Jeffrey fought, first in anger, then in fear and desperation. He wrenched himself away and tried to run, but Sinclair grabbed his coat with both hands and hauled him back. Sinclair threw Jeffrey against a wall and raised his fist to strike, strike, and strike again.
“Leave . . . off,” Jeffrey panted, blood spewing onto Sinclair’s greatcoat.
Sinclair gave him another furious punch. “You shot my son, you filthy bastard. He’s eight bloody years old!”
“Didn’t mean to,” Jeffrey said, words muffled by his broken jaw. “Your fault. Meant to hit you. He shouldn’t a’ been there.”
Sinclair grabbed the lapels of Jeffrey’s coat and hauled him up the wall. “It was you who shouldn’t have been there. You broke in, you shot at me and hit Andrew. Your fault, and yours alone.”
“No, it were Bertie’s.” Jeffrey snarled the best he could. “She ran away from me, and you made her your whore, you Scottish pig! If she hadn’t left me, nothing would have happened.”
Sinclair ground him back into the wall. “Don’t blame her for your idiocy, you piece of dung. Don’t even say her name.”
“I knew it. I knew she were your whore.” Jeffrey tried to spit at him.
Sinclair drew back his fist again, but his hand was caught by the large one of Lloyd Fellows, the man’s grip amazingly strong.
“Enough of that,” Fellows said in his no-nonsense tone. Something clinked, and Fellows had a cuff around one of Jeffrey’s wrists. “Jeffrey Mitchell, I arrest you in the queen’s name for the breaking and entering of a Mayfair home, the attempted murder of Mr. Sinclair McBride, and the shooting of Andrew McBride, an eight-year-old boy. The jury probably won’t have much sympathy for that. I have a police van waiting for you, so we can pay an afternoon call on the magistrate.” He gave Sinclair a stern look. “You, go home and drink. Make sure he gets there, Cam.”
Cameron Mackenzie had come up behind them. “A large whiskey is what I prescribe,” he said. He put his big hand on Sinclair’s shoulder and steered him from the alley.
Inside the carriage, Sinclair collapsed against the cushions, his breath leaving him. He pulled out a handkerchief and mopped his face, covering the cloth with blood.
“You look bad,” Cameron said, his broken-gravel voice too cheerful. “Clean yourself up, and then tell her. Straight out. I don’t think she’ll be heartbroken that her philandering, murderous beau is on his way to the clink.”
Sinclair couldn’t speak. He leaned back against the cushions, dabbing at his bloody face, and accepted the flask Cameron handed him in silence. Cameron had an attractive trait—knowing when to talk and when to shut up. Without speaking, the two men traveled back across London, Sinclair letting the whiskey burn deep.
Andrew was delighted with the visit from his uncle Ian, though Andrew did most of the talking. He showed Ian his wound, and described the wild gunfight—which he wholly invented—that had led him to being hurt. Ian nodded as Andrew spoke, as though he believed every word. Cat listened, not interrupting, and Bertie pretended to focus on her mending.
Andrew prattled on, his powers of speech recovered at least. “Bertie, you should have seen what Uncle Ian built us last Christmas. It took up a whole room!”
“I liked it,” Cat said, so softly Bertie barely heard it. Ian did, and he gave her a nod.
“Will you do something like it again this Christmas, Uncle Ian?” Andrew asked. “Please?”
Ian paused a moment, then said, “Yes.”
“Hooray!” Andrew started to bounce, then winced and stopped. “I’ll take lots of medicine and get better so I can go to Scotland for Christmas. You’ll love Kilmorgan Castle, Bertie.”
“A castle?” Bertie said from her chair. “Sounds grand.”
“Papa’s house is big too,” Andrew went on. “By a loch. You’ll like it too, Bertie.”
“I’m sure I will,” Bertie said. “Stop bouncing, Andrew. You’ll tear open your wound and have to be sewn up again.”
Andrew stilled for about three seconds, then started an animated narrative about the beauties of both Kilmorgan Castle and his father’s house north of it, where they’d lived with Mama, and everyone had been happy.
When Andrew started to droop, no longer able to pretend he wasn’t hurting and tired, Ian stood up, smoothed the covers over the boy, and started out of the nursery. At the door, Ian looked back and gave Bertie a penetrating stare. Then he walked out and waited in the hall, leaning against the railing of the landing.
Bertie set aside her sewing and went out, closing the door behind her, curious as to what Lord Ian could have to say to her.
The hall was gloomy from the coming evening, the December day short. Ian’s eyes, a tawny color that went with his dark red hair, glinted in the shadows.
After Ian had stared at Bertie for a long, silent moment, he said, “Stay with them.”
“Cat and Andrew?” Bertie nodded. “Of course, I’ll stay. I’m their governess now.”
“I mean for always.” Ian gripped the railing with his big hand. “You need to stay.” He delivered this declaration, then walked past Bertie without speaking another word and went down the stairs.
Bertie watched Ian circle around the staircase and landings, keeping to the exact middle of the stairs, never touching the railings. When he reached the bottom, he opened the vestibule door and front door, blowing a draft up the stairs, then the front door banged, and Ian was gone.
