by Karen Ranney
Very well, she hadn’t thought him annoying before he’d demanded that she not publish her book. He’d been very attractive to her. He was still handsome, but she was dutifully ignoring that fact.
What she really wished was that she’d never been impulsive and hidden in his carriage. But then, if she’d remained in her room, she would never have met her hero in person. She would never have watched his eyes chill or that marvelous mouth firm in annoyance.
He wasn’t quite smiling, but his face had changed.
“You do have a dimple,” she said. “I’ve been waiting to see.”
“Have you? What will it cost me?” he asked.
She blinked at him, confused.
“If it’s money you want, I’ll pay you not to publish the book.”
She could only stare at him.
“Come, name an amount. I’ll pay it if you promise to destroy it.”
“Are you insane?”
Evidently, the Earl of Gadsden didn’t like his sanity questioned, because his eyes grew even colder. He walked to the other side of the room, staring at the picture above the mantel.
Was he trying to guard against his baser urges? If he mastered them, perhaps he could tell her how. Despite being annoyed with him, she couldn’t help but notice how well fitting his buff trousers were. Lady Pamela had never noticed a man’s derriere. Perhaps she should. The midnight blue jacket fit his broad shoulders magnificently.
“Do you pick out your clothing or do you have a manservant do it for you?”
He turned his head, looking at her as if he’d just happened onto an interesting specimen of bug.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Why do people say that? Is it to stall for time? You know as well as I do that you heard me perfectly well. Why wouldn’t you want to admit to a valet?”
“I have a valet. He’s not on this journey, however.”
“There, was that so difficult?” she asked. “I suspect you have a great many servants.”
“Why do my personal arrangements interest you?”
She didn’t know how to answer that. Everything about him interested her.
“Is there any news about Mrs. Sinclair?”
She was not going to talk about Virginia. Instead, she started walking again, pacing, trying to ignore him.
He made the shadowed room seem full somehow, as if he’d come with ghosts and they’d drifted off his shoulders to settle in the corners.
“Why does Sinclair insist on hanging this here?”
The question caught her off guard. She glanced at the painting he was studying, then smiled. The work had been done by an artist Macrath commissioned during the building of Drumvagen. The painter had captured the scaffolding, the wagons carrying the stone and wood to finish the interior of the house. The ocean was serene, the sky a brilliant blue, and the workmen and craftsmen looked like ants as they toiled in the bright afternoon sun.
“Drumvagen is his dream,” she said. “Anyone who talks to him for more than a minute or two understands that.”
She walked closer to the fireplace.
“You were going to live here, though, weren’t you?”
He glanced at her. “I doubt it would have ever come to pass,” he said.
“Why did your father never finish the house?”
Macrath had told them all about the earl who’d begun Drumvagen but walked away after a dispute with the architect.
He smiled. “My father was a stubborn man in some respects and showed remarkable lassitude in others. Drumvagen was an impulse.”
“Well, I shouldn’t say this, perhaps, but I’m glad. Otherwise, Macrath would never have found Drumvagen in ruins and made it what it was.”
“A case of something good coming from folly. Could you not see your way clear to doing the same?”
“Are you saying my book is folly?” She didn’t know whether to be insulted or pleased. He turned, faced her and folded his arms.
“I warn you, Miss Traylor, that I wield a significant amount of influence.”
“Am I supposed to be afraid of you?”
“Change the hero’s appearance, then. Agree to publish the book anonymously.”
Slowly, she shook her head.
“Why the devil are you being so obstinate?” he asked.
No one had ever called her obstinate before. She’d been considered conformable, easy to sway, a malleable personality.
He took a step toward her. She didn’t move away. How very tall he was, and in this light almost dangerous looking. His eyes were such a glorious shade, merging with the encroaching shadows.
“I can buy up every single copy and have them burned,” he said, his voice low. “Or I can simply give you the money not to publish it. Wouldn’t you prefer to have the funds?”
She really must step back. He had the strangest effect on her. She wanted to throw herself into his arms, wrap her legs around his waist, entwine her arms around his neck and demand he kiss her.
The scent of heather perfumed the air because Brianag insisted on filling vases with heather cut fresh every morning. Yet she still smelled him, a combination of leather and lemons.
She took a step back and he matched her movements, stalking her.
“I can give you a substantial sum,” he said, naming an amount that made her gape. “In exchange, you would give me the book. A fair trade, don’t you think?”
Once, their family had been on the threshold of poverty. She wasn’t supposed to know it because her mother had made such an effort to hide the knowledge.
The idea of having that much money at her disposal now was heady.
She could live the rest of her life on the amount he’d mentioned. She could have her own establishment and live as she pleased. She could pen a dozen books featuring Lady Pamela and a man who looked nothing like the Earl of Gadsden, but her hero would speak like him, have that inflection in his voice when he was being sarcastic, that upturn of his lips that didn’t mean amusement as much as disdain. But he wouldn’t have gray eyes as hard and as brittle as shale.
