But it wasn’t the seascape that Olivia noticed. It was the elegant young woman sitting before the fire upon a burgundy damask settee. A lavish afternoon tea was laid out upon the low oak table before her—an array of tiny cakes, pastries, and delicate sandwiches sat upon fine Wedgwood china plates, and a silver urn and teapot gleamed in the bright firelight.
Attired in a lovely peacock blue gown that was the perfect foil for her perfectly styled dark red hair, Lady Isobel MacQueen lifted her wide mouth into a welcoming smile as Hamish escorted Olivia over to the fireside.
Rising to her feet, she took both of Olivia’s hands in hers and gave them a gentle squeeze as Hamish conducted the introductions.
“I must confess, I’ve been dying to meet you, my lady,” Lady Isobel remarked, gesturing to Olivia and Hamish to take a seat on the settee near hers. She reclaimed her own seat and smoothed out her skirts with pale, slender fingers. “Ever since you arrived late yesterday and our other brother, Angus, told me Hamish had arrived with a wife.”
Olivia drew a bracing breath, praying she wouldn’t stutter too badly. “Please, c-call me, O-Olivia,” she said, mentally wincing at her less-than-smooth speech. “As we are now sis-sisters, I would like nothing m-more.” She couldn’t detect any shock or derision in the younger woman’s clear gray eyes. Not for the moment, anyway.
Isobel’s answering smile was warm. “I would be most honored,” she said, reaching out to lay a hand on Olivia’s arm. “And please, you must call me Isobel. I’m not one for using titles to address dear friends and family. I eschew stuffiness of any kind.”
“I’m pleased to hear it.”
As Isobel dispensed tea according to everyone’s preferences, Olivia studied her. Surely this lovely young woman wasn’t the person who’d entered her room and Tilda’s last night. And then she recalled what Hamish had told her. Isobel limped. But the figure Olivia had seen drifted across the floor like a ghost.
She was just taking her first sip of tea when Nurse Swan arrived with Tilda. Hamish introduced his ward to his sister, and Tilda, as she’d done with Angus, dipped into a neat little curtsy, which earned an exclamation of delight from Isobel. Once Tilda had carefully selected a small plate of treats, and Nurse Swan had installed her in a nearby armchair, Isobel turned to Olivia and said, “I hope you don’t mind my asking, Olivia, but I’d love to hear more about how you and my brother came to meet. And marry.”
Olivia caught her husband shooting a not-so-subtle scowl at his sister for being so nosy, but she was ready with an answer. Fortunately, as she and Hamish had made their way to the drawing room, they’d discussed what their story would be should Isobel ask. It lay somewhere between the truth and fiction.
“We . . . we were Grosvenor Square neighbors. My guardian and uncle, Reginald de Vere, leases the town house next door to Sleat House. And we also have several mutual friends.” Olivia briefly explained the connections between Charlie, Sophie, and Arabella, and Hamish’s friends Lord Malverne and Lord Langdale.
Isobel replenished her cup of tea. “And so you two wed in Gretna Green?”
“Yes . . .” Olivia forced herself to smile and took another calming breath. Given that Hamish’s feet had been hitherto firmly planted in the not-of-the-marrying-kind bachelors’ camp, it was only natural and inevitable that his family would be curious about the circumstances surrounding their unexpected union. “You see, I’m not quite twenty-one and my uncle and aunt wished me to wed a man of their choosing, a man I hold no affection for and did not want to marry. But as I knew of . . . I mean knew Hamish through our shared acquaintances, well, he stepped in and offered for my hand instead. However, as I’m not of age, we decided to wed in Gretna Green on the way here.”
Isobel clapped her hands together. “Oh, how romantic. My brother was your knight in shining armor.” She pinned Hamish with a knowing look. “Now, why doesn’t that surprise me?”
Hamish shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “I’m not sure if that’s the most apt description, Isobel. If you read the scandal rags, I’m generally not known for my chivalry, especially where the fairer sex is concerned.”
