The Highlander (15 page)

She tasted of the sea. A bit of brine mixed with lavender. Liam could see the pulse jump against the thin, delicate skin of her wrist. Could feel the quiver of sensation that washed up her arm when he gave another gentle pull with his mouth.

No more blood welled from the wound; he would have been able to taste it. But he couldn't seem to let her go. Instead, on a dark whim, he ran his tongue up the underside of her finger and reveled in the startled catch of her breath and the dilation of her eyes.

It was then he realized just what a colossal mistake he'd made.

He
never
should have allowed himself to taste her. Never should have glimpsed the way her eyes liquefied and her plump lips parted and softened at the illicit motion of his mouth.

Her gaze ripped from what his lips did to her finger and caught his eyes. His primeval instinct—the same one that made him such an efficient killer—identified the heat he glimpsed beneath the innocent confusion. Her fear, a primal emotion, had become something equally as primitive.

The knowledge that he could fan that soft spark into an inferno set flame to his own blood.

He wanted to be the answer to the questions he saw building inside her. To allay her every curiosity and teach her things she'd never even thought to inquire about. To peel away the wet layers of her clothing and fit her naked body against his, and distinguish the moment when her shivers of cold became shudders of ecstasy.

To allow lust to consume them both.

It was as he'd warned his men when commanding them to avoid the opium dens and pleasure palaces of Asia. It was better to never take that first step.

Because once you tasted the smallest part of something so infinitely sweet, you'd want the rest of it with a fiendish, obsessive hunger. You'd give away every part of yourself to savor it again. Would beg, steal, or kill in order to obtain it.

Miss Philomena Lockhart was exactly that kind of unattainable pleasure.

And he'd just had his first taste.

Velvet shackles wound their way around his bones, locking his soul down with an ominous sound of finality. He'd always been a beast of greater appetites than most men. He understood that he needed too much and too often. He'd been careful,
so fucking careful,
when it came to drink, or gambling, or the myriad other things that men like him lost themselves to.

Even women.

It was because of his consuming need that he held himself in check, even to the point of denial. He was a large man, larger than most. It wasn't just the strength of his temper he feared … it was the idea that he wouldn't be able to temper his strength.

This, he realized, was a great deal of Miss Lockhart's allure. The wrist beneath the grip of his hand was feminine, but not delicate. Her voluptuous, statuesque build intrigued him. She was strong, hearty, with more dips and hollows, more curves and handfuls, than the women he was accustomed to.

He'd thought that perhaps he could unleash the full force of his voracious lust on a woman such as her … and she'd be able to withstand it. She didn't seem so fragile, so easily broken.

But that was wrong, wasn't it? Someone had already tried to break her, and very nearly succeeded.

As though she could sense the direction of his thoughts, she gasped and slid her finger from between his lips, reclaiming her hand and enfolding it to her chest. Blinking rapidly, she rose to her feet.

“Thank you, Laird, for…”

Liam watched her grope for the words and wished he could help. Manners dictated that he rise when she did, but he couldn't. Not with his body in the urgent state of arousal it was now.

“Excuse me,” she murmured, and rushed around him, flowers forgotten where they lay strewn in colorful chaos.

Liam glared down at the fragrant blossoms. He didn't allow himself to watch her. Couldn't afford to appreciate the sway of her ample arse as she hurried away from him. He didn't dare stand. If he stayed here—stayed low—the predator within wouldn't urge him to chase her as she fled.

Because he
would
catch her … and there would be no accounting for what he would do to her once he did. She would be a lamb in the jaws of a lion, and her fate would be the same as any other beautiful, innocent thing he'd dared to care about.

She'd end up dead.

For destruction was the destiny of those he loved. The cost of his glory. The counterweight of the stewardship over this ancient land. He was the result of untold generations of cruelty. And as the world became more civilized, he had less of a place within it.

