Patrick turned to face her in a slow slide of a circle. “Perhaps he’s of no consequence by London standards, but in Moraig he holds a position of respect. There is the Earl of Kilmartie, who lives nearby. His son, James MacKenzie, already knows of the matter.”
She lowered the comb. “But a Scottish peerage is surely not as well respected—”
“MacKenzie’s new wife is the former Viscountess Thorold,” Patrick interrupted, tersely. “Mrs. MacKenzie knows many influential people in London.”
Julianne struggled against a rising tightness in her chest. This was the Scottish Highlands, for heaven’s sake, not London. It boggled the mind that Patrick could escape notice for almost a year in this town, but she couldn’t hide for the space of a day. She had not thought . . .
Heavens. Like the key in the lock, she had simply not thought. She drew in a frustrated breath. “If I could just speak with her and explain—”
“Your reputation has been compromised. Speaking with her will not change that fact.”
“And you think standing in my room while I dress will help matters?”
“There is also the matter of how we would travel together to Yorkshire—as you have so summarily insisted we must—without further damage to your character.”
The comb fell from her hand and hit the wooden floorboards with a soft click. Well. There was that. She had to admit, she hadn’t given any more thought to the constraints of traveling with Patrick to Yorkshire than she had to traveling here alone.
Decent, well-bred women did not travel with men who were not their husbands, much less with murder suspects. But despite her lack of forethought on the matter, the fact that Patrick was concerned about such a predicament was encouraging, to say the least. She had been prepared to cajole, bribe, or lie to get him on that coach come morning.
“Does this mean you have decided to accompany me back?” she asked cautiously.
He crossed his arms. “I will not do anything that further sullies your reputation.”
She almost laughed. Had he no notion at all that she regularly flirted the edge of propriety, or that the London scandal sheets had chronicled her antics for the better part of two years? “It’s my reputation, not yours, so if you would just—”
“I am afraid, as one of the parties engaged in the matter of your pending ruin, it is my responsibility to protect you. I cannot travel with you under the current circumstances. Only one solution would get me on that coach come morning, no matter how distasteful we might find it.”
The implications of what he was saying sank through the cracks in her thinking. He was suggesting a fix that would both save her reputation and make her a countess, even though she’d all but destroyed his life. No wonder he had seemed angry upon entering the room.
Her thoughts spread around his words with an eagerness she wished she could control. This was a proposal—of sorts—from a man half of England suspected of killing his brother. But her flagging memory of the event had become distorted even before the surprise of the man she had discovered in Moraig. She could not believe he was guilty.
In fact, over the course of the last few hours, she had more than convinced herself he was not. His explanation of his brother’s death being a terrible accident had the solid ring of truth to it, no matter that he had been unconvincing in his defense on the day it had mattered. The side of Patrick she had seen today—the veterinarian who wrapped his own jacket around the bloodied body of a dog, the protector who had defended her in the presence of the irate town vicar—was not the sort of man who could purposefully kill his own brother, not even in the most heated of moments.
She eyed him warily, trying to sort out his feelings on the matter. He couldn’t mean it. Couldn’t mean to toss away his future on her, the woman who had jeopardized his family’s future simply because her mouth had run on several steps ahead of her brain that day. And he certainly didn’t look like a man who was happily contemplating a vow to honor and cherish her.
If there had been only the matter of her reputation to consider, his scowl would have been enough to convince her that such a plan was foolhardy, at best. Truly, she cared less for her reputation than ought to be prudent—hadn’t she come to Scotland without chaperone or permission, well knowing the risks she was taking? No, her reputation was not the reason she was actually considering marrying this man.
He was an earl, even if he refused to act the role. That would be a delicious enough incentive for most women. But Julianne could envision his future, and without someone to guide him on this path, he was bound for failure. Her chest squeezed tight at the thought. It was clear Patrick wasn’t prepared for the title. He’d spent his entire life avoiding the social network of London. If she were his wife, she would be poised to help him.
But not even that measured empathy could fully explain her quickening pulse.
No, the problem with this proposal was how it made her feel. All during the long, weary trip to Scotland, she’d had but one goal: inform Patrick of his father’s death and the inquest, and convince him to return to fight the charges. Her motivation had been born of the guilt festering inside her, and honed by new doubts. She’d realized, once she’d battled her way through self-absorption, that her role in this had not just affected him . . . her meddling had also orchestrated the ruin of at least three other innocent people.
But seeing him today had done more than convince her of how wrong she had been. It had also reminded her of how she had felt, hanging on the end of his kiss, the kiss she had tried—and failed—to forget. She’d abandoned her pursuit of Patrick’s brother on account of that kiss, had risen before dawn just to catch a love-struck glimpse of a mere second son.
She’d at least attempted to carry on after that fateful day. During her latest London Season, she had pushed the boundaries of propriety, seeking to rediscover the quiver beneath her skin that Patrick had somehow conjured with little more than a slow, building smile. She’d tried on gentlemen like new shoes, only to discover that the wrong fit pinched. All through the lines of men who flirted and smiled and offered the occasional moonlit kiss, she had felt absolutely nothing. She couldn’t claim the same bland effect in the presence of this man.
