Highland Rogue, London Miss

by Margaret Moore

  “No, it isn’t, but you’ve been too immersed in the law and devoted to your brother to realize it.”

  “Then why hasn’t anyone else ever said so? Why hasn’t any man ever pursued me?”

  “Likely they would have if they hadn’t feared your sharp tongue.”

  “You don’t.”

  “I like your sharp tongue. I admire your clever mind, although other men might not, and your independence, and your devotion to your brother.” He looked at her directly then, his eyes full of a yearning so strong, it seemed to pull her toward him like a rope. “And I’ve wanted you from the first time I saw you.”

  That couldn’t possibly be true. Surely she would have realized…seen…guessed… And he wouldn’t have been so scornful, so mocking.

  Yet as she looked into his eyes, she believed what he was telling her. The evidence of his sincerity was there, plain as if it were written on parchment.

  As if it were decreed by law, she moved to sit beside him and reached out to touch his cheek. How long had she wanted him, too? When he arrived in his fine new clothes the day they left for Edinburgh?

  Since last month, when he and Jamie had been laughing together over a story Quinn was telling?

  Or from that first meeting when Quinn had been so devilishly dashing in spite of his state and his less-than-fashionable attire?

  Whenever it had happened, all that truly mattered was that it had, and now she wanted to kiss him. So she did, and as she kissed him, every muscle, every sinew, every nerve within her seemed to come alive as it never had before.

  Every part of her told her she wanted this man, needed him, as she had never needed or wanted another. He alone could kindle this incredible excitement. He alone could rouse her passion and make her wanton in her desire. He alone provided the fire she had thought never to experience, or even to need as other women did.

  How wrong she’d been about that, and him! How blind and ignorant!

  Her heartbeat began to race as he returned her embrace with equal fervor. Her body thrummed with warmth, with desire, with the excitement of mutual passion, as he gathered her into his arms and kissed her deeply.

  His fingers worked the buttons of her pelisse until it was undone and he could slip his hand inside to cup her breast through her gown. Kneading gently, he encircled her with his other arm and pulled her closer, while she pushed his hat from his hand to run her fingers through his mane of dark waving hair.

  Mouths locked, hands caressed and stroked. His fingertips grazed over her gown, until he finally insinuated one hand inside her bodice to cup her. She moaned with yearning encouragement and tugged his shirt from the waistband of his trousers so she could reach beneath it and feel the hard muscles of his chest beneath the fine fabric.

  He gathered the skirt of her gown in one hand, sliding the other underneath and between her legs with slow deliberation.

  She arched against him as his lips left hers and grazed her jaw, then her neck. She attacked the buttons of his shirt, wanting to feel more of his skin. When she succeeded and laid her hand against his naked chest, he groaned, the sound coming from deep within his chest, primal and raw, like her own tumultuous desire.

  She forgot she was supposed to be well-mannered and morally upright. That they were not married, or engaged. That no promises of any kind had been given. No marriage agreement spoken or signed.

  They were simply a man and a woman caught up in their shared yearning and lust and want. Unrestrained. Unguarded.

  His fingers worked at the drawstring of her pantelettes until he had them undone. She should be modest. Embarrassed. Ashamed. But she was not. She even wiggled her hips to help him lower them.

  She knew what was about to happen. What she wanted to happen. What she’d been trying not to imagine since the first time she had ever seen Quintus MacLachlann. What she’d been telling herself could not happen, no matter her wayward thoughts, because he was a rogue. A seductive scoundrel. A disgrace.

  Now she knew better. He was a man who had thrown away his advantages—and lived to regret it. Who felt remorse and had suffered for his mistakes. Who was as alone and lonely in his way as she was in hers.

  Yet he wanted and needed her. He roused her primitive, natural longing as no man ever had, or likely ever would.