She looked away, toward a shadowed sideboard and the murky mirror above it. The gilt frame looked dull, their figures barely visible, dark gray against a backdrop of nearly black.
He touched her face, so suddenly that she jerked, startled. He didn’t withdraw his hand, though. Nor did he stop looking at her in just that way, as if he would steal her soul if he gazed hard enough.
What was her soul worth?
Not the amount he’d offered. Not ten times that amount.
“No,” she said, the answer coming without conscious thought. Perhaps she was being obstinate. Or maybe she simply couldn’t be purchased that easily.
“No?”
His eyebrows lowered as he stared at her. His gaze seemed to light on each feature as if he were comparing her to the beauties he knew and finding her lacking in so many ways.
“It’s my book. My effort. My hours of thinking and worrying. Did I tell that right? Did I say it correctly? Will a reader understand?”
“Oh, I think you wrote it perfectly,” he said, dropping his hand.
“You do?” Should she be so pleased at his comment?
“That’s just the problem, you see. It doesn’t read like a book. It reads like a journal. As if you’ve experienced all those things in reality.”
She couldn’t breathe.
“As if you and I had done all those things together.”
A spear of heat traveled to the core of her.
“As if that episode on the desk happened in my library at Huntly. Or when Lady Pamela unveiled herself. That could have occurred in my bedchamber.”
Her face was going to catch fire. Her lips felt singed.
“And the part about the attic? We have an attic just like that at Huntly. It’s like you visited it, saw the small windows, pulled out that table from storage and dusted it with the back of your dress.”
Donald had mounted Lady Pamela on that table in defiance of all
propriety and reason. They might have been interrupted by a maid at any time.
She cleared her throat. “It’s a work of fiction,” she said. She could barely speak.
Was this part of his offensive? Torment her until she agreed?
“You really should leave,” she said, her voice sounding husky.
“Perhaps I should.”
She nodded.
“Otherwise, I might do something inexcusable.”
What was wrong with her? Her pulse shouldn’t be racing. Her breath shouldn’t be tight. She should move away, away now, before he came closer, bending his head, and then she felt his lips pressing against her temple.
She closed her eyes, feeling his breath on her ear.
“Such as toss you onto that settee,” he whispered, “to see how much of your book is real and how much imagination.”
She shivered.
“Are you Lady Pamela?”
In her heart of hearts she was, but only partially. She dreamed, she envisioned, she imagined, but only as far as her knowledge could take her.
Was she to be punished for her curiosity? For wanting to know, for being impatient to know if the coupling between a man and woman was as wondrous as it seemed to be? The books she’d read had informed her about the physical act, but what about the emotions?
Virginia looked at Macrath and her eyes sparkled. Hannah smiled at her husband and her cheeks bloomed with color. Logan and Mairi were nearly combustible in the same room. Even she, a virgin, could feel the heat between them.
Was it so terrible to want to know?
His lips left her skin and she immediately felt cold.
Would he say something cutting now? He’d tried everything else, bribery and cajoling.
Then his lips were on hers. They were full, pillowy soft, urging her to forget her resistance and her will. She hadn’t expected that softness. He wrapped his arms around her and she had no recourse but to allow him to do so.
She raised her head even farther, her mouth dropping open to welcome him. Fire raced through her at the touch of his tongue.
Take me. Take me on the settee, on the floor, standing up next to the fireplace, in front of the mirror.
Unbutton my dress and worship me with your hands, your lips, your mouth. Praise my breasts, trail your fingers through the hair guarding my womanhood. Enjoy me and let me do the same.
She wanted to be naked, or at least less clothed. She almost unbuttoned the first button of her dress, but his lips were on her throat now, making her forget everything.
Oh, she hadn’t known about that spot. How delicious that was. And there, just behind her ear. She’d never imagined such a thing.
Her lips were lonely.
She reached up and wrapped her arms around his neck, standing on tiptoe to press herself closer to him. Even if threatened with all the fires of damnation, she wouldn’t have released her hold. She should have stepped away, remembering who she was, their argument, and that the man who was kissing her so divinely was autocratic and annoying.
He lowered his head slowly as if to further torture her, and again softly lay his lips on hers. Just that and nothing more. No pressure or cajoling, just the soft acquaintance of the shape of his mouth, the texture of his lips, the taste of his breath. Gently, as if she might have otherwise been frightened, he threaded his fingers through the hair at her nape.
“Pamela,” he murmured against her lips. “I think you are Pamela. A sorceress.”
She would be anyone he wanted.
He tilted his head, slowly deepening the kiss, giving her a chance to refuse. One hand rested against her nape; the other was at her waist.
She didn’t remember the room they were in, the time of day, or that Drumvagen was filled with people. Darkness shimmered beneath her eyelids, befuddlement clouded her mind. All she truly knew was him, the heat of his body, the furious beating of his heart, the soft, stroking excitement of his tongue.
Her fingers slid up to the back of his neck, danced in his hair, cupped the back of his head and pulled him even closer. They shared their breaths, excited each other, daring in a way that was ancient and ordained by their bodies, independent of their minds.
