by Amy Sandas
It was her.
“I should have figured you’d wait until the last moment,” she noted with a reproachful arch of her brows.
Flashing a rakish grin, he replied, “Adds to the excitement, don’t you think?”
She gave him a studied look, but before she could respond, a short, wiry fellow came rushing out from a hallway behind the stairs. His pale red hair was a mess, standing out in all directions from his head as though someone’s fingers had been ruthlessly threading through it. Although he wore the uniform of a footman, the buttons of his coat didn’t line up and the cuffs of his shirt had not been secured.
He looked as though he had just come from a rather heated dalliance.
“My apologies, lady. I swear, I dinna hear anyone knocking.”
“It’s all right, Ewan. No harm done.”
The servant’s gaze slid to Braden and wary suspicion sparked in his eyes. “Should I fetch Douglas?”
Miss Dunn scowled at the young man. “Douglas? Why on earth would I need Douglas?”
Ewan gave an obvious nod toward Braden, who stood watching the interchange with an amused curl to his lips.
She made a short sound in the back of her throat. “Nay, but do see if Nan is still awake, and if so, have her join us in the parlor. And Sorcha as well. I assume she’s the reason you weren’t at your post.”
Ewan’s eyes grew round as he stared more openly at Braden. “You mean...” he mumbled.
“Aye,” she replied, casting a glance at Braden as well, “the Duke of Melbourne has finally arrived.”
Ewan gave a series of nods that eventually deepened to a final bow. “Aye, as you wish. Right away,” he noted enthusiastically before he turned to rush away.
Braden was grateful that he glanced back at Miss Dunn when he did or he would have missed the twitch of amusement that lifted the corner of her mouth as she watched the young servant scramble up the stairs.
The brief smile slid away when she flicked a glance in Braden’s direction. “Follow me,” she said as she turned toward the room she’d exited. Just as he had that night in London, he wondered at how such a small woman could contain such a formidable presence—even in her nightclothes.
Unlike the main hall, the intimate parlor was warmed by a modest fire burning in the grate which illuminated a plush, oversized sofa, a pair of cozy armchairs, and a writing desk tucked in the shadows.
Stopping before the fire, Miss Dunn turned to face him. It looked as if she’d intended to say something else before her expression shifted into a frown. “You look soaked through. I’ll take your coat.”
Without waiting for him to respond, she stepped forward to grasp the edges of his great coat. The rich scent of vanilla drifted from her skin, warming him far faster than the fire could. When she slipped her hands beneath the edges of the outer garment to push it back over his shoulders, sparks of sexual awareness chased down him spine and had him clenching his hands into fists. She cast a swift, flickering glance at his face, as if sensing the sudden shift in him, but then she tugged the coat down his arms and swept it from around his body.
A rush of cooler air filled the space between them when she stepped back and turned away. Draping the coat over the back of a chair, she angled it toward the fire to dry.
Using an iron poker adorned with a spread-winged dragon on the hilt, she stirred the coals to greater life, then added more wood to the flames—likely far more than she would have for her own comfort. “Warm yourself. These summer storms are mild, but they can still cause a chill.”
Trying to focus on anything other than the subtle strains of lust running through him, Braden stepped beside her and extended his hands to the flames. “It must be later than I’d thought,” he noted conversationally. “It was not my intention to disturb your household, Miss Dunn. Though you could say I owed you a visit in the middle of the night.”
Her sidelong glance glimmered with subtle accusation. “And yet both times it has been I who was left waiting.”
He couldn’t keep himself from giving her one of his most suggestive grins. “Have you been pining for me, Miss Dunn?”
Her jaw tightened as she glanced toward the flames.
Not pining, then, he acknowledged with a rueful smirk.
After a deep sigh, she turned toward him. He liked it that she preferred to face him straight on. He also liked the way her skin warmed to a golden hue in the firelight and her lips parted to show the edge of her front teeth a moment before she started speaking.
“I assume your arrival here means you’ve decided to accept the offer I made in London.”
The tension in her voice was unmistakable, but he kept his reply light and unconcerned. “I have. Though I’ll admit it bothers me that I still cannot figure out why you’d prefer such an arrangement.”
Her dark brows furrowed, but she did not break his gaze. “My reasons are my own.”
“Hm,” Braden murmured thoughtfully.
At the dubious sound, her brows lifted. “Is it so hard to imagine there might be a woman in existence who doesna dream of being bound in lifelong matrimony to an infamous rake?”
A jolt of something unfamiliar lashed through him. He tipped his head toward her to whisper in an intimate tone, “There is more to me than sin and scandal.” His lips curved, drawing her gaze. “Though an argument can be made they are two of my greatest talents.”
“Do you take anything seriously?”
“Many things. But I believe a life of duty and responsibility should be properly balanced with frivolity and pleasure.”
Her mouth pressed into a firm line and her brows furrowed, as though she were utterly unfamiliar with such a concept.
As his focus drifted over her features, resting briefly on the full curve of her bottom lip that simply could not be suppressed, desire danced along his nerves. Her jawline remained strong and proudly lifted, while her eyes flashed with intelligence and confidence. But still, he sensed a quiet vulnerability in her. It was buried deep, but it was there.
