Sinclair had told Bertie that she was a flickering light in his life. Now he wanted her to fan that flicker and build it to a roaring blaze.
“What do you mean, what I see?” she asked him, mystified.
Sinclair waved his hand around the close room. “Show me anything.”
“Right.” Bertie continued to stare at him then she jolted herself and looked around. “Um.” She touched the wall next to her. “I think this is beautiful. All these little flowers made of tiny pieces of wood woven together. Took some skill to fashion that, and polish it all nice.”
Sinclair took in the marquetry. It was fine, with excellent workmanship, but it didn’t make him want to leap up and sing. “What else?”
“Well, the whole compartment. Everything exactly in its place, everything fitting together like a puzzle.”
True, but Sinclair had been on so many different trains, from elegant to indifferent to downright squalid. A train’s engineering might be precise, but he’d seen too much of it.
“What else?”
Bertie pursed her lips. “You’re a hard one to please. There’s this.” She took his hand, her touch firing his nerves, and drew her finger along his palm. “These gloves fit you perfectly, like a second skin. Your clothes are always well done. And there’s this.” Bertie released his hand to lift a fold of his plaid. “Never seen a man wearing a skirt before.”
Sinclair grew warm. “It’s a kilt.”
“Yeah.” Bertie’s smile went wicked. “And don’t it look fine on you?”
There it was—the delight snapping its way into him. Not from the manufactured things around them, from Bertie herself.
She rubbed the wool between her fingers, the warmth of her hand touching his bare knee.
“It’s McBride plaid,” Sinclair said, or thought he said. “The secret of the pattern was kept alive in our clan when traditional dress was banned after the ’45.”
“Bonnie Prince Charlie and the uprising,” Bertie said, looking triumphant. “I’ve been reading. Your family a part of that?”
“In the thick. My brother Patrick knows the stories. He’s the keeper of all things McBride.”
“Can’t wait to meet him.”
Sinclair thought about his rather dour older brother, but decided Patrick would like Bertie. She’d be interested in Patrick’s stories, listening with that wonder she was showing to Sinclair. Patrick would enjoy it.
Sinclair leaned closer. “What else?”
Bertie’s cheeks went pink. “You trying to make me spill all my secrets?”
“Yes, I am. What else do you find amazing?”
“You,” Bertie said, smiles gone, eyes quiet.
Sinclair stilled. “There’s not much amazing about me.”
“Mmm, I wouldn’t say that.”
“I would.”
Bertie cocked her head. “Are you trying to get me to flatter you?”
Sinclair closed his gloved hands over both her bare ones. “I want to feel again, Bertie. Help me to do that. You started. I want more.”
She looked uncertain. “But I don’t know how.”
“Yes, you do.” Sinclair released her, stripped off his gloves, and dropped them to the table. Then he reached for the black buttons of her bodice. “I want to see the wonder of you.”
Bertie’s lower lip shook once, but she reached out and pushed his coat open. “Two can play at that.”
Sinclair’s already awakened need jumped higher as he slid off his greatcoat and let Bertie help him out of his frock coat. His windblown cravat easily unwound under Bertie’s fingers. She popped the stud holding his collar and released the restricting band from Sinclair’s throat. Sinclair drew a relieved breath and returned to unbuttoning her bodice.
Joy raced back into Sinclair’s world as they undressed each other, fumbling at clasps, ties, and buttons, excitement making them clumsy. Not long later, Bertie sat on the bed in her combinations, while Sinclair was in nothing but his kilt.
He stood up and removed that, liking how Bertie’s gaze riveted to him as he unpinned and unwound the plaid.
“Blimey,” she said softly.
Sinclair spread the kilt on the bed with unsteady hands. Bertie didn’t take her gaze from him. The compartment’s lamplight hid nothing of his body, showing all his scars, the burn mark on his arm, and the fact that his c**k was hard and lifting high.
The lamplight let him see Bertie as well, as he stripped off her combinations. She leaned back on the bunk, her br**sts touched by the golden light, her ni**les dark. Bertie’s hair, mussed by their playful undressing, trickled across her plump skin.
She was a pleasure to look at. Her belly was a little soft, her h*ps curving from her waist, the sweet curls between her legs as dark as the hair on her head.
A fine woman, bare for him, in this train rushing into the night. They might as well be entirely alone, he thought, at the same time they were surrounded by so many. Up and down the passage, the compartments were shut, hiding the secrets of those hurrying north for a Scottish Christmas.
Sinclair’s fanciful thoughts dissolved to nothing when Bertie reached up and closed her fingers around the tip of his cock.
Bertie liked the feel of his arousal, warm and soft, and at the same time, hard under her fingers.
How could Sinclair have thought anything in this compartment more interesting and wonderful than himself? He’d encouraged Bertie to sing the praises of the woodwork while he was in front of her, smelling of the night and his own intoxicating scent. The hunger in Sinclair’s eyes had nearly undone her.
As she squeezed his hardness, Sinclair’s large hands bunched into fists. He didn’t have the soft hands of a gentleman—he’d fought with these hands, sunburned them, worked them raw. Bertie contrasted that with the skin of his cock, which was hot and smooth, that part of him always hidden from the world.
Beautiful man—he was allowing her to see it, to stroke it. Sinclair didn’t touch Bertie, only let her explore him all the way up his shaft to the fascinating balls that fit into the cup of her hand.
People through the ages had come up with many terms for what she was touching. Funny ones, like John Thomas or fishing rod, but those crude phrases didn’t do Sinclair justice. His beautiful organ stretched toward her, the blunt tip bumping Bertie’s hand as she completed another stroke.
He let her touch a little longer before Sinclair pushed her questing fingers aside and dropped to his knees. He looked her over, his face softening, his voice going low. “How did I stumble upon something as beautiful as you?”