“Yes,” she said, half laughing. “Yes, it was.”
They panted together, like pipers finishing a reel. The steady drumbeat of rain on the window and the hiss and pop of the lantern were the only sounds beyond their heavy breathing. Slowly the chill of the unheated room seeped into her limbs.
Yet she hated to leave his knee. She bent her head to his. “So this is why Oonagh says she’d ‘part with life for joys like this.’ ”
“Joys like this are rare, princess.” He nuzzled her cheek, her ear, her hair. “Beyond rare. And thus all the more to be treasured.”
His words gave her hope. Until now she hadn’t dared to think past this moment, sure that his desire for her wouldn’t outweigh his desire for vengeance against her father.
But what if it could? What if he was willing to put his revenge aside for this, for passion…for marriage? She was well past twenty-one—she could marry whom she pleased. And if they did it before Papa reachedScotland, he wouldn’t be able to prevent it. She also had a fortune, which might sway Lachlan if his quarrel with Papa was just about the money.
Sadly, it wasn’t. Her heart sank. The feud between them went beyond that—as Lachlan’s wounds amply demonstrated.
She clutched him to her fiercely. No, there had to be a way. Perhaps she could make up for the rash acts of Papa’s men. Perhaps if she offered him her help and her fortune, he might listen. Perhaps if she offered him her body…
She drew back to stare at him, taking hope from his tender smile. “One should enjoy rare pleasures as often as possible, wouldn’t you say?” Running her hands up his strong arms, she gave him what she hoped was a seductive glance. “The night is young and—”
“Och, no, lassie.” His smile faded. “Rare pleasures are meant to be rare.”
Her mouth went dry. “They don’t have to be.”
“Aye, they do.” Eyes solemn as an eagle’s gazed darkly at her as he wiped her hand clean on his towel. “You have to go back to bed now. Alone. Before I’m tempted to do the part of the ballad that we skipped.”
She slung her arms about his neck. “And what part is that?”
His gaze flicked to her naked breasts, and he sucked in a harsh breath. “You know what part. Where Darby enters Oonagh and they jointly ‘oil her lock’ with ‘showers of bliss.’ That part.”
“That sounds intriguing,” she whispered, leaning up to kiss his mouth.
He stopped her before she could. “No. I will not ruin you.”
An admirable sentiment before, but surely not now. “Would it be so awful if you did?”
“Aye. I’d have to marry you then, and I cannot.”
I cannot.Nothing like the bald truth to ruin a good seduction.
But she wouldn’t let him throw this away so easily. “Why not?” she whispered, trying not to let his words wound her.
Dropping his gaze, he concentrated on pulling her chemise back up to cover her breasts. “Even if yer father would allow it,” he said, “and even if he and I can settle this matter between us, you wouldn’t be happy at Rosscraig.”
“How do you know?”
His cold glance struck her to the heart. “Because ye’re too fine a lady for that sort of life.”
Odd how he could turn what should be a compliment into an insult. Her breath burned her throat as she rose, trying to gather the shreds of her pride about her. She noticed he made no move to stop her.
“Too fine a lady?” Her fingers shook violently as she tied her chemise. “Surely I have just amply demonstrated that I’m not remotely a fine lady.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about, lass.” He stood and the towel fell away, but she got the merest glimpse of him naked before he turned his back on her and scooped up his drawers. “Even the finest ladies have desires. But it doesn’t change what they’re born to. And once the heat of desire cools, they have to live in real houses and endure real hardships. Desire doesn’t make up for that.”
Not for a woman like you. He didn’t have to say the words.
She watched despairingly as his lovely behind disappeared beneath the stockinette. He meant for this to be the only time they were intimate, didn’t he? He’d allowed it because she’d pressed him, but he would never take it further.
“Let me see if I understand you. The fact that I desire you doesn’t matter. Nor the fact that I enjoy your company—”
“Enjoy my company?” With a bitter laugh, he faced her. “You’ve spent the past two days calling me a vulgar scoundrel. None of that has changed.”
