Scottish Brides

by Christina Dodd

  Rose favored him with a sultry glance. “You do have some idea—you said so.” She leaned closer; her fragrance wreathed his senses, her warm curves a handsbreadth away. She tipped her face up and met his eyes. “So what is it—my eyes? My lips? My body?”

  All that, and a great deal more. Duncan stiffened, and refused to let his demons loose. He remembered, vividly, the one and only time he’d touched Rose with any physical in-tent, when, an adolescent fourteen, he’d reacted to one of her barbs. Together with two friends from Eton, he’d gone hiking in the woods, with Rose at his heels, unmercifully cheeky as usual. One of her comments had struck too close to a bone; he’d swung about and clipped her over the ear. He hadn’t struck her hard, but she’d fallen to the ground, more from shock than the blow. That had been when, to his horror, he’d discovered that Rose didn’t cry like other girls. She didn’t screw up her face and bawl; instead, her huge eyes had silently filled with tears, then overflowed. She’d lain there, one palm to her ear, tears rolling down her cheeks—with a look in her eyes, in her face, that had slain him.

  He’d been on his knees beside her, stammering an incoherent apology, trying awkwardly to comfort her—all in front of his utterly bemused friends.

  Afterward, he’d vowed he’d never again put himself at her mercy; he’d never physically responded to her taunts again.

  He looked into her eyes, warm golden brown, enticing and inciting, and steadfastly reminded himself that he was strong enough to withstand anything she threw at him.

  She moved closer, bridging the last inches between them; her breasts brushed his coat, pressed lightly against his chest; her hip settled, a warm weight, against his thigh. The light in her eyes as she lifted them to his, and lifted a hand to lay it, palm flat, slim fingers extended, on his chest, was beyond teasing—pure, unadulterated temptation glowed in the soft brown.

  The heat of her hand sank through his fine shirt; inwardly, Duncan quaked.

  “You do know,” she whispered, her brogue a soft caress. “So…tell me.”

  He looked into her eyes, drew in a less-than-steady breath—and dispensed with all caution. He had to put an end to her game; she was driving him demented. Again. Dropping his impassive mask, he fixed her with a narrow-eyed glare. “What is it you’re really after?”

  His clipped accents had the desired effect; she blinked, and straightened away from him—Duncan fought down the urge to pull her back, to draw her soft warmth back against him.

  Rose read his eyes, read his face—and frowned. Her attack wasn’t working; he appeared impervious to her teasing, her taunts—to every move she made. Not that she had any experience inciting gentlemen, but her failure, nevertheless, irked mightily. Disgruntled, she scanned his long frame, down all the way to his shoes, then up, slowly. When she reached his face, she shook her head.

  Not a single hint of the tension she wanted to provoke showed. It was that she wanted to learn about—that odd tension of his that transferred itself to her, tightening her nerves, leaving her tingling with a sensation she could only call excitement.

  She met his eyes—crystal hard in the moonlight—and sighed in disgust. “If you must know, I wanted to know what it was that . . . that came over you in the library.” When he didn’t immediately react, she prodded a finger into his chest. “What made you so tense.” She wrapped her fingers about the steely muscles of his upper arm and tried to squeeze. “What that something was that . . . that made me feel like you were going to eat me!”

  Duncan managed not to groan, only because his teeth had set. “That particular response,” he informed her through them, “is fully described by a single four-letter word starting with L.” He heard his words, and quickly added, “L-U-S-T.”

  Rose stared at him. “Lust?” she eventually got out. “That’s lust?”

  “Precisely—the overwhelming urge to have you, preferably naked in my bed.” He was losing the fight; the reins were slipping from his grasp. Duncan could feel his body tensing, feel it heating. Rose’s widening eyes didn’t help. He pointed a finger at her nose. “And you needn’t look so shocked—you feel it, too.”

  She stiffened. “Nonsense!” She shifted her gaze from his face; looking past his shoulder, she gestured skittishly. “I was merely curious—”

  “That I believe.”

  “It was no more than that.”

  “Liar.”

  At the soft, purring taunt, she snapped her gaze back to his. “I do not want . . .”—dragging in a breath, she lifted her head—“to be in lust with you.”

