The Capture of the Earl of Glencrae

by Stephanie Laurens

  The challenge they would face once they gained the castle lay like a black cloud ahead of them. He wasn’t surprised that his protectiveness toward her had grown to the extent that he shied from even the pretence of harming her; in accepting her agreement to help him, he’d expected that, as he grew to view her as his bride, his countess-to-be, his protectiveness would rise to embrace her. What he hadn’t expected—what he’d realized the previous night when she’d laid her plan before him—was how deeply attached to her he’d grown. How irretrievably ensnared by feelings he’d never expected to feel, and so hadn’t thought to factor them or their power into his calculations. He hadn’t dreamt that not even the threat to his clan would be enough to allow him to mute, if not suspend, his protectiveness toward her, not even temporarily, not even for a charade.

  Her vision of how to trick his mother into handing over the goblet . . . if he had allowed himself to formulate a plan, he would have come up with something similar, albeit less focused on her. Her strategy was sound, but as for his part in it . . .

  He cast her a glance, then looked ahead before she noticed.

  If he hadn’t been so profoundly and inextricably attached to her, he could have done it, but even before she’d invaded his bed, she’d captured him, his hunter self, in myriad ways; he was now so deeply in thrall there was no hope of him drawing back, of stepping back to the point where he could deal with her charade as if it were some game.

  Like father, like son. Evidently certain Cynster females were the equivalent of sirens to Guisachan men, irresistible and unrenounceable.

  They swept on, up and over the pass, and the repetitive drum of their horses’ hooves underscored the continuing refrain of his thoughts: How did a man like him allow the woman he loved to go into danger? To risk being harmed.

  To invite being treated as badly as his mother might very well treat Angelica.

  They clattered into Inverness in the late afternoon. They reined to a walk as their road descended toward the banks of a river, then curved to the right. Looking ahead, Angelica beheld an ancient castle.

  Dominic saw her surprise. “Inverness Castle. They’re talking of demolishing and rebuilding it.”

  “So they should—it looks decrepit.”

  He pointed beyond the looming pile. “Our hotel, unimaginatively called the Castle Hotel.”

  Unimaginative or not, the hotel was an exclusive, luxurious establishment, more so than she’d expected to find in the wilds of Scotland, and the staff clearly knew the Earl of Glencrae. Their accommodations were swiftly arranged, and if the superior manager, McStruther, harbored any curiosity over the lady Dominic escorted upstairs to the stateroom overlooking the rear gardens, he kept it to himself.

  She glanced at Dominic’s face as he followed her up the stairs. “Do you stay here often?”

  Looking around, he answered, “Often enough. It’s the closest major town, and Inverness is effectively the capital of the highlands—whenever there’s any business the clans as a whole, or even a few of them, need to agree on, it’s here that we meet.”

  Gaining the head of the stairs, he paused to scan the foyer below. When he turned and took her arm, she asked, “Is that why you’re searching the shadows—because there might be someone here who will recognize me?”

  “I don’t think there will be, but until Griswold has a chance to check, there’s no sense taking chances.”

  Two boys had already brought up their bags; while Dominic gave them some coins, she crossed the sitting room to the wide window. The sun hung in the western sky shedding golden light over the scene below. Beyond the hotel’s leafy gardens and a narrow street, a decent-sized river ran down to the nearby sea. Dominic joined her and she nodded beyond the glass. “Which river is that?”

  “The Ness. The body of water to the right is Moray Firth, while that”—he pointed left—“is Beauly Firth. Our road tomorrow follows Beauly’s shores, until we come to the Beauly River. We head upstream—west—from there.”

  “So the castle is west of here.”

  “West, and a little south. We’re facing north, more or less.”

  A tap on the door heralded Griswold.

  Closing the door behind him, Griswold bowed and reported, “None of the other lords are in residence, my lord. Only a few businessmen from Glasgow, and an old lady and her companion up from Perth to visit a friend.”

  “Good.” Dominic glanced at Angelica, then looked back at Griswold. “Inform McStruther we’ll dine early, in the private parlor.”

  “Indeed, my lord. And I’ll have the maids bring up some hot water.”

  They had time to wash and change, to shake out their clothes and leave them for Griswold to brush and make ready for the next day.

  Clad in a new gold satin evening gown, Angelica sat at the dressing table to brush and arrange her hair. Dominic came to stand behind her, using the mirror to tie his cravat; studying his reflection, she couldn’t help but feel pleasantly domesticated. When Brenda had asked permission to visit family in the town, Dominic had referred the question to Angelica; while she had, of course, agreed, the apparently instinctive courtesy had only underscored his view of her as his de facto countess.

  For tonight, she was more than content to play the role and savor it; once they reached the castle, only when he had the goblet in his hands would she be able to safely resume it.

  Elegantly clad in regulation black-and-white, he escorted her downstairs to a small, private dining room. Cozy and intimate, they dined by candlelight, eating off the finest porcelain, with silver and crystal gleaming. She passed the time by asking him for stories of Gavin and Bryce, a topic on which he had few reservations.

