A thud on the roof answered her, and she looked up with concern. “Could that harm the roof?”
“I doubt it; the trees hanging over the house are nae large.” As he spoke, he glanced at the other paintings in the room. The first one seemed fine; an idyllic village sitting on a hill surrounded by flowers. He moved a bit closer. In one of the fields, near the stream . . . could that be a man and woman— What in the hell is going on?
He pointed out the window. “Is that a deer?”
Brightening, she turned to look.
He grabbed the painting, staring wildly about the room for a hiding place. Before he found one, she said, “I think you must be mistaken,” and turned back around.
He held the painting behind his back, glad it was so small. “I know I saw a deer; it must have run away.”
She sent him a concerned look. “Is everything well?”
No, everything wasn’t well. He’d just realized that every picture in this room—all five of them, were bawdy representations unfit for her eyes. He supposed he was being a prude, which was a new hat for him to wear, but he’d be damned if he’d expose her to such tawdriness. We’ve stumbled upon a damned love nest.
“Marcus, what’s wrong? You’re scowling as if you’d like to murder someone.”
He forced a smile. “I was only thinking that I would like to see the rest of the cottage. I may walk aboot for a bit.”
She put down her embroidery. “I’ll come with y—”
“Nae! There’s no need.” God only knew what awaited them beyond the doorway. “I’ll look myself.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” She stood. “I’ve already been in the rest of the house. I can lead you through it.”
Which could only mean that the tawdry touches were subtle, or she would have noticed them. He supposed he should allow her to go with him; to do otherwise would just raise her suspicions. He would take a mental inventory, and then later, perhaps when she was asleep, hide whatever needed hidden. “Fine. We’ll go together. Are you certain you wouldna rather stay here, where it’s warm, and enjoy your embroidery?”
“It’ll wait.” She glanced back at the embroidery hoop and frowned. “It’s a complex pattern of some sort; I’m not really sure what it is.”
Good lord, not the embroidery, too. He walked behind a chair, leaning the picture he held against the back, and then stepped out from behind it. “Let me see the pattern. Perhaps I can decipher it.”
Her brows rose. “I’ve had more practice deciphering embroidery patterns than you.”
“Perhaps. Perhaps nae.”
She blinked and then gave a surprised laugh. “If you insist . . .”
“I do.”
She picked up the hoop and handed it to him. “What do you think it might be?”
While he looked at the pattern, Kenna put away the extra thread and tucked away her scissors. The pattern looked innocent enough, a series of circles and swirls. They seemed random, though he was certain there must be something lascivious to it.
Jaw set, he placed the hoop facedown on a table near the fire.
She put the basket aside, her bright gaze on him. “Well? Do you know what it is?”
“ ’Tis an animal,” he announced. “One from Africa, I believe. I canna remember the name of it, but it’ll come to me.” He gestured to the doorway. “Shall we?”
“Of course.” She led the way to the door.
He took advantage of her back being turned away to toss the embroidery hoop into the fire, along with one of the pictures hanging nearby, before following her into the hallway. He’d make certain they stayed away long enough for them to burn completely.
Kenna was already opening the door to a small dining room. They looked about, and he instantly noted three glass figurines that needed to be consigned to a cupboard at the first opportunity, and one painting of a drunken Bacchanalian feast that was so large he’d be hard-pressed to hide it. Fortunately, Kenna didn’t seem to notice anything amiss, merely commenting on the fine furnishings and the light spilling in from the windows. Afterward, they made their way to a small, neat den where he found much the same.
“Shall we look upstairs?” Kenna led the way from the den to the stairwell. “The bedchamber is quite large. Wait until you see it.” When she reached the small landing, she opened a large oak door.
As soon as Marcus crossed the threshold, he halted dead in his tracks. If he’d had any questions as to the purpose of the cottage, they were permanently laid to rest.
