Samantha James (3 page)

Maura raised her brows. “How can you be sure?”

Eileen chuckled. “Oh, I doubt ye will miss ’im,
masquerade or no. His hair is as black as yer own. He towers over every man ’ere, why, a giant he is. A fair handsome one, which is why the ladies take to ’im so!

“He and the baron have been out at the streams fishing most days, as the baron and his father used to do,” explained the girl. “According to Mrs. O’Hara, he takes to the ladies as much as they take to ’im!”

That was precisely what Maura had been counting on. By now her strategy was well conceived; it involved both daring and dread. Daring because of her deceit to the baron, as well as the fact that she must play a part she had never played before; dread that if her plan failed, she might never have another chance such as this.

A short time later Eileen applauded Maura’s costume with clasped hands and a delighted laugh. Maura turned to the mirror almost reluctantly.

She had fashioned her costume with an almost defiant determination. Her skirt was of crimson satin, its ragged hem barely covering the top of her riding boots. She wore no petticoats. Maura noticed dimly that she felt remarkably unencumbered. A crimson and white striped scarf covered her head. Her hair flowed in loose waves over her
shoulders and down her back, nearly to her waist. She’d tucked a loose, gauzy, peasant cut blouse into the skirt, cinched tight by a wide leather belt, and borrowed a cutlass from among those in the baron’s costume room.

But it was the blouse that gave Maura pause. Not wanting to be trussed up twice over, she had discarded her corset for the night. She wore a sleeveless, black leather vest over it. Eileen had tightened the laces of the front of the vest quite tight.

One fleeting glance at her reflection and her jaw dropped. Her eyes widened in consternation. Her breasts swelled high and round and full, straining against the nearly sheer white cloth. “Oh, my,” she breathed. “Oh, my.” She longed to snatch up the coverlet and sling it over her shoulders.

But that would have been so very counterproductive.

Eileen left with a smile. Maura jumped when a knock on the door sounded a few minutes later.

“Maura?”

She slipped a small silken pouch—different than her other—held by a black ribbon, over her head and between her breasts. She opened the door to Murdoch, dressed as—very apropos—a butler. She stepped into the corridor. He blinked when he
saw her costume but made no comment. “We are late,” Maura said hurriedly. “We should go.”

Murdoch closed the door. “You have the pouch from Toothless Nan? The—”

“Yes, yes, I have it.”

“You realize, Lady Maura,” Murdoch said worriedly, “if we cannot discover who he is, one of us will have to query the baron.”

Maura said nothing. Somehow she sensed that she would know exactly who he was, no matter his costume. But she didn’t say so. Instead she said, “Remember the plan. When I do not appear downstairs promptly at seven to—”

“Yes, yes. I know where to find you.” Murdoch’s tone was unmistakably grim. “And now I must warn you, Lady Maura, that if all does not go as planned, do not hesitate to do what you must to prevent him from—”

“Yes, yes, Murdoch, I shall!” Maura was impatient.

Just before they ascended the stairs that led to the ballroom, Murdoch laid a hand on her arm. His gaze searched hers questioningly. “Are you certain,” he said quietly, “this is what you want?”

Maura’s eyes darkened. “Pray do not ask that, Murdoch. It is what I must do. You know that I promised Papa.”

He sighed. “I know, child. But there is an old Irish proverb: ‘If you dig a grave for others, you might fall into it yourself.’ That is what worries me.”

“I shall be fine, Murdoch. Truly.”

In the ballroom, the baron, dressed as King Henry VIII, greeted them heartily. There was food, but Maura could scarcely eat. Her gaze roamed the room.

She spied a jester. A small-statured man dressed as Napoleon. No, that was definitely not the duke. Eileen had said he was tall.

Maura’s palms were damp. She would never have called herself vengeful. And it wasn’t revenge that filled her chest. Fear, excitement, all the chaos in the world. She spied a priest garbed all in black. Eileen’s words echoed in her mind.
Takes to the ladies, he does.
Now that would have been irony indeed, if he chose to dress as a priest!

Growing restless, she began to walk the perimeter of the ballroom. Her gaze seemed to scour every inch. They’d missed the introduction of the duke. Why did this have to be a masquerade? She or Murdoch would have to ask his whereabouts after all.

Maura felt her mouth pinch tight. She sought to soften it. She’d conjured up a far different vision
of the duke than Eileen had described. Oh, aye, she could well imagine his appearance. She pictured him as his pirate ancestor. A scurvy, slimy runt of a man. With yellow, rotted teeth—what teeth there were left! No doubt Alec McBride, Duke of Gleneden, was surely the ugliest man to walk the earth. On that thought, she stopped short.

