by Karen Ranney
“So, you decided you loved her after a few years?”
Martin smiled. “More like a few weeks. She was a pretty little thing, with blond hair and the prettiest eyes. Hazel-like, but if she wore a blue dress, they were blue. She has this green thing she likes to wear for special occasions, and I could stare at her eyes for hours when she does. It’s like they’re pools or ponds.” He shook his head and stared down at his shoes.
“Do you love her for her appearance, Mr. Martin?”
He rapidly shook his head, his attention still on his shoes. “She’s the kindest soul I’ve ever known. She’ll rescue a person as soon as she will a stray dog, Mr. Gordon. You might even say she’s rescued me.”
“Then your company isn’t the only thing you have, Mr. Martin. It’s not even the most important thing in your life.”
Martin looked up at him curiously. “You believe a man’s marriage is more important than his business, sir? Then why have you never married?”
Devlen returned to his desk.
“You haven’t given me a good enough answer, Martin. Why should I settle for half?”
Martin had run his company into the ground. He’d taken a brilliant idea and let it fester. Yet, if the man had been able to verbalize an idea, a solution, or even a proposition, he might have, for the sake of experimentation, given the man the money and written it off as a bad debt.
“What I’ll pay you is more than your company’s worth, Mr. Martin.”
“But it’s mine.”
“Then keep it.” He leaned back in his chair. “You came to me initially, as I recall. You asked me to buy your company. Have you changed your mind?”
“I’m ruined if you don’t. I’ve lost everything if you do.”
“Then it seems you have some decisions to make.”
He stood and picked up a bell on the corner of his desk. When the door opened and Saunders peered inside, Devlen glanced at his visitor again. “See Mr. Martin to the door.”
Before the man left the room, he glanced back at Devlen. “Why did you ask me all those questions about my wife?”
“Curiosity, and nothing more.”
Martin didn’t look convinced. As he turned to leave, Devlen spoke. “I’ll give you five days, Mr. Martin. At the end of that time, I’ll either buy your company or I’ll walk away from my offer.”
After the other man left, he returned to the chair behind his desk.
Martin wasn’t the only one who needed to make a decision.
He didn’t want to sit and work, didn’t want to retire, read, or occupy himself in mental pursuits. He was restless, annoyed, on edge. He was never this uncertain of himself. He could always find something meaningful to do. Meaningful, in this instance, translated to expanding his empire. He liked money, liked what he could do with it, enjoyed the power of it, as well as the fact his worth—as far as society gauged it—was built on his bank balance and not his character.
Some would rate him among the most eligible bachelors in Scotland.
There was never a time when his conscience bothered him. Before he made a decision, he analyzed it thoroughly, considering every angle, every permutation of its effect. He was sometimes brutal in his assessment, but he never lied, either to his business associates or those others would classify as his enemies. Perhaps his emotions were involved, but they were so tempered by reason he didn’t experience any highs or lows in success or failure. He didn’t gloat.
Are you very rich? Does it make you happy?
Beatrice Sinclair. Why was she so often in his mind?
He’d never before met a woman so like him in the directness of her speech. The look of horror on her face when she’d said something particularly pointed was something he’d come to look for more than the comment itself.
Most of the time she acted as if she didn’t care what he thought of her.
What did he think of her?
She was a woman of Kilbridden Village, a governess to his cousin, an employee, a servant of the family. A woman of mystery.
He returned to his desk and began writing his list for the next day. Every night he did the same, concentrating on the responsibilities he set for himself in the morning. He’d always had the ability to focus intently on a task until it was accomplished. Until it was done, he allowed nothing or no one to interfere.
His life was marked by goals, never further from his mind than a thought.
Ever since he had left school, he’d known exactly what he wanted: to be richer than anyone he knew, to own more property than any other Scotsman of his acquaintance, to create an empire. He’d spent every single day in the accomplishment of these goals.
That was not to say he didn’t enjoy pleasure. In seeking enjoyment, he knew a respite would only make him stronger, better, and sharper for the next event, acquisition, or business meeting. He deliberately planned some time in each day for enjoyment, either through a good horse, a relaxing game of cards, or even the attention of a favorite mistress.
He hadn’t ridden in days, he wasn’t in the mood for games, and the fact he didn’t call upon Felicia was a warning so dire it signaled the reason he was annoyed and irritated.
Beatrice Sinclair.
Why her, of all people? Why was she sticking in his mind like a particularly attentive burr?
She was a bit pale, and too slender for his taste. He wondered what a month at Castle Crannoch would do for her. Fatten her up, no doubt, and add luster to her hair. But would being Robert’s governess dismiss that stricken look in her eyes?
Strange, he didn’t have many protective impulses. He was known as a demanding lover but a generous one. When he ended a relationship with a woman, he always bestowed something lovely and expensive on her, a gift by which to remember him.
Whenever he saw a recently dismissed mistress in the company of another man at one of the society soirees which nowadays bored him to extremes, she’d be flashing a bracelet, or brooch, or a particularly fine diamond necklace he’d purchased in Amsterdam. He’d nod and she’d incline her head, the two of them utterly polite to each other, conveniently forgetting the last time they saw each other she was flushed from weeping as he’d abruptly ended their affair.
