Scottish Brides

by Christina Dodd

  She flashed a weak smile at both Jeremy and Duncan. “All this excitement! I fear I’ll need to rest once we get back to the house.”

  Duncan merely nodded, and they parted, Clarissa and Jeremy heading back through the trees. Duncan turned and studied Rose’s tiny figure; she was still staring at the shore. Lips twitching, he swung about and headed for the boathouse.

  And heard, from far across the water, an anguished wail.

  “Nooooo!”

  He looked at the punt, but Rose had slumped back on the cushions, out of sight. Duncan grinned, unrestrainedly triumphant, and lengthened his stride.

  * * *

  Sand crunched as he beached the rowboat on the island forty minutes later. Stepping out into the shallows, he hauled the boat up the narrow beach, a crescent of gravel edging a small cove, until the boat was safe from any shifting currents. The punt, empty, bobbed nearby. Duncan waded over, grabbed the prow and towed it to the rowboat. After lashing the punt to the rowboat’s stern, he turned and surveyed the trees.

  Which was all he could see. No Rose.

  Duncan considered, then climbed up the beach onto the path that led to his forefathers’ castle. He hadn’t been on the island for years—not, now he thought about it, since the days he and Rose had run wild over the Strathyre lands. The years hadn’t changed the basic geography, but trees he remembered as saplings were now full-grown; bushes of hazel had turned to thickets. The paths, however, although rock-strewn, remained easily navigable.

  Ten minutes later, he rounded a corner of the old keep and found Rose precisely where he’d expected her to be. She was seated on a huge slab of weathered gray rock, a long-ago part of the battlements. As children, that particular spot had been their especial place. In the past, she’d usually scrambled up, skirts hiked to her knees, and sat cross-legged—an engaging if irritating imp—to view their domain. That had been their customary game here—to start at the far right and name all the peaks, noting any changes the seasons had wrought, traveling the horizon, all the way to the far left.

  She looked liked she was doing that now, except that her legs were now so long she could sit properly on the stone. Her hands were clasped in her lap; although he made no sound, she sensed him as he neared, and looked around.

  “I’ve just reached Mackillanie.”

  Her voice, soft, lilting, with the endearing rounded roughness of the Highlands, was a memory he’d never forgotten. She smiled—softly, easily, without teasing or restraint—and time stood still. A willing captive to the web she’d so effortlessly thrown over him, Duncan returned the smile, then sat beside her on the stone. And squinted up at the distant mountains, all part of his lands. “Gilly Macall rebuilt his cottage. In a slightly different spot.”

  They both scanned the relevant slope. “There!” Rose pointed.

  Duncan squinted, then nodded. They started all over again, at the far right, matching what they could see with changes one or the other recalled.

  As they did, Duncan could almost sense a growing, building, strengthening of his connection with his lands; he should have done this before, more often. This particular view, from the old forecourt of his ancestors’ home, encompassed the very essence of his being, all that he was. He was Strathyre, head of one branch of the Macintyres, keeper of this place, defender, protector and owner of these lands.

  He felt the same compelling awe, the same mystique that used to grip him as a child. As an adult, he still couldn’t fully describe the emotion—a sense of belonging, of deep and abiding love for his lands. It was that that had sent him to London for ten years, to ensure that Ballynashiels was safe.

  Safe for the next generation.

  And beside him sat someone who understood all that, even though they’d never discussed it. Rose loved these peaks as he did; she understood the beauty, the awe, the belonging—the sheer magic of Ballynashiels.

  She leaned across him, pointing out a fallen boulder on a distant slope; Duncan looked, briefly at the boulder, rather longer at her. He waited until they reached the end of their catechism, until a gentle, peaceful silence held sway, before asking, his words soft, low, quiet, “Will you accept Penecuik?”

  Rose flicked him a glance, then, looking back at the soaring peaks, sighed. “No.”

  “Not even for a dukedom—a duchess’s tiara?”