“Everything has changed,” she whispered. “You know it has.”
“I know nothing of the kind.” He set his chin the way he set his shoulders, with a warrior’s belligerence. “You felt sorry for me, felt responsible for the wounds yer father’s men inflicted. And we got…carried away. But that doesn’t mean we could make a life together. You know better.”
She only knew that his hatred of her father ran deeper than she’d dreamed, that it stretched even to her. He was perfectly happy to play with her “in the moment,” but marrying Duncannon’s daughter would never be acceptable.
Until now she’d never been ashamed of who Papa was, who she was. And the fact that he could make her ashamed angered her. “You despise my father that much, do you?”
“It has naught to do with him.” But he wouldn’t meet her gaze, turning instead to scoop up his clothes.
“Really? And if I weren’t his daughter, you’d still spurn me?”
“Spurn you!” He whirled on her. “You’ll be the one to spurn me when yer father comes after you, and I’m forced to—”
When he broke off with a curse, her heart plummeted. “Forced to what?”
He didn’t reply, just strode into the hall to deposit his clothes for Sally to wash, then reentered and slammed the door before grabbing a pillow from the bed.
“Answer me, Lachlan .” Foreboding clutching at her chest, she followed him to where he tossed the pillow to the floor. “I asked you before what you’d do if Papa didn’t give you the money, and you evaded the question. I’m asking again, and this time I want the truth. What do you mean to do?”
“Stay out of it,” he growled. “It has naught to do with you.”
“If that were true, I wouldn’t be here. Tell me what you mean to do. I’ll give you no peace until you tell me.”
“Fine!” He faced her, eyes ablaze. “You saw what yer father’s men did to me just for robbing McKinley. And now I’ve gone and kidnapped his daughter. If he comes here without the money, it’ll be because he wants my head. It’ll be him or me, don’t you see? It must end one way or another, and it’s damned sure not going to be because I let him get away with treachery.”
She didn’t understand. “So if he refuses to give you the money he owes—”
“Then I’ll call him out. And if you’re married to me, you’ll end up either a widow or the wife of yer father’s killer.” With a rigid tilt to his jaw, he crossed his arms over his bare chest. “Devil of a choice, wouldn’t you say?”
Chapter Sixteen
Dear Charlotte,
Why must you ask questions you know I won’t answer? This I will say: although I don’t much enjoy society, I don’t stay locked away, either. If I did, how could I gain you the inside information you need to help your girls? Careful, friend; if you don’t stop pestering me with questions about my identity, you may find me much less eager to pass on my gossip.
Your determined-to-remain-anonymous friend,
Michael
Lachlan faced Venetia down, wishing desperately that she didn’t look so fetching in a shift, that her earlier cries of pleasure weren’t still echoing in his ears. Because her expression of horrified disbelief turned all his previous enjoyment to ashes.
“So that’s why we won’t be marrying,” he snapped. “This battle between me and yer father isn’t a game for ladies. It’s hard and cruel, and it won’t end to yer satisfaction, of that you can be sure.”
“
Only because you’re both stubborn as the devil,” she said in a hollow voice.
“Aye, I’m stubborn, but I deserve justice, damn it! And justice doesn’t mean letting him get away with what he did.”
“You’d fight him in a duel? That’s not justice. He’s an old man, not a soldier. We both know you’d win. It would be murder, pure and simple.”
“It was damned near murder when he set his men on me, but I don’t see you crying over the unfairness of that,” he spat.
“I did,” she said softly. “I do.”
There it came again, that sympathy in her face, that heart-wrenching sympathy that made him yearn.
Damn her! There was no place in his plans for yearning.
“The point is,” he bit out, “marrying you won’t solve a damned thing. It’ll only force you into a terrible situation. And that’s assuming you could be happy with me in the Highlands at all, which is doubtful.”
