Warm, supple woman waited for him inside. Mac kissed her lips, fingered the weight of her breasts, eased her on top of him. On their wedding night, he’d pulled her under the covers while she still wore the dressing gown he’d lent her. He’d wanted to spare her the discomfiture of baring herself the middle of the room—he suspected she’d never been naked in front of another human being in her life. She’d probably been taught to bathe in her undergarments. Prudery at its most ridiculous.
Then, as now, he’d unbuttoned her once she was on top of him under the blankets and tugged off the dressing gown. That night, Isabella had kissed him clumsily; tonight, her kisses held the skill of experience.
Darling, darling Isabella. Men were fools not to make mistresses of their wives. What need did Mac have for courtesans when he had beautiful Isabella? What’s more, he could fall asleep with her and wake up with her, spend the day with her, go to bed with her, and begin the wonderful ritual all over again.
His thoughts broke off as she glided one hand around his very aroused cock.
“Don’t tease me, sweet,” Mac whispered, voice grating. “I need you too much to hold back.”
Isabella’s answering smile was hot. She stroked him once. “I need you, Mac,” she said.
All thoughts of his foolish game, of resisting Isabella until their reconciliation was complete, fled his head. To hell with that. Mac caught her hips and half-lifted her to straddle him. She guided Mac to her very wet opening, and closed her eyes as he slid into her.
Oh, yes. Isabella’s sheath closed around him like a tight fist. My beautiful, beautiful darling. Nothing else mattered when Isabella’s scent and lovely slick opening surrounded him, nothing. The first night making love to her had shattered him, and Mac still hadn’t found all the pieces.
“It’s like heaven inside you,” he whispered.
Isabella kissed his lips, the bridge of his nose. “You once said you married me because you thought I was an angel.” Her lips curved into the wickedest smile he’d ever seen as she wriggled her hips.
“Little devil,” he growled.
She splayed her hot hands on his chest, tilting her head back as she rode him. He was going to die of this. Firelight touched her slim body, her nipples dark against cream-colored skin. Her hair trickled over her body, loose now, like a gossamer cloak of fiery red.
Isabella’s face softened, her eyes dark as her moist lips parted. The sight excited him. He thrust high inside her, and they swayed together for a long time, this coupling driving away all fear, all anger, all grief. Nothing mattered but the two of them joining, no longer two but one.
Isabella crooked one arm across her breasts, resting her hand on own shoulder as she lost herself in the pleasure. He knew she was thinking nothing, hearing nothing, only feeling Mac inside her.
He knew when she was drawing to climax, and that excited him even more. He rocked up into her, his own cry of joy ringing with hers as they peaked together.
Isabella collapsed to his chest, her loose hair covering him like a river of red. “It feels so good. I’ve never felt it like this. It’s so . . .” She trailed off, incoherent.
“Good?” Mac wanted to laugh, but his body shuddered with release, and his laughter came out a groan.
They fell silent, Mac burying his fingers in the warmth of her long, silken hair. Mac loved this part, stillness settling between them while his body went heavy, every muscle loose. He’d missed the afterward almost as much as he’d missed being inside her.
“We did this in Scotland,” said Isabella after a time, her voice sleepy. “It was glorious then. But this is better. I wonder why.”
Mac didn’t give a damn why this time seemed even more intense than it had been in his studio, but Isabella wanted an answer. Mac simply wanted to close his eyes and hold her.
“Comfy bed,” he murmured. “Difficult day.”
“I thought I’d never see you again,” Isabella whispered, her breath hot on his cheek. “And then you were there, pulling me out of danger.”
“That must be it. I was a hero. I swept you off your feet and made you want me.”
“Don’t joke.” Isabella frowned. “Don’t.”
“I’m sorry, love. No, it’s not a laughing matter.”
He kissed the line of her hair. Mac had been in time to prevent the abduction, or whatever Payne had been planning, but it had been a close thing. It made him ill to think how close.
No, he couldn’t go on thinking about what if. He’d brought her home, safe and sound.
