“Yes,” she said, swallowing the bitterness in her voice. “It can.”
The bed shifted, and he sat up. She reached for the hem of her nightrail, and a warm hand enclosed hers.
“Allow me.”
He pulled the garment down, covering her legs.
“I should let you sleep, lass.”
He crossed the floor, stopping at the desk where a pile of papers sat—her finished article. He only need lift the top sheet to see the name of the author.
Jeremiah Smith.
“You’ve been writing poetry?”
“Yes.” Her stomach tightened at the lie.
“That’s good,” he said. “I’m doing all I can to find someone to publish them. May I read it?”
He picked up the top page, and she cried out.
“No!”
Chapter Seventeen
Fraser watched her on the bed. Moments before she’d been mewling with desire, yet now, she’d withdrawn from him, hurt in her eyes.
She wanted more.
Had he respected her less, he’d have spread her legs and buried himself inside her. But he valued her too much to take her as his mistress. Though she may deny it, she needed to avoid a scandal. She had a bright future ahead of her, and her desire to help the disadvantaged women of London, as well as her talent for writing, were better served with a spotless reputation.
But the need to claim her as his warred with his resolve. What might it be like to have her warm his bed every night? To see her belly round with his child?
He picked up a piece of paper on the desk, and she cried out.
“No!”
“Forgive me,” he said, dropping the paper. “I’ve no right to intrude on your privacy or betray your trust.”
She didn’t reply, but the stricken expression on her face tore at his conscience.
“I didn’t mean to cause you pain, lass,” he said, taking her hands.
“You’ve not pained me.”
“I forget how little experience you have of men,” he said. “I should listen to Ma’s counsel more.”
“Your mother?” Her eyes widened. “Does she not like me?”
“On the contrary, she likes you a great deal. But Ma has always told me that a woman’s heart is like porcelain, where a man’s is made of granite. She said that a man might indulge in as much pleasure as he wishes and be forgiven for it. But she warned me that if a man’s indulgence brings hurt to a woman, then he cannot call himself a real man.”
She wiped her eyes and gave him a smile. “I think tonight’s lesson has shown that you’re a real man,” she said. “I would like to continue my education. Three more lessons remain.”
“And do you have a proposal for your next lesson?”
She nodded toward the window. “The mountain.”
He lifted her hands to his lips. “Then, lass, I shall bid you good night so you can be sufficiently well-rested to conquer our mountain.”
He released her hands, then retreated from the room. After he closed the door behind him, he could swear he heard a cry.
*
“It’s magnificent!”
Miss Hart’s joy swept aside any concerns Fraser might have had for her disposition. She seemed to have shaken off her melancholy from last night.
She’d taken to the mountain track with gusto. The drover’s road to the pass was relatively easy-going, and she’d refused his help. But when they veered toward the summit, the terrain grew rougher. After some hesitation, she let him take her hand during the steeper parts, and his heart lifted each time she tightened her grip on him.
“I envy you,” she said. “If I lived here, I’d climb the mountain every day.”
If I lived here…
As if she understood the implication, she blushed. “Does the mountain have a name?” she asked.
“It’s called Benn mo Chridhe—mountain of my heart.”
“Mountain of my heart,” she repeated. “I like that.”
“My great-grandfather named it,” he said. “He fell in love with the land here, almost as much as he fell in love with my great-grandmother.”
“He was the one you inherited the title from?”
“Aye, one of that blackguard Jeremiah Smith’s cursed Molineuxs.”
Her smile disappeared.
“Forgive me, lass,” he said. “Today is not the day to speak of enemies, for I’m with a friend, am I not?”
She picked up a stone and held it up. Something glittered in the rock, winking in the sunlight.
“What’s this?” she asked.
“Its tiny crystals embedded in the granite.”
“It’s beautiful. Almost as if the rock were alive.”
“It is,” he said. “A living, breathing part of the land.”
He handed her a flask. “Here, drink.”
She wrinkled her nose. “It’s not whisky, is it?”
He laughed. “No, it’s water.”
She took it, then picked her way over the rocks until she reached a large, flat slab that jutted up at an angle, pointing toward the sky. She looked overhead, exposing her throat, and his manhood twitched with the need to taste her skin.
She lowered her head, and their gazes met. Love of life glittered in her expression, and her face glowed with health and happiness.
“Ye look well, lass,” he said, “far better than the pasty skin of London. Our land is doing you good.”
“Would you prescribe a trip to the Highlands to solve the world’s problems?”
“I would. It’s the land I belong to, the land I love. Money, titles, it’s all nonsense compared to this. The air is fresh, the water pure, and the rocks…”
He moved toward her and held her against the slab of rock—the very same slab he’d envisioned making love to his woman against. He closed his eyes and could almost see the lifeblood of the earth pulsing through the rock.
“We live for the land,” he said. “We don’t own it. We belong to it. It gives us life and hope. It feeds us, clothes us—the peat keeps us warm, and we have learned to take pleasure from everything around us.”
She tipped her face up, and their mouths almost met. Her lips parted, and her sweet breath caressed his mouth. He had only to lower his head to claim those plump lips. The memory of the taste of her swirled in his mind. He longed to hear her little mewls of pleasure once more.
“What do ye think of your third lesson in pleasure, Miss Hart?”
Her tongue flicked out, moistening her lips.
“I enjoyed it very much,” she said. “It’s rendered me even more out of breath than the second lesson.” She lifted her hand and touched his face, rubbing her thumb along the line of stubble at his jaw.
“I find myself in need of my fourth lesson,” she whispered. “My thirst for learning refuses to be quenched.”
“Then, you must ask for it, lass.”
“Your Grace …”
“No,” he said. “Say my name. I want to hear it from your lips.”
“Fraser…”
“That’s it, lass,” he whispered.
“Am I to receive my next lesson?”