Most hunting boxes were used to provide guests with a place to stop for rest and refreshments during a hunt. They were usually decorated with a hunting theme, the walls containing paintings of men and women riding to the hounds, displays of ancient firearms, and the occasional mounted animal trophy. In every hunting box Marcus had ever visited, there was usually one large room for gathering and an assortment of smallish bedchambers for the guests should they need a rest.
This cottage only had enough room for one couple and their personal servants. The stable only had room for two, perhaps three horses, and hidden behind that was a shed where a coach could park under a covering, well away from the main road. There were no large rooms for gathering; just small, intimate chambers.
And this room proved beyond all doubt that he and Kenna had stumbled onto someone’s luxurious and well-hidden love nest. A huge, ornate bed sat in the middle of the room, hung with thick red curtains and adorned on each post with huge cupids, their arrows all pointing at the mattress as if ready to skewer the inhabitants with love arrows.
The huge picture over the fireplace showed a pair of lovers lounging under a tree, the gentleman partially disrobed as he cupped his companion’s exposed breast, her low-cut gown hanging off her shoulder and baring her to all. A fat red velvet settee, the back of it shaped like a heart, sat before a huge fireplace adorned with red and blue Chinese tiles that, on closer inspection, illustrated various lovemaking positions. And in one corner, half hidden by a screen, was a decent-size brass tub with feet of gold, each shaped like a statue of Aphrodite he’d seen in the British Museum.
But the grand mural on the ceiling exceeded everything else. Zeus lounged boldly naked, surrounded by a bevy of maidens, each one plumper and more lascivious than the next, while a horde of fat, goat-footed men danced around, leering.
Marcus rubbed a hand over his eyes. “Bloody hell.”
Kenna’s low, throaty chuckle surprised him as she came to his side. She looked up at the mural, crossing her arms against the chill. “It’s a bit much, isn’t it?”
He glanced down at her, surprised to see her grinning as she looked about the room. “I laughed so hard when I first saw it,” she admitted. “There’s something to be said for a bold picture now and then such as those hanging downstairs, for the human body is lovely, but this—” She glanced up at the ceiling and laughed. “None of them look very happy. I don’t know if they’ve come to seduce him, or to smack him. Honestly, either could happen.”
He had to smile. “The paintings in the living room are risqué, too, though nae in such an obvious manner.”
“Oh, I noticed.” She turned an amused glance his way. “I must protest your use of the fire. The walls will be bare if you assign every naughty painting in this house to the flames.”
“You saw that, did you?”
“I did. And my embroidery with it.” Laughter bubbled from her lips, her eyes warm and bold. “I can assure you there is no hidden picture in that pattern. I specifically looked.”
“I’m glad to hear it. I would hate for shock to damage to your delicate sensibilities.”
“Sadly, I have none, as my father frequently reminds me.” She walked farther into the room, rubbing her arms.
He moved past her to the fireplace. “I’ll start the fire to warm the room.”
She sent him a surprised look. “Why?”
“I am nae sleeping upon the floor another night. My back is still stiff. We’ll sleep here tonight.”
She blin
ked. “Both of us?”
“I’ll sleep upon the settee. Even that will be better than the floor.”
The fire was already laid, the tinder in place, and he found a flint box on the mantel and lit the wood. The first puff of smoke roiled up the chimney, but then puffed back down into the room. “Ah. The vent is closed.” It took three good hard pulls, but he managed to get it open, the fire flaring to life at the rush of air.
Soon, Kenna came to stand with her hands toward the crackling flames. “That’s much better. I hope we have enough firewood. We have so little . . .” She slanted him a mischievous look, which instantly made him wish all sorts of carnal things.
That wretched mural does nothing for me, yet one smile from her and I can think of nothing but the softness of her under me, of the scent of her hair and the—
“I will search the wardrobes and see what clothes we can borrow,” she announced. “I looked earlier, but didn’t do an inventory.”
He nodded. “And I’ll look in the trunk at the foot of the bed. Perhaps there are extra blankets.”
“Very good.” As she walked to the wardrobe, she passed an elaborate washstand. “There’s a straight razor here, and clean towels. We’ll have to carry water from the kitchen, though.”
