“Aye. Ask Nurse Swan to tell you about the time I put frog spawn in her sago pudding.”
Olivia gasped. “Hamish. That’s terrible.”
“Aye. And I deserved every one of those whacks she gave me with Cook’s wooden spoon. I had the pinkest arse—I mean behind—for days.”
Olivia bit her lip to suppress a laugh, and Hamish stopped on the landing, his hand on her arm.
“You shouldn’t do that, you know,” he said in a low voice.
“I’m sorry. What shouldn’t I do?”
“Bite your lip.”
Olivia’s pulse rate kicked up a notch. “Why?”
“Because it makes me think sinful thoughts about you, lass.” They commenced walking again, Hamish’s hand at her elbow. “Indeed, the ever-present unholy terror lurking inside me might return and subject you to another one of my wholly wicked kisses.”
A dark thrill flared inside Olivia. When she’d bitten her lip in the taproom of the Abington Arms, she hadn’t failed to notice the smoldering heat in Hamish’s gaze. “Well, if you’re trying to discourage such behavior, my lord, I’m afraid your warning has failed miserably. Because I happen to like your wholly wicked kisses, I will be sure to bite my lip frequently.”
There was a quicksilver flash in Hamish’s eye, but she wasn’t quite sure if the emotion was amusement. “Are you flirting with me, my lady?”
Even though a blush heated her cheeks, Olivia cast him a coquettish look from beneath her lashes. “Perhaps.”
Hamish halted at the bottom of the stairs and turned to face her, his hands on his lean, kilted hips. His expression changed. Grew serious. “You know you’re playing with fire, don’t you?”
Pausing on the bottom step, Olivia gripped the newel-post and raised her chin. “Perhaps . . .”
“It’s dangerous, Olivia. And I don’t want to burn you.”
“But what if I’m willing to take that risk?” she challenged. “You can’t deny there’s a spark between us. I can see the fire in your gaze every time you look at me. What if . . . what if I want this to be a real marriage? You can have me—”
“Believe me, you don’t want that, Olivia. I’m simply not worth it.” And with that he turned on his heel and marched down the hall with floor-eating strides, leaving her alone and confused and frustrated once more.
* * *
* * *
Evening was descending like a dismal and dark shroud as Hamish charged downstairs to Muircliff’s library; it was the only space in the whole castle he felt somewhat at peace.
But then, perhaps it was because that’s where he kept a stash of his favorite types of spirits. Once he reached the enormous chamber with its towering bookcases full of ancient, leather-clad tomes, he opened the glass-fronted cupboard beside his mahogany desk and reached for the decanter of whisky.
He really should seek out Isobel and pay his respects to their mother. But devil take him, before he did that, he also needed to down a dram or two to douse the fire searing through his veins. To try to banish the overwhelming urge to take his wife up on her invitation and have her over and over again, until she was crying his name to the heavens.
Driving rain lashed the diamond-paned windows, and the sea hurled itself against the cliffs below the castle with such force, Hamish didn’t hear the door to the library snick open and his sister’s approach until she called his name. Midway through pouring his first drink into a cut-crystal tumbler, he started and sloshed whisky over the oxblood leather blotter of his desk.
Damn. Wiping his hand on his kilt, he turned to face Isobel.
She hovered on the hearthrug, a picture of uncertainty as she pushed a lock of dark auburn hair behind her ear. “Hamish . . . Angus told me you’d returned . . . that he’d written to you . . .” Her soft gray eyes traced over his face, and then her brow knit into a frown. “I’m sorry for upsetting you. It’s such a long way to come, and I know how much you hate this place.”
“Isobel, lass . . .” Now that his sister was here, the anger that had been simmering inside Hamish dissipated. “I had to come,” he continued, his voice thick with emotion. “You and Angus and Mother mean the world to me. You know I’d do anything for you.” He firmed his voice. “Even if that means I must be cruel in order to be kind. You deserve to wed a better man than Brodie MacDonald.”