“It certainly is,” she said haughtily, “if you’re meaning to kill my father.”
“I don’t want to! I want only what’s owed me.” He dragged in a heavy breath. “But if he refuses to pay, I’ll annihilate him, do ye ken?”
The vitriol in his voice made her recoil.
He struggled not to care. “I want the money. Failing that, I want to be sure he won’t send more men to kill me, and I can’t be sure of that unless he’s dead.”
“According to your image of him, you can’t be sure of that even if he pays the money.”
“Why would he kill me, then? He wouldn’t get the money back. But until the matter is settled, I can’t go back into the world. I refuse to spend my life hiding. One way or the other, this ends when he comes to Scotland .”
“What if you married me?” A look of desperation crossed her face. “That would settle it. Surely he wouldn’t expose you if you were my husband. And my dowry is almost as large as his debt. You could forget about the loan.”
“Are you daft, lassie?” Opening his knapsack, he dragged out the tartan he used for warmth when he had to camp in the hills, then spread it on the floor where he’d thrown the pillow. “Have you forgotten who controls yer dowry?”
She paled. “Oh.”
“If we marry before yer father arrives, you’ll lose yer fortune and I’ll lose my chance at getting the money my clan needs. Besides, killing me would appeal to him even more if it was the only way to free you from my evil clutches.”
“He’s not this monster you make him out to be. If I could just talk to him, make it clear that I want to marry you, that I’m happy—”
“He’ll do a jig and forgive all, eh? Give us yer fortune, pay me back what he owes, welcome me into the loving arms of the family? Not bloody likely.”
“At least let me try.”
“No! I’m not taking the chance that he’ll cut you off and me in the bargain. My clan needs that money, do ye ken?”
She curled her arms about her stomach and sank down onto the bed.
The haunted look on her face cut him to the soul. He hated destroying whatever romantic fairy story she’d been spinning for the two of them, but it was best to halt it now, before she started dreaming of how to paint Rosscraig and what color to weave the cloth for their baby’s blankets.
He snorted. Weave the cloth, indeed. That was too practical. Fancy ladies plied their needles to ornament useless fripperies like dancing slippers and reticules.
He couldn’t afford reticules or slippers for her. He could barely afford the copper for the whisky stills he hoped would make all their fortunes one day. The copper that Duncannon’s money would provide.
But not if she tangled herself up in it. And for what? Because he’d given her pleasure, and she’d taken the notion that it boded well for their future? Damned fool female. What if she saw his manor and balked, as any woman of sense would? Then where would he be? Married to a woman whose father would kill to free her.
He wasn’t risking his head, nor his clan’s future. He needed that loan repaid, even if it meant he couldn’t have her. Even if it meant he’d never get to take her to bed, never get to make her his, never get…
He swore foully. Life wasn’t fair. He’d have to get used to it. “You understand now, don’t you, princess?”
She nodded mutely, tucking her legs up beneath her with the look of a wounded doe. Holy Christ, how that killed him.
“I have responsibilities to my clan and my crofters. I can’t just throw them away because I happen to fancy kissing Duncannon’s pretty daughter.”
“Stop calling me that, curse you!” Anger sparked in her eyes. “You’ve made it quite clear you have no desire to fit me into your life—don’t belabor the point.”
This time he made no attempt to apologize. Best to leave it this way. Then there’d be no confusion between them.
And no more kisses or caresses. No more fondling in the dark.
He gritted his teeth. This was how it had to be. He would never have dallied with her if he’d realized that she didn’t see it, too.
Right. He would have ignored the soft delicacy of her hands nursing him, the gentle caring of her smile…her half-naked form bending over him.
Don’t think about that, laddie, or you’ll never last the night.“Well, then.” He tried for a tone of nonchalance. “Best we get some sleep.”
She rose abruptly. “You should take the bed. It’s not good for you to lie on the floor with your wounds still healing.”
