The Scoundrel's Pleasure

by Jane Bonander

  “I like it.” He pushed the brush aside to see the opening and poked his head inside. He took her hand and pulled her in with him. Once inside, he took her in his arms and kissed her again. If she hadn’t been such a practical girl, she might have thought she swooned. She wrapped her arms around him and returned kiss for kiss—eager, restless, wanting more. His tongue touched her lips and she instinctively opened her mouth, allowing him inside. Their breathing mingled, the whisky fueling her instinct for more.

  “Oh, pretty girl,” he whispered, “you are so beautiful, can I please, please touch you?”

  His voice sounded far away, although he couldn’t have been any closer. Her ears were ringing, her body responding to something she had never before experienced. He sounded so needy, how could she refuse?

  Her body was on fire; her self-control was gone. “Aye,” she said, her voice shaking.

  He unbuttoned her bodice; she helped him with trembling fingers. His hand slipped inside, cupping her breast and he moaned with pleasure. When he touched her nipple, she inhaled sharply, feeling a sweet stinging sensation between her legs. “Please let me see your breast; it feels so beautiful, if I can see it I’ll know I’ve gone to heaven.”

  Isobel let him do whatever he asked of her. Perhaps the whisky had taken the edge off her sanity, but somehow it didn’t matter.

  “Let me love you,” he whispered against her ear. And she did.

  • • •

  When it was over, she lay there, content, spent. Almost asleep. When she opened her eyes, he was standing above her. “Maybe I’ll see you again sometime, okay? And thanks for healing me.” He grinned. “In more ways than one.”

  Isobel nodded as she watched him walk away. She would see him again, she knew it. He wouldn’t have told her he wanted to make love to her if he hadn’t meant to see her again, would he? A hollowness dug into her belly but she brushed the feeling aside; it was probably just the whisky souring her stomach. She slowly got to her feet, rearranged her disheveled clothing and flinched a little as she walked toward home, all the while telling herself she did not have red hair. She did not. Bad luck would not follow her. It would not. And, she thought with a bite of anger, she never did learn anything about the castle, and by the time she got home, there wouldn’t be any clootie dumpling left for her either.

  • • •

  Duncan sauntered into the room he shared with Gavin, who lay on his bed, reading one of the boring, oversized books he enjoyed so much. The long, large room was split in half, which still gave each of them more room than they’d ever had before. Gavin’s side was filled with shelves bursting with books, an enormous globe on a revolving stand, and a neat dresser where he kept his clothing. There was a long table in one corner where he often studied maps, ancient and new. Gavin was smart. Brilliant, really, but according to Duncan, he never had any fun.

  Duncan’s half of the room, on the other hand, was a typical careless mess. Although his bed was made by one of the young girls his brother had in his employ, the rest of the room was a lesson in disorder, except for the bow and arrows he had brought with him from Texas, displayed on the wall by the window. He had books too, but they were all about horses and hunting. He also had a small stash of trashy dime novels he kept for himself, certain that Gavin wouldn’t be interested in them anyway.

  “So, what mind-numbing tome is grabbing your attention tonight?”

  Gavin lowered the book. “I know you don’t really want to know.”

  Duncan tried to look hurt. “Come on. Tell me.”

  Gavin shrugged. “It’s about the effects of the Industrial Revolution on a small parish in Ayshire by John Galt.”

  Duncan snorted. “Wherever that is, and whatever that means.”

  Gavin rolled his eyes. “Who was the ‘lucky’ girl tonight?”

  Duncan heard the sarcasm and disapproval in his brother’s voice. He didn’t care. “Lizzie, or Izzy or something like that.” The first thing he thought of when he saw her was how he’d never had a red-haired girl before. He’d always wanted to see that sultry patch between a girl’s thighs to make sure the hair on her head wasn’t some kind of crazy dye job. This one, he was sure, had a nice fiery thatch. He could almost imagine his face nestled in the warmth and wetness. Christ! He was getting hard again.

