Alec Mackenzie's Art of Seduction (Mackenzies & McBrides #9)(27)

His scowl deepened. “Why are ye not afraid of me? Now that ye know what I am? Why aren’t ye running as fast as those shoes will carry ye?”

Celia could not say why she wasn’t worried. She ought to be—he could kill her with his bare hands or the knife he must have in his boot. He’d killed Englishmen before, including men like her brother. Several of her brother’s friends had died, in fact, at Falkirk and more at Culloden.

“I am not afraid, because I’ve observed you.” Celia reached up and daringly touched his cheek, his warm hair brushing her hand. “I’ve seen you with Jenny. And you’ve been nothing but kind to me. Battle is battle, no matter who you fight for. My brother has killed men, and yet he can be so very gentle.”

Fire flared in Alec’s eyes. Perhaps the mention of her brother, a soldier in the Duke of Crenshaw’s Brigade, had been a mistake.

Alec caught her hand, his fingers strong. She expected him to shove her away, perhaps even strike her, but he jerked her close.

Celia landed against him, the buttons of his coat pressing through her thin fichu. His eyes held the predatory look of the lion she’d thought of him as on the first day, and they narrowed to slits as he studied her.

Celia was too surprised to try to push herself away. She also had no inclination—Alec’s body was strong against hers, and he held the heat of fire. He smelled of wool and man, and the clean linen of his shirt beneath. This close to him, she could see the smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose and cheekbones, the mark of a man of the north.

She observed all this in a heartbeat before Alec drew her closer still and kissed her.



The touch of Celia’s lips spun Alec out of his fury. The thoughts of the enraged Highlander shattered and vanished.

She was like cool water on a searing day, soothing after a ride through hell. Alec needed her coolness, the peace of her.

Alec Mackenzie would never have peace, but being with Celia could give him a taste of it. Her lips were soft and sweet, fine to lick. Alec nibbled one, liking how she started, how her body moved against his. She tried to catch his kiss and return it, but she was clumsy, having no idea how.

The arrogant duchess might pretend her daughter was a wanton, but Celia was no whore. She was innocent, but interested, and Alec would be her instructor.

His blood went incandescent at the thought. He slid his hand under her hair in its modest knot, sleek, neat. Alec wanted to loosen her hair from its pins, pull it free, let it cascade over him.

He settled for pulling her closer, slanting his mouth over hers, encouraging her to part her lips.

When he dipped his tongue inside her mouth, she jumped again, another fine crash of body against his. Alec touched the corner of her mouth with his thumb, teaching her to open to him.

She caught on, if hesitantly. Alec flicked his tongue over hers, wanting to laugh when she gave the barest flick in return. He swept inside, pulling her up to him, hope rising when she relaxed, her body surrendering even if Celia herself didn’t understand why.

Alec had been living like a monk since he’d left France, in spite of Lady Flora offering to send him to discreet ladies for satiation. He’d been too caught up with worry about Will to care about physical needs, and he could not trust himself to remember who he pretended to be in the heat of the moment.

But maybe he should have had a few dalliances, because he wouldn’t now have a heavy cockstand while kissing the innocent daughter of an English duke.

Celia rested her hands on his shoulders and then slid them around his neck, holding him. Alec drank her in, tasting sweetness mixed with the sherry she’d sipped. She grew bolder, moving her mouth against his, opening more.

Alec coaxed her into him, showing her how to caress without devouring. Devouring would come later, when he took her to his bedroom, locked the door against all comers, and tumbled down to his bed with her. He’d look upon this beautiful woman and be eased.

Celia drew back and turned her head, her cheeks brilliant red. “Please,” she whispered. “I can’t breathe.”

“Well, you’re not to hold your breath, lass.” Alec laughed softly as he smoothed the moisture from her mouth. “Kissing would never have caught on if we all dropped dead from it.”

“I cannot … I …” She pressed her hand to her stomacher, her breasts rising under her fichu.

Alec tucked his arm around her and led her to a ridiculously small settee with a curved back and legs. There was barely enough room for both of them to sink down, Celia’s brown and yellow skirts spreading over Alec’s thighs. Alec cupped her cheek.

“Better?”

Celia’s eyes were wet, candlelight shimmering on the green-brown of them. “I don’t know.”

“That’s the trouble with kissing. Ye sometimes forget where ye are—who ye are. Because it no longer matters.”

Celia’s lips parted as though she contemplated this. “Yes, I see what you mean.”

Alec forced down his laughter. She was a joy, and he hadn’t found joy in such a long time. “Shall we try it again, love?”

He rested his arm across the back of the settee, leaning into her. In this position, his cock could stay hidden and not frighten her.

“We should not.” Celia’s lips barely formed the words, as though her heart was not in the protest.

“No, we should not.” Alec gave her a gentle kiss. “But should doesn’t come into it. Only wanting.”