Underneath The Mistletoe Collection. Marguerite Kaye
had decided to stay here. Before the success of the Rescinding, here in this very hall. He must have changed his mind about the castle by now. Certainly he had not suggested knocking it down again. And there would be jobs. The lands would provide enough produce to feed the visitors.
It could work. She just might have been right after all, when she’d said to Innes that they would have to think differently. Strone Bridge Castle Hotel. Ainsley’s stomach fluttered with excitement. This would be her legacy.
* * *
Innes was gone ten days, during which Ainsley worked on her plan for the castle, determined to surprise him and equally determined not to dwell on the growing sense she had that her time on Strone Bridge was ticking inexorably to a close. He arrived with the morning tide, tired but immensely pleased to see her. Watching his tall, achingly familiar figure stride along the old pier towards her, she forgot all her resolutions and threw herself into his arms.
He held her tightly, burying his face in her hair, exchanging barely a word with Robert Alexander, telling the surveyor brusquely that he had business to attend to before rushing Ainsley back to the Home Farm, leaving old Angus and Eoin to take the cart and deal with the luggage.
They arrived breathless, and headed straight for their bedchamber. ‘I feel like I’ve been gone an age,’ Innes said, locking the door firmly behind him. ‘I missed you.’
‘Did you?’ She felt as if she couldn’t get enough of looking at him, and stood in the middle of the room, simply drinking him in.
‘I missed having breakfast with you,’ Innes said, putting his arm around her, steering her towards the bed.
Her heart was beating from the effort of climbing the hill, from the effort of trying not to let him see how very much she had missed him, and from anticipation, too. ‘I’m sure you and Eoin had plenty to talk about,’ Ainsley said.
Innes smiled. ‘We did, but when Eoin smiles at me over his porridge, it doesn’t make me want to kiss him.’
‘I expect the feeling is entirely mutual,’ Ainsley teased.
‘Did you miss me?’ Innes kissed each corner of her mouth.
‘A little.’ She kissed him back, her words a whisper on his ear.
‘Just a little?’ He kissed her again, more fully this time, running his fingers down her body, brushing the side of her breast, her waist, to rest his hand on her thigh.
She shivered. ‘Maybe a wee bit more than a little,’ she said, imitating his action, her hand stroking down his shoulder, under his coat to his chest, his waist, his thigh. He was hard already, his arousal jutting up through his trousers. She slid her hand up his thigh to curl lightly around him. ‘I can see you missed me a good bit more than a little,’ she said.
Innes reached under her skirts to cup her sex. ‘Do you want to know how much more?’ he asked.
He had a finger inside her. She contracted around him. ‘Yes,’ she said. He started to stroke her. ‘Oh, Innes, yes.’
They lost control then. She pulled him roughly to her, her mouth claiming his. He kissed her urgently. Their passion spiralled, focused on the overwhelming, desperate need to be joined. She had to have him inside her. He had to be inside her. There was no finesse to it. Speed, necessity, drove them. Innes struggled out of his trousers enough to free himself. He rolled onto the bed, taking her with him, lifting her to straddle him, her knees on either side of him. She sank onto him, taking him in so high, so quickly, that they both cried out.
Their kisses grew wild. She clung to his shoulders, then braced herself using the headboard, arching back as she drew him in, as he thrust higher, harder, furiously, until the deep-rooted shiver that preceded her climax took her, and he came, too, pulsing, shaking them both to the core, making them forget, in the utter satisfaction of it, that he was still inside her, clinging to her, holding her there, with his arms, with his mouth, though she needed no holding, clinging, too, her harsh breath mingling with is, his heart beating against hers.
She had not planned it, but the connection, having him deep inside her as he came, had been momentous.
A true joining.
A true mistake.
Her body had betrayed her. Ainsley felt as if her world was shattering. She loved him. And even as she felt the truth of it settle itself inside her, she saw his face. Innes looked appalled.
‘I’m sorry. Ainsley, I’m sorry. I don’t know what— I didn’t mean— I’m sorry.’
She shook her head, not quite meeting his eyes as she lifted herself free of him. ‘It doesn’t matter.’ Though it did. It had changed everything.
Innes could not have made his feelings any clearer, but he seemed to want to try. ‘It does matter,’ he said, hurriedly adjusting his clothing. ‘You asked me— I promised I would always be careful. I don’t know why I...’
‘It wasn’t your fault. It was mine.’ She would not cry in front of him, but she needed him gone. She gave him what she hoped was a reassuring smile. ‘I told you, there is almost certainly nothing to worry about.’ He was staring at her, horrified. ‘It was simply— We were incautious because we had grown accustomed to more regular release,’ Ainsley said, cringing at the words even as she spoke them.
She rolled off the bed. She couldn’t look at him now. ‘There are a hundred letters waiting for you, and Robert will be wishing to talk to you. Go on downstairs, I will rejoin you shortly.’
* * *
Ainsley held open the door, giving him no option but to leave her. Dazed, Innes did as she bade him and made his way downstairs to the sitting room. He sat at the desk, staring at the neat piles of correspondence, feeling as if he’d been punched in the gut.
He cursed long and hard, then poured himself a glass of malt. What had happened? He swallowed the dram in one. It burned fire down his throat and hit his belly too fast. He coughed, then poured himself another. I’m sorry, he’d said, but he had not been. That was the worst thing. It had felt so good, spilling himself inside her. He hadn’t thought of the consequences. He hadn’t been thinking of anything at all, save for his need to be with her. In all honesty, he couldn’t have cared less about the consequences. But Ainsley had. Her face. Stricken, that was the word. She’d tried to cover it up, but he was not fooled.
Innes finished his second glass of whisky, feeling as if he’d just been given a death sentence. All he’d been able to think about these past few days was coming home to Strone Bridge and to Ainsley.
Home. Ainsley. The two words had somehow become connected, and as if determined to make sure his mind made the connection, too, his body had made it impossible for him to ignore. Which left him where, exactly?
He swore again, bitterly. Terrified and confused as hell, was where it left him. He could no longer trust himself, and Ainsley would no longer trust him. Things had changed fundamentally, yet some things would never change. He still carried the burden of the past with him. Whatever he felt for Ainsley, he had no right to let it flourish.
This was a warning, a very timely one. The truth would see to the outcome. He felt sick at the thought of it, but he didn’t doubt it was the right thing to do. The only thing. He cared enough to want her to understand, which was a lot more than he’d ever cared for any woman since that first one. He cared too much. Far too much.
Checking the clock on the mantel, Innes saw that half an hour had elapsed. With a heavy heart but with his mind resolute, he set out to find her.
* * *
Ainsley was seated in front of the mirror, staring at her reflection as if it was another person entirely. She loved him. Did she really love him? How could she be so foolish as to have allowed herself to fall in love with him? Had she forgotten how miserable she’d been, married to John?
No. She had not loved John. Innes was not John. This marriage was not at all like her first. ‘Because