  But oh, how he loved sex. He was born to love it. He couldn’t imagine living his life without it. In fact, he wondered if he could live at all. He shook his head at the memory of Chet Blackburn, his ranch boss back in Texas, who had told him that one day even he, the horny Duncan MacNeil, wouldn’t care a whit about diving between a woman’s thighs. Duncan refused to believe he would ever feel that way.

  He adjusted his bag of tricks inside his buckskins. Scottish girls were fascinated by everything about him. His color, the length of his hair, his Texas-style clothing and his cowboy boots. Some were even bold enough to be openly curious about his bag of tricks—wondering how they compared with the local laddies’. He played on that interest as often as possible. Tonight he had had to be especially careful, because the red-haired “lassie” was skittish, like a new colt. And she was very sweet. Odd, he’d never really thought about other girls that way, but then, this was his first virgin. He knew this because of all the girls he had ravished, not one had a barrier against his cock. Except this one.

  Even so, she had urged him on. He should have spent more time with her. He had wanted to; she was certainly willing. But a roll in the grass wasn’t the place to undress a girl. Too many chances of getting caught. How sweet it would have been to take her to the vacant barn off the road toward the castle. To undress her, drink in her luscious body. Even clothed, he could tell she was deliciously curvy. And he loved curvy girls, girls with ample breasts and thighs and hips. And this one would have that special, warm, mysterious place between her thighs covered in dark red fur. How tempting that would be!

  He undressed carelessly, tossing his shirt with no concern as to where it landed. The nice thing about being royalty was that there was always someone to pick up after you. He was now His Lordship, Lord MacNeil. He had not ever in a million years thought he would have such a title. But he kind of liked it. He also liked that little maid who scurried in to clean up the room. Unfortunately, Fletcher had warned him that the help was not to be seduced. Didn’t really matter; there were girls enough on the island.

  Gavin shook his head. “One of these days a girl you’ve coaxed into the woods is going to come knocking, her belly heaving with your baby. Then what will you do, brother?”

  The thought never entered his mind; he was beyond thinking such trivial problems. “She’ll have to prove it, won’t she? How would she do that?”

  “Well gee,” Gavin said, giving his chin a dramatic scrape, “maybe when the kid is born he’ll be an exact replica of you. Then what?”

  Unruffled, Duncan answered, “She’d still have to prove it.”

  Gavin shook his head and went back to his book. “Fletcher wants to see you before you go to bed.”

  Duncan snorted. “I’ll just bet he does.” He continued to undress. The silver flask clattered to the floor.

  Gavin glanced up from his book. “Why do you do everything he asks you not to? I heard him tell you not to drink when you’re out carousing. It isn’t good for the whole damn island to see the duke’s brother drunk as a skunk. And you weren’t supposed to be out anyway.”

  “And why does he have to act like such an ass? I mean, he isn’t my father; he’s just my brother, for God’s sake. And just because he’s older doesn’t mean he can boss me around.” He scratched his broad chest then began undoing the fasteners on his britches. “I’m basically an adult and he still treats me like a kid. I didn’t even get treated like this by Grandfather.”

  Duncan could feel Gavin’s probing gaze. “Look at you. Kerry finally comes around, and now you’re acting like the top turd on the cowshed pile.”

  Duncan got close, in his brother’s face, and stared into his teal blu
e eyes. “Take a good look, brother, and remember my handsome face and my fine brown ass, because before you know it I’ll be out of here.” Duncan moved away and pulled his boots off, flinging them toward the wall, where they clattered noisily as they hit the floor.

  “Right. And just where would you be goin’?” Gavin seemed to enjoy affecting a Scottish burr, especially when he needled Duncan.

  Duncan had decided he would tell no one his plans, but thought better of it. No need to have the entire household in a tizzy over his disappearance. It was only Fletcher he wanted to worry. “Remember Chet Blackburn?”

  “Blackburn.” Gavin looked over at Duncan. “Wasn’t he the rancher you worked for before we came to Scotland?”

  “The very one.” Duncan flopped onto his bed and put his arms behind his head.

  “What about him?”