Isobel lifted her chin. “You don’t know him. I love him, and he loves me—”
Hamish shook his head. “My dear sister. How can you know what true love really is? Just because an attractive young man pays you a wee bit of attention, it doesn’t mean he’s in love with you. You’re nineteen years old, lass. You’ve hardly seen anything of the world. You’ve never had a Season. Your entire life has been spent here on Skye. Why throw away a chance at true, lasting happiness because some ne’er-do-well pays you pretty but meaningless compliments and pretends to make calf’s eyes at you? And all the while he’s probably got his sights set on your dowry?”
Anger flared in Isobel’s eyes. “How dare you! Brodie’s not pretending. He does love me. In any case, I don’t see how you can pass judgment on whether the feelings we share are real or not. What do you know of love, Hamish MacQueen? Angus tells me you’ve suddenly wed some poor girl over the anvil who’s barely older than me. You can’t tell me that’s a love match, can you? Angus thinks you must have compromised her—or got her pregnant—and your sense of honor compelled you to do the right thing.”
Hamish bristled. “No, I didn’t compromise her. And no, she’s not with child. Olivia is an heiress. Her father, who was a wealthy arms manufacturer, passed away five years ago, and when she turns twenty-five she stands to inherit an absolute fortune.”
“So you’re telling me you married her for her money?” Isobel arched a delicate brow. “Unless you’ve suddenly developed some terrible gambling habit no one knows about, I don’t believe that either.”
Dear God. What could he possibly say that would make any sense? He’d have to resort to half-truths and being a bombastic ass. “I care for Olivia,” he said. “And what I do is none of your business, Isobel. Or anyone else’s.”
“You care for her,” Isobel said in a flat tone that spoke of her skepticism. “What an entirely prosaic, lukewarm declaration. I also care about my mare, Epona, my new capote bonnet, and whether my cup of tea is hot. You’re not half-hearted about anything that you do, Hamish. Something’s going on, and I want to know what it is.”
Hamish forced himself to unclench his back teeth. “Olivia is a lovely young woman who’s well connected. She can assist you with making your debut next Season. It will be an opportunity for you to meet—”
Isobel gave a derisive, completely unladylike snort of laughter. “My debut? Now I know what the problem is. You’ve gone mad.” She took a few ungainly steps toward him, her left foot dragging across the Turkish hearthrug. “Look at me, Hamish. I mean really look at me. You know I don’t want a debut. I never have and never will. I could think of nothing worse than limping through the ton’s ballrooms and Almack’s. Being stared at, and whispered about, and laughed at. Or, worse, looked upon with pity.”
“It wouldn’t be like that. Look at me, for God’s sake.” Hamish pointed at the mangled side of his face. “This has never stopped me from entering a ton ballroom. You’re my sister and—”
“Now you’re the one who’s being naive, Hamish. Of course it would be like that. I may be Lady Isobel MacQueen, but that will hardly signify when all anyone will notice is my clubfoot. Aside from that, I love Muircliff. I love the Isle of Skye. I don’t want to live somewhere else. And I don’t want to leave Mama.”
“Ha! So that’s the real reason you’re settling for someone like MacDonald.” Cynicism sharpened Hamish’s tone. “And I’m sure he’s more than happy to set up home with you here at Muircliff.”
“No! That’s not . . . just stop it, Hamish.” Isobel presse
d a hand to her forehead and closed her eyes for a moment. “Stop twisting everything I say. Look . . . I don’t want to argue with you anymore. Not tonight when you’ve just arrived home with your new bride. Oh, and your ward whom you’ve said nothing about as well. But I suppose that’s a discussion for another time.” She huffed out an exasperated sigh. “I just wish you would think on all I’ve said. And that you’ll consider meeting with Brodie. Hear what he has to say.”
Hamish hardened his gaze. “You can give me reproachful looks and sigh all you like, Isobel. I won’t change my mind about this.”
A steely light entered Isobel’s eyes. “And neither will I. You’re lucky Brodie and I didn’t decide to wed over the anvil weeks and weeks ago. But both of us wanted a regular church wedding. Brodie’s brother is Dunmuir Kirk’s minister after all.”
Damn her and her stubbornness. Hamish could feel a megrim beginning to penetrate the base of his skull. Why was his life suddenly dominated by females giving him boundless grief all at once?
