Mia Marlowe (11 page)

The fiend in question pulled back a curtain in the ballroom and peered out at them. Pleased by the look of consternation on her betrothed’s handsome face, she decided to needle him further by leaning toward Sir Darren.

“Flattering words are easily spoken, sir. They slide off the tongue and into the ear and mean next to nothing.” She walked her fingers up his arm.

The curtain opened wider and from the tail of her eye, she saw Alexander’s jaw drop. If she tempted Sir Darren into kissing her, Alex would have to pick his chin off the floor.

“I’ve always felt actions speak louder than words,” she said with more boldness than she felt. After all, she’d only really kissed one man before, but she was owed the chance to try two others. Lucinda was eager to do it if she could flummox Alexander in the process. “Perhaps there’s a way ye can show me the depth of yer esteem for me.”

Lucinda tipped her face up, inviting MacMartin to kiss her.

She didn’t have to ask him twice.

Sir Darren grabbed her and jerked her roughly to him.

 

 

“That’s it, Sassenach,”
Brodie whispered into Alex’s ear, though the Englishman gave no sign of having heard him. Lord Bonniebroch all but pressed his nose against the steamed up window panes, peering out at Lucinda and that other fellow.
“Are ye no’ going to do something, man?”

The blasted Englishman had been so intent on the dirk dance, he wouldn’t have even noticed Lucinda leaving the room with Sir Darren if Brodie hadn’t jostled him enough to make his gaze swivel in their direction. Then Alexander “High-and-Mighty” Mallory finally deigned to make his way around the room at entirely too slow a pace to suit Lucinda’s ghostly protector. Brodie had to blow on the curtains over this window to make them part, as if from a draft, before the man thought about looking out onto the terrace where Lucinda was playing with fire.

When Lucy walked her fingers up Sir Darren’s sleeve, Brodie nearly burst a gut, or would have if he’d had one, but Lord Bonniebroch stood rooted to the spot.

Brodie would have gone himself. He imagined setting a small fire in Sir Darren’s left boot. It was a neat trick and one he’d perfected with plenty of practice. Or perhaps he’d give the man a case of the prickly heat in his crotch that would have him sitting down in agony and peeing like a girl for a month.

Brodie would give her a stern talking to later that night once she was back in the safety of her own chamber. If such a thing were possible, he’d have liked to take her over his knee and tan her backside for the way she was flaunting herself before that MacMartin fellow.

But Brodie could do nothing at the moment.

There was a goodly breeze outside. Naked tree limbs swayed with it, their bare twiggy fingers scratching the sky’s dark back. A spirit might be blown halfway to the River Tay before he could get in any serious licks on Sir Darren.

Then MacMartin suddenly pulled Lucinda close and covered her mouth with his in a kiss that was about taking, with not a smidge of giving at all.

Alexander Mallory cursed softly and streaked out of the ballroom and down the corridor to the French doors.

Brodie smiled after him.

Satisfied that Mallory could handle matters on the terrace, Brodie turned his attention back to the assembled Englishmen. There wasn’t much he could do if Sir Darren proved to be more than a match for Alexander.

At least a fight would allow Lucinda time to escape. Of course, women sometimes liked to stay and watch. And once in a while, they even sided with the loser in a contest of strength—an oddity in the feminine sense of fairness that never failed to baffle Brodie.

His gaze fell on the portly fellow holding court with the head of the Campbell clan. Lord Rankin, he’d heard him named.

One of Brodie’s favorite tricks was to emit a noxious odor between two people he wished to separate. Both of them would assume the other fellow was to blame for the stench and they’d sidle away from each other in embarrassment.

 

 

Lucinda gasped, but Sir Darren showed no sign of letting her come up for more air. His mouth was so firm over hers, it reminded her of one of those glass cups physicians used to suction a patch of skin and draw out the ill humors that made a body sick.

She’d only goaded him into kissing her because Alexander was watching. Oh, how she wished she hadn’t.

Kissing other men was highly overrated.

Alex’s kisses left her light-headed. Darren’s made her light-stomached. She felt all queasy and dirty inside. When he grasped her buttocks and lifted her into him, she nearly retched into his mouth.

