by Scott, Tarah
"You will honor your promise?" he asked.
"I won't leave Brahan Seer."
She couldn't leave. He had seen to that. The passageway had been boarded shut and the guards had orders not to let her pass. Marcus drew her to him. His heart pounded with every halting step closer she allowed until he could wrap his arm around her. Marcus cupped her neck in his free hand. Her gaze flitted to the side, but he cared nothing for the crowd. He kissed her. The familiar hunger lashed out. Had she any understanding of his need for her? She had called it lust. By God, he did lust after her.
Marcus took a long draught of her. When he returned, he would have set in motion what he should have done a month ago: discover her identity. He released her and motioned to the man who stood near the gate holding his horse's reins. The man pushed through the crowd and stopped beside him, reins extended. Marcus mounted, then paused, locking gazes with Elise.
"Elise."
She waited.
"I will return."
It seemed she didn't breathe.
"Be ready when I do."
* * * *
Three days away from Brahan Seer—from Elise—had taken a toll. Marcus looked up from the letter he was reading to the grandfather clock in the far corner of the study in his London home. He curbed a growing irritation. He'd been forced to follow the Earl of Loudoun to London, and now that Marcus awaited his arrival, the fool had the temerity to be late. Marcus finished the drink sitting before him, then returned his attention to the note sent to him by Margaret's father, Lord Ross.
Marcus, the note began, I was unexpectedly called to London and have just learned of your arrival two days ago. He gave a low laugh. "You hate London nearly as much as I do. What story did Margaret concoct to coerce you into accompanying her?" Marcus continued reading the note. Lady Ross is giving a ball tomorrow evening. I trust you will have time to attend. Marcus tossed the invitation aside. "You trust wrong, Ferris. I have no interest in seeing your daughter."
Marcus looked up from reading the Sunday Times when a knock sounded on the door nearly an hour later. The door opened and his butler entered.
"The Earl of Loudoun to see you, Lord Ashlund."
Marcus glanced at the clock. An hour and a half late. "Show him in, Bower." Marcus refolded the paper and laid it on the desk as Loudoun entered.
He bowed. "Lord Ashlund, it has been some time."
Marcus indicated the chair in front of his desk. "It has," he said, noting Loudoun hadn't had the good grace to acknowledge his tardiness. It was impossible to civilize a cur.
The earl seated himself. "I understand you wish to see me on a matter of some importance." Bored amusement shone in his green eyes.
"Have you seen your Hastings clansmen lately?" Marcus asked without preamble.
Surprise flitted across Loudoun's features, but he replied, the boredom reaching his voice, "Haven't been to Scotland in an age. Why?"
"They attacked a group of women at Brahan Seer."
Surprise resurfaced. Then… satisfaction in the guise of disbelief. "Come now," he drawled. "Surely, you are mistaken."
"I was there."
"I suppose one cannot question the word of the Marquess of Ashlund. Was your father, the duke, there as well?"
"Nay. You know anything of the attack?"
"Me?" The earl laughed. "I never involve myself in the petty squabbles on that side of the family." He studied Marcus. "Attacked your women, did they?"
Marcus nodded.
Loudoun shrugged. "Probably just wanted a bit of sport. Why bother yourself? If someone had been hurt or if it had been cattle—"
"Do not try my temper," Marcus cut in. "You know nothing of it?"
"As I said, I have little to do with those barbarians."
"In that you may be wise. I assume you still exercise some authority over them?"
"I suppose so. Can't say I've ever cared to try. Their actions are their own, so long as they don't interfere with my life."
"Spoken like a true Campbell," Marcus muttered.
Loudoun's eyes flickered, and there was a biting edge in his cultured voice when he said, "Unlike you, Ashlund, I am far removed from those people. I don't live in the wilds of Scotland, yearning for the days of old."
"It isn't the days of old I yearn for, but, like any civilized man, simple peace. Yet, it is your clansmen who make that impossible."
"Mayhap you should appeal to our king. He is in a better position than I to help."