That she could still care about his suffering made a lump lodge in his throat. “I slept on the ground on the way to Edinburgh ,” he said. “This is no different. At least I’ve got a pillow this time.”
“Lachlan—”
“No, lass, I’m not letting you sleep on the floor. Take the bed. That’s the end of it.”
As he turned to where he’d left his pillow and tartan, she hurried over to the bowl she’d left on the washstand. “At least let me finish dressing your wounds. I haven’t put the comfrey on them.”
“I don’t need—”
“I won’t take no for an answer.” She picked up the bowl, added some water, then worked the mixture with her fingers. “The crushed comfrey root is the most important part. It hardens on the wound, healing it over time. You must have it.”
Mo chreach, would this night of tantalizing tortures never end? “All right,” he ground out, though he didn’t know how he’d survive another bout of her tender ministrations. “But be quick about it.”
Not only was the lass quick about it, she was downright unfeeling. With her face set, she plastered his worst wounds with the thick sludge and used some linen to bandage them. Then, cool as any physician, she washed her hands and trotted off to bed, leaving him staring after her.
So that was how it would be, eh? No more kind smiles for him, oh no. She was done with that.
Fine. He didn’t care.
He stretched out on his back on the hard floor, throttling his moans in his throat rather than have her hear them. He didn’t need her to nurse him, anyway—he’d done well enough until now without such a thing.
Never mind that it felt good having her fuss over him. He wasn’t a lad anymore to need petting and such; he could take care of himself.
That was the unconvincing litany he recited as he fell off to sleep.
On the night after Venetia’s kidnapping, Maggie dined with Colonel Seton in the common room of the Edinburgh inn, wishing she didn’t feel so conspicuous. Surely people were wondering where her charge was. No one would believe for long the tale they’d spread about her niece being ill, not after how well Venetia had looked only two nights ago.
Quentin would never forgive her for this. She could never forgive herself. Just the thought of what Venetia might be enduring…
She moaned aloud.
“It will be all right, I swear.” The colonel gave her hand a reassuring squeeze, then held it a moment longer. Though she knew it was wrong of her to encourage such behavior, she let him. She was so worried, and he was
so understanding, the poor, dear man.
Though it was scandalous that they should sit so, with their gloves off and their bare hands joined so shockingly.
“So your men have sent you no report?” she asked, trying not to notice that his strong grip made her tremble like a schoolgirl.
“Not yet.” He threaded his fingers with hers, his gaze a sharp, glimmering blue before he dropped it to their hands. “You know how wild the Highlands are. You can travel miles without seeing a village. And it’s only been a day—”
“A day and a half,” she corrected him.
He smiled indulgently. “Aye, a day and a half.”
“But the men left that very night?”
His smile faded. “I told you they did.”
“I would have felt better if I could have spoken to them first.”
“And how would that have kept your niece’s identity a secret?”
She’d forgotten about that stipulation. Nonetheless…“At least tell me whom you hired. Then when my brother-in-law arrives here, I’ll be able to tell him.”
The sudden flummoxed look on Colonel Seton’s face gave her pause. Until he began to cough and wheeze, and his cheeks turned a ruddy hue.
“Colonel Seton?” she asked. “Colonel? Are you all right?”
“Water,” he whispered. “Need…water…”
She poured water from a pitcher, then held it to his lips. But he was coughing so hard, he couldn’t manage more than a few sips.
Alarmed, she called for a servant. “My friend seems to be having an attack of some sort. Might you have a private parlor where he could rest for a moment?”
“Yes, my lady, this way,” the servant said.
Supporting the colonel with her arm about his waist, Maggie helped him stumble into the private room. Worry seized her heart as she sat beside him on a settee and stroked his back while he coughed. Strange how quickly she’d come to care for the man. She wished she could say it was only because he was helping her with the kidnapping, but she knew down deep that was a lie.
After a few moments, his coughing subsided. “Better?” she asked.
Beware a Scot's Revenge Page 16