  At one point, Mulley came in; he bowed to them both, then bent and murmured in Dominic’s ear.

  Dominic nodded. Once Mulley left, she caught Dominic’s eye, arched a brow.

  “Mulley, Jessup, and Thomas are heading off to a tavern they favor. They don’t often get the chance to visit Inverness.”

  Half an hour later, Dominic having denied any wish for port or whisky, and she for tea, they climbed the stairs.

  Dominic had intended to turn his mind to the question hanging over him—their necessary charade and how he could possibly play his part—but his mind simply wouldn’t budge. Wouldn’t let go of, wouldn’t shift from the moment, from the simple contentment the evening had wrought that had somehow sunk to his bones. He was following at her heels . . . and for tonight, that was enough.

  For the first time in six long months, he could see past the moment when he had the goblet once more in his hands. Past the moment when he handed the coronation cup to the bankers and reclaimed the deeds to his lands. Even past the time when he and Angelica married.

  To a time when, for one reason or another, they would be here, like this, climbing the stairs to the Castle Hotel’s stateroom as husband and wife.

  As laird and lady, a lady who would be his helpmate—a true mate in all ways, in every sense of the word. He didn’t need to think to know that she would accept nothing less; what surprised him was his willingness to embrace that vision. To share not just his life but his care for his people, something he’d held solely to himself for the past five years, and in truth for some years before that.

  They reached the stateroom. He opened the door, ushered her in, and followed.

  Reaching out, he twined his fingers with hers, delaying her while he closed the door, then he turned and faced her. Freeing his fingers from hers, with both hands he framed her face, tipped it up, and kissed her.

  Neither gently nor ravenously, but simply, openly, sharing the moment. The caress. The impulse behind it.

  She responded without guile, without hesitation parted her lips and welcomed him in. The pressure of her lips encouraged; her tongue tangled with his and boldly returned the pleasure he was intent on pressing on her.

  For
long moments, they stood in the soft light and spoke of no more than that; time stood still while they savored the beauty of what they already had.

  Eventually, chest swelling, he broke the kiss. Watched her face, saw her lids slowly rise, read the question in her eyes. Closing his, he leaned his forehead against hers. “I know what we have to do tomorrow. I haven’t yet made up my mind how to deal with it—how I will deal with it—but for tonight, I want . . . to just be with you. For you to be you, and me to be me, with nothing else allowed to interfere.” Raising his head, he looked into her eyes.

  Lifting a hand, Angelica brushed a lock of black hair from his forehead. She searched his eyes. “Just you and me, as we wish to be?”

  He nodded.

  She didn’t know why, what had provoked the request, but . . . she smiled, took his hand, turned out of his arms, and led him toward the bedroom. Picking up the lighted candelabra from the side table as they passed, he allowed her to tow him inside, then he shut the door.

  Placing the candelabra on the high tallboy, when she presented him with her back, he obliged her by undoing her laces, then he left her to slip the gown off while he eased off his evening coat, set it on the stand left ready, then unbuttoned his waistcoat.

  They undressed without haste, without rush; after letting down her hair, brushing out the long strands, she stripped off her chemise, laid it over a chair, walked to the bed, and slid under the covers.

  Lying back on the pillows, she watched as he tossed his shirt over the clothes stand, toed off his shoes, then unbuttoned his trousers, drew them down, stepped out of them. Her eyes caressed the long lines of his body, the sculpted muscles, the heavy bones. Without looking at her, he shook the garment out, laid it on the stand, then he crossed to the tallboy and snuffed the candles.

  She blinked, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the sudden dimness. A large, dense shadow, he walked to the bed, lifted the covers, and slid in beside her.

  The mattress sank; she let herself roll into him.

  Into the arms that were waiting to catch her. Waiting to embrace her.

  To his hands and him, waiting to make love to her.

  He settled her alongside him; instinctively she wrapped her arms about him, sent her legs to tangle with his. He nudged her face to his; one hand curved possessively over her naked hip, through the dimness, he searched her face. Then he bent his head and kissed her, set his hands to her skin, and with a simplicity she hadn’t expected, an honest courage she hadn’t foreseen, ripped away every veil, every screen and shield that had been or might ever be between them.

  Within the cocoon of the covers, desire and passion bloomed, yet in the dark, in the heated silence, no reality existed beyond his body, hers, and what drove them.

  What hung in every gasp, what invested each and every caress.

  Once she grasped his intent, she reciprocated as freely, as unreservedly, as he. While the heat of desire and the flames of passion rose, as always, to their call, this time there was no rush, no overwhelming haste. No desperation, no driving urgency; they took their time, deliberately and unhurriedly savoring each touch, each caress. Each heartbeat of togetherness.

  Together they strung the moments out like pearls beyond price.

  He was an excellent rider in this sphere, too; he knew how to set the pace. Knew how to hold back their desires while they built and built, knew exactly how far he could push her, how far she could push him, before they had to move on.

  To the next potent pleasure.

  Caught up in the magic, enthralled beyond recall, she had never imagined the simple act could be this elemental, that when passion and desire were stripped to the bone, their stark radiance could be so powerful, so mesmerizing.

