“My fiancée cannot accept suitors,” Ram replied. “Even the pair of you should be able to understand that.”
“When you narrow it down to one and set a date, we’ll understand,” David said.
“We just expect the one will be Flora because we don’t think the MacKenzies will have it any other way,” Hugh said.
“So, we see no reason for this contest,” David said.
“The reasons aren’t yours to see,” Ram said, “and Lady Rose is not yours to covet. Our friendship forbids that.”
“Or, perhaps it compels it,” Hugh said, softly, in a near whisper. “Ye should walk away from Rose now, before ‘tis too late.”
“Too late for what?” Ram asked.
“Too late to save you from being hurt by the choice you’ll have to make,” David said. “Turning your back on a woman you want in order to wed one you need would be hard enough. Walking away from a woman you loved might be more than you could bear.”
“We know you want Rose, so we can’t save you from taking the small fall,” Hugh said. “But if you’ll walk away now, we’ll keep her occupied. ‘Twill allow you to spend time building a relationship with Flora. Most importantly, ‘twill save you from taking the great fall.”
“The timing of your advice is interesting,” Ram said. “I believe that I shall consider it tomorrow.”
Watching Ram sprint towards the Castle, Hugh turned to David and said, “Tomorrow may be too late.”
***
It took a lot for the cook to threaten the laird with a meat cleaver.
The wee, rotund lady had a will stronger than the steel in her cleaver. She’d raised four strapping lads alone after her husband fell in a battle with the dastardly Clan Cromarty. Dealing with raising hard-headed sons and working to support them gave her a nearly endless font of patience–nearly endless. Laird Sutherland just found the bottom of her font.
“For the eighth time in ten minutes,” Cook said, squinting as she sighted the cleaver level with the laird’s Adam’s apple, “all of the food is being prepared. Everything. Every single thing. The wine is there chilling and the lads will come for the food last.”
“But, you’re certain that the fruit –“
“I’m certain,” said Cook, her desperation growing as she her fingers began to flex around the handle of the cleaver. As sure as God made honey and hope, if the laird finished his sentence she’d nae be able to stop herself. She’d fling the cleaver. With her luck though, the bloody thing would miss his throat and land in his skull. It was so hard she’d achieve naught but the waste of her favorite implement.
“Very well, But how about the cream? Is it –“
“It is,” Cook said, nodding hard enough to jiggle the bun on the top of her head. “But, sir, ye must remember that without the rest of it, the food won’t matter a’tall.”
Ram went completely still. “You’re right. And who was in charge of the ambiance?”
“I don’t ken ambinance, laird, but the housekeeper, Bonnie, hae been handling all the fabric and flowers and such.”
“Bonnie?” Ram asked, picturing the tall, stick-thin, perpetually unhappy woman. He’d seen her smile once–the effort nearly cracked her face. He’d never seen her laugh. He gulped and asked again. “Bonnie?”
“Aye,” Cook replied, nodding and lowering her cleaver. The laird hadn’t yet moved, but he was already out the door.
Sure enough, Ram shuffled his feet, eyed the door and said, “Well, carry on, then.”
The laird hit a dead run as he reached the door, slamming it open so hard that it hit the hallway wall. His voice rang out at a decibel level normally used only for the clan’s battle cry. “Bonnie? Bonnie!”
Ram paused on the first floor to spear a pair of footmen with a violent glare as he asked if they’d seen the housekeeper. They shook their heads no and scampered away, seeking refuge in the kitchen. He proceeded upstairs. Halfway up the first landing he encountered a young maid dusting the banister.
“You!” Ram snarled and pointed at the hapless, blinking girl.
“Me?” The girl jumped and looked around, but saw no one else on the staircase. The laird had either taken leave of his senses and was shouting at an invisible someone, or he was speaking to her. She blinked again, shuffled, and finally managed to squeak out a response. “Aye, Laird?”
“Where is Bonnie?”
“Bonnie?”
Ram ground his teeth and laid a hand on the girl’s shoulder, but managed not to wrap it around her throat. “Bonnie. The Housekeeper. She gives you orders. Remember her?”