"Mayhap," Marcus agreed. "Unfortunately, he's not in England. I should warn you, if trouble arises before he returns, you may find your clansmen intruding upon your life. Castle Kalchurn is between Brahan Seer and Assipattle, if I recall."
The earl's face tightened. "You have no cause to threaten me, MacGregor. I've done nothing. I am not involved in this matter, I tell you."
"Ah, but you are. Despite your complacent attitude, you would not be saddened to hear of my demise or the demise of any MacGregor, for that matter—man or woman—which makes you as guilty as your kinsmen. Now," Marcus leaned forward, elbows on his desk, "if there's a possibility you can get to the bottom of this before it turns into something we will all regret, you would find me most appreciative."
"Just what the devil does that mean?" Loudoun demanded.
"It means, my dear Earl, that I might refrain from running a sword through your black heart."
* * * *
Marcus found Kiernan at his favorite club. Pausing to observe his son as he lounged in one of the plush chairs, pride filled his heart at the man the boy was becoming. Kiernan's brow furrowed in response to something he read in the paper spread across the arm of his chair, and a tenderness stirred in Marcus at recalling where Kiernan had learned that look. It amazed him how much the boy resembled Jenna.
The old sadness revived in Marcus. There had been no great love between him and Jenna. The marriage could have been better. She hadn't been happy. Despite his noble blood, he was a Highlander—a clan leader—and Jenna couldn't comprehend the archaic way of life. Marcus hadn't been able to find it in his heart to blame her. She was of Scottish blood, not Highland. Never the twain shall meet, she had once said.
Still, he grieved when she died. Kiernan, a boy of ten, had been inconsolable. Marcus worried his son had never quite forgiven the world for taking her from him. Even now, he glimpsed flashes of resentment. They were rare, but the emotion ran deep. Kiernan always seemed to ask—to demand—why Marcus had been unable to save her when she'd been thrown from her horse. She hadn't died immediately. It would have been better if she had. Instead, she'd lingered a day, an afternoon, really.
Kiernan had stolen into his mother's room while she lay dying. Jenna hadn't wakened. Whether that was better or not, Marcus had never been sure. But Kiernan had said his good-byes. Marcus recalled seeing the lad on his knees beside his mother's bed. When he entered the room, Kiernan remained motionless. Neither moved for some time. At last, the boy rose and left.
Marcus shook off the morose memories. He crossed the room. Kiernan looked up from the paper. His face brightened and he stood, flashing a smile that dispelled the fear in Marcus's earlier memory. He grasped his son's hand and pulled him close. They separated.
"What brings you to London again so soon?" Kiernan pointed to a chair next to his, then sat. "I hadn't thought you'd be here until spring."
"Not glad to see me?" Marcus chided.
A corner of Kiernan's mouth lifted a little higher. "Never say you braved London for me. Why, Father, I don't know what to say." He motioned to a steward. "Two brandies," he said when the man reached hearing distance, then turned his attention back to Marcus. "Or are you missing city life?"
Marcus grimaced. "Nay. I had business with Loudoun."
Kiernan's smile vanished. "Damnation, Father, what sort of business?"
"Unsavory business."
Kiernan grunted. "That's about the only sort you could have with him."
Marcus gave an account of recent events. When
he'd finished, he took the final swallow of his brandy.
An all-too-familiar gleam entered his son's eyes. "Perhaps I should return to Brahan Seer. You can use all the help you can get. I'm handy with a sword, if you recall." He flashed a cocky grin.
Aye, Marcus recalled all too well. His son had nearly bested him with his own sword just last year. Damn, the lad was truly grown.
"I do have some good news," Marcus said. He paused. "I am to marry."
Kiernan looked as if he had been hit in the belly. Marcus gave a quick explanation.
A moment later, Kiernan shook his head, his expression disbelieving. "You say she hasn't actually consented?"
"Aye."
"Isn't an announcement a bit premature?"
"No announcements. I am telling only you."
Marcus watched his son. He hoped to glean some insight into Kiernan's thoughts but, aside from obvious shock, he displayed no other emotion. The boy had grown too skilled at hiding the workings of his mind.
