by Virna DePaul
“I thought you wanted to get to the village?” he asked, grumpily watching her swallow a spoonful of soup.
“I can't turn down food,” she answered. “That's rude.”
“You trespassed in my home, pretended to be someone you are not, and bolted before being questioned,” he accused as she hurried to match his pace. “But turning down a bowl of soup— that’s rude?”
Molly grinned. “I’m glad you understand.”
Callum shook his head. “No, Miss Lane, I'm quite sure I understand nothing.”
He led them up a stone staircase that brought them to the castle’s large open foyer. Mack stood by the doorway, peering at the rain through the window and nodding, a phone tucked between his cheek and shoulder.
“Right. Right then. All right Tommy Boy, stay dry. Yep, yep, all right.” Mack hung up and turned around. “Your Grace.” He looked Callum up and down with thinly veiled amusement before turning to Molly. “Miss Rose.”
“Mack, I'll be needing you to drive Miss Rose into town.” Callum turned on his heel to leave without another word, but Mack quickly said, “Can't, Your Grace.”
“What's that?”
“Can't is all,” Mack said. “That was Tommy Hillshire. Says the brook is flooded. Can't get to town if we can't get over the bridge, I'm afraid.”
Molly spooned in another mouthful of split pea soup. “No other roads in?”
Mack laughed. “Just the one, love. What exactly do you need in town, though?”
Callum glanced over at Molly, who shifted nervously from foot to foot.
“Oh, um, well,” she stammered, “I just wanted to, um, see the sights.”
“The sights of Kelso?”
“Yeah.”
“In the pouring rain?”
“Yep.”
Mack crossed his arms and chuckled. “The only sight worth seeing in Kelso, love, is the pub, and we've got plenty of beer here. I've set up your room as you asked in your email.”
Callum watched Mack glance from him to Molly. A sly smile crossed his friend’s face.
“His Grace can show you where it is, Miss Rose.”
Callum shook his head at the same time Mack was starting to walk past them, presumably to leave them alone. “Oh no, Mack. I have the meeting with the town council—”
“Canceled, Your Grace. Can't get to the castle because of the bridge.”
Callum then blocked his butler’s path, noticing that Molly was watching in silent amusement. “Can't you show her?” he whispered.
He didn’t trust himself to be around her a moment longer. Within the span of a few hours, he’d come dangerously close to losing his control. She brought roaring back inside of him every natural inclination he had resolved to smother within himself in order to be the kind of duke his father would be proud of.
Callum wanted to drink with her, smoke with her, fuck and fuck and fuck with her. She was everything he shouldn’t want. And he feared he didn’t have the strength to resist.
Just like he threw out all his whiskey, he’d keep himself from Molly by keeping Molly away from him. The rain would let up in the morning. She would be gone. Temptation would be gone.
But he had to survive until the morning.
“Sorry, Your Grace,” Mack said. “I have things to attend to.”
“Things?” Callum challenged.
Mack smiled and patted his arm. “Things, Your Grace.”
He pushed Callum aside and strode from the foyer.
“Seems I can't get rid of you and you can't get rid of me,” she said.
“Indeed.” He sighed. “Follow me.”
He kept his gaze straight ahead as they climbed the grand staircase, even though her hair, bright and golden, beckoned him like a flame. Finally, outside the guest chamber Mack had prepared for Priscilla Rose, Callum stopped.
“Here you are,” he said.
“Thanks.”
She handed over the empty soup bowl, and he automatically took it. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had handed him a dirty dish.
She pushed open the door and dropped her soggy bag on the floor. “Do you know how to start the fire?”
He’d already turned to walk away when she asked the question. He turned back to see her standing next to the large stone fireplace across from the canopy bed.
He looked back at the hallway, where he was supposed to be. Not in here, so close to her, so close to the temptation her every move presented. He was about to say he would fetch Mack to light the fire for her when he noticed she was holding her arms around her chest and a small quiver shook her petite frame.
