The Husband Hunt (21 page)

"You touched her?" Knight sat forward, frowning.

"What do you think?"

"I think that you would be good for each other," Knight said carefully. "I do wish, however, that you had waited until after I was married to—there aren't going to be
two
babies to gush over nine months hence, I hope."

Wendell stared up at the ceiling again. "The crew of the
Zephyr
have been notified of your arrival. What time do you want my carriage to meet you in the woods?"

"At eleven o'clock, if possible."

"Olivia will be upset," Wendell murmured.

"Then you may console her."

Wendell smiled.

Lamont Montgomery sat at the dining table in the baronial manor house where he was an honored guest, but his attention wandered. Word of his supernatural talents had reached certain social circles, and he was often invited to these private parties in the hope that he would "perform." On occasion, he did.

He could throw his shadow to confound an enemy. He could enchant animals and raise a marvelous storm. But he had not yet perfected the art of shape-shifting, even though Murdo counseled him that such skill would come with time.

A frown darkened Lamont's arrogantly chiseled face. He was impatient. Why should someone of his abilities have to wait? He did not want to increase his power for evil's sake, but neither did he wish to become some silly old wizard whose primary calling was curing warts.

He needed the Earth stone. He ached to know the power that had made Michael Scot a legend. He ached to harness the elements for the sheer exhilaration of it.

Murdo wanted him to marry his runaway niece.

Lamont cast an uninterested glance at the young ladies seated around him, their figures ripe in dampened gowns. Their pretty faces and vain chatter made him wonder if there even existed a woman in this world who could capture his heart. He smiled at the memory of Catriona, a beauty with a mind and power of her own. He wondered if time had changed her as much as it had him. Would she prove to be the mate he sought?

He rose from the table, ignoring the petulant pleas that he stay and entertain his host. Could he walk through walls? a young woman begged. Could he remove Lady Beatrice's garter without touching her? an older man asked slyly.

"Perhaps another time," he said with a polite smile. He moved toward the door, then paused, narrowing his eyes. With no apparent effort at all, without moving a muscle, he concentrated and extinguished every candle in the room, leaving the guests in a smoky haze of awestruck silence.

He was already outside when his startled audience broke into applause. He had tarried long enough, avoiding the inevitable. It was time to renew his stormy relationship with Catriona Grant.

K
night and Catriona made a point
of ignoring each other for the rest of the day. It was not difficult with Murdo and Marigold overshadowing their every move. But the plans had already been laid; enlisting Howard as an ally, Knight had managed to stash their luggage in Wendell's carriage for the journey to the coast, although he had to admit it seemed rather extreme, two grown people eloping to escape their family's interference.

"Seems like a lot of bother when a special license would have done the trick," Howard remarked on their way back to the house. And then, as if realizing he had once again overstepped his bounds, he added, "Of course, it all has a very romantic air about it, my lord. A duke's carriage waiting in the woods to whisk you—"

"Just don't get any ideas about running off with the parlor maid while I'm gone," Knight said as they paused at the edge of the estate.

He stopped to examine the house, wondering how it would weather a growing family. When he returned, he would be married, entering a new phase of life. Would there really be children playing fairies and Robin Hood in the garden a few years hence? Everyone grew old, but not everyone had the good fortune to find love, and even those who did sometimes lost it. Take Lionel and Olivia. Would Lionel mind if she married their childhood friend, or did it even matter? Would
he
want Catriona to remarry or remain a widow forever in the event he died before her?

He wasn't sure how he felt about Olivia marrying Wendell. It certainly changed the casual path they had been following. He and Duke would become brothers-in-law, uncles, fathers. Solid and settled-down husbands who stood by the fireplace and doled out advice they had never taken in their lives. But at the end of those lives, there would be a family to mourn their passing, a clan forged of entanglements, celebrations, and heartaches, though, he hoped, not too many.

He liked the thought of being surrounded by loved ones and friends, as long as he and his viscountess did not have to sneak off to the summerhouse to be alone. Which made him wonder if this wouldn't be a good time to add another wing where Marigold could stay when she wasn't visiting Olivia and Wendell. The woman was getting too old to live by herself. And there was Catriona's half brother James to consider. He might come to winter here.

