Deception and Desire (A MacNaughton Castle Romance Book 1)

by Aubrey Wynne

He lowered his head and brushed her lips with his, a whisper of a kiss. She sighed against his mouth, and he skimmed her velvet softness again before continuing. “I want ye to ken that when I return, I’d like to seriously court ye. Unless I need yer mother’s permission.”

  “I’ll be one and twenty in September,” she said in a breathy voice.

  “Is that a yes, then?” In normal circumstances, he would have approached her father and met her family before beginning a courtship. But since that was impossible, he would speak with Mrs. Douglas. He must do this properly.

  Fenella placed her palm on his cheek and stroked the afternoon growth already appearing. She ran her fingers along his lower lip, her eyes intent on their journey. “Are you certain?”

  He nodded as his blood rushed and pounded, his hardness now a sweet ache. A groan escaped him as she leaned forward and placed her trembling lips upon his.

  When she sat back, tears streaked her face but a tremulous smile curved her mouth.

  “Och, lass, I didna mean to upset ye.” He was on his knees, fumbling at the end of his neckcloth to dry her cheeks.

  “I’m so happy. You have no idea… when I was…” She drew in a shaky breath that began as a laugh but emerged as a sob. “You’ve made me so happy.”

  He cradled her in his arms, at a loss for words, his heart fracturing for this woman, this riddle he still could not solve. “Shhh…” He held her as her shoulders heaved and his shirt soaked up her tears. “Do ye want to tell me about it?”

  Fenella shook her head, took in a ragged breath, then nodded her head. “It’s s-silly, I know. But I w-was the object of a cruel joke during my first come-out in London.” Another deep breath and she closed her eyes, her voice steadier now. “I’m n-not what society considers a-a typical beauty.”

  “Then English men are eejits, the lot of them,” growled Lachlan.

  A tiny giggle. “I’m too tall, too intelligent, my voice isn’t high enough, and I hate all the activities that determine a female as a good wife.” She sighed. “When a viscount paid attention to me, I was so relieved and… overwhelmed.”

  As she recalled the venomous whispers, the horrible prank the miserable piece of cow shite had played on her, his chest tightened in fury. This was his answer to the riddle. This was the reason for her lapses of self-confidence, her hesitation, her uncertainty. His fists clenched and unclenched, wishing the sniveling weasel was in front of him. How any man in his right mind could do such a thing for a wager.

  Her heart must have been shattered.

  Finishing her tale, she gazed at him, her breath held as she waited for his reaction. He rose to his knees, clasped her arms, drew her against his length. “If anyone ever hurts ye again, my sweet, they’ll have me to answer to.”

  This time his mouth covered hers and demanded entrance. He groaned with the exquisite taste of her as his tongue swept her mouth. When they parted, her arms clasped his neck while his hands stroked her back, her sides, then settled over her firm, rounded cheeks to press her to his hardness. His lips grazed hers, back and forth, moving along her jaw, down the slender neck. Her fingers moved up and threaded in his hair, gripping his head closer, and he claimed her mouth again.

  Panting, he finally broke the kiss. “Fenella.” He buried his face in her neck, breathing in her sweet vanilla scent, hearing the rasp in his voice. “This next month will be an eternity.”

  She was crying again, and laughing, and nodding while she swiped at her tears. He stood and helped her to her feet. “I’m sorry, my bonnie lass, but if I dinna get ye back soon, those willna be tears of joy.”

  The ride back to Grahamston was quiet. Fenella had managed to arrange her hair again, but her eyes were still red. She wore a shy smile and peeked at him from beneath her lashes several times whenever they rode side by side. “Ye dinna regret our tryst?”

  Her smile was as bright as the first spring day but she said nothing, only shook her head. When they reached her house, Lachlan tied the horses and escorted her inside. Her grandmother met them at the parlor door.

  “Ye’re late. It’s half past four.” She looked at her granddaughter’s eyes and glared at him. “What have ye done?”

  Lachlan opened his mouth then shut it. He silently pleaded with Fenella to help him but she remained interested in the carpet. He cleared his throat. “I’d like to court her properly when I return in August. With yer permission, of course.”