“Every Scottish boy comes out of the womb knowing how to start a fire,” he said, closing the door behind him, hoping he wasn’t making a mistake.
Molly laughed. “Is that so?” She dumped the contents of her bag onto the bed. “What else do they know?”
Callum liked the sound of her laugh. “Well, there’s hunting bears, of course.”
She giggled. “Of course.”
“And playing the bagpipe, as you mentioned earlier, and singing sad songs and, the greatest power of all, pleasing a woman.” Now why the hell had he gone and said that?
Molly looked at him from across the room and said quite seriously, “I don’t doubt that.”
A silence fell between them until each of them eventually averted their gaze.
Callum awkwardly looked around for someplace to set the soup bowl. As he set it on the mantel, it occurred to him that he hadn’t lit a fire since he was a child camping with his father in the deep, dense forests of their land. Those had been rare occasions, when it was just the two of them. No aides. No dignitaries of state. No staff or cooks or drivers. Not even his brother or mother. Just Callum and the Duke, his father.
He’d cherished those quiet moments. Wind blew through the damp needles of the pines, their peaks swaying in the dark above. Their boots crunched on the ground as they prepared their fire, and then there were only flames crackling as they each held their can of beans out over the heat. Not much was ever said, but nothing ever needed to be said. Callum remembered looking over at his father seated on a fallen log and thinking he was a giant among men.
Now that felt true. His footsteps were too big to fill.
Callum grabbed the matches. After rearranging the firewood as best he could, he cupped his hand over the kindling and coaxed the tiny flames up. He couldn't stop his victorious smile when the logs caught from the kindling. Soon, a fine blaze glowed in the stone fireplace.
He rotated on his heel as he turned around to show Molly.
She was faced away from him, tugging her wet shirt up over her head. Her pants were pooled on the floor and she wore only a pair of blue underwear. The warm light from the fire danced across her naked back and highlighted the curve of her hips, the dimples just above the swell of her ass, the slender frame of her shoulders.
She turned, reaching for some fabric on the bed, and Callum saw just the silhouette of her naked chest, womanly and soft and curvy.
He grew hard as an iron spike, and he willed his racing heart to slow. He told himself to be a gentleman. To look away.
No chance of that.
He played with his tie, thinking he could pull it off and wrap it around her wrists. Bury his face between her thighs and make her come. Then see her on her knees before the fireplace, hands bound behind her back, hair stuck to the sweat against her forehead as she sucked his throbbing cock.
He was lost in that heady fantasy when she obviously caught him looking at her and squealed. “Shit, I’m sorry. I thought it’d take you longer.”
“I’m rather glad it didn’t,” he said, the huskiness of his voice catching him by surprise.
Molly grappled with what turned out to be a sweater, cheeks reddening as she dragged it over her head. Callum turned away, finally giving her the privacy she needed, until he heard a muffled, “Fuck.”
Looking back, he saw Molly’s ass bouncing as she shimmied about with
her head trapped in one of the sleeves of her sweater. Her fingers clawed at the thick weave as she searched for the opening, but she didn’t seem to realize the problem.
“May I help?” he asked.
His question stilled her frantic movements. She was still facing away from him, but he saw her nod. He approached her slowly, cautiously, every warning bell in his mind blaring to turn around. He laid a gentle hand on her shoulder to let her know he was behind her. She stayed perfectly still, like a frightened fox caught in a snare, as he guided the sweater sleeve off her head. It left her hair a tousled mess.
He imagined that’s how it would look if they had sex, if he laid her on her back, if he made the bed frame wear a hole in the wall. Standing behind her exposed back, Callum felt his cock press vigorously against his slacks and he could sense her stiffen, wondering what he was going to do next.
“Turn around.”