And then…no sound in the world, no image, no words could have prepared her for what she saw next. Lingering near the hall entrance stood a man. An exceedingly tall man. One eye patched, a tartan thrown over one just as exceedingly broad shoulder.

Maura froze.

Her heart thundered.

Her pulse lurched.

Their eyes met…and held. Held endlessly, she thought vaguely.

Yet in that mind-shattering instant their eyes caught, that same sizzling sense of certainty slid over Maura, the way it had the night her father died. She had felt it in her father’s blood—she felt it in hers.

By heaven, it was him. Alec McBride, Duke of Gleneden. The man known as the Black Scotsman.

It spun through her mind that perhaps it was fitting that she had chosen her garb as she had…She stood as if anchored to the earth, unable to move, to even blink, as she watched him slowly make his way toward her…

Together they stood.

Face-to-face.

Toe-to-toe.

Pirate-to-pirate.

Alec McBride, Duke of Gleneden, stood at the edge of the ballroom and scanned the crowd once more. It was quite a crush. A faint smile rimmed his lips. He’d never been particularly fond of masquerades. But as he was the guest of honor, he was obliged to work his way around the room, shaking the hands of those he’d met during his time here—despite the costumes.

He spied Lady Alicia McDormand, dressed as a vampiress. Another dressed as Marie Antoinette with her great white wig. A man sauntered by, enrobed in black, with a deep cowl that completely shadowed his face. The man paused, and when a hand with great claws emerged to bring the
fingers of a gaily laughing witch to his lips, Alec chuckled. He was acquainted with the inspiration for the man’s costume. Tonight he was the Demon of Dartmoor, penned by his brother Aidan’s wife, known to the world as F.J. Sparrow.

They would laugh when they learned the frenzy had extended to Ireland. Of course now they were halfway around the world on their honeymoon.

Ah, yes, while he’d enjoyed his time in Ireland, he was chafing to be home. He’d remained in London in the spring for Aidan’s wedding. He’d visited Annie and Simon in Yorkshire and his mother in Bath prior to making his trip to Ireland. He wouldn’t forego the baron’s invitation, not when his father and the baron had been such great friends. But the thought of returning to Gleneden, sitting in the great hall in his favorite chair, his feet propped up and sipping a whiskey at his leisure, was appealing beyond belief. And—

The thought stopped mid-stream.

He was obliged to revise it.

Ah, yes, he decided. Appealing beyond belief…

His return to Scotland was forgotten. He stood some twenty paces distant near a tall fluted column when he spied her…a woman who gazed into the throng as if searching for someone.

The set of her shoulders was proud. She was tall for a woman, but small-boned. Brave of her to appear with her hair loose—and bold of her, he thought with a vent of admiration, to wear a skirt that clung to her hips, revealing the shape of her buttocks as she turned ever so slightly. Aware of a low simmer alight in his belly, he surveyed her, an admiring assessment.

She was exquisite. Indeed, there was much to appreciate about the lady.

And most fortuitous for him that her costume of choice was the same as his, for it provided him an avenue of introduction.

Almost before he knew it, Alec found himself standing before her. He had no memory of crossing the black and white tiled floor.

He executed a slight bow. As he straightened, he secured two glasses of wine from a passing footman and handed one to her.

“Good evening, my fellow pirate,” he said smoothly. “Are you expecting someone? Your escort, perhaps?”

He gazed straight into her eyes, eyes that were a startling, vivid shade of green. At his question, the lovely said nothing, but shook her head. The tip of her tongue came out to run over her lips, leaving them dewy and damp, the color of blooming heather after a misting of rain. Desire, sharp
and swift, clamped hold of him. He was a little startled at its strength.

Alec’s gaze had already roved her from head to toe. Her skin was almost iridescent, and no doubt as smooth as a pearl, he was certain. And there was a goodly expanse of it revealed, he noted in satisfaction, battling the impulse to reach out and touch, to confirm his assessment.

As if he needed such an excuse. He was well aware he was right.

Those delectable breasts quivered with a deep, indrawn breath. He quite enjoyed the view. She gazed up at him. Her feet were braced slightly apart, one slim hand on her cutlass, as if, indeed, she balanced herself on the rolling deck of her ship.

And certainly there was nothing tentative in her appraisal of him. It was no less thorough than his. Alec took a swallow of wine, aware of her forthright study. Was it bedding she wanted? If so, he would accommodate. Oh, indeed, quite obligingly.

But he discovered himself rather impatient. Dammit, he wanted to hear her voice. Sweet and musical? Low and sensuous? The latter, he decided.