  He licked the little indent at the base of her throat as he cupped her below and pressed the heel of his hand against her. She writhed and gasped when he slid a finger inside the slick opening. He pressed again and another finger joined the first. And then—and then, it was as if her body had been slumbering all her life and suddenly awakened. Gritting her teeth to keep from crying out, she half rose as the tension snapped and threw her out of herself, into some other realm without thought, without logic, without laws or rules or modes of conduct. Only feeling. And raw, primal sensation.

  This was loving. This was being intimate. This was pleasure—and she would give the same to him.

  Yet as her hand went to his trousers, he suddenly drew back and tugged down her skirts as if she’d pulled a knife.

  “No,” he said, his voice raw and hoarse, stern and unyielding. As if he were ashamed.

  Or she should be.

  As swiftly as she’d experienced that astonishing release, shame flooded through her. In spite of all her resolve, of the inner fortitude she thought she possessed, she had been as weak and willing as any woman to give in to the demands of her flesh—and in a carriage, too.

  She should have remembered she was a good and decent woman who wanted his respect, and giving in to her lust was not the way to earn it.

  Although the very notion would have struck her as utterly ludicrous only a few days ago, what she really should want—what she did want—was to be married to Quinn, to be his wife and the mother of their children.

  Except that would mean giving up the law, for surely she wouldn’t be able to continue to help her brother if she was married, even to Quinn.

  As she fixed her underclothes and smoothed down her skirt, she avoided looking at Quinn. Trying to ignore the longings of her heart, she forced herself to consider the practicalities of marriage to him. He would be passion ate in bed, but otherwise? What sort of security could he offer her? What sort of profession could a disgraced heir with a dubious past find? What sort of life?

  What if their feelings for each other were only lust? She had seen too many marriages crumble and decay because there had been no love, no trust, no security.

  She must avoid a similar fate. She should stay away from Quinn and prevent any more such intimate encounters unless and until she was certain there was more to their feelings than lustful desire. Otherwise, she would truly be no better and no smarter than so many of the women who’d sought Jamie’s help after losing everything because they thought they were in love.

  The carriage stopped moving.

  “Thank God,” Quinn muttered, his voice husky as he finished buttoning his shirt.

  When the footman opened the door, Quinn didn’t wait for her. He didn’t even look at her before he disembarked and strode into the house, leaving the footman to help her down from the carriage.

  Nevertheless, Esme held her head high as she went into the house, although inwardly she felt as desolate and ashamed as if she’d been abandoned at the altar.

  Esme McCallan had been humbled at last—and not by a man.

  By her own lustful desire.

  Quinn strode into his brother’s library and went straight to the brandy, pouring himself a drink that he tossed back in a single gulp.

  What the devil had he done? How could he have gone so far? In another passion-fuelled moment, he would have taken Esme’s virginity. How could he have been so selfish? How could he have forgotten what he owed to Jamie and come so close to deflowering his sister?

  Although he supposed he could take some pride in the fact that he’d left her before things had gone too far, he had still let himself get swept along by his longing and desire and need.

  The on
ly way Esme should lose her virginity was when she married, and she could never marry a man like him.

  What did he have to offer her, after all? Nothing, except a handsome man in her bed, and he knew precisely what that was worth. It had been proven to him often enough in his youth by women who’d flattered and teased, only to discard him once they tired of him, until he learned to leave them first.

  If he’d been wise, he would have realized how hollow and unfulfilling those relationships were, and sought something—someone—better.

  Someone like Esme, who stirred both his passion and his heart. Who made him feel so good…and yet so bad.

  He poured a second drink that swiftly followed the first.

  He’d made an ass of himself at McHeath’s office, too. He hadn’t gone there because he didn’t trust Esme’s ability to defend herself or ward off unwanted attention; he had gone because he didn’t trust McHeath. Although Esme didn’t believe McHeath had any lascivious interest in her, she wasn’t a man, with a man’s knowledge of his own sex.

