He wasn’t sure why he’d come back here to Torkeldy. It wasn’t as if he had any fond memories of the place. Not even one. The only memories here were of fear and hunger, and dodging the fists of whomever it was he’d been foisted on next.
He’d joined the army at the first opportunity.
Getting away from his narrow existence, seeing the world, and earning his own keep… it had seemed like a grand adventure. Except all the beauty he’d seen on his travels had been coloured with blood and violence, and death on a scale that seemed unimaginable. There had been no imagination needed though, not when the truth lay before you like some festering nightmare.
The Cameron Highlander’s 2nd Battalion had come recruiting and he’d joined at once. They had sent him to the 1st Battalion and he’d loved it: the training, the routines, the camaraderie. For the first time in his life he’d found a place to belong, a place where he’d had friends, people who liked and respected him. It had felt good.
Then he’d been sent to the Peninsular for eight years of hard fighting, where he watched many of his friends die. From there, the Walcheren Expedition to the Netherlands, and what a God-awful farce that had been. The place had been a mosquito-infested swamp, and malaria had swept through the ranks so fast it had been terrifying. For a soldier there was always the expectation of dying in battle. You lived with it, accepted it. Yet to die of bloody fever before you’d even fired a shot….
What a way to go.
Four thousand men had died from what they’d ended up calling Walcheren fever.
A hundred and six died in battle.
It was strange, but of all the horrors that visited his dreams, it was the memories of his friends perishing of fever that he hated most. Men he’d served with, out of their minds and calling for help, far from home. He’d stopped making friends after that. It was hard enough losing the ones he already had, he’d not add to them only to lose them too, barely five minutes later.
Through all the violence and waste, from Salamanca, Burgos, Vitoria, through so many battles they all merged into a haze of noise and terror, until the horror of victory at Quatre Bas and Waterloo. He’d watched the remaining lads who’d become his kin—his brothers—fall and die.
He’d buried some, had never found others. Yet, through it all, he’d survived relatively unscathed, like some blasted angel sat on his shoulder, and for what?
He’d sold out after Waterloo. Everyone said it was an achievement, having made captain. Yet his only real achievement had been living. Who the hell else could they promote? The money he’d accrued was a staggering amount for a boy who’d come from nothing, but he’d not known what to do with it, where to go.
One day he’d found himself back here, at Torkeldy, standing on Mrs Murray’s doorstep like the snot nosed boy he’d once been, hoping for a shortbread and a warm by the fire.
He rubbed a hand over his face and sighed. There would be no sleep for him tonight. Getting to his feet with a groan, he headed to the window and stared out. The wind was howling around the castle walls, an eerie sound that a fanciful man might think were the souls of the dead come to torment him. A good thing he’d never had much of an imagination.
Unless it came to Miss Wycliffe, damn her.
Sleep was a rare and precious thing, and if it wasn’t bad enough to have it interrupted by nightmares, now she was there, haunting his dreams.
Infuriatingly, it hadn’t even been because of the way she’d looked, the bonnie lass, all wide-eyed astonishment as she’d stared at him acting the drunken fool. No. It was her smart mouth that had gotten under his skin. He’d wanted to smile. Even as she made him furious, he’d wanted to smile. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d come close to that.
The nerve of the chit, talking to him of impressive views, implying all the time she’d been speaking of his cock, and then… Ben Nevis is my first mountain.
He snorted and shook his head. Just what he didn’t need, a woman with a smart mouth, and likely one set on finding herself a husband. What the devil she could see to recommend itself in him and this draughty old pile of stones he couldn’t imagine, but then desperation drove people to do daft things.
What had Phin been up to, sending her after him in such a way? The daft beggar. He’d been a good man, a kind-hearted fool who viewed the world as a place of wonder and miracles. Despite his aggravated manner towards the old man whenever he’d forced his bones to creak up the hill to the castle, Ross had liked having him about. It had made him feel less mired in the filth to have such a bright and shiny soul by him, no matter if the man was wrong. Phin hadn’t seen what Ross had seen, and that was something he was grateful for. The world needed good men like that. It did not need another Ross Moncreiffe.