“I applaud your costume.” He allowed a faint smile to curl his lips. “I believe it is the first time I’ve seen a lady play the part of pirate.”

“Indeed.” He was right. Her voice was low. Vibrant. “Have ye never heard of Ireland’s most famous lady pirate, Grace O’Malley?”

“I have not. Pray tell me of this pirate.”

She smiled, running her tongue over her lips again. A stab of sheer, raw desire bolted through Alec. Vaguely he wondered how she would taste…He had to drag his gaze away from her lips to concentrate on what she was saying.

“Many called Grace O’Malley the Sea Queen of Connaught. Her father was involved in shipping and trading. Irish legend tells it that as a young girl, Grace wished to accompany her father on a trading expedition. When she was told she could not because her hair would catch in the ship’s ropes, she cut it off.” She gave a low, husky laugh, flipping her own hair back over her shoulder.

Alec took a sip of wine. His gaze had sharpened. Beneath her pirate’s scarf, her hair was beautiful. Thick, tumbling waves flowed down her back, the glossy black of a raven. Of course, if they had met under other circumstances, her hair would have been hidden, neatly tucked beneath a bonnet or pulled back into a tight, restrained bun, no doubt. Instead it was wild and unrestrained…as wild and unrestrained as she was, he suspected.

“I should imagine every man here is glad you did not do as the young Grace O’Malley,” he murmured. “I should consider it almost sacrilege.”

She made no comment on his remark, but continued with her explanation. “Even once she was wed, Grace sailed the seas. A fierce sailor, our Grace O’Malley, who would not be beaten down by the English as they tried to take over Irish lands.”

“She sounds quite fierce. Why, I almost hate to reveal to you that I am half English.”

Her head tipped to the side. Black, piquant brows arched high. Wordlessly, she eyed his plaid.

Alec gave a mock sigh. “And aye, half Scots.”

“In truth?”

“Oh, aye, in truth. Does that mean I shall be unable to curry favor with you?”

A slow-growing smile edged her lips. “Are you familiar with the Giant’s Causeway in Antrim?”

“I am. I visited there a scant three days ago.” Alec was reminded of the huge basalt columns descending from the cliffs to the sea like giant steps.

“Then perhaps you’ve heard of the legend of Finn McCool, who lived there with his wife Oonagh. From across the channel there, the Scottish giant Benandonner began taunting him, tell
ing Finn that he was but a wee giant compared to him. Benandonner declared that he was the stronger and he could prove it, if only the channel did not stand in the way.”

She ran a finger around the rim of her wine-glass, all the while maintaining that alluring smile. “Now, Finn could not stand for such insult from his Scottish rival. So Finn built a causeway out of the stones to cross the water and demanded that Benandonner come prove himself. Alas, Finn was so exhausted from building the causeway that when Benandonner came, he needed a wee rest before battling him. Thus, his wife Oonagh disguised Finn as a baby and put him in a cradle, should Benandonner come before Finn was ready.”

His lady pirate spread her hands wide. In some far distant part of his mind, he noted her tendency to speak with her hands as well.

“And Benandonner did indeed come chasing after Finn, thinking to best him. Yet when Benandonner arrived and spied Finn sleeping quietly in his cradle, he feared the mighty giant Finn even more after seeing Finn’s ‘baby.’ So frightened was he that he had not the courage to face Finn. He fled back to Scotland, terrified, tearing up the causeway so Finn could not follow.”

Alec tipped his head to the side. “I have heard
this story. But I was told the Scottish giant was much larger than the Irish.”

His lovely lady pirate waggled her finger back and forth. “Oh, no, no.” She spread her fingers, turning her hand palm up. “However, even if that were true, Finn’s wife Oonagh proved herself the smarter of either of them.”

Alec laughed softly. “At first I was convinced I must prepare to defend my Scottish heritage. And now I find I must defend my gender as well.” He gazed down at her. “Perhaps we should resume our role as pirates. Are we acquainted with each other?”

“I think not.”

“Never on the high seas? Fighting over the booty of a ship gone down? In port where we shared…perhaps…a pint or two of ale or a bottle of rum?”

“I daresay,” she said lightly, “that we are evenly matched on the high seas, sir. And—” she drank from her wine, smiling as she did so. That seductive smile was still in place as she lowered the glass. “—perhaps elsewhere as well,” she finished with a faint laugh.

“I see.” Alec leaned against the pillar, as if considering. “A pity. I could hardly call myself a pirate were I not the sort to kidnap ladies and do…” He let the sentence trail away, his meaning clear.

She met and matched him full-on. “Perhaps you should fear what I might do were I to kidnap you, Scotsman. Why, I might take you to some warm, distant island across the ocean. You’d be forced to spend long nights alone in my cabin. And when we arrived, why, I might bind you. Tie you to a tree so I might indulge my preferences. You see, at such times I have this urgent…need, shall we say.”

