How to Catch a Sinful Marquess

by Amy Rose Bennett

  “I see,” replied Olivia carefully, when she really wanted to demand, “How will it suffice, Hamish? What purpose will it serve other than to give others the impression that we share a bed on the odd occasion?”

  But no matter how much Olivia wanted to vent her frustration, she knew a public display of temper wouldn’t help. With an effort, she pushed away her uncharacteristically sour thoughts and watched Mrs. Boyd cross to one of the panels beside the fireplace and push a key into a lock that was almost impossible to discern; it was neatly camouflaged by the intricate pastoral scenes depicted on the silk wallpaper. When the housekeeper turned a small handle the same blue gray hue as the fabric, the well-hidden door opened soundlessly into the next room. The sounds of activity—the rustle of linen, the muted murmur of female voices—filtered into Hamish’s bedchamber.

  “Yer room should be ready within a half hour, my lady,” said Mrs. Boyd. “If there’s anything I can do fer ye in the meantime, just ring.” She nodded toward the bellpull beside Hamish’s bed. “For instance, if ye need a maid to help ye . . .” The housekeeper raised a sparse eyebrow, and Olivia knew by the hard look in the woman’s eyes that she wasn’t being helpful. She was clearly judging her new mistress for not having brought her own maid to Muircliff.

  Olivia blushed hotly. “I . . . no, that w-won’t be nec-necessary,” she stammered.

  Hamish didn’t miss the slight either. “Mrs. Boyd,” he began in such a noticeably sharp tone, the housekeeper visibly paled. “No doubt my wife will expect you to select a number of candidates for her to interview for the esteemed position of lady’s maid. I’m sure there’s someone already employed here at Muircliff who will fit the bill. So I suggest you begin thinking about who might be suitable. Her ladyship will call on you when she is ready to discuss the matter further with you.” He smiled at Olivia. “Won’t you, my dear lady wife?”

  Touched beyond words at Hamish’s unexpected show of support, Olivia took a moment to find her voice. “Yes . . . I will.”

  Mrs. Boyd curtsied with due deference. “Verra good, my lady. My lord.”

  “Excellent,” said Hamish. “That will be all.”

  The chastened housekeeper quit the room, and then Hamish began to take his leave as well.

  “You’re not going to use your own dressing room?” Olivia asked his retreating back.

  Hamish paused on the threshold with one arm braced against the doorjamb. The line of his broad shoulders was tight, his back ramrod straight. He curled his fingers into a tightly clenched fist. “It’s better if I use Angus’s room,” he said without turning around. “I thought you and wee Tilda might like some privacy.”

  “Yes. Of course,” replied Olivia. He was right. But all the same, his continued refusal to spend time alone with her stung.

  “I’ll be back in half an hour to escort you and Tilda to the nursery to meet Nurse Swan.”

  “We’ll . . . we’ll be ready . . . Only . . .” Olivia’s gaze darted to the hidden door that would never be used by her husband. She watched Tilda slip through it into the next room to observe the maids at work. She couldn’t bear this ongoing estrangement. Each rejection felt like another little chip into her self-esteem. A chiseling away of her dream to build a lasting, loving relationship.

  Without thinking, Olivia moved to the door and reached out toward her seemingly implacable husband. Dared to place a hand on his shoulder. Tense muscle flexed beneath her palm. Shifted.

  All at once, Hamish moved, and Olivia found she was trapped between a cold stone wall and a granite-hard body.

  “Christ, Olivia,” he grated out, and captured her face in his hands. “Forgive me.”

  And then he kissed her.

  * * *

  * * *

  He couldn’t bear it any longer. He couldn’t resist his worst impulses.

  He might wish himself to be as unfeeling as stone, but he wasn’t.

  As soon as Olivia reached out to him, Hamish knew he was lost. Her tentative touch seared through his clothes. Branded him.

  He wanted. He burned. Hot lust shot through his veins, and Hamish knew he had to kiss Olivia. Claim her in the most basic of ways.

