by Tarah Scott
The sensual lift of her mouth startled him. He couldn't believe it. Was the little minx threatening to use her charms against him? A thrill reverberated deep within him. Lounging against the chair, she tipped her head back. His excitement grew as, closing her eyes, she reached back to tousle her hair. The locks cascaded in silken layers about her shoulders. Her fingers slid from her hair and along her throat. His body tightened when her fingertips skimmed the valley between her breasts. Her palms flattened across her belly, smoothing her dress, and finally came to rest in her lap. She toyed with him—but he wanted her. He commanded his gaze to break from the sultry picture, but his mind refused to comply.
Elise patted the tiny space on the seat beside her. “Come sit with me, milord.”
Her use of “milord” tantalized him, despite the knowledge she used the title only when angry or mocking him. “Nae, lass. I think not.”
“Afraid?” She gave a low laugh.
Confound the woman! She hadn't even bothered to open her eyes when addressing him.
“Not afraid, love,” he replied. “Cautious.”
“Ah, I see.”
Aye, he was sure she did.
She stretched her legs in one fluid motion. She opened her eyes and, leaning forward, shook out her skirt, a flash of white chemise showing before the fabric settled about her. She rose and glided over to him.
“If you're not in the mood,” she tugged the collar on his shirt, “we can discuss this later.”
She smoothed his shirt with the same maddening slowness she had used when straightening her dress. When her fingers tucked his shirt into the waistband of his kilt, he yanked her to him.
“You're playing with fire,” he said.
She gazed up at him. “Am I?”
He bent to kiss her, but she dodged his mouth. He lifted a questioning brow and she met his gaze.
“You won't sit with me yet have no qualms about accosting me? Are you not tired?' she asked abruptly.
“Nae.”
“Good. Then we shall talk.”
Extricating herself from his hold, she wrapped a hand around his forearm and led him to the couch. Elise directed him down onto a cushion, then knelt on the cushion beside him.
“You are much too tense.” She turned his back toward her.
With great care, she massaged the hard muscle of his shoulder. Marcus felt himself relax. He closed his eyes, contemplating ways to entice her hands lower. He became aware of her breath on his neck. He throbbed, anticipating her quick intake of breath when her gaze fell upon the noticeable lift of his kilt. She shifted and her breath came hot in his ear. Marcus shuddered as her lips brushed his ear.
“It wasn't your fault, you know.”
His eyes flashed open and he twisted to face her. “I will not discuss this with you.”
She shrugged, then nearly bounced into a sitting position beside him. “That doesn't change the fact I'm right.”
“You know nothing of it,” he snapped.
“I know enough.”
Marcus faced her. Words poured from his mouth even as he blushed at defending his actions to a woman—especially this woman. “It is my responsibility to see that no harm comes to any here. I nearly failed.”
“But you didn't.”
The flat response brought him up short.
She shook her head as if speaking to a child. “You found a flaw in your defenses. Do you think it's the only one?”
Fear rushed through him. He hadn't considered there could be a single flaw, much less two, three or…
Elise took his hand in hers. “You aren't God. Close, perhaps,” she gave a faint smile, “but still human. I understand how difficult this is, but you must accept the fact that, like most mortals, you are flawed.” She paused. “Those attackers will never harm another person, and you learned a valuable lesson. Most would count themselves fortunate. Don't look so sullen. I am sure you will find a way to assuage your anger.”
Marcus blinked, then grasped her shoulders and tugged her across his thighs. He pressed his lips to her ear and murmured, “What am I to do with you?”
Elise lifted a brow, saying, “Certainly not what you think,” and gingerly shifted in his lap.
* * *
Marcus looked past his father and the other people crowding the courtyard until his gaze fixed upon Elise. She stood with a group of women, rifling through a basket of provisions they were distributing to the men who were to accompany him to London.
Cameron clasped his shoulder. “All will be well.” He glanced meaningfully at Elise, his hand dropping back to his side.
Marcus focused on his father. “She isn't to leave Brahan Seer while I am away.”