His sister waved away his comment. “Oh, pooh. You don’t give yourself enough credit, Hamish.” She turned her attention to Olivia. “I could tell you about half a dozen instances—at the very least—when my brother has leapt into the fray to save someone. Why, even his rush back to Muircliff on this occasion, misguided though it is, is another perfect example—”
“Now, Isobel . . .” Hamish warned. “You know why I had to come back. Brodie MacDonald is not—”
At that moment, the heavy oak door to the drawing room opened, admitting Lord Angus. “So sorry to interrupt, everyone.”
Hamish turned in his seat. “What is it, Angus? Have you come to pilfer some afternoon tea?”
“Actually, Hamish, I can pinch your share because Mr. MacArthur and the stonemason, Mr. Isaacson, need to speak with you about some of the more urgent repairs on the south tower before the rain sets in again. They’re waiting in the courtyard.”
Hamish sighed and got to his feet. “Och, it seems there’s no rest for the wicked. My apologies, ladies.” Turning to Olivia, he added, “Mr. MacArthur is my steward, and unfortunately the repairs can’t wait. One of the walls is in danger of crumbling.”
Olivia frowned. “That doesn’t sound very safe.” She recalled the scarred wall she’d glimpsed on their approach to the castle yesterday. “You’ll be careful, won’t you?”
Hamish shrugged. “The tower fell into disrepair some years ago. It’s just the elements here”—he nodded at the windows—“have wrought havoc on the remains, and I’ve neglected to do anything about it until now.”
“Hamish will be fine,” said Isobel.
“Aye,” agreed Angus, taking the seat his brother had just vacated. His deerhound, Shadow, perhaps sensing Tilda might drop something, took up a position by her chair. “And, Hamish, we’ll look after Olivia and Tilda in your absence, won’t we, dear sister?”
Hamish pointed an admonitory finger at his siblings, but there was a gleam of amusement in his eye. “Please be on your best behavior, you two. I’ll not have you offending my wife, or worse, scaring her off by asking her too many questions or telling her terrible tales about me.” He winked at Olivia. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
Hamish needn’t have worried, as Olivia soon discovered that Isobel and Angus were delightful company. They both seemed to go out of their way to make Olivia and Tilda feel welcome. When everyone had had their fill of afternoon tea, Isobel suggested they teach Tilda how to play spillikins. The child had drifted down to the hearthrug and was currently lavishing Shadow with pats and cuddles.
“Ordinarily I’d propose we all go for a walk outside rather than play parlor games. There’s a courtyard with a lovely knot garden on the east side of the castle, but the weather has taken a turn for the worse.” Isobel scowled at the view beyond the windows. “Just look at that rain. It’s simply coming down in sheets.”
“Spillikins?” Angus pulled a face. “Where’s the fun in that?” He rubbed his hands together. “I think it would be far more exciting if we played hide-and-seek. What say you, Miss Tilda?”
Tilda nodded eagerly. “Can Shadow play too?”
“If you can get him to move away from the fire, he can help you and Nurse Swan find everyone when it’s your turn to look,” suggested Angus.
Tilda clapped her hands. “Hooray!”
Olivia smiled. “I think it sounds like a marvelous idea. Will we keep to this floor of the castle though? I’m afraid I might get lost otherwise.”
“Yes, I think that’s a good idea,” said Isobel. “We’ll be hunting each other for hours if we can hide anywhere at all.”
Nurse Swan approached Tilda and held out her hand. “If ye dinna mind, Miss Tilda and I might do the seeking first. This morning I was teaching the wee
one to count, so this will be a verra good opportunity to practice.” She smiled down at her charge. “Do ye think ye can count to ten with me?”
Tilda nodded. “Can I use my fingers to help?”
“Aye.”
Angus stood. “Good heavens. You mean I have to find a place to hide before you reach the number ten, Miss Tilda?”
She nodded. “Yes.”
Nurse Swan winked. “We’ll practice a few times before we start searching fer you, Lord Angus. I ken ye are starting to get a wee bit slow in yer old age.”
Angus grinned. “Perfect. I’m ready if everyone else is.”
At Nurse Swan’s prompting, Tilda began to count to ten on her fingers, “One . . . two . . .” and Isobel, Angus, and Olivia all headed for the drawing room door.