She wanted him. She had wanted him from the first moment she heard him talking to Macrath, the first time she’d seen him, the living, breathing embodiment of her hero. She’d imagined him, created him, and God had taken pity and delivered him to her.
From somewhere far away she heard the crack of thunder. The windows shivered in their panes, breaking the spell, almost as if God called her back to herself.
Stepping back, she realized her hair had fallen from its bun. She pushed it out of the way, over her shoulders, and took one more step away from him.
He was the most dangerous creature in the world.
If she had the wit of Lady Pamela, she wouldn’t have been embarrassed. Her heroine would have simply sailed from the room, her lips red from his kisses, uncaring when he stared after her longingly.
“Should I offer my apologies?” he asked.
Was she that much a hypocrite? She should have flounced from the room. Or screamed that he was accosting her. Instead, she wanted to throw herself into his arms.
“Oh, miss!” She turned to find Annie, one of the housemaids, standing in the doorway. Her face was florid, her eyes wide.
“What is it, Annie?”
Had the girl witnessed their kiss?
“Is it true, miss? Is the village flooded? One of the grooms said so and we’ve no one else to ask.”
Her concerns faded beneath the girl’s obvious fear.
“I don’t know, Annie,” she said, conscious that it was the first time anyone had come to her for help since she’d moved to Drumvagen. “But I’ll find out.”
With a last glance toward the earl, she left the Great Hall.
Chapter 8
Without stopping to grab a shawl, Ellice pulled open one of Drumvagen’s massive doors, racing out into the slashing rain and down the right staircase. Twice she slipped on the slick stone steps and managed to right herself.
Once at the bottom, she picked up her sodden skirts and began to run across the glen, past the cairn stones where she often sat and read. She crossed a path that lead to the cottage in a roundabout way, heading for a growth of pines perched on the hill overlooking Kinloch Village.
The slope had become almost impassable, the grass gone, replaced by rivers of mud. Her feet sank to her ankles and each step weighed more than the one before. Her clothing was dragging at her, including the hated bustle. She finally resorted to bending over and clawing at the mud, determined to make it to the top.
The rain was blinding, the thunder so close it felt as if it were grumbling in her ear.
A hand on her elbow startled her. She glanced to her left to find the earl there, his hair slicked back by the rain and his clothes as sodden as hers. He gripped her arm and helped her get her balance. Together, they made it the rest of the way.
On a pleasant day she could have seen Kinloch Village, but this downpour was unlike anything she’d ever known. Now she could barely see past the bridge, if the stone footbridge had been there. The Water of Kinloch, normally a narrow, undulating river, was so wide and deep that it looked like the ocean.
Just beyond was Kinloch Village. Half of the houses clung to the cliff, their foundations carved into the stone. The rest would flood.
Hannah and Jack’s house would be in danger, as well as those of most of the maids who didn’t choose to live at Drumvagen. Every morning a contingent of them could be found walking toward the house, their laughter marking the start of the day, their smiles and quick conversation something she’d come to expect.
Ellice moved forward, the earl’s hand dropping from her arm. Wiping her muddy hands on her dress, she stared toward the village, stunned by so much potential destruction.
She turned to face him. “The village will flood,” she said. “What are we going to do?”
His fe
atures arranged themselves into a mask. Was he going to simply turn and walk away? Or worse, say something cutting and cold?
“We need to get back to Drumvagen,” he said.
“We need to do something. I’m not a Scot,” she said, raising her voice to be heard over the rain. “Nor am I altogether certain I like Scotland. But I can’t sit by and let people lose their homes. You go back to Drumvagen. I’m staying here.”
“What do you propose to do by standing there?”
“Something. I don’t know. Something.”
She folded her arms and stared straight ahead, trying to figure out something to do. Had Macrath any machines that might be moved into place to block the flow of the river?
Her face was sheened with rain, droplets falling from her nose. She hadn’t thought to grab a coat or a shawl, but it would have been soaked in only minutes anyway.
“Can you sew?” he shouted at her.
Surprised, she turned to look at him.
“Can you sew? We need to get back to Drumvagen and see if your housekeeper has any extra muslin. We need bags filled with sand to serve as a dam against the river.”
She blinked at him. Bags of sand? Would they work? At least he’d come up with an idea. She didn’t have one.
Turning, she descended the hill with Gadsden at her side.
The next hours proved her initial thought of him correct. The Earl of Gadsden was very much like her hero, Donald.
She’d never seen anyone work as tirelessly. He was ahead of all of them in filling the wagon with sand, shouting orders, commanding the men who’d come in the dozens from Kinloch.
Drumvagen wasn’t in danger because the house was on a much higher elevation than the village. Even if the water did come this far, only the basement would be affected.
They set up operations in the gazebo. The white painted structure, nestled in a clearing in the woods, was equidistant between Drumvagen and the village. There, they finished sewing and loading the sandbags before carting them down to the river. The gazebo also served as headquarters for information. The maids who weren’t involved with the sewing came to bring them news from the house, along with tea and food. In turn, they learned the status of the flooding, to take back to the house.