He walked to the window and stared out at the night. Perhaps what he needed to do was dismiss his current mistress and install someone else in her place.
Miss Sinclair?
Hardly the type he’d pick for a mistress. She was too argumentative. Too…intelligent? She hadn’t discussed hats once in their conversations. Nor had she asked him if he liked her dress in a thinly veiled solicitation of a compliment. He hadn’t, of course—her clothing was nearly threadbare. Her hands were too red, her fingers callused. She’d done more than her share of physical work before coming to Castle Crannoch.
She was a prideful thing, with her habit of forcing a smile to her face, one that never quite made it to her eyes. He’d like to hear her laugh, long and loudly, as if genuinely amused. He’d like to buy her chocolate and watch her savor it with delight. He’d like to see her in a red dress, something to flatter her unusual coloring and bring a sparkle to those fascinating light eyes of hers.
He wanted to talk to her again, that’s all. A little curiosity had never made him irritable before.
He forced himself to return to his desk and concentrate on his list. He’d just purchased part of a shipyard in Leith along with two new ships, the new clippers that would add to the China trade.
A woman didn’t cause this mild irritation; it was simply inactivity.
He wasn’t a man like Martin, incapable of deciding what he wanted.
Yet, it was all too clear he wanted Beatrice Sinclair.
Damn it.
Chapter 17
According to Robert, Cameron Gordon had made the library his. Beatrice had no wish to be near him, and with the arrival of Rowena Gordon, it was even less wise.
For a week she and Robert had met in the attic schoolroom. His lessons were done from Beatrice’s memor
y. He wanted to learn geography the most, and they began with the British Empire. She had a love of antiquity, and all too soon they were talking about Egypt and the recent discoveries of an entirely unknown civilization.
The time had come, however, to invade Cameron’s library. Consequently, she chose dawn one morning to survey the library shelves for books she needed to continue Robert’s education. From what she’d been able to ascertain, his father had grounded him well in the basics. She needed to include Latin, a study of history, and some literature to provide him a well-rounded body of knowledge.
She felt guilty for not having told anybody about the incident in the woods. She felt even worse when she realized there wasn’t anyone at Castle Crannoch who genuinely cared about the child. Rowena’s attitude had been cold. Cameron’s had been critical. Devlen was the only one who’d shown Robert any warmth. Perhaps, if he returned soon, she’d confide in him.
The library door looked like it dated from the castle’s origins, the oak studded with many tiny wormholes, and the iron banding pitted and scarred. She pushed down on the latch and opened the door cautiously, half-expecting Cameron to be seated inside. Blessedly, however, he was nowhere in sight.
Beatrice stepped across the threshold and held her breath in delight. She’d expected, perhaps, a few volumes in a room as old and worn as the door. But it was evident someone cared for the library. Of all the chambers, this was the true heart of Castle Crannoch.
The predominant color of the room was burgundy, and it was present on the upholstered chairs sitting before the desk and those in front of the fireplace. The drapes flanking the two large windows on either side of the fireplace were of a burgundy velvet as were the valances embroidered with the crest of the Duke of Brechin in gold.
There was a space behind the desk, and she realized the chair was missing. No doubt to make it easier for Cameron to wheel himself into position. Tall bookcases covered the other walls, and each of them was filled with volumes encased in leather and gilt bindings.
Sconces hung discreetly between the bookcases, and two ornate brass lanterns sat on each end of the desk, on either side of the burgundy leather blotter. She went to the desk and lit one of the lanterns from the candle in her hand. The soft glow was enough to read the spines.
A narrow ladder was propped up against one of the bookshelves. She made her way around the desk and grabbed the bottom of the ladder, pulling it out a little bit more so it would be safer to mount. She climbed the steps, daring herself as she did so. Even though she was not comfortable with heights, and could feel herself trembling, she made herself remain in place.
Her life could not be constrained by her fears.
One by one, she selected a volume, opened it, thumbed through it, and either chose it or rejected it based on a set of criteria only Robert would understand.
She wanted to combine the child’s two great needs—talking about his parents and his education. Therefore, she selected volumes that might bring his father to mind, or might have once been selected by the older duke. She chose Ivanhoe, because Robert was a seven-year-old boy and such a tale might spark his imagination. The French poets were next, and she thought he might enjoy them because of his mother. By the time she was finished, she’d picked out six books, more than enough to continue their studies.
She took her time descending the two steps, and once her feet hit the floor, she shook her head at her own foolishness. She hadn’t been but a foot or two off the floor, and yet it had felt as if it were five times that distance.
Reaching up, she grabbed the books from another step, and with her arms around them, turned in preparation to leave the library.
Devlen Gordon was standing there watching her.
Perhaps another woman would have made a sound of surprise. Or even giggled, and said something silly. “I didn’t see you standing there.” Or “When did you come in?”
Surprisingly, it felt as if she’d been waiting for him, as if he’d told her somehow in words she couldn’t hear, in a language she didn’t realize she spoke, that he’d be back, and soon. She’d kept a vigil waiting for him, clicking off the hours and the minutes and the seconds until he suddenly appeared again like a conjurer’s trick.
