“On a cold night so close to Christmas, brandy would be welcome.”
He sat at the table and pulled off his gloves as he watched her bustle around the kitchen. When she took off her gloves, he caught a glint from the band of gold on her fourth finger. Another kick to his gut. Another reminder that he needed to control his more primitive reactions.
She set out a plate of shortbread, before she pulled a bottle of brandy from the cupboard and poured two glasses. He hadn’t expected her to drink with him. Reminder that this was a mature woman who had undergone experiences he didn’t yet understand. That perhaps he’d never understand.
Something he hoped in part to remedy now. “How did you survive in London? I swear I won’t judge you. I’m just glad you stayed alive.”
She looked annoyed as she sat opposite him. “I already told you I didn’t sell myself.”
“You were so pretty, you could have become a rich man’s mistress.”
“Well, I didn’t.”
He ignored her peppery response and sipped his brandy, surprised at the quality. He’d expected something fit only for cooking. Although what he’d most like was a dram of whisky. “Rhona, I’d dearly love to know how you left me as a penniless crofter’s daughter, yet here I find you with a flourishing farm, half of Scotland away from Dun Carron. I assume you married. You’re wearing a wedding ring.”
“I did marry,” she said in a flat voice.
That answer crushed any frail hopes Malcolm had that she wore the ring as a way to preserve appearances. It was a possible explanation. After all, she had a son to protect, as well as her reputation.
Again he told his masculine instincts to behave. They had no right to smart at the thought of her giving herself to another man. If that other man had saved her from poverty and prostitution, Malcolm should instead go on his knees and thank the lucky devil.
Although he wasn’t quite so saintly, he struggled to keep his tone reasonable as he spoke. “Straightaway?”
The ironic glance she sent him indicated he failed. “Not far off. Patrick was born in wedlock, so on paper, he’s no bastard.”
Malcolm supposed that was a good thing, too, although every cell of his body howled in protest at some other man claiming the boy as his son. “Patrick knew about me, even if he didn’t know my name.”
There had been surprise and curiosity on his son’s face when Malcolm turned up out of the snow, but more at the fact of his arrival than his existence.
“Yes, Patrick knew that I carried another man’s child when I married my husband. Or at least I explained as much as I could to him when he was old enough to understand.”
“Did he mind?”
“I think he must always have guessed something of the sort. He was one of those babies who was born wise.”
A new fear gripped Malcolm. “His stepfather was unkind to him?”
Rhona shook her head, and a gentle smile unlike any Malcolm had seen so far tonight curved her lips. Her affection for the man she’d married was clear. Jealousy raked long, bloody marks across his heart.
“No, his stepfather was the best of creatures.”
Malcolm shifted and clenched his fists on his lap under cover of the table. Again he reminded himself that he should be grateful that Rhona had fallen in with a good man.
“Where is this paragon?” He struggled to stifle his sarcasm. Yet again, he failed. “Are you expecting him home for Christmas?”
Sadness deepened Rhona’s eyes to malachite, and Malcolm felt small and unworthy, even before she answered. As he recognized her genuine grief, he squirmed in shame.
“Samuel died five years ago, down in London.” She paused, as if reluctant to share the news with her former suitor. “I’m a widow.”
Chapter 5
Across the table, Rhona watched more of the tension leach from Malcolm’s face as she told him she was a widow. Which troubled her. After all this time, he shouldn’t harbor hopes of making her his. For pity’s sake, they were different people from those wide-eyed, fatally innocent children back in Dun Carron.
She’d grown up fast in London, a process that started even before that, with her cruel ejection from her home. She’d learned to read people, and men in particular. Malcolm was interested in her as a woman, whether out of sentimentality or curiosity to see who she’d become in their years apart. That quality of concentration he focused on her was unmistakable. This was a male setting his sights on a female he desired.
How did she feel about that?
She wasn’t sure. She’d spent most of her adult life hating him with every beat of her heart, even as that same nitwitted heart had missed him to the point of agony. But the lad she missed had been the lad she’d loved at Dun Carron, and she’d convinced herself that he’d never existed outside her girlish fancies. The real Malcolm Innes was a lying, treacherous coward.
His arrival tonight had restored her vision of the boy she’d adored. Brave, honorable, steadfast. So steadfast that he’d spent years searching for her, and when he finally accepted she was dead, he’d searched for his son. She’d been smarter than she knew when she described Malcolm as Sir Galahad.
But the life of a questing knight was lonely and arduous, providing none of the more usual comforts of home or family. She thought again of that lone wolf skulking outside the pack, turning savage and rough with loneliness and yearning. This man who watched her with starving eyes wasn’t the straightforward youth she’d fallen in love with. He carried an edge of risk and mystery.
She was certain that he wanted something from her. Something? She feared he wanted everything, even after all this time without her.
Rhona struggled to keep a level head, but it was more difficult than it should be. Malcolm was an attractive man, and something about the purity of his devotion appealed to the stupid, susceptible girl who lurked beneath the pragmatic farmer. If there were no other complications, she might even welcome him into her bed. It had been five empty years since Samuel died, and she’d missed a man’s touch.
