Ann Lethbridge

by Her Highland Protector

  He really didn’t trust her. She felt miserable and angry all at once. ‘Wick is a small place. Many people come to the market.’ Somehow, though, she didn’t feel as if this second meeting was by chance. Yet how could it be otherwise?

  His gaze was fixed on the note still clutched in her hand, suspicion rampant in his expression. ‘Then why are you here? And to whom are you writing?’ he asked.

  Dash it all, was she to have no privacy? ‘It is none of your business. You are not my guardian or my gaoler.’

  His mouth tightened. Disappointment filled his expression, as if he expected her to trust him when he did not trust her. ‘Unfortunately I am, until Lord Carrick returns.’ He stared at the letter and held out his hand.

  Unfortunately. What did he mean, unfortunately? That really hurt. ‘This is a private letter, addressed to me from a friend of my father’s. It came via the tinker at this stall.’

  Mr Gilvry’s lips thinned. ‘If it is all so innocent, why not simply send it by way of the post office?’

  Why was he being so starchy? Surely he wasn’t jealous of her letter from home? Not possible. He was simply doing his duty. So he thought. She drew herself up to her full height. Not very impressive beside him, but necessary to make her point. ‘Again, it is none of your business.’

  ‘It is, if the getting of it puts you in danger.’

  Did that mean he really was worried about her? Her heart gave a cheerful little skip. ‘How could I have guessed the man would be here and would risk an approach among so many people? Besides, I thought they must be far away by now, fearing the hue and cry.’

  An odd look crossed his face: guilt. She frowned. ‘Did you know they were still in the area?’

  ‘I suspected it. I should have warned you.’

  So it was guilt. ‘Yes, you should have.’

  He huffed out a breath. ‘It would not have been necessary had you stayed where I left you.’

  Now she felt guilty. ‘Well, I am certainly glad you came along at the right time.’

  He glanced around. ‘Where is the tinker you came here to meet?’

  She shook her head. ‘I have no idea. He ran off when he saw you.’

  Should she mention the gypsy’s knife? She hesitated a moment too long and Mr Gilvry’s face hardened as if he guessed she was holding something back. ‘It is back to the dressmaker’s with you, Lady Jenna. And then home to Carrick Castle.’

  ‘Carrick is not my home.’ She belonged to Braemuir. Heart and soul, though no one else seemed to understand her devotion.

  He marched her though the crowds as if she was the criminal, not the man who had accosted her. And yet she did not mind the feel of his hand in the small of her back, the warmth of his large body, and the protection it offered. Should she say something about her suspicion that the man had sought her out? He had probably figured that out for himself.

  As he hurried her along, she caught a glimpse of the gypsy. He was watching them with dark unfathomable eyes. She wondered if she should point him out to Mr Gilvry, but before she could do so, the man faded from sight. Besides, if Mr Hughes trusted him, she should too. The person she must not trust was Niall Gilvry.

  * * *

  When they got back to the seamstress’s, Campbell already had the carriage waiting outside. He and Mary were deep in conversation at the horse’s heads.

  ‘Are you finished here?’ Mr Gilvry asked Jenna, nodding towards the shop.

  She mentally winced. ‘Not quite.’

  He sighed. ‘Verra well, let us go in. Miss Mary, your presence is required.’ He opened the door.

  ‘You don’t need to come with me.’

  He gave her a look that spoke volumes. Anger. Frustration. And something hotter than either, though he was doing his best to damp it down.

  An answering glow sparked in her own veins. Like a child playing near the fire, the closer she got to him, the more likely she was to burn. But there was something about him that made him hard to resist. And that made him dangerous.

  With a shiver, she let him take her arm and escort her into the shop.

  Chapter Four

  Jenna couldn’t sleep. After an hour or so of tossing and turning, she’d given up and had moved to the window seat to gaze out into the night. Was it simply by chance that ruffian had been there in the market place? One of them had said something on the road, and it only just now had returned to her. You are sure this is the one? The one what?

