Enraptured

by Candace Camp

  Coll’s fingers dug into the arms of his chair, his heavy lids drooping over the fire in his eyes. She stepped out of her shoes and braced her foot on the seat of the chair beside him, sliding her garter and stocking down her leg. Violet lowered the other stocking, and then, finally, untied the ribbon of her pantalets and let the last of her undergarments fall. Coll reached for her, but she evaded him nimbly.

  “Oh, no. I’m not yet done.”

  Violet sank to her knees before him. Coll’s breath hitched in his throat as she untied his heavy boots and pulled them off, her breasts swaying with every movement. Stretching up, she went to work on the buttons of his shirt, starting at his waist. He jerked at the touch of her hands, then stilled, his body taut as wire stretched to the snapping point.

  Violet thrilled to the fire in his eyes, the fierce control that lay in his bunched muscles, the barely leashed hunger. She slid her hands down the open sides of his shirt, grazing his skin as she pulled his shirt free from the waistband and reached for the buttons of his breeches. The muscles of his stomach jumped, his skin washed with heat.

  Suddenly he was on her, bearing her back onto the rug in front of the fire, his mouth ravaging hers, his body covering her. Coll plunged his fingers deep into her hair, and he slid down her, his mouth roaming over her neck and breasts. Shucking off his breeches, he parted her legs and thrust into her, hard and fast and deep. His breath was ragged in her ear, heat pouring from him in waves.

  Violet curled around him, moving in instinctive rhythm with him, her hunger and fire at one with his. No thought was in her, no caution or reason, only a primitive, deep desire to join with him, to take this man inside her and lose herself in him. She clung to him, and together they rode the storm into a shattering ecstasy.

  Coll’s eyes opened. It was dark, and he lay cocooned in warmth. His arms were around Violet, her bottom fitted snugly against him in a delightful way. Her hair spilled across the pillow and flowed over his arm, silky and sweet smelling. He moved a little, bringing his hand up to curve around one of her breasts, and she nestled back against him. He smiled, drifting in contentment.

  They had spent the rest of the day at the gatehouse, marooned in their private paradise. They had lain together in front of the fire, lazily talking and soaking up its warmth, then made love again, this time teasing and laughing until desire swept them away. They had eaten together, Violet wrapped in one of his shirts, her lower legs enticingly bare to his gaze and touch, and they had talked. Unsurprisingly, they had argued, and they had ended it in bed in a way that left him feeling as if his very bones had melted.

  He had wanted, achingly, not to return to Duncally, but of course they had to. They had walked back down to the boat and taken it to the Duncally dock, climbing up from the garden. The deception ate at him; he hated pretense and had always prided himself on his truthful nature. It had to be done to keep Violet’s reputation from being muddied. He would do far worse to shield her from harm. But it scored his soul, and he knew that had any other man acted as he did, Coll would have held him in contempt.

  He had told himself that this night, at least, he would sleep alone in his room, his hunger sated by the hours with Violet. But in the end, when he climbed the stairs, he had gone to her chamber, unwilling to face the emptiness of his own bed. He had become too accustomed to holding her.

  Now, before he slipped back down the dark hall to his room, he savored these last few minutes with his arms around her. He drew his hand down her side, curving over the swell of her hips, and considered waking her with kisses.

  The door rattled, and Coll went still. When nothing else happened, he leaned across Violet and pushed back the enveloping bed curtain. The room was dim but no longer black. He let out a low curse and eased his arm from beneath Violet’s head, turning to climb out the other side of the bed.

  “Coll?” Violet murmured, opening her eyes and turning to him.

  “I overslept,” he whispered back. “I think the maid was at the door.”

  “It’s all right. I locked it.” She sat up, pushing back her hair, a distracting sight with the covers sliding down to her waist.

  Coll firmly turned his eyes away. “Yes, but unfortunately, my door is not locked, and I am not there. When the maid comes in to light the fire, she’ll see at a glance that I have not spent the night there.”

  “Oh.” Violet slipped out of bed and donned her dressing gown.

  Inwardly cursing his carelessness, Coll pulled on his clothes as Violet went to the door and unlocked it, opening it a crack. He picked up his boots and joined her.

  “She’s dusting the table,” Violet whispered. “All right, she is picking up the ash bucket and going down the hall again. Almost to your room. She’s gone into your room.”

  “She’ll be there awhile, cleaning out the ashes.”

  Violet opened the door wider and stuck her head out. “It’s clear.” She stepped back, and Coll slipped past her.

  Moving on silent feet, he slipped down the hall and stairs to the landing, where the stairs turned. He sat down, yanking on his boots and hurriedly tying them. The maid would know he had spent his night in another’s bed. But as long as she thought that bed had been out of the house, not down the hall, that was all that mattered. He could live with the servants gossiping about his libertine ways. Standing up, he trotted noisily up the stairs.