Upon reaching the gallery outside, Angus bolted off. “Good luck, you two,” he called over his shoulder.
Isobel rolled her eyes. “Good heavens. Anyone would think he’s seven years old, not seventeen.” Turning back to Olivia she said, “You might have noticed that I have a limp. So, unlike my brother, I’m not going far.” She nodded at the next oak-paneled doorway only a little farther along the gallery. “In fact, I think I might hide in the dining room next door.” She moved off and then, like Angus, called over her shoulder, “Good luck, Olivia,” before disappearing.
Left alone in the gloomy gallery—the servants hadn’t yet lit the candles in the wall sconces—Olivia looked this way and that. She hadn’t been on a tour of the castle yet, so she really had no idea where any of the halls led to or what was behind any of the doors, even on this floor.
Tilda’s high voice floated through the ajar drawing room door. She was on her second recitation of counting to ten. “Five . . . six . . .”
Olivia smiled. She wanted to stay and listen to Tilda. But in the spirit of the game, she really needed to find a hidey-hole, and quickly.
Deciding to head in the opposite direction of Angus, she lifted up her mulberry wool skirts and rushed down the gallery. But as soon as she turned a corner into another hallway, she barreled straight into a hard, muscular wall that emitted a rather human-sounding “oof.”
Hamish.
He grasped her by the shoulders and held her away from him. “Oh, God. Olivia. Is everything all right?” Concern was etched into his every feature as his gaze traced over her face.
Pausing to draw breath, she nodded. She’d been winded a little too. “Yes . . . I’m . . . I mean, we’re playing hide-and-seek. And I’m looking for somewhere to hide.” She frowned, taking in her husband’s disheveled appearance; he was coatless, his cambric shirt and satin waistcoat were damp and clinging to his skin, and his hair dripped in his eyes. “You’re wet. And why do you smell like lavender?”
“I got caught in the rain,” he said as if that explained everything. “But that doesn’t matter.” Hamish laced his fingers through hers and grinned. “I know the perfect place to hide. This way.”
A bit farther along the hall, there was another wide set of oak doors, which he tugged her through . . . into a magnificent library. But Olivia barely had any time to take in the beauty and majesty of the bookcases or the massive stone fireplace at one end, as Hamish was leading her across the thick Turkish rug toward an ornate mahogany desk.
“We could hide behind the curtains. In the window seat,” she suggested as they swept past a tall arched window, the type one might see in a cathedral.
“No . . . I know somewhere better.”
They rounded the desk, pausing before a triptych of hunting tapestries on the wall behind it. Hamish reached out to touch the oak wainscoting between two of the hangings and pressed something. And then a jib door in the paneling snicked open.
“In here,” murmured Hamish, drawing her into a round turret room. Light filtered into the stone chamber through a pair of narrow, curtainless windows.
“Oh, it’s wonderful,” whispered Olivia. The chamber itself contained little more than a few slender bookcases, a glass-fronted cabinet, and a compact oak desk piled high with papers and leather-bound volumes. But it was the spectacular scenery beyond the windows that caught her attention the most. Even though the aspect was rainy, she had an uninterrupted view of the dramatic coastline. The pounding waves exploded against piles of jagged black rocks and stony beaches, sending giant plumes of spray into the air.
Hamish closed the door. “It’s my private study,” he said, moving closer to Olivia. “Who’s looking for you?”
His hands came to rest upon her shoulders, and his breath coasted along her ear, sending a delicious shiver across her skin. Beneath her stays and chemise, her nipples hardened, and Olivia’s pulse began to thunder harder than the wild sea outside. “Tilda and Nurse Swan.”
“Well, they’ll be searching for a while then.”
Suddenly breathless with anticipation, Olivia had trouble summoning her voice. “Why?” she whispered. Confusion and desire fogged her mind.
“Because I have need of you, my lovely wife.” He brushed one of her drooping, poorly styled curls aside and pressed his firm warm lips against her neck, just below her ear. His damp hair felt cool and silken against her suddenly feverish flesh.