  It wasn’t only the ruffian intruding on her rest. She kept seeing Mr Gilvry, at first furious at her trickery, but then reaching for her, pulling her close, kissing her. Not a quick touch of his mouth, but something far more erotic, a melding that made her body burn with longing. The vision had sent her fleeing from her bed.

  She glanced over at the tumbled bedcovers. Her mind was going around and around far too quickly for her ever to fall asleep.

  She picked up the book she’d finished earlier. She could read it again. Or she could go to the library and choose another one. It might help her sleep. Something boring, like a treatise on sheep-raising. Or something a little more risqué, like a book of Gillray’s cartoons. Except that would make her laugh and keep her awake.

  No, something deadly dull was in order. She pulled on her robe, shoved her feet in her slippers, lit a new candle from the stub in the candlestick on her bedside table, and headed for the library.

  She was surprised to see a glimmer of light spilling out into the hallway from the slightly open door. She frowned. Surely the butler would not have left candles alight before retiring for the night. It would be the height of folly indeed. But it must be so, because she was the only one who ever used the library in the evenings. Her cousin never had time for reading and Mrs Preston preferred the drawing room, where the light was better for her needlework.

  Still, she could not help feeling that someone was there. Cautiously, she pushed the door wide.

  At one of the tables, a man sat in his shirtsleeves. The light from the candle fell on the book he was reading and cast half his face in shadow. She had no trouble recognising his broad shoulders, the large hand that turned the page, or the studious and handsome profile cast into planes and shadows. Mr Gilvry. An inner gladness bubbled in her veins. A glow of joy at the sight of him. A feeling like nothing she had ever experienced.

  As if she actually liked the man.

  How was this? Her breath stilled. Her heart sounded loud in her ears. It was as if she’d made some monumental discovery, but did not yet understand its import. But in her heart she knew what it was. Recognised the danger. A growing attachment. Something she could not afford. She owed it to her position to think with her head and not let her heart get in the way. To think logically, as a man would. She must stand on logic or fail those for whom she was responsible.

  It left an empty space in her chest. A dark, cold fissure.

  Resentment flowed in to fill it. At him, because he was here in a place she’d thought of as her own, surely, for no other reason. Was there nowhere she could go and not stumble over him? He might have saved her life—twice—but it did not give him the right to invade every corner of it. She turned to leave.

  He must have heard the movement, because he looked up, then shot to his feet. ‘My lady.’

  Blast. Now she had no way to escape without acknowledging his presence. ‘Mr Gilvry.’ If she sounded stiff and haughty, it was because it was either that or sound breathless.

  ‘Can I help you?’ He sounded at a loss and his eyes widened as he took in her state of undress.

  She clutched a hand to the silky fabric of the robe, drawing it tighter about her throat. ‘What are you doing here, Mr Gilvry?’

  ‘Lord Carrick bade me make free with his library before he left.’ His glance travelled from her face down her body. It was a lingering glance that almost felt like a physical caress. Her nipples hardened. She glanced down and saw them jutting against the gown’s light fabric. Heat rushed to her face.

  It is the c
old, she wanted to shout. She clung to what little of her dignity remained. ‘I doubt that he expected you to come here in the middle of the night.’

  Nor should she have come, wearing next to nothing. Yet she had come here so often when she couldn’t sleep it had felt like a refuge. Not any longer, clearly.

  ‘He suggested I come in the evening. After my duties.’ He picked up his candle and the light of it threw his face into sharp relief. The smooth lean plane of his cheek, the hard uncompromising line of his jaw. The jut of a blade of a nose. He had a strong face. There was nothing soft about it at all, but it appealed to her sense of what a man ought to be. Strong. Unyielding.

  A child’s view of the world, her father would have said. Looks meant nothing. Liking meant nothing. It was power and wealth that counted if she wanted to do her duty.

  ‘It did not occur to me that anyone else would have the same idea,’ he continued, looking uncomfortable. ‘It is the first opportunity I have had to take advantage of his offer.’

  ‘Then I should not disturb you.’ With a brief smile, she turned away.

  He reached the door before her, blocking her exit. As solid a barrier as the mahogany door itself. He stood staring down at her with such intensity, she could not hold his gaze.

