Rowena narrowed her eyes, grinning despite herself. Jane sat on the couch beside her, a perfectly innocent expression on her face—except for the twinkle in her brown eyes and the slight upturn at the corners of her mouth. “You wretch!” she exclaimed. “Did you guess?”
Jane shook her head, her grin deepening. “I’ve been observing. When he looks at you, especially when you’re not looking at him, he gets a very doe-eyed expression.” She planted her chin on her fist and looked skyward, batting her eyes and sighing soulfully.
“If he looked like that, someone would drag him off to Bedlam,” Rowena countered, chuckling and truly surprised. If Jane realized it and saw it, then she could no longer quite dismiss it.
“And he told me,” Jane continued. “I got him to take me riding out to that bluebell valley, and I was trying to flirt with him, until he said you’d gotten beneath his skin, and he hoped he hadn’t taken too long.”
“Truly?”
“Truly.”
Did Lachlan love her? Or rather, could he be in love with her? He’d said he was. Now, Jane seemed to think the same thing. Could she believe it, though?
She wished she’d made a drawing of every look they’d ever shared, of every time she and Lachlan had laughed over putting a frog down Bear’s trousers or of when they’d fallen into a giggling heap after a snowball fight. Then she could be certain she was seeing what was there, and not just what she wanted to see.
How simple would it have been for him to declare that he was tired of her chasing after him? He could have told her, demonstrated how little regard he had for her, a thousand different times and ways over the years. Surely she hadn’t been so blind that he’d tried, and she’d simply missed it.
But the first time she could ever recall him doing any such thing was last week, when he’d very clearly and very … gently said he wanted her to be happy, but she was a sister to him and they would never suit. And then a day or two later he’d come back to tell her he’d been wrong, that he just hadn’t seen that she’d grown up.
“Ah, Rowena, someone should paint a portrait of ye.”
Starting, she looked up to see Rob Cranach approaching. “I don’t think I could sit still for that,” she returned, too shrilly, and swallowed. If she couldn’t settle herself, she would be the one carted off to Bedlam.
“Might I have a word with ye, my lady?” he continued, stopping in front of her and offering his hand.
“Certainly.” Clearly, thinking and deciphering all of this would have to wait until tonight. Or after tonight, since Lachlan seemed determined to kiss her before bed again. And to herself she could admit that she looked forward to it. Clasping Rob’s fingers, she climbed to her feet.
Rob transferred her hand to his arm, and headed them toward the door to the hallway. “I meant to tell ye, ye should wear lavender as often as possible. It sets off yer eyes to perfection.”
She bobbed her head. “Thank you.” What had Lach said when she’d told him to stop trying to flatter her? That she had eyes like a spitting wildcat’s? At least Lord Robert knew how to pay a lady a proper compliment.
That was what she needed to recall—that she wanted someone calm and sophisticated in her life. That she’d worked very hard to learn refinement and the proper way of speaking. Why had she finally given up on Lachlan? Because she’d finally realized that he wasn’t a refined, stately gentleman. He had a clever wit and he was certainly strong and capable, but he was first, last, and middle a Highlander. A barbarian.
Rob led her just down the hallway to the orangerie, where he stopped and took both her hands in his. “I’ve just spoken with your brother,” he said. “In fact, Glengask came to find me. He’s given his permission for us to wed.”
For a moment his words didn’t even register. Then, as they sank in, an odd roaring sound began filling her ears. “I think I’d like to sit down,” she managed, and then everything went black.
She opened her eyes abruptly, then couldn’t figure out why she seemed to be staring at a strip of MacLawry plaid right at the end of her nose. Even stranger, she felt like she was moving.
“I’m falling.”
“Ye’re nae falling, Rowena.”
Ranulf’s voice was right in her ear. She blinked hard. He carried her, she realized. Ranulf was carrying her up the stairs, and the plaid was the one he wore draped over one shoulder.
“I can walk.”
“Aye. I’ve seen ye do it.” His grip didn’t alter.
