The Devil Wears Plaid

by Teresa Medeiros

  “I’ve often said my nephew is a man of many talents,” the earl murmured, refusing to meet Ian’s eyes.

  Abandoning Ian to Ernestine’s clutches, Emma returned to the earl’s side. She beamed down her nose at him, deliberately emphasizing the discrepancy in their heights. “The whole time I was having my little adventure, all I could think about was getting back to you so I could take my rightful place as your bride.”

  “Perhaps we should delay our nuptials until you’re fully recovered, my dear. I’m thinking a thorough examination by a physician might be in order to ascertain the full extent of your injuries.”

  Despite the warmth of her bridegroom’s smile, the cold light in his eyes betrayed the fact that he was talking about far more than just her shoulder.

  “Oh, that won’t be necessary,” she replied cheerfully. “It was naught more than a scratch. Tomorrow morning there will be nothing—and no one—to stop us from standing before that altar and making our pledges to each other.”

  The earl took one of Emma’s hands in his, lifting it to his ice-cold lips. “Welcome home, my dear,” he said stiffly, offering her a formal bow. “I shall be looking forward to our wedding with great anticipation.”

  “As will I, my lord,” Emma replied, spreading her skirts to sink into a deep curtsy. “As will I.”

  IAN WAS LOUNGING ON a leather settee before the fire in the drawing room that night, enjoying a much needed cigar and a goblet of brandy, when a footman appeared in the doorway.

  “The earl wishes to see you, sir.”

  Ian sighed, almost wishing himself back in Jamie’s humble cell. At least there he hadn’t had to pretend to be free while bound by invisible chains. He stubbed out the cigar but drained the goblet in one swallow before following the liveried footman to his uncle’s study.

  For once his uncle wasn’t standing in front of the massive window on the north wall, gazing out over the mountain. Instead, he was sitting hunched over his desk, looking like a spindly old spider in the flickering firelight. Now that he was no longer in any danger of being caught in the old man’s web, Ian felt an odd calm steal over him.

  As the footman closed the door behind him, leaving the two of them alone, his uncle nodded toward the chair on the far side of the desk. “Sit, sit,” he barked impatiently. “I haven’t all night.”

  Tempted to agree that his uncle’s time was growing ever shorter, Ian crossed the plush Aubusson carpet and settled himself into the chair, propping one shiny black Hessian on the opposite knee.

  As was customary, the earl didn’t squander any time or breath on pleasantries. “I have a favor to ask of you.”

  Ian cocked an eyebrow in surprise. In all the years since the man had been his guardian, he couldn’t remember his uncle ever asking anything of him—short of keeping himself out from under his feet so he could forget about Ian’s existence for extended periods of time.

  “Just what can I do for you, my lord?”

  “I would have approached you sooner but I had hoped the situation might resolve itself. Especially after a new opportunity came to light. But alas, due to the flagrant incompetence of nearly everyone around me, that stroke of good fortune has been squandered.”

  Only his uncle could manage to sound utterly convincing when referring to the attempted murder of his own bride as a “stroke of good fortune.”

  The earl picked up an ivory-handled letter opener from the leather blotter on the desk and turned it over in his hands, gazing down at the silver blade. He actually seemed to be struggling for words. “It pains me to confess that along with age can come certain… infirmities. One is not entirely the man one used to be.”

  Ian leaned forward in the chair, fascinated against his will. He’d never known his uncle to admit to any deficiency in either health or character. And he certainly hadn’t noticed his uncle being any less of a petty tyrant than he’d always been.

  “As you may have observed, there is a slight age difference between my bride and I.”

  “It hadn’t entirely escaped my notice,” Ian said dryly.

  “While she is young and fertile, I fear that age has robbed me of my ability to produce an heir, if not the desire. That’s where you come in.” He cleared his throat, his hesitation betraying just how much it was costing him to take Ian into his confidence on such a sensitive matter. “I was hoping I could impose upon you to pay a visit to my bride’s bedchamber on our wedding night. And every night thereafter until I can be assured that Hepburn blood will run through the veins of my heir.”

