Daring

by Jillian Hunter

  She smiled at him. “It was my idea that Claude should serve as a neutral party in the house until the domestic crisis is resolved.”

  He leaned into her, draping his arm possessively over the back of her chair. “Did you know that there is another crisis brewing in this house, Maggie? In approximately twenty seconds I am going to attack you.”

  “Not during breakfast.”

  “I don’t see any breakfast.” He sneaked his hand under the table to touch hers. Electricity tingled between their fingertips. Connor drew a sharp breath as heat suffused his body. He was enamored of her and didn’t give a damn who knew it. “Let’s go for another walk in the woods.”

  “Do you think that’s wise? The wounded man might still be lurking about.”

  He ran his hand along the inside of her forearm, drawing her toward him. Her lips parted in expectation. Unfortunately, before he could kiss her, Claude appeared in the doorway, announcing, “Breakfast is served.”

  Maggie straightened up like a schoolgirl. Connor settled back in his chair with a disgruntled sigh. He could have sworn Claude had interrupted them on purpose, probably waiting just outside the door for the perfect moment to prove he took his role as surrogate guardian to heart.

  Connor still hadn’t figured out how to deal with him. The man was too old to physically subdue and too stubborn to reason with, and there were Maggie’s feelings to consider. It was a prickly situation.

  Claude shuffled up to the table bearing a large silver teapot with all the solemnity of a courtier presenting the Crown jewels. He was so slow and stiff, the teapot trembling in his hand, that Connor just couldn’t envision him engaged in serious swordplay.

  “I see you have changed out of those nasty boots, sir,” he intoned in such a voice of parental authority that it made Connor wonder whether he’d be checked next to see if he’d washed behind his ears for breakfast “You are having tea?” He nodded meekly, amazed to realize that he was being intimidated by a man employed to polish the silver. Well hell, old habits died hard. He still struggled against the Highlander in him that felt faintly bewildered in a formal setting. Ardath was always kicking him under the table for using the wrong spoon.

  “No.” He raised his voice, taking a stand. “I’ve changed my mind. I do not want tea.”

  Claude eyed him disapprovingly, not saying a word.

  “I think you should take the tea,” Maggie whispered behind the napkin.

  “I do not want tea,” Connor said, practically shouting.

  Claude’s upper lip curled at the corner. “His lordship does not want tea. Can you imagine?” he said to no one in particular. He held the trembling teapot over the table. “Are you sure, sir, that you do not want tea?”

  “It seems important to him,” Maggie said thoughtfully.

  “It isn’t his business.” Connor stared at the dripping teapot. “Oh, hell. I’ll have tea if it makes everyone happy.”

  “Very good, sir.” Claude’s hand hovered over Connor’s cup. “But are you sure you wouldn’t rather have coffee?”

  “I want tea,” Connor shouted.

  Claude, took on a martyred expression. “I know it is not my place to say so, sir, but you would have made it easier all around if you had stated your preference to begin with.”

  Connor didn’t look at his watch, but he swore it took a good five minutes for Claude to pour that cup, half of it splashing into the saucer. Of course, by the time Connor tasted it, the beverage tasted like lukewarm well water. “Where is the rest of the breakfast, Claude?”

  “It is coming, sir.”

  “It is coming. I see. Do you have any idea when it is coming? A week? A month? By Christmas?”

  “As soon as I return to fetch it, sir.”

  “Then Christmas is a distinct possibility,” Connor said. “May I ask what the other servants are doing?”

  “They are on strike, sir,” Claude replied.

  Maggie took a tiny sip of tea. “The domestic conflict in the household will never be resolved until Mrs. Urquhart and Dougie make up, my lord. I thought you understood this. I have done my share to advise the female contingent. It’s time you took a hand to represent the manly point of view.”

  Connor didn’t particularly care about the domestic conflict, but it was clear that he and Maggie would probably starve to death within a week with Claude serving their meals.

  “This cannot be tolerated,” he said. “Claude, you are to bring Dougie to me as soon as I have eaten, assuming that my food arrives sometime in this century. I will not have my authority undermined in my own house.”

  Which, of course, was a joke.