  He opened her eyes.

  About him. About herself.

  She hadn’t fully comprehended what he’d meant, what he’d asked for in wishing them simply to be as they were, but now she saw. Through his eyes, through his touch.

  Through the tactile reverence he brought to every moment.

  Through her responses.

  She saw herself through him, through the unstinting worship he lavished on her. Saw him even more clearly and responded in kind, showing him all that she felt for him, letting that drive her reactions, infuse her touch, letting her joy in it color their every exchange.

  It was as if through their hands, through the communion of their bodies, they spoke on some different plane, in a language distilled from passion and desire, in voices that came from deep within, in words shaped by emotion.

  That carried emotion, clear and strong, in every touch, every heartbeat, every gasp.

  Until the moment was all.

  Until he slid into her body and she closed around him and they clung to the scintillating pleasure of that second.

  Everything they were, him and her together, was captured there, shining and bright, for them both to see. To savor, to appreciate and know.

  To understand that it was theirs, now and forever. Theirs to hold and cherish.

  Also theirs to lose.

  This was what they would fight for.

  Their mouths melded and he moved upon her, slow strokes that filled her completely, his hard body embraced in her softness. She met and matched him, accepted and held him.

  Loved him as he loved her.

  Making love. This was what it was supposed to be—this simple, shining, unadorned yet brilliant truth. All that had gone before had been leading to this; all before had been them finding their way to this.

  The friction between their bodies built, built; the flames racing over them, through them, flared.

  And then the cataclysm was upon them.

  And nothing else mattered but their race up and over the peak.

  Nerves unraveling, senses spiraling, fingers sinking deep, she bowed beneath him, and with one last powerful thrust he sent her winging.

  He followed a second later.

  Into the blinding, bone-melting delight of ecstasy.

  Into a nova of pleasure so intense it shredded their senses.

  For long moments they hung, suspended in the glory, one in body, hearts thudding in time, souls merged.

  Slowly, slowly, clasped and clinging, they drifted back to earth.

  To the warmth of the bed, the rumpled covers, the tangle of their limbs.

  He disengaged and slumped heavily beside her.

  She curled toward him, nestling into his arms.

  Relaxed, sighed, closed her eyes.

  Her returning wits wandered. Through a landscape stripped of all pretence.

  And she realized why now, why tonight.

  Tipping her head back, she peered through the dimness. Her eyes had adjusted; she could see his face. His features were lax, his eyes closed.

  Shifting within his encircling arms, she stretched up and brushed her lips over his. Saw his lashes rise, caught the gleam of his eyes. Fixing her eyes on his, she said, “No matter what happens, I will never forget that this is how we truly are. That this is how you truly are. What we found tonight is our truth, and nothing you might be forced to do to save the clan will ever tarnish it. Could ever tarnish it.”

  Beneath her palm, his chest rose and fell. His eyes remained locked with hers.

  Eventually, he murmured, “I hope not.”

  There was none of his habitual arrogance in the words, only a quiet, understated vulnerability.

  She wondered if she should belabor the point, if she should reassure him even more emphatically that no matter how he behaved toward her while they were working to fool his mother, she would never doubt him. Or would he hear that as her protesting too much?

  He stirred, raised a hand, brushed back her hair, then urged her down. “Sleep. Tomorrow is going to be a very long day.”

  She searched his face, then acquiesced.

>   Sinking back into the warmth, into the inexpressible comfort of his arms, she let body and mind slide back beneath the lingering blanket of satiation.

  He was right. Tomorrow would be a watershed on several counts.

  They rode out of Inverness at eight o’clock the next morning. After clattering across the bridge over the Ness, Dominic led his party along the road to Beauly. Soon, they were riding by the shores of Beauly Firth. The day was cloudy, the skies gray; the wind whipping off the water made conversation impossible.

  That last suited him; he needed time to think. To sort through the conflicting emotions ruling his head, to separate them enough to decide which should dominate.

  This morning, once the soul-stealing wonder of what they’d shared had receded, he’d discovered the answer to his question of yesterday starkly etched in his mind.

  How did a man like him allow the woman he loved to risk being harmed?

  By trusting her.

  And Angelica was, in every way, worthy of his trust.

  As they rode on, the wind ruffling his hair, the scent and sounds of the firth so familiar, he wrestled with that realization and what it meant he would have to do.

  After an hour, the road left the firth’s shores and wended through flat fields with the mountains a distant backdrop. An hour later, they crossed the old stone bridge over the Beauly River and turned onto the road to Kilmorack. The further they rode inland, trees and tall shrubs increasingly crowded the road, blocking the wind. The sun struggled to break through, eventually sending sunlight shafting down, painting the distant hills a pale gold.

  Perched on Ebony, Angelica rode with confidence in her heart, and an unshakeable determination. Last night, her highland laird had shown her that he had fallen in love with her. Even though he hadn’t used words, she couldn’t have asked for a more definitive declaration. He’d given her every assurance she would need to carry her through their charade, and while he hadn’t yet confirmed his acquiescence and agreement to it, she knew he would.