When a Scot Loves a Lady (10 page)

And there it was again, the slightest hint of
ey
, the barely discernable
ow
. As a man who had struggled his entire youth to banish the rough borderlands from his speech, Leam could recognize a countryman within a phrase. Cox was a lowland Scot.

“Aeschylus.”

The fellow's clear brow beetled. “That name is unknown to me. But I've been traveling in the Americas until quite recently. Those colonials never learn of the latest great writers until they are far out of date.” He chuckled.

Lady Emily blinked like a fish. “Aeschylus, the ancient Greek tragedian?”

Yale glanced up, a glimmer in his silver eyes.

Leam felt like a fool, showing off his erudition. A jealous fool who had absolutely no reason to feel jealous.

He didn't like the fellow. And he didn't like the way he was casting calf's eyes at a lady far above his station. But now Leam was both feeling like a fool and thinking like a jackass. If he did not take care, the evening would proceed apace.

Dinner was served and enjoyed in good cheer and a measure of general hilarity. Leam participated when required. He took a glass of wine, leaving the whiskey untouched, and watched the tradesman. Cox made himself agreeable to all, showing no sign of discomfort among his new acquaintances yet a suitable modesty. When Yale searched for a taper to light a cheroot, Cox produced a flame. When Lady Emily begged to be excused on account of the tobacco smoke making her ill, Cox opened a window and held a steady arm beneath hers while she inhaled fresh air and Yale doused his cigar. When Lady Katherine applauded young Ned for his fine fiddling, Cox requested an encore.

After some time, Leam had seen enough. No man was that pleasing to everyone and all without good reason. He knew this from personal experience.

Throwing on his greatcoat, he announced that he would go outside for a smoke. Yale followed, leaving the ladies to Ned, Mr. Milch, and the coxcomb.

“Had enough of Tommy Tradesman, have you?” Yale brandished his cheroot and cupped his hand to encourage the spark. He took a long pull and puffed contentedly, staring out at the snow and the narrow river lit with indigo moonlight. The street was empty, a murmur of voices emanating from within the pub several doors away, echoing between the double row of modest buildings as sound always did upon snow.

As so often after such a storm, the sky had finally cleared. Ten thousand diamonds sparkled in the midnight canopy, an eternity of unfulfilled wishes. At one time, an infinitely foolish university student reading poetry had wished upon them all.

Leam moved along the path flanking the inn that he had shoveled earlier that afternoon while endeavoring to avoid the company of a female with wide, storm-tossed eyes.

“To where dost thou hasten, oh noble lord?” Yale called after him. “To thine balcony from which thou might cast forth petals of rose and lily for thy elusive lady's dainty toes to tread upon?” Yale was fully in his cups now. Only then did he ever make such foolish mistakes.

Leam retraced his steps, pulled his arm back, and planted his fist on his friend's jaw.

The lad hit the packed snow with a thud.

“Damn it, Blackwood, you villain,” he snuffled, cupping his cheek with one hand and casting about with the other in the snow. “You've made me lose my cigar.”

“I have discovered a stair at the rear of the house.” Leam glowered down at him. “If you weren't so soaked in drink I would tell you to go up and investigate his belongings. As is, I suggest you step back inside and do your best to keep him entertained for as long as you are able.” He pivoted about and nearly lost his footing on the ice. “By
God
, would that I were in Scotland already.”

“Ah, but then you would not have made the acquaintance of the lovely Lady Katherine.” Yale had found his cigar and was wiping it free of snow on the lapel of his coat.

But Leam hadn't made her acquaintance here. Three years ago he'd met her in a ballroom, and even then he hadn't been able to take his eyes off her. But she had been with another man. A man who did not deserve her.

“I would hit you again, Wyn, but you're still on the ground.”

“More than welcome to come down here and further impress me with your pugilistic talents, old man.” He smirked and bit the cheroot, his jaw red with the pattern of Leam's knuckles. Yale wanted the beating, and much more. He wanted oblivion, and Leam didn't blame him.

He turned on his heel and stormed away.

From within the kitchen door that let onto the alley not far from the rear foyer entrance, another staircase ascended. The inn's proprietress had long since gone to bed; the kitchen was piled with clean dishes, occupied only by a pair of mice content with a minuscule floor scrap.

Leam passed through a remarkably well-stocked pantry to the narrow staircase behind. He was halfway to the first landing when a door creaked above. He halted, making himself invisible in the dark. The small panel to the floor above opened, and into the stairwell, candle in hand, came Kitty Savege.

Leam held his breath, a metallic taste filling his mouth. He stood in shadow. She might not see him if she were climbing up to the coxcomb's attic chamber. Foolishly, Leam had imagined her above this. But he knew better of beautiful women. He had known better of this particular beautiful woman for three years.

She turned down the stair.

Air once more filled his lungs. There was nothing for it but to announce his presence; within a few steps she would collide with him. He ascended, making his boots heard.

With a soft yelp of surprise she halted and peered into the darkness beyond her candle. In the gold light of the flame her fine wide eyes glowed, her cheeks cast in a rosy hue, lashes like fans.

Leam moved two steps beneath her.

“My lord?”

“Maleddy.”

“I thought you out in the yard smoking with Mr. Yale.” Alcohol had rounded the edges of her voice, softening the hauteur. “What are you doing here?”

“A coud ask ye the same, lass.”

“I am going to the kitchen to find a basin of water. I have not bathed in—” She swayed toward him slightly. “Good heavens, here we are in a remarkably dark stairwell, and I upon the verge of informing you all about my bath. Whiskey is most remarkable at loosening one's tongue.”