"There's the old dragon Mrs. E now." Howard's voice brought him out of his reverie. "Hide behind the hedge, my lord, before she sees us and asks what we were doing in the woods."

Knight reached out and pulled the young man back into the open by the scruff of his neck. "I am not hiding from my housekeeper on my own estate, do you hear me? The situation is absurd. Can an Englishman no longer take a walk in the woods these days without falling under suspicion? One would think that the little dictator himself had infiltrated Devon."

"Oh, no," Howard cried, practically hopping up and down. "There's Miss Grant, coming this way, and Mrs. E is ploughing a path straight toward us."

"Howard," Knight said in a stern voice, "get a hold of yourself this instant."

Howard shook his head. "But Mrs. E is going to guess, don't you see, my lord? She's going to ask us why we were in the woods together, and then she'll find the carriage, and—"

"Just keep walking, and let me answer the questions," Knight said sharply, nudging the man toward the bridge. "And for pity's sake, Howard, open your eyes. Mrs. Evans is not the firing squad."

"No," Howard muttered. "The firing squad is fast and kind. Mrs. E is death by slow torture."

Mrs. Evans stopped at the foot of the bridge, breathless and clearly out of sorts. "There. I've found you at last, my lord. Mr. Aubrey said you were in the study, and then Smythe said he'd seen you in the stables, and—"

Knight clasped his hands behind his back. "May I help you, Mrs. Evans?"

She frowned briefly at Howard before replying. "It's about the dinner party tonight, my lord."

Knight hesitated. From the corner of his eye, he could see Catriona flitting around the summerhouse like a pale yellow butterfly. The sight of her completely diverted him, especially when he remembered exactly what they had done on that musty couch the previous evening and would be doing for countless enjoyable years to come.

She glanced up and gave him a negligent little wave that drove him wild. Even from there, she tempted him, teased him with that self-conscious smile and that languid way she had of moving. Boys chased butterflies but rarely caught them. He wanted her on that couch again; he wanted to be inside her and feel her legs wrapped around his waist, squeezing the life from him.

"—and seeing that they are both Scottish," Mrs. Evans said, "I had thought it would be nice to start off with pheasant soup."

Knight looked down at her. "What?"

"Our guests, my lord. Miss Grant's uncle and the young man he is expecting."

Knight stole another look at his intended as she sauntered past the summerhouse. Why wasn't she upstairs resting for the journey? Oh, well, he supposed she could sleep in the carriage on the way. At least the weather was mild, last night's peculiar winds had abated, and they should not be delayed.

"For dessert, my lord?" Mrs. Evans raised her voice. "What would you like for dessert?"

Knight smiled at Catriona. She lowered her gaze demurely and knelt to pick up something from the path. What had she found now? "Not another stone," he thought aloud. Her trunk already weighed a ton.

He  gazed   around,   catching  the  grin  that  crept across Howard's face. Mrs. Evans, however, looked as if she might cry.

"I had no idea you were that tired of my scones, my lord," she said, her manner prickly and defensive. "I only made them so often because they're what Miss Grant fancies, but of course even
I
would not dream of serving them at a dinner party."

"I did not say scone, Mrs. Evans, I said stone. As in 'Not another stone.' Oh, never mind."

"I had thought to make a trifle," Mrs. Evans said. Her lower lip had begun to tremble. "That is, if it meets your approval."

"That would be very nice, I'm sure," he said placatingly. "The world loves your trifles." Now, where had Catriona got off to? And why wasn't she sitting in the drawing room with her long-lost uncle? On second thought, perhaps he didn't want her in Murdo's company, not if the man was hoping to marry her off to some childhood prankster. Such boys, as Knight knew from personal experience, often turned into strong-willed adults.

"Strawberry creme or rum sponge, my lord?" Mrs. Evans asked him.

"Either one would be wonderful." What did he care about dinner? Did he really want to be digesting a trifle in the middle of his elopement?