“Need?” He arched a brow. “What need?” Her lips were damp and red from the wine. He wanted them wet with the wash of his tongue.

“It is the land, you see. After those many days and nights at sea, I revel in the feel of land beneath my feet. And it’s then…”

“Yes?”

“…that I prefer to dance naked round the fire. I fear it is the pirate in me.”

Alec threw back his head and laughed. A coquette? Without question. No timid miss here. The brazen display of her breasts, her suggestive, outrageous banter, all proclaimed otherwise.

A tiny smile lingered at the corner of her lips. He watched as she swallowed the remainder of her wine. “Why have I not seen you before today? Are you a guest of the baron’s?” Lord above, he’d have remembered those emerald eyes. He’d never seen such lush, brilliant green…as green as the landscape of this rocky isle.

“Only for tonight,” she said.

“Then perhaps introductions are in order.” He wanted to know who she was. “I am—”

“Wait!” She held up a hand. “No, no! Do not tell me. This is a masquerade, is it not? A night to disguise our true selves. What say we dispense with names?” That tiny smile evolved into seduction itself.

Alec laughed. She was sheer delight. And quite the flirt. “As you wish, Irish.”

“That is my wish, Scotsman.”

Alec settled down to enjoy the thrust and parry. “May I get you something? A plate perhaps? The desserts are quite exquisite.” God help him, the dessert he had in mind was her.

“I am quite satisfied just as I am.”

He was not, he thought with unabashed fervor. “Well, then, Irish, perhaps you would care to dance?” Manners dictated he ask. He allowed a smile to curve his lips. “Much to my regret, however, I fear you’ll not be able to dance naked round the fire.”

Oh, but that was a sight he would dearly love to see! Beneath her eye mask, her cheekbones were high, the line of her jaw daintily formed. He longed to tear away the mask, to see the whole of her face, to appreciate every last feature.

She gave a mock sigh. “Alas, you are right,
Scotsman. And truth be told, I should only be so inclined if you were to dance naked ’round the fire with me.”

By heaven, he was right. She was not just a flirt, she was quite an accomplished flirt!

Their eyes met. Meshed. Alec moved so their sleeves touched. Her smell drifted to his nostrils. Warm, sweet flesh, and the merest hint of perfume.

He wanted her. He was not a rogue. Not a man for whom lust struck quickly and blindly. He was not a man to trespass where he should not. He was discreet in his relationships. He was not a man to take a tumble simply for the sake of slaking passion.

Never had he experienced a rush of such passion. Moreover, so quickly. He’d wanted women before, but not like this. Never like this. Never had he desired a woman the way he desired this one. What he felt was immediate. Intoxicating. A little overwhelming, even. Of course he desired her. She was, after all, a woman who would turn any man’s eye. It was simply that the strength of his desire caught him by surprise.

Perhaps it was this masquerade. Her suggestion that they remain anonymous.

He cupped his palm beneath her elbow. “There are so many people. The air grows stale. Shall we walk?”

Laughing green eyes turned up to his. “I thought you should never ask.”

A stone terrace ran the length of the house. They passed a few other couples, strolling arm in arm. All at once she stumbled. Quite deliberately, Alec knew. Not that he was disinclined to play the rescuer.

He caught her by the waist and brought her around to face him. “Careful, Irish.”

“Thank you, Scotsman. I am in your debt.” She gazed up at him, her fingertips poised on his chest, moist lips raised to his.

Alec’s gut tightened. She was so tempting. Too tempting to resist. Too tempting to even try.

A smile played about his lips. Behind her mask, invitation glimmered in her eyes. “Is it a kiss you’re wanting, Irish?” He knew very well that she did.

“Are you asking permission, Scotsman?”

The smoldering inside him deepened. “No. But I have a confession to make.” He lowered his head so their lips almost touched. “I’ve never kissed an Irish lass before.”

“And I’ve never kissed a Scotsman before.”

“So once again it seems we are evenly matched, are we not?”

“Mmmm, so it would seem—”

Alec could stand no more. That was as far
as she got. His mouth trapped hers. A jolt shot through him the instant their lips touched. He felt a tremor of reaction in her, and he knew then just how much she returned his passion. His mouth opened over hers. He’d wanted women before. But not like he wanted this one. It was as if she’d cast a spell over him.

And he kissed her the way he’d wanted to since they met—with a heady thoroughness, delving into the far corners of her mouth with the heat of his tongue. Tasting the promise inside her. Harder, until he was almost mindless with need.