  Mrs. Douglas squinted at Fenella, who now looked up with a radiant smile on her face. The older woman beamed. “Weel, it’s about time!”

  “Does that mean ye agree?” Why could women never just answer a question?

  “Of course I do, ye blunderhead,” she admonished, smacking his arm. “I expect ye back on Sunday to say a proper goodbye to us all.”

  As Lachlan rode away whistling, the dappled mare ponied behind Charlie, he made himself another promise. He would make sure his Fenella became that confident, witty woman he was falling in love with—permanently.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Honeysuckle and Homecoming

  Late June 1819

  Fenella’s lips trembled as she forced a smile. Drat! She’d promised herself she wouldn’t cry. He would be back in a month. His thumb rubbed her chin, sending a ripple through her center as he tipped up her face.

  “Ye ken I’ll be thinking of ye every night?” He kissed her nose. “There are some matters I must tend to at the castle, things I left unsettled.”

  She nodded. He’d spoken vaguely of commitments and promises to the clan. Though she didn’t doubt he cared for her, words of love had never been spoken between them. It was silly, of course. They’d barely known each other two months. Her brain told her to let fate take its course, the words would come. Yet, she longed to tell him what was in her heart. Those three words she’d never heard her parents say to one another.

  Another cruel voice whispered in the back of her mind. What if he doesn’t return? What if his family was against a betrothal to a Sassenach? He has made no declarations of marriage, she scolded herself. Just enjoy this last evening.

  With a deep breath, she met his gaze. “I wish you a safe journey. Grandmama has promised to make shortbread for your return.”

  “Weel, there’s one reason to return posthaste,” he murmured and gripped her waist, settling her against his length, her legs fitting neatly between his. “Any other reasons ye can think of?”

  Fenella grinned. “There might be one or two, but I won’t tell you until August.” She loved never having to bend her knees or hunch her shoulders any more. He was a perfect height for her, a few inches taller, enough to make her feel feminine. Yesterday he had picked her up and swung her around, and she’d felt light as a bird. How would she get through an entire month?

  His lips feathered her neck with kisses, then his teeth tugged on her earlobe. As she closed her eyes, his lips brushed and teased hers. She opened her mouth, shivering at the slickness of his tongue as it swept her mouth. Heat pooled low in her belly, and she wondered how it could be better than this. Could one die from pleasure?

  “I’m coooming,” hollered Grandmama seconds before she stepped into the back garden.

  Fenella pushed away, her face on fire. When she looked up, she found her wicked Scot grinning. “Have you no shame?” she hissed, but a smirk tipped her lips.

  “No’ when it comes to ye, my sweet.” He bowed and kissed her hand.

  “Dinner is ready, so come in for yer last meal with us. We’ve some fine halibut and fresh greens.” Aileen shut the door, and they were alone again.

  “Shall we invite Ian in your stead?” she asked as he drew her hand into the crook of his arm. Her bottle-green dress matched the same stripe in his dress kilt as it brushed against her skirt, his sporran bobbing lightly while they walked. Her fingers gripped the hard muscle of his arm, and she longed to feel him beneath the linen.

  “Ye might ask him once or twice, but he has business to attend to before he leaves again. He’s pr
oposed a trip to England. He wants to look at new power looms in Manchester.” He kissed her temple. “Colin would appreciate the continued invitations. I think he’s grown quite fond of Rose.”

  “She’s grown quite fond of him too.” She stopped as he bent and pulled the small dagger from his stocking. “Will you write? Should I?”

  Her stomach dropped as he turned his back to her. He began cutting at a piece of honeysuckle vine as he spoke.

  “I’m no’ much on scratching words on parchment, lass. Ye’re welcome to send me a letter, but the time it would take me to scrawl a few lines back to ye, I could be knocking at yer door.”

  “Hmm… that’s a much more sensible idea.”

  Lachlan handed her the thick vine covered with fragrant yellow flowers. “Woodbine is a favorite of my Ma’s. She says if ye wear it, ye’ll dream of yer true love.” He plucked a bloom and tucked it behind her ear. He bent and whispered, “Put it in a pocket or somewhere close to ye tonight when ye go to bed.”