  Ian felt his own blood chill to ice. “Let me make sure I understand you. After you make Miss Marlowe your wife on the morrow, you want me to visit her bed nightly until I can be entirely certain that I’ve succeeded in impregnating her?”

  His uncle’s nostrils flared in disapproval. “There’s no need to be so crude. We are all gentlemen here. But yes, that’s exactly what I am asking of you. Miss Marlowe seems to have developed a certain inexplicable fondness for you. I’m sure she won’t object too strenuously.” His uncle shrugged. “But if she does, there are ways to ensure her cooperation. I can instruct one of the more discreet footmen to assist you. Or there’s always laudanum to dull the senses and cause confusion.”

  “Yes, with enough laudanum, I’m sure she could easily mistake me for you.”

  Deaf to his sarcasm, the earl chuckled. “She’s a comely girl if not a beautiful one. I’m sure you won’t find your duties overly taxing. Of course once I’ve achieved my goal of installing a new Hepburn brat in the nursery, I might be forced to call upon your services once more. At my age, it would behoove me to have both an ‘heir and a spare’ as it were.”

  Ian settled back in the chair, stunned into silence by the depths of his uncle’s depravity. The man wasn’t a spider. He was a monster, willing to allow his nephew to systematically rape his bride just to make sure no one would question his own virility or the lineage of his heir.

  “You won’t inherit, of course, but I’ll reward you richly for both your service and your discretion. I’m thinking that property right outside of Edinburgh might be to your liking. If I throw in a healthy annual income, you’ll be able to settle down, find a suitable wife, and father a few whelps of your own perhaps.”

  Ian had no doubt that once Emma had provided his uncle with his heir and a spare, she would be equally expendable. But she wouldn’t be offered a healthy annual income and a property outside of Edinburgh. She was more likely to be offered an overdose of laudanum and a cold, stony bed in the churchyard of the abbey next to the earl’s previous wives.

  If Jamie had been present to hear the shocking proposal, the earl would be sitting behind his desk right now with the blade of the letter opener jammed right through his scrawny throat.

  His uncle scowled at him. “What are you smiling about, lad?”

  “I was just thinking that this might be one of the more pleasant obligations I’ve been asked to fulfill.”

  His uncle nodded in approval. “I knew I could count on you. Despite our differences, I’ve often suspected that you were cut from the same cloth as your dear old uncle.”

  Ian rose, sketching the man an elegant bow. “I am, as always, my lord, at your humble service.”

  As he strolled from the study, heading back to the drawing room to finish his cigar and pour himself another goblet of brandy, Ian was still smiling.

  EMMA STOOD AT THE window of the luxurious bedchamber the earl had provided for her, gazing toward the north. The mountain was a mighty shadow against the night sky, crowned by a shimmering slice of moon and a sprinkling of stars. She could feel its irresistible tug on her heart as surely as she could feel Jamie’s presence.

  Even though he and his men had been forced to part company with her and Ian before reaching the border of the earl’s lands, she knew he was out there somewhere. Watching her. Watching over her.

  If he had his way, she would be returning to Lancashire with her family as soon as they brought down the
Hepburn. He was determined not to make the same mistake his parents had made. To him, the rewards of love would never be worth its risks. Not when risking everything might mean ending up with nothing.

  When their party had ridden away from his grandfather’s keep, the old man had stood on the balcony to watch them go, his broad shoulders unyielding and his loyal deerhound standing by his side. Ramsey Sinclair must have known it would be the last time he would ever see his grandson. And even though Jamie had to have known his grandfather was there, he hadn’t glanced back, not even once. Emma wondered if he would be able to cut her out of his heart with such devastating precision.

