“My friendship must be earned,” she said.
“And yet, I seem to have your enmity, though I have not earned it.”
“You’re here, aren’t you? After I have asked you repeatedly to go? I say again, leave this room, or next time my blade will not miss you.”
Caroline kept her eyes on the man who stood holding the weapon he had claimed. His dark gaze drifted from her face to her breasts nestled against the soft silk of her gown. Her breath quickened. She had been ogled a great deal in the past twenty-four hours, but her body responded as if it knew him already.
“I would not attack again, if I were you,” he said. His eyes moved over her breasts where they swelled above the high waist of her gown, and over her hips where they curved beneath her skirts, returning once more to her face. “Whatever you choose to do, I am going nowhere yet.”
There was a promise in the way he looked at her. Though he was half a room away, she fancied she could feel the heat rising off his body through the thin silk of her gown. Unable to look away from him, like a snake with its charmer, Caroline wondered what it would cost her to stand in that man’s heat even for a moment.
“If you will not go, then I will.”
“And leave me in possession of the field? I am surprised to find you such a coward.”
The fury in her belly rose like a flash fire, lodging itself in her throat so she choked on it. Her anxiety was burned away as she sputtered with ire.
“I would never be afraid of the likes of you.”
“No?” He raised her knife to the light before laying it down gently on the mahogany table. “You seemed quite frightened when you first saw me, frightened enough to cast this dagger.” He sat in her favorite chair once more and smiled at her. “It seems you missed. Perhaps you need more practice.”
“It is dark in here,” she said, the excuse paltry in her own ears.
He laughed. “Myself, I prefer a more biddable woman who does not carry knives.”
“Then by all means, you have my permission to go to her.”
“You will find, Miss Montague, that I do not need your permission for anything.”
He did not move to leave but stared at her, taking in the contours of her face as if he were trying to read her soul. She forced her body to relax as she always did before a fight. She thought of the second knife hidden beneath the mahogany table beside him. If she could not get her dagger back, she could always take up the second knife and kill him with it.
The thought was not as comforting as it would have been five minutes before. He watched her, still smiling, as if he knew all her secrets, as if he wished to teach her one or two more.
She shook off the stupor she had fallen into. She dismissed the thought of the hidden knife and turned her mind to escape. Whether or not she lost her reputation, whether or not he thought her a coward, she had to get out of that room.
The man rose to his feet and closed the distance between them so swiftly she did not see him move. She felt only the warm pressure of his hand as he drew her against him. His body was hot on hers where his chest pressed into the softness of her breasts. He breathed in her scent, as if she were a loaf of newly baked bread or some morsel he meant to devour in one bite. He did not keep her standing but sank down once more in her favorite chair, bringing her onto his lap in one smooth motion.
After a day of men ogling her, all eager to paw her if they could, Caroline had had enough. She struggled to free herself from his grip and managed to get at the knife on the table. Her father’s training came back to her without thought, without fear. She drew the blade up to his throat but found she could not drive it home. “I could run you through right now, sir. But first, tell me who you are.”
“I am impressed, Caroline. You have defended your honor well. But you do not need to defend yourself against me.”
“Who are you?” she asked.
“I am Anthony Carrington, the Earl of Ravensbrook. The man you are going marry,” he said.
Caroline barely registered the stranger pushing her arm away from his throat as he claimed her dagger. She blinked at the shock of the news that she was betrothed to this man, and then wondered if he might be lying.
Caroline found herself distracted once more by his touch. He kept one of her arms pinned between his weight and the arm of the chair. He held her other wrist so she could not move against him again. His free arm wrapped around her waist, drawing her close, keeping her safe from falling. They sat together, her skirts foaming around them as she perched on his lap. His thighs were hard beneath her, unyielding. His chest was warm against her breasts.
Their breaths mingled as they looked at each other, his dark eyes holding her prisoner just as his hands did. Caroline forgot about decorum, reveling in the scent of him and in the new-discovered flame he stoked deep in her belly, one that burned even as she touched him. She was still pressed against him, her breath coming short, her mind lost to all but what she felt, when his hand touched her breast.
She leaped like a scalded cat, moving so quickly he lost his grip on her. Freed from his embrace, Caroline was on her feet in an instant. She raised her hand to him, intent on causing him what harm she could.
The man stood and caught her wrist before she struck his face. Her aim was true, and he had to move fast to stop her. They were both breathing hard, as if they had been engaged in mortal combat. They faced each other like enemies, measuring each other with their eyes.
“Never touch me again. Get out of my room,” she said. “Get out of my father’s house.”
His chestnut eyes lost their intensity. The fire in them was banked slowly as he breathed. She watched the effort he made and what it cost him to let her go. She snatched her hand away, rubbing her wrist where his grip had bruised her.
“I had to know if you’d ever been touched before, Caroline.”
“I was not, until you sullied me. Now get out.”
He straightened, donning his coat with the air of a man pleased with himself and with what he had discovered in her room. Caroline felt the overwhelming need to curse him, but she swallowed the words. She would not give him the satisfaction.
“Good evening, Miss Montague. Until tomorrow.”
“If I never see you again, it will be too soon.”
Anthony smiled, his dark eyes gleaming as he walked away. “I think you’ll change your mind.”
“You are wrong, my lord.”
“I am never wrong.”
