Scotsmen Prefer Blondes (16 page)

Eventually, they crested a small hill and Malcolm called a halt. A pasture lay next to the track they rode on, stripped nearly bare by the sheep huddled in the center of the enclosure. A low stone fence prevented their escape.

“Shall we jump it?” she asked.

Malcolm shook his head. “Not when you’re on a horse you don’t know and with little light to guide you. Wait a minute and I’ll make a gap.”

If she were a stronger woman, holding true to her plan to stay unwed, she might have taken offense at the sudden protective note in his voice. But the thrill of the escapade was weakening her. She recognized his intention then — this wasn’t about revenge, or entertainment, or sheep. He
wanted
her to weaken for him.

But she couldn’t resist an adventure that felt like something out of one her stories.

Malcolm slid off his horse to create a gap in the stones. He worked with the ease of a farm hand, piling stones to the side as though he opened and closed fences every day. Amelia wanted the hedonist she sometimes glimpsed in him, but she had to admit that his duties did have some benefits — watching the muscles of his shoulders ripple under his coat as he heaved the rocks aside was far more appealing than listening to some society dandy inhale yet another pinch of snuff.

When he finished, he jumped onto his horse, gesturing for Amelia to go through the fence ahead of him. She looked out over the dark field. She had seen sheep on her family’s country estate in Lancashire, of course, but she had never tried to herd anything. Stealing sheep from Ferguson entertained her, but even with her enthusiasm, she wouldn’t be a useful partner across any serious distance.

“Is no one guarding them?” she asked.

“No. Sheep are turned loose in the summer and someone moves them when they need a new pasture. But there are no serious dangers to the sheep. The wolves disappeared in this area centuries ago.”

“How far do we have to take them?” she asked. She already envisioned accidentally driving the sheep off a nearby cliff. She didn’t want to inadvertently murder them, even to get revenge on Ferguson.

Malcolm pointed at a fence in the far corner of the pasture. “This is the very edge of Ferguson’s holdings, where his land abuts ours. If we move them through the fence into our pasture, I’ll send a herdsman tomorrow to retrieve them and take them to the other side of our estate.”

“Won’t Ferguson be able to steal them back just as easily?” she asked as they rode across the pasture to the opposite fence.

Malcolm dismounted again and started pulling down a portion of the fence. “Have you met Ferguson?” he said. “He excels at business, but he knows nothing of sheep. He won’t notice they’re gone, and since he failed to mark them, he can’t claim them. If he spent half as much time on his sheep as he does on his wardrobe, he’d be rich.”

She laughed. Ferguson was rich beyond imagining, but the wealth came from his recent English inheritance, not his mother’s Scottish lands. “I’m surprised you’re friends with the bounder.”

“Careful, darling. If you insult him, I might have to steal something from you as revenge too.” He tossed another stone onto the pile, then flashed her a wicked grin. “Although I would likely start in your wardrobe. I’d burn all your prim day dresses if it meant I could see you in more gowns like the one you wore tonight.”

Amelia blushed. He really was trying hard to charm her. But, heaven help her, she liked it.

When the fence was down, he mounted and directed her to circle the sheep. “This should be easy enough. Ferguson’s new estate manager should have moved them several days ago — they’re almost out of pasture. Once we get the first sheep to go through the fence and find better grass, the rest will follow.”

Despite her misgivings, she warmed to the task quickly. Pulling one over on Ferguson was remarkably satisfying, even if she was sure Malcolm was doing it to seduce her. If she thought the loss of the sheep might harm Ferguson — or, more importantly, Madeleine — she might have felt a twinge of guilt. But the Rothwell holdings in the south were nearly rich enough to rival Devonshire — thirty sheep wouldn’t break them.

With Malcolm occasionally calling instructions, they herded the sheep through the gap in the fence. It wasn’t as easy as he’d made it sound, particularly since Amelia sat sidesaddle and was weighed down with yards of riding skirts. But there was something exhilarating about being outside, in the dark, engaged in an activity which her very proper upbringing hadn’t prepared her for.