  She touched her fingertips briefly to the cool glass of the windowpane as if to a lover’s cheek. Left with no recourse but to seek the lonely comfort of her bed, she started to turn away from the window only to gasp with shock when the reflection of the man standing behind her came clearly into focus.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  EMMA SPUN AROUND, CLAPPING a hand over her mouth.

  Jamie stood in front of the marble hearth, dressed all in black and framed by the firelight.

  “What are you doing here?” she whispered, her heart leaping with joy. “How did you get in?”

  “If a Sinclair knows how to sneak out of a castle,” he said solemnly, “he also knows how to sneak in.”

  “The tunnel in the dungeons,” she breathed.

  “Aye.” He touched a finger to his lips. “’Tis a secret passed down through generations of Sinclairs just in case one of us might want to sneak into the castle in the dead of night to steal a rare volume of Descartes, slit some throats… or ravish some bonny Hepburn lass.”

  His words sent a delightful little shiver of anticipation coursing through her. She lifted her chin, giving him an imperious look. “You almost tarried too long. I’m to be wed on the morrow, you know.”

  “So I’ve heard. To a shriveled-up auld goat.” He crossed to her side, reaching out to twine one of her unbound curls around his finger as if he could no longer resist the temptation to touch her. “All the more reason you might want one night with a real mon in your bed.”

  “Are you volunteering your services?”

  “I am. But I’m afraid I’m just a penniless Highland lad. I can’t give you gems or furs or gold.”

  “Then what can you give me?”

  “This,” he whispered, lowering his lips to hers for a long, lingering kiss. “And this.” He wrapped his arms around her and tugged her close, letting her feel every extraordinary inch of his hunger for her against the softness of her belly.

  Emma twined her arms around his neck, melting into his kiss, melting into his arms.

  He might claim he wasn’t willing to follow the same path his parents had trod, yet he was risking everything, including his very life, by coming to her. And even though it could spoil all their schemes and cost them both dearly, she didn’t have the heart—or the will—to send him away.

  Without breaking the tender bond their mouths had forged, Jamie swept her up in his arms and carried her to the bed, still taking care to guard her shoulder. As he laid her beneath him, her curls spilled over the satin coverlet in a river of copper.

  She had never felt more beautiful or more like a bride as she did in that moment. She understood how Jamie’s mother must have felt when she had first encountered his father in that secluded wood; understood what had driven them to run away, leaving behind everything they held dear so they could embrace a love so strong and enduring it had created the man who was gazing down at her in the firelight, his eyes shadowed by a desire so desperate he was willing to risk his life—if not his heart—to slake it.

  She sifted her fingers through the thick sable of his hair and tugged his delectable mouth back down to hers, inviting him to satisfy that desire, inviting him to satisfy her.

  He wasted no time in accepting her invitation. Her nightdress seemed to dissolve beneath the clever machinations of his fingers, shimmering away into thin air and leaving her naked beneath him. He took pity on her own clumsy efforts to make his garments go away and deftly disrobed between tantalizing caresses and deep, drugging kisses. Soon their bodies were straining as eagerly as their mouths toward the moment when they could be united as one.

  But just when Emma thought that moment had come, he went sliding down, down, down in the firelight. His big hands gently parted her thighs, exposing the very heart of her to his hungry gaze. Overcome by a sudden wave of shyness, she tried to wiggle out of his grasp. But he refused to allow it, using his superior strength to gently but firmly hold her fast.

  Then he bowed his head and touched the very tip of his tongue to her just as he had touched it to her nipple that night in the ruins of the abbey.

  If that had been bliss, then this was indescribable, a pleasure beyond any she had ever dreamed or imagined. Her hands fisted in the bedclothes, desperately seeking any purchase in a world tilting madly on its axis. Soon she was writhing beneath the tender lash of his tongue, his name an endless litany on her lips.

  He knew she was going to come before she did. He reached up and gently covered her mouth with his hand, muffling her cry of ecstasy before it could wake the entire castle. Then his mouth was on hers again, forcing an intoxicating taste of her own pleasure on her as he drove himself up and into her with a tender savagery that left her gasping for breath.

