Highlander in Disguise

by Julia London

  Anna looked at him, her eyes large and luminous, flecked with gold that reminded him of the moonlight reflected off the top of the Highlands. He moved his hand to either side of her neck, held her there, gazing into her face. How had he missed the beauty of this face for so long? How had he missed her luster?

  “Do ye see, then, how easily I might kiss ye if I were of a mind?”

  She nodded.

  “And ye know that if I were to kiss ye, it wouldna end there, aye?”

  She smiled, a little lopsidedly, her gaze dropping from his eyes to his lips. “You make it seem as if I’d have no say in the matter.”

  “I wouldna take advantage of ye, of course no’. But I’d have ye begging me to go on, lass. Ye’d beg me to give ye all I have.”

  Anna laughed, wrapped her hand around his arm. “I don’t think I’d beg you for anything.”

  He grinned confidently. “Oh, aye, lass. Ye’d beg me.”

  “Shall we place a small wager on it?” she asked, and lifted her face. “Kiss me.”

  As aroused as he was at the moment, Grif chuckled and shook his head. “I’ll no’ be commanded. Ask me nicely to kiss ye, and I may.”

  With a throaty little laugh, Anna smiled seductively. “Kiss me?” she whispered, and lifted her face a fraction more, so that her lips skimmed his like a breath of air.

  Grif’s good sense told him it was a mistake, but the rest of him reacted to the carnal enticement, and his hand was moving around the nape of her neck, pulling her closer.

  She opened her mouth beneath him and he delved deeply into the sweetness of her mouth, his hands caressing her shoulders, her hair.

  Anna kissed him just as hard, dropping her hands to his thigh, then feeling his chest, slipping her hands into the open collar of his shirt to feel his neck. And then, just as suddenly, she pushed him away. Her eyes were glittering and her chest heaving. “There, you see? I have the power to stop you,” she said in a husky voice.

  Grif laughed low—he adored her curiosity and the many ways he could teach her the lesson she was begging to be taught. “There, ye see, then, do ye, that ye have a wee bit of the diabhal in ye,” he said, and reached down, caught her foot. Anna leaned forward, balancing herself on the arms of the chair, her face only inches from Grif’s.

  “Is that your response? To hold my foot?”

  “Ach, now ye’re being impudent. When ye beg for mercy, I willna be of a mind to give it,” he said, shifting forward so that they were, literally, nose to nose. “Now that I have followed yer blessed scent to the gates of heaven, ye think I canna go farther. But I am made delirious by yer scent, and the purity of yer skin, and the silkiness of yer hair, and now, lass, now that ye have so boldly challenged me, I think that I might have a wee taste of ye…”

  Anna laughed wickedly. “Do you intend to gnaw on my ankle?”

  “The ankle is merely the door,” he said, encircling her ankle with his fingers as she sucked in a breath. “A door to yer leg,” he added, his hand riding up her calf, slipping beneath her drawers.

  She sucked in another breath, but kept her gaze steady on his face, the glimmer of amusement shining deep.

  “And yer knee,” he added, pausing there to push up her drawers so that he might slip his hand beneath them and caress her knee.

  A sound of unmistakable delight escaped her. “Is that all, sir? Master Stephen Throckmorton performed a similar maneuver on my knee when we were both twelve and hiding behind the dog kennels.”

  “Did he?” Grif asked pleasantly. “And did he remark that yer thigh was as soft as a goose-down pillow?” he asked, his hand moving upward, to the fleshy part of her thigh.

  Her breathing, he noticed, was coming faster. “Actually, no,” she murmured.

  “And I suppose he was much too shy,” Grif said, withdrawing his hand from her drawers, “to have dared to touch ye here, eh?” he said in a low voice, as he slipped his hand between the slit of her drawers to feel the springy curls that covered her sex.

  “Ooh,” she whispered, and slipped, falling back onto her elbows on the arm of the chair, her gaze still steady on him.

  Grif did not falter; he watched her eyes closely as he played with the curls, then slipped his fingers deeper inside her drawers, between the wet folds. He grinned; she was warm and wet, and now her lower lip was trembling slightly as he casually, methodically stroked her, his fingers glancing against the tip of her lust, then sliding slow and long to the bottom and back and again.

