Intent on the drape-covered elongated windows, she scarcely glanced at the hearth’s low fire. One hand pressing the short saber of her pirate garb against her hip, she scooted around a marble-topped table.
A moment later, she’d shoved aside the draperies and fumbled with the latch.
“Come on, ye bloody blighter. Open up.”
She untied her mask and, after removing it, stuffed it well inside her bodice.
Ach, much better.
She squinted in the subdued light. With a soft click the lock at last gave way.
Holding her breath again, she edged the panel open and leaned forward, scanning the terrace and lawns beyond. A half-moon faintly illuminated the gardens, walkways, and a burbling fountain topped by a naked Grecian statue.
Did the Greeks never wear clothing?
She pulled back as a large kilted man, his features undiscernible from this far away, tramped through the lawns on his way to the house. Once he’d passed, she peeked out again.
A flash of white around the far corner of the house, followed by a seductive giggle and a low groan met her avid scrutiny.
Quartermain and Mrs. Jameson weren’t wasting time, nor had the conservatory been their destination.
Staying close to the house, using its shadows to conceal herself, Arieen crept along the veranda. A breeze whisked past, and despite her satin gown’s layers, she shivered. Her hackles rose, as did the hair on her arms, almost in a sense of foreboding or as if she were being watched. Pressed to the house’s cold brick exterior, she examined the area.
Nothing out of the ordinary met her scrutiny, and her lungs uncramped.
One thing for certain, she’d make a horrid spy.
She nearly chuckled at the absurd notion.
More primal sounds drifted to her from the shadows, and a blush warmed her face as she turned her attention to the task at hand.
Her plan seemed feasible when she concocted it, but with the moment actually upon her, she found it rather more disconcerting than she’d imagined to disturb a couple in the act of sexual congress.
Nothing for it.
Once she’d interrupted the viscount’s tête-à-tête, he would have no choice but to cry off.
This very night she’d be free of the jackal.
Best get to it then.
Shoulders thrown back and head high, she stepped forward. At the same instant, a strong hand roughly clasped her elbow, jerking her forcefully back against a hard-as-brick chest. She and her captor grunted at the impact.
Two impossibly muscled arms encircled her, holding her captive, as a man clapped one callused hand over her mouth and whispered in her ear.
“Nae, lass, ye’d be interruptin’.”
Coburn shook his head to dislodge the ostrich feather tip attempting to tunnel its way into his left nostril. He tried to subdue the infuriated—or maybe frightened?—tempting armful wriggling and twisting, whilst cursing against his palm.
At least that was what he presumed the outraged muffled threats she spewed were.
“Shh, lass I mean ye nae harm. Ye were about to intrude upon a private moment.”
Biting his hand, she elbowed his ribs and attempted to kick his shins. One boot heel connected with his ankle, and he grunted, his calf radiating in pain.
Hellion.
Her perfume, the merest bit musky, sweet and dark, jasmine and myrtle perhaps, enveloped him. He lowered his nose to her nape and breathed in her heady essence. A woman’s scent, sensuous and warm.
Delightfully rounded in all the appropriate places, the top of her head reaching a scant inch past his shoulders, this wasn’t a wee, frail lass. He found himself breathing hard as he strained to gently subdue her without hurting her or being pummeled in the process. Another well-placed elbow to his gut knocked the air from his lungs.
“Och, ye wee banshee.”
Nae verra wee.
He spun her around until she faced him, her arms trapped between their chests.
“Ye great sod,” she grunted, her voice low and quaking. Hands fisted, she beat upon his torso. “Let loose of me. I ken what they’re doin’.”
He barely avoided the knee she drove toward his groin. The powerful blow connected with his inner thigh instead.
Hell’s bells.
She’d damned near rendered him a eunuch. All because he’d taken it upon himself to save her tremendous embarrassment.
The lass strained away, stretching her neck to glimpse beyond the house and exposing the ivory column of her delicate throat.
“Yer ruinin’ everthin’,” she hissed, accusation sparking in her eyes. She emphasized her frustration by kelping him in the chin.
“I said let me go! I must see them in the act.” Low and raspy, her ire-filled voice resonated with desperation.
