Emerald Embrace (34 page)

“Opportunity!” she exclaimed with horror.

“Aye, well, you say that you will not desire me. But I have not forgotten certain sweet and forbidden things that we have shared. Such things do, mistress, upon occasion, bear fruit. You might want to take that into consideration—along with Mary’s emerald. Damn, mistress, but you did deceive me so well! But if our relationship has brought about the planting of a seed … well, then. I would imagine you would prefer your child’s future to be that of heir to a castle, rather than a bastard born and bred.”

She stared at him, for once at a loss for words. He bowed to her once again, then disappeared through the dressing room door.

She found her voice and fury at last and stormed across the room, slamming hard upon the door. “I think I’d rather have a bastard than the heir to this particular castle!” she cried. “Do you hear me, Laird Creeghan?”

His soft laughter was her only response. She slammed the door again.

To her surprise and then dismay, the door opened. He was shirtless and bootless and she stepped back and he smiled. “’Tis your last night of freedom, lass. May I suggest that you retire and enjoy the bliss of an empty bed?”

“I’ll not marry you.”

“I think that you will.”

She swore savagely. “It is my emerald.”

She could read nothing from his burning eyes or rock-hard features.

“I hope it is important enough to die for,” he said.

“You would die for this pile of rock!” she cried. And then her lashes fell as tears burned behind her eyelids. “Well, there is dirt and rock that I would die for, too,” she whispered.

“What are you talking about?” he demanded.

“Nothing! Nothing. It’s none of your business.”

“Martise—”

“Don’t! You think that you always have your way. That you can order and manipulate others at will. Well, things in my heart are my own, Bryan Creeghan. And that you cannot command.”

“There seems to be nothing that I can really command from you,” he said, and his burr was suddenly soft, even tender.

She didn’t want to look at him. She whirled around and headed back for the bed, and stretched out upon it, not even removing her shoes.

He did not close the door.

“You are going to go through with it, aren’t you?” he asked her.

She was silent for several seconds. Then she whispered, “Aye.”

“Why?” he demanded.

She did not look back to him. “Because the laird of Castle Creeghan has commanded it, why else?” she retorted.

And she fell silent. His eyes remained upon her back, she knew, for a long time.

And then the door closed softly between them.

She rolled over and stared at the dragon motif on the bedcovering and ran her fingers over it. She was going to marry the man she loved.

And that would be the greatest charade of all.

M
artise dozed on and off through the night. Her sleep was restless, filled with dreams. He was there with her, her lover, the laird of Creeghan. And he came to her, walking through the mist and the wind, walking over the rock. She knew that she awaited him, awaited him naked and vulnerable around a sheet of ancient rock. And she should be running, but she could not run, because he was coming.

Clad in a dark cloak and the mask of the dragon. And all that appeared of the man beneath the mask was the fire of his eyes.

But still she waited … waited because she knew the sweet succulence of his touch. Waited because she could not run. Whether he brought pure ecstasy or the silver flash of death, she would wait, because she could not run.

He came nearer and nearer, and still she held. Whispers surrounded them, gentle on the breeze, growing louder. She heard the sound of the surf, crashing far below. The salt taste of the sea sprayed against her face, and there were no more whispers as the wind rose to a crescendo. He spoke to her, in the burr of the Highlands, and he told her that Castle Creeghan awaited her, that the castle needed a bride. That it was her last night alone …

And then he was before her, and she saw the deep-bronzed strength of his long-fingered hands fall gently against her breast and travel to her throat. He cast aside the dragon mask, and his features were bare and handsome as he moved low against her. His fingers caressed her throat, and she didn’t know if he meant to kiss her … or to kill her.

There was no kiss. She awoke with a start, and suddenly she was angry, very angry. A candle burned from the desk, and outside, the darkness of the night was beginning to fade as the rising sun struggled to cast a pink glow into the room.

She leapt up, not taking the time to think, and burst into the dressing room.

The second the door opened, he shot up. He stared at her, dark hair tousled and disheveled, his gaze sharp. The blanket fell from his chest, displaying its hard-muscled nakedness. “What is it?” he demanded harshly.

“You!” she told him, hands on her hips. “You! How dare you threaten me.”

Both dark brows shot up, a small smile curved into his lip, and he leaned comfortably upon an elbow. “Would you care to elaborate on that?”

“Indeed, I would. Yes, I need the emerald. It was never Mary’s, it was always mine. Margaret kept it for me for a while, but then she thought that she, being in Richmond, was in an even more vulnerable state. She arranged to get it to Mary. Mary must have asked your brother to keep it safe. Maybe he didn’t know where it had come from, although I cannot believe Mary didn’t tell him. That, my Lord Creeghan, is the truth, and you better believe it!”

“Will I?” he asked politely.

“Yes, if you expect me to exchange vows with you in order to catch a murderer. I did come here for Mary, too. And that you will also have to believe. She sent me letters about how frightened she was, and she was my friend, my very good friend. If someone here did kill her, then that someone must be punished.”

“Someone …” he murmured. “So does that mean that you no longer believe it was me? Or Bruce?”

“Bruce is dead. He could not have rendered me unconscious in the crypts.”

“Ah, but I could have. I was there with you, soon after the deed.”

She didn’t reply immediately. If she had any sense, she would consider him the prime suspect.

But love had stripped away her common sense. She shivered, remembering her dream. If he did mean to harm her, would she be able to regain her soul and run?

“I am in this room,” she offered.

He cast aside the covers and stood. He had slept naked, but he seemed not to notice his state as he gripped her wrists and forced her eyes to his by the power of his will. “I do not suspect you!” she said, wishing now that she had not come. It was too disturbing to be held by him so.

