“Of course. It’s—” She paused, then went on, “If your role is to manage the estate and all that entails, then my role is to manage your households, and all that’s associated with that.” She waved her spoon. “It’s what I’ve been trained for—exactly what I expected to do with my life. And now I’m doing it.” She looked up and caught his eyes, her own shining. “I did mention that I thrive on challenges, although to give your staff their due, I’ve thus far found them all very able.”
She was in her element and knew herself to be. Any lingering guilt over having pressured her into helping him and through that marrying him—over having kidnapped her and taken away her choices, even taken her away from a life she might have preferred—faded. By luck, or fate, it seemed he’d offered her one thing, at least, that in terms of her future she’d wanted, needed, and had most likely been searching for. Being his countess would, indeed, give her the life she’d anticipated, and he was relieved by, and content with, that.
Licking the last of an especially creamy crème anglaise from her spoon, Angelica sighed, then looked up and caught Dominic’s eye. He’d already cleaned his plate and was sitting back, his gaze on her, as it often was.
She wasn’t surprised by the scrutiny; he was trying to learn to read her, to understand her, preferably to the point of being able to predict her, and so control her. She smiled. “Assuming that, as it now appears, we’ll be able to quit Edinburgh on the day after tomorrow, what’s our route to the castle?”
He hesitated, then uncrossed his long legs and rose. “Let’s go to the library. Or would you rather sit in the drawing room?”
“No—I like libraries.” And she wanted to see his domain.
He waved MacIntyre back, drew out her chair, then offered his arm. Delighted, she placed her hand on his sleeve, registering the steel beneath it, and allowed him to conduct her out of the dining room, across the front hall, down the corridor, and so to the library.
She hadn’t lied; she did like libraries, and this one epitomized all she thought best in them—beauty, functionality, and comfort. The walls were lined with glass-fronted bookcases filled with leather-bound tomes; the lettering on the spines winked gold and silver, while the covers created a random patchwork of soothing colors. As in the rest of the house, golden oak prevailed. Spaced along one wall, three pairs of long velvet curtains, presently drawn against the night, testified to wide windows that during the day would let in plenty of light. She wondered what the windows overlooked; she hadn’t yet ventured into the gardens at the sides and rear of the large house.
A fire burned cheerily in the large fireplace opposite the windows, the flames throwing golden light deep into the room.
The desk gracing one end of the room was larger, more ornately carved, and also showed more evidence of use than the one in the London house, its surface all but obliterated by papers of one description or another; legal papers, letters, orders, invoices—she glimpsed examples of them all as Dominic led her to one of the two armchairs angled toward the desk.
Twin lamps, one on either end of the desk, were already lit.
Drawing her hand from his sleeve, she sank into the chair and watched while he circled the desk. He bent, opened a drawer, pulled out a map, then walked back around the desk. Grasping a nearby side table, he drew it between the armchairs, sat in the other chair, and spread the map out so they both could see. “This is our route—from Edinburgh via the ferry across the firth and on to Perth, then via Pitlochry, Drumochter, and Kingussie to Inverness. From there, we head west, through Eskdale and Strathglass. Cannich is the last town of any description before we reach Loch Beinn a’Mheadhoin and the castle.”
Dominic sat back and gave her time to familiarize herself with the route. When she looked up, he caught her gaze. “You said you ride well, but how well? Be honest—this is important. I can’t organize a mount for you if I don’t know your ability in the saddle, and once north of Edinburgh, the odds of finding a decent replacement are next to none.”
The look she bent on him was exasperated. “I’m a Cynster. We all ride and ride well—it goes with the name.”
He held her gaze. “Eliza.”
She pulled a face. “She’s the exception that proves the rule. Truly, I know of no other Cynster who isn’t an excellent rider.”
He hesitated, then inclined his head. “Very well. I’ll assume you’ll at least be able to keep up with Brenda and Griswold—they’re the slowest of our group, but they aren’t slow.” He got the distinct impression that she bit her tongue, but after a second she nodded, and he went on, “Thankfully, that means we can ride the whole way, which will be faster—having to use a gig or curricle on those roads would slow us significantly.”
“You’ll be hiring a horse for me from a stable here?”
He nodded.
“In that case, I want a mount at least fifteen hands high, sleek and nimble rather than overly muscled, and with some degree of spirit.” The gaze she leveled at him was serious and direct. “Given we need to ride fast, you won’t be inclined to hire a slug, but do bear in mind that the fleeter the horse, the faster I’ll go.”
She was lecturing him on horseflesh? “I’ll bear your preferences in mind and see what I can find.”
“Good.” She looked back at the map. “Where are you planning to stop for the nights?”
“Perth, then Kingussie if at all possible, although reaching it within the day will be very hard riding, and then Inverness. From Inverness, it’ll take us three to four hours to reach Cannich, and about an hour more to the castle. Naturally, that’s dependent on the weather, but it seems to be holding—the roads should be dry.”
Angelica studied the map; when she set out on a journey, she liked knowing where she was heading. Dominic glanced at the papers on his desk, but remained in the chair, watching her.