Relatively safe and sound. Mac thought of her bruised lip and rage trickled through him again. Payne would answer for that.
Isabella lifted her head. “Mac.”
“Yes, sweet angel?”
“I don’t want to sleep yet.”
“Fancy a game of cards, do you? Lawn tennis, perhaps?”
“Don’t be silly. I want to do some of the things we used to do. You know.”
Mac’s thoughts scattered as his pulse quickened. “I do know. Wicked lady.”
Isabella kissed the tip of his nose. “I was taught by a wicked, wicked lord.”
He grinned. “What did you have in mind?”
Isabella showed him. They tried something they’d enjoyed before—Isabella straddling him, facing his legs instead of his face, and then leaning back until she lay full length on him, her back to his chest. Every muscle in Mac’s body tightened in pleasure, the arousal incredible.
This position let Mac cup her where they joined. The feel of her wet heat, the sounds of pleasure she made as he stroked her there aroused him all over again. They climaxed together, their shouts mingling in the stillness of the night.
Still hard, Mac rolled Isabella onto the bed and entered her again, face-to-face. A conventional position, but the best, he thought, where he could kiss Isabella’s lips and watch her green eyes sparkle with passion. If he could ever capture on canvas her expression as she rose to climax, he would treasure that painting above all others. And show it to no one, of course. It would be his own private, decadent pleasure.
Mac made love to her until both of them were limp with exhaustion. Then he blearily pulled the covers over them and fell asleep in a nest with his beautiful, incredible wife.
When Isabella came down to breakfast the next morning, a bit sore from the night’s activities, she was pleased to find a letter from Ainsley lying by her plate.
Mac read the paper at the head of the table, the pages hiding him while he crunched his usual buttered toast. Isabella thanked Morton for the coffee he poured and opened the letter.
She made a faint noise, and Mac’s paper came down. “What is it, love?”
Isabella’s face heated as she met his gaze. She’d begun her shameless behavior last night because she’d been too restless and anxious to sleep. She’d needed to drop off from exhaustion of the kind that only Mac Mackenzie could provide.
She’d sought oblivion but found pleasure so great it was indescribable. By the glint in Mac’s eyes, he understood and was gleeful that he’d been the cause.
“Mrs. Douglas,” Isabella answered. “She says she will try to contrive another meeting between myself and Louisa, but she’s not certain yet when she’ll be able to.”
“When she does, I will accompany you,” Mac said.
“You can’t. Ainsley is finding it difficult enough to invent excuses to take Louisa out alone, without my mother. Louisa might be too afraid to go through with it if she knew you were involved.”
Mac folded his paper and set it aside, his face stern. “Isabella, my lovely, I am not letting you out of my sight. Don’t mention to Ainsley that I will be there if she thinks my presence would confound the scheme, but I am going.”
“Mac.”
“No.”
Mac rarely asserted husbandly mastery. He’d told her the first day of their marriage that he thought it nonsense that men presumed to dictate to their wives—what if the husband was a fool? Wouldn’t the wife be even more
of a fool to obey him? Isabella was to be given complete freedom, because, Mac said, he suspected that Isabella had far better sense than he did.
Isabella saw now that Mac simply had chosen not to assert his rather formidable will. The look in his eyes told her he would not back down, no matter how much she argued.
Isabella tried anyway. “She’s my sister.”
“And there is a madman lurking in the streets waiting to do who the hell knows what. You go nowhere without me.”
Isabella swept her lashes down. “Of course, my dear,” she said meekly.
“And don’t you dare pretend to capitulate and then sneak away when my back’s turned. Your servants agree with me and will tell me if you attempt anything so rash. If you try to leave the house without me, I promise I will drag you back home, chain you up in the cellar, and feed you bread and water with my own hands.”
The trouble with Mac making idiotic declarations was that there was a good chance he’d carry them out. Also, he was right. Payne was a danger. Isabella recalled his terribly strong hands on her and suppressed a shiver. She never, ever wanted to feel that helpless again.
“Very well,” she said in a cool tone. “Find some way that I can meet with my sister safely, and I will do as you say.”