  Connor could no more control his staff than he could his desire for the delicate young woman who sat beside him, the woman he ached to dominate and had sworn to protect, the woman whose inadvertent touch made him tremble like a boy on the verge of his first sexual experience.

  Connor stared in trepidation at the toast and sausages on his plate. By the time Claude brought them to the table, they could have been put on display as prehistoric fossils.

  “How am I supposed to eat this?” he wondered aloud. “Do I look like I live in a cave and hunt wild boars with a club?”

  Maggie meticulously spread a spoonful of marmalade over her toast. “Well, since you asked, I have to admit that at times there is a little of the primitive about you. As to eating your breakfast”—her voice took on a conspiratorial tone— “I don’t think it would be a good idea to criticize Claude’s culinary skills. Not if you want him to decide in your favor about courting me.”

  Connor grimaced. “Are you telling me I have to eat your butler’s cooking—his petrified breakfast—in order to even qualify as your suitor?”

  She laid down her knife. “It would be a good start.”

  “Maggie, he is only a servant.”

  “Oh, no. He’s much more than that. Yes, I know he’s ancient, but like a Ming vase he is priceless, irreplaceable.” She glanced fondly at Claude, who was weaving back toward them with another teapot, leaving great stains on Connor’s costly Persian carpet. “His family has served my family for generations. Anyway, he swore to Aunt Flora on her deathbed that he would defend me with his life.”

  Connor snorted at this sentimental confession and tried to spear his sausage with a fork. It was like stabbing a stone. Then he tried to chew it, and as he did he realized that if anyone had told him a month ago he would be eating rocks to win a woman, he would have laughed his head off.

  Suddenly Claude was at his side with the teapot again. “Shall I refresh your cup again, sir?”

  Connor nodded in resignation. Another mouthful of cold tea brewed as black and foul as Satan’s breath was just what he needed to wash down the rock caught in his throat. Lord, what a man wouldn’t do for lust. Or was it more than that?

  He glanced at Maggie in an ivory lace-trimmed day dress that mocked his carnal intentions. He remembered how soft her skin was in those secret places. A shiver of raw desire danced down his spine. Never in his life had he exercised this much restraint. Frustration was taking its toll. Still, he wanted more than a string of sexual encounters. He wanted full possession of this woman. He even wanted her butler to like him.

  He swallowed the rock. It was definitely more than a simple case of lust. He was heart-deep in love with her.

  Claude bent over him, placing the teapot precariously at the edge of the table. Then, unexpectedly, like a magician performing a sleight of hand, he snapped out a napkin and settled it over Connor’s lap. “We must remember our etiquette, sir, mustn’t we? Will there be anything else?”

  Connor could only shake his head, afraid to wonder what would happen next. Would Claude insist on spoon-feeding him? If Connor didn’t finish his food, would he be sent up to his room? He looked across the table then and raised his brow at the sight of Dougie hovering in the doorway; the silly fool was dressed like an overgrown gnome in a moth-eaten suit of livery he must have found in the attic complete with puffy velve
t pantaloons and braided jacket.

  “What are you doing in that ridiculous costume, Dougie?” he asked with a frown.

  “I’m doing my job, sir.” Dougie’s beard bobbed over his high starched collar. “I’m dressed like a butler.”

  “A butler?” Connor didn’t like the sound of this. He caught Maggie smiling knowingly as she stirred sugar into her tea. “You are my steward, Dougie. Kenneth is the butler.”

  Dougie put his tray on the floor. Then he bent to inelegantly pull up his baggy stockings before he clomped across the room and banged a bowl of scorched porridge on the table. “Not anymore. Kenneth is gone to work for the duchess, and I canna say I blame him. This is yer breakfast. Dinna complain about it. I did my best, but I’m a steward, not a damn butler.”

  Connor stared down at the bowl in distaste. “What, pray tell, happened to the cook?”

  “The last I heard she was playing cards with the scullery maids,” Dougie answered. “All the women are on strike for better working conditions.”

  “I’ll take care of this right now.” Connor started to rise from the table only to hesitate as Maggie stayed him with her hand.