“Aye.”
“If Loudoun doesn't agree to intervene with his clansmen, I will seek an audience with King George.”
Cameron nodded. “The earl willna' relish the possibility of losing his property to one of our attacks. Castle Kalchurn is his pride and joy.”
“I plan on using that fact,” Marcus replied. He nodded toward Elise. “I had better say my good-byes.”
Marcus strode to Elise. The warrior she handed a small cloth package to grasped it and murmured thanks before joining his nearby comrades. She turned, taking a surprised step back when she nearly collided with Marcus.
“You will honor your promise?” he asked.
“I won't leave Brahan Seer.”
She couldn't leave. He had seen to that. The passageway had been boarded shut and the guards had orders not to let her pass. Marcus drew her to him. His heart pounded with every halting step closer she allowed until he could wrap his arm around her. Marcus cupped her neck in his free hand. Her gaze flitted to the side, but he cared nothing for the crowd. He kissed her. The familiar hunger lashed out. Had she any understanding of his need for her? She had called it lust. By God, he did lust after her.
Marcus took a long draught of her. When he returned, he would have set in motion what he should have done a month ago: discover her identity. He released her and motioned to the man who stood near the gate holding his horse's reins. The man pushed through the crowd and stopped beside him, reins extended. Marcus mounted, then paused, locking gazes with Elise.
“Elise.”
She waited.
“I will return.”
It seemed she didn't breathe.
“Be ready when I do.”
* * *
Three days away from Brahan Seer—from Elise—had taken a toll. Marcus looked up from the letter he was reading to the grandfather clock in the far corner of the study in his London home. He curbed a growing irritation. He'd been forced to follow the Earl of Loudoun to London, and now that Marcus awaited his arrival, the fool had the temerity to be late. Marcus finished the drink sitting before him, then returned his attention to the note sent to him by Margaret's father, Lord Ross.
Marcus, the note began, I was unexpectedly called to London and have just learned of your arrival two days ago. He gave a low laugh. “You hate London nearly as much as I do. What story did Margaret concoct to coerce you into accompanying her?” Marcus continued reading the note. Lady Ross is giving a ball tomorrow evening. I trust you will have time to attend. Marcus tossed the invitation aside. “You trust wrong, Ferris. I have no interest in seeing your daughter.”
Marcus looked up from reading the Sunday Times when a knock sounded on the door nearly an hour later. The door opened and his butler entered.
“The Earl of Loudoun to see you, Lord Ashlund.”
Marcus glanced at the clock. An hour and a half late. “Show him in, Bower.” Marcus refolded the paper and laid it on the desk as Loudoun entered.
He bowed. “Lord Ashlund, it has been some time.”
Marcus indicated the chair in front of his desk. “It has,” he said, noting Loudoun hadn't had the good grace to acknowledge his tardiness. It was impossible to civilize a cur.
The earl seated himself. “I understand you wish to see me on a matter of some importance.” Bored
amusement shone in his green eyes.
“Have you seen your Hastings clansmen lately?” Marcus asked without preamble.
Surprise flitted across Loudoun's features, but he replied, the boredom reaching his voice, “Haven't been to Scotland in an age. Why?”
“They attacked a group of women at Brahan Seer.”
Surprise resurfaced. Then… satisfaction in the guise of disbelief. “Come now,” he drawled. “Surely, you are mistaken.”
“I was there.”
“I suppose one cannot question the word of the Marquess of Ashlund. Was your father, the duke, there as well?”
“Nae. You know anything of the attack?”
“Me?” The earl laughed. “I never involve myself in the petty squabbles on that side of the family.” He studied Marcus. “Attacked your women, did they?”
Marcus nodded.
Loudoun shrugged. “Probably just wanted a bit of sport. Why bother yourself? If someone had been hurt or if it had been cattle—”
“Do not try my temper,” Marcus cut in. “You know nothing of it?”
“As I said, I have little to do with those barbarians.”
“In that you may be wise. I assume you still exercise some authority over them?”
