Tempting the Laird

by Julia London

  Hamlin smiled as if he’d just spotted a buck through the sight of his hunting rifle. He couldn’t help himself—he touched the bandage of her arm, then traced a line up to her neck. “Then we must have a match someday, aye?”

  “Aye,” she agreed. She shifted closer to him as he traced the path of her collarbone. Her mouth was tantalizingly close to him, her eyes glittering.

  He moved his hand to her ear, tracing the outline of it as he studied her lips, full and plush and darkly pink. He could think of scarcely anything other than touching his lips to hers. He wondered which he would appreciate more—bedding this hoyden, or spending time in her company, watching the light change her eyes, feeling the force of her smile rifle through him? At present, the impulse to kiss her was winning over rational thought. He needed to know how her lips would feel beneath his.

  How her body would feel beneath his.

  “You are verra confident, your grace. You think highly of your gaming skills.”

  He could feel a corner of his mouth tipping up in a wry smile. “I am entirely confident in all my skills, madam,” he muttered. Lust was flaring and burning in him, the desire to touch more of her skin, to feel the beat of her heart underneath his lips. He imagined the warmth of her body as he slid into her, and raised his hand, touched the curl at her collarbone, then moved his hand around to her nape.

  The shine in Miss Mackenzie’s eyes had gone molten. Her lips parted with the tiniest gasp of breath. Hamlin was mesmerized, and he was going to kiss her, consequences be damned. She moved closer, so that her bosom brushed against his chest, and whispered, “If you intend to do it, your grace, then, Diah, do it.”

  Heat surged through Hamlin. He pulled her head close and touched his lips to hers. It seemed almost a dream, as if he was watching himself take this liberty with this woman. By all rights, she should have denied him, should have pulled away, should have promised to relay this egregious lack of decorum to her uncle. He deserved all of that.

  But Miss Mackenzie hadn’t done any of those things—she had unabashedly invited him to do it, and he could not possibly have been more aroused. She made a sound like a soft sigh, then sort of sank into him, her hand going to his waist, another sliding up his chest.

  A fire began to build in Hamlin that he knew he’d not be able to douse. He slipped his tongue between her lips to meet hers. She kissed him back with the passion of a woman who’d been waiting for a long-lost lover. The power of desire was building in him rapidly, turning his thoughts to ashes, turning his body to rock. He could think of nothing, see nothing, but this woman before him. It was startling, but inherently familiar.

  He suddenly lifted his head. He gazed down at her, brushed the pad of his thumb across her wet bottom lip, then turned away from her. He walked across the room and away from the temptation that was suddenly roaring in him. “I beg your pardon.”

  “Why?”

  Why? A million reasons, and none of them good. He turned his head to look at her. Her cheeks were pink, and she was breathing quickly, her hand on her chest, as if trying to push the air down.

  “I should go,” she said.

  Yes, she should go, go at once, before he took things even further, past the point of redemption. He opened the door for her. She swept past him, hesitating only briefly to look up at him as she passed, her eyes still shining with desire. How extraordinary that this woman would not even feign offense. She was as aroused as he.

  That served only to stoke the flames in him higher.

  Miss Mackenzie took her leave, insisting to Stuart that her bandaged arm was no impediment to her riding, and proving thus by galloping away with such reckless abandon that Hamlin assumed he’d have to send an army of men to pick up the pieces and stitch her back together.

  When she’d gone, he went directly to his rooms and took himself in hand, trying desperately to relieve himself of the raging desire. And though he was successful in the immediate, that desire for Miss Mackenzie did not leave him. It was different. It wasn’t just physical. It was much more than that.

  That night, he and Eula sat down to dinner as if nothing at all had happened this day.

  Eula seemed exhausted by the day’s events. She picked at her food, moving carrots around on the plate. Hamlin had told her more than once not to play with her food, to eat what was before her, but this evening he was distracted. “Did you enjoy your archery lesson, then?” he asked.

  Eula looked up from her plate. “Aye. I quite like archery.”

  “Aubin can instruct you if you like.”

