He wouldn’t seduce her. He wouldn’t ruin her. He’d married her to protect her—he couldn’t bear the idea of a woman being mistreated. And he sincerely wanted her to be able to walk away from him in four years’ time—or less, all going well—an unsullied, unencumbered woman.
Such a sweet lass deserved more than what a damaged bastard like him could ever offer.
And it would be far easier for him to resist temptation if he put some distance between them. Curling his hands into fists—a reminder to himself not to succumb to the overwhelming urge to touch her—Hamish stalked over to the fireplace and planted his feet on the hearthrug and attempted to fix her with a glowering stare.
His efforts were all for naught, though, as Olivia followed him and, exasperating minx that she was, took up a position by the end of his four-poster bed.
Alarm bells began clanging in his head. Good God, was Olivia trying to seduce him?
If she sat on the mattress and patted the counterpane, he was done for.
However, she simply laced her fingers together in front of her waist, the prim gesture entirely at odds with her state of dishabille.
“Hamish,” she began. “From the very first moment I met you, I cannot deny that I’ve felt an overwhelming attraction to you, and not just in a physical sense. And although I expect you’re going to deny it, I think you feel it too.”
Hamish frowned. “I know where this conversation is headed, but whatever you say, it’s not going to sway me. We agreed this is going to be a marriage of convenience. One in name only.”
“Yes, but it is still a marriage. So shouldn’t we at least pretend it’s real and we care for one another just a little? Otherwise, what will your family think when we arrive at Muircliff? Indeed, what will all our friends think—Lord and Lady Malverne, Lord and Lady Langdale, and Lady Charlotte—if we appear estranged from the outset? It won’t make a lick of sense considering we’ve just thrown caution to the wind and been married at Gretna Green.
“Furthermore, if my uncle and Felix hear even a whisper of a rumor that our marriage is a sham, they’ll be sure to challenge its validity and try to have it dissolved. And yes, I know you’re a marquess, but they’re desperate to control my money, and they won’t be put off if they think for a moment they can succeed.”
She took a few steps closer. Her eyes held a determined light. “To that end, I think it’s particularly important that we look as though we’re smitten with each other even if we’re not.” She shrugged a shoulder. “Unless you do want everyone to believe you married me for my inheritance. And that I mean nothing to you at all.”
Hamish scrubbed a hand through his hair in frustration. Damn it, she had a point. “No, I don’t want it to appear that way. Nothing could be further from the truth. I do care about your well-being, Olivia.”
In fact, he was probably beginning to care too much, and that’s what he was afraid of. But he couldn’t admit that. There wasn’t any point in giving the lass false hope. In the end, he’d never be able to give her what she wanted. He was broken. His soul was irrevocably stained. If she learned what he was really like—and of the terrible things he’d done, the things he was capable of—she’d be horrified. Even his friends—Nate, Gabriel, and Max, the Duke of Exmoor—didn’t know the half of it.
Olivia crossed the hearthrug until she stood but an arm’s length away from him. “I know that you mean well, Hamish. Why else would you have offered to m-marry me?” she said gravely. “Be that as it may, the only way that I will be able to convince others that we’ve been physically intimate—even if we don’t actually consummate this marriage—is if I stop behaving like a nervous maid. Which is exactly what I am. At the moment, I’m constantly blushing and jumping out of my skin every time you come near me. I . . . I must get used to being near you.
“So . . .” Olivia drew so close, she had to lift her chin in order for her gaze to connect with his. “I have a suggestion. I . . . I think you should k-kiss me until I become accustomed to it.”
Now they were moving into exceedingly dangerous territory. Hamish composed his features into a hard stare, the kind he would have used when disciplining a subordinate in his military days. “I’ve already kissed you.”
To his astonishment and begrudging amusement, it had no effect whatsoever. Olivia waved a dismissive hand. “Pfft. The kiss you bestowed this afternoon was pleasant, b-but on the whole, it really wasn’t good enough.”
He knew exactly what she meant; it had been his intention to keep the kiss light. But that brief bussing of lips hadn’t been enough for him either. Nevertheless, he felt compelled to defend himself. Casting her a wry smile, he said, “I’ve never had that complaint before, lass.”
