“It’s nothing to do with pain, or shackles,” he said. “It’s about trust. Complete trust. Absolute surrender.”
She could not release herself from his grip. “Surrender?”
His eyes were dark. “To place yourself in my hands, to trust me to read your desires and lead you into experiencing them. To let me do as I please without question, to trust me to know what to do. The reward for your trust, exquisite pleasure.”
“Oh,” she said.
“Anything I ask.” Hart kissed the inside of her wrist. “You would give me your faith that I’d never hurt you, that my only goal is your pleasure.”
Eleanor’s heart beat faster. Exquisite pleasure. “That sounds… interesting.”
Hart rose on hands and knees over her, the movement so practiced she scarcely saw the effort of it. “Could you do it? Could you put yourself into my hands and not ask any confounded questions?”
“No questions at all? I am not certain…”
“I will have to go easy on you at first. You are Eleanor Ramsay. You cannot but help asking questions.”
“I could try.”
“Hmm. I don’t believe you, but never mind.”
Hart got up from the bed, again the movement effortless. He rummaged in the clothes he’d left on the floor and brought out his cravat. It was a makeshift cravat, a long, narrow piece of linen he’d wrapped around his neck to shield his throat from the wind of the Thames.
He wound the ends of the linen in his hands and came back to the bed. Eleanor knelt there, waiting for him, excited and worried at the same time.
Hart climbed up onto the big bed, his head almost touching the beams as he knelt behind her. “Give me your hands.”
Eleanor’s mouth formed the wh of why, and Hart bit her cheek. “No questions. Give me your hands.”
Eleanor lifted them. Quickly Hart wound the linen strip around her torso, under her br**sts, crossing it in a complicated twist and catching her wrists together at the end of it. He pulled her wrapped hands upward, his movements gentle but firm.
“We’ll start with this.” Hart nuzzled her ear. “I won’t hurt you. Do you believe me?”
“I…”
Another nip, this time to her shoulder. “I said, do you believe me?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
Surrender.
That was what Hart Mackenzie always wanted, she realized. For others to surrender to him, to let him be their master. Not because he wanted to punish them, or to have his own way, but for their own good, because he wanted to take care of them. Those who didn’t understand that dashed themselves to bits on him.
“Yes,” she repeated.
It was not in Eleanor’s nature to surrender to anything, but with Hart’s strong body behind her, his hands holding hers, she opened her heart, opened her body, and gave herself to him.
“Yes,” she said a third time.
Still on his knees behind her, again with the effortlessness, he pulled her upright so that she knelt back onto his lap, her knees parted, his thighs sliding between hers. This opened her to him, she realized, his body around her making her relaxed and warm. Hart snaked one arm around her, the other still holding the bond around her wrists.
She was completely vulnerable to him. His body was solid behind hers. The only way to get away would be to crawl across the bed, but he held her bound wrists.
She should panic, she should fight… and yet, she knew he would not hurt her. If a stranger had done this, then, yes, terror. But she knew Hart, had shared a bed with him, had woken in his arms, curled against his side. She’d seen his face soften in sleep, had seen him weep for his child.
Passion and pleasure. That was what Hart Mackenzie wanted to give her, not fear and pain.
Surrender.
Eleanor sighed, relaxing back against him, and the thickness of him slid straight inside.
Pure pleasure blossomed where they joined. No tightness, no pain, just Hart gliding his way in. She groaned.
“Yes, that’s it,” Hart whispered. “You see?”
“Hart.”
“Shh.”
Hart smoothed her hair, and she felt his lips, the enticing brush of hair that was his new beard. He did nothing with her bound hands, only held the end of the cloth. Eleanor’s wrists were pressed against her chest, Hart behind her and surrounding her.
Another cry escaped her lips. Hart responded with a groan, not immune to what he was doing.
“My sweet El. How does that feel?”
“Beautiful. You are beautiful. Oh, Hart, I don’t think I can stand this!”
“Yes, you can.” Hart licked her ear, the beard again tickling her. “You can stand it, my beautiful Scottish lassie. You are strong, like your kin who pushed the Sassenach soldier off th’ roof.”
Eleanor laughed, and the movement moved sweet bliss through her. Even Hart’s jests were calculated to bring out the finest feelings.
Passion and pleasure, bodies hot where they joined. Hart held her thus for a long time, moving very little. He simply filled her, giving her the joy of feeling him inside her, of being one with him.
Hart’s lips at her ear. “Do you want more?”
“Yes. Yes, please, Hart.”
Eleanor heard the begging words come from her mouth, but she could not stop them. Hart chuckled, the vibration of his body wonderful.
Eleanor found herself rocking forward to her hands and knees, Hart never coming out of her. He surrounded her with arms and legs, releasing the cravat enough so that she could brace herself on the bed. But he held her, never letting her fall, never letting her go.
Their bodies grew slick with sweat, droplets trickling between Eleanor’s br**sts to be caught by the cravat. Where Hart joined with her was nothing but heat.
“My El,” he groaned. “Don’t ever leave me again. Do you understand me? I need you.”
Eleanor shook her head. “No. I’ll stay. Always, always, Hart.”
“I won’t let you go. Not Fenians, not my stupid pride, not my past will get between us. I’m finished.”
She wasn’t sure exactly what he was talking about, but she loved his words rumbling over her. “Good. Good.”
“You and me, El. We’re meant to be. And the world can go hang.”
“Yes, Hart. Yes.”
“El, lass, ye are so beautiful.” His Highland Scots erased every bit of English schooling pounded into him. “Stay w’ me forever.”
“Yes. Oh, Hart, I love you.”