  With that, she went to step around him; Duncan put out a hand to stop her. Rose didn’t see it in time. She walked into it—pressed her left breast firmly into his right palm.

  Reflexively, Duncan’s fingers cupped the soft weight.

  Rose’s knees buckled.

  Instinctively, he caught her, supporting her against him. And felt the deep shudder—of surrender, of pure need—that slid through her. He did not withdraw his hand; instead, his thumb brushed the warm flesh, found and circled her pebbled nipple.

  He heard her breath shiver, felt shimmering desire rise within her; she held herself stiffly for one moment longer, then sank against him, leaning her forehead against his collarbone.

  “Don’t.”

  She whispered the word without any conviction.

  “Why?” He kneaded her breast, and felt the flesh firm. “You like it.”

  She shivered and pressed closer, her body saying what she would not. Bending his head, Duncan pressed a kiss to the top of her forehead. Instinctively, she turned her face up. And he covered her lips with his.

  He gave her no choice, no chance to think—no chance to tease him and drive him insane. Her lips were as luscious as he’d imagined, soft, hauntingly sweet, breathtakingly generous. He sampled them thoroughly, then wanted more. Shifting slightly, he slid the hand at her back down, over her hips, over her gorgeously ripe bottom, then filled his palm with her heated flesh and drew her fully against him.

  She gasped—her lips parted. He slid his tongue between and tasted her, and felt his heart skip a beat, felt desire soar, felt a ravenous hunger grip him. He angled his head, deepened the kiss—and ravished her. Voraciously.

  And she responded. Tentatively at first, then with greater urgency, pressing her own demands. Hot, wild, untempered, abandoned, her passion poured through them; he felt her hands steal up his chest, over his shoulders, until her fingers locked in his hair. And as she’d always done, she taunted and teased; even though he knew she had no idea what she was doing—or perhaps because of that—he was powerless to tame his own response, an urgent, ruthless, primitive need to take her, claim her. Make her his.

  Rose sensed it, knew it, and reveled in the knowledge. Beyond thought, beyond sense, with only sensation and emotion to guide her, she sank into the kiss, seized the moment and him, and gave herself up to the delight, the challenge, the insatiable need to appease him, ease his hunger, satisfy and soothe the raging tempest that had somehow sprung up between them.

  It was a whirlwind of legendary proportions, a cataclysmic force that tensed his every muscle, and left her melting against him. Heat rose between them—she gasped as it flared. Duncan drank the sound, taking it from her along with her breath. She drew him deep and returned the pleasure, stirred to her toes when she felt his breath hitch.

  She was deep in the kiss, sunk in delight, hostage to spiraling sensation, when a feminine gasp not her own fell on her ears.

  “Oh! I say!”

  It was Jeremy’s voice.

  Reeling, Rose pulled back; Duncan released her lips, but slowly. Even more slowly, he drew his hands from her, closing them about her waist in a warning squeeze before he released her. Straightening, he turned; her hands falling from him, dazed and close to stupefied, Rose blinked at Jeremy and Clarissa.

  Round-eyed, slack-jawed, they stared back.

  “Ah . . .” Rose cleared her throat and rushed into speech. “Duncan and I are cousins,
you know—it was just a cousinly kiss. As a . . . a thank-you.” She shot a glance at Duncan; he was watching her, his expression inscrutable. Rose resisted the urge to wring her hands—or his neck. Dragging in a breath, she drew herself up and looked directly at Jeremy and Clarissa. “I was just thanking Duncan for finding a book for me to read. I like to read before I fall asleep.”

  “Oh.” Jeremy’s expression cleared; he smiled ingenuously. Then he held out her shawl. “I had to get your maid to fetch it from your room—you must have forgotten to bring it down.”

  Rose gave thanks for the faint light, too weak to show her blush. Ignoring the cynical quirk of Duncan’s brow, she smiled graciously and stepped forward and turned; Jeremy draped the shawl over her shoulders. It was clear he’d accepted her excuse; equally clearly, Clarissa, still shooting sharp glances from Duncan to her and back again, had not.

  Avoiding Duncan’s eye, still light-headed and fervently praying she wouldn’t faint, Rose smiled at Jeremy. “I think we should go inside.”

