Kissing the Countess (32 page)

She watched him. "I thought... it was my fault."

"We agreed then. We simply... agreed," he said tenderly. He slid his hands to her waist, snugged her against him.

"I never meant to hold you to any obligation. You have no use for a poor Highland wife. I have no title, no fortune, nor even an inheritance, no social importance, no influence. If you have debts, you should have been free to marry an heiress."

"What makes you think I want a wife with those qualifications?"

"You are an earl—you need a true countess, raised to that life. I fear that later you will regret this marriage, when you realize how unsuited we are and how little you have benefited. And then you will resent me and cast me aside, and we will live apart, or separate altogether. I do not want a marriage like that."

"Neither do I." His tone took on a sharp edge. "My parents had a marriage like that. I never want that for myself; nor do I want a society success for a wife, regardless of money or influence or whether or not she enhances my status."

"But you are a peer of the realm—"

"I think of myself as Evan Mackenzie, not the Earl of Kildonan. And this Mackenzie is content with a wife who will match him wit for wit and strength for strength, a wife who will see his flaws and still care about him. A wife whose generous, loving nature will make him a better man. A better man, not a better earl," he stressed.

"But—"

"Catriona Bhan," he murmured softly. "Hush."

He tipped her chin with a knuckle and lowered his head, and the touch of his lips upon hers was slow and deep, and within that kiss was the promise of all she had ever wanted and more.

She sank forward into his arms.

* * *

He filled with fire the moment his mouth took hers. The kiss began with hard insistence and grew tender and exploring, lips fitting, melding, caressing. She opened to him, sighed, the taste of her sweet, the sensation one of forgiveness. Somehow he knew he had waited for her most of his life, and he felt as if he had kissed her a thousand times, as if somehow he knew her wholly, totally, and felt that she knew him that well, too.

Above all, he was aware that he loved her, without doubt, no matter how brief their acquaintance. That no longer astonished him and rather took on the sheen of a miracle in his heart—that he could love, that it could enter his life so easily, when he had known suffering in the past and had not forgiven himself. Now the love that brimmed up inside of him felt like a blessing, like a gentle flood of warm rain, a soothing reassurance from some other, powerful source. That revelation blended now with urgent, deep-seated desire.

Aye, he was a little drunk, he knew. An evening's worth of whisky heated his blood and whirled in his head. It warmed his affection for her, loosened his will, weakened his resistance. He wanted her, and she was willing, and this time he need not stop as he had done on their wedding night. She was his wife, and whatever must be confessed and negotiated between them would find its time. Passion ruled this moment, and it was all he wanted, all he needed now. He knew she needed this, too—he sensed it in the hungry tenderness of her kisses. He heard it in her soft, breathy sighs.

Holding her, feeling her arch toward him, her body taut and beautifully curved against his own, he felt stirred to a depth of madness. He moved his mouth on hers, with hers, nipping and caressing. He skimmed his hands over her torso, wrapped his fingers around her slender waist. Sliding upward, hands easing over her silk bodice, he traced the shape of her breast, feeling her gasp—letting his hand round over, massage the fullness. Grazing his fingers upward, he undid the small buttons that closed the bodice of her gown, exposing the pale, flawless skin. He could sense the thunder of her heart under his hand, and he kissed her again, with urgent hunger.

She moaned beneath his lips and moved her body against his, and he caught her to him with one arm, her body curving gracefully in the support of his grasp, her arms circling his neck. Heart and blood pounding, he restrained his urges, going slowly as she gradually opened her lips to him.

He slipped free the last button and slipped his hands inside, over her, his body surging, hardened, as he dipped his head to kiss her here, there, pushing silk away from her shoulders as she looped her pale arms around his neck again. He remembered another night when she did that, the night he first began to love her, and it fired him further.

Hands, fingers, his and hers, worked at tapes and ribbons until her other garments slipped off, then his too. He hardly marked what they were, where they tumbled. Overwhelmed by the urge and the freedom as he touched her luscious skin, kissed her shoulders and the long arch of her throat, he tasted the sweetness of her, filled his hands with the cool, silky weight of her hair, all of it driving him mad, driving him onward.

When she arched again in deeper invitation, her sweet willingness, her breathy excitement pushed him beyond thought. She slid her fingers through his hair, traced her sweet breath along his cheek, his ear, her body moved within his embrace like a siren. He did not know now if he was seducer or seduced—at first he had urged her, and now she drew him, her spirit strong and beautiful, and he powerless under that spell.

Sweeping her up into his arms, hearing her little surprised laugh, he carried her through the connecting door and into his bedroom, dark as a cave, the forest-green walls and mahogany furnishings dark in the moonlight, the golden candlelight pooling on the bed linens where he set her down and sank with her into that plush softness. She pulled him down to her, and as he slid his body along the length of hers, marveling at how well they fit, made for each other, long legged, matched perfectly.

Eager and inquisitive, her fingers slipped upward while together they tugged at his belt, his kilt, pushing it away, and she found him then, shaped and grasped him. And he could not bear it—she arched against him, her body exquisite as he skimmed, touched, felt her move and whimper and welcome him, seeking him, and he kissed her again, thought he might burst, the heat rising between them like flame.

They had sought warmth between them on the night they met, and now as he found that heat with her, he knew he loved her, would never stop loving her—knew that every time he touched her he would remember that her warmth and generosity had once saved his life. And he felt a little part of his soul coming back to him, through her and the love they created.

