Men of Midnight Complete Collection

by Emilie Richards

  “I suppose it could use a wee change or two.”

  “It could use a U-Haul truck and four strong men!”

  “I thought you’d have more respect for tradition.”

  “Look, I don’t want to alarm you, but a lot of what’s in here is junk, pure and simple. And with my background, I should know. Maybe some of it’s valuable junk, and maybe some of what isn’t would appeal to collectors of kitsch, but it badly needs sorting, and the rest needs carting away. The room deserves better.”

  “Then you don’t think I should demolish the house stone by stone?”

  “I’m sure the house is perfect. It just needs some attention.”

  “Translated, that means it needs half a million pounds poured into it?”

  “Nothing so grand or expensive. Just a loving eye and a little elbow grease. And a big, burly man to trim the ivy and the hedges.”

  “My mother once told my father she wanted to do a wee bit of work on the gardens. He had to sell prime Edinburgh property to fund it.”

  “And I’ll bet it was worth every penny—pence he paid.”

  “He thought everything she did was worth a fortune.”

  Billie heard something in Iain’s voice. Yearning? Pride? She wasn’t sure. “This is the first time I’ve been away from my family at Christmastime, and I miss them more than I can say. But you haven’t had yours for a very long time, have you? I bet you miss them terribly.”

  “I miss them.”

  She knew better than to pry any further. She had learned that Iain would tell her what he wanted, when he wanted, and not one moment before. “I think we owe them all, your parents and mine, a wonderful Christmas day. Not a one of them would want us to sit around and mope. So, let’s get busy.”

  “Are we about to renovate the house?”

  “Just this room. Let’s pull that sofa—it looks comfortable, at least—closer to the fire and put that table in front of it so we can have dinner in here.”

  “Dinner.” He strung out the word as if he had never heard it.

  “Iain, you have to feed me. It’s standard procedure.” The expression on his face was a mixture of bewilderment and humiliation, and he wore it with charm. “Wedding leftovers?” she coaxed.

  “I’m afraid they went to the shut-ins who couldn’t come to the party.”

  “And I’ll bet you don’t cook, do you?”

  “I’m certain that the Sinclair Hotel must be serving today. I’ll take you there.”

  “Yuck. You will not. Is there food in the house?”

  “There’s a refrigerator, a freezer and cabinets filled to overflowing with groceries, none of which I have the faintest idea how to prepare for a guest.”

  “Oh, so you cook, but not for guests.”

  “Rather like that.”

  She had stayed far away from him, busying herself with the lights. Now she moved closer. “Well, like I told you before, I cook, and I’ll admit to being wonderful at it. I worked under some of the best cooks in the fleet. I’ll train you.”

  “Your tramp steamer days?”

  “Exactly.”

  His arms shot out, and he pulled her close before she could flutter away again. “Billie, I didn’t invite you here to work. We’ll go to the hotel.”

  She could feel the warmth of his hands through her blouse. “Overcooked carrots and lamb so well done it could have died of old age in the time it took to cook it? We deserve better.”

  “Frances Gunn is one of the finest cooks in Scotland.”

  He was kneading her arms, and her heart was pounding to the rhythm. “Frances Gunn isn’t going to be working on Christmas day.”

  “And neither should you.”

  “Cooking with you will be a pleasure.”

  He lowered his face to hers, and his arms circled her. She bent like a willow branch into the curve of his body. The gloomy old room seemed lit with a new and softer light. “Then I’ll be a willing recipient of any pleasure you want to give me,” he said.

  She knew better than this. There seemed to be a thousand secrets between them, and she had a long history of thinking the best of the worst people. Yet she couldn’t break away. She was mesmerized by the look in his eyes. There was nothing evil in this man. She would stake anything on that. But there was so much that was wrong with his life, and she seemed to be caught up in it.

  She was caught up in him. She couldn’t move away, and she couldn’t stop her arms from pulling him closer. Touching him was a feast of sensation. She had yearned all her days for the touch of his body against her but never known she yearned. Everything about him seemed so intimately familiar, yet new and powerful.

  “I think I could get hooked on giving you pleasure,” she whispered.

  “And taking it?”

  “Particularly that.” She relaxed into his kiss. And for long moments there was nothing else to say.

  * * *

  Dinner was roast duck stuffed with leeks and mushrooms and glazed with orange and ginger. There were potatoes whipped with fresh cream and butter, and carrots and cabbage sauteed with fresh herbs from Gertie’s windowsill pots. Stale bread was transformed into bread pudding with a potent whiskey sauce, and Billie fed bite after bite to a protesting Iain until he begged for mercy.

  “Leave the dishes,” he insisted, when she tried to get up from the sofa to clear away the table.

  “Wouldn’t you rather look at the fire?”

  “Fine. I’ll take the dishes in the kitchen as soon as I can move. But you’re not allowed to set foot in there again.”

  “Are you afraid I’ll cook something else?”

  “Terrified.”

  “I saw some truly gorgeous Camembert in the back of the refrigerator.”

  “Which is exactly where it stays.”