“You’ll catch cold if you don’t dry off,” Olivia murmured, closing her eyes, drinking in the delicious sensations her husband was effortlessly stirring. After all this time, was Hamish really trying to seduce her? Was she dreaming?
And why on earth was she trying to put him off?
He chuckled against her ear, his breath a warm, pleasant gust. “I’m a braw Highlander, lassie.” His voice was a soft, low growl. “A wee bit of rain willna hurt me.”
She turned in his arms and captured his scarred, beautiful face between her hands. “Why are you doing this, Hamish? Why now? You could have had me days ago. Last night. Anytime at all. What’s changed?”
“To be honest, I don’t rightly know, lass. All I know is that when I bumped into you in the hall, I needed a taste of you more than I needed my next breath. Must there be any other reason than that for me to kiss you?” The corner of his mouth quirked with a smile as his large hands slid around her waist and pulled her flush against him. “As you keep reminding me, you’re my wife.”
She shook her head, bemused and thrilled yet also disappointed. She dropped her hands to his impossibly wide shoulders. He only wanted kisses.
But kisses can lead to other things, Olivia. Remember that salacious book Charlie lent you once, Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure? If she could tempt Hamish to let go of his tightly reined-in control, even just a little, things might go further than kisses . . .
Olivia looked up through her lashes at her ruggedly handsome, stubborn-as-a-rock husband, and her fingers flirted with the unruly locks caressing his damp collar. “No, there doesn’t need to be any other reason . . . only, Tilda and Nurse Swan might miss me . . .” And then she quite deliberately snagged her bottom lip with her teeth.
Lust transformed Hamish’s gaze from storm-cloud gray to a hotter, smokier hue. “With any luck, they won’t find you, lass. Because right now, I want you all to myself.”
And with that, he trapped her face between his large hands and claimed her mouth in an unbearably sweet, yet undeniably passionate kiss.
His lips were gentle yet demanding, their slide against hers agonizingly slow and searingly tender. When she kissed him back, his thumbs dragged upon her lower lip, coaxing her to open wider for him. She did so willingly, and his tongue swept inside, plunging deeply with bold, sure strokes.
This breath-stealing, bone-melting, worshipful kiss was everything a kiss should be. Everything she’d ever dreamed of and more.
Hamish groaned against her mouth. Pulled away to drag in a breath before capturing her lips again for another heavenly incursion. Then another.
Her husband kissed her with all the lingering reverence he’d employed du
ring their very first “proper” kiss. He kissed her with desperate hunger as though this were his last day on earth and he’d never have this chance again.
He kissed her as though he loved her. As though he wanted to make love to her . . .
Yes. Oh, please yes . . . Could he hear her silent entreaty? Moaning, rendered helpless by desire, Olivia clung to Hamish’s massive biceps, brazenly arching her body, pushing her suddenly too-sensitive breasts against his chest. She was so very impatient for more than kisses.
Through the damp cambric of Hamish’s shirt, she felt his muscles tense and flex under her palms; she’d do anything to run her fingers over the hot, powerful flesh beneath his clothes. Explore the intriguing, iron-hard shaft eagerly pressing against her body through the barrier of her gown and his kilt.
Lust pulsed low in her belly. Slick heat gathered between her feminine folds.
If Hamish didn’t take things further, she thought she might go mad.
All at once, he backed her toward the desk and hoisted her onto the leather blotter. Ledgers and papers and inkwells went flying, but she didn’t care.
Neither did Hamish.
His large, calloused hands rucked up her skirts with shocking swiftness, and then he pushed his lean hips between her legs, parting her thighs. But even though she was spread wide and aching for his touch, he didn’t caress her down there. Instead, he transferred his attention to her neck.
Swooping down, his teeth scraped along a tendon. His hot mouth seared the bare flesh where her shoulder met her gown. Raising a hand, he massaged one of her breasts through her clothes. His thumb found her already taut nipple and rubbed and rubbed until she didn’t think she could bear it a moment longer.
“Hamish,” she whispered hoarsely, gripping the back of his head. “For the love of God, touch me. Take me.”
How to Catch a Sinful Marquess Page 21