  She frowned at him. In that respect, she was very much like Glenna. Hamlin put down his fork. He sipped his wine, dabbed at his mouth with his napkin, then leveled a look on Eula. “Well, then, let’s have it, aye? What has made you cross?”

  She cast her eyes to her plate. “Nothing.”

  “Here now, sit up like a proper young lass, and tell me what has you wrought.”

  She sat up. “I have no friends,” she said. “I should verra much like a friend, a real friend.”

  “I thought you esteemed Miss Mackenzie.”

  “I do!” she exclaimed, as if he was being intentionally obtuse. “But she’s as old as my cousin, Glenna.”

  “I grant you, she is older than you, but friends come in various ages and—”

  “She’ll leave,” Eula interrupted him. “And then I’ll have no friends again.”

  Hamlin’s heart clutched a little at that. Eula was right—Miss Mackenzie would indeed leave. Eula would miss her just as she missed Glenna. Perhaps more—Miss Mackenzie had paid her more heed than Glenna had in the last months she’d been at Blackthorn Hall. It was little wonder Eula was cross, and frankly, Hamlin was surprised she wasn’t cross more often. She wanted companionship, and she should not be forced to live without it.

  It galled Hamlin that he was a bloody duke, and yet he could not give Eula the one thing she wanted and needed.

  So he did the next best thing. The next morning, he dispatched Bain to find a pair of kittens. The day after that, he set off for Dungotty to issue an invitation on behalf of Miss Eula Guinne for the Dungotty party to dine at Blackthorn Hall, Thursday next.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CATRIONA REMEMBERED NOTHING of her ride back to Dungotty, as she was utterly lost in her thoughts. What had begun as a lark for her was turning into something much more. In the beginning, Montrose had been a challenge, a mystery to be solved. But now she was seeing a fully formed man, and not just a mystery. A dangerously dark, alluring man.

  Emotions and desires were stirring in her, filling her up and sinking into her imagination. She could feel his lips on hers even though they had long since parted. She could still taste him, even though she was far from Blackthorn Hall. She couldn’t seem to control her thoughts about the dark Duke of Montrose and imagining all the things she ought not to imagine. His naked body. Those dark eyes staring down at her as he pierced her with his cock.

  Those images took Catriona’s breath away.

  None of these thoughts were rational, and certainly none of them particularly smart. Moreover, they left her feeling ravenous and helpless and perhaps even a bit hopeless. It wasn’t fair that he should kiss her like that when nothing could come of it. Why had he kissed her, anyway?

  She arrived at Dungotty just before dusk and swept into the entrance hall, shrugging out of her riding coat, her hat and her gloves, and piling them up in Rumpel’s waiting arms.

  “If I may, madam, I couldn’t help but notice your bandage,” he said. “Shall I summon a physician?”

  “What?” She glanced down—she’d forgotten the cut on her arm. “No, thank you. If I can survive nearly being shot through with an arrow, I can survive a wee wound, aye? Will you serve supper in my rooms, then, Rumpel? It’s been a long day, it has.”

  He bowed in acknowledgment, and Catriona hurried up the stair
s. Once inside her room, she threw open the curtains and cranked open the windows. She closed her eyes and leaned across the sill to feel the cool dusk air on her skin. Her face and chest felt as if they were flaming, had felt that way since Montrose had bandaged her arm. All she could see was him kneeling beside her, taking care with the cut on her arm, his hands wide and warm, his touch unnervingly gentle.

  She turned from the window and went to her wardrobe to find something less confining than the gown she was wearing—she felt constricted, as if she couldn’t properly breathe. As she was rummaging through her things, there was a knock at her door, followed by it opening. “Catriona?”

  Catriona leaned back so that she could see Chasity around the open door of her wardrobe. “Aye?”

  Chasity swirled inside, carefully shut the door behind her, then flung herself down onto her side on Catriona’s bed. “Tell me everything.”