“Put me down, Ran. I’m nae a bairn.” She blinked again as they topped the stairs and he turned them toward her bedchamber. “I mean, I’m not a bairn. A baby.”
Someone else, Charlotte, moved past them and pushed open her bedchamber door. While Ranulf’s betrothed went about lighting lamps and stirring up the fire in the hearth, Ranulf set Rowena down on her bed and hauled the covers up over her. Then he sat down on the mattress beside her.
“Now. Mitchell’s on her way up with tea and a cool cloth fer yer head.”
Rowena took a deep breath, noticing her oldest brother’s very concerned expression, and Charlotte standing directly behind him with her hand on his shoulder. As she watched, he reached up to grip his betrothed’s fingers. They looked so much in love, and for a moment—just a moment—she was jealous. “I’m fine,” she said aloud. “I fainted, I think.”
“That, ye did. And I’m sorry to say everyone knows aboot it, because Rob Cranach ran into the drawing room yelling that ye’d fainted dead away. Of happiness, apparently.”
“Yes. Congratulations, by the way,” Charlotte said with a smile, and tightened her grip on Ranulf’s hand and shoulder.
“I mean to make certain she’s got all her senses before I congratulate her, woman,” he retorted, without heat.
Oh, dear. “Everyone knows?” she repeated, her mind going to a man with ruffled mahogany hair and sharp green eyes who had ten minutes earlier declared that he loved her.
“Aye. Even some of the dead, I reckon. He has a strong pair of lungs, Rob does.” Ranulf sighed. “It should keep any MacDonalds or MacCullochs from trying to make off with ye, though I’d intended a slightly less magnificent way of making the announcement.”
Slowly Rowena realized she still wore her shoes, and she dug beneath the blankets to pull them off and dump them onto the floor. It was far easier to focus on that, to think about how silly she must have looked wallowing about on the floor and how embarrassed she would be tomorrow when she had to admit that she’d fainted. But she couldn’t tell anyone why, that it hadn’t been because she was overwhelmed with happiness. That she didn’t know how she felt, except for confused.
Mitchell rushed into the room, clucking, a tea tray laden with tea and smelling salts and compresses in her arms. “Oh, my dear,” she kept muttering, putting the things down with a clatter on the dressing table.
“I’m fine, Mitchell. Truly.” And Rowena truly wished everyone would go away and give her a moment or two to think.
“Let her see to ye, anyway. It’ll make me feel better.” Standing, Ranulf leaned over to tug on her ear. “So ye know, I told Lachlan and yer brothers before Rob dragged ye off.”
“Lachlan knows?”
“Aye. And that had best solve whatever nonsense has ye snapping at each other. Now ye can be friends like ye said ye wanted to be.” Taking Charlotte’s hand, Ranulf headed for the door. “Now stay up here and get some sleep. The games begin tomorrow, and I want to see ye and Black Agnes win the racing ribbon.”
She nodded. “Good night. And thank you, Ran.”
“Just dunnae do that again. Ye frightened me, piuthar.”
Rowena allowed Mitchell to fuss over her and help her change into her night rail, mostly because listening to the maid’s nonstop chattering kept her from dwelling too much on her own thoughts. Finally she couldn’t stand it any longer, and she sent the servant back downstairs for the evening.
She turned on her side, piling blankets and pillows over her head even though they di
d nothing to ease the turmoil of her thoughts. A man had proposed marriage to her tonight, and apparently fainting meant she’d answered in the affirmative. It was nothing like she’d imagined in all her daydreams—though of course in those, Rob Cranach wasn’t the man proposing to her.
A day ago she would actually have said yes; Rob was the sophisticated man to whom she could see herself married. They would summer in London, he would take her along when he went to Inverness or Edinburgh on clan Buchanan business, he would know all the latest books and plays and operas and discuss them with her in the evenings. It was what she wanted. Everything she wanted.
With a quiet click, her door opened and then shut again. Her heart beat an abrupt quick tattoo in her chest, and she squeezed her eyes closed even though her head was still well beneath the blankets.
“I know ye’re nae asleep,” Lachlan’s dry voice came. “Ye have a rumbling snore.”