  Rose grinned. “Not even for the tiara.” She stared at the mountains; her smile slowly faded. “He’s nice enough, I suppose, but Perth is hale and hearty, and Jeremy’s father more so. If I married Jeremy, we’d live in Edinburgh for most of our lives.”

  “And you wouldn’t like that?”

  “I couldn’t bear that.” Rose considered the statement and knew it was true. She glanced at Duncan. “What about you? Are you going to offer for Clarissa?”

  He grimaced exasperatedly. “When the mountains scare her and she can’t even look out over the loch without getting panicky? No, I thank you. I require rather more fortitude in a wife.”

  Rose choked, then chuckled; Duncan met her gaze and grinned. Their gazes held, locked; each studied the other, looking deep, seeing far beyond each other’s social mask. The moment stretched—Rose suddenly realized she couldn’t breathe. Breaking the contact, she smoothed her skirt. “We really should be getting back, or Jeremy will raise the alarm.”

  “When are you going to put the poor blighter out of his misery?”

  Rose cocked her head and studied Duncan as he stood, stretching mightily. “Strange to tell,” she answered, her usual haughty tones resurfacing, “I don’t believe there’ll be any misery involved; that’s not why he wants to marry me.”

  “Oh?” Brows rising, Duncan looked down at her.

  Rose spread her arms wide. “I’m suitable—wealthy, well-born and wise.” Duncan choked; Rose smiled wryly. “I agreed to make my announcement on Midsummer’s Day, which seems the best strategy. Otherwise, the rest of his stay might be a trifle awkward.”

  Duncan’s brows rose higher. “Indeed.” He cast a last glance at the towering peaks, then nodded, once, to himself. And turned back to Rose. “We’d better get going.”

  With that, he bent and hoisted her into his arms.

  “Duncan!” Rose immediately struggled—and rapidly came to the same conclusion she’d reached years ago: there was never any point fighting Duncan physically; he was far stronger than she. “Put me down.” She didn’t pause to see if he would comply—she knew he wouldn’t. He was striding along; held against his chest, she swayed against him. “What the devil are you about?”

  He glanced down at her, his expression one of utter reasonableness. “My duty as a host.”

  “What?”

  “I’m ensuring that you don’t get a chance to play ghost-in-the-ruins and make me chase you through them. They’re too dangerous; you might get hurt.”

  Rose snapped her mouth shut. “I haven’t done that for more than a decade.”

  Ducking a branch that guarded the path to the cove, he met her gaze. “You haven’t changed that much.”

  Rose drew in a deep breath—and struggled to ignore the increased pressure between her breast and his chest. “I am not about to play chase in the ruins.”

  “So you say now. But how do I know when you’ll change your mind?”

  Rose knew better than to swear an oath on it; he probably wouldn’t accept that, either. “Duncan—this has gone far enough.” She was starting to feel light-headed. “Put me down at once!”

  “Stop fashin’.” His voice took on the cadence of the local accent, sliding beneath her skin; his tone—one of endearment—made her inwardly quiver. Then he reverted to his normal voice. “Besides, you’ve only got slippers on, and the path’s rocky.”

  I got to the stone, didn’t I?” Rose grumbled, none too gratefully.

  “As your host, I should do all I can to ease your stay.”

  And drive her witless. Rose could feel the rumble of every word reverberating through his chest, could feel each and every one of h
is fingers as they gripped her—one set across her midriff, just beneath one breast, the other set wrapped around one thigh. Held firmly, effortlessly—far too easily—she felt increasingly helpless, increasingly vulnerable, in a distinctly unnerving way.

  Just thinking about it made her breath seize.

  She tried a last wriggle; he only tightened his hold. “Just hold still—we’re only a few minutes from the beach.”

  Would she reach it sane?

  When Duncan’s boots crunched on the gravelly shore and he lowered her into the rowboat, Rose wasn’t at all sure how competent her mind was. Her senses were rioting, in excellent health. Rational thought, however, when close to Duncan—especially when in contact with Duncan—seemed beyond her.

