Elise regarded Marcus. “As your wife, I am no longer prisoner?”
“You are not prisoner now,” he replied. “You are in the castle for your safety.”
“Safety,” she murmured, then added, “If I wish to go to the village, you will allow it?”
He nodded. “If it pleases you. I have work I can take care of while we are there.”
She narrowed her eyes. “I am no prisoner then?”
“Nae,” he answered innocently, and she knew she would get no more.
He would ensure she was watched every second they were at the village. If she played the future wife, he would soon relax his hold. Pain stabbed at her heart.
She had to be gone before his priest arrived.
* * *
Elise paced her bedchamber. Marcus's son would arrive any hour. Only two days had passed since she'd agreed to marry Marcus. Was he hurrying to Brahan Seer to meet the woman who would marry his father, or to expose her as murderess? How in God's name was she to escape not two, but three MacGregor men?
The fire blazing in the hearth cracked and she jumped. She pressed a hand over her racing heart. Something must be done. She recalled the various decanters of liquor sitting on the sideboard in Marcus's library and hurried to the library.
She opened the door and met Marcus's gaze as he looked up from the work on his desk. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, love?” he asked.
She closed the door and headed for the sideboard. “I need a drink.”
Elise ignored the quizzical lift of his brow as she stopped before the sideboard and surveyed the decanters. She spied the small square decanter filled with cognac. She removed the lid from the decanter, poured a healthy portion into a glass, then emptied it in two unladylike gulps.
She heaved a sigh, then poured another, and finished it just as quickly. She glanced at Marcus and saw he regarded her. “Oh,” she said, “how thoughtless. Would you like one?”
He shook his head.
“Well, I do.”
The glass reached her lips when Marcus's hand covered hers. “Slow down, lass. You're liable to regret this in the morning.”
“Unlikely.” She brushed his hand aside, then strolled to the hearth while sipping the cognac.
“Is something wrong?” Marcus inquired.
“Wrong?” She whirled. A delicious warmth radiated through her body. “A few months ago, I was shipwrecked, left penniless and alone, then, naïve little lamb that I am”—she narrowed her eyes at the mirth that leapt to his eyes—”I was pursued relentlessly by you.”
“Perhaps what you need is a little comforting,” he suggested.
Elise rolled her eyes. “What I need is another cognac.”
“Nae.”
She gave her head one single slow shake. “Do not think you can stop me from doing as I please. Now or after we're married.”
Marcus caught her arm as she approached the sideboard. “Have you not had enough?”
She disengaged herself from his grasp. “I'm capable of handling my liquor. Be so kind as to move aside.” She placed a hand on his chest and shoved.
He stepped back as she passed. “You're in a fine mood tonight. I have never seen you this way before.”
Elise paused in filling her glass and looked at him. “Regretting your proposal?”
His mouth twitched.
Damn him, she mentally cursed.
“I think I will still wed you,” he replied. “I'm looking forward to ravishing your sweet body every chance I get.”
“I believe I pointed out you need not marry me to do that.” She lifted the glass to her lips.
“Perhaps,” Marcus said. “But it will be my obligation, and I will always know where to find you when my sense of duty calls me into service.”
Elise halted mid-sip and narrowed her eyes. “What is that supposed to mean?”
He shrugged. “A wife is always in her husband's bed, aye?” His gaze made a possessive sweep over her body.
She lowered the glass from her lips. “Are you saying you're marrying me to ensure my… my availability?”
His wince and quick “Nae” confirmed the assessment. “I am marrying you because I love you and want you at my side.”
A tremor passed through her at the declaration of love given so naturally, but she gave a feminine snort and retorted, “A masculine play on words.”
“Nae,” he denied even more vehemently.
Elise regarding him more closely. “You're jealous.”
“Jealous?” His expression snapped to a stormy darkness. “Of whom?”
She waved her glass, dodging the liquid that sloshed over the rim and onto the carpet. “The funny part is”—the funny part is, she should have created a fictional lover long ago—”you were afraid I would want someone else.”
He looked startled and she couldn't help a laugh. Elise placed her glass on the sideboard and came to stand in front of him. A fuzzy sensation in her belly made her feel reckless. Wrapping one arm around his neck, she caressed his jaw with her free hand. She ran her gaze in a purposeful, slow motion from his mouth to his eyes. “Perhaps I should have considered another application or two for my hand.”
His arm shot around her. She squealed with the hard yank of her body against his.
“I am marrying you because I cannot live without you,” he growled.
But you will, she thought, and pulled away so he wouldn't see the pain that rose too easily to the surface. Elise started for the sideboard and her drink. She reached the tumbler and once again downed the glass.
“Elise,” he growled. “Enough.”
Despite the sudden fogginess of her vision, she reached for the decanter again. This time, strong fingers pried her hand from the stopper.
“You seem to forget,” Marcus said, “my warning about disobeying me.”
Elise frowned, the fogginess creeping into her brain. “Ahh, you mean the threat to distract me with your body.” She laughed. “I think that threat is a little old, don't you?”
Without warning, he swung her into his arms and, an instant later, she found herself on the couch, pinned tightly beneath him.