When the last sheep was through the gap, Malcolm started rebuilding the fence again. She didn’t have a watch, but it couldn’t have taken more than thirty minutes to move the sheep. They would be back at the castle before midnight. Would he say goodnight to her then? Or continue his campaign to break her resolve?

After he rebuilt the other fence, he looked up at her from the ground. “Have I offended your delicate sensibilities? Or did you enjoy yourself?”

“You know I enjoyed it,” she said. “Thank you, Malcolm. Our one night was lovely.”

If she was disappointed that they spent it stealing sheep rather than kissing, she hid it so well that even she didn’t acknowledge it.

But Malcolm wasn’t done. “There are still several hours of darkness, darling. And I intend to use every minute you’ve agreed to.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Malcolm’s behavior confused her. When he was civil to her in the dining room she had thought it was another ploy, believing that his occasional flashes of autocratic behavior were his real personality.

But she had willfully blinded herself to the evidence. In the moonlight, the evidence spread around her for leagues. Every well-kept crofter’s hut and carefully maintained fence showed how he cared for the people he both led and served. Even Graves, as dreadful as he was, was loyal, and Malcolm hadn’t turned him away.

That night, Malcolm treated her like a partner. She’d never had a partner before. She’d had friendship and camaraderie, and her fellow Muses of Mayfair shared similar artistic ideals. But she had never worked with someone or shared their sense of purpose.

For the first time, she wondered if she had missed more of life than she had thought. Was solitude a fair price for independence?

When they reached the castle, Malcolm dismounted first and strode around to help her slide off her saddle. He lifted her free of the horse, and as he set her on her feet, his hands stayed firmly around her waist.

“Tell me what you want, Amelia.”

The question surprised her, enough that she actually considered it. She wanted warmth, and adventure, and laughter — not the impersonal safety of a guest room. “I thought you had plans for us tonight?”

It was the closest she intended to come to an invitation. He was either obtuse or stubborn, because he didn’t accept it. “That’s what I want. What do you want?”

His hands on her waist burned through the velvet. She’d never thought of hands as heavy, but the weight of his touch rooted her to the ground. His eyes were that melted silver color again, warm and demanding even in the dimmest light. He looked like he wanted to kiss her.

“Why do you care what I want?” she asked.

He shook her, just a bit, just enough to make her wonder why her body thrilled at his touch when he could so easily break her. “Stop turning this toward me. I want you. You know that. But I also want you willing. I won’t have your passion at night and your hatred in the morning.”

“I don’t hate you,” she said.

Malcolm grinned a little at that. “I don’t hate you either. Marriages have survived with less.”

He did kiss her then, just the briefest graze across her lips, so quick she didn’t realize what was happening until he’d pulled away. “Then if you don’t hate me, does that mean I have your passion?” he asked.

He was intent on making her confess it. She’d rather let him be the aggressor in their seduction, if only so she wouldn’t feel like she was giving up. It wasn’t fair to him — but when was life ever fair?

“Your touch is not unpleasant,” she allowed.

A lesser man would have been wounded. He had the audacity to tweak her nose. “You’ll have to do better than that, darling.”

Her horse started to move away from them on the drive, and Malcolm let go of her to retrieve the reins. When he had both horses in his grip, he turned back to her. With his eyebrow raised in silent question, he looked like a king disguised as a groom — strong, confident, and utterly in command.

But he wouldn’t command her into his arms — at least not tonight. She had to take that step alone, if she wanted it, and trust that he would catch her.

“Will you keep me out here all night for my answer?” she snapped, not ready to confess.

He jerked his head to the side of the castle and the stables beyond. “I must tend to the horses, since I sent the grooms to bed. If you want me, wait for me in my chamber. If you don’t, hide in your room. I shouldn’t be more than half an hour.”

“And if I am not waiting for you? Will you call off the wedding?”

His mouth turned grim, betraying the warrior concealed beneath the words that promised her a choice. “No.”

It was abrupt, harsh, final. “I thought you wanted me willing?” she said.