Phineas Wycliffe had loved the world and all its souls.
Mad as a box of frogs, Ross thought with a sad smile, though he’d envied him his belief all the same.
He stiffened, all senses on alert as a peculiar sound echoed outside his bedroom door. It sounded a little like the wind howling beyond the walls only… indoors?
What the devil…?
Taking a moment to light a candle, he padded on bare feet towards the bedroom door and cracked it open, listening. He’d gone to bed in his shirt at least, so he need not stalk the castle bare arsed. He doubted Mrs Murray would thank him if she came upon him in such a state.
The sound came again, like a tormented soul, crying woefully in the darkness or, at least, what someone who’d never heard the reality might think a tormented soul sounded like. Who was out here playing silly beggars?
Muttering about having someone’s hide, he moved along the corridor with a stealth that owed everything to a well-defined instinct for staying alive. He paused, waiting until the sound came again, and moving on towards it. He’d just rounded the corner, moving towards the south side of the castle, when a door opened, and a white blur barrelled into him.
Ross was so surprised he dropped the candle. The thought—that if ghosts existed, they were very warm and soft—flitted into his mind only to be dispelled abruptly as the figure gave a scream.
Whoever it was had also been carrying a candle and had managed to set him alight.
Small hands batted at the flames which were licking along the seam of his shirt at remarkable speed.
“Stop that!” he ordered, fearing she’d burn herself, for it was a she, that much was obvious. With little other option, Ross uttered a violent curse, grabbed the edges of his shirt and tugged it off over his head, balling the material in on itself to smother the flames. The woman leapt towards him, patting at his head as the smell of singed hair drifted around them.
The revolting smell mingled with the smoke of scorched fabric and the woman stepped back, reaching down for the candle she’d set on the floor after it had caught him alight. As she lifted it, the golden light illuminated the face he’d been considering only moments earlier.
“You!” Ross thundered, very aware he was once more stark naked before the wide-eyed Miss Wycliffe.
He held the ruined bundle of fabric before him, covering what remained of his dignity and doing his best to ignore the spike of desire that had hit him on seeing her standing before him in one of his own shirts.
His shirt.
Damn, but she looked fine wearing it too. It hung past her knees and she’d been forced to roll the sleeves several times to get her hands free. She’d tied the opening V of the shirt closed, but none too tightly, giving him a tantalising glimpse of full, rounded breasts that the fine linen shirt did little to disguise. His gaze wandering, he caught his breath. Holy God, he could see the dark outline of her nipples beneath the fabric. His body tightened with appreciation at the sight.
Far worse, however, was the possessive thrill of pleasure at seeing his own shirt covering her body.
“What, in the name of everything holy are ye doing here?” he demanded, wondering if perhaps he’d lost his mind, and this was some kind of fever dream.
�
�I….”
She was staring at him, he realised, her eyes dark as they trailed over his chest, down his abdomen, and kept going. His body was well aware of the quality of her gaze and hurried past appreciation for her very feminine form to for heaven’s sake find a bed man so fast he felt breathless.
“Were ye so eager for another glimpse of my cock that ye broke in with the intention of setting fire to my clothing?” he asked, deliberately crude. Christ, maybe she really was set on ruining herself, on forcing him into marriage?
Even in the candlelight, her fiery blush was unmistakable.
“Of course not!” she exclaimed. “I came for tea with Mrs Murray. She invited me,” she added with defiance. “But then the storm came and I… I couldn’t leave, so she said I could stay and that you need never know. I didn’t mean to trouble you.”
Ross snorted.
“Well, you’d never have known I was here at all, only I heard that dreadful noise….” She swallowed, her gaze shifting behind her. “What was it?”