“I suppose so. Can't say I've ever cared to try. Their actions are their own, so long as they don't interfere with my life.”
“Spoken like a true Campbell,” Marcus muttered.
Loudoun's eyes flickered, and there was a biting edge in his cultured voice when he said, “Unlike you, Ashlund, I am far removed from those people. I don't live in the wilds of Scotland, yearning for the days of old.”
“It isn't the days of old I yearn for, but, like any civilized man, simple peace. Yet, it is your clansmen who make that impossible.”
“Mayhap you should appeal to our king. He is in a better position than I to help.”
“Mayhap,” Marcus agreed. “Unfortunately, he's not in England. I should warn you, if trouble arises before he returns, you may find your clansmen intruding upon your life. Castle Kalchurn is between Brahan Seer and Assipattle, if I recall.”
The earl's face tightened. “You have no cause to threaten me, MacGregor. I've done nothing. I am not involved in this matter, I tell you.”
“Ah, but you are. Despite your complacent attitude, you would not be saddened to hear of my demise or the demise of any MacGregor, for that matter—man or woman—which makes you as guilty as your kinsmen. Now,” Marcus leaned forward, elbows on his desk, “if there's a possibility you can get to the bottom of this before it turns into something we will all regret, you would find me most appreciative.”
“Just what the devil does that mean?” Loudoun demanded.
“It means, my dear Earl, that I might refrain from running a sword through your black heart.”
* * *
Marcus found Kiernan at his favorite club. Pausing to observe his son as he lounged in one of the plush chairs, pride filled his heart at the man the boy was becoming. Kiernan's brow furrowed in response to something he read in the paper spread across the arm of his chair, and a tenderness stirred in Marcus at recalling where Kiernan had learned that look. It amazed him how much the boy resembled Jenna.
The old sadness revived in Marcus. There had been no great love between him and Jenna. The marriage could have been better. She hadn't been happy. Despite his noble blood, he was a Highlander—a clan leader—and Jenna couldn't comprehend the archaic way of life. Marcus hadn't been able to find it in his heart to blame her. She was of Scottish blood, not Highland. Never the twain shall meet, she had once said.
Still, he grieved when she died. Kiernan, a boy of ten, had been inconsolable. Marcus worried his son had never quite forgiven the world for taking her from him. Even now, he glimpsed flashes of resentment. They were rare, but the emotion ran deep. Kiernan always seemed to ask—to demand—why Marcus had been unable to save her when she'd been thrown from her horse. She hadn't died immediately. It would have been better if she had. Instead, she'd lingered a day, an afternoon, really.
Kiernan had stolen into his mother's room while she lay dying. Jenna hadn't wakened. Whether that was better or not, Marcus had never been sure. But Kiernan had said his good-byes. Marcus recalled seeing the lad on his knees beside his mother's bed. When he entered the room, Kiernan remained motionless. Neither moved for some time. At last, the boy rose and left.
Marcus shook off the morose memories. He crossed the room. Kiernan looked up from the paper. His face brightened and he stood, flashing a smile that dispelled the fear in Marcus's earlier memory. He grasped his son's hand and pulled him close. They separated.
“What brings you to London again so soon?” Kiernan pointed to a chair next to his, then sat. “I hadn't thought you'd be here until spring.”
“Not glad to see me?” Marcus chided.
A corner of Kiernan's mouth lifted a little higher. “Never say you braved London for me. Why, Father, I don't know what to say.” He motioned to a steward. “Two brandies,” he said when the man reached hearing distance, then turned his attention back to Marcus. “Or are you missing city life?”
Marcus grimaced. “Nae. I had business with Loudoun.”
Kiernan's smile vanished. “Damnation, Father, what sort of business?”
“Unsavory business.”
Kiernan grunted. “That's about the only sort you could have with him.”
Marcus gave an account of recent events. When he'd finished, he took the final swallow of his brandy.
An all-too-familiar gleam entered his son's eyes. “Perhaps I should return to Brahan Seer. You can use all the help you can get. I'm handy with a sword, if you recall.” He flashed a cocky grin.