He rubbed his chin. “Is that a hint?”
Her gaze flickered to his chin and she smiled. “Not at all. If you like being unshaven, by all means stay so for I have no complaint.” She opened the large wardrobe and disappeared from sight.
She likes me unshaven. It makes me think what the feel of my chin might feel like against her thighs—
No. He couldn’t think about such things. And neither should she.
He opened the trunk and shifted through it. “There are extra blankets and some riding boots, but little else. What did you find?”
Kenna’s muffled voice drifted from the wardrobe. “There are some very nice shirts, although the arms might be a little short. The breeches are all too short and won’t do at all.”
“You said before that there are ladies’ gowns as well?”
She pulled a blue silk gown from the wardrobe. “Many.” She held it before her and looked in the mirror. “Sadly, they are too long—I would fall down with every step. They would fit fairly well, otherwise.”
He watched as she turned this way and that, letting the skirt flow around her. It was an unconsciously feminine gesture, and made him want to wrap his arms around her and buy her a hundred such gowns. Instead, he said, “Here. Let me see it.”
She tilted her head to one side as she held out the gown. “What are you going to do?”
“You’ll see.” He took the gown and placed it upon the bed and spread out the skirts. Then he turned to look at her legs, then back at the gown, measuring silently. “It is aboot four inches too long.”
“At least that.”
He picked up the razor from where it sat near the washbasin, slipped it from its sheath, and held up the skirt—
She caught his hand. “You can’t do that!”
“Why nae?”
She dropped her hand from his. “It’s not mine.”
He shrugged. “I’ll leave some coins to replace it. It’s highly unlikely we’ll be rescued until morning, nae with tree limbs dropping all aboot. Do you wish to wear that riding habit yet another day?”
She looked down at her wrinkled habit. “No. To be honest, I’m beginning to hate it.”
“Then I will do this. When the time comes, we’ll purchase the owner a new gown.” When she hesitated, he added, “ ’Tis an emergency, true?”
Kenna looked wistfully at the gown. It was so beautiful, the watered silk the exact shade of blue she loved, the neckline adorned with tiny pink roses. It would look so much better on her than her tired riding habit, and would be far more comfortable. “Very well.”
Marcus nodded his satisfaction.
She watched as he marked the gown in one place with the point of the razor, and then repeated the marks around the rest of the skirt, using his hand as a measurement.
“Whoever owns it has excellent taste in both gowns and jewelry.” Kenna reached over to the washstand and picked up an earring. “I found this yesterday. It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” She held the earring up so the light caught the large ruby that dangled from it.
At the sight of the earring, Marcus paused in cutting the gown. His brows lowered. “Where did you find that?”
Something about his voice gave her pause, and she said cautiously, “On the rug in front of the settee.”
His gaze flickered to the settee, and though his expression didn’t change, she was certain he was irritated.
She held out the earring. “Perhaps you should keep it. I’d hate for something this valuable to go missing while we’re here.”
He hesitated, but then reached for the earring and tucked it away in his pocket before returning to his task, slicing the flowing skirt in smooth, long strokes. Finally, he finished and handed her the gown.
She took it with both hands, letting the silk sink between her fingers, soft as air. Grateful, she smiled at him. “Thank you. You should try on some of the shirts.” She carefully placed the gown over a cushioned chair and then looked through the shirts hanging in the wardrobe. He could roll up the short sleeves, but if his broad chest and muscled arms were too big, there was nothing to be done. She’d just pulled out a shirt when the red silk robe that had been hanging on a hook by the door fell to the floor. As she bent to pick it up, the crest on the front pocket caught her gaze.
She straightened and smoothed a finger over the gold and purple embroidery. She knew this crest, of a lion holding a blazing sword. And it confirmed what she’d suspected.
Marcus moved so he could look over her shoulder. “Whose is it?” he asked.
“Stormont’s.”
“I suspected as much. You did say this is his land.”
