A Scot in the Dark (Scandal & Scoundrel #2)(93)

A long silence stretched between them, muffled shouts from the stage beyond somehow making the room seem smaller. More intimate. Alec wanted to climb the walls to escape it. To escape her.

And somehow, she seemed perfectly calm. “It is not here, is it?”

He exhaled. “Nae.”

“I gathered as much when I heard you cursing.” How was it that she was so calm? “And so my demise approaches.” She smirked, indicating the theater beyond the door. “Like Birnam Wood.”

“What have I told you about Shakespeare?” he snapped.

She smiled. “Last I heard, you were cursing him quite thoroughly.”

“It is my right as a Scot.” He tried not to look at her. She was so close now, close enough to smell. To touch. To ache for. And they were alone.

She whispered his name like a sin. “Alec?”

He swallowed. “Yes?”

“What does the curse mean?”

He shook his head. “It does not translate.”

She waited for a long moment before he lifted his gaze to hers, her grey eyes silver in the candlelight. “And what does mo chridhe mean?”

He shook his head. “It does not translate.”

One side of her mouth rose in a little, knowing smile. “Is it better or worse than the curse?”

She was killing him. He was trying to be noble. To protect her. And— “Why do you not want me, Alec?”

He wanted her with every ounce of his being. How did she not see that? He closed his eyes. “Lily. Now is not the time.”

“What better time than this?” she asked. “What better time than now, on the eve of my destruction?”

“We’ve tomorrow to find it—”

“We shan’t find it. That has never been our prophecy.”

“Stop referring to the damn play like it’s relevant. Everyone dies at the end.”

“Not everyone. From the ash comes a line of kings.” She paused, then said quietly, “Scottish ones.”

“Cursed ones. There are no kings in Scotland now.”

“Aren’t there?”

He ran a hand through his hair, frustration coursing through him, setting him aflame. “Get out, Lily. We’ve another day, and I shall find the damn painting if I turn London inside out. Go to Stanhope. And see if he might be your happiness.”

“He shan’t be,” she said.

“You don’t know that.”

“I do, though,” she said. “How could one man make me happy when I love another so well?”

He turned for the door. “You know not of what you speak.”

They had to leave this place, before they were caught. And he had to find air—she’d thieved it from the room with her beauty, like a fairy. And now hear him—thinking Scots madness like the damned king beyond.

He’d reached the door when she spoke, “I know you are a coward.”

He looked back at the words to find her unmoved from her place at the center of the room, surrounded by the work of the man who had ruined her, straight and strong and proud as Boadicea. And wearing his plaid like a banner.

She was perfect.

He turned away without speaking, and she threw her next spear. “I know that I tremble from wanting you.”

He bowed his head, pressing his forehead to the door.

The stage beyond went quiet, as though all of London had hushed to let her be heard. And then, quiet and longing, “I know that last night, you trembled as well.”

The words broke him. He was moving before he could think, and she was in his arms, wrapped about him, and her lips were on his, and she was sighing into his mouth like he was the greatest gift she’d ever received. He kissed her, reveling in the feel of her lips on his, of the way she softened instantly against him, as though she had been waiting for this moment—for him—for a lifetime.

Just as he had waited for her.

He lifted her, carrying her to the desk at the far end of the room, setting her down and taking her face in his hands, aligning their lips so he might taste her again and again, memorize the softness of her lips and the pretty little moans she sighed when he slid his tongue over her lips, stole into her softness, thieved from her like a beggar at a banquet.

He kissed her until they were both gasping for breath, until he lifted his lips from hers and removed his hands from her, holding them up, wide and weak between them. “I still tremble, Lily.”

Her gaze flickered to them, eyes going dark and devastating when she noted their shaking. When she reached for one, bringing it to her lips, kissing each fingertip before turning his hand palm up and pressing a warm, wet kiss to the center of his palm.

And when her tongue slipped out and swirled a circle there, branding him with her mark, he growled and took her again, licking deep and slow, until she writhed against him, sighing for more. He broke the kiss, trailing his lips over her cheek to the lobe of her ear, where he whispered, “I will ever tremble. There will never be a time when I do not ache for you. When I do not want you with every thread of my being.”

“Then have me,” she said, her breath hot at his ear. “Take me. Claim me. I am yours.” The words roared through him, nearly deafening him with desire.

But he did not deserve her.

He stepped back. Releasing her. “I am not the hero of the play, Lily. You must choose a better one. One more worthy of you. That is the point of this entire exercise.”