Once she was satisfied she had a firm grasp of their geographical direction, she turned her mind to their personal direction. If he needed to work on his papers tonight, she should leave him to it, but having decided that they needed to move forward in the physical sense now, before they reached the castle, what was her best next move?
The answer seemed obvious.
Raising her gaze from the map, she met his eyes. “I believe I’ll retire—none of us got all that much sleep over the past nights.” She rose.
As she’d expected, he got to his feet, too. He bent and moved the side table toward the desk, out of her way, then straightened with the partly folded map in his hands. The desk was behind him, the side table to one side.
She had to pass him to reach the door. She stepped forward, and paused. Close.
Tipping back her head, she met his eyes, smiled as if intending to wish him a good night. Instead, she stepped closer, reached a hand to his nape, and drew his head down as she stretched up to the very tips of her toes and pressed her lips to his.
She had an instant in which to savor his shock, then—
Fire.
Heat erupted—between them, around them. Searing flame welled, swelled, then raged through her, through him, and burned.
And she was no longer kissing him—he was devouring her.
One large hand had speared into her hair, cradling her head and holding her to the kiss, holding her captive while his lips crushed hers in urgent, greedy, ravenous hunger.
The force of that unleashing transfixed her, caught and held her senses—as if he’d been waiting for this moment, anticipating and wanting, but had held back, just as she had.
Now all restraint was gone.
His tongue cruised the seam of her lips, blatantly tempting, aggressively challenging; instinctively, she parted them and felt novel pleasure surge as his tongue boldly thrust into her mouth and laid claim.
Hard and commanding, his lips moved on hers, supping, taking, hungrily savoring; his tongue caressed, explored, branded and incit
ed, impressing stark passion and searing desire on her giddy senses, setting them and her wits spinning ever faster.
She might have been brazen in initiating the exchange, but there was nothing reluctant about his response. He kissed her like he wanted and intended to devour her inch by sensual inch. He could not have made that statement more clearly—more boldly, more ruthlessly—and while her heart sang, her body and her senses gloried.
His other hand had spread over the back of her waist, his touch a heated brand even through the silk of her gown. She felt him shift, moving them both, then the angle of the kiss changed to one less strained; some dim, distant, still lucid part of her mind realized he’d sat on the desk, reducing the difference in their heights and pulling her between his thighs.
Perfect, her inner wanton purred. Now she could kiss him back, could with more firmness return his flagrant, diabolically sensual caresses. She might not have had much experience to call on, but if he could, then she could; taking that as her guide, she set about returning his every favor.
She remembered her hands; after that first moment, they’d fallen limp on his shoulders. Raising them, she speared her fingers into his black locks—and was momentarily distracted by the silky softness. She played, clutched, used her hold to press a boldly deliberate kiss on him, then she eased her grip and sent her hands wandering. Over his cheeks, fingertips lightly stroking down, learning. Down past his hard jaw and over his collar to sweep across the width of his shoulders, and savor.
Then he edged the kiss into new, deeper, more intimate territory, ruthlessly jerking her attention back to the increasingly heated communion of their mouths. She’d never kissed a man like this—had never known she could, never even guessed that a kiss, simple or otherwise, could descend into this, an exchange so laced with latent passion and desire that like ambrosia it addicted her, mind, body, and senses completely, and rendered anything else—all and everything else in the world—secondary, of little import.
This—what they shared, what was welling and swelling and burgeoning between them—was all that mattered.
This, and the conflagration spreading like wildfire beneath their skins.
Distantly she wondered whether it was entirely her imagination that beneath her fichu, the necklace burned hot, and the pendant between her breasts grew heavy.
Dominic hadn’t seen the kiss coming, but regardless, not even in his wildest and most wary dreams had he ever considered that she—with just one kiss—could undo the control he’d spent the last decade and more perfecting. But the first touch of her lips had struck straight through his defenses, had connected directly to that inner self he normally kept well leashed, and tripped the lock. And the hunter had responded, shouldering his rational and logical self aside in an overwhelming drive to capture and seize, seduce and possess.
Possession—possessing her—currently burned as the central critical focus in his mind.
He’d thought that she would run and save them both, but no. Far from being sensibly frightened by the raw power of the passion they’d between them evoked, the witless wanton was urging him on, as if she couldn’t wait to lie spread beneath him.
If neither of them came to their senses soon, she would, most likely on his desk.
The thought made him groan, the sound trapped in the kiss.
She heard, and only kissed him even more seductively.
When had angel transformed into siren?
Relegated, as it were, to a corner of his brain, he was reduced to battling to regain his own reins.
The taste of her—sugar and spice had never been so nice—didn’t help.
The warmth of her body, lithe and elementally feminine, pressed flagrantly to his helped even less.
As for those tracing, tantalizing touches that laced fire over his skin . . .
For long moments, the battle hung in the balance; his lips and tongue engaged with hers, his senses ravenous for more of her in whatever way more might come, he feared he wouldn’t win—wouldn’t be able to draw back before . . .
