prayed that her lips weren’t as obviously swollen and red as they felt beneath her fingertips and that no one who saw her would realize what she and Quinn had been doing. Yet thoughts of that wholly unexpected embrace swirled through her mind, confusing her and leaving her in a fogged daze.

  Quinton had kissed her. Again. And oh, what a kiss, too. As delicious as she remembered.

  No—better. Everything about this last kiss was right. More than right. She groaned—it was perfect. So perfect, in fact, that he had her wanting so much more than just a kiss and a fleeting touch. Which was not only delicious, but downright dangerous.

  She’d gotten caught up in him, in the anger he always brought out in her, and then in the wonderful wickedness of his breath-stealing kisses and forbidden touches. But when she’d heard Angus Burns calling out for her, the aching arousal that had been surging through her vanished, replaced instantly by self-recrimination to find herself once more in that scoundrel’s arms. And so shamelessly enjoying it.

  To fall for his charms again— Of course he’d wanted that wanton encounter, because he was leaving and so could scamper off scot-free from any problems he might leave behind. She was such a goose! And especially since he’d refused to help her, putting her closer to losing Glenarvon.

  When she approached the workmen at the ditch gate, she noted the progress they’d made in her absence, which only added more remorse to the mountain of guilt she already carried over Quinn.

  “Looks to be done ’fore noon,” Angus Burns announced as he climbed out of the ditch to stand by her side. Together, they watched as two men finished applying the mortar around the stones that held the gate in place. “’Tweren’t much damage done. More o’ a bother than anythin’.”

  “Boys from the village causing trouble,” she muttered with a long sigh, her hands on her hips in frustration. If Quinton didn’t send her to Bedlam, this string of recent troubles would.

  “’Tweren’t no boys,” Angus countered in a low voice. He gestured toward the stones. “See them scrape marks there?”

  She nodded faintly.

  “Used a metal bar t’ pry the gate loose, an’ the force from the water took it the rest o’ the way off. Whoever did this had strength i’ his arms, lassie, an’ meant to cause problems fer ye.”

  Her shoulders slumped. The self-recrimination and anger she felt over Quinn completely disappeared beneath Angus’s grim words. What were a few kisses and touches compared to the reality of protecting the estate and the slew of problems that had befallen it lately?

  Deliberate destruction meant to do harm…But why?

  “Let’s put a padlock on it,” she instructed with a defeated air, not knowing what else to do to prevent it from being vandalized again.

  “We’ll build up th’ side tracks, too, wi’ more stone an’ mortar. When we’re through wi’ it, lass,” Angus assured her, nodding confidently at his men, “the only way to open this gate wi’out permission will be to hack through it wi’ an axe.”

  She stared glumly at the new gate as it lay on the grass beside the ditch. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

  “Aye.” Then he slid her a curious, sideways look. “Ye came back from yer walk alone. Has the Englishman returned t’ the house, then?”

  She didn’t dare raise her eyes to look at him for fear of what her old friend might see in their depths. “I would assume so.”

  They watched in silence as the men finished placing the last stone, then Angus pressed, “Is that Englishman visitin’ fer a reason?” He lowered his voice so none of the men could overhear, “Perhaps ’cause o’ yer birthday an’ what it signifies?”

  She grimaced. What it signified was a loss of any hope for a happy future, no matter the outcome. The exact opposite of what Lord Ainsley had wanted by including that entailment in his will.

  But knowing Angus was fishing for information about Quinn, she dodged, “Lord Quinton is headed for America. Glenarvon is only a stop on his way to the coast.”

  “A demmed shame, then,” Angus muttered. “’Cause he could be the solution t’yer problems.”

  “No,” she assured him, turning to help the men with the last of the mortar. “Quinton Carlisle is a problem all his own.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Damn damn damn damn damn!

  Quinn stomped into the house and nearly growled at a footman when the man offered to take his coat and hat. “Where’s the nearest whisky?”

  The young man pointed toward the drawing room, not blinking an eye that the long case clock on the stairway landing hadn’t yet struck ten. “Behind the potted palm, sir. Shall I fetch you a glass?”

  “No.” He blew out a frustrated breath and ran his hand through his hair. “I’ll get it myself.”

  The footman nodded and wisely retreated. And Quinn charged toward the drawing room and the promised whisky.

  What on earth had he been thinking to kiss Annabelle like that? Along with so much more he had no business doing with her at all. Something to remember her by? He laughed bitterly. Well, he certainly had that. Although remembering her wasn’t what he wanted to do to her now. The infuriating bluestocking had gotten into his head and under his skin, and what he wanted to do was dribble scotch over her ripe body and lick away every tempting drop, teach her all kinds of pleasures not found in her blasted books—

  He threw open the drawing room doors and froze.

  Lady Ainsley looked up from the settee, a cup of tea lifted halfway to her lips, while in the chair across from her lounged a man dressed in a tweed hunting costume. The man’s eyes flicked disinterestedly in his direction, and he climbed slowly to his feet only when Aunt Agatha rose to hers.

  “Quinton.” A smile brightened her face. “Come join us for tea.”

  He fought to keep from rolling his eyes. Tea. Wonderful. When all he wanted to do was put as many miles between himself and Glenarvon as possible, before he did something he would regret. With the Bluebell. Good Lord.

  But Aunt Agatha’s request couldn’t b
e ignored. With a welcoming smile he certainly didn’t feel—and casting a longing glance toward the potted palm in the corner—he sauntered forward.

  Agatha proffered her cheek to him, and Quinn nearly blinked at the unexpected display of affection. What had gotten into her?

  But he did as expected and kissed her cheek. “Aunt Agatha, you look well-rested this morning.”

  Her sharp eyes swept over him. “And you look absolutely fierce.”

  “It’s the weather,” he deflected. “Too damp and cold for a good walk.” But apparently not for other things.

  The flicker in her eyes made him wonder whether she believed that bit of dissembling. But if she didn’t, at least she didn’t press. Instead, she waved a hand at the man with her. “Quinton, I want to introduce to you Sir Harold Bletchley, our good neighbor to the east.”

  And the man who wanted to marry Belle.

  Quinn tensed, his eyes narrowing. Bletchley looked perfectly harmless enough, he supposed, although the man was at least fifteen years Belle’s senior, with thinning hair and the start of a paunch around his middle. And an arrogance that reeked.

  For the life of him, he couldn’t imagine Belle being happily married to this man. Or kissing him as passionately as she’d just kissed him.

  “Sir Harold.” Quinn gave a stiff nod.

  His aunt continued the introductions. “Sir Harold, this is Lord Quinton Carlisle, my great-nephew, come to Glenarvon to visit with us on his way to America.”

  “Carlisle.” Bletchley didn’t bother to nod, nor erase the bored expression on his face.

  From the tea service and the way Bletchley and Aunt Agatha had been in polite conversation when he entered, Quinn suspected that Bletchley was here to pay a social call, although from his appearance, he’d given it little forethought. The mud on his boots showed that he’d been outside in the damp and found it acceptable to muck about the countryside before calling, as did the smirk on his face that Quinn had let the northern weather get the best of him.