When a Scot Loves a Lady (16 page)

“See you in the morning, then, gov'nor?” The boy's toothy grin flashed up at the earl.

The nobleman laid his hand on Ned's shoulder. “A'm coonting oan it, lad. Nou be aff wi' ye.”

Ned scurried into the kitchen and the door swung shut.

Mr. Yale proffered the deck to Emily. “Will you take the first deal, ma'am?”

She distributed the cards. Warmth from the huge fire curled through the chamber, doors and shades closed tight to the cold without, and through a crack in the draperies the sparkling night shone dark. Lord Blackwood took a seat beside Kitty and she allowed herself to look at his hands as he took up his cards. Large hands, and beautifully capable of all sorts of things.

He wanted her to cast herself at him again. She was not a woman of loose morals, no matter what the gossips said. Naïvely she had given herself to Lambert in love—in what she had thought to be love. But Lambert Poole had never made her heart race by simply sitting beside her. She had never watched his hands and imagined them on her. She had never watched his hands at all.

They played cards. All went well for some time, except for Kitty's nerves strung end-to-end. Points were counted and Emily laid down the final trick.

“My lord,” she said, “did your brother fall in battle?”

The earl did not look up from his hand. “Nae, miss.”

Slowly Mr. Yale slewed his gaze across the chamber to the foyer. Kitty followed. No one stood there, but a cool filter of air seemed to twine about her now. She did not believe in ghosts, but Emily would persist in speaking of one.

“That is a pity,” Emily said. “I understand many soldiers succumbed to disease, especially in Spain.”

“He wisna in Spain when he passed, maleddy.”

Mr. Yale laid down a card. The earl placed his on the table. Kitty followed.

“Our hand, my lord.” Emily's brows lifted. “Then where did he perish?”

“In Lunnon, miss. 'Twas a duel that teuk him.”

She blinked behind gold-rimmed spectacles. “I do hope his opponent was duly punished.”

He regarded her for a moment, then his mouth crept up at one edge. But there was no pleasure in the smile.

“He wis.”

Mr. Yale leaned back in his chair and seemed to contemplate the empty glass at his elbow.

“Blackwood, old chap,” he said in an oddly slow voice, “you have emptied my pockets.”

“Wadna be the first time.”

Mr. Yale stood. “I'm wrapped up for the evening, then.” He bowed. “Ladies, I bid you adieu on this holiest of nights.” He went upstairs.

Emily counted coins. “We did quite well for ourselves, my lord. How gratifying, although I suppose game is like that, of course, or otherwise sensible people would not be so taken with it. My father and mother certainly are, but they are not sensible and I believe they do it mostly to appear fashionable.” Her brow furrowed more deeply than usual. She stood. “Kitty, Mr. Yale's departure has effectively ended our play. Will you go to bed now?”

Kitty's stomach leaped with jitters.

“I will be up shortly, Marie.” The reply of a Jezebel, but an hour sitting beside him had made its mark on her senses. Emily peered at the contents of her purse with apparent displeasure and went up.

Lord Blackwood seemed to study the empty stair while Kitty's insides did pirouettes. Slowly his gaze came to her.

“Whit are ye doing wi' that bairn, lass?”

So much said in so few words. He was master at it. Kitty now understood that. Fools did not speak succinctly, wise men did. Kitty had few unwed friends in society. Most mothers did not allow their daughters her company.

“I realize it must seem that Lady Emily and I have little in common. But she is not a child, only young and disinterested in niceties. And she is concerned about her visit with her parents. They intend to betroth her to a most unsuitable gentleman.”

“Dae they?”

“One of their cronies. Not an appropriate match for a girl like Emily. So you see that distresses her. But she is quite lovely under normal circumstances.” Kitty paused, during which time his gaze remained level on the surface but the glint within it moved her inside. “And coming here with her offered me opportunity,” she said rather more quickly than she liked.

He lifted a brow.

“For running away,” she whispered.

His eyes seemed to still.

“Nou, frae whit woud a wumman the likes of ye be needing tae rin awa?”

Kitty's mouth opened, then closed. Could he understand, as he had seemed to understand that night three years earlier? That she did not want to have her existence linked with Lambert Poole's any longer?

For an eternal stretch of moments, he said nothing. Then:

“Care for anither game, maleddy?”

Kitty drew a long breath. Sat back in her chair. Adjusted her skirt.

“I haven't any money left. You are a sharp, my lord. But that is to be expected.” She could not entirely meet his eye.

“Niver cheated a day in ma life. But tae be fair, lass, A'll give ye the chance tae win it back.”

“I said I haven't the funds for it. Weren't you listening?”

“Ta'every word.” He had listened when she begged him to kiss her when he did not wish to. Twice. On the surface his eyes looked lazy. Within, that hint of steel flickered. It did not seem cold now, but molten as it had been beneath the stair. “Wi' or wi'out money, ye've still got something A'd care tae win.”

She waited.

He rumbled, “Those fine garments ye've got on.”

Kitty stared, mouth agape, a wild flutter of nerves tangling about her middle.

“My
clothing
?” She sounded like a perfect nincompoop. But she had not expected this. She had expected…

More
.

Apparently she was, as ever, quite a pathetically naïve fool.

“Ye lose a hand, A tak a piece. Ye win a hand…” A grin curved the corner of his gorgeous mouth.

“Is this what I have brought upon myself then?” Her tone sounded diffident without any effort, her breaths shallow, and someplace in her chest wretchedly flat. “A game played by rogues in hells?”

“The idea intrigues ye.”