  His kiss was ravaging. Plundering. Hard, bruising, demanding, and desperate. There was no way to contain this pent-up desire. It was overwhelming. Incendiary. And the taste of Olivia’s sweeter-than-honey lips, her tongue, the sound of her moans, the feel of her soft, silken flesh beneath his hands, were the only things that would quench the insatiable need roaring through his veins like wildfire.

  The last few days had been hellish. Not only had Hamish been in a constant lather of thwarted lust—because he refused to give in to his base male urges—but he’d also been plagued by bouts of self-loathing. He never should have joined Olivia in the carriage on the final leg to Glasgow. Not when he’d been so exhausted.

  When he was in the throes of a nightmare, he had no idea what he was doing. If he’d lashed out . . . the danger to anyone nearby was real. When he’d woken on the floor of the carriage and realized what had happened, he was physically ill at the thought of what he could have done to wee Tilda or Olivia.

  He’d endeavored to keep his distance from Olivia for as long as possible. But as soon as he’d set foot on Skye, it was as if the savage blood of his ancestors began to thunder through him. His hunger for Olivia had grown keener. Hotter. And at the very first opportunity, the mindless ravening beast who wanted to take, take, take everything this lovely gentle lass had to offer had been unleashed.

  Yet it seemed he wasn’t the only one who wanted. Olivia was in no way a reluctant participant. Her hands kneaded his chest. She brazenly pushed her hips against his growing erection as she kissed him back with a fervor that astounded him. And it only made Hamish that much madder for her.

  Yes, he’d succumbed to madness. He didn’t care that Tilda might be nearby. Or that half a dozen maids might be in the next room.

  Nothing mattered to him except this woman and this abandoned, completely addictive kiss. And deep down, he knew this wouldn’t be enough.

  He wanted Olivia in every conceivable way. To show her pleasure beyond her wildest dreams. He wanted to strip her bare. To take her up against this stone wall. On his bed. On the hearthrug before the fire. In his library downstairs. In the great hall. On the ramparts. On the desolate moorland, among the spent heather. On the sand in the cove below Muircliff . . .

  Olivia whimpered, and Hamish pulled away as a sliver of sanity at last penetrated the fog of his rising lust.

  “I’m sorry,” he rasped in between panted breaths.

  “Don’t be.” Olivia was smiling.

  Was she mad too?

  He attempted to gather the will to move away but failed. “I was too rough.” Remorse laced his voice.

  “No you weren’t. I liked it. No . . . I loved it.” She stroked his cheek with gentle fingers. “I won’t break, Hamish.”

  Hamish leaned his forehead against Olivia’s. “Aye.” She was strong and fearless, and he didn’t know whether to rejoice or despair at her confession. The promise of a heaven he could never have taunted him when he looked into the dark velvet softness of Olivia’s doe eyes. Caught her delicious scent. Felt the rise and fall of her breasts against his chest.

  God, he sounded like a lovestruck boy, not a hardened, scarred-to-the-soul scoundrel of the first order.

  Forcing himself to unwind Olivia’s hands from his neck, he stepped away at last. “I still have to wash and change. And I’m sure you’d like to do the same. You’d best make use of that warm water in the dressing room before it gets cold.”

  “Yes . . . Hamish . . .” Olivia pushed a disheveled lock of her hair behind her ear, an endearingly nervous gesture, then offered a shy smile. “I’m afraid I’m not . . . I’m not accustomed to your kisses yet. I might need a few more.”

  “Hmm. We’ll see,” he
said, trying to ignore the discomfort of his erection as it strained in vain against the fall front of his buckskin breeches. “You might break me, Olivia.”

  And with that, he quit the room, heading for Angus’s chamber.

  Olivia might welcome his kisses, but her judgment was clouded. She didn’t know the shameful truth about him. If she ever found out how beastly, damaged, and dangerous he really was, she’d surely shun him. Reject his every touch.

  And rightly so.

  The problem was, he was too ashamed—nay, too cowardly—to reveal the worst of himself to her.

  The best he could do was promise himself that he wouldn’t succumb to temptation and lose control again. They could never, ever share a bed.

