Kissing the Countess (18 page)

She looked down at the book. "It's lovely that you knew Sir Hugh personally. I have always enjoyed his poetry."

He did not want to talk about poems. He wanted to take the blasted book from her and toss it across the room. Instead, he sat on the foot of the bed, his weight sinking the mattress a bit.

"Catriona," he said.

She raised her knees to draw her feet away from him. "Did you know Sir Hugh well?" She turned more pages.

"I know his son and heir, Aedan MacBride. I was invited to his home during school holidays. I attended Eton and then Edinburgh University with Aedan, who's is now laird of Dundrennan, and with Aedan's cousin, Dougal Stewart. We three are good friends still. I hope you will meet them someday."

"How nice to have such good friends, and to have known such a great man."

"To be honest, I saw little Sir Hugh himself. I went fishing and hillwalking with the lads and yearned rather pitifully after the lasses, the sisters and cousins who were there too. Romantic poetry was a means to an end with the girls, though no doubt I made a fool of myself." He grinned sheepishly.

She laughed. Evan loved that musical sound, sweet notes up and down a scale. She gave him a mischievous look and slipped out of bed to cross the room, replacing the book on the bookshelf near the chaise longue.

Golden lamplight haloed her form and shone through the translucent fabric of her nightgown. He could see her full, round breasts, her beautifully shaped legs, the sultry curves of her hips and slender waist. His body surged at the sight, but he only crossed his arms and lifted a brow slightly.

He had known her only briefly, true—but he knew more than most grooms knew about their brides on the wedding night. He already knew her lush curves, the way she tasted, the sound of her breathing as she slept in his arms, and he could not forget that easily. She worked some magic over him, all unknowing, and he was caught fast—and could not explain any of it.

"My dear," he said, and stood, coming toward her. Lord, he thought, he did not even know how to address her. "I suppose we ought to... discuss our arrangement."

She turned, arms folded over her bosom. "Arrangement?"

"Aye. Our meeting and the ur marriage was a shock to both of us. And I know you are not the most content of brides."

"We scarcely know each other," she agreed.

He tilted his head. "Marriages have been made from less."

"Aye—though I am still puzzled that you went through with this." She narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. "Does the earl need a countess so much?"

"What do you mean?"

"A Highland girl and her family to take care of Kildonan in the earl's absence, who can smooth his way with the locals?"

He frowned, felt his temper stir. "Is that what you think? I did what I thought was right today. I want to give this a fair chance. It is a beastly business to undo a marriage." His parents had lived separately for twenty years to avoid the ordeal of divorce in the courts. "And we cannot simply annul our union."

"We cannot," she said. "I thought you wanted to wait a few weeks to see if—" She stopped. "If a child comes of it."

"Regardless, I think we can get along well together."

"We had to get along in that shieling hut, or perish. And I believed you were—just Mr. Mackenzie. A man I could trust."

"You can trust me by whatever name I have." He shrugged. "Besides, what was I to say? That I am the gentleman you loathe most in the world, and then invite you to sleep beside me?"

"I would have appreciated having the choice," she snapped.

"If I had told you, madam, we would both have frozen."

"Why do you want this marriage?" she asked bluntly.

He paused, frowning. He did not know how to explain that he felt compelled to be with her, that he felt desire, respect, and a kinship of lonely souls with her. It seemed, suddenly, needful and desperate, and he was not that. Never that.

A small war waged inside him between fierce craving—physical desire and some deeper, indefinable need for love—and his very logical self, which cautioned him to go slowly, dance the pretty dance and see what came of it.

Delve into marriage, or slow down to courtship? He frowned. He had closed off his heart for two years—yet in Catriona's company, he felt healed, understood, whole inside. No woman had ever affected him like that before. He wanted to be with her, whatever it took.

But he could not risk opening himself up too much. Pride and natural reserve made him shrug. "I am accustomed to risk, and I am willing to take a chance on this marriage. Apparently you are not so convinced to try."

"I will not merely accept this because it is convenient," she said crisply. "Good marriages are made of far more than... attraction and necessity." She blushed.

"Love? That's a rare thing, my lass. I've heard it happens, but it's not portioned out to everyone who makes a match. Still, many marriages do quite well without the ideal of love."

She watched him, brows tucked. A little light seemed to go out of her eyes, and he cursed himself for speaking his mind.

"You do not expect to love your wife, yet you wish to be married to her?"

He hesitated. "It is not easy to explain. Fate took a hand, but we have chosen well. You will be an excellent countess, and you got your much-needed rescue. You would be in poor straits without this marriage, I'm afraid. And that is my doing."

He knew he sounded cold, but he could only reveal so much of his feelings all at once. He felt compelled to be with this girl but did not know why. Nor was he one to question things endlessly. Both logic and instinct said this was a good match. And he would be damned if he would spend his wedding night discussing love, when he had always believed it could not come to him.

"I know our first meeting was unusual, but—"

He laughed, could not help it. She pursed her mouth, and he nodded. "Sorry. It was. Go on."

"And I know our, ah, encounter happened out of fear and desperation and... a need to survive."

"It was rather pleasant helping each other survive."

She scowled at him. "But what if we are not compatible without danger and risk? We got along then because we had to. But in ordinary circumstances we have little in common."

"We have this glen in common," he said, wafting his hand toward the window, where the moon was a clean slice of light over the dark, primeval mountains. "We have our educations and our Highland heritage. We have our shieling hut... and our wedding."

She looked away. "Our somber wee wedding."

"Not a very happy affair, true. But the bride was lovely," he added quietly. His glance slid down the length of her body for a moment, where the candlelight shining through her gown had continually drawn his gaze.