Her breath caught in her throat. Her head twisted just enough that he could see her eyelashes against her cheek, her eyes closed. But then her feet shifted on the rug and she turned to face him. She held her arms crossed over her chest, covering her nipples from his hungry view. He licked his lips at the way her hair curtained her face, swept down along her cheek, and half covered one dark blue eye. If she ever sucked his dick, he wanted her hair down, just like it was then.
“Put your hands up,” he commanded next.
Her eyes flickered up to his. Behind them, the fire cast each of their shadows onto the wall. Callum’s was double the size of hers. She was so small, so delicate, but it was her shadow that moved closer to his. With challenge in her eyes, Molly slowly raised her hands over her head.
Callum couldn’t help the shaky groan that escaped his mouth at the sight of her naked tits. Round globes of soft skin glowed in the firelight and his mouth watered for just a taste. He barely resisted the urge to palm at his groin and relieve the growing pressure there.
Molly shifted her weight, almost as if pleading with him to take her, to lose himself in the exquisite flesh of her hips, her breasts, her neck, her thighs. Arms held obediently over her head, she dared him to bind her wrists and have his way with her.
Clenching his teeth hard, Callum gathered up the sweater and carefully slipped it over Molly’s arms and head. What the fuck was wrong with him? This was exactly the type of situation he needed to avoid. And there he had gone, commanding her to strip down naked for him.
She had listened. What else would she have done at his bidding?
Callum tried to shake the image from his mind. He was The Duke now and his responsibilities came first. He couldn’t be the bachelor playboy he’d been when he was young and reckless. He couldn’t let himself lose control.
“I’m sorry,” he said as Molly’s head emerged, hair stuck inside the neck of the sweater.
She pulled it loose and he had to turn away before he reached out for just the briefest touch. All it would take was the briefest touch and he’d never find his way out again.
“You’re a guest in my house,” he continued. “And I shouldn’t have done that.”
Molly’s voice surprised him. “No,” she said, “you shouldn’t have stopped.”
He hesitated by the door, his hand resting on the handle.
“Why did you stop, Your Grace?”
Callum tapped his finger along the door handle. Everything about this woman who had abruptly entered his life made him want to open up, to share. He could tell her about his brother. He could tell her about his father. He could tell her why he could never again let his control slip. He could, but he wouldn’t.
“It just isn’t proper,” he said.
She nodded politely. But it was clear she knew there was more. She knew there was a secret he was hiding, a reason he was always holding back.
“Thanks for the fire," she said, thankfully changing the subject. Wearing nothing but the sweater, her legs still bare, she leaned against the post of the canopy bed. Her freckles stood out in the firelight and he noticed her nose crinkled slightly when she smiled. “Also, thanks for not throwing me into the dungeons."
He cleared his throat. “I assure you Floors Castle has no dungeons, Miss Lane.”
“Well then where do you keep all your torture devices?” She grinned, and he watched her nose crinkle again.
He couldn’t resist replying. “Those would be in my bed chamber, Miss Lane.”
Her mouth fell open and she crossed her arms. “My, oh my, Your Grace, was that a joke I just heard?”
“A rather lame one, I suppose.”
“It was funny.”
He put his hands behind his back to keep himself from reaching out for her. “Um, well, the road should be clear in the morning so you can leave,” he finally said.
Her smile quickly faded and her nose unwrinkled and he immediately wanted to kick himself in the shin. “Right.” Her voice was tight and formal–just like his. “Right, I'll be gone first thing. Don't worry.”
She reached for her wet clothes and began laying them out before the fire. He fought the urge to apologize. To tell her the last thing he wanted was for her to go. He wanted to say she intrigued him and made him smile when he knew she wasn't looking. He wanted to say that he could count each of her freckles in the firelight. Then recount them and recount them and never tire of it. He wanted to say that his fingers yearned to touch the smooth plane of her back, to trace the lines of her neck, her waist, her hips and thighs and calves.
Above all, he wanted to say he liked the eyes she’d painted—had it only been hours ago since she’d started painting his portrait?—because she’d seen something in him that no one else seemed to see anymore, sometimes not even himself.