Lucinda balled her hands into impotent fists and pounded his chest.

“Le’ muh gaw,” she said into his mouth.

“The lady wants you to let her go,” someone said.

The voice belonged to Alex. So did the hand that wrenched her free. Along with the fist that connected with Sir Darren’s jaw.

Unfortunately, Sir Darren landed a punch as well. Alex’s head snapped back, but he didn’t go down.

“Don’t be blaming me,” MacMartin said, fists tucked under his chin, ready to lash out to protect his face. “That little tart all but begged for it.”

“Aye, I know she did,” Alex said, his body taut as a hound on point. “I was watchin’ the pair of ye through the window.”

Lucinda stared at him in wonderment. There was the slightest hint of a brogue in his voice, even more than in Sir Darren’s. Where had that come from?

“Then you know she started it,” MacMartin said as he circled warily.

“And I’m ending it,” Alex promised as he launched himself toward the other man.

Lucinda had seen enough male ferocity while she watched her brother perform the dirk dance to last her a lifetime. The naked aggression on Alexander’s features as he whaled away on Sir Darren MacMartin made Dougal’s stylized combat seem pale and toothless by comparison.

The men met with a furious exchange of blows and counterpunches, a strike to the midsection here, an elbow to the kidney there. Lucinda flinched at each thud of fist on ungiving flesh. The fight degenerated into a brawl with no observable rules.

Snow fell more heavily now, sticking to the slate pavers and making them slick underfoot. Lucinda slipped as she backed away from the men and would have gone down if she hadn’t grasped the dead vines crawling up a trellis attached to the great house.

She gasped when Alexander staggered back a pace after one of Sir Darren’s wild swings connected with his temple. He ducked the next blow and came up with an undercut to Sir Darren’s jaw. The force of the wallop spun MacMartin around and laid him out on the snow-covered terrace.

A dribble of red showed starkly on the gathering white.

“Damn you, Mallory.” MacMartin rose to his knees, swiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You’ve knocked out a tooth.”

“Stay down or you’ll eat nothing but soup for the rest of your life.” Alex stood over him, chest heaving, fists still clenched. For good measure, he planted his booted foot on his foe’s spine, pushing him back into a prone position. “You will give Miss MacOwen a wide berth for the rest of the time you remain here at Dalkeith. If you’re seated next to her at supper, you’ll excuse yourself and take a tray in your room. You will not dance with her. You will not speak with her. If I mislike the way you so much as look at her, we’ll do this again and I won’t stop with one tooth. Have I made myself clear?”

MacMartin nodded, but otherwise remained motionless.

Lucinda’s heart fairly sang. Alexander
did
care for her. No man laid out another like that unless he had feelings for the lady.

Then Alex turned his steely gaze on her and she began to have a bit of a rethink. If his glower was any indication, the feelings he had for her now were not the ones she was hoping for.

He didn’t say a word, but when he grasped her firmly by the wrist, she had no choice but to accompany him back toward the palace. Alexander pulled the French door open and then once they were inside, he threw the bolt behind them. Sir Darren would have to trudge all the way around the great house in the increasingly thick snow in order to re-enter by the main doors in front.

“You’re going to make a terrible enemy,” Lucinda said.

“Thanks to you, I already have.” He tugged her down the hall. “Did it occur to you that I might have more important things to do than to make sure you don’t come to grief through your own foolishness?”

She decided to let the “foolishness” pass unremarked. She had been foolish, but he was still her betrothed. Alexander owed her the protection of his body. “Most men find tending to the welfare of their future brides to be quite important, more important than other matters, in fact.”

“Most men don’t have their future brides forced upon them.”

Lucinda swallowed back her hurt at that and settled for bristling anger instead. The man was being hateful for the sake of it. Very well. She could repay him in kind.

She hoped they’d return to the ballroom where a sprightly tune signaled that a country dance was in progress, but Alexander kept barreling down the corridor without slowing one bit.

“If I’ve pulled ye away from something so dreadfully
important,
far be it from me to keep ye.”