  Not a comforting prospect. Especially as, settled in the prow of the boat watching him bend to the oars, she had a strong suspicion he knew it. There was nothing to be read in his face, however, nor in his eyes. Affecting a calmness she was far from feeling, she lay back and enjoyed the scenery. Soaring peaks, rippling muscles and all.

  The peaks were impressive; the man who rowed her to shore, no less so. The boat glided powerfully across the water, impelled by steely muscles that flexed and relaxed, then flexed and relaxed again; the rhythm was both soothing and, at a different level, evocative.

  Evocative enough to remind her of the extent of Duncan’s physical prowess: he was an excellent rider, an expert marksman, a skillful climber, a noted whip. His need to excel had always found expression in physical pursuits; she’d bet her life he was also a superb lover.

  Feeling heat in her cheeks, Rose shifted her gaze to the craggy peaks. Despite Clarissa’s conviction, they were far less threatening.

  Duncan rowed directly to the boathouse, easing the row-boat into its berth, leaving the punt bobbing astern. The loch was at its summer level; he had to haul himself up to the wooden wharf. He accomplished the deed easily, then tied the rowboat up. And turned to Rose.

  In time to catch the distinctly nervous look in her eyes. The sight tempted him to smile in rakish anticipation; ruthlessly, he suppressed the impulse. Rose could read him too easily, and he had no intention of pushing her into doing something unpredictable, into attempting to escape just now, just when he almost had his hands on her.

  He’d spent the journey from the island carefully planning what came next. And ignoring the way she’d been watching him, the way she reacted to him. He was far too experienced to consider a rowboat in the middle of an open loch—over-looked by a house full of guests, no less—as an acceptable venue for what he had in mind.

  He was determined to take things slowly—to stretch the moments, to appreciate each and every encounter to the full. Rose had teased and taunted him for years. Now it was his turn.

  He waved her to her feet, then, with an impatience not entirely feigned, gestured her nearer. She edged to the center of the boat to stand before him, her expression an attempt at prosaic practicality. She lifted her arms and extended her hands to him.

  Duncan grinned, stooped and swooped; gripping her under her arms, he hoisted her.

  Rose gasped and clung wildly. Duncan lifted her out of the boat as if she were a child, then swung her to the wharf. But he didn’t put her down. The wharf was a narrow walk-way lining the wall of the boathouse; holding her before him, her toes clear of the planks, Duncan turned, took one step—and pinned her against the wall.

  Rose’s eyes flew wide. One look into his revealed the danger. “Dunc—!”

  That was all she got to say before his lips sealed hers.

  Seared hers.

  He proceeded to set her alight.

  Rose tried to hold aloof, tried to hold firm, tried to maintain some degree of control . . . and failed on all counts. His lips were commanding, demanding. Ruthlessly, he captured her awareness and held it—appalled, aghast, excruciatingly awakened—totally focused on their kiss. On the hot melding of their lips, the searing sweep of his tongue, the heavy weight of his chest, his hips, pressed against her much softer flesh. The artful, evocative temptation he pressed on her held her captive, unable to think, unable to act—able only to feel.

  The thought of physically struggling never entered Rose’s head; hands gripping his upper arms, she tried to mentally pull back from the engagement, to regain some degree of equilibrium, only to discover her wits scattered, her senses reeling.

  He immediately drew her back, into the maelstrom, with even more evocative kisses, with heat, and yet more heat, until she felt like she was fighting a losing battle against a wildfire out of control. Flames licked greedily, now here, now there—she doused one outbreak, only to see another flare.

  Then he caught her, and she burned, kissing him back with the same heat, the same passion, the same wild and reckless urgency. The pressure of their lips, the wild tangle of their tongues, only heightened the physical need.

  It was then that he finally set her down. Slid her down until her toes just touched the floor, his hard thigh parting, then wedging firmly between hers. She gasped; he drank the sound, then angled his head and deepened their kiss.

  And closed both hands over her breasts.

