Nudging a brown and white one aside with his bare foot, he closed himself out of his bedchamber and padded next door to Marjorie’s room. Aye, she’d tried to set him after some of the local lasses, but luckily she’d done it so awkwardly that he hadn’t thought her serious.
He’d be damned if he’d knock tonight, so he pushed down on the door handle. It gave, and he let out the breath he’d held. She hadn’t changed her mind about sex with him—at least not yet. If it had been locked he likely would have forgotten about being stealthy, put his shoulder to it, and knocked the door off its hinges.
She’d moved the two shabby, overstuffed chairs back in front of the window, and as he closed the door he could make out her silhouette against the silver-touched night beyond. “Did someaught catch yer eye oot there?” he asked quietly, moving up behind the chair so he could run his fingers though her loose, dark hair.
“Connell spent an hour before dinner trying to convince me that he’d found a pair of faeries living in a hollow tree just past the river, and that I would be able to see them after dark because their wings glow silver.”
“And ye’re expecting to see them, then?”
“No. But I wanted to look, anyway. It seems a good night for faeries—and elves and selkies and banshees and all the other magic folk who seem to live in the Highlands. Why do you have so many mythical creatures here?”
“Mythical creatures need wild places. There’s nae a place in the world more wild than the Highlands.”
“I like when you talk about the Highlands that way.”
Graeme lifted an eyebrow. “Which way is that?”
“Like you cherish it.”
The Highlands wasn’t the only thing he was coming to cherish. That thought—the realization of just how vital this Sassenach was becoming to him and after such a short time—terrified him in a way nothing else ever had. A man in the Highlands needed to be strong, sturdy, and self-sufficient. He’d seen up close what happened to a man who gave up too much of his happiness, of himself, to someone else. And he’d vowed it would never happen to him. Hell, he’d been ready to marry a stranger, a Sassenach lass he’d thought stuffy and spoiled. If he didn’t love her, she couldn’t hurt him.
And yet he thought about that same lass every waking hour, dreamed about her at night, craved her endlessly. Just the scent of lemon put a damned tent in his kilt. She was a flame, and he, a moth.
Perhaps it was all lust, tied up in pretty ribbons. Aye, that could be it; he needed to purge her from his thoughts, and the only logical way to do that was to sate himself in her. Immediately and repeatedly, until he could breathe and think again.
She looked up over her shoulder at him. “You’re being very quiet,” she observed. “Do you not enjoy it here? I know for a fact that there are easier places to live.”
“Nae fer me, lass,” he said, shaking his head. “I went to London. Aboot nine years ago. Warm days, flowers, sweating in my fancy clothes, parasols and wee yapping dogs riding with lasses in their carriages.”
With a chuckle Marjorie turned around to kneel on her chair, her arms folded beneath her chin as she gazed up at him. “Is that all you remember?”
Graeme shrugged. “I remember people looking sideways at me, hearing them wonder if I was a Jacobite spy—as if they’d forgotten aboot Culloden and what the redcoats did to the Jacobites. I bloodied my share of noses, got myself challenged to two duels, and got handed a lifetime ban to some place called Almack’s.” It had been more troublesome than that, but he reckoned she understood the underlying message—that he and London hadn’t been compatible. At all.
“Ah, Almack’s. Everyone wants an invitation, and everyone loathes attending,” she said, nodding. “I’ve never been invited, myself.”
“And do ye want to be?” For a lass with as much sense as she had, it seemed a very odd, and very hollow, goal.
“It’s a sign of acceptance.” Marjorie visibly shook herself. “But I don’t want to talk about London any longer tonight.”
“Nae? Did ye have someaught else in mind, then?” He put his hands on either side of her folded arms and leaned in to kiss her.
The moment she swept her arms up around his neck he took her by the waist and lifted her over the back of the chair. Even with all the uncertainty sitting between them, the questions that all came down to when and how she would leave, this was certain. The desire between them was both genuine and unmistakable. And he damned well knew what to do about that.