But there were complications. Enormous complications. Patrick’s presence in the house for a start.
Not to mention that she could already tell that Malcolm didn’t want a couple of quick tumbles to warm up a winter’s night. He wanted what they once had.
And that couldn’t be.
To return to what they’d once shared meant that she’d have to return to the person she’d once been. That girl had died at Dun Carron and been buried for good on the streets of London. It would take a Christmas miracle of gigantic proportions to resurrect her.
Confirming what her instincts screamed, that black gaze narrowed. “Is there someone in your life now?”
“Yes, he’s over six feet tall and he looks like his father,” she said shortly.
“Not Patrick.” Malcolm made a dismissive gesture. “You know what I mean.”
To her regret, she did. She frowned, wondering whether it would be wise to broach the subject of the physical attraction that stirred between them. She supposed it wasn’t surprising that some of that old hunger lingered. Her younger self hadn’t been able to keep her hands off Malcolm, and he’d been the same. Physical passion had swept her into a world where prudence held no sway. All that mattered were the glorious sensations her young lover could conjure from her body.
Well, what a cursed mess that had got them into. Although despite everything, Rhona couldn’t regret having Patrick. He’d been a worry. He’d been a responsibility. But he’d never been less than a joy. He still was.
Sipping her brandy, she considered her response. “Malcolm, I don’t know what hopes you’re nurturing.” Although, God help her, she did. She injected a steely edge into her voice. He needed to understand that after all this time apart, they couldn’t take up where they left off. “But you must know that they can’t come to fruition. All that unites us now is some painful history and an almost grown son. After everything that has happened, I’m surprised you’re still such a romantic.”
“I was always a romantic,” he said, unperturbed by her warning.
“You were. To your detriment. After a few years of fruitless searching, any sensible man would have settled for a wife and family and a portion of happiness on his fine estates.”
“Sensible!” he spat out, as if the word tasted disgusting. “I’d voyaged to the stars and back with you. How could you think I’d settle for an earthbound existence, full of meat and potatoes?”
She tried not to feel flattered. Although she dared any woman not to find a morsel of gratification in hearing how deeply she’d scarred her first love’s heart. “You can live on meat and potatoes.”
“You can live on hope and memories, too.”
She shook her head and indicated him where he sat, eating her up with his avid gaze. “Not by the look of you. You’re worn down to the bone. You look like you haven’t known one second of ease in twenty years. You look like a dog chained up in a yard and left to starve.”
To her surprise, instead of greeting her unkind description with anger, faint humor lit his eyes. In truth, he looked less desperate than he had when he’d arrived. She guessed that a crushing burden had lifted off him when he discovered that both she and Patrick were alive. “Are you saying I’m not handsome enough to take your fancy?”
She didn’t smile. Partly because she was unwilling to admit that if she met him as a new acquaintance, she could fancy him indeed. This mature Malcolm had an intensity that drew her, a promise that this was a man who knew how to share pleasure beyond imagining with a lover.
Stop it, Rhona. You’re not sixteen anymore. You more than most know the price the world extracts from people who surrender to their lusts without thought of consequences.
She kept the edge on her voice. “I’m saying you caused me a lot of trouble.” Now there was an understatement. “I don’t want you causing me any more. I’ve built up a good life. I won’t have you marching in and turning that upside down.”
That devouring black gaze didn’t waver. She tried to ignore how that steady regard made her insides melt into treacle. “So do I have a rival?”
“There’s no race,” she snapped, pushing her chair back from the table and standing up to break the spell he cast over her.
How the devil did he do that? It wasn’t that long ago since she’d wanted to crack him on the head with a poker and shove him back into the snow to freeze.
“That’s what I’m trying to find out, Rhona. You no longer have a husband. Has some local man caught your interest?”
“What if someone has?” She linked her hands at her waist. It seemed mad, but they showed a tendency to shake.
Plague take Malcolm. She was usually more adept than this at discouraging intrusive male interest. It was one of the first things she’d learned in London.
He sat back and folded his arms over his chest, forming a picture of aristocratic ease. “I’m just sizing up the opposition.”
Annoyance flattened her lips. “I’m the opposition, damn you. You can’t just waltz in here and start laying claim to a woman who you haven’t seen in half a lifetime.”
One of those expressive dark brows rose. “Can’t I?”
“No, you can’t.”
“Then why are you getting in such a flap?”
“I’m not in a flap,” she retorted, although she was. Even more annoying, Malcolm became calmer as she verged closer to losing her temper. It was as if with every moment in her company, his aims became more certain.
“Is there a suitor?”
“If there is, will you go away?”
“Don’t be a silly goose.” The black eyes glittered. “You know I won’t.”
There. Rhona was right to worry. She scowled at him, as her pulses skipped and stumbled with stirring trepidation. “You have no privileges here. In Muirburgh, the Laird of Dun Carron is just another traveler passing through.”
More calmness, blast him. “I’m not passing through.”
That sparked her wrath. “Well, you’re not staying. Once the snow clears, you’re on your way, my fine bully boy. Right now I wish I’d left you in the barn.”