Shaking from head to toe, the maid dropped the feather duster, and said. “In the village, laird. She hae been back and forth to the village all day.”
Ram nodded and marched down the stairs to stalk off towards the village. He didn’t run or walk–he stalked. And when the laird stalked, the best-trained, most seasoned of his warriors stayed clear. They did so this time, nodding as they swept wives or girlfriends beneath their arms to whisk them out of fury’s way. Ram didn’t see them, his single minded focus ignoring everything until he spotted the tall, thin woman.
That she stood with her eldest son, Duff, set Ram’s teeth to grinding. Duff McTaggart supposedly worked as the blacksmith’s assistant. As far as Ram could tell, the only time the muscular lad picked up a piece of equipment was when he could display how fine he looked using it to a watching lass. But, as Smitty the blacksmith pointed out when Ram raised that point, there were generally two or three watching lasses and eventually Duff had to do something with the equipment. Besides, Smitty swore the lad earned his keep in nicknacks alone. Those were the lad’s main occupation as Smitty would never entrust the shoeing of an animal to Duff. Despite Smitty’s constantly increasing prices, every household in the village with a single daughter had an ever-increasing collection of the things.
“Bonnie,” Ram barked.
To his credit, the lad stepped in front of his mother. But to his discredit, as Ram’s face hardened and the fire in his eyes kindled, the lad stepped aside.
“Aye, laird,” Bonnie answered.
Ram proceeded to interrogate her about why she was gadding about the village instead of attending to her “important business” at the castle. Bonnie rolled her eyes and said she was attending to the “important monkey business” right here. Ram only got out a loud “what” before Bonnie urged him to “keep the heid” and “hauld” his “wheesht.”
‘Twas good advice. Ram struggled to do as she said and keep calm and stay quiet. But she best have a fine explanation or he wouldna be ‘haulding’ anything except her head on a silver platter.
“Me Duff be as eireachdail a mon as we’ve in the clan. The no-good lasses are ever after ‘im,” Bonnie bragged. She rolled her eyes again, but this time ‘twas at her son. “But don’t get me wrong–on occasion, he’ll bait a snare to lure in a lass–generally, one well above his station. He claims they all be widowed, but I’ve me doubts in that direction. Howsoever, his snares generally work. Me Duff has a sense for the right bait.”
Ram cast a sharp look at the braw, black-haired, blue-eyed lad. To be sure, he made a fine appearance–too fine. Had he power to go with those fine looks, he’d have to carry around a stick to beat off the lasses. As t’was, he’d heard housemaids and fine ladies alike simper over Duff. The thought swarmed around his head like bees until the question could no longer be denied.
“Duff, are you acquainted with my betrothed, Lady Rose Lattimore?” Ram asked.
“Nay, laird,” Duff said. “I just returned last eve from a visit with my Uncle and me Mom dragged me out of bed at cock’s crow this morn to work on your special project.”
Ram’s eyes narrowed as he turned to Bonnie. “What need had you to involve your son in my special project?”
“Humpfh,” Bonnie huffed, “Are ye daft? Picnic lunches ere Cook’s business and she tells me all she’s ever prepared was easy food tucked into a basket along with a blanket and some wine or
juice. She says that was good enough for ye yesterday. But it’s nae good enough today now, is it? As fer me, I’ve never once been involved in fixings for a picnic beyond providing a blanket. ‘Tis easy enough to figure out that today is more about monkey business than a nice meal and pleasant conversation.”
Duff placed a restraining hand on his mother’s shoulder. “Laird, what my mother means is that setting a scene for romance is more or less my specialty.”
“Hit be about all ye’re good at,” Bonnie sniped.
“But Laird,” Duff said, his engaging grin striking Ram like a weapon, “I am good at it. I’m very good. Ye’ll nae be disappointed.”
With a brisk nod Ram walked away, concocting an urgent mission that would require young Duff’s immediate attention–and his absence for the next month or so. It’d hardly hurt the young man to miss one season of the games.
The laird headed up to his room where he could pace and wait without being disturbed.