  “If the medieval Rosses ate as little as you do, I can’t understand where they found the strength to keep their estates. My brothers would consider that meal an appetizer.”

  He pulled her to rest against him. “Describe your brothers to me.”

  “Three mean and ugly junkyard dogs.”

  He laughed. His arms slipped around her. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on her anywhere, but she had eaten more than he had. He had a suspicion the Camembert was going to disappear, too, as soon as she could get to it. She moved closer, fitting herself against him as if she knew his body intimately. He knew better than to let this happen, but he rested his cheek against her hair, and one hand slid up her neck to play with the wisps that adorned it.

  There was something remarkably sensuous about those silky tendrils. They were a hint that the woman in the no-nonsense, practical hair had a seductive alter ego hidden just under the surface. There were other hints, too. Her penchant for fabrics that felt good to the touch, the surprising and lushly romantic scent of violets that she favored. She was not exactly what she seemed.

  But neither was he.

  Billie looked up at him through her eyelashes. His heart beat double-time, and he realized just how fast he was getting in over his head. And this time he wasn’t in the loch.

  “I’ll bet you prefer women with hair down to their waists and curves like a Highland road map,” she said.

  “What brought that on?”

  “An attack of utter hopelessness.”

  He touched her face. His hands weren’t quite steady. “Do you see anyone like that in this room?”

  “I see the ghosts of a dozen women just like it.”

  “Who’s been talking to you?”

  “Iain, you have a reputation as towering as your family tree.”

  “Do you believe everything you hear?”

  “Tell me it’s not true.”

  He was caught completely off guard. No other woman of his acquaintance would have faced him down this way. “Are we both going to talk about our romantic pasts? If you’re liberated enough to ask, you’re liberated enough to answer.”

  “I don’t have much to tell.”

  He thought about his own r
esponse carefully. “I have a lot to tell,” he said at last. “And none of it is worth mentioning.”

  She continued to stare up at him. He thought she was reading the nuances of his answer and weighing them. Then she nodded. “You make short forays out from behind your castle walls, then you go back inside, pull up the drawbridge and settle in for the siege.”

  He didn’t know how she had already learned to know him so well. “And you? Why don’t you have much to tell?”

  “I’ve thought I was in love twice. The second time was a particularly terrible mistake.”

  He could see that mistake in her eyes. She was still suffering for it. Anger started somewhere deep inside him for the man who had hurt her. “Do you want to talk about it?” he asked, careful to keep emotion from his voice.

  “Want to? No. But maybe you ought to know what an idiot I can be.”

  She didn’t need exposure. She needed comfort, even if she didn’t know it. He shrugged. “Then go ahead and tell me.”

  “Dave was one of my fellow graduate students, and he was nothing short of a con man. The thing is, I couldn’t see it, even though friends warned me. I always see the best in people, even when it’s not there. And I thought Dave was just misunderstood because he was so brilliant.”

  “Was he brilliant?”

  “At using people? Absolutely. He sure drained every drop he could from me. He was attentive and passionate, and I mistook that for love. I was caught up in the romance of it. We were two starving graduate students fighting our way through academia together. I refused to see that I was doing all the fighting, and that he was taking my ideas, my research, my hard work, and using it for his own advancement. I think I realized after a while that I wasn’t really in love with him, but I was loyal right up to the bitter end. I thought he needed me, so I gave him everything. And when I should have realized he didn’t deserve it, I kept on giving. I’m a fool, pure and simple, without the gift to tell the truth from a lie.”

  “You’re not a fool.”

  “I am, but not as much of one as he played me for. I was working on an idea for my dissertation. I’d spent months researching it and preparing to submit it to my committee. I discovered that Dave had taken everything I’d done, added a few touches of his own and submitted a nearly identical idea to his committee first. I guess he was sure that when I found out, I would be much too humiliated to blow the whistle. But I did, and even though it was largely his word against mine, I was the one that the faculty believed. Dave was dismissed from the university, but before he left he managed to destroy all my notes and make off with my entire collection of reference books, a good number of which were irreplaceable. He even wiped out all my computer files so I’d be forced to start over.”

  Iain’s response was profane and exactly to the point.

  She smiled sadly. “When Dave finished with me, I wasn’t sure what was left. I decided to leave the country to find out—and get farther away from him in the process. At the end he made vague threats against my safety, and while I didn’t really believe he was serious, I didn’t want to be looking behind me every minute, either. The worst part of all this is that I don’t trust my own judgment anymore.”

  “Have you ever considered tattooing crosshairs over your heart?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’ve just told me how vulnerable you are and exactly where. If I were a man who enjoyed hurting women, I’d be thrilled, even motivated, by your honesty.”

  “You’re not a man who enjoys hurting women.”

  “Oh? You can tell that?”

  “Of course I can! What do you think—” She stopped herself. Her eyes grew wary. “All right. You’ve made your point.”

  “What point is that?”

  “That I was absolutely right. I haven’t really changed.”