Her arms tightened around the books and she deliberately curved her mouth into a smile. How foolish she should be expecting him and yet didn’t want him to know.
He didn’t answer her smile with one of his own. His face was solemn, his gaze piercing. He studied her as if he had never seen her before, or perhaps knew her too well, measuring her against some fixed notion of her in his mind.
Beatrice slowly withdrew one book and placed it on the desk beside her.
She was safer with the books in her arms, because without them she’d be tempted to go to him, place her arms around his waist, and lean her head against his chest, waiting for his hands to press against her back to hold her there, immobile and safe.
She removed one more book and placed it beside the first one.
Still, he didn’t speak, only stood there with his arms folded, one leg crossed in front of the other. A nonchalant pose, if one could ignore the flex of the muscle in his cheek and the fact that his bearing, while appearing relaxed, was rigid. His shoulders were level, his hands tight on his upper arms, his face unsmiling.
She removed yet another book. Now there were three on the desk and three in her arms.
“I nearly killed my horses because of you.”
She put another book on the table.
“I’ve spent entirely too much time on the road between Castle Crannoch and Edinburgh lately. The distance gives me considerable time for reflection. I’ve come to believe you’re a woman to be avoided.”
He moved away from the door and rounded the desk, making a show of studying the volumes in one of the bookcases. He withdrew a slim volume, replaced it, and removed a larger book and studied one of the drawings.
How did she answer him? The air was heavy was silence, and there was a beat to it as if a celestial drummer was measuring off the cadence of their discord.
He turned abruptly and stared at her, the book in his hands no more than a prop, something to justify his being in the library.
It was dawn, and the world outside was waking to yet another day. In some places it would bring delight and grandeur. In others, trauma and perhaps heartache. The circumstances varied with the locale. Some people would forever mark this day upon their internal calendars and say oh yes, this was the day when I lost my loved one. Or this was the day when my beloved was born. Outside this place, in a world regulated by the ordinary, people would go about their lives in decency and squalor, luxury and chaos.
Here, however, the world slowed, and time itself didn’t matter.
She put another book on the desk. Now they were equally matched. He held one book as did she. He walked behind the desk, coming toward her with an implacable and fierce look on his face. She turned and took a step toward him, unafraid and resolute.
“You’ve been gone nine days,” she said.
“And you thought of me nearly every moment, didn’t you?”
She extended her hand, the one still holding the book. He took it from her and tossed it on the top of the desk before doing the same with the volume he still held. Their hands met, their fingers entwined.
“Are you Satan himself, Devlen Gordon?” she asked, surprised he knew how often she’d thought of him.
“Some would no doubt say I am,” he said, smiling for the first time. “But I don’t think such a creature truly exists. We create Hell for ourselves here on earth. Why invent Satan?”
He pulled her to him with the most gentle touch, but she suspected he might be more forceful if she didn’t acquiesce. She took two more steps toward him. Just their linked fingers joined them. Or perhaps it was their willingness to dare convention.
She wondered if her gaze was as smoldering as his, or if he could read a flicker of uncertainty there. Had she imagined it in his gaze?
<
br /> Devlen Gordon had no vulnerabilities. No weaknesses. She almost smiled at that thought. There was not a man or woman alive who did not have his own share of fears. The wise person knew his and compensated for the lack. The fool pretended he was never afraid.
Which one was Devlen?
He was intelligent, charming, direct, and forceful. She doubted if he was also a fool. He would be wise to be afraid, wise to be cautious of what flowed between them. The emotion was too strong to be usual or normal.
Outside, she could hear the wind battering the castle. Overhead, the clouds raced to hide the dawn sun. It would be a stormy day, almost as tumultuous as this particular moment.
Slowly, he lowered her hand and took a step backward. One single step. A test, then. She knew it without his saying a word, just as she knew she was going to close the distance between them.
Beatrice took one step forward and raised her right hand to place it on the wall of his coat. The fabric was so thick she couldn’t feel him beneath it, had no measure of his warmth or his heartbeat. She wanted to tunnel through all the layers of material until she felt him, his skin, his flesh.
She was no doubt doomed to perdition. Or the hell he said they created in their minds. If so, that was a demise she gladly accepted. What a shocking thing, to contemplate dying of pleasure.
He didn’t move, didn’t say a word when she took one more step, one foot sliding to rest between his. She raised her left hand and placed it on his chest, her fingers brushing back and forth over the fabric.
In the next moment, he reached out both hands and placed them on her arms and drew her gently forward.
He bent his head, and kissed her temple, his lips warm, the touch amazingly soft and amazingly wrong.
“I want you in my bed. I want you naked and impatient.”
She shivered, and a feeling like ice traveled up the back of her spine to settle in the pit of her stomach. Now was the time for her to tremble. Now was the time to feel fear. Instead, the ice heated and bubbled, and the shiver turned to a sigh of anticipation, as if a demon long living inside of her, deeper where she was ignorant and unaware, had suddenly come to life, making its presence known. She was Persephone and he was Hades. Yet there was no good reason for her surrender other than the sheer joy of it.
