by Karen Ranney
“Oh.”
“Indeed. Oh.”
He moved, sliding just a fraction of an inch out of her, and she gasped. Instinctively, her hips arched up to entice him back, and he returned, bending his head to kiss her.
She reached up and kissed him, sighing with relief when he returned to her. He pulled back a few moments later, his breathing labored, and braced himself on his elbows.
“You have beautiful breasts.”
She wasn’t particularly in the mood for conversation right at the moment. Again, she pulled his head down for a kiss, but he hesitated just before reaching her lips.
“Impatient?”
“Kiss me.”
“Dearest Beatrice, so autocratic.”
She didn’t care what he called her as long as he kissed her. She flexed her internal muscles and heard him groan. He bent to kiss her then, and her lips curved against his smile.
His fingers measured her swollen folds, danced where they joined, and she almost came off the bed when his thumb circled her and coaxed her to pleasure.
Loving would cease to be simply a word. The very mention of the word love would summon images to her mind: his smile, the way he looked down at her with each surging thrust, the flex of the muscles in his arms, the tightening of his neck. Their bodies pushed against each other for that last bit of feeling. Again and again he arched his hips, his buttocks flexing beneath her spread fingers.
He bent his head, his lips near her ear, praising her response. “You’re so tight, Beatrice. So very hot inside.”
Each word, each soft stroke of his fingers on her body, was an incitement. When she lifted her hips, urging his invasion once more, he whispered to her, “Soar for me, Beatrice. Fly.”
She did, feeling as if she touched the sun.
When he followed her a moment later, she held him tight, her arms wrapped around his shoulders, and wept against his neck.
“What do you mean, he’s gone?”
“I heard,” Mary said, “they left yesterday. Both of them. Mr. Devlen and the governess. And the boy, of course.”
“That odious child. He causes more problems than he’s worth.”
“Mr. Gordon is having a fit, madam. He’s throwing things around in the library and threatening to go after them.”
“Is he?”
Mary handed her the cup of tea, bustling around her to adjust the pillows on the settee, straighten the blanket on her lap.
Sometimes, the woman could be busy as a bee and about as annoying.
“Settle yourself, Mary,” Rowena said.
The older woman did so, choosing a footstool near a chair.
“Cameron is going after them?” She hadn’t spoken to Cameron since that disastrous night she’d gone to his room. Nor did she want to. Her pride was all she had left.
“He hasn’t told me, madam.”
“Gaston might know.”
“Gaston would never tell, madam.”
“That’s true. It amazes me the loyalty Cameron is able to inspire.”
Mary looked away.
“Not that you’re not loyal, Mary. But you are not fanatical about it.”
“I don’t know what you mean, madam.”
Rowena sighed. “Never mind.” She held her hands out. “There’s a draft near the window.”
Mary hurried to close the drapes, throwing the room into a clouded sort of darkness. She lit a candle, and the blaze from the fire provided some illumination as well.
“The entire castle is cold, madam.”
Rowena didn’t bother to answer.
She wanted to go back to London. At least there she could pretend her life was ordinary. If Cameron didn’t wish to speak to her, she could attend a play or an entertainment. If he barred her from his bedroom, perhaps she could engage in a flirtation with someone else.
How foolish she was being. As if anyone else could ever measure up to Cameron.
“I hate that child.”
Mary looked stricken.
“Madam, you’re crying.”
Rowena wiped at her face with one hand. “Am I? How very odd.”
She stood, returned to the dressing table, and allowed Mary to flutter around her as she usually did.
“I would like to wear the green today, I think, Mary,” she said. The dress was a new one, purchased in London with the thought it might interest Cameron. The garment required a special set of stays because it was so closely fitted. At least she looked the part of Chatelaine of Castle Crannoch, at least until Robert grew and took a wife.
Damnable child.
She didn’t want to hear about Robert, didn’t want to worry about Robert, didn’t want to even think about Robert until it was absolutely necessary. Every time she saw the child she was reminded of that horrible day of the accident.
She dropped her head in her hands and said a prayer, hoping God would forgive her because she knew Cameron wouldn’t.
Chapter 25
“Devlen!” Two knocks on the door, followed by another of Robert’s shouts. “Devlen!”
They looked at each other.
“Good heavens!” She sat up, forgetting her nakedness. Devlen’s eyes traveled down her torso, and she slapped him on the chest before pulling up the sheet.
“Go into the bathing chamber, and I’ll get rid of him.”
“I know Robert, he won’t be rid of easily.”
“I’ll take him down to the dining room. You can go to your room. When you’re dressed, summon one of the maids to show you where it is.”
She couldn’t just sit across the table from him. Not now.
“Shouldn’t I just have a tray in my room?”
“No.”
She raised her eyebrows at him. “No?”
“I want you at the table with us.”
He stood, and walked to the washstand, supremely unconcerned about his nakedness.
“I enjoy your company, Beatrice.” He glanced at her, then halted. “Stop looking at me like that.”
“You’re very attractive. I like looking at you.”
“Devlen! Answer the door!”