  One thing was certain: unlocking the jib door between their bedchambers now seemed like the worst idea Hamish had ever had. Because if Olivia entered his room during the night, anything could happen. And he’d only have himself to blame.

  CHAPTER 14

  My temper was sometimes violent, and my passions vehement.

  Mary Shelley, Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus

  Muircliff Castle, Isle of Skye

  So how is Isobel?” Hamish called from his brother’s dressing room. “Now’s the time for plain speaking, Angus.” He selected a fresh cambric shirt from the few Hudson had set out for him and threw it over his head.

  “She’s . . . when she’s not with Mother, she keeps to herself quite a lot,” said Angus, his voice floating in from the bedchamber. He was currently ensconced on a sofa before the fireside, his deerhound, Shadow, at his feet. “But you know what she’s like. So that’s nothing out of the ordinary.”

  “But how are her spirits?” Hamish fastened his cuffs and then his collar. He’d dismissed Hudson, opting to dress himself. After such a long journey, his valet needed time to refresh too. “You mentioned she wasn’t eating.”

  “Well, she’s less upset than she was initially . . .” said Angus. “When I first discovered what was going on between her and Brodie MacDonald—”

  “And how did that happen, exactly?” Hamish fished out a linen cravat. “You didn’t really say in your letter.”

  “I caught them kissing . . . in the library after my Latin and mathematics lessons with MacDonald had ended. And after I’d sent him packing, Isobel confessed all to me. About how they’d fallen in love and wanted to marry in Dunmuir Kirk. But because you would probably be against the match, they were also thinking about eloping and marrying over the anvil.”

  They’re damn right about that. Anger flashed through Hamish, and he nearly choked himself as he tied the knot on his cravat with rough movements.

  Good God. Brodie MacDonald is a brazen scoundrel. He’s lucky I don’t call him out. Have him flayed. Castrated. Gutted. Minced into worm’s meat—

  “Honestly, I was so shocked, I didn’t know what to do, so I wrote to you,” continued Angus. “Of course, poor Mother was alarmed, too when she first found out what Isobel had been planning. However, while she agrees that it’s not an ideal match given MacDonald’s inferior birth, I’m afraid . . .”

  “Go on.” Hamish frowned at his reflection in the looking glass as he undid the neckcloth and started again. “How is Mother, by the way?”

  “She’s well enough . . . only . . . the problem is, Isobel has managed to persuade her that this match isn’t entirely unsuitable.”

  Hamish’s hands stilled. “What did you just say?”

  He marched into the main bedchamber and pinned his younger brother with a hard-as-steel stare. Angus’s vagueness about Isobel and the whole situation was making him very uneasy. “Stop equivocating. I asked you to speak plainly. What the hell is going on?”

  Angus immediately leapt to his feet. “Now, now there’s no need to get upset. If you’d just speak with Mama and Isobel, I think that you—”

  Incredulity blasted through Hamish. “Don’t tell me you have changed your mind too!”

  Angus blushed redder than a lobster that had just been plunged into a cauldron of boiling water. He shifted uneasily from one booted foot to the other. “Look, you need to talk to Isobel. And Mother. I’ve done all I can. I wrote to you. I dismissed MacDonald. I put every measure I could think of in place to ensure Isobel didn’t run off and make the worst mistake of her life. Now it’s up to you to sort out the rest.”

  With that, he gave a great harrumph and deposited himself on the sofa again.

  Hamish crossed his arms and stared down at his younger brother. Guilt shredded his guts. Angus was right. It wasn’t up to him to clear this mess up. Hamish sometimes forgot the lad was only seventeen.

  Hamish softened his tone. “Of course. You’ve done well, Angus. And I will speak with Isobel and Mother. I just need to make sure Tilda’s settled into the nursery first. It’s been over a decade since Ellen Swan had any young charges in her care. If I need to arrange for one of the other younger maids to assist her, I’d rather know now. The last thing I need is more discord in my life.”

  Angus arched a brow. “I know it’s not really any of my business and I shouldn’t pry into your affairs, but I must say, I was more than a little surprised to see you arrive home with a ward and a wife. It all seems rather sudden.”