“You are actually serious.” He was not a gentleman. She had imagined all the rest, his silent understanding and his honor. It was almost a relief to know it. It mattered nothing at all what he had said beneath the stair about Poole. He simply wanted her to remove her clothes before him and perhaps more. That was all.

That was all
.

It surprised Kitty how horrid that realization felt, in the very pit of her stomach, and how much she wanted to play his scandalous game, even so. Perhaps the gossips knew her better than she knew herself. Perhaps she was a wanton. Perhaps she always had been.

“Y
e look warm.”

“What?”

“Yer cheeks are pink.” Deliciously pink. And her eyes glimmered with muted thrill beneath the mask of sophistication.

“They are not.” But she slipped her slender hands over her cheeks and her lips parted. Leam could taste those lips, sweet cherries and wood smoke, and glimpse the pink flash of temptation within. He wanted that tongue wrapped around his again and at present he did not care what he must do to ensure it.
He cared for nothing
. His creed for five years could serve him well tonight.

“Well, I suppose they are,” she conceded. “But it isn't to be wondered at.”

“For a wumman like ye, lass, it isna.”

She regarded him warily. And well she might. He should not have spoken so. That libertine arse Poole be damned, Kitty Savege was a lady, and she deserved to be treated as one, which he had not been doing since she set foot in this inn. Of course she hadn't helped matters any.

But it was far too late for regrets. He was already damned, and she with him. Folly's fool knew no solitude.

“That is not what I meant,” she said, voice cool but eyes bright.

“A ken whit ye meant.”

“I do not—” She halted. Her gaze fixed on his mouth, lingering until Leam's cravat tightened. Then it slid slowly down his neck and chest, oddly searching. By God, she looked like a girl at times, vulnerable and uncertain beneath the façade of the ice princess she tried to appear, poised and tantalizingly aloof.

Her gaze returned to his, direct.

“What game are we playing, my lord?”

Leam did not wish to consider the consequences any longer. Not tonight. The frustration from her earlier kisses proved too much. He wanted one thing now.

“Piquet.”

Slowly her lips curved up, first at one edge, then the other. His chest ached.

“I accept your offer. It sounds like a splendid idea. I don't know why I didn't think of it first,” adding beneath her breath as she moved to the opposite seat, “except that I am not a roguish barbarian, of course.”

“O coorse.”

“I thought you didn't like this gown.” Her fine eyes danced, releasing the pressure behind his ribs. She would play. He must remember what he knew of her and disregard what the poet in him would believe, would he but give the poet rein.

“'Tis the reason for the game, lass,” he said smoothly.

“You will not win it. Mr. Yale plays well, but I am not Lady Emily. I know my way around a card table.” She paused. “But were you to win it…” Her cheeks flamed. “You cannot burn it or some such nonsense. I must have it back, at least until my luggage arrives. I cannot very well go about in my petticoat, can I?”

Leam sucked in a breath. He passed her the deck and she dealt.

“How shall we do this, my lord, by declaration and tricks or by hand? I daresay the former, as it is quite late already.”

Leam smiled but he wished to laugh. At this moment, he lived a fantasy. She was intelligent, beautiful, brazen, and could indeed laugh with him, albeit quietly. He should cut out his tongue. He should run and bolt himself into his bedchamber—alone. He should never have done this, for more reasons than he could count.

“Declaration an trick.”

Her lashes flickered.

They played, and she played extraordinarily well, considerably better than she had earlier.

“Four queens.” She did not look up from her cards. Leam had nothing to match them. He untied his neck cloth and removed it.

An unexpected trick went to the table beneath her fingertips. Leam's signet ring followed it.

“Ye withheld yer skill afore,” he murmured.

“I had no particular desire to win then.” Her gaze came up, shining, and shifted to his neck. Leam had never before felt less dressed wearing so many clothes.

She took another trick. “Now what, my lord?”

He removed his shoes. It seemed safest. This had not been wise. But he could not halt it now. He wanted to see her undressed more than he wanted to breathe.

Cards shifted from table to hands, hands to table. His stockings came off, then his kerchief came from his pocket, followed by his watch.

She studied the timepiece on the table.

“You are not playing fairly, my lord. What shall it be next, a snuffbox?”

“A dinna tak snuff.” Perhaps she only wished to make a fool of him, but her eyes remained lit, her beautiful lips irrepressibly twitching. “Yer fixing to have me in ma drawers and ye still laced up tight, aren't ye?'

“I am not
fixing
anything. I am simply playing cards and you are losing.”

“A've been letting ye win, lass.”

“I doubt it.”

“Deal the cards.”

He won the jewels in her ears. Watching her remove them was like watching art at its creation, the tilt of her fine jaw, the ivory curve of her throat, the deft movement of her graceful fingers. She laid the ear bobs on the table.

“You have had your impressive sequence, my lord. But no more.” She spoke with only a hint of unevenness in her voice, but she did not now meet his gaze.

Her shoes and shawl went next. He could see no more of her than before, but as she discarded each item her cheeks grew pinker, her hands less steady.

“My trick,” he murmured, setting down a king to stop her run of hearts.

“Hm. I should ask you to look away, but that seems absurdly prim given the circumstances.”

Leam averted his gaze.

A minute later she said, “All right.”

On the pile of shoes and shawl rested a pair of stockings. Of fine woven wool and modest hue, they seemed suitable for traveling. Leam had seen silk stockings thin as water; he had removed them from feminine legs they had barely covered. But these practical scraps of fabric did to him what no stockings on or off a woman had before.

Beneath Kitty Savege's skirts, her legs were now bared.