“In bed, yes. But you’re utterly compromised and I’m the one who did it. By the time Lady Harcastle reaches London, I’m sure the length of Britain will know that you’re ruined. The ton won’t accept me if I abandon you, and even if they did, I couldn’t live with myself. So it’s time to cut bait, darling. You
will
marry me.”

She took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of heather and the cooling leather of their saddles. She wanted to run, to deny him, to preserve everything she’d so desperately fought for.

But she also wanted him. And her breath came out as a sigh when he finished his declaration. “You will marry me,” he said again, as though he didn’t think she’d understood. “But the kind of marriage we will have — that’s a choice.”

“You would consent to live in separate houses?”

She didn’t necessarily want to, but she had to know. Her horse nickered in protest as his hand tightened on the reins. “Separate counties, if you like. You can have a marriage of convenience, although you must attend certain functions. And give me an heir or two, of course. I’ll take them and raise them, so they won’t interrupt your precious letter-writing.”

He’d struck hard, in more ways than he realized. She was too careful to reference the letters, but his statement about children surprised her. “You would take my children away from me?”

“Our children,” he said. “Any court would give me custody. But it doesn’t have to be like that. We can share a house. I’m certain the pleasure we’ll find there will more than make up for the lack of sleep.”

She laughed at his playful leer. “Such a noble offer, my lord.”

He made an elaborate bow. “I only make promises I can keep.”

She hesitated. In some corner of her heart, she knew she had already lost. There was no way out that she could see — and if she was trapped, she would rather be seduced by the reiver than ordered about by the autocrat.

He noticed her hesitation and pressed his advantage. “You can have all the pleasure you’ve denied yourself, Amelia. You don’t have to be locked away with your letters for the rest of your days. If you come to me tonight, I’ll show you. If you don’t come...”

He trailed off. Their eyes met. She saw the hunger in his, and wondered what he saw in hers.

He kissed her, swiftly, suddenly, not waiting for her answer. She molded herself to him, wanting him to accept her kiss in lieu of the words she couldn’t say.

But he wouldn’t give her that escape. He broke away, his breath ragged with the effort.

And when she tried to kiss him again, he stepped back. “If you don’t come to me tonight, I’ll try again. But only if you ask me. Don’t test my patience, darling.”

He led the horses away, leaving her standing in the drive. She walked slowly toward the stairs. The gravel crunched under her feet, matching the echo of his steps as he strode into the night.

She knew what she had to do. But how would Malcolm react?

*    *    *

She paced, turning small circles in the area between the fireplace and the bed. It was what she did when a plot in her manuscript led her straight into a wall. This felt like those moments writ large, a trap that had engulfed her rather than her characters.

Malcolm wasn’t a trap, to be fair. He was an unexpected fork in a road she thought she’d mapped to the end of her days. A week ago, her road led to her own cottage in Sussex and a life spent covered in ink and blotting sand. Tonight, the road offered a partner and a life spent covered in Malcolm’s kisses.

If she had the courage to pursue it.

But what took more courage? Staying on the path she’d planned for against all of society’s expectations, or setting off on a new path, one that society would expect her to embrace? She had given everything to her writing, sacrificing companionship for art, comfort for the threat of ruin. Was Malcolm an even bigger risk, or a cowardly escape from the life she’d built herself?

Amelia forced herself to take off her hat and gloves and sit by the fire, but she couldn’t stop twisting her fingers in her lap. These questions were useful when plotting a story, but if she thought of her life solely in terms of logic and the structure of a perfect plot, she would go mad. Logic told her to leave him before she was hurt — or, more likely, before she hurt him.

When she heard footsteps in the hall, she stopped breathing. Her logic reared up within her, told her to flee when she heard the doorknob turn, made one last attempt to stop her...

But when Malcolm strode through the door, scanned his room, and finally let his eyes rest on her, logic lost. All she could say was, “Malcolm, I want you.”

He was on her an instant later. She’d barely risen from the chair when he dragged her into his arms, his lips meeting hers before she had a chance to take a breath. It wasn’t polite, this kiss — it was demanding and hungry, and all those other indelicate feelings a spinster wasn’t supposed to have.