  They did; Duncan and Clarissa trailed in behind them. Only a few members of the party were still in the drawing room; they looked up and smiled and nodded their good nights.

  As a group, the four of them climbed the stairs; Rose could feel Clarissa’s gimlet gaze on her back. From the gallery, they would go their separate ways; Rose calmly bade both Jeremy and Clarissa good night, then turned to Duncan.

  He turned from Clarissa and inclined his head. “Don’t forget my present.” His eyes met hers, his gaze limpid, un-threatening—totally untrustworthy. “By all means dwell on it once you’ve slipped between the sheets, but don’t be surprised if it keeps you awake.”

  She had to smile serenely, had to incline her head graciously. From the corner of her eye, she saw Clarissa blink, saw her glance quickly at Duncan, saw her suspicions fade. Exercising the wisdom of Solomon, Rose declined to tempt fate—or Duncan—further. “Good night, my lord.” She let her gaze slide from his as she turned. “Sleep well.”

  Duncan watched her glide away, her hips gently swaying. Only the presence of Jeremy Penecuik, and thirty-odd others he mentally wished at the Devil, prevented him from following—and ensuring he did.

  Three

  Rose began the next day determined to keep her distance from Duncan, at least until she could understand just what was going on. Lust—particularly with him—was not something she’d come prepared for. She’d spent most of the night in a mental tizz, a state that had never afflicted her before.

  Then again, no man had kissed her like that before.

  She entered the breakfast parlor more wary, more uncertain, than ever before in her life. She took her place beside Jeremy, close to the foot of the table, not far from the comforting presence of Lady Hermione—and a long way from Duncan.

  Only to have Duncan prowl up, with Clarissa, once more sweetly smiling, on his arm. Duncan just looked, a distinctly feral glint in his eyes; it was Clarissa who spoke.

  “We thought, seeing the weather’s amenable, to take a punt out on the lake.” Both coy and clinging, Clarissa smiled up at Duncan. “I’m quite partial to the activity”—she turned her ingenuous gaze back to Jeremy and Rose—“but we really need a party or it wouldn’t be at all the thing.”

  Her naivete robbed her speech of any insult. Jeremy smiled brightly. “That sounds an excellent idea.” He looked at Rose.

  Who reached for her teacup and took a long sip. She could feel their gazes on her, but she could feel Duncan’s the most. Only a small part of the loch was suitable for punting; the rest was too deep. Punting meant hugging the banks, with the shrubs and trees and the flat loch for views, not the soaring mountains, the wild peaks. To appreciate those, you needed a rowboat, needed to go farther out on the loch or, better yet, to the island.

  Punting was boring. And possibly dangerous, although she couldn’t imagine how. But Jeremy wouldn’t go without her, and Clarissa couldn’t go with Duncan alone.

  “The new punt will hold four easily.”

  Lady Hermione’s matronly comment sent a clear message; Rose couldn’t ignore it. Stifling a sigh, she looked up and smiled. “Yes, of course. Let’s go punting.”

  Her gaze met Duncan’s; she could read nothing in his eyes, his expression, other than a certain smugness which made her itch to . . .

  Determinedly, she stood and gestured to the window, to the loch, smooth and glassy under a pale gray sky. “Shall we?”

  They quit the house and strolled down the lawn, then through the extensive pinetum. The punt was waiting at the small jetty directly below the house; Duncan must have given orders for it to be brought around from the boathouse.

  That was when they discovered that Clarissa, partial to the activity or not, was frightened of stepping down into the gently bobbing punt. Duncan tried to hand her in—she shied and skittishly backed, for all the world like a horse facing a float for the first time. Rose squelched the unflattering comparison and tried to encourage her. Wild eyes fixed not on the punt, but on the wide waters of the loch, Clarissa shook her head. “It’s so big!” she gasped.

  Jeremy went down the jetty; unlooping the rope that secured the punt, he shortened it, holding the narrow boat steady. “Try now.”

  Duncan gently urged Clarissa forward; she smiled tightly. Shuffling forward, she paused, poised on the edge of the jetty, drew a deep breath, then another—and turned to Rose. “Perhaps . . . if you could go first?”