"Perhaps I should ask Miss Grant's opinion," Mrs. Evans said. "She might have an idea of what dishes her uncle would like."

"Ask her," Knight said, looking around with a frown. "If you can find where she has disappeared to, that is."

With all the undercurrents of tension and conspiracy in the air, Catriona thought it was a miracle that dinner proved to be such an uneventful affair. Still, every time a door opened in the house, every time a spoon was dropped, conversation stopped, followed by a swell of expectant silence.

Was the enigmatic Scotsman from Miss Grant's past here yet? Everyone seemed to wonder when the young man would arrive. Uncle Murdo had enhanced Lamont's character and personal charm to such a degree that even Cat felt the faintest prickle of curiosity about him. But only the faintest, mind you. Whenever Lamont's name was mentioned, Knight's eyes darkened dangerously, and he regarded her with a lordly arrogance that warned her she belonged only to him.

But the mysterious Lamont Montgomery never put in an appearance, and she told herself that she ought to be glad. That boy had been nothing but trouble from the moment he was born, a changeling child, some believed, and if he was offering to marry her, it was only because he had been blackmailed into it, or could he possibly covet the Earth stone for himself? Could this all be a devious plan on his part to take it from Murdo? She hoped that the mean-spirited troublemaker had decided to abandon this silly idea of a match between them. Just the same, a tiny part of her would have liked to reject him face-to-face. The humiliations he had dealt her in her tender years still rankled. He had teased her horribly, and she wanted to flaunt her newfound love under his nose.

"The pheasant soup was nice," Olivia said vaguely into the uncomfortable void of silence at the table.

"It was salty," Marigold said, dabbing her lips with a napkin. "Wasn't it, Murdo?"

He glanced at the door before answering her. "If it was, I did not notice. The company at this table was too engrossing."

What poppycock, Catriona thought. They were as talkative as a party of mummies. Everyone was pretending that her engagement to Knight had never happened. She stood on impulse. "Well, if no one minds, I'm off to bed."

"To bed?" Olivia said, shocked as if Cat had just announced she were going to the local pub for a pint. "It's early yet. And Mrs. Evans has made her famous trifle in honor of your uncle."

"Perhaps you ought to eat," Knight suggested in that bossy manner of his that made her blood tingle. A shiver of longing shot through her as she caught his gaze. Of course, she ought to eat because they would be traveling for days, sustained only by passion and awful tavern fare. And in another month, they would sit at this same table as man and wife. He would have the right to tell her what to do, not that he'd been shy in this aspect before, except for the unpredictable part of herself that even she could not control.

They would dine together every night by candlelight like civilized people, and then they would go upstairs and make very uncivilized love in the dark. Her stomach coiled into knots of anticipation at the thought. Goodness, if these sorts of thoughts continued, she would be attacking him across the table. He made her absolutely melt with desire.

"Eat something," he said again, giving her a meaningful look.

"Perhaps she isn't hungry," Olivia said in a tense voice that indicated she knew something inappropriate was in the air. "Why should she eat if she doesn't have an appetite? It's unladylike."

He leaned forward on his elbows, his dark eyes narrowing. The candlelight played up the chiseled elegance of his features, and in the gilded shadows his shoulders seemed double their usual impressive breadth. "Mrs. Evans went to a great deal of trouble over this dinner, and I say we ought to express our appreciation by eating the damn thing."

Olivia flushed. "And since when have you ever cared about hurting
anyone's
feelings, I ask, especially a housekeeper's?"

Catriona sighed in resignation. "All right. I shall eat if you two are going to argue over it."

"Trifle," Mrs. Evans announced brightly from the door as Aubrey marched to the table bearing a tray. "Should I serve—"

The housekeeper gave a small shriek of startlement as the French doors to the terrace blew open, admitting a gust of wind. "Oh, goodness," she exclaimed as the candle flames of the candelabra danced and flickered in the playful breeze. "There's that storm 1 predicted on its way."

Murdo chuckled dryly, sitting back in his chair. "Dear lady, that is not a mere storm coming. That is only Lamont letting us know he is a little late."