Nay,
he admonished himself, as the cold of the encroaching evening seeped past his flesh and into his soul, but did nothing to erase the shiver of yearning or the flavor of her flesh from his tongue.

He
never
should have allowed himself a taste.

 

C
HAPTER
S
EVEN

Even though she'd changed into dry clothing, Mena couldn't seem to stop trembling. Perched on a delicate chair next to the hearth, she held her hands out to the fire, though she knew that her quivering no longer had anything to do with the cold.

And everything to do with
heat
.

The fire she'd seen simmering in the eyes of the marquess as he lifted her finger to his lips. The heat of his mouth and the silken rasp of his tongue against her cold skin.

How could she—how
had
she—allowed that to happen? How had the gentle warmth evoked by his offer of protection suddenly flared into a conflagration of the senses that left her feeling—well, scorched?

Her finger still glowed with sensation, so much so that Mena kept checking it to see if he had, indeed, burned it somehow with his sweltering mouth.

Curling her fingers into a fist, Mena leaned back in her chair and pressed her closed hand to her heart. Damn her, but his lips had felt good—too good—and the branding impression of them singed along her blood and carried that heat all the way down to her—

A soft knock ripped her away from her disquieting thoughts. Standing on unsteady legs, Mena smoothed her hair and ran her hands down the front of her green and gold striped dress, making certain the lace on her vest wasn't in disarray.

Jani's brilliantly white smile met her when she answered, the effect almost startling against the brilliance of his attire. “Miss Mena, you have a letter, and I wanted to give it to you myself.”

“Thank you, Jani.” Mena took the small folded letter and a pang of apprehension shot through her as she instantly recognized Farah Blackwell's small and efficient handwriting. She smiled her gratitude and began to push her door closed.

“Forgive my impertinence, Miss Mena.” Jani stood on his tiptoes and stretched his neck to peek around her into her chamber. “But I could not help noticing that you have been here for several days and have yet to fully unpack your trunks.”

Glancing behind her, she noted that her trunks, indeed, remained where they'd been placed at the foot of the bed, and she'd not done a great deal to move their contents to the wardrobe. Every time she considered emptying them, something had prevented her from doing so. What if she had the need to flee again? What if she'd failed to impress the marquess and he sacked her? Surely if her things were already in their trunks, it was safer.

“I—I've yet to find the time to truly settle in.”

Chocolate eyes lit with the pleasure one found in a grand idea as Jani clapped his hands together. In a liquid movement of violet silk, he somehow slid past her and into her room. “Permit me to assist you, Miss Mena. We will be finished by the time it is for supper.”

“That really isn't necessary.” Mena tucked the letter into her belt and hovered anxiously by as he hurried to the empty wardrobe in the turret and threw open the ornate doors. Anxious to read her letter, she considered the best way to dismiss him without hurting his feelings.

“I was the valet to the Mackenzie for many years before he brought me here to Ravencroft.” Jani announced proudly. “I am exceptional at organization.”

“I'm certain you are, but—”

“When he was lieutenant colonel, I kept almost twelve uniforms for him and also his other belongings.” Bustling to her trunks, he unlatched one and tossed the lid up and gasped as though he'd found a poisonous serpent.

“What?” Mena asked, her heart rate spiking. “What is it?”

“Oh, no, no, Miss Mena, no, no, no. It is being bad luck to be putting a red garment next to a blue garment,” he said gravely.

“It is?” She peered into her own disheveled trunks as though she'd never seen them before.

“Yes. In my village they are two very auspicious colors. One is sensuality and purity, and the other is the color of creation. Very powerful. And they will fight each other, causing you many problems.”

She'd certainly seen her share of those. “Fight each other…” she echoed. “In—in my closet?” Mena regarded him skeptically, thinking how strange and intriguing it was that sensuality and purity were considered to be close to each other in his culture.

