The Capture of the Earl of Glencrae

by Stephanie Laurens

  She’d had no appetite to speak of when, in Mirabelle’s all but triumphant train, she’d slipped into the great hall and, giving Dominic, slumped and glowering in his huge carved chair, as wide a berth as possible, had slid into the chair on his left.

  Pushing food around on her plate, she found herself unexpectedly trepidatious; they had no plan, no agreed series of actions. In what happened next, they would have to play their parts spontaneously.

  For the first time in the entire charade, she felt nervous.

  This was their last gambit, the last and final act. They had to get every single little gesture right, and Mirabelle had just made their task harder.

  By the time the plates and platters were being removed, an unfamiliar knot had formed in the pit of her stomach.

  Then Dominic pushed back his chair and rose. Everyone fell silent; expectation gripped the hall. He glanced over the faces, his own a mask, then spoke to the assembly. “As some of you already know, I’ve declared the rest of today a minor festival day for the castle. There’ll be archery and other contests in the bailey and in the forests to east and west. I want everyone outside, enjoying the afternoon—I don’t want to see anyone back in the keep until it’s time to get dinner ready. I’ve some business to attend to, but I’ll join you all soon.” Raising both arms, he waved everyone out. “Now go, and enjoy the afternoon.”

  Excited, happy chatter welled, engulfing the hall. Under cover of the noise and the rush of activity as people left the tables and headed for the main door, Angelica started to edge out of her chair.

  “Stay where you are.”

  She froze at Dominic’s growl; the final act in their charade had begun.

  He remained standing, watching the others leave. Silent and still, fingers lightly touching the table, he waited . . .

  Shrunk down in her chair, Angelica leaned forward enough to glance past him. Mirabelle, still seated, was looking up at him, her face all but radiant with expectation of a twisted, malignant joy . . .

  Stifling a shudder, Angelica looked down. She’d performed in charades too numerous to count. Never before had her pulse hammered in her throat, had her nerves cinched to such excruciating tightness.

  Finally, the last stragglers were shooed out by Mrs. Mack, who followed them outside into the weak sunshine. Gradually the keep fell silent, until the only sounds to reach them were distant, muted by the thick stone walls.

  Dominic pounced.

  He seized her arm, hauled her up and out of her chair.

  The squeak he’d surprised out of her had been perfectly genuine. Shocked, as he tugged her forward instinct kicked in and she pulled back. “No! What—”

  “Shut up. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll come quietly.”

  “No! Let me go!” She threw herself back and succeeded in knocking over her chair. It crashed on the flags, the sound reverberating through the hall.

  Dominic’s jaw set harder than stone. With more force, he yanked her forward, ducked his shoulder, and straightened with her caught over it.

  She struggled furiously. “Stop! You can’t do this. Let me go!” She pummeled his back with her fists, wriggled and bucked and tried to kick as if she didn’t care if he dropped her; she knew very well he wouldn’t.

  Undeterred by her resistance, he strode off the dais and into the gallery. When she redoubled her efforts, he slapped her on her bottom hard enough to make her shriek. “Stop it!” he snarled. “You’ll only end hurting yourself.”

  The slap was followed by a knowing, kneading caress, an arousing reassurance that made her gasp and momentarily distracted her.

  Recalling her role, she hauled in as much breath as she could and screamed, “Help!”

  With his shoulder pressed solidly into her lungs, the best she managed was a weak cry.

  “Scream all you like,” he said. “No one will hear you.”

  Her gaze fell on Mirabelle. His mother had leapt up from her chair and was trotting after them, her eyes drinking in their performance, her lips parted in delight.

  Revulsion rolled through Angelica. She wriggled anew, dragging in breath to appeal to the manic countess, “Help me! You can’t let him do this.”

  Mirabelle smiled, and every ounce of her maliciousness, of her vindictive spite showed. “Oh, yes I can—he’s doing this for me. He’s so big, too—I’m so looking forward to hearing you scream. My only regret is that your mother won’t hear it, hear her darling being ripped apart, but I’m hoping that later you’ll describe the moment to her in all its horror.”

  Angelica was struck speechless.

  As Dominic swiftly climbed the stairs to his room, her struggles weakened, lessened.

  She managed a realistic sob as he reached his door. “No, please—don’t do this.”

  “Stop fighting, be sensible, just lie there and take it, and I’ll make things as easy for you as I can. It shouldn’t hurt too much.” Dominic set the door swinging wide. “Just follow the old advice: Lie back and think of England. It’ll be over soon enough, and then you can go home.”

  Swinging around, he slammed the door in Mirabelle’s face and slid the bolt into place.

  And exhaled.

  Walking further into the room, he halted and lifted Angelica off his shoulder, letting her slide into his arms.

  She wound her arms around his neck, looked into his eyes. “Lie back and think of England?”

  Inexpressibly relieved to see laughter in her eyes, he shrugged. “It seemed apt.”

  She searched his eyes, then, lips curving, arched a brow. “So . . . what now?”

  “I was hoping you might have some suggestions.”