There was fear in her eyes as she stared around the dark corridor. Ross well knew that the castle could have a threatening atmosphere at the best of times. For a woman alone and with some daft beggar—who would be in a deal of trouble—making out like the place was wall to wall phantoms, it was no wonder.
A wave of protectiveness swept over him.
“Just the wind,” he said, softening his voice. “It’s an old building and it makes odd noises. You’ve seen the broken windows, the wind gets in and howls like a banshee,” he said, realising he had more imagination that he’d credited himself with.
“Oh,” she said, not looking entirely convinced. “Is that all? How silly of me.”
“Na,” he said with a huff, wondering what the devil he was playing at. If she was terrified the place was infested with ghosts she might not come back.
Which was a good thing.
“It can sound like the souls of the dead come to snatch ye from ye bed,” he said, realising his attempt to soothe her was making her look more horrified than ever. “It’s not!” he added in a rush. “It’s just the wind. Honest,” he added, lying through his teeth and promising retribution to his meddling staff.
“Right,” she said, biting her lip and not looking the least bit soothed.
Ross stared at those white teeth, tugging on her full, soft lip, and knew it had been far, far too long since he’d had the pleasure of lying with a woman. Miss Wycliffe might be a comely sight, especially with his own shirt pressed to her naked skin, but that surely didn’t account for the fact he was as hard as an iron bar. He was not some whelp of a boy at the mercy of his passions. Except that was exactly what he felt like.
The desire to comfort her and soothe her fears—preferably in the warmth and comfort of his bed—was a temptation to which he was far too close to surrendering.
Realising they were standing conversing in a dark corridor at three in the morning, and that he was not only bare arsed but sporting an impressive erection behind his ruined shirt, it seemed like time to leave before things could get any more awkward.
Though how they could get more awkward was honestly beyond him.
“Well, then I’ll bid ye goodnight, Miss Wycliffe,” he said, wincing. He sounded as if he’d been taking tea with her instead of… of whatever this had been.
“Don’t go!” she exclaimed, hurrying closer.
Ross froze. The scent of her—warm and feminine and as inviting as freshly baked bread—coiled about him, and he swallowed.
“Why?”
“I….” She hesitated, looking mortified. “I…. Was it really the wind?” she asked, looking up at him with such a beseeching expression that every instinct demanded he take her in his arms and comfort her at once. “It didn’t sound like the wind.”
She placed a hand on his arm and Ross jolted at the contact, desire and longing a living thing beneath his skin. His reaction startled her, and she jerked her hand away, blushing harder than ever.
“I’m sorry,” she said, looking as if she wanted to die. It came to him then that she was genuinely frightened, and of all the people to be forced to cling to in the circumstances, he doubted he’d be top of the list.
He felt a swell of sympathy for her, not to mention feeling like a brute for all his lewd imaginings. Plus, the fact he couldn’t stop staring at the dark circles of her nipples, so help him.
“Would ye like a drink?” he offered, at a loss for any other suggestion, though for his own part going outside and standing in the icy rain seemed a sound idea. “It will help ye sleep.”
She nodded at once and Ross consigned himself to the devil. Would this night never end? He went to turn and show her the way, but halted abruptly before he treated her to the sight of his bare bum.
“Er… perhaps you should walk ahead of me,” he suggested, refusing to allow the blush that was in danger of scalding his own cheeks, possibly both sets.
A glimmer of amusement shone in her eyes for a moment and she bit her lip again, unconsciously doing terrible things to his equilibrium. Ross gritted his teeth and followed her, no better off as the candle she carried illuminated his voluminous shirt, giving him a delectable silhouette of lush curves.
Muttering curses under his breath, he tried to keep his eyes on the floor until they reached his room. “Wait here,” he said, the words terse as he ducked inside, walking backwards as he went.
It took him a matter of seconds to dress, far longer to lose the cockstand tenting his kilt despite employing every trick he knew, some of them damned painful. His body would not let go of the idea that Miss Wycliffe was waiting outside his door, though, and it wondered how much persuasion she’d need to come in and make herself at home in his bed.