Beatrice pulled the sheet off the bed and wrapped it around her, entering the bathing chamber and closing the door behind her.
Devlen said something in response to Robert’s summons. The child was evidently mollified because she didn’t hear him shouting again.
She flattened herself against the door and looked at the disarray all around her. The towels had tumbled to the floor, the box of soaps was askew. Water puddled near the drain and in a path to the door, and the tub was still filled.
What a strange time to want to laugh.
A half hour later Beatrice was dressed, descending the staircase with her thoughts still full of Devlen. A maid greeted her at the base of the stairs, her face, if not sullen, then strangely without expression. Did Mrs. Anderson force such a conformity of expression on her staff?
She was led to the drawing room, a room of such beauty that at any other time she would have stopped in the doorway and admired the pale yellow walls and the art mounted on them.
The sight of Cameron Gordon, however, sent every thought flying from her mind.
He’d lost no time in following them.
“You’re looking well, Miss Sinclair,” he said.
Robert sat on a couch not far away, looking small, pale, and cowed.
How dare he frighten a child.
Devlen stood behind him, but at her entrance, he moved beside her.
“You didn’t tell me you had plans for a holiday in the city, Devlen. I might have allowed it had I known.”
“There was no reason to inform you since you were the reason we left.”
Cameron raised one eyebrow and studied his son. “Are you going to explain that statement, or shall I use my powers of divination?”
Devlen put his arm around her back, his hand on her waist, a physical gesture of support she’d not expected.
“There were too many attempts on Robert’s
life for me to be comfortable with him remaining at Castle Crannoch.”
“Indeed.”
“And you, Father, seemed disinterested in his welfare.”
“I’m his guardian. Of course I’m interested in his welfare.”
“Did you know someone shot at him? And poisoned his food?” A movement caught her eye, and she glanced to where Gaston stood, silent and until now unobtrusive.
“Robert is a very excitable, very imaginative little boy. He sees goblins where there are none, Miss Sinclair.”
Robert simply looked at his shoes, a miserable expression on his face.
“He didn’t imagine those incidents,” she said. “I was with him when they occurred.”
“Then perhaps if you are no longer with him, they will not occur. I think I will dispense with your services, Miss Sinclair. Your propensity for attracting danger cannot be a good thing for Robert.”
“You’re dismissing me? Is that your answer to protecting Robert?”
“No, Miss Sinclair. My answer to protecting Robert is to remove him from your care. He belongs at Castle Crannoch. Robert,” he said, turning to the boy, “we’ll be leaving in the morning. Edinburgh is not the place for you.”
“I’m not going.” He stood and faced his uncle, his fists balled up at his sides. Beatrice wondered if he was trembling as he was the last time he confronted Cameron.
“Indeed you are, child.”
“I wouldn’t be so certain, Father.” Devlen stepped closer to Robert, standing behind the boy and placing his hands on Robert’s shoulders. “Robert isn’t going anywhere. I’ve already contacted my solicitor. I’m contesting your guardianship.”
Cameron’s face changed. In that moment he was no longer the charming, almost courtly invalid. Instead, he was obviously angry, his hands gripping the arms of his chair so tightly his knuckles were white.
“Robert is going to stay here with me, Father, until the courts decide,” Devlen said. “I suggest, however, that you return to Castle Crannoch.”
“You can pretend to be duke without me there,” Robert said.
The look in Cameron’s eyes did not bode well for the child. He signaled to Gaston, who stepped to the rear of Cameron’s chair and deftly wheeled him to the door. When he was gone, Beatrice turned and looked at Devlen.
Robert stared at the empty doorway. “He wants me dead.”
She had no answer to such a statement. The horror was that Robert uttered it in such a calm voice, as if accusing his uncle of murderous impulses was an everyday occurrence.
“I don’t have to go, do I, Devlen?”
“No, you don’t, Robert,” he said somberly. “I promise.”
She almost wept at the look in the child’s eyes, and was certain she’d worn the very same expression after her own parents’ deaths: grief, loss, and pain so deep it was almost tangible.
“Go and ask Cook if she has some treats,” Devlen said.
Robert nodded, leaving the room without a backward glance.
“My father has always been dissatisfied with his life,” Devlen said. “My earliest memories are of his anger toward his brother for being duke. He always told me that his brother would much rather prefer to be a scholar than head of the family.”
“While he would much rather be the head of the family.”
He nodded. “He was destined to be duke, at least in his mind.”
“Could he harm Robert?”
He didn’t answer her. Instead, he walked to the fire, stirred the coals with the poker. Several minutes elapsed before he turned back to her. “I’ve been asking myself the same question for weeks, ever since I learned of Robert’s penchant for accidents.”
“If not your father, then who else could be behind it?”
“Gaston?”
She must have looked surprised, because he smiled. “Gaston is my father’s loyal servant. He would be the most likely candidate, being my father’s legs, so to speak.”
“I went to him,” she said. “When Robert was shot at in the woods, I went to Gaston.” He had been in the kitchen, she remembered. Not far from the courtyard. He could have seen them descending the hill.