  Rose smiled reassuringly and held out her hand. Duncan took it and handed her in; she stepped down into the punt without the slightest mishap. She smiled up at Clarissa. “See? It’s no different than on a river.” So saying, she carefully stepped over the benches to the seat in the punt’s prow; sub-siding, she settled her skirts, gracefully reclined against the cushions and, still smiling serenely, waved Clarissa down.

  Duncan tried to hand Clarissa in; again, she balked.

  “Just a minute,” she said breathlessly. “I’ll take off my hat.” Reaching up, she pulled her hat pin free and removed her stylish villager bonnet—and promptly dropped it.

  “Oh!” She turned to grab it, only to kick it farther. On her other side, Duncan couldn’t help. The hat skated down the jetty, heading for the water. Dropping the punt’s rope, Jeremy dove to his right and snagged it.

  “No!”

  The admonition burst from Duncan and Rose simultaneously. Stunned, both Jeremy and Clarissa turned uncomprehendingly to Duncan. Then they followed his fixed gaze to where the punt was swinging wide, gripped by some powerful current. As they watched, it revolved once, then headed smoothly out over the loch.

  Carrying Rose away. Her face, unshaded by any hat, wore an expression of aghast incredulity Duncan suspected he would treasure all his life.

  “Oh, dear!” Beside him, Clarissa stifled a nervous titter. “How dreadful.” She did not sound overly concerned.

  Not so Jeremy, rising from the planks of the jetty, Clarissa’s bonnet dangling from one hand. “I say.” The knowledge that he had been the one who dropped the rope—to rescue Clarissa’s hat—showed in his expression. He turned to Duncan. “Is she in any danger?”

  His narrowed gaze fixed consideringly on the punt, on Rose’s rapidly dwindling figure, Duncan didn’t answer.

  ”Don’t be silly.” Clarissa laid a hand on Jeremy’s sleeve and squeezed reassuringly. “The punt will just go out, then come in to shore again, somewhere farther along.” She glanced at Duncan. ”Won’t it?”

  “Actually, no.” Duncan turned to face them. “But Rose knows where the punt will fetch up—she won’t be worried on that score.”

  Jeremy frowned. “Where will it fetch up?”

  Duncan looked out, over the loch. “On the island.”

  “Ah.” Jeremy studied the small island, covered with trees, situated in the center of the widest part of the loch. “We’ll have to go and rescue her, then.”

  “Why? The pole’s in the boat.” Clarissa sounded close to pouting. “All she need do is exe
rt herself a little, and she’ll get herself back to shore.”

  “No.” His gaze still on Rose, sitting upright, staring back at the shore, Duncan wondered how long it would take her to work it out, to see what was bound to happen next. “The main part of the loch is too deep for punting, and there are no oars in the punt. We’ll need to get the rowboat and go after her.”

  “Right, then.” Manfully squaring his shoulders, Jeremy looked along the shoreline. “Where’s the boathouse?”

  “I can’t go in any rowboat—not across all that!” The panic in Clarissa’s voice rang clearly. Duncan and Jeremy both looked at her; wild-eyed, she stared back. “It’s too wide. Too big.” She glanced at the loch and shuddered. “I couldn’t possibly.”

  “Well, that’s all right.” Jeremy spoke calmingly. “Strathyre and I will go after her. You can go back to the house.”

  Clarissa cast a horrified glance back up the slope. “Through the trees?” She shivered. “I couldn’t—there might be someone in the shadows. And anyway”—her chin trembled—“Mama wouldn’t like me walking about alone.”

  Jeremy frowned at her.

  Duncan spoke decisively. “Penecuik, if you would escort Miss Edmonton back to the house, I’ll get the rowboat and fetch Rose.”

  Jeremy looked up. “If you can show me the boathouse, I’ll go and get her; after all, it was I who dropped the rope.”

  Duncan shook his head. “No—the loch isn’t a river. The currents are complex.” He looked out at the punt, shrinking in the distance. “I’ll go after Rose.”

  “Oh.” Jeremy half grimaced but accepted his fate. He offered an arm to Clarissa; she leaned on it as if she were in imminent danger of collapse.