Her fingers closed on the dagger he had left on her mahogany table. She threw the knife without thinking, embedding it in the frame of the servants’ door, just inches from his head. She heard his mocking laughter as he closed the door behind him.
Two
Caroline stood staring at the closed door. She strode across the room and drew her dagger from the door frame. A flake of white paint fell from the wound in the wood, and she cursed under her breath.
Marriage to a stranger was bad enough. Marriage to Lord Ravensbrook would be a nightmare.
Her interminable day had gotten even longer. She sank onto her favorite chair, still warm from Anthony Carrington’s body. She could not stand to be reminded of his touch. She stood up and tossed the cushions on the floor. Another feather escaped from the tear her dagger had made.
She sighed, placing the knife on the table beside her. Her mother was going to kill her.
She stared with longing at her bed covered with dark green velvet brought from France before the Terror. The softness of that haven beckoned her. She wanted to bury her head under those pillows and forget the man she had just had the misfortune to meet.
Lady Montague walked into the sitting room beyond, the door thrown open before her as if by a great wind. Caroline plastered on a smile and went to meet her. Lady Montague’s dark blond hair was streaked with silver, tucked away beneath a cap of lace.
Caroline forced herself to meet her mother’s eyes. She knew the baroness saw everything, even things Caroline so often wanted to hide. She could not bear the thought that her mother would look at her and somehow know Lord Ravensbrook had just been there. As long as no one knew of his visit, she could pretend she had never met the insufferable man. Desperate to distract her mother, Caroline curtsied.
No doubt it was the spectacle of her daughter showing obedience that made Lady Montague stop in her tracks, the sound of her lightly tapping feet suddenly silenced on the hard mahogany floor. Caroline realized then she had gone too far with her curtsy, but she braved it out, summoning a sweet smile.
“I have news, Caroline. News that would not wait.”
“Will you sit, Maman? Shall I call for tea?”
“No, Daughter, I have just drunk pots of tea with the ladies downstairs. Southerners do not know when to go to bed. I am exhausted from all this to-do.”
“I am sorry, Maman. It is all because of me.”
“No, ma petite, it is all because you must marry. And marry you will. Your father has made his decision.”
She wanted to ask her mother if her betrothed was a tall, beautiful man with black hair, chestnut eyes, and insufferable arrogance but for once in her life, she held her tongue.
Lady Montague was French by birth, and very tiny, the top of her head coming only to Caroline’s sternum. She put her hands on her daughter’s arms, drawing her down to kiss her cheek.
“In two days you will have the honor of becoming the wife of Anthony Carrington, the Earl of Ravensbrook.
Two days. The words rang like a death knell over her head. It was bad enough that she would have to spend the rest of her life with that arrogant man. But the thought that her new life would commence in two days was absurd. She would speak with her father. Surely they could extend what was left of her freedom into weeks, not days.
Her mother continued, never acknowledging that her daughter could barely stand upright. “You will live in his country house in Shropshire most of the year. You will be an obedient wife to him, and you will bear him fine sons.”
The word obedient filled her ears like poison. “But I don’t even know him.”
“He is rich and titled. You will be a countess. That is what you know of him, and all you need to know.”
Caroline swallowed hard. She knew her duty, though it chafed her like an ill-fitting harness on her best horse.
“We could not afford to give you a Season in London,” her mother reminded her. “This marriage is the best path for you, for all of us. Your father has chosen the best man he knows.”
Lady Montague did not speak of her husband’s mounting debts. Protecting and feeding the veterans of his regiment, giving even the wounded men a place in the world, was the honorable thing to do. And as her mother was fond of saying: honor cost money. Caroline would marry an earl, and the earl would pay her father’s debts.
Her parents had not bred a coward. It was one thing to learn knife play from trusted men who had served under her father in war, or to ride to hunt on an unruly stallion. Now it was time for her to show true courage. Women were married off to strangers to make advantageous matches for their families every day. Caroline knew this truth. She had been raised on it. She would prove her courage now, by facing her future unafraid. She straightened her back and raised her gaze from the floor.
“I will do my duty, Maman.”
Lady Montague gave a Gallic shrug, as if the matter had never been open for discussion, but her eyes softened. “Of course you will. When all is said and done, you are your father’s daughter.”
Caroline was startled when her mother raised herself on the tips of her toes and kissed her lips in blessing. As she took in the scent of her mother’s light perfume, she realized she would miss her deeply when she was gone to live in her husband’s house.
Lady Montague’s voice did not waver. The warmth in her eyes was not betrayed in her tone as she gave her daughter the last instructions of the day. “His lordship will send a dressmaker to attend you tomorrow, to fit you for the wedding gown of his family.”
Caroline held her tongue. She could not believe her fiancé had already chosen her wedding dress. It boded ill for their future that his need for control extended to her wardrobe. She did not voice these concerns to her mother, who she knew did not want to hear them. “I will be ready.”
Lady Montague’s pride shone in her eyes, along with moisture that might have been tears. “Daughter, I have no doubt of that.”
Her mother closed and locked the outer door to her rooms behind her. By now, the men downstairs would have heard of her father’s choice. No doubt, her husband-to-be sat among them. Numb from the sudden onslaught of her future, she turned back to her bedroom, reaching for the bell to ring for Tabby, her lady’s maid.
Caroline would marry Lord Ravensbrook, the most insufferable man she had ever met. What kind of future was that?
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How to Train Your Highlander Page 27