Devlen came to her side. “It’s too easy to blame yourself in hindsight. I do the same. Why didn’t I take Robert from Castle Crannoch in the beginning?”
“If you had, we never would have met.”
“A circumstance that would have occurred in some fashion, I’m sure.”
“Fate?”
“You sound as if you don’t believe in it,” he said, with a smile.
She shook her head. “You can’t say you do.”
“Actually, I don’t.”
“But for Fate you might be a duke yourself one day.”
“I am content to be a mister, nothing more.”
She tilted his head and surveyed him. A corner of his mouth turned up as she continued to study him. The moments ticked by as their gaze held.
“Are you disappointed that I’m not a duke?”
She laughed, genuinely amused. “Heavens, why should I be? You’ve created your own wealth, and you look the part of a prince. The title would just be redundant.”
“I created my own wealth because I didn’t want to depend on anyone for my livelihood, and my looks are beyond my control.”
“You’ve just proven my point. You have the arrogance of a duke.”
He smiled at her. “Why, I wonder, does your opinion matter so much to me?”
“It shouldn’t. I’m just a governess. And not even that, now.”
“You’re my angel of goodness.”
Amused, she reached out and let her fingers stray over his coat, palm flattening over his heart. “You’re my devil of delight.”
“You frighten me,” he said.
A confession that disturbed him, she could tell. His eyes were suddenly somber, and the expression on his face was that of a man forced to speak the truth.
She placed her palm against his cheek. He frightened her as well—or more correctly—what she felt for him frightened her.
“Devlen.”
He bent and kissed her, a soft and charming kiss, but not a passionate one.
“I have duties to perform,” he said. “Work I could do.”
“Yes.”
“We haven’t eaten dinner yet.”
“No.” She shook her head.
“Every time I kiss you, it always leads to more.”
“I’m sorry.” She smiled.
“I believe you plan it that way,” he said.
“Not truly.”
“I thought, once, you would change my life.”
“Have I?”
“More than you know.”
“Perhaps it would be better if I left,” she said.
“Perhaps it would. But I haven’t always done the wisest thing in regard to you, Beatrice.”
“Nor I you.”
“We are a pair, aren’t we?” he asked.
She stepped away, allowing her hand to drop. “For the meantime.”
His face darkened, as if he didn’t like the truth she’d offered him. They didn’t belong to the same life, and they’d only borrowed this time.
“I’ll go and see about dinner. Robert is probably coaxing Cook into giving him all sorts of forbidden treats.”
“He’d be happier that way.”
“Yes, but life isn’t all cake, Devlen.”
“Beatrice.”
She glanced at him, but he only shook his head, as if his thoughts must forever remain unspoken.
Beatrice left before she, too, could say more.
Chapter 26
Two weeks later, Devlen stood in a ballroom staring out at the newest crop of virgins, all too aware that he was being watched by the matrons of society to ensure he didn’t violate any unwritten rule, therefore proving himself good enough for their daughters. The daughters, on the other hand, were less judgmental.
One brave young miss reminded him of Beatrice, not because of her
appearance—she was short, blond, petite, and graced with a bodice that must be half handkerchiefs for all the overflowing lace—but because of her daring. She was batting her eyelashes and her fan at him.
“That one has her eye on you, Gordon.”
He turned to see a business acquaintance staring at the same young lady. She looked pleased rather than daunted by the increased attention.
“I think I’ll pass. Be my guest.”
“Haven’t the money. Rumor is her mother is trolling for a title. Barring that, a fortune. Too bad, the girl really is a looker.”
Devlen didn’t comment, an omission that had the other man glancing at him curiously.
“Surprised to see you tonight. These types of things aren’t usually your style.”
“I felt the need to show myself.”
“In the marriage mart are you?”
“God, no.”
“Wouldn’t think so with that gorgeous creature of yours.”
“How the devil do you know about her?”
“Hell, Gordon, everybody knows about Felicia.”
“Oh, her.”
“Whom did you think I meant?”
He shook his head, but the other man wasn’t satisfied. What the devil was the man’s name? Richards? Something like that.
Devlen wished his hostess approved of something more potent than a sugary sweet pink punch as a refreshment. Whiskey, for example.
“Is the fair Felicia about to get the boot, then?” He leaned closer. “Want to share who your newest mistress is?” “No.”
“But you do have a new one?”
“I don’t know why the hell I’m here,” Devlen said. He turned to the man beside him. “Why are you here?”
“I’m being harassed at all sides to marry,” his acquaintance said. “I just need to find an heiress, myself. Someone with a penchant for poor men who will worship at their feet forever.”
“Is that what women want?”
“Damned if I know,” the other man said, smiling ruefully. “I have five sisters, and they all seem different. Sometimes different from themselves, depending on the mood.”
Beatrice had been herself, consistently. She had a variety of moods, however, each of them more fascinating than the last. He even enjoyed her annoyance, and found himself going out of his way to argue a point of view he didn’t even agree with simply to see her impassioned anger.