The night was fully dark by the time Sinclair arrived home, Richards having wound his way through London’s packed streets. Cameron alighted at Berkeley Square, where he’d hired a house for his family’s stay in town, and Sinclair rode on to Upper Brook Street alone.
Macaulay took one look at Sinclair and ordered a hot bath be brought to Sinclair’s bedroom. Macaulay wanted to stay and bathe him but Sinclair growled that he was fit enough to bathe himself, for God’s sake. Macaulay at last agreed and left him alone.
Sinclair took his time in the bath, scrubbing off the blood and grime, pouring warm water over his hair. He finished, dried, and slipped into a dressing gown, then went upstairs to the nursery while Peter and the maids carried the bath back downstairs to empty it.
The lights were low, and Andrew was fast asleep. Cat was also in her bed, with Bertie reading to her in a soft voice. Sinclair sank down on one of the chairs, barely able to move, waiting until Bertie finished the story.
Once Bertie put the book aside, Sinclair rose and kissed Cat good night, then went to Andrew’s bed and dropped a kiss to his son’s head. Andrew was mending, and Sinclair said a thankful prayer.
After that, Sinclair took Bertie by the elbow and steered her out of the nursery, all the way down the stairs, through his study, and into his empty bedroom. He closed the door firmly behind them both and turned the key in the lock.
Chapter 17
Bertie’s heart beat faster as Sinclair clattered the key to his bureau. He turned to her, the brighter light in this room showing more clearly the bruises and cuts on his face.
She quickly closed the space between them. “You all right? Did Jeffrey do this? What happened?”
“Jeffrey’s in jail,” Sinclair said, sounding weary. “Carted off by Inspector Fellows to spend the night with the magistrate. You won’t have to worry about him ever again, Bertie. I promise you.”
Bertie believed him. “Look at you,” she said. She touched his face, barely letting her hand make contact. The side of Sinclair’s left eye was swollen, the corner of his lip cut, and bruises trailed across his cheekbone.
He stood without moving while Bertie went to the washbasin and wrung out a cloth. She came back and dabbed at his cuts, washing away the new blood. He’d just bathed—his skin was damp and smelled of soap—but wounds like these were easily reopened.
When she reached up to dab his forehead, Sinclair caught her wrist. His eyes were like
pieces of winter sky as he fixed them on her. She expected him to push her away, to admonish her, but he didn’t. He held her wrist, while water from the cloth trickled from her hands.
“I’ll just put this back in the basin,” Bertie whispered.
Sinclair didn’t let go or appear to hear her. He kept his hand around her wrist, his eyes on her, his gaze holding her more effectively than any shackle.
When he finally did move, it was to take his other hand and brush it through her hair. His fingers loosened pins she’d spent a frustrating time this morning putting in, her thick hair soon tumbling free.
He let go of her hand, and the wet cloth fell to the carpet with a splat. Sinclair continued to pull her hair loose, the mass of it flowing over her shoulders to her waist. Since Bertie had been living here, she’d been able to keep her hair clean, amazed at the different soaps the rich washed themselves with.
Sinclair’s short hair glistened with droplets of water, and the dressing gown, though it was fastened, held the warmth of the bare man beneath. Bertie’s knees went shaky as Sinclair’s large hands pushed back her hair then drifted to the buttons of her bodice.
Bertie could say nothing, do nothing, as Sinclair started sliding the buttons through the buttonholes, one by one, taking his time. Sinclair didn’t hold her—Bertie simply couldn’t move. Her body crawled with heat—she hadn’t been so warm all day. No need to run from this.
Sinclair’s blunt fingers opened the bodice in silence. The placket parted for his big hands, and he drew his fingers down the corset cover beneath.
Bertie’s breath hitched as Sinclair moved his touch down to the cuffs of her sleeves. He undid the faux pearl buttons there, then returned his hands to her shoulders and pushed her bodice open and off. Bertie now stood with bare arms in her corset and its jacketlike cover, and her skirts beneath it.
Bertie reached for the cloth fastenings of Sinclair’s dressing gown, her fingers trembling, but he gently pushed her hands aside. He ran his fingers up her wrists, back to her shoulders then down to unhook the clasps of the corset cover and push it away.
When his hands moved to the corset’s laces, he kissed her, his mouth insistent, lips opening hers. The laces at Bertie’s back loosened, Sinclair’s strong hand parting them, then his warmth came to her through the thin fabric of her combinations. He made a noise in his throat as he pulled her closer, his fingers splayed across her back.
Hot and cold sensations chased through Bertie’s body. She wanted to fold in on herself, and at the same time, she burned with energy. The corset came away, Bertie’s chest expanding as the restricting garment released her.
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 hips 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 hips 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 Da
isy 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.
Bertie’s head went back, her eyes filling with wonder as her first climax hit her. Her thrusts met his, her body knowing what to do, her cries beautiful.
Sinclair was coming now, thrusting into her. He had no idea where he was or when, only that Bertie was hot and welcoming, and he needed her.
Bertie fell back to the mattress, breathless, her skin filmed with sweat. She was laughing.
Sinclair, spent, collapsed on top of her, the wretched tears trickling from his eyes. Bertie smiled at him as she reached up and wiped a tear away.