***
At the stroke of noon Ram bounced on the balls of his feet as he knocked on Rose’s door. The speed with which she answered it told him that she’d been waiting as impatiently as he–or almost as impatiently.
For the first seconds they stood and stared, each drinking in the sight of the other in a reaction too instinctive to mask. She recovered first, blinking twice before cocking her head, and saying, “I’m a bit surprised to see you here today. Your outing with Flora seemed to go so well that I’d thought you’d call a halt to our little game.”
“You look beautiful,” Ram said. She wore a light green dress with randomly placed yellow and white sunflowers. The neckline was cut in a fairly modest square but Ram saw it much less modestly. He envisioned how ‘twould look when he freed her breasts from the fabric. Worse, he could see them rolling in a meadow, clothed only in sunshine and sprigs of those flowers.
“Hardly,” Rose shrugged. “Flora is the beauty. She’s also the one you chose. After your life-changing kiss last eve, I presumed you would send a note, but perhaps I misjudged you. Have you come to call a halt to the contest in person because you felt I deserved an explanation?”
“Perhaps we could walk while we discuss this,” Ram suggested in a tight tone. If he stood here staring at the large bed behind her for a second longer, he’d pick her up, tote her over, toss her down and take her before it ever occurred to her that the gospel according to Flora wasn’t a’tall God’s own truth.
When she still didn’t move, Ram seized both her hands and pulled her out of the room. At least that shook her certainty so that she stood, looking at him and nibbling her bottom lip. Dear Lord.
Ram placed one hand at the small of her back while he gestured towards the stairs with the other. “Shall we?”
After a wee moment, she nodded and walked with him, albeit, far too slowly. He used all his willpower to keep his eyes off her and to keep walking at the slow, plodding pace she set.
About halfway down the stairs she stopped dead, turned towards him and said, “Are you certain this is what you want to do?”
While she awaited his answer she nibbled her lip and tapped it with her index finger. ‘Twas too much. Far, far too much. He turned on her like the eye of the storm ripping through his innards and she proved how smart she was by retreating until her back met the wall. He surrounded her and loomed over her, planting one hand on either side of her head and one foot on the stair above the one they occupied.
“I’m fighting like hell not to do what I want to do. I lose very few battles but no warrior is invincible. I’m going to lose this one if you don’t stop teasing me with your damnable nibbling and that tapping? Do it again and I’ll take that finger and suck on it while I tear your bodice down so that I can suckle those nipples that I can feel–feel, mind you- hardening for me,” Ram growled.
He was talking to her like this–here on the stairs in public–and the day after his amazing bloody kiss with Miss Scottish Menace. She didn’t know what to say or how to react but she couldn’t help panting a little because, damn him, he was right about her nipples. Nerves made her nibble on her lower lip and her tapping finger nearly reached her mouth before she saw the intent in his eyes and froze.
“Smart,” Ram said. “Are you ready to begin our day now? Or shall you prove the Highland belief that the English don’t keep their word?”
He held out his hand while the heat in his eyes warned that he stood ready to carry out his torrid threat.
His dictatorial tone, his insult of her heritage– and the memory of Flora’s describing that kiss–made Rose stubborn enough to want to tell him to go to Hades and mad enough to ask the Devil to stoke the fire. But she was too smart to risk it now because Ram might do just as he said. ‘Twould force his hand–and the last thing Rose wanted was to be wed to a man yearning for a petite redhead. Well, almost the last thing.
The last thing she wanted was to end up married to Jack Richards.
That thought made her grab his hand like a lifeline, but she couldn’t feel good about it. Was she really that selfish? Even if she wound up wed to Jack, ‘twasn’t Ram’s problem. She feared very little, but the idea of Jack having a husband’s rights, a husband’s control scared her nearly witless. She’d become a person who would use a paltry physical attraction to force him to compromise her. Rose felt her hand tremble upon his palm in the instant before he wrapped his hand around hers.
She couldn’t see how the color had drained from her face but she did feel her lower lip tremble. Rose caught it between her teeth and didn’t realize what she’d done until his eyes burned with a dark fire as he leaned towards her. She gasped.