  “It isn’t a good idea, my lord.”

  “It isn’t?”

  She wagged her finger at him. “I told you to take action earlier. The strike is too well established now to thwart. I do suggest, however, that you intervene to stop the crisis smoldering under your very nose before it too blows up.”

  “Crisis?”

  “In this very room.”

  Connor turned his head to see Claude and Dougie sizing each other up across the table like a pair of Roman gladiators. There was definitely a rivalry brewing between them. A battle of the butlers.

  “Eat up, my lord.” Dougie was standing over him like a mother hen. “A man your size needs his oats to start the day.”

  Claude stepped forward, straightening the lapels of Connor’s jacket with a possessive tug. “His lordship is having des saucisses this morning. A man his size needs his meat.”

  Dougie sniggered. “Day—sew what?”

  “Des saucisses,” Claude replied solemnly. “That is sausages to the ignorant.”

  “Sausages. These are sausages?” Dougie made a face. He picked up a link from Connor’s plate and dropped it on the table with a loud plink. “And here I thought they was skinny brown stones from the burn.”

  A militant gleam lit up Claude’s faded gray eyes at this insult. “Undercooked pork can kill a man.” He handed Connor a fork. “Enjoy your meat, sir.”

  Dougie pushed the bowl of porridge in front of the plate. “Have some healthy Highland ambrosia, sir. ’Twill put the roses back in yer cheeks, as my granny used to say.”

  Maggie nudged Connor’s foot under the table. He turned to her, catching his breath at the unexpected jolt of sexual desire that struck him as their eyes met. “It’s time to assert yourself,” she whispered. “Let it be known who’s the master.”

  He gave her a roguish grin. “Follow me up to my room and I’ll show you who is the master.”

  “Master of the house,” she added softly, staring into her lap.

  His dark gaze devoured her. His need for her was so powerful he didn’t care if he ever ate again. “What do you suggest I do?” he asked reluctantly.

  “Well.” Maggie pursed her lips as she contemplated his dilemma. “If you offend Dougie, you’ll turn the domestic crisis into a full-scale civil war, and that could be very unpleasant all the way around. On the other hand, if you offend Claude, then he probably won’t give you permission to court me.”

  Connor frowned. “This is not sounding very hopeful.”

  “It is a bit of a pickle,” Maggie admitted. “I suppose if I were you, I’d consider doing something along the lines of what Solomon did. Do you understand what I mean?”

  “No. I don’t.” He leaned a little closer. “I do know that I’d like to pull you onto my lap and nibble on your neck,” he said in an undertone. “Your skin reminds me of fresh cream. And your mouth—”

  “Restrain your baser side, my lord. Claude is staring at you. I suspect he learned how to read lips in Heaven’s Court.”

  Connor slumped back in his chair. “What in God’s name does Solomon have to do with this, anyway? Am I supposed to divide myself in half to please two butlers?”

  “No,” Maggie said. “You’re supposed to eat both their breakfasts.”

  Connor didn’t have a chance to comment on her unsatisfactory suggestion because Claude had elbowed Dougie aside to reclaim his authority. “A fresh serviette, sir?” he inquired, whipping away the spotless napkin on Connor’s lap to replace it with another.

  Dougie took exception to this. He barreled his way back between Claude and Connor’s chair, muttering, “This French fellow is getting on my nerves.” Then he snatched away the square of linen from Connor’s lap and proceeded to tuck it into Connor’s cravat like a bib. “No need to be layin’ the blasted thing over yer legs like we was diaperin’ ye. A man wants his nappie where it’ll catch the dribbles and spills.”

  Connor’s face reddened. “Enough is enough,” he said, tearing the napkin from his throat. “Claude—”

  “Your cravat is crooked,” Maggie murmured.

  Connor shot her a look. “Claude.”

  The butler straightened, regarding Connor with a challenging air. “You wish something of me, sir?” he inquired with a meaningful look in Maggie’s direction.

  Connor gripped the edge of the table, unable to articulate what exactly it was he wished at that moment. A new identity? To wake up and find it was all a bad dream? Was his love life really dependent on the whims of an eighty-four-year-old butler? Yes, it was. And he was helpless to do anything as long as he coveted the demure young thing trying to conceal her enjoyment of his predicament beside him.