Aye, Marcus recalled all too well. His son had nearly bested him with his own sword just last year. Damn, the lad was truly grown.
“I do have some good news,” Marcus said. He paused. “I am to marry.”
Kiernan looked as if he had been hit in the belly. Marcus gave a quick explanation.
A moment later, Kiernan shook his head, his expression disbelieving. “You say she hasn't actually consented?”
“Aye.”
“Isn't an announcement a bit premature?”
“No announcements. I am telling only you.”
Marcus watched his son. He hoped to glean some insight into Kiernan's thoughts but, aside from obvious shock, he displayed no other emotion. The boy had grown too skilled at hiding the workings of his mind.
“Nothing to say on the matter?” Marcus finally asked outright.
“I assume you care for her.”
“I do.”
“Then congratulations are in order.”
“Aye,” Marcus replied, while wondering exactly how he would get Elise to agree. His gaze fell to the Sunday Times still open on the arm of Kiernan's chair. “Let me see that.” He nodded toward the paper.
Chapter Twelve
The afternoon sun hung low in the overcast sky when Elise came to an abrupt halt outside the storehouse located in the southeast corner of Brahan Seer's compound. Marcus strode past the children playing at the bottom of the hill, headed up in her direction. Her grip on the small sack of flour she held tightened. He'd been gone less than a week. He hadn't delayed in returning to Brahan Seer—neither had he delayed in seeking her out. She had left the kitchen a few minutes ago and he hadn't been there. He could have only just arrived. Only one thing would cause him to come for her before even his horse could be unsaddled: he had found the notice and made the connection between Elise Merriwether and Elisabeth Kingston.
Her heart pounded against her ribs and she had to force herself not to run. Where would you go? she asked herself. He made escape impossible. You think he couldn't find you within the confines of Brahan Seer? He crested the hill and their gazes met. Her breath caught at the haggard look in his eyes.
He knows.
The children's shouts melted into the background as he halted so close, the warmth of his breath
displaced the cool, early summer air against her face. She dropped her gaze and bit back tears. Why did he torture her so?
“Hello, love,” he murmured.
Elise jerked her gaze up to his. No anger shone in his eyes. He tugged the sack of flour from her grasp and let it drop to the ground, then wrapped an arm around her waist and drew her close. Passion shot between them in a blazing kiss. She gasped when he showered lush kisses along her chin and down the base of her throat. She inhaled his scent and nearly cried when the familiar fragrance engulfed her senses.
Marcus wrapped his free arm around her and gave her a fierce hug. “I missed ye.” He leaned back and looked into her eyes.
Her heart leapt with joy and sorrow in unison. Would it have been better for him to have found the wanted notice and confront her? He brushed aside locks of hair the breeze had blown across her cheek. He crooked a finger under her chin and tilted her face up toward his. Her cheeks warmed and she flicked a glance at the children who seemed oblivious of them. He stroked her lips with his thumb. A dangerous grin flashed across his face.
“Wha—”
Marcus dragged her behind the thick brush around back of the storehouse. He glanced at the massive oak tree behind them.
“Marcus—”
He backed her against the tree and pinned her with his body.
“You can't be seri—” The protest was cut off as much by the sudden awareness of the hard length of him pressing into her thigh as by his kiss.
Marcus broke the embrace just as abruptly as he'd begun, ending the kiss with a loud smacking sound. Elise stared. He grinned. She shoved at his chest. He bent over her once more and she heard his quiet laugh before his mouth covered hers. He parted her lips with his tongue, not asking, but taking. He shifted and the vague awareness of his fingers closing around her wrists penetrated her consciousness. He lifted her hands above her head, pressing them against the tree as he leaned his weight against her. A tremor ripped through her and her body coiled in readiness for the hard press of him against her thigh again. But Marcus released her mouth and, dipping his head, nipped at her flesh from cheek to ear.
“I haven't forgotten how mercilessly you teased me before I left.” He rocked against her. The press of him against her weakened her knees. “Feel what you do to me, sweet,” he said.