And the memory of that kiss they had shared—every bit as potent as any measure of guilt or doubt—now turned his proposal from something worth considering into something she was afraid she could not refuse.
She ran her tongue over her lips, trying to quell the way those thoughts made her skin flush warm. “You must accompany me on the morning coach, Patrick. Your future, and your family’s future, depends upon it.”
He did not move. Did not speak. Just regarded her in that familiar, stern way of his, his long face immobile.
She prayed her mouth continued to work well enough to finish this last bit, because she was quite sure she lacked the courage to repeat it. “So if that is the only course available to us, we need to marry. Tonight.”
Patrick stared at the woman who had just demanded they marry and wondered if he wasn’t about to make the second biggest mistake of his life.
His cock, damnably independent organ that it was, disagreed with the question posed by his brain, and moreover demanded an equal stake in the debate. Because beyond all the myriad reasons both for and against this foolhardy path, he had neglected to consider a very greedy one.
Julianne was a beautiful woman.
Robbed of the distraction of the soiled green dress, the curve of her neck drew his eye. Beneath the scant layers of cotton, her bosom was indeed every bit as high and fine as he had imagined it would be. She was a painful sight. Patrick had kept to himself these past eleven months in Moraig, avoiding both the obvious interest of several lusty widows and the ready train of serving girls who plied their skills in the alley behind the Blue Gander. But as his body surged to life around the tempting image Julianne presented, he was reminded of a very basic fact: he was a man. And she was a woman who—despite the foolhardy nature of the emotion—piqued h
is masculine instincts.
There were worse reactions one could suffer from a wife.
His wife. He massaged that thought a moment. She’d fallen right into his thinking. Truth be told, he’d hoped she wouldn’t. The Julianne he was coming to know didn’t seem to care about her reputation nearly as much as this sudden acquiescence suggested. She was clearly an intelligent girl. She had demonstrated a sharp wit beneath that fashionable exterior on numerous occasions—most recently with poor Reverend Ramsey.
But on the other hand, she’d boarded a train lacking both chaperone and common sense . . . not exactly a point in her favor.
It wasn’t gentlemanly of him to trick her into it, even if she deserved it. Hell, even if she owed it to him, for sending his life spiraling so far beyond his control. His conscience was intact enough—even after three rapid-fire whiskies—to admit some discomfort in using her in this manner, but he was hanged—quite literally—if he could think of another way to go about it. He had exaggerated the implications of their discovery together, although he hadn’t precisely lied about the potential in James’s wife’s connections, or the dangers of traveling together lacking a wedding band.
But the image of Julianne in her nightclothes did not appeal to the gentlemanly side of his nature. She had made her own bed—messy though it might be—when she left behind her maid and boarded the train to Scotland.
And a very ungentlemanly part of him was looking forward to lying in it with her.
“If you are sure,” he told her slowly.
“We need to do it quickly, if we are to make the morning coach.” She turned away from him to rummage through her bag, and her night rail swung dangerously about her hips. “Is there someone who can do it at this late hour?”
“The blacksmith.” Patrick swallowed. Thank God for Scotland and the irregular marriages made possible by the country’s lax laws. “He officiates half the weddings here. No doubt he’ll charge more to see us so late, but he’ll appreciate the business.” He took a step in her direction, probing the boundaries of her quick decision. No matter the practical advantages of what was being discussed here tonight, no matter the fact that by marrying her he might better protect her, he would not exchange those vows with a woman who was unwilling to accept him in her bed.
And unfortunately, there was precious little time to test the theory of her acquiescence.
“I shall offer him fair compensation,” Julianne said, pulling out a frothy blue confection of a gown.
He took another step, determined to keep his eyes on her face instead of her hips. But that proved every bit as distracting as her scantily clad curves, because his thoughts landed on a niggling incongruity and refused to budge. There, across the bridge of her nose, he studied the source of his confusion. There weren’t very many . . . a dozen at most.
But definitely—decidedly—freckles.
Her freshly-scrubbed face glowed a healthy pink, and carried far more interesting layers than he had seen before. He felt like a prospector who had unearthed a promising vein of gold but lacked all tools to extract it. He’d studied her enough to know that those freckles were not granted egress by day. She must cover them each morning, with rice powder or something of that ilk. There was something jarring about discovering such an intimacy, a secret he alone knew.
“I shall also require compensation,” he told her.
She looked up warily and wrinkled that fascinating, freckled nose. “You want me to pay you to marry me?”
He closed the remaining three feet between them and then he was within striking distance. The scent of her damp hair and soap-kissed skin rose up to greet him. “A kiss, to honor our bargain.”
She licked her lips, lips he had tasted, once upon a time. “We’ve had one,” she countered, clasping the dress she still held in her hands like a shield between them. “Or have you forgotten?”