“You probably do.” Rueful amusement turned down his lips. “But I can’t go away. What about Patrick?”
It was a fair question. Now Malcolm had discovered his child, he’d be a constant presence in her life. For heaven’s sake, they hadn’t had a chance to discuss the matter yet, but Malcolm had said he intended to leave Dun Carron to her son. “You and he can sort things out between you.”
Malcolm’s expression turned serious, and he sat up straight. “You won’t try and stop us finding some way to go on?”
Rhona knew that she’d be more prudent to say that she would. But how could she deny her son the chance to know his father? Especially when that father now turned out to be a decent man. “Of course not.”
Malcolm’s expression eased another few notches. “Thank you. I appreciate that.” His eyes sharpened on her face. “So tell me, Rhona, is there a lover?”
Her lips flattened with impatience. “You’re not going to leave this alone, are you?”
“What do you think?”
She gave a derisive snort. “I think, Malcolm Innes, that you’ve grown unpleasantly obstinate over the last years.”
“I’ve always been obstinate.” That annoying calmness persisted. “Over the important things at least.”
He had, she remembered with a shock. At least with the things he cared about. Like her. Didn’t she have proof of that right now? Only a man obstinate to the point of obsession would have kept looking for Patrick all these years.
Her sigh conveyed surrender. She could lie, she supposed. Although once Malcolm started spending time with Patrick, it would be inevitable that he learned that she slept alone. Even if she could convince Malcolm that she had a swain, he’d already said that made no difference to his plans to pursue her.
After she’d lost Malcolm, it had taken a long time for Rhona’s broken heart to mend. Raging at him for letting her down should have helped to erase her longing. But it hadn’t, even while she remained convinced that the man she missed like the very devil had only ever existed in her imagination.
But eventually she found a peace that was all the sweeter after the tumult preceding it. She was unsure that she wanted to jeopardize that peace. She liked Muirburgh. She liked running Burnside Farm. As the owner of one of the best spreads in the glen, she played a large part in local affairs. The people here had no idea of her past, and she liked that, too.
She sighed again and crossed to add more wood to the already blazing fire. It was an excuse to escape Malcolm’s eyes. She didn’t want to witness his triumph when she admitted the truth.
Her voice was low, but he was listening so intensely that she knew he’d hear her. She’d forgotten how powerful that pure focus was. Even as a boy, he’d paid careful attention. “No, there’s no lover.”
A silence fell. After a long while, she turned back to Malcolm. He was leaning back in his chair once more, and the brandy glass dangled from one long-fingered hand.
With his noble air and fine clothes, he should look ridiculous in this humble farmhouse kitchen. Instead he looked like a man who had found his place in the world at last.
Rhona struggled to summon some resentment at how at home he appeared. It was as if he already laid claim to a role as master of her house.
But it was hard to be angry, when his male beauty made her heart perform giddy somersaults. He wasn’t at all the bonny laddie she’d fallen in love with, but there was a touch of danger and worldly experience to this man that she found exciting.
Heaven save her. She’d already made an utter fool of herself over Malcolm Innes. Surely she was old enough and smart enough to protect herself from his attractions now.
The awful truth? She wasn’t sure she was.
“I thought you’d be dancing around the kitchen in celebration,” she said in a sour tone, although she was more irked about her own weaknes
s than she was with him.
That downturned smile reappeared. “Why don’t you have a suitor?”
“Do you want competition?” she asked sharply, noticing that he’d already wolfed down the shortbread she’d put out for him. She crossed and started to cut him a slice of cake, before she remembered she didn’t want him to feel too welcome.
He’d gone back to staring at her as if he could read her soul. Once perhaps he could. No longer. Or at least that’s what she told herself.
“You’re a spectacular-looking woman. And you’ve become a person of some substance in this glen. I would imagine the single men of Muirburgh are pounding down the door to propose. Not just the single men, although the married ones won’t be offering marriage.”
She slid the plate of cake before him. “A few fellows might have expressed an interest.”
More than a few. This was the first year she’d given all the farmhands the chance to go home for Christmas. In previous years, she’d kept a couple of them around the place to discourage any suitors who mightn’t take no for an answer. She also had several guns in the house, and knew how to use them.
Rhona had been abducted once in her life. She never intended to be caught so helpless again.
After their courting failed to persuade her, the local men had become less persistent. With Patrick nearly grown, this year she’d given her workers a short holiday. The irony was that at last a genuine threat to her independence had come riding up the drive.
Although she already knew Malcolm wouldn’t descend to violence. She’d spent enough time in the barn, watching him with the horses, to understand that the kind boy had grown up to be a kind man.
The discomfiting truth was that he didn’t need to resort to violence. Nostalgia and his unassuming charm were more likely to seduce her into his bed than roughness ever could.
Even more discomfiting, she suspected he knew it.
“I’m sure you’ve been wooed within an inch of your life. Did that sharp tongue frighten them all away?”
Have Yourself a Merry Little Scandal: a Christmas collection of Historical Romance (Have Yourself a Merry Little... Book 1) Page 18