  ‘Do not let my presence stand in the way of you finding a book.’

  His virile body exuded heat and power. And the scent of bay and lemon. Physical. Overwhelming. She could hardly breathe as she noticed the dark crisp curly hair at the base of his throat where he had removed his cravat. He wore another of those bold-patterned waistcoats he favoured. Strawberries, this time, amid dark-green leaves on a cream background. She dragged her gaze from that impressively broad chest and the beat of his pulse at the base of his bared throat and let her eyes wander upwards. Up past the uncompromising chin to gaze in awe at his firmly carved mouth.

  The burst of memory of those lips on hers caused a slow burn low in her abdomen. And when finally their eyes met, his eyelids drooped as if he knew exactly the direction of her thoughts. The air in the room became heavy, thick, unbreatheable.

  She moistened her dry lips. ‘I couldn’t sleep.’ Her voice was husky from the dryness in her throat and the rushed beating of her heart.

  ‘I imagine not, after what almost happened today,’ he murmured.

  Not only that, but how could she admit that she couldn’t sleep because of the way he intruded on her thoughts? The way she kept remembering the taste of him, the scent of the wild outdoors that clung to him. She couldn’t, so she merely nodded.

  He closed his eyes briefly. ‘I felt sure the man in the market was going to carry you away. It makes me go cold every time I think of it.’

  ‘Your arrival was timely,’ she whispered, gazing up into his eyes, mesmerised by the heat she saw in their depths.

  Slowly, his hand lifted to her shoulder, a light touch, but searing, and she welcomed the contact, the feeling of not being quite so alone as she had been since her father died. Though why his touch should have that effect, she didn’t know. Perhaps because he’d stood alongside her in her hour of need.

  His other hand cradled her cheek. Warm. Callused. Yet infinitely gentle. She held her breath, fearful and wanting. Revelling in his touch, when she knew she should push him away. And knowing she did not want to.

  And then his head dipped and his mouth, velvet, warm, brushed her lips. A sweet gentle pressure, softly demanding.

  Nothing like the awkward affair she’d initiated on the road, his lips melded with hers, moving, wooing, a finely honed assault. Little chills darted down her back. Her breathing became uneven, her heart an out-of-control thud against her ribs.

  The even deep rise and fall of his chest brushed against her breasts in a tantalising caress. His tongue darted against the seam of her mouth, tiny thrilling little flicks telling her what he wanted, yet not demanding. Encouraging.

  Inside, she shook with the rise of desire, pressing closer to the wonderful lean length of him, parting her lips and gasping in pleasurable shock as his tongue languorously swept her mouth, sliding against her tongue, tasting her as if she was some sort of honeyed treat.

  Heat curled through her veins like smoke filling every corner of her being. Delicious heat. Bone-melting heat.

  Her arms went up around his neck. Naturally they would, there being no other way to prevent a slow slide to the floor. His hands encircled her back, pulled her close between his strong thighs, then roamed down her hips and her bottom.

  Now she could feel his heartbeat against her chest, a strong steady rhythm, if a little fast. His breathing rasped in the silence, and felt warm on her ear. She could not suppress a small moan of pleasure at the delicious sensations rippling through her body.

  He made a soft sound like a choked-off groan, and his tongue withdrew, his kisses dancing like butterflies over her mouth. Slowly he drew back, his eyes dark, his expression dazed.

  And as he looked at her, she saw the moment he came to his senses. Saw the shock and the regret.

  He stood there staring at her, looking so stiff and awkward as if he wasn’t sure what to do with his hands, which a moment before had been roaming her body in a most intimate way. A strange urge to giggle pressed at her throat. She covered her lips with her fingers to hold it inside. To not let him see how foolish he made her feel inside. How foolishly, femininely weak. A fatal flaw.

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ he said stiffly, his expression distant, uncomfortable. ‘I should not have let that happen.’

  Nor should she. Not when her future was set. A tremor of cold shame shook her body.

  He frowned. ‘Come to the hearth, my lady, I will wake the fire for you before I leave.’