He reached out and plucked the blue dress from her fingers, tossing it onto the floor. Her mouth opened in protest, but he pulled her to him. “I haven’t forgotten.” The thin whisper of her night rail met his jacket, and then his fingers circled around to cup the delectable, cotton-covered curve of her arse. A gasp escaped her lips, but she didn’t shrink from the contact.
A wicked surprise claimed his focus. He’d half expected her to retreat, cry foul, retract the offer she’d thrown down. After all, these were nowhere near the same happy circumstances as their first kiss. This time, she believed him capable of murder.
He gave his hands permission to roam northward, skirting the edges of night rail, belly, and breasts to finally settle on her face. He lowered his mouth, urged on by the encouraging beat of pleasure in his ears. His lips settled over hers in a kiss that offered no quarter and sought a raw truth. The taste of her was a flooding memory, sharp sweetness and languid heat. Christ, what man could forget such a thing? It carried a sting, this woman’s kiss. Even with a plan and a stiff resolve, it was nigh on impossible to brace oneself for impact.
Her lips moved confidently under his, her breath mingling with his own, her unbound breasts a soft pillow against his chest. His body responded to eleven months of denial with predictable speed, and it rocked him to have such a physical confirmation of his need. She was warm and pliant, and his control was like a curtain being yanked from its moorings. He sought a more complete claim to her mouth, his tongue sweeping against hers.
And that was when she pulled back. Her hand was a gentle reminder against his chest, though the flush on her cheeks and her accelerated rate of breathing provided pleasurable testimony to her body’s reaction. “I trust this is adequate compensation until the vows are completed?” she said softly.
The muted tenor of her voice was comical, really. She might as well have shouted.
She’d been inexperienced during their first kiss, though even untutored she’d been beautifully responsive. But that had been a restrained sort of kiss, an exploration of what she could learn to be. This was a fulfillment of the promise. Because the woman who had just wrestled control of the situation into her own small hands was not the same green girl she had been eleven months ago, experiencing her first kiss. Julianne knew the lay of the land now, and she was shouldering her way along a well-trodden path.
As his palms fell away from the temptation of her night rail, he tried not to think of how she knew this, or from whom she had learned it. She was a coquette and a flirt. It should not surprise him that she knew something of matters between a man and a woman.
Had she kissed his brother this way, once upon a time? Eric had certainly regarded the delectable Julianne Baxter in a proprietary fashion. They had even argued over her in the minutes before the accident that took Eric’s life.
He shook his head clear of those damning thoughts. Claiming now the woman his brother had wanted then was just one more egregious sin to add to his mounting tally of reasons to burn in hell. And no matter his dislike of the idea of her recent experience with kissing or worse, the issue was moot, given the pressing need to dismantle the danger she posed to his family and his future. She would be a willing participant in the marriage bed, that much was clear. No shrieking, no hysterics.
He lacked the audacity to think he deserved anything more.
“It will do for now.” His voice, thankfully, retained its faculties, even if his head felt pelted by lust and doubt. He stepped back, breathing hard. She made him feel unhinged, and that made him uneasy. The thought of knocking her off her composed pedestal once they finally tumbled into bed gave him a dark pleasure he didn’t care to examine overmuch.
“But make no mistake, I expect a complete marriage, Julianne. If you marry me, you shall be mine, and no one else’s. I refuse to be a cuckold.”
He could almost see the cogs turning in the depths of those green eyes. There would be no outside lover. No opportunity for a later annulment. He was reminding her of who he was, and what he expected they would be.
Miraculously, she nodded by way of an answer.
“My
father will not be happy we’ve done it in this manner.” She inhaled deeply, flattening her palms against the front of the night rail he had just been contemplating removing. “But I suppose it is a match he will not be able to dispute. You possess a title, certainly. He was good friends with the late earl, and your father certainly believed in your innocence.”
He searched her eyes for some kernel of truth. Her kiss had convinced him that a marriage would not be all jaw-gritting duty, but neither did it tell him what he needed to know. “And what of you, Julianne? What do you believe?”
She looked startled by the question. “I believe I shall enjoy being a countess.”
Patrick held himself steady, but he could admit some disappointment in Julianne’s ready evasion. So this was how it was to be. He was to marry a woman who believed him capable of murder. Of course, without that bit of it there would be no need to marry her at all, so why was he warring with his emotions on this matter? He would spend the rest of his life side-stepping the suspicion in his wife’s eyes, and she would be granted a title and an estate as fair compensation. It wasn’t as if either of them harbored hopes for something more.
“But given that the future is unclear,” she added, stooping to snatch her blue dress from the floor where he had tossed it, “it would be best to organize a settlement that protects me in the event of an unfavorable outcome.”
Unfavorable outcome. That was one pleasant euphemism for hanging, he supposed.
The lingering heat from their kiss cooled thoroughly with such talk. “Most of the estate is entailed, but I can ensure a respectable income, at the least. My friend James MacKenzie is a solicitor. We can have a settlement drawn up tonight, if that is your wish.” If the worst happened, he would leave her financially protected. And if the best happened and by some miracle he was able to evade the noose . . . well, he would deal with the consequences of their union then.
Moonlight on My Mind Page 8