“I do not.”
In the silence she heard him walking to her window and then the soft rustle of curtains. “Come here and cast yer eyes on this,” he said after a moment. “Or do ye wish me to carry ye to the window?”
She threw off the blankets. “Other people expressed concern that I fainted, you know,” she commented, slipping off the bed and walking over to stand beside him.
“Are ye well, then?” He looked down at her, his eyes shadowed in the near dark.
“Yes, I’m fine.”
“Then stop yer complaining and look.”
That didn’t seem very nice, but as she looked out over the sloping hill at the foot of Glengask, she forgot to be annoyed at his cavalier conversation. Half a dozen bonfires burned, shadows flitting about them as some of the Highlanders danced. She leaned across Lachlan’s arm and pushed open the window. The sound of bagpipes and the thump of drums drifted up the hill, mingling with the scent of wood smoke. “It looks ancient,” she breathed after a long moment.
“As old as the Highlands. Aye.”
With him in his ghillie brogues and her in her bare feet, the top of her head fit just beneath his chin. She’d always been surrounded by tall men, and while at times she found their height annoying, on most other occasions she appreciated the protection and comfort their formidable presence provided. Tonight Lachlan’s presence, though, didn’t feel all that comforting. Rather, he seemed … coiled, like a wolf just before it sprang.
And the next thing she said, whatever she said, would likely set him loose. Of course remaining silent wouldn’t do her any good, either. Rowena took a slow breath. “After your and my official nonalliance, Ranulf suggested three likely men and asked me to choose one of them.”
“I know that. Cairnsgrove, MacMaster, and Cranach,” he commented, still gazing outside at the firelight.
No explosion yet, anyway. She nodded. “I didn’t know he’d settled on one for me until Rob took me aside this evening to tell me Ranulf had sought him out and given his permission for a match.”
“And then ye said aye to him.”
“When he told me the information about it, I’m fairly certain I told him I needed to sit down, and then I fainted.”
Lachlan didn’t move a muscle, but the air around him seemed charged, as if he’d come to abrupt attention. “Ye didnae tell him aye?”
“Everyone seems to think I did, so I suppose I might as well have done it.”
He faced her again, green eyes glinting red in the reflected firelight. “Ye didnae tell him aye,” he repeated, no longer making it a question. His voice was little but a low, harsh growl.
Why did that matter? Ranulf wanted the match, and Rob was the perfect man for her. She would agree to it, even if tonight she’d been more surprised than excited. “Not yet,” she said aloud.
Lachlan put his hand on the back of her neck and pulled her forward, mashing his mouth against hers. Off balance, heat spearing through her, Rowena wrapped her hands into the lapels of his jacket and held on.
When he began nipping at her jawline, for a handful of moments Rowena thought she might faint again. He knew just where to touch her to send shivers up and down her spine. This was no teasing good-night kiss.
“Ranulf said with this settled, you and I could be friends again,” she muttered, trying to sound matter-of-fact and logical and knowing she was failing badly. “I didn’t tell him that you’d already announced that you didn’t want to be my friend.”
“Ye’re right, lass. I’m nae yer friend,” he murmured back, shifting his hands to unfasten the small trio of buttons beneath her chin.
Oh, goodness. “But we are friends,” she insisted, her legs beginning to feel wobbly. When he tugged her gown sideways to bare her left shoulder to his kisses, she moaned.
“So ye ken I should shake yer hand and go away then, do ye?” Returning his attention to her mouth, he began plucking pins from her hair and dropping them to the floor. “I’m nae going away. Nae tonight. Nae till I’ve felt yer bare skin against mine and I’ve kissed every inch of ye. Nae till I’ve made ye mine.”
Her thin night rail began to feel hot and scratchy against her. This was so, so wrong—even if she hadn’t quite agreed to another man’s proposal, she hadn’t refused him, either. The match, the alliance, would happen. But she’d dreamed for a lifetime about dancing in his arms, and for the past three years about something more sexual, of just this night, with just this man.