  A firm hand on the small of her spine, a hand that permitted no resistance, ushered her to the sofa. As she sat, he knelt on one knee at the hearth, grimly raking the ashes and stirring the coals. So intense. So distant.

  Shaking inside, she watched the way his strong competent hands with their long elegant fingers brought forth a blaze. The flames flickered over his strong features, casting dark shadows in the hollow of his eyes and warming the skin of his cheeks to bronze. A braw bonnie Scots warrior whom she must not think of as a man.

  She took a deep breath, finding her courage, straightening her spine, lifting her chin. So she had made a fool of herself this night. No doubt she wasn’t the first woman to let lust overcome reason, nor would she be the last. But she desperately did not want him to speak of this to anyone.

  Mr Gilvry sat back on his heels, staring at the fire, lips so soft and pliant on hers only moments before, set in a thin straight line.

  Disgust at her wantonness for encouraging his kiss, no doubt. For there wasn’t a shred of doubt in her mind that she had wanted to feel his lips on hers, to experience the tingles that had stolen her breath the first time they kissed. Only this time had been very different. She now had no doubt of his experience in the art of kissing. He had taken command. Controlled her utterly.

  He had made her feel weak. Vulnerable. When she was supposed to be strong. When the future of Braemuir rested on her shoulders. That was why she was trembling inside.

  He glanced down at his hands where they rested on his thighs. His fist clenched so hard the knuckles showed white. ‘I apologise for my lack of honour just now, my lady.’ He shook his head, closing his eyes briefly, apparently as stunned by what had happened as she.

  ‘Oh,’ she breathed, surprised that he would take all the blame to himself, as if denying she had been an enthusiastic participant. She stared at him, at the anger she saw directed not at her, but at himself, unsure whether to accept the apology as just, or admit to some of the fault.

  A muscle jumped in his jaw. ‘I will leave Carrick first thing in the morning.’

  It would be dishonourable to take advantage of his guilt. Yet it would be so much easier to remain in control if temptation did not stare her in the face every day. So very much easier. But she had been equally at fault. She ga
ve him a haughty look. ‘So you intend to leave me at the mercy of the ruffians who roam the roads hereabouts?’

  He looked up at her then, his eyes shadowed. ‘Lieutenant Dunstan has the matter in hand. He will find them and bring them to justice in a day or so.’

  She arched a brow. ‘And in the meantime?’

  ‘You will stay within Carrick’s walls. It is but for a day or so. Dunstan will let you know when the thing is done.’

  The note in his voice was both commanding and pleading. Asking her to be sensible, so he could leave with honour. But if he left, her cousin would not be pleased. She knew Carrick. He expected his orders to be followed without question. He would find a way to make this young man suffer for what he would see as his lack of loyalty. ‘Then I am to hide out here in fear of my life? For days. Perhaps weeks.’ She smiled. ‘Ah, but there will be no one to tell me no, will there?’ She flicked a dismissive hand. ‘Fine. Go.’

  He glared at her and pushed to his feet, looming over her, and once more she was very aware of him as a man. ‘You are not so foolish as to ride out while those men are at large.’

  ‘Of course not,’ she said sweetly looking up at him. ‘Not alone.’

  He heaved a sigh. ‘If you will not be sensible, then you give me no choice but to remain.’ He gave her a hard look. ‘And there will be no more sneaking off. I’ll have your word on it.’

  Relief flooded through her. To know he would stay. That he would stand between her and danger. It seemed cowardly, but it was sensible. Rational. ‘You have my word.’

  Suspicion lurked in his eyes, but he did not give her the lie. He merely nodded and sat down beside her on the sofa.

  ‘Then I will have no more lies from you,’ he said harshly. ‘What was so important about the letter, that it must be delivered in secret?’

  The odd note in his voice alerted her to something more going on than the question revealed. ‘It was a letter from my home. Braemuir. My cousin Carrick prefers I not interfere in what he sees as his prerogative while he remains as my trustee. But they are my people, Mr Gilvry. It is my land. It is only right they should make their concerns known to me.’