Graeme stood her beside the bed, took the bottom hem of her night rail, and lifted it off over her head. Her small breasts with their pebbled nipples practically begged for his attention, but tonight he had something else in mind. “On the bed,” he instructed, shirking his own shirt and kilt.
She lay down with her head on the pillow as she had two nights ago. With a grin he wrapped his fingers around her ankles and pulled her around sideways so she lay crossways across the bed, her legs parted around his thighs as he stood on the floor. Holding her gaze, he knelt, caught hold of her right leg, and kissed the back of her knee. With kisses and nips of his teeth he made his way toward the apex of her thighs.
When he kissed her there, she jumped. “Graeme, that’s very naughty,” she managed in a half moan.
“Aye,” he murmured back, and deliberately licked her. While she groaned and writhed beneath his ministrations, he parted her folds and continued introducing himself with his mouth and fingers.
As he slid a finger inside her damp heat she abruptly came, spasming around his digit. His cock jumped in response. If only the rest of their time together was so simple and straightforward, he would never have to let her go.
When she tangled her hands into his hair to tug him up along her body, he didn’t resist. Pausing to circle his tongue around her breasts, he then lifted his head for an openmouthed, tongue-tangling kiss. “Please, Graeme,” she muttered huskily.
With her face flushed, her blue eyes searching his face and her breathing reduced to shallow, moaning pants, he couldn’t have resisted if he’d wanted to. Still standing beside the bed, he used his knees to further part hers, gripped her wrists above her head, and pushed inside her.
Tight, shivering heat surrounded him, and he had to close his eyes to keep a modicum of control. Her slender body trembling, he withdrew and entered her again, with every thrust claiming her for himself. They could call it whatever they chose—answering a temporary mutual attraction, passing the time. It didn’t matter. What mattered was their bodies twined together, their hard, mingled breathing, the deep, hungry, rhythmic coupling. With her he had a partner, a heart to beat in time with his.
As she began to pulse again he came, emptying himself into her, another claim on her. He could tell himself, both of them, that she was already ruined and so it didn’t matter. Except that it did matter, because if she became pregnant he would have another reason never to let her go.
* * *
Graeme stretched, then opened his eyes when his hand touched nothing but well-rumpled sheets. For a minute he couldn’t remember in which bedchamber they’d spent the night; for the past four they’d alternated even though his bed was both larger and softer.
“I think you’ll have good weather for your fair,” she said from the direction of the window.
He sat up. Ah, his bedchamber. “If I’d realized how much ye like looking oot windows, I’d nae have shackled ye away from them,” he drawled, stifling a yawn.
“In London I looked out my window waiting for visitors,” she returned, padding over to stoke the fire. She’d donned her night rail, which didn’t bode well for more sex this morning. Still, he could be persuasive. “Here, it’s just beautiful.” She sighed. “Dùghlas told me a saying, that if you don’t like the weather here, just wait a minute. The views seem to operate the same way.”
“Aye. The most changeable thing here is the weather. Nae the people.”
“And today I look forward to meeting some more of them.”
&nb
sp; After she said that, he closed his mouth over the suggestion that she remain inside the manor house for the duration of the fair. Aye, she would be safer inside, but by now everyone between Sheiling and Loch Achall knew he’d hired an English tutor for the lads, and that her aunt was holidaying with them as well. The cotters who hadn’t met her yet would expect to do so, and he actually wanted her to meet them. If he could do anything to convince her that Garaidh nan Leòmhann was superior to London without him explicitly saying so and getting her back up, he meant to attempt it.
“Just promise ye’ll keep me in sight,” he said, pulling her back beneath the warm covers beside him. “Uncle Raibeart’s nae gotten rid of his houseguest yet, so I’ve good reason to think Hamish Paulk will be aboot today to sour the milk and put the bairns off their mama’s teats.”
“I’ll try to keep you in sight,” she countered. “We both know you’ll be blanketed by eligible females the moment you step outside.”