“Lachlan, we—”
“I reckon I’ve used enough words to try to convince ye how I feel aboot ye, Rowena,” he interrupted. “So ye tell me nae right now, or put yer arms around me.”
The one good thing about being in her position was that she was valued for the alliance she represented, and not for her virginity. Because at this moment she couldn’t quite remember why she’d decided she didn’t want Lachlan pursuing her. She couldn’t quite recall anything, except how fast he made her heart beat. Rowena touched his face with her palm, then slowly slid her arms up around his shoulders, pulling herself closer against him.
Lachlan dipped, catching her up in his arms, and carried her over to her rumpled bed. She couldn’t seem to stop kissing him, but that only matched his hungry mouth against hers. He set her down on the blankets, pursuing her as she lay back.
“Ye say ye dunnae care fer me any longer,” he muttered, reaching for the hem of her night rail and pulling it up past her knees and then above her waist before she could even pretend modesty. “I think ye’ve bewitched me, Rowena MacLawry. I cannae think of anything or anyone but ye.”
“Even with Lady Bridget throwing herself at ye?” she returned, aware that she’d forgotten her proper accent somewhere, and not particularly caring. Lachlan knew who she was. Or at least who she felt like, tonight.
“I’d nae have her. She wasnae who I want.” He sank down, moving his mouth down her stomach, following the retreat of her night rail as he continued pushing it up her body.
She gasped as he licked one exposed breast and then the other. Digging her hands into the tangle of his hair, she arched against him. And then he slid a hand between her legs, and she gasped again. Heat and desire spun through her. Even with other women practically begging to share his bed, even with her constantly telling him they would never suit, he wanted her. Finally, he wanted her. And however she imagined her perfect future, she wanted him just as badly. Just as fiercely.
When she shoved at him, he sat back a little, and she pursued him upright to push his coat down his arms. The MacLawry colors tented at his hips, and she reached beneath the kilt to grasp his jutting cock. Sweet Saint Bridget and all the heavenly angels.
“Ye’re nae a shy lass, are ye?” He chuckled, tilting his head back a little.
“Nae with ye.”
“I hope ye didnae think I was lying to ye aboot wanting ye, Rowena. Because I do.”
She could certainly see and feel the evidence of that. “I want ye, too, Lachlan.”
Brief satisfaction crossed his lean features. “Lift yer arms, lass.”
Reluctantly
she released him to do as he asked, and he pulled the night rail off over her head. Her hair fell around her shoulders, and as Lachlan gazed at her she felt lovely and wicked and wanton—all those words she’d read about, but had never quite understood before this moment.
“Well?” she prompted, watching him as he gazed at her from knees to head and back to the middle again. “What do ye think?”
His short laugh sent warmth cascading again between her legs. “I think ye’re lovelier than moonlight on water, lass, and fierce as fire at sunrise.” Shifting to sit on his backside, he swiftly unknotted his ghillie brogues and set them on the floor. His cravat and shirt followed, so all he wore was his kilt.
And Lachlan MacTier looked magnificent, like one of the famed ferocious Highlanders of old, the ones who’d driven off the Romans and claimed this land back for themselves. Rowena shook off that thought, though, as he unfastened the kilt and dropped it atop the rest of his clothes. She didn’t need to imagine anything tonight. And she’d made up enough tales about him over the years. Tonight he needed to be precisely who he was. Tonight, that was more than enough.
He caught hold of her again, his hair falling across one eye as he lightly pinched her nipple and then followed with his mouth, his free hand trailing to caress between her legs again. She dug her fingers into his shoulders, pulling him harder against her. His cock brushed against her thigh, and she shivered. Growing up with three brothers she knew what was what, and she wanted him inside her.
Nudging her knees apart with his own, he took her mouth in a deep, heart-stopping kiss. As their tongues tangled he pushed forward with his hips, entering her in a slow, hot slide. Abrupt pain made her stiffen, but with his wicked hands on her breasts and his lips and teeth on her mouth, she relaxed again, the sensation of him inside her, his weight across her hips, indescribably … satisfying.
Mad, Bad, and Dangerous in Plaid Page 15