Olivia narrowed her gaze. “You can joke all you like, but I’m serious. Remember, two of my dearest friends are married to reformed rakes, so I know what to expect. And by all accounts, you’re a rakehell too. Yet you kissed me as though I were a porcelain doll. As if I would break.” She laid a hand upon his arm. “But we’re married now, Hamish, and I want you to kiss me as if you mean it. Kiss me how you meant to kiss me in your room at the Hart and Hare. Kiss me as you would a lover. Don’t be all missish about it as you were at the handfasting ceremony.”
He couldn’t help but smile at the fact that she was throwing his own words back at him. “Missish? I’ve been accused of being a lot of things before, but never that.”
“Well, prove to me that you’re not. It’s our wedding night, for heaven’s sake, and I demand that you give me a proper kiss.”
“Proper,” he repeated, strangely amused despite the fact that a battle royal was taking place inside him—a sudden surge of lust waged war with his conscience. “It sounds as if the sort of kiss you want is entirely improper.”
“Proper. Improper. C-call it whatever you like.” A lock of Olivia’s lustrous brown hair brushed against his bare forearm, and he cursed beneath his breath. For an inexperienced maid, she seemed to know exactly what she was doing. Her cheeks were bright with color, and challenge flashed in her deep brown eyes as she sought his gaze. “Kiss me with unabashed passion,” she urged, her voice soft and husky yet commanding at the same time. “I’m your wife, and I deserve nothing less than your b-best effort.”
The gossamer-thin thread snapped, and the hungry beast within was unleashed. Hamish gripped Olivia by the shoulders and pulled her flush against his chest. She gasped and pressed her palms against the hard swells of his pectoral muscles. An emotion he couldn’t quite identify—desire, excitement, or perhaps it was fear—sparked in her eyes.
“Well, here it is, my Lady Sleat,” he murmured as he pushed his fingers into the tumbling silken mass of her hair, clasping the back of her head. “You’d best brace yourself for my best effort.”
He intended to claim her mouth in a bruising, ravaging kiss. A kiss that wasn’t just improper but so fierce and bold, it would rattle this naive, presumptuous maiden. To warn her she was courting danger, not a chivalrous knight of old. That there was a reason to keep her distance.
But as soon as his mouth came down on hers, something happened he couldn’t explain. Some elemental force, some strange alchemy, swept through his blood, and instead of kissing Olivia like a mindless, lust-bitten brute in full rut, he kissed her with passionate tenderness, with an ardor that bordered on reverence.
His mouth melded with hers, and even though her response was unschooled, there was no doubting her eagerness to learn. To please him. Her lips were as soft and pliant and sweet as ripe summer berries, and they parted for him without hesitation when he sought to enter her with his tongue. Cradling her jaw, he thrust deeply, gently plundering every inch of that delicious honeyed recess. Savored the silken slide of her tongue as it shyly caressed and teased him in return. Had a kiss ever been so exhilarating? So all-consuming?
Hamish doubted it. This kiss was different from any other he’d hitherto shar
ed with a woman. And he had no idea why. All he knew was that he needed more.
Desperate for a taste of Olivia’s skin, he grazed his lips along her jaw, then down her throat. Pushed aside the shoulder of her night rail and set hot, sucking kisses upon the sensitive juncture between her neck and shoulder. The taste of her, the smell of her, was heady. More intoxicating than the strongest whisky.
And it seemed Olivia was more than willing to give in to his every demand. She swept aside the curtain of her hair so he could ravish her with greater ease. She arched her neck. Tangled her fingers in the locks at his nape and melted against him when he returned to feast upon her mouth again. Everything she did, every sound she made—the tiny moans and sensual little gasps that spilled from her lips—set his pulse racing madly. Triggered a sweet ache in his chest, a longing that went beyond physical craving. It was a bone-deep yearning that shocked him to the core.
What the bloody hell was wrong with him?
Hamish tore his mouth away. His chest rose and fell as he sucked in air and struggled to regain some semblance of control. To quell the desire urging his body to claim her. To cast out the raw tenderness threatening to undo him. “That’s enough, lass,” he panted.