A year in this woman’s company might be more intriguing than he’d thought.
The sound of someone entering the room broke the silence that had fallen between them.
“Ach, now. You’ve started without me, I see.”
Braden looked over his shoulder to see an ancient woman dressed in layers of wine-colored wool with a grey shawl draped over her head and shoulders moving toward them with surprising speed considering her advanced age. Not far behind her was Ewan and a young woman dressed as a housemaid, assumedly Sorcha.
“Verra good, dearies. Come, come,” Nan said with a toothless grin and beckoning gestures as she approached. The flames from the fireplace cast her features in strange and distorted shadows that gave Braden pause despite her cheery disposition. With one wizened hand, she gently caressed Miss Dunn’s cheek, murmuring something beneath her breath.
When Miss Dunn gave a short nod, the old lady turned to Braden. Squinting, she placed her other hand on his shoulder, urging him to bend toward her.
Her black eyes searched his features before she finally met his gaze with a widened grin and a wink. “You’ll do fine, lad.”
He arched a brow and slid a glance toward Miss Dunn, but she remained focused on the old woman.
Reaching into a pocket concealed within her many skirts, the woman withdrew a velvet pouch. She opened the drawstring top and upended the pouch into her hand. Two rings that appeared to have been battered from raw bronze tumbled out.
“The rings have been passed down through many generations,” Miss Dunn explained in a whisper.
Braden stiffened as realization set in. “Wait a minute. We’re doing this now?”
Miss Dunn frowned. “Is there any reason to wait?”
Looking down into green eyes that were neither light nor dark, Braden felt a hum in his blood. This is what he’d come here for. It was just a year. And then his life would belong to him again.
A year wasn’t so long.
“You first,” the old woman said, nudging Braden’s shoulder. “Slip the ring on her finger and say these words:
“While we both wish it, I give you what is mine to give.
I pledge to be your shield and your comfort
as I honor and cherish you above all others.
Yours will be the only name I cry out in the night
And the eyes I smile into each morning.
This is my vow to you.”
Braden did as Nan instructed, then stood silent while his bride did the same.
Though he’d rushed through the vows, Miss Dunn spoke them with proper reverence, the words slipping from her lips in a hushed murmur that lifted the hairs on his nape and caused a tightening in his chest.
Then the old woman produced a long, braided ribbon intertwining the colors of blue, green, gold, and red.
“Join hands.”
Braden glanced at Miss Dunn, who extended her hand to him while avoiding his gaze. Braden slid his palm into place against hers until the tips of his first and second fingers rested against the fluttering pulse at her wrist. That uneven rhythm was the only indication she might not be as steady as she appeared.
Nan wrapped the braided ribbon around their hands and wrists several times, binding them to each other. The whole ceremony had an odd, otherworldly feel to it, and as Nan continued in an ancient language he couldn’t understand, Braden found himself distracted by Miss Dunn’s soft and slightly roughened palm and the way the firelight glinted off her dark hair, reflecting red-gold in the deep mahogany tresses. Even in her nightclothes with her hair loose around her shoulders, she presented a calm, sturdy confidence.
He shifted his fingers, reaching to see if the pulse at her wrist still fluttered. It did, and he smiled. Not so steady after all.
It took a moment for him to realize the old lady had stopped speaking. When she finished unwinding the ribbon from their joined hands, she gave a nod. “May God and the ancient ones bless this union with abundance and prosperity,” she said gravely, before adding beneath her breath, “The good lord kens we need it.”
While Braden wondered at the meaning of Nan’s last words, Ewan came forward to take the old woman’s elbow.
Within moments, Braden and his bride were alone once again.
Chapter Four
Moira’s body hummed and heat spread through her limbs.
Why was it so difficult for her to be in the same room with this man and not feel as though every sense was heightened and every moment—every word—was more significant somehow than any other that had come before?
For an uncertain number of minutes, they stood there in silence while the fire crackled beside them. Then the man flashed that dimple of his. “I’ve never experienced anything quite like that before.”
“It was a somewhat abbreviated version,” Moira replied. “But still valid,” she added quickly.
When he did not respond other than to lift a brow, she glanced about the room. Her belly twisted with uncertainty and her skin felt flushed as her mind jumped from thought to thought, seeking something—anything—to distract her from the fact she and the handsome rogue before her were well and truly bound to each other.
“Are you hungry?” she asked. “I can probably find something in the kitchen to offer.”
“No, thank you.” He glanced at the clock and Moira followed his gaze. It was after midnight. “I imagine my things have been brought in,” he continued. “Perhaps someone could show me to my room?”
His bedroom. He wanted to be shown to his bedroom. “Of course, I’ll take you.” She pressing her hand to her stomach to still a renewed bout of nerves. “This way.”
Without looking to ensure he followed, she left the parlor and crossed the dark hall to the stairs. She’d had the master suite readied for his expected arrival more than six years ago. Every two weeks since, the room was aired out and fresh linens replaced the old. Since her visit to London, she had upped the schedule to every three days so she knew the room would be in readiness even though she hadn’t visited it herself in several years.