  Hamish sighed heavily and walked over to the mirror above the mantelpiece to finish tying his cravat. “Aye. It is.” He glanced at Angus’s reflection and caught his eye. “And just in case you’re wondering, Tilda is not my wife’s daughter.”

  “Oh . . . I never thought . . .” Angus blushed bright red all over again. “Olivia seems too young . . . Not that I mean anything by that. Although, I did wonder if—”

  “Tilda might be mine?” finished Hamish. “To be perfectly honest, I don’t know.” And he described how the child had been dumped on his London doorstep and the contents of the note that accompanied her. “I tell you all this in strict confidence, though, Angus. I’d rather Mother and Isobel didn’t know that poor wee Tilda might be my by-blow and that I have no idea who her mother is.”

  Angus nodded, his expression grave. “Does . . . does Olivia know?”

  His cravat now tied, albeit sloppily, Hamish turned around to face his brother. “Aye. She does. Everything.”

  “And she doesn’t mind?”

  “No. Surprisingly she doesn’t.”

  “She sounds like a very understanding young woman, then.”

  “Aye . . .” Hamish focused on adjusting one of his cuffs to avoid Angus’s curious gaze. He wasn’t ready to divulge how he’d met Olivia or how their marriage had come about. Because half of it would be lies.

  The worst part was that most of the lies careening through his mind were ones he needed to tell himself. The litany crashed about in his head.

  You don’t care for Olivia.

  You’re not falling in love with her.

  You feel nothing but lust.

  And then there were the cold, harsh, altogether inconvenient but immutable truths.

  When she inherits her fortune, it will be better if you set her free.

  You could never be the husband she deserves.

  She’ll be happier without you.

  However, it seemed that Angus would not be put off that easily in his quest to find out more about his new sister-in-law. “So, did you meet her in London?”

  “Aye.” Hamish retreated to the dressing room to dig out a waistcoat and jacket. He’d already donned his kilt and boots. “We have mutual friends.” At least that wasn’t a lie.

  “Hamish, you know that Isobel and Mother will have even more questions for you. Particularly when you tell them both that Olivia is here to help Isobel in some capacity. They’ll wonder what you mean. Even I’m wondering what you mean.”

  “I know.” Hamish emerged from the dressing room. “I’m hoping that Olivia can help introduce Isobel to polite society next Season. I
n London.”

  Angus gave a snort. “I’m sorry,” he said. “But poor Olivia is going to have a hard time of it then. You know Isobel would rather jump off Muircliff’s battlements into the Minch than have a Season. Especially now she fancies herself in love with Brodie MacDonald.”

  Hamish arched a brow. “And I’d rather throw Brodie MacDonald into the Minch than see him marry our sister.”

  Angus grimaced. “Why is it that I think you’re only half-joking, Hamish?”

  “I don’t make half jokes, lad. If Isobel doesn’t heed my advice and look farther afield for a husband, she’d better hope that Mr. Brodie MacDonald can swim.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Olivia discovered the nursery was conveniently located on the floor directly above her bedroom and Hamish’s. The spacious chamber featured a pair of comfortable-looking beds made up with fresh linen and an abundance of fat pillows, thick carpets, several stuffed armchairs, windows with wonderful views of the sea, and, most importantly, lots of books and toys to keep Tilda amused. There was even a child-sized dining setting—a small round table and four matching chairs—set before the fireside.

  Ellen Swan turned out to be a delightful woman of middling years with a warm disposition and a jolly, apple-cheeked smile. And Tilda took to her immediately. When Olivia and Hamish eventually bid the child farewell, she barely looked up from the doll’s house she was playing with. Nurse Swan informed them that she would take good care of her; she’d order a dinner tray for Tilda and make sure she said her prayers before bed. Olivia also promised to return to bid Tilda good night.

  “How strange to think Nurse Swan was once your nursemaid, Hamish,” observed Olivia as they began to descend the stairs to the floor below. “I can’t quite imagine you as a little boy.”

  “I was an unholy terror, even back then,” remarked Hamish, with a roguish grin.

  Olivia smiled back. “Surely not.”