She liked to watch intercourse, did she? Unusual, for a woman, but not unheard of. Voyeurism wasn’t a preference of his.
He’d have sworn the lass was an innocent from the way the enormously pregnant dragon had hauled her away earlier. Before he’d pitched protocol aside and introduced himself, at that.
He chuckled, avoiding another kelp to his chin.
“I’d no’ believed a lass as protected as ye appear to be had a taste for peepin’.”
“What?” Eyes owlish, she blinked several times and appeared utterly appalled.
He bit back another intrigued chuckle.
“Nae, ’tis no’ like that, ye filthy-minded cull,” she said.
He gave her his most devilish wink. “If’n ye say so, lass.”
Had her murderous glare been a blade, she’d have gutted him.
Maybe ’twas maidenly curiosity?
Couldn’t she simply watch animals then?
He recalled again the comely, but stern-faced woman whose hostile glare had shriveled his ballocks less than an hour ago. Mayhap this lass was guarded fiercely, and animal copulating was a forbidden sight.
Soft murmuring echoed from behind the house.
The amorous couple had finished. Mighty swiftly too.
His beautiful prisoner must’ve heard their voices as well. Her eyes, the mystical green of Loch Tolhorf after a Highland thunderstorm, and fringed with the same rich ebony as her hair, rounded, then grew glassy.
“Nae,” she whispered. “Nae.”
She shook her head, and those confounded enormous feathers attacked his face again.
“They cannae be done that quickly. They cannae.” Her half-glance upward only came as high as his chin. “Can they?”
Gut clenching, he tried to swallow against the dry thickness in his throat. An innocent then.
“Aye, lass, they can,” he said, his voice dropping an octave.
Shoulders slumped, she sank into him, resting her forehead on his chest and sobbed softly. Her perfume wafted upward again, the trace wholly intoxicating, naughty and nice like her.
’Twasn’t his concern, but honestly, she seemed rather too overwrought at having been denied a voyeur’s peek. Nonetheless, the need to comfort her overtook him, he cradled her sloping back and quivering shoulders.
A feather tip invaded his nose, and he sneezed. “Damnable hat.”
He plucked the tricorn from her head and with a droll grin, tossed it onto a nearby bench.
The cloud of midnight hair he’d admired earlier swirled around her shoulders and down her back. He couldn’t help but seize a handful of locks in his fist and raise the strands to his nose. Desire, hot and powerful, sluiced through every pore.
She jerked her chin upward, rage glinting in her eyes.
Taken aback, he loosened his grip a fraction and leaned away, studying her face.
By Odin, she was truly furious.
And absolutely ravishing.
Trembling from outrage or disappointment, she sneered, her stubborn jaw thrust outward mutinously. “Ye’ve sentenced me to a lifetime of hell, ye interferin’ arse. This was my only chance. My only chance.”
He had an absurd desire to touch his
tongue to the cute indentation in her chin.
She closed her eyes, sheer agony etched upon her exquisite features. “Oh, Guid,” she moaned. “The weddin’ is next week. I dinnae have any more time.”
No doubt looking like the thoroughly confused idiot he was at the moment, Coburn shook his head.
“Weddin’?”
She went rigid, her expression contemptuous.
A shudder of...what? Awareness? Lust? Trepidation? Mayhap all three rippled down his spine.
She jerked her adorably clefted chin in the direction of the muted voices. “Yes. My wedding to that philandering, Sassenach sot.”
In an instant, she transformed from fiery Scot to regal British lady, her speech as refined as an Englishwoman’s, though it still held a hint of lilting brogue.
Why hadn’t he seen her before? He regularly visited Edinburgh and had been here weeks this time. A finger to his chin, Coburn studied her, then comprehension dawned.
“Ye wanted to catch yer betrothed cheatin’ so ye had a reason to call off the union?” Coburn asked.
“Yes,” she mumbled through stiff lips, angrily wiping her cheeks with her fingertips. “If I haven’t any voice in whom I marry, I never want to wed.”
Poor lass.
Didn’t she know her betrothed’s behavior was commonplace?