  Striding into his bedroom, he stopped abruptly just inside the door. The maid popped up from the fireplace, her eyes bright with curiosity. She bobbed a quick curtsy. “Mr. Munro.”

  “Oh, sorry.” It was not difficult for Coll to act embarrassed. “Uh . . . I decided I’d stay at the gatehouse last night. It was—I mean—” He gave her a conspiratorial smile and took a few more steps into the room. “You willna tell her, will you?” He nodded down the hall. “Lady Violet. She wouldna like it that I left the house unprotected. Mrs. Ferguson, either.”

  “Oh, nae, sir, I willna say a word.” She bobbed him another curtsy, picked up the bucket of ashes, and fled the room, no doubt eager to get downstairs and relay her news to the other servants.

  Coll closed the door after her and sank down on the bed. Letting out a groan, he lay back and stared blackly at the ceiling. What the devil was he doing?

  He could not continue this way. It should have been easier now. He could go to her any night he wanted. Touch her, kiss her. Have her. But still she occupied all his thoughts. Whenever anyone else was around, he felt as if he were on tenterhooks, afraid he would inadvertently give away what truly lay between them. Unable to say or do what he wanted. He, who had always prided himself on his honesty, his integrity, had become a deceiver—lying, sneaking about, hiding his intentions. It seemed scarcely a justification that he did so to keep from sullying the reputation of a lady, since the lady’s reputation would not have been in danger if he had not given in to his passion for her.

  Yesterday had been glorious. In the privacy of his home, there had been no need for pretense, no frustration, no guilt or prevarication. But much as he had reveled in it, the return to their customary behavior was now even more unbearable. It was like having a single day of freedom, only to return to a cage.

  If he were a better man, he would give her up. If Violet were a different woman, he could woo her into marriage. But she was a woman who would follow her mind, not her heart. And he was a man whose heart was at war with his honor. The result was that he spent half his day wanting to put his fist through a wall. They could not go on like this. He could not go on like this. One way or another he must end it.

  Violet was not surprised to find Coll absent at breakfast that morning. He had been chagrined at oversleeping and thereby putting her reputation at risk. She wished he would not worry so. She would not relish her name being bandied about the glen, but she was a grown woman and capable of handling whatever came.

  She was relieved that afternoon when she returned from the excavation and found Coll waiting for her in the corridor in front of the library. He
hurried forward and took her by the wrist, pulling her into the room. He shut the door behind him and turned to face her. His face was set and blank, his posture stiff, and the look in his eyes was both determined and wary.

  Alarm prickled along her nerves. “Coll? What is it? Has something happened?”

  “No. I just—I have something to say to you.”

  “All right.” She waited.

  He took a breath and squared his shoulders. “We have to marry.”

  22

  His words were so unexpected that for a long moment all Violet could do was stare. “What?”

  “I said, we must get married. We cannot continue like this. It’s mad to think we can. Someone is bound to realize what we’re doing; it was sheer luck this morning that I was able to leave your room without anyone seeing. The maid obviously knew I hadn’t spent the night in my own bed; all I could do was pretend I had spent the night away from Duncally. God only knows what they’ll all be speculating.”

  “It was one time!”

  “How many more times can we escape? Even if we could, I canna bear . . . what we do. What we are.”

  “Oh.” It suddenly hurt to draw a breath. “I see. I did not realize you found it so unsatisfactory.”

  “I don’t like lying. I don’t enjoy pretense. Or watching everything I say or do. I’m an honest man, Violet. A simple one.”

  “I have not asked you to lie, have I? You are the one who insisted on secrecy. If you don’t want to pretend we are not sharing a bed, don’t. It’s not as if someone is going to bar you from sleeping in my room.”

  “Do you think I would expose you to scorn like that? Openly occupy your bed as if I thought you unworthy of respect or honor? Your reputation would be in rags. I am not the kind of man who takes a woman’s innocence and leaves her to face the consequences. I dinna shirk my responsibility. I talked to the minister at the kirk today. We can post the banns this coming Sunday, and in two weeks, we can have the ceremony.”

  “You ‘dinna.’ You decided. You talked to the minister. What about me? Do I have nothing to say about the matter?”

  “Of course you do. This is for you! Can’t you see? It is you whose name will be slandered. They will gossip about me, but I will not be labeled a—” He stopped, clenching his jaw.

  “A what? A doxy? A whore? Is that what you think I am?”

  “No! Of course not! But that is what others will say of you.”

  “Let them. I cannot stop them, but I do not have to care what they think.”

  “That’s easy enough to say until you have to face it. But by the time you do know what it’s like, it will be too late. You canna go back and change what’s been done. Violet . . . be sensible.”

  “So now I’m not sensible? Because I am not willing to be ruled by others’ opinions? Because I choose to live as I want to? I refuse to spend my days in fear of having my reputation damaged. I have no intention of marrying. Have you not listened to anything I’ve said?”