  After several moments of that, Anna gave in to the pleasure. With a moan, her eyes slid shut and her head dropped back. “What are you doing?” she asked breathlessly.

  “I’m teaching ye a lesson,” he murmured, and with his free hand, abruptly caught her around the waist and yanked her upright, so that her breasts were at eye level. “I’m showing ye what could happen if ye are foolish enough to believe a man willna have his way with ye, with only a wee bit of encouragement,” he said, and buried his face between her breasts for a moment, inhaling deeply before letting her slip from his arm, back against the chair. “I’m showing ye how a man might find his pleasure in giving ye pleasure,” he said, and withdrew his hand from her thighs.

  Sprawled against the chair back, Anna silently watched him, her hooded eyes following his every move as he casually moved first one leg, then the other, so that he could kneel between them.

  “You mean to take advantage of me,” she said hoarsely, but made no move to stop him. “You call Lockhart a rake, but you are worse than he,” she added as he grasped the edge of her gown, and incautiously, deliberately, began to gather the material, pushing it up, rolling it up over her bent knees, along with her chemise, until she was sprawled in that chair, her legs apart, nothing between her and him but her frilly drawers. “You are seeking revenge for that horrid gargoyle,” she said, her voice nothing but a husky whisper now.

  He laughed low, put his hands on the insides of her thighs, stroking them, watching the copper color of her eyes deepen to oak as he shook his head. “’Tis a beastie. And I’ve no desire but to show ye exactly what ye asked, leannan. And now that ye have, I’ll move Buckingham Palace if I must to have a taste of ye.” To prove it, he moved his hands to the apex of her drawers, grabbed the opening, and in one fluid yank ripped it open.

  Anna gasped.

  “Ye’ll tell yer maid ye met with a wee accident,” he said, and with a wink lowered his head to the flesh between her thighs.

  The moment his lips touched her, Anna cried out and began to squirm at the feel of his breath against the most vulnerable part of her. When he flicked his tongue against her, she moaned, her hips moving earnestly against him. He grabbed her hips to steady her as he began to explore the untouched recesses of her body, his tongue flicking into every crevice, feasting on her flesh, his senses awash in her earthy scent.

  When he drew the small pearl that was at the core of her desire in between his teeth and lips, her hands flailed against his shoulders and head, her fingers in his hair, grabbing fistfuls, then snatching at his shirt, the chair—anything to ground her as he brought her to the edge of the abyss, then happily pushed her into that dark, bottomless hole with all the male strength in him he could muster.

  She cried out with her climax; her fingers sank into his hair, pulling him to her, her hips riding up and up and up against his mouth.

  And then she lay still, the only sound her labored breathing. With a chuckle, Grif sat back on his heels, found the neckcloth he had dropped beside him, wiped his mouth, then wiped her. Still, she did not move. Her head lolled on her shoulder; one arm was curled above her head, the other lying lifelessly down the side of the chair. Her hair was a terrible mess of ringlets come quite undone. She looked like a woman who was completely and thoroughly satisfied.

  It wasn’t until he lowered her skirts that she opened one eye and peeked at him, a soft glow in her cheeks and a lovely smile on her lips. “You’re horrid, Grif. I shall never forgive you.” But she was smiling as
if she wanted more, wanted all of it.

  That was the moment that Grif thought it possible he actually loved this woman.

  Across town, Drake Lockhart was seated in his study, quietly studying the Bow Street man, Mr. Winston Garfield, as he reviewed his credentials.

  Over the last few weeks, as Drake’s attention was drawn more and more to Anna, he couldn’t help notice that Lord Ardencaple was never far away. It had aroused his suspicions, and he had been quite keen to know who, exactly, was Lord Ardencaple.

  But his suspicions had been raised to new heights when Nigel had mentioned a resemblance to Captain Lockhart, their cousin. From what Drake was given to understand, Captain Lockhart had arrived in London soon after the end of the French war, and had quickly reacquainted himself to Nigel with some tale of a family dispute. Unfortunately, Nigel and their father had been too fond of drink at the time to remember anything but the vintage of their port.