  “No.” He stroked her hair back from her face. “That’s not the point at all. I’m not a man who enjoys hurting women, so your judgment is correct. But you’re also feeling cautious, and you’ve a right to. You don’t know me—”

  “Iain.” She touched his cheek. “You don’t let anyone know you.”

  He saw the questions in her eyes. Instead of answering, he lowered his lips to hers. There were years to tell her about, but not an hour of them could he really share with her. There was half an inscription at Ceo Castle that he should translate for her, but he didn’t dare translate a word. His burdens were his own and not to be carried by anyone else.

  He felt her move in his arms. Her breasts strained against his chest, perfect small mounds that begged for his touch. He moved from consolation to lust in the space of a heartbeat. He was as famed for his self-control as for the many women who had shared small portions of his life, but now there was nothing of control in his response. A moment ago he had thought he would never be hungry again. Now he was ravenous.

  Her lips opened, and her arms circled his neck. She was lying half on top of him, and each time she moved he could feel the repercussions. Even as an adolescent he had never felt this desperate need, this passion to obliterate all conscious thought and sink into a woman forever.

  His hands settled at her waist, but only for a moment. He had planned to hold her away, to give himself room to gain control. Instead, he jerked her blouse from the waistband of her skirt and slid his hands up her rib cage. If she’d worn a bra, he might have been able to stop. But she hadn’t, and he had never felt anything as soft, as pliant, as her breasts. He groaned as she moved against his hand. Her nipples were as hard as pebbles; nothing had ever had the power to excite him more.

  She threw her head back and moaned. Her skin was flushed and her eyes half-closed. He could feel the rapid pounding of her heart, the ragged surge of her breath. He kissed her throat, her cheek, her earlobe. He considered the trip to his bedroom, the trip to the rug in front of the roaring fire, the seconds it would take to undress her and make love to her right there.

  And then he considered what any of that might do to her.

  For a moment he was unsure whether he had the fortitude to move his hands, to stop kissing her, to turn so that the length of her leg, the cradle of her hips, didn’t mold so perfectly to his. He had always done what he knew to be best, no matter how hard it had been. It was the one thing on which he could pride himself.

  For a moment he had no pride.

  Then, from somewhere, he found the strength. He did all those things. Slowly, gently, murmuring assurances as he did. “This is going too fast. I’m sorry. I have no right.”

  She didn’t argue. She moaned, as if mourning a loss. He felt the moan deep inside him.

  “I want you. Don’t think that I don’t.” He brushed kisses across her hair.

  “You don’t have to apologize.”

  He laughed. Even to his own ears he sounded like a man who was strangling. “Lord, Billie.” He took her hand and placed it where it was guaranteed to make him lose control immediately and entirely. “Do you have any doubts?”

  Something rumbled through her, and he realized it was a variation of his laugh. “Iain.” She laughed again, and it was a little less strangled. “Shall I explore, just to make sure I understand?”

  This time he pushed her hand away. And then they were both laughing, and watching each other warily as they did.

  “It’s growing late. I’d better take you home.” Iain disengaged himself from her entirely. In a moment he was on his feet, holding out his hand.

  “You’re sure that’s what you want to do?”

  “You know what I want to do. But you’re going home.”

  He almost expected her to argue, or at least to ask for an explanation. Instead, she took his hand and stood.

  She lifted her chin. There was still a spark of defiance in her eyes, something wonderfully feminine that had probably come straight down through her genes from another MacFarlane woman.

  “Tuck in your blouse,” he said.

  She made a swipe at it. Her southern drawl was more pronounced than
he had ever heard it. “I seem to be all thumbs.”

  “You seem to be asking for trouble.”

  Her eyes sparkled, and her dimples flashed. “You were the one who created the problem.”

  His eyes didn’t leave hers as he tucked in the blouse. “You realize you’re absolutely heartless.”

  “Absolutely not. I’m all heart. That’s exactly my trouble.”

  “You are exactly the kind of woman every man needs in his life.”

  Defiance disappeared. For a moment she was so vulnerable he saw straight to the core of her, to the center of a soul badly shaken by the man who had squandered the treasure she’d given him. He watched her recover slowly. “What a lovely thing to say.”

  He knew he had to warn her yet reassure her at the same time. He hoped that somehow she would understand his next words. “Billie, nothing that happens between us will be your fault.”

  She frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  He didn’t know how to tell her anything without telling her everything. He tried to smile. “It’s only that I think you are all heart, and you would blame yourself for every problem in the world if you thought it might help.”

  “Iain, what is it that frightens you?”

  “I’m not frightened.” He touched her hair, because he couldn’t help himself. “I haven’t been frightened of anything for a long, long time.”

  “Then what are you resigned to?”

  She was as astute as he had guessed. “A life alone. And there’s nothing either of us can do to change it. It can never be any different for me.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Mid-January was exactly as Billie had expected it to be. For a woman used to Florida’s nearly constant sunshine, the nearly constant gloom of the Highlands was worse than depressing. She was cold all the time, and long thermal underwear had become a second skin. Despite the picturesque setting of Flora’s cottage and its tiny, charming rooms, Billie would have abandoned it gladly for a plain cardboard box with central heating and storm windows.