“I will,” Mac said. “I am deadly serious, Isabella: Do not leave the house without me. I will escort you wherever you wish to go. I trust no one else to keep you safe.”
Isabella smeared jam onto a piece of toast. “Will this not severely limit your own business in town?”
“No. My business in town is you.”
“Oh.” Isabella went warm with pleasure, but she certainly would not let him see that. “Surely you’ll have errands to run.”
“And a houseful of servants to run them for me. Anyone I must do business with can come to me here.” He lifted his paper again and shook it open. “In fact, I have an important visitor arriving this morning, so don’t plan to go out until after that, there’s a good wife.”
Isabella sent him a glare that could have burned his newspaper to a crisp. But in spite of her irritation at his high-handed arrogance, she couldn’t help feeling, deep down, a warm glow at his protectiveness.
Her warm glow dimmed an hour and a half later when the Mackenzie family’s London solicitor arrived.
Isabella knew Mr. Gordon well. He’d guided her first through the legal ramifications of her marriage to Mac and his settlements on her and then through the morass of issues involved in their separation. Mr. Gordon had advised her against divorce, which he explained was costly and difficult to achieve. It would involve Isabella accusing Mac of heinous behavior, and Mac defending himself in court in front of the world. Separations were less scandalous and less of a headache, and after all, Isabella wanted only to live in peace and comfort on her own. Mac would provide a full income to Isabella, and she could do as she liked. Mr. Gordon had been kind and patient during the turmoil, and Isabella would be forever grateful to him for that.
“Your ladyship.” Gordon bowed and shook her hand. Unlike the stereotype of the dried-up, rather elderly solicitor, Mr. Gordon was tall, round, and pink-faced, with an amiable smile. He was married and had five children as round and pink as he was.
“Mr. Gordon, how pleasant to see you. How is your family?”
While Mr. Gordon effused about his growing brood, Isabella led him to the front drawing room. They entered to find Mac on his hands and knees playing horsie with Aimee.
Isabella paused in the doorway to take in the sight. Mac was in shirtsleeves and waistcoat, his coat and watch chain safely out of the way. Aimee had her hands full of Mac’s hair, pulling him where she pleased as he galloped over the floor, Aimee squealing in delight.
“This must be the child in question,” Mr. Gordon said.
Mac gently tipped Aimee to the ground then lifted her high, making her squeal again. He settled her in the crook of his arm and turned to greet Gordon.
“In question?” Isabella asked. She bade Mr. Gordon sit down and took a seat herself on the sofa.
Mac perched on the sofa’s arm, still holding Aimee. “I’ve asked Gordon to come ’round and make the adoption official. I’ll become Aimee’s guardian until she’s of age.”
“You will?” Isabella asked. “I thought I was to be doing the adopting.”
“So I told Gordon, but he suggested it would be better for Aimee in the long run if I make her my legal ward, extending her the protection of the Mackenzie family. With you to raise her as you like and make all the crucial decisions of course.”
High-handed again, but Isabella warmed with relief. She’d half feared that Mac would view Aimee in a different light this morning—the daughter of the man who’d accosted Isabella—and want nothing more to do with her. Obviously not. Mac could separate the actions of the guilty from the lives of the innocent, which was another reason she loved him.
“Are you certain of all this, my lord?” Mr. Gordon asked. “Taking on guardianship of a child, especially a girl, carries a weight of responsibilities.”
Mac gave Gordon his careless shrug. “She’ll need someone to pay for her dresses and hats and ribbons and other fripperies. We’ll send her to Miss Pringle’s for finishing and give her a debut ball the like of which London has never seen.” He winked at Isabella. “And we’ll sternly forbid her to elope with any stray lordlings.”
“Very amusing,” Isabella said.
“I mean it. Her mother’s dead, poor sprite, and her father has abandoned her. Besides, her father is a villain. She’ll be much safer with us.”
That seemed to be enough for Gordon, but then, the man had always been fond of Mac and his brothers. He behaved more like a sympathetic uncle than a family lawyer.