  “Oh, I do—I definitely do.” She raised one leg, waited until his hands cupped her bottom and he lifted her, then she wound both legs about his waist. Levering herself up so they were face-to-face, eye to eye, lips to lips, she murmured, “Let’s start with this.”

  She kissed him, and within three heartbeats he learned that his fears had been groundless.

  They could do this. Together they could, and would, and all would be well again.

  Between them, between his kisses and hers, between the artful tangle of their tongues and their slowly rising hunger, the fires ignited and the heat between them rose.

  And filled them.

  Supporting her with one arm, he raised his other hand to her breast, claimed, kneaded, and caressed.

  She murmured something incoherent, then drew back from the kiss, looked into his eyes. “She’s doubtless got her ear pressed to the door, but she can’t hear us, can she?”

  “No, but she’ll hear a scream.”

  She licked her lips; her gaze fastened on his. “We’re not usually that noisy, so we’re going to have to make an extra effort.” With a wriggle and a slow undulation of her spine, she pressed the heat between her thighs to the reassuringly rigid rod of his erection. “You’re going to have to give me a reason to scream . . . with appropriate feeling.”

  He wouldn’t have thought it remotely possible, but she’d made him grin. “Let me see what I can do.”

  He trapped her lips in a kiss, although who caught who was moot, and desire and passion flared anew, flared higher. Within seconds, their hands were everywhere, tugging this, unbuttoning that. He staggered the two steps to the bed and tipped her down. She let her arms slide from his neck, let herself fall back to the mattress. She was already nicely flushed, lightly panting.

  “We can’t take too long.” She’d already tugged his shirt free of his waistband. Now she reached for the buttons there.

  He blocked her and reached for the buttons closing her bodice.

  “No—rip it.”

  He met her eyes.

  She grasped his wrists and shook them. “She gave it to me.”

  Gripping the fabric, he hauled the halves apart, ripping both
gown and chemise to her waist, exposing her breasts, unmarked but swollen. Swooping, he set his mouth to her flesh, set his hands and fingers cruising. She’d wanted him to make her shriek and moan; he set himself to the task with his customary devotion.

  She exaggerated, of course, but she took her cues from his ministrations, from his deliberate and ruthless assault on her senses. The sounds that fell from her lips urged him on; within minutes they were creating the sort of racket that would have convinced even the most hardened and cynical listener that a ravishment of the first order was taking place.

  His mouth on her gave them her first scream. Her second, when he thrust swift and sure deep into her body, was simply perfect.

  Her skirts rucked to her waist, her hips gripped and anchored in his hands, her legs wound about his hips, he leaned over her and rode her hard and fast; eyes gleaming from beneath her heavy lids, she was with him every heart-pounding second of the way.

  And she’d been right. Nothing could touch them; no charade, no pretence however sordid, could even reach, let alone mar, the reality they’d already created.

  In perfect harmony, they focused on their joint goal. And raced for it.

  She didn’t hold back, and neither did he. He rode her up the slope at a breakneck pace, all the way to the peak, and sent her flying. Head back, body bowing, she screamed. Her sheath gripped, a scalding velvet vice, and pulled him with her. On a hoarse shout, he let go, let her take him—then let her pull him down, into her arms, and hold him.

  For that one blissful second.

  Then they both dragged in huge breaths. Pushing back, he disengaged. She reached up and ran her fingers through her hair, disarranging the long strands, leaving them tangling wildly about her face, throat, and exposed breasts.

  Breeches rebuttoned, he turned to the bedside table, picked up the knife he’d left there, and nicked his thumb. Returning to her, he let the blood well, then smeared it down the insides of her thighs, mixing it with his seed so that it glistened damply.

  “Thank God you remembered—I’d forgotten.”

  “Every little detail,” he murmured.

  Stepping back, he sucked his thumb and surveyed her.

  She arched her brows. “How do I look?”

  He reached for her skirts, artfully draped a fold over flesh he saw no reason to let his mother see, tweaked her ripped bodice so the rip was even more evident, then waved at her. “Look ravished.”

  She obliged, falling limp on the disarranged counterpane, head to one side, palms upward in helpless defeat, limbs in a boneless sprawl, her legs spread wide, hanging over the side of the bed . . . he shook his head in honest admiration. “Perfect. Don’t move—I’m going to let her in.”

  He crossed to the door, took a firm grip on his temper, his revulsion, his protectiveness, and held them all back, then he slid the bolt free and opened the door.

  Mirabelle stood immediately outside. The look on her face . . . for a moment, he closed his eyes.

  Turning from her, he opened them, waved at the bed. “As you demanded—Angelica Cynster, thoroughly ravished.”

  Mirabelle walked toward the bed. He walked beside her, intent on ensuring she didn’t touch Angelica—that, he wouldn’t stand for.

  But Mirabelle halted at the foot of the bed. She looked down at Angelica, who didn’t shift an eyelash. Mirabelle’s gaze raced over Angelica’s lax features, her tangled hair, over the evidence of her ravishment . . . then Mirabelle smiled like a child who’d just unwrapped her most longed-for gift.

  She lifted her head and looked at him. He fought not to register what he could see in her face, but if he’d harbored any doubt that his jettisoning all honor had been every bit as important to her as Angelica’s ruination, the look in her eyes at that moment would have slain it.