  He seemed determined to prove that no other strapping younger lover could vie for her heart with the same expertise or stamina. It was as if he intended to offer her a lifetime of lovemaking in one night, as if his body had been created for one purpose and one purpose only—to pleasure her.

  He covered her, he stole behind her like a thief in the night and after a very long time he lay beneath her while she straddled him, his powerful hips rocking in a rhythm more irresistible and hypnotic than the tide rolling into the shore. Just when that tide was on the verge of pulling her under, into a sea of unspeakable bliss, he rolled again, taking her with him.

  Emma could only cling helplessly to his shoulders as he took her with long, deep strokes, making her his again and again until she knew that no matter how far or how long she traveled in this world, she would always belong to him. By that time she was so sensitive to his touch that all it took was the merest brush of his fingertips to jolt her into another spasm of ecstasy.

  His powerful body began to shudder. Emma expected him to withdraw, leaving her bereft, but he only surged deeper, clenching his teeth against a ragged groan. As he spilled his seed at the very mouth of her womb, she arched off the bed in a paroxysm of rapture, her secret muscles clenching and unclenching as if determined to milk every last drop of pleasure from Jamie’s magnificent body.

  As those last lingering tremors of bliss ravished her sated flesh, she collapsed into the feather mattress, beset by a languor so dark and deep she didn’t know if she would ever find the strength to stir again.

  “Oh, Jamie,” she whispered without opening his eyes. “I knew you’d come back to me.”

  “Shhh,” he murmured, brushing his lips over hers with a possessive tenderness that made her want to weep. “Sleep, angel. Dream.”

  When she opened her eyes again, he was gone.

  Realizing that she must have dozed off, she struggled to her elbows, shaking her hair out of her eyes. There was no sign that Jamie had even been there. If not for the musky scent that clung to the bedclothes and the pleasurable tenderness between her thighs, she might have wondered if she had dreamed the whole thing.

  Flopping back to the mattress, she blew an errant curl out of her eyes and glared up at the medallioned ceiling. Apparently, Jamie Sinclair hadn’t yet realized his days as a thief and a raider were done. He could no longer slip into a woman’s bedchamber to ravish her body—and steal her heart—without paying a very dear price indeed.

  She turned her face to the window and the night beyond, gazing northward until the moon sank behind the mountain and her wedding eve turned into her wedding day.
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br />   EMMA WAS SITTING AT the dressing table in her bedchamber the next morning, studying the serene reflection of the woman in the oval mirror, when a knock sounded on the door. She had already dismissed a bevy of chattering maidservants from the room, needing a few minutes to compose herself before the wedding.

  “Come in,” she called out, assuming it was a footman sent to tell her that her father was downstairs in the drawing room waiting to escort her to the abbey.

  But when the door eased open, it was her mother who appeared in the mirror’s reflection. With her pale apricot hair, fair, freckled cheeks, and gentle blue eyes, Mariah Marlowe had once been as pretty as a pastel watercolor. But time and strain had faded her to a mere sketch of herself. In the past three years, as Emma’s father had turned increasingly to the bottle for comfort and less often to her, it seemed that even those lines were beginning to blur.

  Her smile, however, had lost none of its charm. “You make a lovely bride,” she said, gliding over to kiss Emma on the cheek before settling herself on the end of the bed.

  “Thank you, Mama.” Emma pivoted around on the brocaded stool to face her. “And how is Papa this morning?”

  Despite the casually phrased question, they both knew what she was asking.

  “Your father is fine. I’m sure it won’t surprise you to learn that he had a rather difficult time after you were abducted. But he hasn’t touched a single drop of liquor since word came that we might have lost you forever.”

  “Why? Did the earl run out of spirits?”

  Emma half-expected her mother to leap to her father’s defense, but she simply occupied her hands with smoothing her skirts. “I didn’t come here this morning to discuss your father, Emmaline. I came to discuss you.”