“I always keep my promises, love, even if it means finding a new twist to an old game.”
“I'm not in the mood for your games tonight, milord. Let me go.”
“Nae.”
“Marcus.” She groaned with the effort of attempting to shove him off her.
He shifted and, grasping her hands, wedged them behind her back. His weight lay fully on her and she wriggled, the increasing cloud across her mind impairing the ability to think. Even as she realized he'd lowered his head and his hair was tickling her chin, the sudden flicker of his tongue dangerously close to her nipple sent a jolt through her. She gave a tiny squeal and he responded with a noise deep in his throat. Gripping her wrists with one hand, he freed his other hand to reached down and yank up her skirt.
“Marcus,” she breathed, unexpectedly clear headed, “we're in the library. You cannot!”
But he continued, his tongue—his tongue, she forgot in favor of the finger that slid across her pleasure point. Marcus wound a foot around her ankle and tugged her close until she felt the thick bulge pressed to her thigh. His grip on her hands loosened as a slow thrust slid along her thigh.
“I think ye will find your father in here,” came Cameron's voice just outside the library.
Elise stiffened. Marcus yanked her skirt down as the door opened. She squeezed her eyes shut just before Marcus's gaze settled on his father.
“You chose a fine time to visit the library,” Marcus said evenly.
“Aye,” Cameron replied. “So it would seem. You look well this evening, lass,” he added.
She buried her head in Marcus's shoulder, not quite stifling an oath.
“I think you had better do something about your lady's speech,” Cameron said. “She's beginning to sound like a sailor.”
“Was there something you wanted?” Marcus ask
ed. “Kiernan,” he exclaimed.
His muscles tightened and Elise realized he was rising. She grasped his shoulders.
He relaxed and said, “I'll be out directly. Give me a moment.” The door closed with a soft click, then he said, “You can open your eyes now, love. They have gone.”
Elise opened her eyes while shoving at him. “Get up for God's sake.”
He obliged. “Only a moment ago, you didn't want me to rise.”
She sat up. “Your son—he saw me.”
“Elise—”
She shot to her feet. “Good Lord, you shouldn't have—”
“Now, love, 'tis not all that bad. You were fully clothed after all”—she groaned and plopped back down onto the couch—”and, truly,” he went on, “this has been a household of men for many years. We aren't shocked by a little love-play.”
Elise shook her head harder this time.
Marcus gave her a gentle look. “You can't avoid him our entire marriage.”
Her stomach did a flip.
“I'll take full blame for the situation.”
She paused. “That is the truth.”
“Aye,” he agreed.
She kept her gaze fixed on him, but she was imagining his son's face as he stared down at them, Marcus on top of her while she arched toward him. If she could only leave the castle tonight. But even an hour's absence would be noticed. Not nearly long enough. She remembered how they had tracked her clear to Glasgow and the damned pawnbroker.
“Leave Kiernan to me.” Marcus's voice jerked her back to the present.
She eyed him doubtfully.
He smiled. “Don't concern yourself over it, love. 'Tis nothing.”
Elise rose. “I'm going upstairs to change.”
“But you look beautiful.”
“I can imagine just how I look,” she grumbled.
His gaze traveled the length of her, his expression taking on a masculine pride, which started a quiver in her stomach—and reminded her that his son had caught them when that same look was on Marcus's face.
Chapter Fourteen
When Elise finally stepped from the stairwell, Marcus had to remember to breathe. Pleasure rippled through him at seeing she had worn her hair loose. Her creamy skin, luminous against the soft brown of the modest gown borrowed for this occasion, radiated a sensuality, which revived the memory of their earlier lovemaking. Low bodice met high waist, emphasizing the curve of her breasts. The dress hung loosely around her slim body, transforming her into an ethereal creature drifting toward him. She stopped beside him and smiled at his son. Marcus watched Kiernan's acute scrutiny of her as introductions were made. She extended a hand as graciously as any duchess.
“Madam.” Kiernan took her hand and brought it to his lips.
Her face lit with enchantment and Marcus breathed a sigh of relief that her misgivings seemed to have evaporated.
“Why, sir,” she said, “I believe you are a heartbreaker.”
Kiernan blinked in surprise.
“You didn't tell me he was such a rogue, Marcus. I wager the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.”
Marcus smiled. “Kiernan is very much his own man.”
Her expression softened. “Perhaps, but that raven's hair and those eyes…”
Memory of similar words spoken to him by her upon their first meeting stole over Marcus.
“They must be your mother's eyes.” She smiled at Kiernan.
Marcus snapped back to the present.
Cameron joined them, his raised brow testament that he had overheard the comment. Marcus looked from his son to Elise. It hadn't occurred to him she might speak of Jenna. He had never spoken to her of his wife, and she had no idea of Kiernan's sensitivity concerning his mother.
Kiernan angled his head. “You are correct, madam. I did, indeed, inherit those traits from my mother.”
“I see,” Elise nodded. “But there's more.” A corner of her mouth twitched upwards. “She imparted something of herself to you. A piece of her soul, perhaps.” Kiernan looked genuinely shaken and Elise's smile turned gentle. “It is heartening that you carry her with you.”