He dragged in a breath, searched desperately through his mind and hauled two images to the fore. Bryce and Gavin in one, the castle and his clan in the other.
And he was suddenly in control again.
Able to block out the compulsive desire thudding in his veins and ease back from the kiss, finally to break it.
He raised his head. His breathing ragged, he stared into her face.
Waited to see what she would do, how she would react; he honestly had no idea.
Her lids slowly rose, revealing emerald eyes glittering with gold. Her gaze steady, she looked into his eyes, searching them as he searched hers.
Then her lips, swollen and slick, gently curved.
“I’ll leave you to finish with your papers.” Her voice was low and husky. She held his gaze for a moment more, then stepped out of his slackened hold.
He straightened from the desk as she glided to the door.
Reaching it, she glanced back at him. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
She opened the door and stepped through, then gently closed it behind her.
Leaving him standing, stiff and hard in every possible way, staring at the door—and fighting another battle not to follow.
That there had been no further sirenlike lure embedded in her parting words was quite possibly the only reason he won.
Jaw clenching, he finally managed to get his feet to move and carry him around the desk. Easing down into his chair, he stared at the numerous papers awaiting his attention.
But all his senses, all of his mind, continued to be filled with her.
And the next step she’d clearly decided on.
He’d been waiting for her to declare her wishes, to issue an invitation impossible to misconstrue; he should have known she wouldn’t do anything by half measures.
He would have liked nothing better than to oblige her, whenever and wherever she wished, but . . . if he’d needed any demonstration that his decision to defer broaching the physical aspect of their pending union until later, until after they’d reclaimed the goblet and saved the clan, was not just wise but now critical, she’d just provided it.
Fingers tapping the desk, he tried to think of a way around that conclusion—tried to convince himself his loss of control had only come about because she’d taken him by surprise. That next time would be different.
The truth was it might not be. How long it would take him to be certain of his control with her he couldn’t claim to know.
What he did know was how deeply immersed in those heated moments, in her, he’d been. The Cynsters could have come tramping through his house and he wouldn’t have noticed.
Long minutes ticked by, then he reached for a fresh sheet of paper. “Damned female!” She’d shattered his control once; he needed to remind himself why she couldn’t be allowed to do so again.
Picking up his pen, jaw clenching, he dipped the nib in the inkwell and wrote down all the reasons he couldn’t—shouldn’t—bed his countess-to-be yet.
Angelica lay in the beautiful bed in the countess’s bedroom and stared at the canopy overhead.
Self-control was a trait she understood well and applied constantly, yet she hadn’t been in control through that kiss. Not that that concerned her in the least; it hadn’t at the time, and didn’t even now, but he . . . he hadn’t been in control at the start, nor through most of that wild exchange, but he’d seized and exerted rigid and absolute control at the end.
And she wasn’t so sure about that.
Especially given he’d let her go, had let her slip from his arms without any sign of wanting to prolong the moment.
“Hmm.” Fingers twisting the rose quartz pendant, she wondered what that meant.
Regardless, she was content with her progress. She hadn’t intended matters to go even as far as they had,
not tonight, and, indeed, she was grateful he had exerted control and drawn back—because she had a sneaking suspicion she never would have, and after three nights in a mail coach, she wasn’t at her best, and she wanted to be at her best for her first time.
But now that she’d learned their route to the castle, how long the journey would take, and where they would be halting each night, she was even more convinced of the rightness of her decision. She needed to be established as his countess in all but name before they reached the castle. Once they walked into his keep, he and she both would focus on what they needed to do to get the goblet back—that was simply the way they were made; they both understood duty and the necessity of getting the most important things done first. Once at the castle, they wouldn’t have time to establish the physical side of their union; if they didn’t arrive with the connection already in place, neither of them would be able to draw on the inner strength she was convinced would flow from the consequent deepening of their regard.
From the love their lust would transmute to.
“So . . . tomorrow night.” Tomorrow night she would make her bid to storm his castle. Tonight’s interlude had been highly encouraging; it had also shown her the way. “Surprise. If I don’t want him shortchanging us, I’ll need to shake the arrogant Earl of Glencrae to his very large boots.”
The idea made her smile. “Yet another challenge.”
Smile deepening, she turned on her side, snuggled down, and gave herself over to catching up on the sleep she’d recently missed, and the sleep she intended to miss the next night.
Chapter Ten
It was much easier to deal with passion and desire in the cold, hard light of morning.
Dominic waited until Angelica joined him at the breakfast table, then signaled MacIntyre to leave them.
Once the door had closed, he looked down the table; she was slathering jam on her customary slice of toast. He waited until, sensing his regard, she looked up, then he caught her gaze and evenly said, “Our exchange last night was unwise. As you instigated the incident, I’m not going to apologize, but regardless of my compliance last night, given how important reclaiming the goblet is to us and to so many others, it will be best if we avoid any further intimacies until after we’ve achieved that goal.”
The Capture of the Earl of Glencrae Page 19