“I wondered if this house was his as well, but—” She shook her head. “Stormont seemed too bound in propriety to use such a place. I suppose I was wrong to think that.”
“Some people are very different in public than they are in private.”
She couldn’t argue with that. She waited for a feeling to hit her: jealousy, concern, worry . . . anything. But nothing happened. Nothing at all.
She hung the robe back on the hook and removed the shirt she’d spied earlier. “See if this will fit. It’s a bit larger than the others.”
He tossed the shirt over the back of the settee, then undid the simple knot of his cravat. That gone, he took off his coat, revealing a white linen shirt underneath.
She watched as he reached up to pull the shirt over his head, his muscles flexing with each move. He was more muscled than he used to be, his shoulder and arms especially. He was also more tanned, which gave him a faintly exotic look when paired with his dark hair and gray eyes. All in all, he was a handsome, devilishly intriguing man.
He tossed his shirt aside, and her breath left her in a whoosh as she saw his broad shoulders and the muscled lines of his broad chest. But even more intriguing was his stomach, rock hard and flat, with the crisp curls that covered his chest narrowing to a thin trail that thinned down his stomach and disappeared under the band of his breeches.
The coolness of the room faded, replaced with an inner heat that stole her breath and muddled her thinking. She wanted him so badly, her body ached with need. But he’s made it plain he does not wish to tread that path.
Afraid she might reveal herself should he look her way, she turned and hurried to the door. “I must go.”
“Go?” Marcus’s voice deepened with surprise. “Where?”
“Downstairs.” Now. Before I do or say something I shouldn’t.
“Nonsense. Stay here and try on the gown. I will leave and you can have the room to—”
“I’ll try it later. I-I-I’ll wish to bathe first, which will take more time than I have now.”
“Time? We have plenty of that. I’ll—”
Chapter Seven
An hour and a half later, Kenna stabbed the needle into the embroidery pattern. She’d been fortunate to find both another hoop and several other patterns in the basket; otherwise she’d have had nothing to do.
Marcus hadn’t returned to the sitting room since her awkward flight, and she was glad. It gave her time to think of a reason to explain her actions: she’d tell him she’d felt ill from the stew. That was certainly believable. She even practiced the telling of it, looking at herself in the mirror to make sure she appeared sufficiently distressed.
But Marcus hadn’t granted her the opportunity to perform; he’d left her alone as the sun outside slowly slid out of sight.
What is he doing? She eyed the closed door curiously. Immediately after she’d retreated to the sitting room, she’d heard him make his way to the kitchen, where he’d stayed for almost half an hour. After that, she heard him walking back up the steps, and then—a very short time later—back down to the kitchen. That had happened a dozen times or more. What was he up to? Perhaps he was avoiding her, too?
She frowned, a bit miffed. Should she find out what he was doing? Join him in the kitchen, under the pretense of wanting something to eat? But no, that might seem as if she were trying to woo him. She wasn’t, of course. Their relationship was over; he’d made that abundantly clear. She was just . . . curious. Yes, curious.
She sighed, her breath fluttering the thread in her unused needle. Perhaps he merely wished for some time alone. Perhaps he finds the situation as difficult as I do. It’s so awkward.
She stabbed at her embroidery as she heard his tread upon the stairs yet again. It was truly an agony, being so close to him but separated. He was a man made for touching, and she was realizing how, over the years, she’d missed that aspect of their relationship. Her lips still tingled at the thought of tracing his jaw with kisses, of sliding her hands over his flat, firm stomach, of the heat of his skin against hers—None of which will happen if I sit here like a lump on a log and wait. I must make an effort if I wish this relationship to—She wasn’t sure what she wished their relationship to do. Certainly she’d like to be friends. But if she were honest, she wanted more, too. She wanted to move past this frosted, awkward friendship (if it could be called that) and rekindle the passion they’d always had. Marcus said passion isn’t enough, but it’s a beginning. And perhaps all we need is another one of those.
What Happens Under the Mistletoe Page 15