  She melted—there was no other way to describe the sensation, the pure wave of hot desire that flooded her, liquefied her bones, pounded through her veins and pooled deep within her. His fingers firmed, kneaded, caressed—all too knowingly. She arched and offered herself up to them, to him, beyond thought, beyond reason, totally engrossed in the passion that burned so hotly between them. Locking her fingers in his hair, she pressed herself against him and thought she heard him groan. Releasing her breasts, he swept his hands down her body, over her hips, then closed both hands about her bottom and lifted her to him.

  Rose couldn’t believe the compulsion that battered her, the sheer, driving need to lift her long legs and wrap them about him. Her skirts defeated it, saved her from that too-revealing act, but she knew it in her bones—and so did he.

  And it was that that saved her; as Duncan slowly eased back from their kiss, soothed and dampened the fires, doused their burning flames, she knew that as truth. And any doubts she might have been inclined to develop were laid to rest when she opened her eyes—and stared into his, darkened and burning. His lips, wicked things, kicked up at the ends; he bent his head and brushed them lightly across hers, swollen and aching, in a final caress, then drew back and trapped her gaze.

  One dark brow rose, teasingly, tauntingly. “Just so we know where we stand.”

  The words reverberated through her; Rose managed not to gape. She knew precisely where she was approaching at present. Across his thigh.

  With another wicked glance, he stepped back—he steadied her when her legs quaked. For one long instant, Rose could do nothing but stare at him, trying to take it all in, trying to reestablish reality when her world had turned upside down.

  He, of course, just watched her—like a very large jungle cat. Rose dragged in a deep breath. Her head still spun, but she didn’t dare take her eyes from his. She’d very nearly offered him an invitation she had never offered any man. She couldn’t take that in, could not believe it—could not understand the force that had warped her common sense and driven her to it. The man before her was Duncan—yet he wasn’t.

  This wasn’t the youth she’d grown up with—and the difference was significant.

  Before she could follow that thought to any logical conclusion, the gong for lunch boomed in the distance.

  Duncan grinned—the very essence of male wickedness—and held out his hand. “Much as I’d rather have you instead of a cold collation, I suspect we’d better go in.”

  Rose sucked in a breath and drew herself up, but didn’t take his hand. “Indeed.”

  She swung about and marched to the door. And continued to march up the slope to the house, all too aware of Duncan prowling easily beside her.

  He was dangerous. She felt it in the air, a premonition that set her nerves quivering. He was dangerous in the way men like him w
ere dangerous to ladies like her. She’d known it after he’d kissed her on the terrace; he’d now confirmed it beyond doubt.

  How he now viewed her, she couldn’t imagine—any more than she could guess what he might do next. Was he simply teasing her, now he’d discovered he could? Paying her back for all the years through which she’d had the upper hand and exercised it ruthlessly?

  He was as ruthless as she in that respect; the thought made her quiver even more.

  A wayward thought wafted through her distracted mind; she stifled a disgusted snort. She had to be still distracted or she’d never have thought of it. Duncan could not be interested in her as a wife; she was nowhere near perfect enough for him.

  She’d lived all her life knowing that; she’d never thought otherwise. Duncan would marry perfection. Not even Clarissa had lived up to his standards. But he would keep looking, and someday he would find her, the perfect wife for him. He was nothing if not persistent, dogged, incapable of accepting failure—just witness his efforts to save Ballynashiels.

  He’d find his perfect wife and marry her, which was all very well. That didn’t explain—give her any clue—as to what he thought he was about with her. And she could no longer handle him; she was no match for him, had no counter to his experience in this particular sphere.

  She didn’t have a clue what he thought, what he wanted, what he might do—to her, with her—next.

  The house loomed before them. Rose lifted her head, squared her shoulders and refused to even glance at Duncan. Sliding back into their old ways, their old relationship, was no longer a viable option. She would have to act in the only way she could.

  Avoid him—possibly forever.

  Four

  Clarissa retired immediately after luncheon, apparently still fragile after the events of the morning. From the other end of the room, Rose watched her go, and started thinking—fast.

  “I really need to write some letters,” Jeremy confessed—just as Duncan strolled up.