“Trust me, madam, you now have my complete attention.”

She didn’t like the sound of that. And her wrist was beginning to ache where he gripped it.

“My sisters will wonder where I’ve gone.” She broke into a trot to keep up with his determined strides.

“No, they won’t. They’re having far too much fun dancing to fret over your whereabouts,” he said. “Besides, you should have thought of that before you left the ballroom with that blatherskite MacMartin.”

“Aunt Hester will be looking for me.”

“Your aunt Hester will be looking for her next tot of rum. She was working on her third when I left her. The drink may leave her drooling, but it makes the old bat more agreeable.”

“That’s no’ verra charitable of ye. She’s a poor old widow woman—”

“Who probably drove her husband to the grave with her incessant demands.” He pulled her into the first available empty room.

A banked fire smoked in the grate, but it was enough for Alexander to use to light the lamp with a straw taper. Then he closed the door to the corridor, sealing them in.

The room turned out to be a study of sorts. There was a wall of bookshelves, but they were too sparsely filled to be called a library. Hunting trophies lined the other walls, disembodied heads of rams and stags glaring down with glass-eyed gazes of amazement at finding themselves in such a state. A bearskin rug, complete with a snarling openmouthed maw, was stretched out in the middle of the room.

There was no desk, but a pair of wing chairs done up in scarred, worn leather flanked a small table where a game of chess was set up. The board was in a state of play, with the black bishop threatening the white king. Unless the player on the white side was willing to sacrifice his queen, the game would be over inside a couple of moves.

No players were in sight, more’s the pity. Lucinda needed a buffer between herself and the man who seemed fiercer than the bear on the floor. She settled for crossing her arms over her chest and meeting Alexander’s glare with one of her own.

“I hope you’re satisfied,” he said.

“You beat a man to first blood,” she said. “Why do ye think that should please me?”

“Because you tempted him into kissing you so I’d do it.”

“Sir Darren has no free will? That’ll be a surprise to his vicar.” The intense way Alexander looked at her made her tremble. She’d have a better chance at suppressing how he affected her if she were sitting. Lucinda crossed the room and sat in one of the wing chairs. “And how can I be to blame for you bursting out onto the terrace and picking a fight with the man?”

“It’s clearly what you wanted. You purposely allowed him to kiss you in the hope of making me jealous.”

“So you
are
jealous.”

“Of MacMartin? You jest. I only intervened to save you from his ignoble intentions.” He gave her a mocking bow. “I’d have done the same for any other silly female in similar circumstances.”

Her chest constricted. How had Alexander divined her intentions so easily? If he had any tender feelings for her, he was making a good job of hiding them.

“I wasn’t trying to make you jealous because you have no standing to be. The only thing binding us is a contract and I’m no’ yours yet,” she said tartly. “May I remind you that you agreed I should kiss three men before our wedding?”

“That wasn’t a kiss. It was an assault,” Alex said through clenched teeth. “Admit it. You were out of your depth and struggling to break free from him.”

“No, I wasna.” The lie tasted sour on her tongue. “And even if I was,” she amended, “if I’d wanted to get away, I would have.”

“Really? What would you have done if I hadn’t arrived?”

“I was . . . I would have cried out.”

“No one inside would have heard you and MacMartin is probably the sort who enjoys hearing a woman protest.” Alexander paced before her, energy crackling off him like heat lightning. “Especially if there’s nothing else she can do about it.”

“There are other things I could do.”

“Oh, do you mean the way you were pounding on his chest? If you weren’t trying to get away, I have to assume you think men like being pummeled while they kiss you.” He leaned on both arms of the wing chair, forcing her back into the tufted seat. “Most men don’t relish being punched when they’re trying to work their way into a woman’s pantalets.”

That made her breath hitch uncertainly. She wouldn’t have classed herself a prude, but when he said “pantalets,” she flushed all over. Maybe her reaction wasn’t embarrassment though. Maybe it was something much different. Something darker and more dangerous. And tinged with wicked promise.

Alexander’s face was so close to hers, his breath feathered warmly over her mouth. The scowl melted from his features as he looked down at her with an intensity that made her belly jitter. Her lips parted softly. She couldn’t seem to help it.