Despite his headache, he had the sudden urge to get soused. If he were in London, he could visit the Pandora Club and try to forget all his woes by losing himself in all manner of nefarious activities—drinking, gaming, and whoring, and not necessarily in that order.
His marriage was one of convenience only, and men in his position took mistresses to bed all the time. He’d kept mistresses in the past. Four years was a long time to forgo sexual congress until he and Olivia parted ways. Except, could he do that to the lass? Go behind her back and swive other women? Would he even find it satisfying?
Oh, dear God. Could it be that he didn’t actually want to bed anyone else but his wife?
Pushing the disturbing thought away, Hamish picked up his glass and swallowed a large, soothing gulp of whisky. “How is Mama? Angus says she’s well at the moment.”
“She is . . .” Isobel’s brow pleated into a frown. “Will you visit her this evening? She’ll dine in her rooms as usual, but she’d very much like to see you and hear all about your news.”
Hamish nodded. “Aye. I will.” He wasn’t relishing the idea of having to describe how he’d suddenly come by a wife and a ward. He hoped his mother would take his explanations at face value even if Isobel and Angus hadn’t.
And then, of course, he’d have to tackle the difficult subject of Isobel’s ill-advised love affair. He’d have to tread carefully though. He was loath to shock or worry their mother and cause her undue emotional stress.
God knew, she’d endured enough of that to last a lifetime.
CHAPTER 15
Almost fainting with terror, she had yet sufficient command over herself, to check the shriek, that was escaping from her lips, and, letting the curtain drop from her hand, continued to observe in silence the motions of the mysterious form she saw. It seemed to glide along the remote obscurity of the apartment, then paused, and, as it approached the hearth, she perceived, in the stronger light, what appeared to be a human figure.
Ann Radcliffe, The Mysteries of Udolpho
Muircliff Castle, Isle of Skye
September 25, 1818
Olivia woke to the sound of the wind and waves battering the castle and flames licking the logs in the gray marble fireplace in her room. A chambermaid had obviously slipped in while she was sleeping to relight the fire, and she was glad of it. Muircliff—perhaps because of its exposed aspect atop a cliff, and the fact that they were so far north—was a cold residence indeed.
Pushing herself up against the pillows of her enormous tester bed, Olivia yawned and brushed her tangled hair from her eyes. She had no idea what time it was, but she suspected she’d slept late. Despite the fact that the long journey north had been exhausting, her mind wouldn’t rest, and she’d tossed and turned most of the night until fatigue eventually claimed her sometime in the small hours. Even then she’d been troubled by odd dreams.
One in particular stood out in her mind. It had seemed so very real and was altogether unsettling. At one point, Olivia could have sworn there was someone in her bedchamber.
Although the fire had all but died and the room was poorly lit, a dark ghostly figure—a female wearing a black mourning gown and heavy lace veil—drifted across the carpeted floor toward her bed. As the figure hovered by the carved oak footboard in watchful silence, Olivia’s throat had constricted in terror. But before she could scream, the mysterious wraith seemed to melt completely into the dark shadows cast by the bed canopy and its heavy velvet hangings.
Now Olivia didn’t know what to make of her nightmare. The vision she’d seen couldn’t have been real . . . although the lingering feeling of uneasiness inside her certainly was.
The rosy glow of the fire and a gray shaft of morning light penetrating a chink in the curtains revealed that everything in her room appeared to be in its place. No figure—real or imagined—lurked in any of the shadowy corners as far as she could see. The jib door between her room and Hamish’s was firmly shut. She supposed all of the gothic novels she’d been reading of late, such as The Mysteries of Udolpho, had made her as fanciful as Catherine Morland in Northanger Abbey. Or perhaps it had been Tilda’s comment on their arrival about ghosts that had put the idea in her head.
Olivia rose, and after ringing for a maid, she wrapped herself in her cashmere shawl, then crossed to the nearest window. Drawing back the dusky blue damask curtains, she then lowered herself onto the window seat to take in the magnificent view. However, her mind was as troubled as the wind-tossed sea stretching toward the pewter gray clouds on the horizon.