  Nonetheless, it was a well-known fact about town that after attending the Lockhart ball, when Nigel and Father had retired to Bath for a time, the captain had mysteriously disappeared.

  The only reason that fact had stayed in Drake’s mind at all was because Barbara had mentioned that the removal of the parlormaid and the footman for thievery occurred just after the ball. She had naturally assumed that when all the silver was brought out for the ball, the two servants had helped themselves. Drake believed that was probably true. But it was the disappearance of the family heirloom from an entirely different place that gave him pause.

  Just when their cousin, Captain Lockhart, went missing, the family heirloom went missing, too. While he had nothing on which to base his suspicions, he could not help but believe that their long-lost cousin was somehow involved with the family heirloom, particularly given its value.

  Drake’s suspicions of Ardencaple were flamed in part by his disdain. From the moment the Scot had made his splash about town with Mr. Fynster-Allen, it seemed that whenever Drake was enjoying the attention of a debutante, Ardencaple found a way to interrupt it. That seemed especially true of the Addison sisters. But it wasn’t until an evening at Almack’s, where he’d watched the bloody rake move between Lucy and Anna quite freely, that he realized the man might offer for one of the sisters before he was able to. And now that Nigel had mentioned the resemblance…

  Mr. Garfield completed his review of his credentials.

  “You quite understand, do you, Mr. Garfield?” Drake asked again, to assure himself. “I want to know everything you might learn of Lord Ardencaple. What is his fortune? From where does he come? What are his intentions in London?” Drake asked as he pushed an envelope containing several banknotes across the desk to him.

  Mr. Garfield picked up the envelope and slipped it into his coat pocket. “I quite understand, sir,” he said, and removed his monocle, placing it in his pocket. “If there is something to be learned about this man, I shall find it.”

  “Very good,” Drake said. “I’m to travel to Featherstone in a few days. Perhaps you might have a bit of information for me when I return next week,” he suggested, leaning back in his chair.

  “I shall endeavor to do so,” Mr. Garfield said as he rose to his feet and extended his hand. “Your private matter shall have my undivided attention.”

  Drake did not stand, merely reached for the man’s hand and shook. “Very well, Mr. Garfield. You know the way out?”

  Garfield nodded; he quit the room, leaving Drake to stare at the long row of windows in the library, hoping that Garfield would indeed give this matter his undivided and expedient attention. Certainly Drake had.

  Twenty-two

  T he drive to the Featherstone estate, while a relatively short journey, felt interminable to Grif.

  Not on account of the roads, which were remarkably passable due to an unusually dry spring—this Grif knew because of Lucy and her preoccupation with the weather. Nor was it the coach, as Grif had hired the best in order to maintain the appearance of a well-to-do Scottish earl, which the old Lockhart coach did not convey.

  It was made interminable on account of Hugh, the would-be valet, who whined the entire two-hour journey along the Thames about Keara Brody, who refused, even under Hugh’s constant duress, to appreciate the numerous and considerable qualities that Hugh believed he possessed and made him irresistibly attractive to the fairer sex.

  Even Dudley, who this very morning had given in to Grif’s pleadings to return to Scotland, where Fiona might look after his gout, had snapped at Hugh like a turtle as they had put him in a public coach bound for Glasgow, imploring Hugh to kindly put his mind to being a valet instead of an arse, to which Hugh had replied, very hurtfully, that this was a matter of the heart, and therefore he could not simply stuff it away to be forgotten. And then Hugh had sulked instead of preparing the coach they’d hired for the journey to Featherstone.

  Grif tried to ignore him, tried to block out his complaining by thinking of something else, but his thoughts inevitably wound their way around to Anna again, and his mood turned correspondingly dark, for that afternoon in the drawing room had sent Grif privately reeling.

  It seemed that for a time all he could taste or hear or see was that moment, that incredible moment when he had wanted her to feel pleasure more than he wanted it for himself. That fantastic moment had been followed by a thousand moments more, all tangled together, in which he hungered to touch her again, to feel her skin, to feel her body surround him and draw him in.

  Yet in the days that followed, he dared not touch her, no matter how badly he desired it, for fear that he would slide deeper into an enchantment with the one woman in all of Britain he could not have.