She had told him once that a little part of the soul could be lost in times of tragedy, and suddenly he knew that was the key, that was the magic—she had brought him back to life somehow when he had been lost, restored him. Not fully, but enough—like a breath, or a sip, enough to wake and startle him into living again. And he could not stop touching her, could not hold himself back from loving her.

As he touched her, teased her to the brink, she surged against him and he covered her, filled her, felt the need pour through him in waves, cleansing and remaking him.

He was not the man he had been just weeks ago. He was finer, stronger, better—and she was the catalyst. He had never thought to love like this, never. Yet it was easy, a natural flow of heart and soul, and all he needed to do was open, accept the possibility, give of himself.

Chapter 22

Turning another page in the accounting book on the desk, Evan glanced up at Finlay MacConn. His young factor and brother-in-law stood on the carpet of the sunlit study, his brown woolen jacket hanging loosely from his wide shoulders. Frowning, Finlay bunched his hat brim in his hand and looked at his sister.

Catriona stood beside the empty leather chair before Evan's desk, which both siblings had refused. Calm and still, her hands joined, she looked both demure and seductive, her beautiful curves clad simply in one of the dark walking skirts she preferred and a high-necked white blouse that complemented her translucent skin and the warm sheen of her hair. Her usually pale cheeks were blushed pink, her blue-gray eyes steady, and her chin raised proudly, almost defensively.

Evan resisted the urge to smile at her, remembering their shared delights of the previous night. Neither Catriona nor Finlay seemed in a mood for smiling or even relaxing, which puzzled Evan. Surely meeting with the earl over the estate records held no threat to any of them. Finlay was a very capable factor, from what he could tell. He wondered, though, if Catriona was still tense about Evan's decision to sell parts of Kildonan. Perhaps she had spoken to her brother about that.

But when he saw yet another glance pass between his wife and her brother, he wondered at the message there—and suddenly felt that they knew something that he did not.

Evan skimmed his fingertips down another page of columns filled with numbers and lists of tenants' names. He sat back and tapped a knuckle thoughtfully against his lips. "We have eighty-two thousand acres," he finally murmured. "What was the number of sheep in the last count?"

Finlay cleared his throat. "Fifty-one thousand, four hundred and twenty-seven, as you'll see I wrote there in the book, last spring," he said. "Not exact, but close enough. It's devilish hard chasing the sheep down from the hills, let alone count them. That's how many were caught and clipped last April, sir."

"An enormous task," Evan commented. He turned the page to look at other notations. "And this? Twenty-six men hired up from the South for the gathering, clipping, packing, and transport of the wool?"

"Aye," Finlay answered. Again he looked at Catriona.

"How many tenants do we have on Kildonan lands now?"

"Well, since Kildonan includes the whole of Glen Shee," Finlay said, looking up at the ceiling as if thinking, "and not all of those tend the sheep... about eighty households, with perhaps four hundred ninety residents of all ages."

"Does that include the men hired to live in the glen and look after the sheep?" When Finlay hesitated, Evan repeated the question. "How many are those?"

"That includes the eighteen men with their families, sir. They're all Lowlanders and Englishmen."

"I see." Evan paged back in the large book, looking at the careful rows of figures entered by Finlay and the last factor, Kenneth Grant's father, with some entries by Evan's own father, though he did not see his father's handwriting very often. "How many residents did Glen Shee hold before?"

"When, sir?" Finlay asked.

"Before," Evan said pointedly.

"Thousands," Catrionae answered. "Perhaps two thousand, five hundred in your great-grandfather's day—before this was an earldom and before the clearings began so that the land could be turned to sheep runs. Now we are less than five hundred here."

Evan nodded pensively. "It seems odd to me."

"What does?" Catriona asked almost sharply.

"With all the sheep on these acres and all the work each spring needed to get the wool to market... for the last two years, according to these figures, less than thirty men did all of it."

"That was what your father wanted," she said. "The fewer men and their families, the better. More room for the sheep."

Evan flipped another few pages, found pages dated to earlier seasons, and ran his finger down the columns. "For the two years before that, we employed several more men for the clipping and wool packing... yet the estate had less sheep. Thirty-five thousand in the flocks five years ago." He looked up.

"Perhaps Mr. Grant's father, the previous factor, was not very good at record keeping," Catriona suggested.

"Aye, he was better at other things," Finlay muttered.

"Such as?" Evan looked up.

"Evicting," Catriona said. "He was good at evicting."

"So was my father. Is that what you mean to imply?"

"Aye." She stared at him boldly. "You know that's true."

Of course he knew that, but he gave no sign of it. He turned pages until he came to a clean one. "I'd like a census."

"A what?" Finlay asked. "A counting of sheep or tenants?"

"I want a list of the tenants," Evan said. "I want to know who lives here, where they live, and how many are in each household. I want to know what work they do for the estate, if any, and how much they are paid for the work."

Finlay gulped, Evan saw, and slid another glance toward his sister. Whatever the fellow was hiding, he was not good at it, because there were high spots of color on his cheekbones.

"And we could do with another exact count of the sheep," Evan said. "We should keep the count going every month, adding and subtracting as needed. That way we will know, next spring, just how many men we will need to do the work."