Just like last night when she’d tried in vain to fall asleep, thoughts of Hamish and the disastrous state of their marriage had tumbled about in her mind. After he’d stormed away from her following their visit to the nursery, she hadn’t seen him at all. And she was partly to blame. When Mrs. Boyd appeared to help settle her into her new bedroom, she’d informed Olivia that dinner would be served at seven o’clock should she care to join Lord Sleat and Lord Angus in the downstairs dining room.
But Olivia, in a fit of pique, decided she wouldn’t go. She was so very tired of being rebuffed by Hamish. The fact that Mrs. Boyd had delivered his invitation to dinner spoke volumes. So she’d politely but firmly declined, opting instead to visit the nursery and share Tilda’s meal of coddled eggs, toast, cock-a-leekie soup, and poached pears in custard.
If her husband wanted to spend time with her, she’d reasoned, he could jolly well issue his invitation in person. And if he didn’t believe the message she had asked Mrs. Boyd to relay back to him—that she was concerned about how Tilda was settling in at the castle so she wanted to spend the evening in the nursery—well, too bad for him.
However, this morning, sadness suffused Olivia’s heart. How lowering that she and Hamish had been married less than a week, yet her husband eschewed her company both in and out of bed. In all her life, she’d never felt lonelier than she did right at this moment.
Her gaze strayed to the elegantly papered wall panel beside the fireplace and its well-concealed door. Last night she hadn’t even bothered to check whether it was still unlocked. Hamish wouldn’t visit her chamber, and she was too miffed to visit him.
Although, in the end, before she retired for the evening, she softened a little and asked Hudson to organize a few small things that she thought might improve the quality of Hamish’s sleep. It was an olive branch of sorts, an apology for snubbing him.
But had Hamish even noticed her absence? Perhaps he was relieved she hadn’t come to dinner.
Olivia sighed. Moping about in her room all day, lamenting the fact that she’d been a crosspatch last night, worrying about what Hamish may or may not be thinking, none of these things would do her any good. She could visit Tilda in the nursery, or pen letters to her friends, and although she was a little nervous about how she would be received, she was looking forward to meeting Hamish’s sister, Isobel. And at some p
oint, she needed to speak with Mrs. Boyd about selecting a lady’s maid. She had more than enough things to do to keep her from dwelling on the widening gulf between her and Hamish.
* * *
* * *
When Hudson pulled back the curtains in his master’s bedchamber, Hamish turned his head away from the window and groaned. He really didn’t want to face the day. For once he’d managed to sleep like a log, and it hadn’t been because he’d consumed a wine cellar’s worth of alcohol.
He didn’t like to think the chamomile tea Olivia had suggested he drink before bed might have helped, because it made him feel foolish that he hadn’t tried such a simple remedy before. In fact, he had been dubious as hell when Hudson had first produced a pot of the pale yellow brew that smelled like something a woman would use to scent the flimsy undergarments in her armoire. Of course, he’d also been weary to the bone from traveling for days and days with little to no sleep, so in the end, perhaps it was just pure exhaustion that had won out.
In any event, Hamish couldn’t recall waking during the night, a rare occurrence indeed. Or having a nightmare. Although he did have one particularly vivid, very erotic dream about Olivia. He’d been making love to her in this very bed. He’d undressed her slowly, revealing her luscious hips, those slender legs, her satiny skin, her round-as-pomegranate breasts . . .
Hamish groaned again. Just recalling the dream was producing a rampant, throbbing cockstand. He rolled over and then swore beneath his breath when he encountered a damp patch on the bedsheets. What the bloody hell? Had he come in the night like a sexually frustrated adolescent boy?
It would seem so. He supposed it had been weeks since he’d had a woman or even come off by his own hand. It was bound to happen sooner or later. Especially given the fact that he was in lust with Olivia but refused to take her to bed. He wouldn’t risk getting her pregnant. If she produced a male heir, or a daughter, she wouldn’t want to leave; she’d stay for the sake of the child. She’d be stuck with him—a deeply flawed man—in an unfulfilling marriage forever. He couldn’t think of anything worse for a starry-eyed young woman who desired a love match.
How to Catch a Sinful Marquess Page 19