  “I wish to compliment you for breakfast.” The breakfast that was sitting in his stomach like a sack of coal. He rose, looking resolute but feeling a trifle queasy. “Dougie, I would like a word with you in my study. And pull up those stockings before you fall flat on your face.”

  Dougie shook his head in dejection. “I canna control the women in this household, my lord. I canna control my own wife. That’s why I’ve decided to seek a divorce. I’ve chosen ye to represent me.”

  Connor paced in front of his desk. “I can’t represent you in a divorce. I only handle criminal cases.”

  “Well, my marriage is a crime, my lord.”

  Connor glanced out the window, catching sight of Maggie walking toward the woods. Where was she going? he wondered in amazement. He watched her vanish between the trees, hips swaying, the breeze teasing the glossy black curls that spilled down her back. She was as alluring as a wood sprite. Even the way she walked drove him wild.

  He pushed the curtain aside. He didn’t like the thought of her wandering in the woods all alone. She could get lost. She could trip over a tree root and hit her head, or she could fall into the gorge. She could stumble over the wounded man—

  He sighed in frustration. The truth was, he was the biggest beast who’d ever lurked in those woods. Maggie had as much to fear from him as anyone. He was determined to learn all of her secrets if it killed him.

  Dougie’s voice broke the silence that had fallen. “Do ye think I have grounds for divorce, my lord?”

  Connor edged closer to the window, half listening. “Has your wife been unfaithful to you?”

  “Not that I know of. Who would want her? She’s so mean.”

  “Has she refused you relations?”

  Dougie looked uncertain. “She wasna happy about my mother visitin’ last month, if that’s what ye mean.”

  “That is not what I mean,” Connor said in annoyance. “Has she refused to have congress with you?”

  “Well.” Dougie scratched his head. “She might have. Then again she might not. ’Tis hard to say.”

  Connor tinned reluctantly from the window, losing sight of Maggie in the landscape. “Tha
t doesn’t make sense. Hell, man, can’t you remember whether you’ve had congress with your own wife?”

  “I suppose it depends.” Dougie toed the edge of the carpet, his voice a sheepish mumble. “What exactly is congress, sir?”

  “Congress is… well, it’s coitus.” Connor closed his eyes, wondering if he could take the shortcut through the woods to meet her. “Intercourse. Connubial bliss.”

  Coitus. Intercourse. Bliss. Maggie open and vulnerable beneath him, willing and warm, the essence of woman. A treasure no man had ever touched before. Desire crashed over him in waves. A predatory growl rose in his throat at the thought of taking her innocence the way his Highland warrior ancestors had taken their women.

  He opened his eyes in irritation and looked around. “It’s sex, damn it. I’m talking about your sexual affairs.”

  Dougie gasped, shocked to the tips of his pointed ears. “I dinna think that’s any of yer concern.”

  “Neither do I,” Connor said tightly. “In fact, I don’t ever want to discuss the distasteful subject again. Just do the job you were hired to do and make the most of your marriage while you remain in this house. Is that understood?”

  “Aye, my lord,” Dougie said unhappily.

  Connor nodded in relief. “Now get on with your work. I’ll deal with the women later. I’ve some pressing business of my own to attend to.”

  He hadn’t taken two impatient steps toward the door when Mrs. Urquhart herself appeared, bristling with self-importance. She dismissed her husband with a contemptuous look, then cleared her throat. “There is a visitor to see ye, sir.”

  Connor suppressed a string of curses. Not his neighbors again. What did he need to do to have Maggie to himself? “Tell whoever it is that I am unavailable for the rest of the day.”

  The housekeeper paused a moment. “He’s come all the way from Edinburgh to see ye. He said he has a verra important message. Something about a dangerous development in the murder case.”

  Connor experienced a jolt of excitement mingled with resentment that reality was intruding on his life. Of course he wanted a break in the case, but the timing was terrible. Instead of chasing after Maggie in the woods, he’d had to send Claude out to watch over her.