“Aimee has obviously adopted you,” Isabella said, watching Aimee play contentedly with a button on Mac’s waistcoat.
“I did ask her, you know, what she thought about living with Uncle Mac and Aunt Isabella for the rest of her life. She approved.”
Isabella narrowed her eyes. “She said that, did she?”
“Well, she doesn’t know many words yet, and all of them French, but she is of the decided opinion that I have a large nose.”
Isabella barely stopped herself from laughing. “Well, anyone can see that.”
“My darling, you wound me.”
No, he wounded her. Mac was one of those people who always looked as though he was about to smile or laugh over some joke, and the laughter on his face made him devastatingly handsome. That only changed when he was very angry, or, as when she’d seen him in Paris, empty.
“There shouldn’t be much trouble,” Mr. Gordon said. “A few formalities and it’s done. The child is essentially an orphan.”
And Mac was so very rich, his family so very powerful. No wonder Gordon had suggested that Mac instigate the adoption himself. Payne, a poor solicitor’s clerk from Sheffield, would hardly prevail against the might of Hart Mackenzie, Duke of Kilmorgan. Aimee would be theirs.
Miss Westlock entered the room then, the professional nanny in her sensing that the time had come for the child to return to the nursery. Aimee went without fuss, which raised Isabella’s opinion of Miss Westlock. Aimee did insist on kissing Mac and Isabella good-bye first, however.
Isabella held Aimee’s warm little body briefly as she pressed a sticky kiss to Isabella’s cheek. Mac wants a child, she realized. He hadn’t brought Gordon here to start the adoption only for Isabella’s sake. He’d taken to Aimee, that was obvious from the way he’d let her sleep on him in the train and ride so happily on his back through the drawing room. Isabella thought about their exuberant bed games last night and in Mac’s studio at Kilmorgan and wondered if a baby would come of them. It was certainly possible. Her heart beat faster as she watched Miss Westlock carry Aimee from the room and close the door.
“And now for the other matter,” Gordon said. He lifted a sheaf of legal-looking papers from his case and handed them to Mac. “I believe these are in or
der.”
“What other matter?” Isabella asked.
Mr. Gordon glanced at Mac in surprise. “Did you not mention to her ladyship that I would be coming today?”
Mac busied himself looking at the papers, not answering.
“His lordship must have forgotten,” Isabella said in a crisp voice. “We have been quite in turmoil the last few weeks. What is this matter?”
“The reversal of your separation, of course,” Mr. Gordon said. He gave her a benevolent smile. “I am pleased to perform this task for you, have looked forward to doing it these many years. It’s a happy day for me, your ladyship.”
Mac sensed Isabella’s anger boil up and over. He rose from the arm of the sofa, moved to a chair, and dropped into it, resting his feet on the tea table in front of it. Mac didn’t look at Isabella, but he felt her glare scorch the space between them.
“The reversal of our separation?” she asked in a chill voice.
“Yes,” Mr. Gordon said. He started to say more then he looked from Isabella to Mac and subsided.
“It only makes sense, my love.” Mac rested his gaze on a painting on the opposite wall. It was a soaring landscape by Claude Lorrain that he’d bought Isabella years ago as an apology for one of his sudden departures. The incredible blue of the sky and the gray-green of the land with its Greek ruins never failed to lift joy in him, but right now they didn’t calm him much. “I’ve been living here with you, openly and scandalously,” he said. “People talk.”
“Oh, do they?”
“Our servants have been gossiping like mad, taking wagers about us, so Bellamy tells me. Your neighbors observe our comings and goings. It’s only a matter of time before word of our reconciliation spreads far and wide.”
“Reconciliation?” Her voice could have etched glass. “What reconciliation?”
Mac finally forced himself to look at her. Isabella sat on the edge of the sofa, back straight, rigidly haughty, green eyes sparkling. She was stunning even when furious, a dream today in a dress of light and dark blue with hints of cream. Mac’s fingers itched for a paintbrush, wanting to capture her just as she was, with that one beam of sunlight spilling into her lap.