"Nothing to say on the matter?" Marcus finally asked outright.
"I assume you care for her."
"I do."
"Then congratulations are in order."
"Aye," Marcus replied, while wondering exactly how he would get Elise to agree. His gaze fell to the Sunday Times still open on the arm of Kiernan's chair. "Let me see that." He nodded toward the paper.
Chapter Twelve
The afternoon sun hung low in the overcast sky when Elise came to an abrupt halt outside the storehouse located in the southeast corner of Brahan Seer's compound. Marcus strode past the children playing at the bottom of the hill, headed up in her direction. Her grip on the small sack of flour she held tightened. He'd been gone less than a week. He hadn't delayed in returning to Brahan Seer—neither had he delayed in seeking her out. She had left the kitchen a few minutes ago and he hadn't been there. He could have only just arrived. Only one thing would cause him to come for her before even his horse could be unsaddled: he had found the notice and made the connection between Elise Merriwether and Elisabeth Kingston.
Her heart pounded against her ribs and she had to force herself not to run. Where would you go? she asked herself. He made escape impossible. You think he couldn't find you within the confines of Brahan Seer? He crested the hill and their gazes met. Her breath caught at the haggard look in his eyes.
He knows.
The children's shouts melted into the background as he halted so close, the warmth of his breath displaced the cool, early summer air against her face. She dropped her gaze and bit back tears. Why did he torture her so?
"Hello, love," he murmured.
Elise jerked her gaze up to his. No anger shone in his eyes. He tugged the sack of flour from her grasp and let it drop to the ground, then wrapped an arm around her waist and drew her close. Passion shot between them in a blazing kiss. She gasped when he showered lush kisses along her chin and down the base of her throat. She inhaled his scent and nearly cried when the familiar fragrance engulfed her senses.
Marcus wrapped his free arm around her and gave her a fierce hug. "I missed ye." He leaned back and looked into her eyes.
Her heart leapt with joy and sorrow in unison. Would it have been better for him to have found the wanted notice and confront her? He brushed aside locks of hair the breeze had blown across her cheek. He crooked a finger under her chin and tilted her face up toward his. Her cheeks warmed and she flicked a glance at the children who seemed oblivious of them. He stroked her lips with his thumb. A dangerous grin flashed across his face.
"Wha—"
Marcus dragged her behind the thick brush around back of the storehouse. He glanced at the massive oak tree behind them.
"Marcus—"
He backed her against the tree and pinned her with his body.
"You can't be seri—" The protest was cut off as much by the sudden awareness of the hard length of him pressing into her thigh as by his kiss.
Marcus broke the embrace just as abruptly as he'd begun, ending the kiss with a loud smacking sound. Elise stared. He grinned. She shoved at his chest. He bent over her once more and she heard his quiet laugh before his mouth covered hers. He parted her lips with his tongue, not asking, but taking. He shifted and the vague awareness of his fingers closing around her wrists penetrated her consciousness. He lifted her hands above her head, pressing them against the tree as he leaned his weight against her. A tremor ripped through her and her body coiled in readiness for the hard press of him against her thigh again. But Marcus released her mouth and, dipping his head, nipped at her flesh from cheek to ear.
"I haven't forgotten how mercilessly you teased me before I left." He rocked against her. The press of him against her weakened her knees. "Feel what you do to me, sweet," he said.
Elise inhaled sharply.
"Aye," he whispered.
Marcus rocked again, then again. She arched as he kissed his way down her neck. He released her hands and tugged down her bodice.
"Marcus!" She forgot the remonstration as his weight lifted from her and he bent, his wet mouth closing over a nipple.
Desire spiked through her. His tongue circled the nipple, then released it. She closed her eyes, shivering as the wind slid across her breast, puckering the bud to a hard peak. Marcus abruptly pulled her away from the tree. She snapped open her eyes. He eased her to the ground. The scent of crushed ivy ground cover enveloped her as he came down beside her.