“Aye, 'tis.” That loose tongue was delectably pink, her lips dusky in the dim light. He should now turn and go back to the yard and pummel Yale. Any moment Cox would enter and see him here, on his way up in secret.

The image of Kitty Savege at her bath rooted him to the step.

“And now you must return the favor,” she said. “I have informed you of my program, so you must tell me where you are going. This sneaking up the back stairs makes you look like a spy.” Her generous lips curved into an impish grin, sparkling like her eyes and so entirely at odds with the crystalline town lady, Leam stared. “Are you a spy, Lord Blackwood?” Her smooth cheek dimpled like a girl's.

“Nae ony mair.” His voice came forth hoarse. He stared at her mouth as her smile faded, as his groin pulsed with heat, as the candlelight wavered and she fumbled for the nonexistent rail, and as he began to wish that he had drunk more whiskey after all. Then at least in the morning he, like his friend, would have an excuse for the unwise behavior in which he was now about to engage.

T
he earl reached to Kitty's hand and drew from it her teetering candle.

“Hae a care, lass. Ye'll drop it.”

Excellent. She hadn't really needed it anyway. She hadn't really needed a bath either; that could wait until morning. She probably most needed sleep, but her blood seemed to whoosh through her veins. No doubt this had something to do with the whiskey, and the fantasy replaying itself in her mind of the Earl of Blackwood kissing her. A fantasy she had been nursing for hours, just like the glass Mr. Yale continually refilled.

As he had been doing all evening, Lord Blackwood stared at her mouth now, but this time from a very short distance away.

“If you are so bent on kissing me,” she heard herself say in a remarkably throaty voice, “you may as well do it and cease this foolishness. I am no schoolroom miss and can, I suspect, withstand the insult.”

He smiled a provoking smile, his rich eyes laughing. “Oh, can ye, lass?”

“Of course. I have lived in London nearly my entire life, you know.”

He didn't seem to like that. But after that night three years ago, this did not surprise her. His eyes at exactly the level of hers now looked somewhat disapproving and quite intense. Kitty had never particularly liked men of great intensity.

But she liked the Earl of Blackwood. She liked the way he stared at her lips and the hot lapping pool it generated in her. She liked it that he built up the fire when the innkeeper was otherwise occupied, that Mr. Yale seemed to listen to him even when he pretended not to, and that his brother had carried his portrait into battle. She liked his hooded gaze, never mind that he was a barbarian, except in the yard earlier when he had spoken so beautifully.

Gentleman or barbarian? Spy or fantasy?

She giggled. It was preposterous. Years of cool, collected, directed precision, now all subsumed in intoxication over a highly unsuitable man. She wanted him to kiss her, it seemed, more than she had wanted anything else in her life.

He stepped up to the riser beneath her, filling the space with his broad shoulders and sheer size, filling every corner of her senses. She leaned forward. The hint of leather and pine still curled about him, not at all as a gentleman should smell and thoroughly delicious. She inhaled, filling her nostrils, then her head. He remained perfectly still, watching her.

She tilted forward and pressed her mouth to his.

She sighed, right there on the step in the near dark with her lips pressed to a man's, a stranger's for all intents and purposes.

He felt
so good
.

Her palm found the front of his coat. She could not seem to prevent her fingers from spreading and discovering hard muscle beneath fine wool. Ever so gently his mouth moved against hers, cupping her lower lip, and heat shot through her body like a sizzle of lightening. He kissed her back and she allowed it, the fitting of shape and texture, and the delectable heat curled into her belly—then swiftly, thickly, between her legs. A tiny gasp escaped her. He seemed to take it into his mouth. In sheer relief, upon a soft utterance of pleasure, Kitty opened hers.

A large, strong hand wrapped about her shoulder. In complete control, Lord Blackwood put her away from him.

Stomach twisting, Kitty opened her eyes.

She did not see on his face that which she expected. Instead his dark eyes seemed to shimmer with surprise and a hint of confusion, echoing the shock slipping through her body. He had not expected it either, the jolt of real desire, and something more. The awareness of it in his gaze weakened Kitty. Her shaking hand sought a stair rail, but none could be found. His attention followed her action, then abruptly returned to her face.

With one deliberate movement he drew her against his chest and covered her mouth with his.

This time the kiss was not a mere brushing of lips. This time his hand wrapped around her jaw to hold her close. He tilted his head and crossed her lips with his, and a rumble of pleasure came from his chest. She gripped his shoulders, a thrill of pure, sweet pleasure coursing through her. He was all hard male beneath her touch and she felt it to her toes. His tongue stroked her lips, coaxing to enter. She let him in, feeling him at the sensitive soft insides of her lips, then against her tongue. She gasped in breath and he caught her tongue with his and she
wanted
him.

Good heavens,
no
.

But resistance was futile. She might tell her hands to press at his arms now to push him away, but they would not obey. She might command her lips to seal themselves, but they adored the sensation of his tongue, masterly and damp, entering her. He wanted his tongue in her and she allowed him full liberty.

His palm slipped away from her face to spread on her back, trapping her to his chest and it was like heaven to be so trapped, to be wanted by a man.
This
man. And Kitty's muzzled head told her that perhaps these three years she had been lying to herself. Perhaps she had broken free of Lambert Poole's hold on her that night not because of the particular message she had read in Lord Blackwood's fathomless eyes but simply because she had wanted
him
to hold her instead—quite literally.