  “He told me before I left that if I ever wanted to come back, he’d hire me on as one of his hands.” Duncan watched the shadows from the lamp play across the ceiling. Now and then the flickering glooms looked like the sails of a ship. He was so eager to return to Texas he could almost smell the hot, baked earth.

  Gavin gave a quiet laugh. “So you’re just going to hop a ship and sail back to Texas?”

  “Exactly.”

  Gavin put his book down and rolled to his side, studying his brother. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  Duncan nodded. “I want to go back, Gavin. I didn’t want to come in the first place, remember? I didn’t fight it because I knew Kerry was counting on me. But she’s okay now, and I’m not. I need to get out of here.”

  Gavin switched to a sitting position on his bed, his bare white feet dangling toward the floor. “I can’t simply pretend I don’t know this, Duncan. I mean, Fletcher has to be told at some point.”

  “You can tell him once I’m safely at sea.”

  Chapter One

  Island of Hedabarr—June 1872

  The pungent odor of brine, fish, and kelp wafted up on the damp breeze. Seagulls screeched as they swooped above the brackish water in search of food. The sound was a welcome one, unless they were merely mocking his return. Duncan MacNeil took the smell of the wharf deep into his lungs, holding it there a moment before exhaling. He had missed it.

  Fishing boats of many shapes and colors bobbed at their moorings, having already been taken to sea by fishermen in search of salmon, the silver king of the river. Early morning, when the winds were soft and the seas were welcoming, was the best time to fish offshore; Duncan remembered that well. Of all the activities he had experienced on the island, fishing the rivers was one he recalled with pleasure. Some old Scot had once told him that the water’s surface was a hypnotic thing, always moving, always changing with the shifting light from the sky. Throughout the journey across the Atlantic, Duncan had become mesmerized by the play of light upon the roiling waters.

  He rested his forearms on the ship’s railing as it made its way into the port of Sheiling. He pulled in another deep breath, enjoying the brisk, damp air. So different from the air he’d breathed the past ten years. Texas air. Hot. Dry. Bayou air. Hot. Wet.

  The sky over Hedabarr was the color of pewter. The fog had lifted; clouds rolled in after a brief interval of weak sunshine. And now he could see the outline of the red sandstone castle far in the distance, and old, nostalgic memories swamped him. Rosalyn’s rose garden and the day he and his brothers had trampled it to within an inch of its life. He curbed a smile. How angry she had been! He saw now what his brother had seen in her from the beginning. Beauty, yes, but fire. Placid women excited no man. Of course, he didn’t understand that for many years.

  He moved suddenly, twisting his shoulder, and it began to ache. The shot from the bluecoat’s gun left a permanent scar and it hurt every time he moved the wrong way. The war had left many wounds on Duncan. The worst, perhaps, was the one left by his imprisonment in the bayous of Louisiana. There had been a physical scar, but the one that ached the most was the one left on his heart.

  Now he returned to a very different life than those years he’d spent as a ranch owner, the ranch Chet Blackburn’s generous gift to Duncan, willed to him before he set off to fight for Texas’s right to govern itself. He knew more about cattle and horses than he knew about himself, perhaps because the animals had no mental baggage to drag around. He still knew nothing about being Lord MacNeil. And he had no idea what he was going to do, now that he was here. And had he not missed his family in Scotland, he might never have left America, but stayed to try and find out what happened to the young woman who had helped him escape captivity. But he did miss his family: the people who had always loved him no matter what a jackass he was. He thought about how they must have changed, for certainly he had. Was Fletcher still the man in charge? Had Gavin read every book in the library, then gone on to the mainland where he could find and absorb more? And Kerry. Beauty that she had been when he’d left, he wondered at her beauty now. He had no doubt she would be stunning. A heartbreak waiting to happen to some hapless fellow.

  The mates were yelling orders at one another as they lowered the gangplank. Rubbing his aching shoulder, he turned from the sea toward the docks as he heard his name shouted from the pier. His brother Fletcher waved at him; beside him stood the beautiful Rosalyn. He straightened, took one last look at the ocean behind him, and eagerly went ashore.