  Catriona did not want to talk about what she’d experienced at Blackthorn Hall. She wanted to hold it close to her heart, let it knit into her bones. She held out a green silk gown beside a plain brown muslin, examining them. “I was very nearly shot.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I was very nearly struck with an arrow. Miss Guinne’s aim accidentally strayed, and she came verra close to piercing me clean through.”

  Chasity gasped and pushed herself up. “No,” she said gravely. “How did it miss you?”

  “Aye, that’s the interesting part of this tale. Montrose appeared from nowhere and brought me to the ground so quickly that I canna even say how close the arrow came to actually hitting me.” She held up her bandaged arm to show Chasity the evidence of her near miss. “But I heard it go over my head.”

  Chasity gaped at her. “He threw you to the ground?”

  “He didna throw me. He brought me down with him.”

  “I am all astonishment,” Chasity gushed, and fell onto her back. “I would have more readily believed that he was the one who tried to shoot you. My mother said you are naïve if you think you might escape the same fate as his wife.”

  Catriona returned the green silk into the wardrobe, then stepped behind the painted screen to change into the brown muslin. She wriggled out of her trews. “He’s been nothing but a gentleman in my presence. And besides, I donna believe it of him—I donna believe he could harm as much as a bunny.”

  Chasity snorted. “What of his wife? Some harm has come to her, surely you don’t disagree.”

  It was a fair question, and truthfully, Catriona didn’t know what to think of the wife now. “The lass mentioned her in passing,” she said as she undressed.

  “She did? What did she say?”

  “She said Lady Montrose was her cousin, but had gone from Blackthorn Hall, and that she missed her. And yet, she didna show the slightest sign of anguish, aye?” Still, the exchange had raised more questions in Catriona’s mind. Why had Eula’s cousin felt that days passed like weeks at Blackthorn Hall? What did gone really mean? If the woman was not dead, where was she? Why had she left her young cousin behind? Did Eula know what had become of her?

  She had undressed down to her chemise when she heard another knock on her door. “There’s Rumpel come round with my supper. Will you let him in, Chasity?” she asked, and dressed.

  “Chasity, darling! I had expected my niece.” Uncle Knox’s voice filled Catriona’s room.

  Chasity must have pointed, because a moment later Uncle Knox startled Catriona when he spoke just on the other side of her screen. “Rumpel says you’ve been seriously injured, darling! I must know what has happened!”

  “I’ve no’ been seriously injured,” Catriona said with a laugh.

  “But she was very nearly killed with an arrow!” Chasity exclaimed.

  “What? It’s true that the duke tried to shoot you? Rumpel has told me all! By God, that man will rue the day—”

  “No!” Catriona cried, and laughed at the absurdity of this conversation. “’Twas no’ the duke, uncle,” she said, and stepped from around the screen and presented her back to him for lacing. “’Twas the wee lass, that’s who. Her arrow went astray, and the duke saved my life by bringing me to the ground. In the fall, I—”

  “What’s this?” the countess cried, sweeping into Catriona’s room through the door her uncle had left standing wide-open. “An injury at the hands of the Duke of Montrose? How dare he sup at our table, then lay a hand on you!”

  “I will call him out to defend you, madam,” Vasily announced just behind her, and bowed low, as if he were accepting her charge to defend her honor.

  “By the saints!” Uncle Knox said loudly. “I shall have you all know that it is not our table, it is my table, and if there is any calling out to do, I will be the one to do it, but that furthermore, apparently there has been a misunderstanding!”

  “What misunderstanding?”

  Now had arrived Mrs. Templeton.

  “The duke tried to kill her!” Vasily announced.

  “No!” Catriona shouted, gaining everyone’s attention. “The duke has caused me no harm whatsoever! If a crime has been committed, it’s been committed by our verra own Rumpel, on my word! If you must know, the duke saved me from an arrow’s point, and I have a small cut to my arm from the fall.” She held her bandaged arm aloft once more. “That’s all that has happened this day.”

  “Your supper, madam.”

  Her room was so crowded that the poor footman could not enter.