Instead of carrying out his tempting threat, Ram’s long index finger stroked her lips. In his eyes, concern warred with desire, creating a blend heady enough to make her stagger. When she did, Ram’s arm encircled her waist, saving her from a nasty fall. He scooped her up and carried her down the stairs, nodding briskly at Dair and Hugh. The pair watched with open mouths, but their astonishment didn’t touch that of the kitchen staff as Ram carried her through the room, ignoring her tugs on his sleeve and urgings to put her down.
He paused once, when they were alone outside the kitchen door. “Hush,” he said. “You’re not steady on your feet right now and our destination requires sure-footedness.”
“It does?” She asked, and spent so much time musing about where in the world he’d planned their picnic that they arrived at the treacherous part before she’d pondered all the possibilities.
“We’re lunching on the rocks?” Rose asked, her voice rising in anger and trembling with hurt. Ram stepped over one middling rock and climbed higher on the hill. “If you didn’t want this picnic all you had to do was say so. I’d wager that you didn’t ask the lovely Flora to perch on a boulder.”
“Hush,” Ram said, ducking down so that his seductive smile poised a scant inch from her mouth. “We’re here.”
That smile and the naughty glint in his midnight eyes held her enthralled. As he set her upon her feet slowly, slowly, sliding her down his body so that she felt every aroused inch of his, Rose couldn’t look away from his face to see where ‘here’ might be. It no longer mattered. ‘Here’ shrank to the confines of the strong arms that held her so close and the lips that hovered until they quirked a smile at himself, before they lowered to slide across hers.
The rest–the scenery, the populace, events and players in them–all the rest mattered not a whit.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The only thing that did matter was the slippery, smooth slide of his lips over hers, feeding and fomenting the kind of hunger that had nothing to do with lunch.
“Does it meet your approval?” Ram asked against her lips.
“Yes,” she moaned, “Oh, yes.”
“You might look at it first,” Ram said, amusement vying with heat in his tone.
“Should I?” She asked, dazed.
“Yes,” Ram replied–the word forced. He breathed deeply, inhaling far too much of he
r secret smell–that heady blend of cinnamon sweet, musky rose–far too much for sanity or common sense. Against his will and contrary to best intentions, his mouth returned to hers, to resume the dance destined to lead to naught but a more vexatious predicament.
‘Twas more than a moment or two of that slick heat before the chains on his will slipped further, allowing his tongue to dart into her mouth. And, yes, to his eternal shame, his loins mimicked his tongue, and ‘twas several cycles of the forbidden bliss before Ram tore his mouth and himself away, marginally, damn it, but away.
“That’s why you should look,” Ram said. “Because if you don’t distract me, I fear that I shall dishonor you and force a decision to end this contest.”
Had he not phrased it just that way, she’d have wrapped her arms around his neck and said she was perfectly content with her present view. His words reminded her of her realization on the stairs, that she was selfish enough to force his hand if it kept her from Jack. No. She’d do no such thing. She was stronger than that.
She looked. ‘Twas a glance from the corner of her eye at first, but she soon stepped back, turned around and really looked. Despite the bright sunshine, they stood in near-total darkness in what appeared to be a small cave or cavern. Just ahead, flickering light from a circle of torches broke the darkness. Rose stepped into the light and found herself enchanted.
Around the walls, staggered between the torches, stood an army of potted greenery–shrubs, large ferns and small trees. Smaller flowering plants and huge vases and urns of flowers dotted the area near the pond. Pond? Yes, from a rocky alcove, a waterfall cascaded, ending in the lovely oval of bubbling water. Bubbling?
“’Tis a natural hot spring,” Ram said. “This is a perfect spot for baring your feet and soaking them in nature’s own healing waters.” By the end of the second sentence Ram’s thoughts showed in the way he purred the last words.
“Bare feet?” Rose asked, fighting the wicked image that sprang to mind. “I see.”
To fight that image, Rose looked at the luxurious nest to the side of the pond. ‘Twas formed by layers of cotton batting upon which lay the Sutherland tartan. It created the perfect cradle for the brown, black, and auburn furs topping the nest.
Romancing the Rose Page 9