He looked hopelessly at his father but was doomed to find no solace there, for Marcus was as surprised as he.
“Well, now, Kiernan,” Cameron's deep voice broke in, “what do you think of your father's future bride?” He gave Kiernan a crack on the back and winked at Elise.
Marcus noted the blush that crept up her cheek and wondered at a woman who could be so bold one moment, then so reticent the next.
* * *
The following day, Father Whyte arrived. Winnie announced the priest's arrival. Had it been Marcus, Elise would have taken the sgian dubh from the wall in the great hall and put it through his heart. That would be a more merciful end than the one he would suffer if his foolishness got them married.
Father Whyte asked if all were well with the wedding arrangements. “A week is a short time to prepare a wedding feast.”
“A week?” Elise replied, then remembered Marcus saying the wedding would take place soon. He hadn't said how soon.
What if you did go through with the marriage, a quiet voice asked?
Then Price would go free, and Amelia and Steven wouldn't have recompense. But how many more would suffer as a result of Price? She had lost the two most important people in her life. Now she would lose Marcus. All because of her stepfather. But it wasn't so simple. If Marcus—or worse, someone else—discovered the truth, he would pay dearly.
In the end, Elise had seen to Father Whyte's comfort in the small abbey located on the southeast edge of Brahan Seer. Guilt piled higher at the realization that he was enthusiastic about the marriage. Why couldn't he have been one of those pinched-nose priests who believe rank shouldn't mix?
That night when Elise appeared in the great hall and started toward the kitchen, Marcus intercepted her and seated her beside him at the table.
“Winnie is expecting me.” She tried to rise.
Marcus laid a firm hand on her shoulder. “Nae. She is not.”
Elise glanced at the kitchen door.
“'Tis the way of things,” he said. “You will have duties enough after we wed.”
After we wed. Her stomach did a flip. Time was running out and she had found no answer as to how she would safely and successfully slip away unnoticed. There remained only one answer; she had to tell Marcus she wouldn't marry him. When all was said and done, he was a good man. Once she demanded to be allowed to return home, he wouldn't keep her prisoner.
Kiernan seated himself beside her. She was surrounded. Elise listened as he talked of school, friends, and the upcoming season in London. Everything, she thought, except the one thing that must be in the forefront of his mind. How would she respond? What would she say to this keen young man if he questioned her about her past? Kiernan's gaze turned intense. Her heart rate accelerated. Had she missed something in the conversation?
“I do believe,” he said, “the ton will be set on its ear by my father's new marchioness.”
“Marchioness?” Elise repeated.
Kiernan nodded.
Marchioness… Marchioness—the wife of a marquess. Nobility, Marcus was nobility? Elise's mind raced. What rank was a marquess? Baron, viscount, earl, marquis—marquess—she abruptly felt as though a thick fog had enveloped her brain. If Marcus was a marquess, then Cameron—she nearly choked. Marcus was a high nobleman, and she was an accused murderess—a wanted criminal with a bounty on her head.
“Have I said something?” Kiernan demanded in a low whisper.
Elise's attention jerked back to the young man.
“I meant no offense,” he went on. “Your forthright manner will be a breath of fresh air for London's tainted society.”
“Of course,” she responded in a whisper.
His brow furrowed in concern.
Elise shook her head. “Forgive me. The excitement of the wedding—and London…” she let her voice trail off.
K
iernan hesitated, then smiled in polite acceptance.
Supper ended. Elise waited until Marcus had joined his father and son near the hearth before slipping from the hall.
“Where are ye off to?” Winnie inquired as she hurried through the kitchen.
“I am in need of fresh air.”
Winnie gave a grunt of understanding as Elise passed out into the night. She hurried across the compound and down the lane to the abbey. Father Whyte hadn't appeared for the evening meal and she prayed he wasn't already abed.
Elise entered the chapel to find him kneeling before the candlelit altar. She stopped, intending to make a quiet retreat, but he twisted and looked at her over his shoulder. The smile on his face died when their gazes met.
“What's wrong, child?” He rose and started down the aisle toward her.
Elise hurried forward, meeting him halfway. “Father,” she said without preamble, “if I ask a question, you are obligated to tell the truth, aren't you?”
“Aye.”
“What is Marcus's rank?”
“Rank?”
“Title—rank,” she answered impatiently.
“He is the Marquess of Ashlund.”
Her heart beat faster. “What is a marquess?”
“In this case, he is the son of a duke.”
“A—” Her head reeled. “So Cameron really is a…”
“A duke,” Father Whyte confirmed.
Elise collapsed onto a pew.
“Madam!” He caught her hand and fell to his knees before her. “Are you ill?”
“My God,” she whispered. “My God.” She looked at him. “This is… no mistake?”
He looked confused.
“There's no possibility Marcus will not follow his father's footsteps?”
“Marcus is the only son. He will one day be the Duke of Ashlund.”
“My God,” she repeated. Then, abruptly looking at the priest, she said, “If I cry off, Marcus couldn't force the wedding?” Would he—could he—actually force her to stay?
Seduction Regency Style Page 78