Olivia’s eyes fluttered open, and she frowned up at him. “Why?” she demanded huskily. Confusion clouded her gaze. “We’re both attracted to each other. Desire each other.” Her fingertips stroked along the line of his jaw, raising shivers of awareness all over his fevered flesh. “Why shouldn’t we have a real marriage in every sense—”
“I said it was enough.” Hamish pulled Olivia’s hands away and clasped them against his chest. He couldn’t think when she caressed him. “We need to stop, and you need to go. For your own good.”
“I don’t want to.” Reproach laced her tone. “I’m not accustomed to your kisses yet.”
“Well, that’s all you’re going to get from me, Olivia.”
“I’m not leaving.”
“Aye. You are.”
She raised her chin. “Make me.”
“Very well,” Hamish growled.
He bent low and tossed Olivia over one shoulder, her arse in the air.
She gave a short, sharp shriek of surprise. “What are you doing?” she hissed as he strode out of his room and across the sitting room, heading toward her bedchamber. Her slippers fell off, but he didn’t care.
“Putting you to bed,” he replied.
“I’m not a child.”
No she wasn’t. Hamish could feel the press of her breasts against his back. The plump swell of her delectable buttocks beneath the palm of his hand as he held her steady. The taste of her sweet mouth still lingered on his tongue.
“Put me down,” she demanded as he approached her bed.
“Hush, you’ll wake Tilda,” he admonished in a harsh whisper before tipping her onto the mattress. She bounced against the pillows, and he forced himself to step away so he wouldn’t follow her onto the bed. Wouldn’t bury himself in her abundant feminine softness and warmth. Even now, her body called to him like a blazing fire on a freezing Highland midwinter night. “Good night, Olivia.”
She pushed herself up and scowled at him. “Why are you being so . . . so difficult?”
“It’s in my nature,” he said, trying to ignore the sight of her aroused nipples poking against the fabric of her nightgown. The way her hem had ridden up, exposing an elegant foot and a good deal of one very bare, very shapely leg. “And it seems I’ve just discovered you are similarly inclined.”
“Gah, you’re im-impossibly stubborn, Hamish MacQueen.” Her pretty pink lips, still swollen from his kisses, dipped into a pout. But Hamish wouldn’t let himself be pushed to the brink of madness again.
“Aye,” he said gruffly, heading for the door. “And the sooner you come to terms with that, the better, my lady wife. We’ll depart tomorrow morning at ten o’clock. I’ll meet you downstairs.”
* * *
* * *
As the door shut behind Hamish, Olivia decided she was going to be impossibly stubborn too.
She relaxed back against the pillows and pulled the bedcovers up to her chin. If Hamish MacQueen thought that this battle of wills was over, he was sorely mistaken.
Never in her life had Olivia felt so alive. Her whole body hummed with excitement. Her lips tingled with the memory of Hamish’s glorious kisses—they’d felt wild and desperate. Needy but also worshipful. She’d demanded that he kiss her as he would a lover, and that’s exactly what she’d got.
And it wasn’t enough. Not by far. She’d been given a taste of bliss, a glimpse of what love felt like, and she wouldn’t give up until she had it all.
One thing she’d been thrilled to discover: Hamish did indeed want her. She’d felt the unmistakable evidence of his arousal pressing against her own body. So clearly a lack of desire wasn’t the reason behind her husband’s reluctance to bed her and sire an heir.
And she didn’t think his reluctance to have children stemmed from a fundamental dislike of them. Even though he might not be Tilda’s father, he was nothing but wonderful with her.
Olivia sighed and turned over, hugging a pillow to her chest. His words leapt into her mind. We need to stop, and you need to go. For your own good.
What did he really mean by that?
He was shielding her from Felix and her avaricious family, yet he also seemed to think she was in some sort of danger when she was with him, her husband. Her reputation was no longer at risk. And she’d happily give up her virginity to him in a heartbeat.
She’d seen flashes of temper—he’d certainly looked as if he could murder Felix today—but even when Hamish had been a tad exasperated with her, she never felt in any danger. Most of the time, she felt his glowering stares and occasional cynical quips were all for show. And surely Charlie wouldn’t have suggested the Marquess of Sleat appear on their list of eligible bachelors if there was anything truly wrong with his character.