  He poured a third drink, then hesitated with the glass partway to his lips as he remembered that he’d told Esme he never drank to excess anymore.

  His glass stayed on the tabletop, and he threw himself into a thickly cushioned wing chair of an ugly shade of green. He’d acted like a jealous husband in some sort of cheap melodrama.

  Except that he hadn’t been acting. Seeing Esme with McHeath, hearing the man’s accusations, he’d been overcome by primitive and possessive rage—something Esme obviously found distasteful and uncivilized.

  Because it was.

  Quinn got to his feet and strode over to the window that overlooked the garden and the mews. The mess from the fire had been cleaned up and he could hear the glaziers as they went about inserting new glass in the kitchen window.

  He couldn’t wait for Jamie to order his sister back to London. He would have to make her go, for her sake as well as his.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Is something the matter, my lord?” McSweeney asked as Quinn paced the foyer of the town house that evening. He hadn’t seen or spoken to Esme since they’d returned from the solicitor’s office, nor had she made any attempt to speak to him.

  Why should she? After his lack of self-restraint the last time they were together, he wouldn’t be surprised if she never wanted to see him again. “I fear my wife might be too unwell to attend the party this evening.”

  The butler’s brows rose ever so slightly. “Indeed, my lord? She summoned her maid to help her dress an hour ago.”

  “Ah. Delightful,” Quinn murmured, trying not to betray the full extent of his relief.

  “I don’t wish to speak out of turn, my lord, but I must tell you that the servants are all quite taken with her. Her behavior during the fire was most exemplary.”

  Quinn turned to face the older man. “How so?”

  “She kept an amazingly cool head, my lord.”

  “I wish I’d been here,” Quinn replied, the words slipping out as if he were a boy again, confiding in the only ally he had in his father’s house.

  “If I may venture an opinion…” McSweeney began, only to fall silent when Esme, attired in gown and cloak, appeared at the top of the stairs.

  Her hair was more simply dressed than it had been recently, pulled back the way she wore it in London, although there were dainty curls on her forehead and brushing her cheeks. She likewise wore simple pearl earrings and the single strand of pearls, and the gown peeping out from beneath her evening cloak had only two rows of ruffles at the hem.

  Even so, she was as lovely as any young woman dressed in the height of fashion. No, lovelier, because no amount of fine attire could match the bright intelligence of her eyes, and the fullness of her ruby lips that could kiss with such passion.

  He had to stop thinking like that. He had to forget how it felt to hold Esme in his arms and kiss her.

  Or so he commanded himself all the way to Lady Elvira’s, one of the more overdecorated domiciles he’d ever had the misfortune to enter.

  His discomfort regarding the surroundings grew when an unfortunately familiar voice called his name as soon as they entered the drawing room.

  Ramsley. Of all the vain, young asses… And so far, he’d managed to keep Ramsley far away from Esme. Unfortunately, Ramsley wasn’t alone; a group of equally overdressed popinjays were with him.

  A broad smile on his round, freckled face, Ramsley came to a halt in front to them and gestured at his companions, who were obviously more than half-inebriated.

  “May I present Dougal McSudderland, Lord Ramsley of Tarn,” Quinn reluctantly said to Esme as the young idiot bowed. “Ramsley, my wife.”

  “Charmed, absolutely charmed!” the younger man enthused as he took Esme’s hand and kissed the back of it. “By God, Dubhagen, what a prize!”

  The corners of Quinn’s lips tightened, while Esme put on another vacuous smile and said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lord Ramsley.”

  “More so for me to meet you, my lady. You’re even more lovely than I’d heard.”

  Esme giggled, while Quinn took hold of her elbow. If he couldn’t risk being alone with her, the least he could do was get her away from Ramsley.

  “If you’ll excuse us, Ramsley, I have something I wish to discuss with the Earl of Duncombe,” he said, steering her toward the older nobleman, who was seated a short distance away with his daughter beside him.