“And ye dunnae mind that?” For Lucifer’s sake, he wanted her to be jealous. He wanted her to be as desperate for him as he was for her. Instead, she kept talking about the future, his future, which didn’t seem to include her in it.
“What I mind doesn’t signify.”
Well, that sounded promising. “Lass, we’ve been sharing a bed. Of course it signifies.”
“No, it doesn’t.” She tried to shove away from him, but he held her there against his side. “You need to find a bride sooner or later, Graeme, and I need to go see my brother and then return to London.”
“Ye want to. Ye dunnae need to.” He turned her onto her back, so she had to look up at him. “Why would ye need to go back to that hoose where yer neighbors willnae give ye a single greeting?”
“Oh, stop it,” she snapped, shoving at his chest. “You couldn’t possibly understand.”
“I couldnae, could I?” he returned. “Ye ken I could’ve married if I’d wanted to. But I didnae. I saw…” He stopped, taking a breath, then released her and rolled out of bed, himself. “I’ll go doon and have a bath drawn fer ye.”
He reached for the dress kilt he’d set out for the day’s festivities, but she snatched it away from him. “You saw what?” she prompted, dancing out of his reach.
“Do ye truly want to know, or do ye just like seeing me naked?” he asked, folding his arms over his chest, and feeling somewhat gratified when her gaze dropped below his waist.
“I don’t believe the two need to be mutually exclusive,” she said after a moment, meeting his gaze again. “But since it’s fine for you to decide whether or not I need to return to London,” she said, exaggerating the word as he had, “then you can tell me what you saw that’s kept you from marrying some pretty local lass.”
He lunged forward, grabbing her wrist and yanking her up against his bare chest. “Ye think I’m Connell, that ye can play aboot with yer pretty words and get me to do what ye want?” Before she could kick or hit him somewhere sensitive he removed the kilt from her other hand and backed away to knot it around his waist. Getting it on properly could wait until he could lie across it without worrying over being tromped on.
“You are a bullheaded man,” she announced, her hands on her hips.
“And ye’re a bullheaded woman.” Graeme jabbed a finger at her. “I saw my father love a lass so far beyond sense and reason that he shot himself rather than making an effort to take care of her boys, the things she most treasured in this damned world,” he snapped, striding to the hearth and back.
“You told m—”
“Someone—I—had to look after those lads. And so I decided no lass in the world would make me ferget my duty or lose my damned heart. A bit of fun fer a night, aye, but nae more than that. I couldnae—wouldnae—risk getting twisted up with a female as long as one of those bairns still needed me. Now do ye ken?”
Her hands had lowered from her hips, and instead she reached for him, then apparently decided against it as she lowered her arms again. “No, I don’t. Because you keep suggesting I stay, when y—”
“I dunnae ken, either!” he exploded. “Because from the first second I set eyes on ye, all I’ve wanted to do is hold ye in my arms and keep ye there. Ye’ve blasted away all the oaths I swore to myself, and I dunnae even care. But it doesnae signify, because all ye want to do is go back to London and pretend those bloody blue bloods want anything to do with ye, when ye already know they couldnae care less if ye live or die.”
With that he strode for the door, stooped to pick up his boots, and left his bedchamber. He wouldn’t have to worry about his heart now, at least, because she’d likely never want to look at him again. And that would be a good thing. It would damned well make his life less complicated.
Now, though, he needed to figure a safe way for her to get past Hamish Paulk and up to Lattimer. She wouldn’t be safe anywhere on the road in between, especially if someone noted the crest on her coach as she drove away.
But it would have to be soon, because he wasn’t certain how long he could tolerate her being under his roof but not in his arms. He didn’t like irony. Not when the bastard did things like this—make him want to marry her when he didn’t much respect the life she’d chosen for herself, and make him want to send her away when he’d begun to adore her.
* * *
“Come in, Mrs. Giswell,” Marjorie called, as the knock sounded at her door.