He nodded gravely. “I will fix this, and arrange your garments for optimal placement for colors, seasons, and accessories.” Plucking her red wool pelisse from where she'd folded and tucked it, he snapped it out and began to brush the wrinkles and arrange the buttons.

Mena wanted to insist on her privacy, but she had seen that expression of serious determination and kind condescension before. Her father used to wear it often, and when he did, she'd learned that there was no standing in his way. In truth, she'd never had to unpack and organize her own garments before. She'd always had servants to do so, and was both ashamed and grateful for the assistance.

Taking a moment, she turned from him and unfolded the letter, which, it seemed, had been folded and unfolded a few times. Her heart kicked against her ribs as she absorbed Farah's carefully intended words.

Dearest Mena,

It is my fervent hope that you are settling well into your new position. London is frenetic with preparation for the coming holiday season and gossip already abounds. I thought I'd inform you so you don't feel so isolated. The most salacious story on everyone's tongue is that of a viscountess who apparently absconded from Belle Glen Asylum more than a fortnight ago during a recent régime change organized by none other than my husband. She's quite disappeared. No one knows what to make of it.

The viscount and his family appear beside themselves with worry. They've all but torn the city apart looking for her, and have threatened to start searching abroad, going so far as to hire a few detectives. Though I found it curious that her father-in-law has petitioned the high court to begin proceedings toward proclaiming her deceased. I find myself hoping that she is careful, that she is never found by these horrible people. Though my dear husband has improved upon the situation at Belle Glen, I should not like to see her back there.

Write and tell me how Scotland agrees with you. I do so miss Ben More Castle. Perhaps in the summer when we return, I will come to visit you.

Please take care, dear Mena.

Your ardent friend,

Lady Farah Blackwell, Countess Northwalk.

“You have gone very, very pale, Miss Mena,” Jani observed. “I fear you are fainting.”

He reached to help her and Mena put out her arm. “No.
No,
I'm just fine, Jani. Just a bit of bad news, is all.”

“Did someone die?” he queried, dark eyes liquid with concern.

Myself, perhaps,
she thought acerbically, tucking the letter back into her wide belt.

“No, Jani, it's nothing of consequence,” she lied. Extracting the bodice of the green dress she'd worn to dinner the first evening, she arranged it to be hung neatly, mirroring Jani's efficient movements and hoping to distract him from the letter. “I don't often think of the marquess as a lieutenant colonel,” Mena remarked, picking up a scrap of conversation he'd dropped earlier. “Were we in England, he'd be referred to as such, but I rarely hear of it here at Ravencroft.”

“Perhaps, Miss Mena, that is because most of the Mackenzie people do not think so well of the British or their armies and corresponding titles,” Jani said sagely, hanging her pelisse and returning to the trunk.

“Just so,” Mena murmured. It had been a hundred years since the Jacobite rebellion, and yet in places like this, where tradition ran through the bones of every baby born, prejudices remained strong. She'd never been particularly political, but she remembered her father's strident opinions against what he considered the English empire's overreach.

Curious about Jani and his relationship to the marquess, Mena asked, “How long have you been in the laird's employ?”

“Ten years,” he answered cheerfully.

“How much of that time have you spent here at the keep?”

“Very little, though I am quite happy to be staying. I have seen many countries and many wars, and somehow they were all in places that are very hot. I am not meaning to be complaining, but I admit that I am excited to see the snow.” He beamed at her before lifting one of her thin, white undergarments from her trunk and examining it curiously.

Mena snatched it from him and hid it behind her.

Dark eyes sparkling with naughtiness, Jani allowed himself to be directed toward the trunk containing her shoe boxes.

Sorting through her own underthings, she shoved them in a few dresser drawers before turning back to him. “May I inquire … that is … do you remember much about the late Marchioness of Ravencroft?” she ventured.

He nodded, stacking boxes dangerously high on one arm. “Lady Colleen. She was quite mad.”

“Mad?” Mena's heart started. “As in, she belonged in an asylum.”