  • • •

  Isobel Dunbar had just dropped off some potatoes and turnips to be sold at the market by the docks. Their garden was booming this year; for some reason the rabbits and deer hadn’t discovered the feast until late in the season and she had been able to squirrel away many of the root vegetables in the cellar dug in the back of the house long before she came to Hedabarr.

  She stopped to watch the latest sailing vessel arrive, listened to the crew shouting orders, and wondered whence this boat had come. It was a grand vessel, larger than most that came into Sheiling’s harbor. She tightened the green cashmere shawl around her head and shoulders, covering her ears against the wind. It was a gift from Hamish the Boat, who fished the icy waters of the North Sea and only came ashore once every few months. She smiled as she brushed back a ginger-colored curl that had come loose from her attempt at a practical chignon. Dear, dear Hamish. Perhaps she should give in and accept his marriage proposal. She certainly could do worse, and even though she didn’t love him, she knew he cared for her, and his love for her son, Ian, was abundantly clear to anyone who watched the two of them together.

  A commotion on the docks drew her gaze as sailing patrons and crew alighted from the broad wooden plank. One such passenger drew her attention, although she wasn’t sure why, not immediately. Then she saw the Duke of Sheiling roar a boisterous “Hello!” and drag the other man into a tight bear hug. Her stomach did a somersault and her cheeks were suddenly flushed and hot. Although it had been ten years, she would know the man being embraced anywhere. She had known she always would, should he ever return. And her feelings were not all that pleasant, truth be told.

  She took the shortcut home, through a cluster of Scots pines where tiny crossbills were feeding on the seeds. Another rush of memory gusted through her, one more unpleasant than merely seeing Duncan MacNeil returning home. Lord MacNeil, she thought with derision. She scanned the pines, knowing exactly where the brush that hid the cave was where he had so skillfully taken her virginity. Never mind that she had given it freely. As she hurried homeward, her mind was filled with visions, memories and feelings she had thought were long dead. Hastily, she pushed open the door to her home, not caring that it banged against the inside wall. Delilah, her business partner and friend, jumped at the noise, which had apparently roused her from a nap.

  She frowned at Isobel. “What’s the matter?”

  Isobel hadn’t been running, but her lungs heaved. She dropped her empty cane basket to the floor and unwound her shawl, tossing it onto the coat tree next to the door. Her warm cape followed. She then turned circles in the room, her skirt swishing acr
oss the worn, wooden floor that had of late become slanted toward the back door. “He’s back.”

  “Who’d that be? And mind yourself; ye’ll be getting dizzy doing that.”

  Isobel glanced around the room, foolishly expecting to see him hiding there, perhaps behind the wood box next to the fireplace, or the tall, thick curtains that hung from the front window, waiting to see her reaction. Well, that was stupid; he had probably forgotten her the minute he’d ravished her. She sucked in a breath. “Imagine who it is among all the people on this earth I never want to see again.”

  Delilah’s appeared to wrack her brain for something to link Isobel’s angst to. Suddenly her expression changed. “Ocht, no.”

  “Oh, yes,” Isobel answered, continuing to march back and forth in front of the fireplace. “He was one of the passengers debarking at the docks.”

  “How’d you know for sure it was him?”

  “The duke embraced him.” She neglected to tell her friend that she had instinctively known it was Duncan MacNeil, returned from wherever it was he’d gone to. Back to America, probably, though she had never known for sure. All she knew those many years ago was that he had deflowered her then left her as he’d probably done to a dozen or more lassies on the island. She did wonder how many had been left with his seed firmly planted in their wombs, but oddly, she hadn’t seen other signs of it on the island.

  Delilah fretted, wringing her hands and pursing her lips. “Well, it doesn’t mean naught, Izzy. He isn’t a threat to ye as long as Ian is on the mainland—”

  “Oh, dear,” Isobel interrupted. “I got a letter yesterday from the school saying they were shutting down and sending the students home early because of some mysterious outbreak.”

  “Even so, why should the big man come ’round here? ’Tisn’t a brothel anymore; he’ll discover that. And I can’t see him caring a whit about our little makeshift school. Nae,” Delilah finished, “he shouldna’ be a problem.”