"They're expecting me to return with the flour," she said. "When I don't—"
"They know I came in search of you." He slipped a knee between her legs. "They won't come."
He covered a breast with his palm and slowly teased the nipple with his thumb, while kissing the other breast. His mouth captured the nipple and a rush of pleasure shot from both breasts to the juncture between her legs. He lifted his head and she forced her eyes into focus. His gaze remained fastened on hers as he ran a hand along her ribs. His palm glided past her waist, then along her thigh. He grabbed a fistful of her skirt and pulled it up. She gasped at the feel of his warm hand flattening against her skin, then caressing her inner thigh.
"Marcus," she whispered.
He said nothing, only continued caressing upward until his fingers tickled the hair between her legs. She tensed. He kissed the swell of her breast, her neck, her ear, then her mouth, lengthening the kiss as he slipped a finger between her folds. His thumb brushed the nub swollen with desire. She clutched his shoulders. His muscles tensed beneath her fingers. She ached to feel those arms around her. He stroked her deliberately while slipping another finger inside. He released her mouth and leaned his forehead against hers. His breathing grew ragged as he thrust gently with his fingers. His thumb stroked in quicker movements. Pleasure swirled in a restless coil deep insider her, spiking up in wide ribbons of intensity that took her breath away.
Marcus nuzzled her neck. "Come to me."
She started at the whispered words.
"Come to me," he repeated.
And she did.
* * * *
Elise took one of the scones Jinny had baked that evening from the pan on the kitchen counter. They were still warm to the touch. She pulled the tartan covering her shoulders closer as she stuffed half the scone into her mouth and leaned against the counter. Despite a large supper and wine, she had been unable to sleep. Two glasses of wine hadn't been enough. She should have made it three. At least she would have slept, even if fitfully.
Why had she let Marcus touch her? When he left for London, she had counted on him being away longer than seven days and intended on being gone before he returned. Given enough time, Cameron would have seen her confinement for the prison sentence it was. She had planned on approaching him with care. When he thought she had been wronged by Margaret, he understood her desire to leave. An out-and-out demand for release, however, would be viewed with suspicion. After all, why would a woman with only fifty pounds to her name and no place to go want to leave?
She finished t
he second half of the scone. If she had listened to her head and not her heart and had shunned Marcus… Elise gave a mirthless laugh. She hadn't—and now she had to deal with him while searching for the secret passage Winnie had spoken of.
She reached for another scone, then decided to take some to her room. She found a cloth napkin in the cabinet and wrapped two scones. Male voices sounded in the direction of the great hall as she had folded the napkin's last flap.
Elise cocked an ear. They approached from the hall leading from the main entrance. Scooping up the scones, she froze at sound of a familiar laugh. Marcus. She tightened her hold on the tartan and darted through the kitchen door toward the stairs but was still half a dozen steps from the concealment offered by the staircase when the men burst into the room. Their laughter ceased.
Marcus's "Good evening, lass. What mischief brings you to the great hall tonight?" stopped Elise. She gripped the tartan more tightly about her throat and turned, lifting her hand to display the wrapped scones.
The men looked at the proffered scones and burst into laughter. She began to relax, then caught sight of Marcus's intense gaze.
* * * *
The colors of the throw Elise wore dissolved in Marcus's mind in a blur of red and blue to the memory of her lying alongside him in the ivy. He felt again her body as she trembled beneath his hand, the moist heat of her—
"Good night, gentlemen," she said.
Marcus jerked his attention back to her as she turned to the staircase and started up. He brushed past his comrades and hurried after her. She paused midway up the staircase and looked over her shoulder. He continued forward and she hurried up the stairs and down the corridor to her bedchamber door where she whirled to face him.
"Marcus, perhaps—"
He leaned forward, his shoulder brushing hers as he reached around her and pushed open the door. The door swung wide and he cupped her bottom, lifting her from the floor. She squeaked and threw her arms around his neck, dropping the plaide and the scones. He stepped inside, kicked the door shut, and took the final steps to the bed. He fell atop her on the soft mattress.