  “Let him through!” Uncle Knox commanded, and as best they could, the crowd squeezed to one side so that the young man could place her tray on her table. When he’d left, the rest of them remained standing in her room, their gazes fixed on Catriona. She slowly realized they would not leave until they’d heard everything.

  “All right,” she said with a sigh. “Here it is, then.” She told them about the misguided arrow and her fall to the ground. She explained they had returned to Blackthorn Hall so that they might bandage her arm, and while there, she noticed again the portrait of Lady Montrose. She repeated Eula’s comment and then said, “That’s all of it.”

  “And what was the duke’s response?” the countess asked. “Did he deny that his wife was no longer at Blackthorn Hall?”

  “He said no’ a word.”

  “He did not deny that she’d gone?” Mrs. Templeton asked, her gaze narrowing on Catriona as if she suspected her of colluding with the duke in the disappearance of his wife.

  “Madam, as sure as I stand before you, he said no’ a word.”

  “I don’t know what to make of it,” the countess said. “I have known many strange men, have I not, Vasily?”

  “Indeed.”

  “But I’ve never heard of one as impossible to understand as this duke. If he didn’t murder his wife, why does he not simply say so? How is it possible that she’s disappeared and no one can say what has become of her? He is hiding something, quite obviously.”

  “I think he is easier to understand at every meeting,” Catriona said, perhaps a bit more defensively than she had intended. She did not miss the look that the countess and her cousin exchanged.

  “Perhaps these meetings are clouding your judgment,” Mrs. Templeton said with a sniff. “Why do you go to Blackthorn Hall alone? Why not call when in the company of your uncle?”

  “’Tis no’ always convenient,” Catriona said pertly. She was better acquainted with the duke than any of these people, and she would not abide their derision. She picked up her brush and began to run it through her hair.

  “You may be very certain he is not an evil man, Miss Mackenzie, but Vasily and I’ve heard talk of him in Crieff,” the countess said. “The last time anyone saw his wife alive was the night of a heated argument between husband and wife. No one has seen her since.”

  “Who said so?” Catriona asked curiously.

  “The innkeeper, Mr. B
rimble. He told me, and I daresay he is in a position to know.”

  “They say the duke is a heavy gambler,” offered Vasily. “Perhaps he sold his wife.”

  All eyes, filled with incredulity, turned toward the Russian. “What?” he asked, casting his arms wide. “It’s possible.”

  Catriona sighed. “If you donna mind, all of you, I’m rather tired, aye?” she said, determined not to listen to another word of this preposterous conversation.

  “Of course you are,” said Uncle Knox. “To think you were so close to being dead!”

  “I wasna so close,” Catriona tried, but no one was listening to her.

  “The duke should take heed,” Mrs. Templeton said sternly. “He ought to be made to pay for his indiscretions.”

  “For the last time, it wasna him who shot the arrow. It was the lass,” Catriona said.

  “Perhaps he told her to do it,” Chasity said in a low, menacing voice.

  For the love of God, if they didn’t leave her room now, Catriona might very well say some things she would much regret on the morrow. She gave her uncle a beseeching look.

  “All right, then,” he said. “My niece would have her peace now. Come on, all of you, out you go.” He ushered them out like so many geese, arguing among themselves about the duke’s guilt in any number of things.

  When they had all quit the room, Uncle Knox turned back to Catriona. “Are you all right?” he asked. “My sister would never forgive me if something were to befall her spirited daughter.”

  Catriona smiled. “I’m quite all right, Uncle Knox. Only weary.”

  “Is there anything I can do for you?” he asked.

  “No. Yes. Yes, please, uncle. Can you find a copy of the book The Governess?”

  He blinked. “By Sarah Fielding, isn’t it? A children’s book.”

  “Aye, the verra one.”

  “An interesting choice for reading, my love, but of course. Whatever you need. Get some rest now.” He went out.

  Uncle Knox thought the book was for her, and Catriona had let him think it—she suspected he’d not like helping her devise another reason to return to Blackthorn Hall. But she had to return. Not to discover what happened to Lady Montrose, but because she had a dangerously overwhelming desire to feel the duke’s touch against her skin again.