She’d need a much stronger reason for her affianced to beg off than being caught in an indiscretion, especially since he didn’t appear the noble sort. Not if he engaged in rogering lasses against houses in the cold night air.
Nae, her intended seemed more of an opportunistic bugger. Disgust and revulsion for her betrothed vied for supremacy, even as compassion twisted his heart for her.
Her trothed and his lover’s voices grew louder, and his captive pirate pinched her full lips together.
“Arieen? Are ye out here?”
A man called into the night from the other side of the terrace.
“Da.” The word exploded softly from her lips.
So, her name was Arieen.
It suited her dark elegance.
Panic rounded her eyes, and her chest rose and fell as she gulped frantic little puffs of air. She swept a wild glance first to where the ardent couple were about to emerge before careening behind Coburn to where the other voice had summoned her.
Her obvious desperation triggered his alarm as well. He’d tried to help but feared he’d waded into far more than he’d anticipated. He released her and plowed a hand through his hair, dislodging his scarf. It floated to the ground, puddling at their feet.
She followed the fabric’s progress before gradually lifting her gaze to his. Something acute and worrisome flickered behind her eyes, then was gone in a flash.
Expression undecipherable, she shoved her gown off her sloping shoulders. So far off, in truth, he had a lovely glimpse of the ample mounds pushed high by her stays. A red, black, and gold mask lay snuggled between the pearly flesh, and only with supreme effort did he keep from grinning and plucking it from its lucky nest.
She glanced at her bare shoulders and, lips pulled into a straight ribbon, yanked one side down farther—clear to her elbow—exposing her stays and the lacy chemise underneath.
What was she about? Perchance she wasn’t a complete innocent, after all.
“Arieen? Arieen Gillian Kinna Flemin’. If yer out here, answer me this instant.” Her father’s voice held impatient anger. “Why didna ye watch the lass closer, Morag?”
“Dinna ye dare blame me. The ungrateful wretch was supposed to be dancin’ with Douglas McDowell. I told ye allowin’ her one last ball was a mistake. Ye should’ve kept her locked in her chamber until she exchanged vows with Viscount Quartermain.”
A viscount? Och now.
One hand on his hip, Coburn angled a brow at her. ’Twasn’t every day a lass scorned an alliance with a lord, even if he was a bloody Sassenach sot.
Wait a buggering minute.
He cut a brief glance over his shoulder. Had the woman said they’d locked Arieen in her chamber? She’d been held prisoner in her own home? Confined by her parents and was being forced to marry a man she clearly despised?
Pity bathed him, replaced a moment later by contemptuous anger toward a couple he’d never met. His premonition screamed a warning, and he swung his focus back to Arieen. Distracted by her plight, he’d delayed too long.
She’d slid a dirk from her belt and pressed its cutting edge to his ribs.
Coburn could’ve easily wrested the knife from the fascinating lass, but perverse curiosity demanded he know what she intended.
“I dinna believe ye’ll skewer me for denyin’ ye yer peepshow, lass.”
“Really? I have nothing to lose, thanks to you, Mister...?” She laughed, a brittle, hollow sound. “I don’t even know your name.”
The breeze blew a few raven tendrils across her face, but she remained stock still, her blade angled. How experienced was she with the dirk? Was he fool enough to find out?
“’Tis Coburn Wallace, and yer Arieen Flemin’. Any relation to Robert Flemin’?”
She gave a single, terse nod. “His daughter.”
Scorn’s acidic taste filled his mouth. Offspring of one of the richest, most unethical cits in Scotland. Did Miss Arieen Fleming take after her foul sire? Nothing Coburn had witnessed suggested she did, but then women could be most convincing and conniving if the need arose.
He looped a stubborn fluttery strand of hair behind her ear—aye, even softer than the ebony tendril appeared—then gave into the impulse to trail his forefinger along her jaw.
To his utter astonishment, she raised onto her toes and touched her mouth to his. First tentatively, but with increasing fervor he never would’ve suspected. Mayhap she had watched copulations, or at the verra least had kissed a few lads.
Except her kisses were clumsy and lacked the finesse of a woman practiced in the art.
“Kiss me back,” she demanded, her tone throaty.