  She caught her breath, hope surging in heart. Whether it was his closeness or the fact he thought of her in bed, it did not matter. Those were the words of a lover.

  *

  Rose brushed out Fenella’s hair in long even strokes. The lovely evening had passed too quickly. Her chest was tight with anxiety over what the next month would bring. To be exact, what Lachlan’s return would bring. His words made silent promises, but distance could be love’s enemy.

  “What’s on your mind, dear? You certainly don’t seem like a woman in love.”

  “I—I’m worried that after a month, Lachlan might…” Her eyes searched Rose’s in the mirror. “I’m an addle pate, I know, but what if he changes his mind?”

  “The man is smitten. Can you not see it? He’s not playing with your heart. He wants to capture it.”

  “Hmph! A schoolboy is smitten. I was smitten with the gardener when I was nine. That’s not love.” She hated the petulance in her voice, the battle between the certainty of his affection and old insecurities that niggled at her brain.

  “Stop remembering the past and embrace the future.” Rose bent low, her golden cheek against Fenella’s pale one. “He loves you, even if he hasn’t said the words yet. You’ll see.”

  “I hope so.” She leaned her head back against Rose and closed her eyes. “And what of you and Colin?”

  “He’s a fine man,” the maid responded lightly, crimson staining her cheeks. “I care for him but do not see a future for us. So, I’ll enjoy his attentions while we are here.”

  “Why would you say that? He certainly doesn’t come every week to see Grandmama and me!” She reached up and stopped Rose’s hand in midstroke. “What is it? What is on your mind?”

  Her friend blinked several times, and Fenella saw the shimmer of unshed tears. She stood and took the brush from Rose’s grip. Leading her to the bed, they sat side by side on the mattress. “Now tell me what has happened to make you cry when thinking of Colin. What did he say?”

  She shook her head. “Nothing. He’s been so kind, and I couldn’t ask for a dearer man.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “You know he lost his wife and a son in childbirth.” She wrung her hands and wiped at her eyes. “I-I don’t think I can have children. He deserves to have a wife and a family.”

  “How do you know you’re barren?” This was unexpected. Rose had never mentioned it before. But then, Rose had always been very vague about her past life and family.

  “My menses are very sporadic. I may have only three or four a year. The physician said I would have a hard time conceiving, if I was able to have a child at all.” She turned dark, desperate eyes to Fenella. “He’s finally opening his heart again. I cannot ask him to settle for half a woman.”

  She hugged this dear friend who’d been like an older sister to her. “First, you are not half a woman because you are unable to bear children. Second, it’s as much Colin’s decision as yours, don’t you think? What have you always told me?”

  “Do not fret over things out of your control. Focus your energy on what is within your power.” Rose gave her a watery smile. “It seems I’ve helped raise a wise lady.”

  Fenella went to bed with yellow petals tucked in her shift and a vine of flowers beneath her pillow. Rose’s often-repeated advice had given both women a sense of calm. Lachlan was a good man and a force to be reckoned with. If he were her destiny, nothing and no one could stop him. She leaned back against the pillow and drifted off with a smile on her lips and the sweet bouquet of honeysuckle invading her dreams.

  *

  July 1819

  MacNaughton Castle, Highlands

  Lachlan heard the howl long before he saw the canine. The castle loomed before them, the ancient round tower set against a rectangular stone keep added centuries later. The aged stone and ancient arrow slits at the top of the structure gave way to larger windows and more internal light on the lower floors. Though often an imposing sight to visitors, Lachlan called it home. Another mournful yowl and Brownie came into view. She loped easily down the lane, a mewl of pleasure rumbling from her throat.

  “Ah, my sweet pup, come to me.”

  He dismounted in the outer courtyard and patted his chest, bracing himself for the furry paws that hit his shoulders. A wet tongue trailed up his neck and face. She moaned with pleasure as he scratched the wiry fur behind her ears and down her neck. “Aye, I’m home, I’m home.”

  “Weel, I hope ye give me and yer sister such a fine welcome.” He looked around the brownish-gray head and saw his mother. Glynnis MacNaughton wiped her hands on a clean apron, her auburn hair shining brown and gold in the sun. “Come give me a proper hello, Son.”