Instead, Callum walked quietly to the door and slipped out without another word.
The hallway was dark and cold compared to the cozy room’s warmth from the fire, Molly’s smile, the wiggle of her toes against the rug, the sound of her name in his mind.
Molly Lane, Molly Lane, Molly Lane.
And even as he walked away, he knew he was walking away from something precious.
Something more precious than an entire kingdom.
Chapter Five
Molly
With her backpack strapped on tight and her bootlaces double-knotted, Molly cracked open the door to her room and checked the long hallway for any movement or sound.
Early dawn rays filtered through the tall windows at the end of the hall and lit up the burgundy runner covering the stone floor. Silence. Wincing at the door’s groan as she eased it open further, she slipped outside and tiptoed along the rug. She kept reminding herself that she wasn't a prisoner, but she still preferred to escape the castle without being spotted. As she’d learned the day before, her lying capabilities ranked right up there with her algebra grade (D+, thank you very much, Mr. Lapson) and cooking skills (thanks for the bill from the fire department after her burnt lasagna set off the alarm).
At the corner before the stone staircase, she pressed herself against the portrait of the sixth Duke of Roxburghe and slowly peeked down. A maid crossed the hallway below, and then it was quiet and empty. A sticker was peeling off her left shoe, because as she descended, each step made an echoing smack, smack, smack. One quick look both ways on the next level and then she jogged to the grand staircase leading to the castle’s main foyer.
She couldn't believe that for a miniscule moment the night before, she’d contemplated actually staying to paint the Duke’s portrait, assuming he’d let her. It had been right after she’d wrestled her soaking T-shirt from her freezing chest, tossed it to the floor, and reached for her change of clothes. Right after she’d reached for her sweater and found his eyes locked on her. In the millisecond it took flint to create a spark, she’d felt on fire, and she’d wanted nothing more than to bask in the feeling of his heat. As she’d tugged on the sweater, and he’d commanded her to turn and put her arms up, as he’d admired her naked breasts, she’d wondered if the urge to climb over that rope and
see William McTaggart’s painting up close had been the work of fate, designed to bring them together.
But in the end, reality came crashing down when he made it clear that all he was really concerned with was when the weather would clear and she could leave.
It was for the best, she reassured herself as she hopped down the grand staircase’s last two steps and ran right to the large front doors. She had her father and her new job waiting for her, real adulting to do. Playing around with a handsome duke in Make-believe Land would’ve been fun a few years ago, but not anymore. She had to be responsible and realistic.
She flung the front doors open and immediately yelped as she came face-to-face with the barrel of a shotgun and the glazed-over eyes of several pheasants.
“What the fuck—”
“Oh, you must be the American then.” An older woman in a tweed blazer and tall leather riding boots pushed past Molly. “Such ugly language from a pretty girl.”
She handed her gun and the dead fowl to a man in a dirty apron who’d suddenly appeared behind Molly and made her jump a second time. The woman pulled her working gloves off before extending her hand, palm down, toward Molly.
Unsure if she was supposed to kneel or bow or kiss her hand, Molly awkwardly took hold of the woman’s fingers and shook.
The woman raised a severe eyebrow at her. “I am Isla Harding, the Duke's mother,” she said. “And you are Priscilla Rose from the States?”
“Um, yep.” Molly glanced around the woman at the now closed front doors of the castle before forcing a smile for Isla. “I guess that would be me.”
Isla studied her for a tense moment. “You look... different than your professional picture. Less…”
Molly smiled weakly. “Less professional. Yes, I guess… I don’t travel well.”
“Hmm, well, we can walk together to the ballroom.” She took Molly's arm in hers. “Callum should be waiting.”
Once again, Molly looked over her shoulder at the doors, thinking of the path to freedom that lay just beyond them. Then they turned a corner and the doors disappeared. Her escape route vanished just like that.