“Lass, I dinna...”
The blade pricked sharp and sure.
Mayhap he had underestimated her.
“Kiss me. Now,” she ordered, her mouth against his.
She wanted revenge against her viscount.
He could give her that much.
Damn him for a fool, Coburn cupped her head with one hand and splayed his other hand against the hollow of her back, forcing her chest to his. He plundered her mouth like the buccaneer he was attired as, and she answered like the wanton wench her costume suggested.
Lust exploded, and for a long moment ’twas just the two of them, breaths and tongues intermingling.
She went soft and pliable in his embrace, her free hand clasping his back, and he arched her neck for deeper access to her sweet mouth.
“Arieen? Is that you? What the bloody hell goes on here?”
Quartermain’s haughty affront doused Arieen’s unanticipated ardor, but inflamed her ire all the more. Struggling to compose herself, she settled back onto her heels as she stepped away from Coburn Wallace.
She expected him to hightail it, but instead, his expression amused, he folded his arms and cocked his head. His hair swished to the side, brushing his shoulders. He had lovely hair for a man.
And that beautiful mouth...
Lord, she’d kissed those lips and enjoyed it.
Exhaling, she sheathed her dirk whilst sweeping an admiring glance over his sculpted torso. A thin scarlet ribbon glinted above his ribs. Ribs that had rippled with solid muscles while he cocooned her in his equally impressive strong arms.
Hound’s teeth.
She’d actually cut him.
A complete accident, but that didn’t lessen her remorse.
Aghast, she raised an apologetic gaze. “I’ve hurt you,” she whispered. “I truly didn’t intend to. Forgive me, please.” Though she spoke of the cut, she also meant for using him in such a callous way.
That wonderful mouth of his quirked into a playful grin as examined his side.
; “Dinna fash yerself, lass. ’Tis only a scratch. I’ve had worse.”
When she’d tossed all common sense to the rubbish pile and demanded he kiss her, she’d been intent on one thing: being caught in a compromising position. Beyond forcing Quartermain to beg off, she hadn’t considered the consequences, and that had been utterly, unpardonably stupid.
Self-loathing throttled through her veins. She’d been unfair to Mr. Wallace, a total stranger.
The immediate, inflaming desire when they’d kissed had shaken her to her core and thrown her off course. Her wits yet flitted about like inebriated butterflies.
Wouldn’t you know it. A braw mon who finally made her bones melt and caused her pulse to flutter. A Highlander too, smelling of the outdoors and his own unique manly scent. And everything about the situation was wrong, wrong, wrong.
He’d never forgive her for exploiting him.
However, if her scheme had worked...
After righting her bodice, she faced her betrothed straight on.
Quartermain advanced, stalking forward, his bearing incensed and menacing. Masked and cloaked in black, he appeared sinister. Almost evil.
A jolt of apprehension skittered across her shoulders. This side of him she’d not seen before. Honestly, it didn’t surprise as much as unnerve.
“I expect an answer, Arieen. You are my affianced. Why were you kissing this...?” He flicked his fingers disdainfully at Mr. Wallace. “Highland scum?”
Upper lip curled, he spat the word as if spewing offal from his mouth.
One of Mr. Wallace’s mahogany brows shied high on his forehead, and a rigid jaw and steely glint in his eyes replaced his jovial countenance. “I’d watch my words, if I were ye, ye prancin’ Sassenach bampot.”
How dare Lord Quartermain be offended?
She’d but kissed a man. He’d had relations with Mrs. Jameson out in the open where anyone could’ve stumbled upon them.
Arieen lifted her head in bold defiance. “I’ll explain myself, my lord, when you enlighten me as to why you were shagging Mrs. Jameson in full view of anyone who might’ve passed by.”
“No sense trying to explain a woman’s needs to a child.” Mrs. Jameson, rather than looking appropriately abashed, appeared entertained. She had the audacity to wink at Arieen. “The risk of discovery makes it all the more thrilling, my dear. You’re a lucky girl. Fulbright is very rigorous in his attentions.”
To Redeem a Highland Rake: A Historical Scottish Romance (Heart of a Scot Book 2) Page 3