  Brownie padded behind him, keen gold eyes following his every move. Her deep bark announced to the entire grounds that her master had arrived. Lachlan embraced his mother tightly as he lifted her off her feet. “I missed ye, Ma,” he said and gave her a sloppy kiss on the cheek.

  “Ye missed my cooking, I’d wager. Come in. We’ve fresh bread and marmalade to keep ye happy until supper.” Her blue eyes sparkled with humor. “Brigid even made berry tarts with cream.”

  “Brigid was in the kitchen? The Lord Almighty must have pushed her through the threshold.”

  “I heard that, ye decrepit swine,” called the girl in question from the door. “Not home five minutes and ye’re already insulting the women of the family.” She ran toward them and threw herself into his arms.

  He wrapped her in a bear hug and swung her around, enjoying the laughter in his ear. “Let me look at ye, my Highland heathen. What kind of bargain made ye agree to spend time in the kitchen?”

  Her green eyes narrowed, and she tossed back the mane of fiery red hair. “Ye think ye ken me so well, do ye?”

  He crossed his arms, waiting.

  “There’s a fine pony in Dunderave I’ve set my sights on. Brodie said if I could feed him for a week without putting him in an early grave, he’d buy it for me.” She turned and ran for the door, yelling over her shoulder, “Which reminds me, I left the tarts baking.”

  “I suppose we can scrape off the black since they’ll most likely be burnt,” Lachlan said cheerfully. “But it’s no’ enough to kill a man, I suppose.”

  “I’m this shy of Bedlam trying to make a proper female out of her.” His mother held out her thumb and forefinger, a sliver of light between them. “Brodie thought a bribe might do the trick.”

  “Until ye run out of carrots and sticks.”

  He beckoned to a young stable lad, waiting under a rowan tree, to take the horse. “Rub her down well. It’s been a long ride today.” The boy bobbed his head and trotted off with Charlie. Lachlan slapped his thigh, and Brownie padded into the castle behind them.

  Inside, the thick stone walls held any heat at bay. He paused to let his eyes adjust to the dim light. Large oak chairs with stuffed cushions and carpets scattered across the stone floor of the receiving room came into focus. On the wall hung ancient swords a
nd battle weapons along with several large tapestries of a hunting scene, the MacNaughton crest, and a battle from centuries ago. He imagined this room looked much like it had when his ancestors had lived here but with a fire roaring in the gigantic hearth.

  Following his mother up the narrow stairs to the first floor, they entered a large dining room. His grandmother’s and mother’s touch reflected here in the paneled walls, wool carpets, and silver and crystal candelabras. Portraits of past MacNaughtons graced the wall. Light flooded the west windows and the smell of freshly baked scones and cherries tickled his nose. His stomach growled.

  “Sit down and eat, Son,” bellowed Calum from the table, waving a bumper of ale. “This batch of salted herring is braw, I tell ye.”

  Lachlan sat next to his grandfather, noting his reddened skin and the added silver lining the sides of his black hair. But the cobalt blue eyes were still those of a young man. He’d passed the deep sapphire color down to his daughters and grandsons.

  Wrapping one of the small fish in a piece of bread, he bit off a chunk and poured himself some ale. It was good to be home. His grandmother arrived, carrying a plate of extremely brown tarts, cherry oozing from the crusty seams. She sat it on the table with a glare of her bright green eyes that dared either man to say a word.

  “Brigid has made us some tarts,” she announced, smoothing her graying auburn hair back under her cap and arranging her long braid over one shoulder. “I believe I shall need some ale.”

  Calum opened his mouth, then pressed his lips together. Even the head of the clan wouldn’t go against Peigi MacNaughton when it came to her grandchildren. Instead, he poured his wife a drink and gingerly picked up a crispy pastry.

  “It doesna smell bad,” he determined and pulled it apart with his fingers. “But where is Brodie? Isna this his idea?”

  Lachlan snorted. “He comes up with the notions, and we suffer through them.” He poked at one of the charred little pies. “How are the cherries?”

  “Salvageable,” said Calum around a mouthful, slipping the burnt shell to his deerhound, Black Angus. Brownie immediately nudged Lachlan’s knee, asking for the same, and he gladly obliged.