She sensed his presence behind her as she turned toward the east wing which housed the laird’s and lady’s private suites along with the laird’s personal study and a few additional bedrooms that were currently empty. Dunnwood Castle contained more than a dozen bedrooms in all, though most of them were located in the west wing, which also housed a music room, a billiard room, a few sitting rooms, and an armory. The grand ballroom was in the main part of the house along with two drawing rooms, a formal dining room, a breakfast room, the library, and the kitchens.
A complete update and restoration had been initiated by Moira’s grandparents and was finished just ten years ago. Although Dunnwood retained an authentic medieval aesthetic throughout most of its rooms, modern conveniences were tucked in every available space.
She stopped outside the door to the laird’s suite and opened it. Stepping aside, she waited for him to cross the threshold. When he paused just inside the room, she slipped past him to cross to the fireplace. After igniting a match on the hearth, she lit the wood and peat that was stacked in the grate, allowing him time to acclimate to his room.
When she turned to face him, it was to see him standing at the foot of the large four-poster bed.
“There is a private sitting room through that door and a dressing room there.” She made brief nods toward the doors leading from the bedroom, ignoring the last door by striding toward one of the windows to straighten the drapes a bit. “Perhaps you’d like a bath before retiring for the night?”
“That would be appreciated,” he said smoothly, his voice intimate in the quiet of the bedroom.
Despite her attempts at distracting herself, her body vibrated with the strange acute awareness he inspired.
Was it the nature of their relationship that had her so attuned to him?
Or was it just his way to wreak havoc on a woman’s sensibilities?
“Do you have a valet I should send to you?”
“I traveled alone.”
Moira nodded, sending her gaze anywhere but in his direction. “Ewan can assist you tonight. Tomorrow, I’ll assign someone to see to your needs until you are able to hire on a man of your choosing.”
“I’m sure I’ll manage.”
Was that amusement she detected in his tone?
She finally gave in to the urge to glance at him. He was watching her from his spot by the bed. His gaze was intent and his mouth pulled upward on one side in a tilted smile that had her knees locking to keep her upright.
“If there is anything else you need...” From the moment she’d seen him in the hall, her mind had gone into a bit of a muddle. She probably appeared quite daft.
“The accommodations suite me just fine, Miss...uh...” He chuckled and ran the pad of his thumb over his bottom lip. “Not Miss anymore, are you?”
Her stomach flipped at the reminder, but she held his gaze. “Moira. Just Moira.”
“Moira,” he said slowly as though testing it in his mouth. Then he lowered his chin. “And please, call me Braden.”
“Braden.”
As soon as she said his name, something flickered in his eyes then disappeared. “It’s been an odd night,” he observed gently.
“It has,” Moira breathed as their eyes met for a poignant moment. Then she lowered her chin and strode toward the door. “The bath will be up shortly. Ring the bell in the corner if you’re needing anything else.”
As she sped back downstairs to find Ewan and request the duke’s bath, she pressed her hand to her stomach again and took several deep breaths.
It was done. The handfasting had begun.
Perhaps now everyone could relax a bit.
Everyone but her, that is.
Even after spending the last six years waiting for his arrival, now that he was here, she felt like she’d been flipped upside down and sideways. She would do her duty. She’d always known she would have to someday and the issues that had a
risen in the last few years had only firmed her resolve.
But the idea of Dunnwood being turned over as her dowry to a man who clearly preferred to indulge in selfish pleasures over focusing on his responsibilities was not something she could stomach. Dunnwood was hers and she intended to keep it.
Handfasting was the only way to accommodate the terms of the betrothal while ensuring Dunnwood would remain under her control. But it required she accept Melbourne as her husband during the trial—sharing her home, her time, and her body.
It truly was the only possible solution, but now that the day had come...she wondered how she’d get through the night, let alone the next year.
***
Nearly an hour later, Moira stood at the door connecting the lady of the house’s bedchamber to that of her laird. She was still dressed in the nightgown and robe she’d worn for the ceremony, but she’d taken a moment to run a brush through her hair and clean her teeth in the midst of all the pacing she been doing while she tried to allow the duke enough time for his bath.
She’d been standing with her ear pressed to the door for about fifteen minutes and had heard the tub being emptied and removed before Melbourne assured Ewan he’d need nothing else. Then she’d heard the servant exit the room, leaving the duke alone. That had been a full nine minutes ago.
The only reason she hadn’t moved yet was because she didn’t know if she should knock or just walk in.
At least...she told herself that was the reason.
Moira was known for her steadfast and decisive nature and her preference for action over contemplation. She had never been a fainthearted sort.
But then, she’d never had to walk boldly into a man’s bedroom before.
With a deep breath, she reached for the handle and opened the door.
Melbourne was standing in front of the fire and turned at the sound of her entrance.
He was dressed in a pale grey dressing robe over black, loose-fitting linen trousers and his hair was still damp from his bath. The lights in the room had been turned down and the fire glowed hot and bright behind him, casting his features into shadow.