“Stop it, stop it, stop it, ye daft beggar,” he muttered to the offending region. “Anyone would think ye want to get leg shackled.”
Once he had himself under some semblance of control, he opened the door to find Miss Wycliffe huddled against it. She fell back with a squeal of alarm and he caught her, his arms closing around her and holding her against his chest. All his good work was undone in a moment as he’d reacted without thought, and now he had a hold of her. Her body was warm beneath the shirt and, may the devil take him, he’d grasped her too high, his fingers firm against the soft underside of her breasts, her lush behind nestled against the part of him that needed no encouragement to get excited again.
She gave a little gasp of surprise but didn’t scream or pull away, so Ross did it for her and dropped his hold on her like he’d been burnt. He rather thought he had. His heart was beating in his throat, the desire to take hold of her again so fierce that he wondered how he didn’t ravish her there in the hallway, damn the bed.
“This way,” he rasped, stunned by his body’s reaction to her and somehow forcing his brain—the one in his head, not the insistent one in his cock—to obey and lead her further along the corridor to his study.
As soon as they reached his study, he snatched at a blanket he left there for the occasions he ended up sleeping by the fire instead of his own bed. He draped it around her shoulders, remaining at arm’s length the whole time. The heavy wool covered pretty much everything and should have helped.
It didn’t.
It was his own tartan and seeing her wearing it made that possessive urge flare to life again with a vengeance, both brains in accord now and growling mine.
Ross turned his back, prayed to a God he didn’t believe in, and poured two large drinks. She’d settled herself in a chair flanking the hearth and he handed her a glass, trying to ignore the slender ankles and dainty toes that peeked from beneath his tartan, taunting him.
Behave. Behave, damn ye miserable hide, Moncreiffe. Ye are going straight to hell as it is, dinnae make matters worse.
“Drink that, it will help, then I’ll take ye to bed… back to your room,” he amended in a rush, cursing himself.
Watch your stupid tongue, man.
“Thank you,”
she said, sounding uncharacteristically meek. “I’m so sorry to be such a bother. You must hate me.”
Ha!
Ross sat down opposite her, far too aware of how outrageous the situation was and wishing hatred was the worst emotion he was struggling with.
“Don’t be daft,” he said, keeping his tone light. “Ye have nae earned such a mighty position of loathing. Ye’re a minor irritation, Miss Wycliffe, nothing more, and one we both know ought nae be here.”
To his amusement, that comment seemed to spark her back to life.
“Only a minor irritation?” she said, bristling like a feral cat. “I shall have to try harder.”
“Oh, please God, dinnae say so,” he said, genuinely alarmed. “I’ll live in fear of waking and finding every stitch I own burnt to a cinder, such is your desire to see me naked.”
“I hardly set fire to you on purpose,” she retorted, indignation shining in her eyes.
“Did ye nae?” he taunted, enjoying himself too much to stop teasing her. “Ye weren’t averse to getting an eyeful after the fact, though, eh, hen?”
Ach, she wants ye bad, man.
She gaped at him, momentarily speechless.
“I can’t believe you just said that,” was the best she could do, and the words were somewhat faint at that.
She didnae deny it!
“Oh, there’s plenty more I can say,” Ross said, grinning at her. It was as well she knew that she was playing with fire. “I saw the way ye looked at me, and I ken what it means, though perhaps ye don’t. I hear the English nobs keep their women ignorant about what happens between men and women. That true?”
Her outraged blush was answer enough so he leaned forwards, lowering his voice.
“Ye want me.”
He was a little surprised that she held his gaze, defiant despite the fire in her cheeks.
Holy God.
She does.
Run, ye damn fool, or she’ll be Mrs Moncreiffe by morning.
The Scent of Scandal (Rogues and Gentlemen Book 16) Page 7