Her companion walked in, made a clucking sound, and immediately shut the door behind her again. “You shouldn’t be standing half naked in here with the door unlocked, my lady,” she chastised. “Any of these madmen could stomp in, and then where would we be?”
“I have five buttons undone,” Marjorie countered, eyeing herself in the small, cracked dressing mirror. “Up my back. That’s hardly half naked.”
“Just because we’re in the company of heathens doesn’t mean we should fall into their heathen ways.”
Arguing with the woman would only earn her a tired tongue. And she’d done enough arguing already today, anyway. “Of course you’re correct, Mrs. Giswell. Will you please button me?”
“This is the gown you altered, isn’t it?” the older woman observed, moving up to fasten the gown. “That rose brings out your color. And the green pelisse is very fashionable, despite its age. It’s very lovely, Lady Marjorie. Well done.”
“Thank you.” She’d chosen the gown from one of the chests in the attic, and then intentionally kept the alterations and progress to herself so she could surprise Graeme with the final result today. Now it seemed rather silly, and he likely wouldn’t be sparing her a second glance, anyway.
If she was supposed to be flattered when a man pushed her away because he liked her, she’d missed that lesson. He took risks in his life all the time, but apparently he remained unwilling to take this one.
“Are you certain you shouldn’t be wearing something plainer today, however?” Mrs. Giswell went on. “I wouldn’t mind if we were to be recognized and rescued, of course, but it’s far more likely one of these burly fellows will be overcome with desire at the sight of you, sling you over his shoulder, and carry you off to his stone and moss hut to ravage you.”
That made Marjorie grin. “You’ve thought that scenario through very thoroughly,” she said, trying to hide her amusement behind her hand.
“Well, it could happen just as easily to me as to you, Lady Marjorie.”
“Ree, please. Remember, I’m your—”
“Niece. Yes. And you should be calling me Aunt Hortensia, then, at least in front of the cotters and villagers. Though I still think it would be wiser to remain inside.”
“I want to see the fair. I attended one on a school holiday in Derbyshire once, and I remember it being quite fun. I imagine this one will be even more so. I’ve never celebrated Samhain.”
“A heathen ceremony for heathens.” She sighed. “At least you’ll have Lord Maxton to keep watch over you. I have no idea how he manages to keep his attention on everyone at once, but he does.”
>
“My goodness. That sounded very nearly like a compliment.”
Her faux aunt grimaced. “Well, perhaps he’s part wolf, or wildcat.”
“Lion,” Marjorie countered absently. She didn’t like what he’d said this morning. He was a man with a clan—or a section of one, anyway—and so he needed stability. As far as she knew, the best way to achieve that was through marriage and children. He shouldn’t be denying himself that, whether it was with her or someone else. His brothers had his affection and love, clearly. It made no sense to deny that affection to someone else simply because it might hurt later, no matter what example his father had set.
He’d sworn some oath never to fall in love? In some ways she understood and sympathized with his reasoning, but then … Goodness. First to hear that he liked her, that he wanted her to remain here, and then to listen to all the horrid things he had to say about her return to London—it felt deliberate and mean-spirited. He’d made an oath, but so had she. And hers included being in London and being accepted by all those people who’d never deigned to look at her before three months ago. How dare he ridicule her for holding her course just because he’d … faltered in his?
“Lady Marjorie?”
She jumped. “Mrs.—Aunt Hortensia. I apologize. I forgot you were there.”
“Is something troubling you?”
Oh, so many things. “Do you think I’m being stupid to want to be accepted in London?”
“What? Of course not. However unexpectedly it came about, you are a duke’s sister. Your blood is as blue as anyone else’s in Mayfair. If your mother hadn’t kept you ignorant of that side of your family, the ton would have become accustomed to the idea of you and your brother inheriting ages ago.”
Marjorie nodded. “Yes, perhaps. Our monetary circumstances would have been just as dismal, however.”
“Oh, pish. Do you have any idea how many aristocratic families are just one step ahead of debtor’s prison? A great many of them.”
My One True Highlander Page 20