“What . . .” she whispered, “what
do
men relish when they . . . when they’re . . . ?”

“Trying to work their way into a woman’s pantalets?” he repeated, his voice husky this time.

Lucinda didn’t think her voice would work so she simply nodded.

“You really want to know?” The sharp edge of irritation left his tone.

She nodded again.

“Trust,” Alex said simply as he brushed his fingertips along her cheek and then tipped her chin up. “A man relishes a woman’s trust.”

Slowly, he lowered his mouth to hers.

This kiss was so far removed from the blistering taking of Sir Darren MacMartin, they couldn’t be classed as the same act.

Alexander’s lips caressed hers, warm, wet, and insistent. Even though she could still sense his bridled fury in the aftermath of his fight with Sir Darren, Alex’s strength was controlled.

She opened to him like a daisy to the sun and his tongue slipped in to explore her with tense gentleness. When their mouths finally separated a bit, she was aching in the tender place between her legs and desperate for more.

Lucinda draped her arms over his shoulders. “You win, Alexander. I trust you.”

He kissed her again, long and slow.

It was wonderful, but it wasn’t
enough.

“What else does a man want . . . when he’s working his way . . . into a woman’s pantalets?” she asked breathlessly between kisses.

“Yes,” he said and claimed her mouth again.

What? That makes no sense.
But then she wasn’t thinking terribly clearly. Maybe he wasn’t either.

Alexander’s kisses made her lips tingle and her head fuzzy. It was as if she’d sneaked into her great-aunt’s store of rum and consumed the lot. When she inhaled, all she could smell was him, all leathery and male and with a light undernote of spicy bergamot. He made it hard for her to put a coherent thought together, much less voice it, but she finally managed to whisper, “Why ‘yes?’ I dinna understand.”

“The only thing a man wants to hear a woman say is ‘yes.’”

“Oh.” She went all limp and liquid inside, lost in the heat, the yearning, the wonderment of his mouth. “Aye,” she said, soft as a sigh. Then, for his sake, she amended it to the very English “Yes.”

His hands moved from the arms of the chair she was sitting in to her breasts.

She jerked in surprise, but then his kiss deepened, his tongue gently exploring. She supposed she ought to find this all normal, his soft caress through the thin silk of her gown, the way her body seemed to melt in places. After all, folk had been doing this dance since Eden. A man seducing a maiden was the most ordinary thing in the world.

But now it was happening to her and that made the old dance new. Fresh as the Garden itself. No man had ever kissed a girl like Alex kissed her. No one had ever felt this jumbled up Oh-God-what’s-coming-next anticipation that swirled in her belly. No one had ever made love before. Alexander and Lucinda were making it up as they went.

It was life-altering. Shattering. Inevitable.

The tips of her breasts peaked to hard points, each so sensitive and throbbing she groaned into his mouth.

His fingers dipped into her bodice, first a brushing, teasing series of strokes. Then he moved around the chair so he could tip her head against the seat back, run his palm over the length of her neck, and slide his whole hand down the front of her gown.

Oh! To be held so. The aching eased for a few heartbeats, and then began again in desperate throbs. He took a hard peak between his thumb and forefinger and gently squeezed. A jolt of desire zinged from that sensitive point to her soft molten core.

But it still wasn’t
enough
.

She unbuttoned the seed pearls that marched down her bodice and unlaced her stays enough to tug the neckline of her chemise down. Still suckling his tongue, she helped him free her breasts completely from her layers of clothing so her skin lay exposed to his touch and his gaze.

“You’re beautiful,” he said as he kissed down her neck to her waiting breasts.

When he took a nipple in his mouth and sucked, she thought she’d die of bliss. He tugged at her peaks, bit down on them till she moaned his name.

Even this delight wasn’t
enough.

The nameless longing moved down her body, raging into a stronger ache that settled between her legs in a steady pounding throb.

She was thinking it so loudly, she was sure he must be able to hear.

“I do want you, Lucinda,” he growled in her ear as he thrummed her nipple.