  Esme didn’t protest as Quinn led her away from the young noblemen who’d all been leering at her as if she was a Cyprian on display.

  Yet as the weight of his hand on her arm warmed her and made her remember the excitement of his embrace and kiss, she realized it was even more of a mistake to come here with him. She should have pleaded an aching head and stayed in her room.

  Perhaps she should capitulate and go back to London, as distressing as that would be. If she couldn’t control her desire when she was near him, she might have to get away from him, even if that meant disappointing Jamie.

  When they reached the earl, Quinn leaned down so that he could be heard over the music. “I wonder if I could have a word with you about mortgages. It’s occurred to me I could be doing more of that sort of thing. You make such financial bargains, do you not?”

  “A few. This is hardly the place to talk about money,” the earl replied, fidgeting and sliding a sidelong glance at his daughter.

  Catriona looked lovely in a gown of pale green silk with dark green satin ribbons around the hem and bodice, and tight-fitting sleeves that emphasized her slender, graceful arms. Many of the women were equally well-attired and most of the men looked good in their evening dress, although none so fine as Quinn.

  “I believe we’ll find brandy, as well as privacy, in the library,” Quinn replied.

  The earl’s brows lifted. “Never thought of that! A much better place to talk, man to man,” he said, rising with Quinn and Catriona’s assistance.

  As Esme watched them go, marvelling again at the way Quinn moved with such lithe, athletic grace, Catriona sidled back toward the corner. The young woman’s manner was furtive, as if she didn’t want to be seen.

  “Is something the matter?” Esme asked, following her.

  “No, not really,” Catriona replied, toying with the tassel of her fan, her nervous action reminding Esme of the other changes within the young woman, who seemed to have truly suffered.

  But then, so had Jamie.

  “I didn’t mean to alarm you,” Catriona said softly. “I find it preferable to keep out of the way of people, that’s all. They can make gossip out of the most meaningless word or gesture and after Jamie…” She colored, then went doggedly on. “I’ve been gossiped about enough to last a lifetime.”

  Esme had always resented Catriona for making it necessary for her and Jamie to leave Edinburgh. Now, however, it occurred to her that it might have been more difficult to stay and endure the gossip and whispers, as Catriona had.

  “Your brother is t
he finest man I’ve ever met, or ever shall,” Catriona went on, gazing at Esme with sorrowful eyes.

  It sounded as if Catriona still loved him.

  Was it possible that she’d completely misjudged the young woman?

  If Catriona had loved Jamie enough to love him still, despite the passage of time, why had she jilted him? Did her father truly have that much control over her?

  Would she give up the man she loved rather than upset or risk offending a beloved parent? Was she that devoted? If she was, she might be capable of continuing to love a man she believed she couldn’t have…

  Esme suddenly felt a little dizzy. Was this to be her fate, too?

  “What are two of the prettiest women in Edinburgh doing whispering in a corner?” Lord Ramsley asked, coming to stand before them.

  Four of his cronies were with him, each with red eyes and redder noses, as if they’d been into the wine for hours.

  “If you’ll excuse us, Lord Ramsley,” Esme began, starting to move forward until he blocked her path.

  “You must allow me to introduce my friends, who are on tenterhooks to be introduced to you,” Ramsley continued without letting either Esme or Catriona respond. “This is Lord Luchbracken, Lord Esterton and the Honorable George Teannet.”

  The three other men made attempts at bowing and Lord Esterton, who was at least three stone too heavy for his height, slurred, “’Lighted, ladies, qui’ de-lighted.”

  “If you’ll pardon us,” Esme said, prepared to push her way past them if necessary.

  Ramsley moved forward, making her back up to prevent a collision. “We just want to talk to you.”

  “We don’t wish to talk to you,” Esme retorted, taking Catriona’s hand.

  “What in the name of God do you young asses think you’re doing?”

  Esme had never been so glad to see or hear Quinn in her life.