He was hiding something, not just from her, but from his friends.
None of it made any sense otherwise.
As Olivia watched the log she’d thrown into the grate crumble into ashes, she decided she might just find the answers she was looking for on the Isle of Skye.
CHAPTER 12
I wished sometimes to shake off all thought and feeling; but I learned that there was but one means to overcome the sensation of pain, and that was death.
Mary Shelley, Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus
The King’s Head Inn, Springfield, Scotland
September 20, 1818
The early morning was foggy, but Hamish’s mind was clear as he pushed into the King’s Head Inn and sought out the innkeeper.
“Here you are, my lord.” The shifty-eyed Lowlander passed Hamish the key to Felix de Vere’s room along with a sly wink. “It’s the third bedchamber to yer left at the top of the stairs. And if ye need anythin’ else at all, dinna hesitate to ask. I am at yer disposal.”
Hamish gave a curt nod. “I thank you, but that will be all.” He wasn’t impressed with the man’s fawning demeanor. However, Hamish did appreciate the publican’s lack of integrity insofar as he’d got what he wanted—easy access to de Vere’s room—and for the price of only a few guineas. He suspected the publican would probably sell his grandmother’s soul to the devil for the right price.
When Hamish opened the door to Felix’s room a short time later, he was greeted by snoring. It was still early, and as he expected, the bastard was still abed. Even though the light was dim, Hamish could see Felix was propped up awkwardly against the bedhead with a heavily bandaged shoulder. A dark bottle of Kendal’s Black Drop, an opium tincture, stood on the scarred wooden bedside table beside a bottle of wine and a half-empty glass.
Marching over to the window, Hamish threw open the dusty, moth-bitten curtains. Felix immediately stirred,
then moaned and threw an arm up to cover his eyes. “What the bloody—?” he mumbled. And then he saw who’d invaded his room. “Oh, fuck . . .”
Hamish moved to the end of the bed and crossed his arms over his chest as he scowled down at Olivia’s good-for-nothing cousin. He’d worn his full clan regalia, complete with a dirk and short sword at his waist. There was nothing quite like the sight of an armed, savage-looking Highlander in an equally savage mood to put the fear of God into one’s enemies. At least Hamish thought so.
“You’d best listen carefully, de Vere,” he said in the precise tone of voice that always brought even the most recalcitrant of soldiers to heel, “if you know what’s good for you.”
Felix winced and let out an agonized groan as he attempted to sit up. “How the hell did you get in here?” he ground out between clenched teeth. The weak sunlight drifting in through the grimy window illuminated the lines of strain around his frost blue eyes and the sweat-soaked strands of dark blond hair plastered across his pale forehead.
Hamish ignored his question. “Although we met briefly yesterday, allow me to formally introduce myself. I’m the Marquess of Sleat . . . Olivia’s husband.”
If Hamish had thought Felix looked pale before, he was wrong. The cur’s face took on the same washed-out hue as the threadbare sheets tangled around the lower half of his body.
Felix’s throat convulsed in an audible gulp. “You must be joking,” he rasped. “Unless of course”—his expression changed, his top lip curling into a sneer—“you need her money. Because why else would you marry such a half-witted chit?”
Pure anger flashed through Hamish hotter and swifter than a lightning bolt. It was time to put this dog in his place. “It’s a love match, de Vere.” Of course, that was a lie, but Olivia made a good point last night. And Felix wasn’t to know it wasn’t true.
Leaning forward, Hamish was gratified to watch Felix visibly shrink into the pillows at his back as he added, “Why else do you think we raced for the border? She’s Lady Sleat now, and I’ll go to any lengths to protect that which is mine. And . . .” He cocked a brow and smirked. “I also know every single thing about you, including how you and Giles Thackery have been embezzling my wife’s money to cover your gaming debts and generally dissolute way of life. So unless you want me to take legal action against you, I suggest you return to whatever hole you crawled out of and stay there.” Even though it would create a massive scandal, Hamish wasn’t above using the threat of publicly exposing the man’s crimes if it meant keeping Olivia and her fortune safe. A well-honed warning could be just as effective as the actual blow.
How to Catch a Sinful Marquess Page 15