  Oh, aye, of that he was convinced, notwithstanding the remarkable sentiments stirring in him. The sentiments terrified him, for he had not the slightest notion what to do with them—he was not a man to yearn for a woman. All his life, he’d left the pining to the ladies, and this was the first time that the tide had turned. What made it so horribly frustrating was that she was—for him, at least—unattainable.

  Flirtations aside, Grif was quite certain that there was nothing in the world that could entice her to leave her prominent family for the likes of him and Scotland.

  In the last few days, he’d felt as if he’d somehow slipped into a quiet space between the dreams of Anna that had began to haunt him at night and the harsh reality of his days, in which he lived an outrageous lie. But it was a small space in which he could believe that he might be quite content in the company of one woman all his days. That wasn’t something he’d ever really believed of himself—he’d always thought that sort of devotion was reserved for better men than him, men who had the capacity to put others before themselves.

  Grif had never believed he was more than a perpetual gentleman caller. He’d always assumed he’d be the Lockhart to keep the estate books and keep the family from ruin while enjoying the flesh of many. He’d assumed his brother, Liam, would provide the family heirs. It had never occurred to him that one woman might fulfill him completely and make him question his assumptions.

  He had come to believe that Anna could have been that woman, had the circumstances been different. But they weren’t, and he could sense his heart’s impending doom. So Grif did the one thing he knew to do in those long days as he reluctantly prepared Anna—and himself—for the weekend at Featherstone Manor. He removed himself from her charm, forcing his heart and mind away from her, piece by piece, until there was nothing left of the old Grif in her presence.

  Diah, but she made it tough sledding! Every day her countenance seemed to lighten. She’d laugh, her eyes sparkling up at him, leaning into him provocatively as he’d taught her, while he clenched his hands into fists behind his back. She’d engage him in some lighthearted debate, and the more Anna tried to engage him, the harder it became to resist her, especially as he watched her transform into a delightful, delectable woman whose every move had the capacity to captivate.

  It was enough to make a man
bloody well miserable.

  And now, as they turned through the massive stone pillar gates that marked the entrance to Featherstone Manor, he’d face his toughest challenge yet—watching her secure Lockhart’s offer of marriage.

  The thought of it made him so angry that Grif cuffed Hugh on the shoulder, and none too lightly. “Snap out of it, ye donkey’s arse! We’ve only a short drive until we reach the main house, and if ye alight from this carriage sobbing like a bairn for an Irish lass who has no regard for ye, our hosts will think I’ve lost me mind hiring ye on, and bloody hell if I havena!”

  Hugh scowled at Grif and sat up from his lounging position across the forward bench to straighten his neckcloth. “I never knew ye to be so cruel, Lockhart. I’m hardly the reason yer Miss Addison prefers yer English cousin to ye, am I now? There’s no call for ye to take yer frustration out on me.”

  “Ye’ve no idea what ye say,” Grif growled.

  “I’ve no idea?” Hugh repeated incredulously, then laughed roundly. “Bloody hell, it’s a wonder the whole of London doesna know it as well as I! Ye think me blind, Grif? Ye think I’ve no’ seen how ye mope about after she’s gone, or seen ye staring out the window after her? Ye’ve been smitten, but ye are too stubborn to admit—”

  “Shut yer gob, MacAlister, or I’ll shut it for ye, I will,” Grif snapped. “If there’s any moping about, ’tis because I am fearful of someone discovering our perfidy, something ye obviously pay no heed the way ye flit about London chasing after Miss Brody’s skirts!”

  “I pay it heed!” Hugh shot back. “But I willna spend each waking hour fretting—”

  The coach suddenly lurched to a stop; Grif and Hugh surged as one toward the small window, their argument forgotten.

  “Diah,” Hugh breathed as they looked out at a massive Georgian house, built of sandstone and stretching for what seemed a mile. It was three stories tall, with row upon row of sparkling windows reflecting the sunlight. There were at least a dozen chimneys, and in the front of the house, a large wide staircase led up to two huge oaken doors. Down those steps, three footmen and a butler came running to greet them.