“Some of us would rather be taken, lass. I hope so, at anyroad. I canna be the only one. Here, let me.” He knelt behind her. He was so tall that when she sat on the low stool, he was of a height to still reach her hair.
He combed through it with those big fingers, finding the pins and pulling them out. Occasionally, he would pause and massage the base of her neck with his thumbs. It was glorious. She watched him in the looking-glass. It scared her, how big her eyes were and how much she enjoyed the service – so much different from when a maid tended to her coiffure. She had never before met a man who would consider doing such a thing. Yet he seemed to enjoy it, the little frown creasing his broad forehead from concentration, not distaste.
Preshea let her head tilt forward and closed her eyes, not wanting to stare and not wanting to calculate. Simply wanting to enjoy.
He finished and the cool weight of her hair fell against her back. He ran his hands once more through the strands, swirling against her skull. It was a glorious relief from the pressure of coils and twists. Slowly, he pushed the mass aside and over one shoulder. She felt a kiss, feather-soft against her exposed neck.
“What do you like, Preshea?”
“What?” The question floored her.
He laughed – a little huff of breath against her skin. “In this, I ken you may be more experienced than I. Four husbands, remember? I dinna have any wives.”
“But you have had lovers?”
“Only two. I’m hoping they taught me well.”
It was an odd thing for him to say. As though a man were to learn anything of his own pleasure from a woman. The very idea! Men were born knowing, and demanding. Were they not?
She turned to him on a breath. “I don’t know. No one has ever asked me that before.”
He tilted her chin up and looked into her eyes. It was not uncomfortable, but she felt scorched through from the heat there. “Come, then, lass.” He stood in one smooth movement, towering over her. “Shall we find out?”
Preshea blinked at him and his proffered hand. If this was what he wanted, she would play along, attempt to fathom his reasoning. Did he desire her loyalty? Why else care for her feelings on the matter of bed-sport? She was there, willing enough; he could do as he wished. Unless she decided to practice her more deadly arts, of course.
She placed her hand in his and allowed him to pull her to her feet. His grip was solid, more rough than a gentleman’s ought to be, but sure and kind.
“You are very beautiful.” His blue eyes gleamed. She had not thought blue could be a hot color, until now.
“I know.”
“But, I’m thinking, damaged?”
Preshea smiled. “Better to say deadly.”
“Aye, that too.”
“You are a brave man, to take me on.”
He chuckled. “Or a bun-headed one. Maybe I’ve an overblown opinion of my own abilities.”
Preshea cocked her head. Is that was this was about? Is he a prideful lover? That she could cultivate. “Shouldn’t I be the judge of that?”
“Nay, little trickster. You’ll na manage me so easily.”
That startled her. It was the first time he’d acknowledged that he saw her wiles at work. It was unbalancing.
“Very well.” She allowed a little of her frustration to show. He still held her hand but had not drawn her against him. She wanted his warmth. “What do you desire of me?”
He smiled and for once, she thought he might be quite handsome. He certainly wasn’t beautiful. In Preshea’s family, they were all beautiful, even her father. Gavin’s face was too harsh. But when he smiled, the white of his teeth and the crinkles at the corners of his eyes softened it to comely.
Still he held her apart from him, as if waiting for a cue.
“What do I do?” Preshea asked, for once in her life at a loss.
“Be still, simply stand there a moment. I want to look at you.”
She swallowed, nervous.
He kissed the backs of her hands, sweet and courtly, although perhaps there was a flick of tongue. She gasped and then laughed at her own surprise. He smiled and paced about her, arranging her hair to fall back. He stroked her arms, exposed by the shorter sleeves of her dinner dress and the absence of gloves. He entwined his fingers with hers at the last, a brief squeeze of reassurance. She felt goose bumps, although she was not cold. She reached to unbutton the back of her bodice, contorting her arms, needing to do something to take back control of the situation.
“Can I help with that, lass? Ask me and I should love it more than anything.”
She cocked her head on a sudden understanding. Of course. It’s all my choice. That’s his point. And, for some reason, he needs it. She dropped her arms to her sides. She took a breath, slow, steadying. Her eyes had gone dry from staring as he moved about her. She blinked to moisten them and took another, deeper breath. Control is something I am good at.
“Take my dress off me, Gavin.”
He unbuttoned the bodice down the back, tiny caresses as he went, peeling it away and laying it reverently aside. Then he untied her overskirt, pulling it up over her head. He was careful about her hair, smoothing it after, his hands wide and worshipful. He lifted up her top skirt, paying it equal attention. Were his hands shaking slightly? Preshea found relief in knowing he was not unaffected. He was pulling off her first petticoat now, and Preshea was beginning to regret that fashion called for so many layers. His reverence now felt achingly slow. He unwrapped to savor, like a poor child with only one gift at Christmas. She willed herself to enjoy, allowing the spice of him to season her confidence. He moved on to her second petticoat, this one heavy with her revolver in its special pocket.