by Anne Stuart
“You aren’t marrying an earl,” Jessamine said.
“No, dear. According to the paper, you are.”
“What?” she shrieked, scrambling out of bed, sending the teacups flying.
“Glenshiel must have been very busy.”
Jessamine grabbed the paper from her hand. It was already open to the social notes, and there it was in smudged print, the news of her pending marriage to the sixth Earl of Glenshiel.
“I’ll kill him,” she said fiercely.
“Wait till I leave for Yorkshire,” Fleur said in a tranquil voice. “As it is, Mother forgives me for my bad taste in marrying a farmer. I’d rather you didn’t commit murder until after I’m gone. Or is it already too late?” she said with a wicked laugh.
“Your husband,” Jessamine said sternly, “has a very ill effect on you. It’s no laughing matter.”
“I’m more interested in seeing what effect your husband will have on you.”
Alistair MacAlpin, the sixth Earl of Glenshiel, sat in his bedroom watching the fire eat its way through the pile of black clothing. He’d doused the garments liberally with brandy, but it was still a slow process, one he watched with endless fascination. It was an old way of life, disappearing into soot and ashes. He wondered when his new way of life was going to show up at his door.
He hadn’t long to wait. It was midday, the house was empty, and he could hear her furious, pounding footsteps up his back stairs. He settled in his chair, a glass of fine brandy in one long-fingered hand, and prepared to meet his fate.
She slammed open the door, standing there like a perfect harridan, or an avenging angel. She was dressed in one of her plain dresses again, which was probably a good thing, since the rose-colored silk had gotten splashed with Clegg’s blood, and her hair was bound tightly behind her head again. It was certain to give her a headache, he thought. No wonder she looked so furious.
“I’m going to kill you,” she announced.
He glanced around him. “I’m afraid I’m fresh out of headmen’s axes, sweeting. You want to saw away at my neck with a butter knife?”
“How dare you print such a thing in the paper?” she demanded.
He gave her his sweetest smile. It left her stonily unmoved. “It seemed like a good idea. I’ve given up thieving, and I needed something to occupy my time.”
“I don’t need a thing to occupy my time, thank you very much. I’m sure I’ll find plenty of things to do in Yorkshire while I visit my sister.”
He rose, and she backed up a little, her magnificent eyes wary. “Ah, but life with me would be such an adventure, Jessamine,” he murmured, moving closer.
“I’ve had adventures enough,” she said. “I don’t want any more.”
“And what do you want?” His voice was suddenly deadly serious as he waited for her reply.
“I want a home,” she said. “I want children, lots of them, so many that they drive me to distraction. I want to be far away from the city, so that I never have to smell the city stink again. And most of all, I want a man who loves me.”
“Ah, Jess,” he murmured, pausing in his approach. “You demand so much, and you don’t compromise.”
“Never,” she said.
“I can give you the home,” he said. “In the hills of Scotland, miles away from any city. It’s huge and rambling and drafty, but the roof won’t fall down anytime soon, and there’s a loch with the best salmon in the world.
“And I can give you children. I can quite willingly see that you’re eternally pregnant if that’s what you want.” He paused, oddly frightened.
“Is that all you can give me?” she asked him, calm and clear-eyed.
He raised his eyes to look at her. “I can give you a man who loves you so much that he would likely die without you,” he said simply.
For a minute she didn’t move. And then a glorious smile lit her face, so bright that it finally melted the ice around his heart, and she was in his arms, and he was kissing her, kissing her, and she was crying, and he might have been too as he picked her up in his arms and carried her toward the bed.
And in the fireplace the brandy-soaked clothing burst into merry flames, sending warmth and light throughout the bedroom. And neither of them noticed.