“Only upon occasion,” he said.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“All right, Martise. It’s nearly dawn. We are about to wed. So I will believe in you, believe your words, if you will put your trust in me.”

“But I—”

“Your total trust. Not sometimes, but always. Not ‘I do not wish it to be him, but perhaps it is.’ Nay, lady, believe in me, and I will help you.”

“Help me what?”

“To find the emerald. You must want it very badly. To have risked my room, believing that I might be the murderer …”

She wrenched her hands free and moved away, leaning against the door. Perhaps it hadn’t been such a wise move. The laird of Creeghan lacked not one bit of his power and arrogance in his naked state.

She tried to keep her eyes steady with his, and not to allow them to fall. “Yes, I need it very badly. I have a home in Virginia that means very much to me. I’ll lose it if I can’t pay the new county and state taxes on it.” She paused briefly, lashes falling, then rising swiftly. “I need something other than, er, Confederate currency.”

“A house? A plantation, I imagine.”

“Yes.”

“Good tobacco crops, cotton?”

“Yes.” She had forgotten just how well he must know Virginia. “Some of the richest soil in the state,” she told him.

He was silent for a moment, watching her. “Perhaps, if I survive, and Creeghan survives, we can save this place of yours, too.”

She lifted her chin high. How could he carry on a conversation so nonchalantly?

“I don’t want your charity,” she told him. “I just want my own emerald.”

“Perhaps it can be found. But,” he added on a note of wry humor, “I imagine that you’ve searched thoroughly for it already. I don’t know where to begin to look myself.”

“It must be here!” she said desperately. Then she couldn’t bear standing across from him as he was, and spun around to leave.

“One moment!” he said sharply. She paused with her hand upon the doorknob.

“What?”

“I never threatened you over the emerald.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” she said.

“You came in here telling me that I had threatened you. And that you weren’t going to let me do it. What were you talking about?”

“Oh,” she murmured. Her knees felt weak. She needed to escape.

She had come in upon him in a thunderous fury.

She swung back around, bracing herself by the door. “Last night,” she began softly. There was no substance in her voice. Her eyes fell again despite her best efforts, and she felt a riddling of sweet excitement rip through her. Like an Apollo or a Zeus, or any classical god crafted of marble or granite, he was truly beautiful in his naked form. But he was not made of marble, and muscle and sinew rippled within him, and the pulse of his heart was evident in his veins, and all that was rugged and masculine and rawly seductive about him was very much in evidence.

“You threatened that last night should be my last night alone,” she snapped out, drawing up her eyes.

He smiled and crossed his arms over his chest. “I wasn’t threatening,” he assured her, and added softly, “I was promising.”

“You are really an insolent rake,” she retorted heatedly. He shrugged and walked toward her. “All right, then, it was a warning.”

He stood right before her. She felt the radiating heat of his body, so very close.

“You are forcing this marriage, Laird Creeghan, and beyond that, you would threaten—”

“Warn,” he interrupted.

“And bully.”

“I do protest,” he said, and, by then, he was very close to her. Flames leapt in his eyes, and he leaned forward. He did not touch her lips, but his tongue flicked over her lower ear, and then his mouth formed in a soft kiss at her throat.

She felt the pulse leap and stagger within her, and she knew that he felt it too. She wanted to move her hands upon his shoulders, to taste the bronze flesh there. But she held still, and when his eyes met hers again, she reminded him, “We’re not married yet.”

“Nay, we’re not,” he agreed.

But a hand was now on either side of her head, palms against the door. She could feel the heat and hardness of his loins, pressed close, through the various fabrics of her clothing. He touched her lips lightly. “I can wait,” he told her. “For I know that the prize I await is greater, and perhaps all the sweeter for the torment.”

“I must get back to my room,” she whispered.

“Why?”

“Because we shall be discovered.”

He shrugged. “And if we were? What then? I am the laird of the castle. No one questions my will.”

“But they whisper and they talk.”

“It is not yet six. No one will be looking for you.”

How could anyone infuriate and seduce so damn easily? she wondered. And yet it had become a point of her will, and her pride, and she would not give in to him. Well, whatever came from this alliance, she would not be among those who instantly obliged the laird of the castle.

She lifted her chin and managed a sweet, seductive smile of her own. “We’re not yet married,” she repeated.

“There’s still no reason for you to run, lass,” he said softly. Then he pressed his finger to his lips. “Shh!”

She went still, feeling him against her, hearing the hallway door to the bath being opened. Her eyes opened wide with alarm, but his gaze upon her was lazy, decadent, and amused. She heard the splash of water and frowned.

“’Tis Hogarth and the lads with water,” he said. “This morning, we can share my bath.”

“I’ll not—”

“Shh!” he repeated. And a second later, there was a tap upon his door. “Bryan, Bryan Creeghan?” Hogarth called softly. “’Tis six, and yer bath is ready.”

“Thank you, Hogarth,” Bryan called loudly, eyes never leaving Martise’s. “I am awake.”

“Is there any thin’ else, then, me laird?”

“Nay, I’ll be fine on my own, Hogarth. Thank you.” The door closed. He still stared at her, smiling. “Come, join me.”

“I don’t care for a bath.”

“What? My bride does not intend to bathe for the nuptials?” he said in mock horror.

“Well, you see,” she retorted, “I was not given time to respond with a proper gown, or shoes, or hose, or chemise—so it would seem futile to pretend this shall be a customary wedding.”

“Alas! And I’d dreams that my Southern beauty would smell as sweet as a rose against a winter’s day.”

She arched a brow in disbelief. “Am I to believe that Hogarth would give you, the laird of Creeghan, rose-scented soap? I had imagined a bridegroom with some alluring, spicy scent, something a bit more to his gender than roses.”