She seemed to realize suddenly that he could see through her nightgown, for she snatched a paisley shawl from the chaise longue and swept it around her shoulders. Its folds did not obscure his view of her excellent legs.

She crossed her arms. "If only we could start over."

"I have no desire to fall off a mountain again," he drawled.

"I meant that most relationships that lead to marriage begin with introductions, friendship, then... courting, and after affection, and, and love... and marriage. We began backward."

He stared at her. She was right. Whether it was a dance, a pathway, a mountain to climb, or a marriage—one had to take things step by step. "We could start again. Without the mountain or the ice storm."

"Just start again. We could." She looked up at him, her eyes sparkling suddenly. Then she thrust out her hand. "I am Catriona MacConn, sir. The minister's daughter." She smiled.

She had elusive dimples. God, she was beautiful, he thought. Laughter and smiled transformed her handsome face into something extraordinarily, fleetingly beautiful.

"And you are
not
Mr. Mackenzie," she said.

His lips twitched. "Lord Kildonan." He took her hand, her fingers slim and cool in the cage of his, and bowed deeply. The chaise longue stood between them like a barricade.

Her dimples deepened, her blue eyes sparkled. In her translucent gown, her wild, fiery hair loosened, her breasts lifting beneath the fabric, she was more than enchanting—she was passion itself.

Looking at her, he felt an invisible blow, a rolling punch to heart and gut. For a moment he wondered, rather astonished, if he could fall in love. Was it even possible?

He had climbed mountains, sunk deep into the ocean, had risked his life countless times. He had not quailed at stepping open-eyed into an impulsive marriage to save the girl's dignity. But nothing made him quake as much as the thought of love.

Heart thundering, he kept hold of her hand and walked around the barricade of the chair, turning her to face him. He drew her slowly toward him. Something burned within him to be said. It had nothing to do with courteous little games to ease the awkwardness between them.

"We will start again if you want," he said in a low voice. "This is your wedding night, and you should have all your will. But I do not think we can wipe clean the slate and make a little innocent friendship between us just to see where it leads."

"If we had been introduced as the earl and the minister's daughter—perhaps we could—"

"Could we?" He pulled her closer, and she did not resist. "What would you have felt if you had met me for the first time in your father's church or in some matron's drawing room at teatime? Tell me." He slid a hand along the side of her face, cupping the delicate, stubborn contour of her jaw.

"I would have... felt an attraction to you," she breathed.

"Do you feel it now?" he murmured, dipping his head low.

"Oh, aye," she whispered, leaning back her head. He touched his mouth to hers.

Feeling her lips move sweetly under his, he pulled her close to kiss her as he wanted to do, swift and hard. Sliding his fingers into her hair, feeling its softness cascade over his arm, he kissed her until he trembled from the indefinable force that rushed through him.

Sweeping her full into his arms, he pressed his hips against hers, felt her lush shape and blessed warmth through flimsy layers of silk and gauzy cotton. He knew how intimately they fit together, knew she was aware of that too, as he kissed her, bending her back, and he felt his body harden for her, hot and insistent, his desire impossible to hide. But he held back.

Keeping himself aloof and alone for so long, now he felt a faster, deeper desire for her than he had ever expected. Yet he would not let himself appear needy. Even if, deep inside where he kept his secrets close, he wanted to be loved, and to love, more than anything else in life, he would not let it be known.

But for these few moments, he could not help but love touching her, kissing her, so long as she would accept it.

Slipping his tongue between her lips, he felt her sigh and soften. Tracing his mouth down, feeling the warmth of his own breath mingle with her heat, he nuzzled her throat, her ear.

The way she arched in his arms was a natural invitation, and when he slid his fingers along and down to find the high slope of her breast, she moaned softly, writhed a little, so that she shifted to let him feel the pearled nipple through cloth.

Teasing with the open palm of his hand, he felt her give way in his arms. He felt himself tighten so much that he caught his breath, and once again captured her lips in a deep kiss. She wrapped her arms around his neck, soft and yielding, pressing her body to his.

He knew and his body knew the lusciousness of her. Wanting that again with her, he felt his heart pound like an engine. Another moment and he would scarcely be able to control himself. Squeezing his eyes shut, he drew a long breath.

Then she pulled away abruptly to stare up at him, her chest heaving, her lips full from kissing, her breasts nudging deliciously through the fabric of her nightgown.

"Not now," she said breathlessly. "Not yet. We must—I think we should see where this goes of its own accord."

"I think we both know where it would go of its own accord, madam. We are extremely... compatible." But he inclined his head and stepped back, feeling cool air slice between them. His body burned hot, cloaked in silk folds. He stepped back again.

"As you wish, madam," he said, mastering his breath. "We can start again. Court, if you will. But I will not mince about playing games. You know that I am willing." He reached out to stroke her arm, his thumb brushing the side of her breast lightly, moving past, though it drove him mad. He wanted her. Courtship and delay was madness. "Choose, Catriona. That kiss and all that comes with it—or none of it."

"N-none?" She blinked at him.

"No games, no insincere vows, neither of us imprisoned in an unhappy marriage. You will have to choose that last kiss—or life without it. Take marriage in full, as Countess of Kildonan, or go back to being Miss Catriona MacConn. I will accept nothing that is in between, and I trust you would feel the same. Either way, I will honor my vow to take care of you," he murmured, and brought her hand upward to kiss it slowly. "But decide. Will you trust me and accept what I offer, or not?"

Every part of him burned for her like a fine shivering of flame within. He let go of her hand. "We both need some rest. If we are to begin again... let it start with a good night's sleep."