  “At last!” Her voice rang with something far beyond triumph. “I’ll fetch the directions to the goblet—they’re in my bedroom.”

  “Bring them to me in the hall.” He wanted her out of this room, away from Angelica, away from him. “I’ll wait for you there.”

  She nodded; after one last glance at Angelica, she walked quickly to the door.

  He waited until her footsteps died away, then returned to the door and closed it. Locked it. He turned to see Angelica sitting up, a smile on her face that the glory of the sun breaking through clouds couldn’t have competed with.

  “We did it!” She kept her voice low, but her excitement was real. Bouncing from the bed, she started to strip off her ruined gown. “Quickly—help me change. I’ll go around and into the kitchens, and watch from there. The instant you know where the goblet is, we’ll go and fetch it.”

  Halting before her, he looked down at her for an instant, then he swept her into his arms, lifted her high, and kissed her soundly. Deeply. Inexpressibly gratefully.

  “Thank you,” he murmured as he set her back on her feet. “From the depths of my heart, forever and always.”

  She considered him for an instant, then patted his chest. “I could say ‘thank you’ in reply, but you won’t understand. However, you have to admit we make an excellent team.”

  Naked to the waist after having freed her arms from the gown, she wriggled, then sighed. “Now either rip this off me, or undo the laces—choose.”

  He ripped. She cleaned herself, scrambled into a walking gown she’d left waiting, then together—him in the lead for once with her following—they headed for the great hall to wait for Mirabelle and the directions to the goblet.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Dominic sank into his great carver behind the high table, looked out over the empty hall, and told himself it was nearly over. More than five months of plotting, planning, missteps and failures, and now, finally, thanks to his amazing angel, within minutes he would have the goblet in his keeping once more.

  And his clan would be safe.

  And he would owe it all to her.

  And the prospect of spending the rest of his life in thrall to her didn’t bother him in the least.

  Lips curving, he glanced at the archway that led to the kitchens, saw her peeking out. Smiled at her, saw her smile back.

  Knew he was besotted and didn’t care.

  Angelica all but jigged. Mirabelle had to have reached her rooms by now, and given she herself had taken such pains to show the countess why she shouldn’t deny Dominic the goblet, she really didn’t believe Mirabelle would resile from handing it—or at least the directions to it—back now.

  She told herself she should follow her own advice and possess her soul in patience, but—

  A shout, distant and muted by the walls, reached her. She could hear the gentler noises of the castle folk enjoying their afternoon in the bailey, but that shout . . . sounded familiar. A familiar cadence, a familiar ring . . . what was it?

  Less than a minute later, a clansman—one of the older crew who mounted guard at the gatehouse—came running into the hall. “My lord! There’s a group of Sassenachs at the bridge demanding to see you.”

  Dominic looked at Angelica, all good humor flown, then pushed back his chair. “I’m coming.”

  She stared at him as he strode down the hall. A familiar hail . . . turning, she raced through the kitchens and into the gallery circling the great hall—then remembered she couldn’t risk running into Mirabelle. Skidding to a halt, she turned and ran for the kitchen door. “Damn them! Did they listen to me? No. And, of course, they’ve picked their moment—them turning up now is the last thing we need!”

  Upstairs in her bedroom, Mirabelle stood by the window tying off and snipping threads from the embroidery she’d been working on for the past several weeks. It wasn’t finished, but the part Dominic wanted was there. She could have simply told him where the goblet was hidden—any clansman would know the spot—but the embroidery was her final conceit. Embroidery was the one thing at which she’d alway
s excelled; it had seemed appropriate to use the skill to communicate to her son, or to whoever she’d decided to gift the goblet to, where she’d hidden it, her so-useful Damocles’s sword.

  The last dangling thread fell to the floor. Setting her shears on the windowsill, she straightened the rectangle of fine linen and smiled at the picture she’d created. She was, she realized, happy. She’d finally found the way, seized the goblet, and used it to gain all she’d ever wanted—revenge on her husband, revenge on her son, revenge on Celia Cynster for all the long, wasted years of the mire of empty ugliness her life had become.

  Never again would Dominic be able to take the high ground with her. She would never let him live down what he’d done, what he’d traded, to save his precious clan.

  Her face relaxing into a long-forgotten expression—a genuinely happy smile—she turned to the door just as it opened.

  Her smile grew wider when she saw who’d arrived. “You’ll never guess! Dominic brought me Angelica Cynster, but oh, my dear, it gets much better than that.” She wanted to crow with delight, with triumph.

  His lips curving, her lover stepped into the room and shut the door. “I see. It looks like I got here just in time.”

  She beamed like a girl. “Just in time to share my celebration.”

  “Indeed.” With long, stalking strides, he crossed the room to her side.

  Dominic stood on the castle battlements opposite the bridge from the loch’s southern shore and studied the eight horsemen who were squinting up at him; six had crowded onto the bridge, while two remained on the shore.

  The six on the bridge had halted; any nearer and they would be within pistol range.

  Angelica popped up beside him; from behind one of the crenellations, she peeked out.

  “I assume that’s them.”