  “Yes, I’ve listened. I understand how you feel. You dinna want to live under a man’s thumb. But I will not try to rule you.”

  “Oh, will you not?” Her blood was throbbing in her temples, hot and furious and . . . frightened. She felt as if something were slipping away, sliding right out of her hands, and the harder she grasped, the faster it shot away. “What do you call it when you decide I should marry? You go to see the minister without even a word to me. How is that anything but laying out my life for me? It’s exactly what my father would do.”

  “I am not your father!” He slammed his fist back against the door. “Nor am I that other fool who expected you to live in his shadow. I am trying to take care of you. What about children? Have you thought that even now you could be carrying my child? What would happen to him? I have no desire to limit you. I dinna expect you to be meek and subservient. Do you think I am unkind? That I would treat you harshly? That I would take your money or forbid you to pursue your interests?”

  “No, I don’t. But that is not the point. The point is that you could. And I would have no recourse. I would not even have my name. I would belong to you.”

  “And, of course, it would be a dreadful thing to belong to me.” His voice rang with bitterness. “To be Mrs. Munro instead of Lady Thornhill. I know I am not a gentleman, not the man a lady would expect to marry.”

  “That’s not fair. That has nothing to do with it!”

  “No? And is it fair to demand that I live as you want to live? To let myself be branded a libertine and my children bastards? To live my life sneaking about, snatching a few minutes with you when no one is watching, leaving your bed every morning before dawn, playing the cad, the scoundrel? I cannot live like that. I will not.”

  “Then don’t!” Violet shot back, stung by the contempt in his voice. She realized it now: he wanted her, but hated that he did so. And to think she had let herself believe that he understood! Pain slashed through her, and behind it a cauterizing fury. “Go away and live your proper, pure life. Don’t let me contaminate you with my wicked ways. Enjoy your sanctity and sleep in your own bed.”

  “I will!” Coll slammed open the door and strode out of the room.

  Violet stared after him, shocked and numb, almost shaking under the flood of rage and loss and a hundred other emotions she couldn’t name. The sound of the door’s banging shut brought her out of her paralysis. She left the library, almost running up the stairs to her bedroom. She closed the door and locked it after her, as if that would somehow shelter her more.

  She went across to the window to stare out. Dusk was falling, suiting her mood. In the distance, she could see Coll striding down the driveway toward his home. Obviously anger drove him, for he had already reached the edge of the trees. Well, apparently she would not have to worry about facing him at the dinner table in a few minutes. She swallowed hard, feeling as if she were choking. She leaned her head on the cold glass, closing her eyes against the tears that welled up in them.

  How could she have been so foolish? Why had she let herself believe Coll understood her? Knew her? Liked her? He did not feel for her as she did for him, as if nothing the world thought mattered as long as they were together.

  She shook her head, swiping at the tears on her cheeks, and began to pace the room, pulling up her anger and resentment to fill the emptiness inside her. It was so like a man to hold her at fault because he suddenly felt the burden of his conscience. To decide to assuage his guilt by making her his possession, turning her into something she was not, giving her a life she did not want.

  She, apparently, was not expected to have a choice in the matter. No doubt she should simply be grateful that a man would give her the protection of his good name. Coll had not even bothered to cloak his decision in words of love. No, it had all been what other people would think and how it reflected on him. He refused to be a liar and a libertine, which left the obvious implication that she was both.

  It should not have shocked her. The only real surprise was that she had been so naïve as to believe he was different. That he accepted her without feeling the need to change her. She stopped before the window again, leaning her head against the cold glass and staring out sightlessly into the darkening evening. A shudder shook her as she thought of how he had looked at her with such bitterness, such anger and contempt.

  It was foolish to have let herself feel so much for the man. She was not in love with him, and she did not expect him to love her, either. It had been far too short a time to have fallen in love. But she had thought he liked her, thought he cared. In the end, it was only physical attraction.

  But, oh, what a strong attraction! Again the tears came. There was a hole inside her now, a cold and lonely ache. Violet knew, however little she liked to admit it, that she had felt much more for Coll than desire. She had been perilously close to falling in love with the man.

  No doubt she was fortunate that it had ended before she took that fatal misstep. She only wished that being fortunate did not hur
t so much.

  Coll was not in the dining room when she went down to supper. She had no desire for food and had almost sent a note to the kitchen, pleading illness. But in the end she would not allow herself to be such a coward. Coll might run away, but she would not.

  She ignored the empty place across from her just as she ignored the curious sidelong glances of the footman. She hoped none of the servants had been able to distinguish their words, but she was certain they had not missed the loud and angry tone of their voices or the crashing of doors as Coll stormed out. They were bound to be curious.

  The food could have been sawdust for all she tasted it. Violet pushed it around on her plate enough to give the appearance of eating and was relieved to find that Jamie removed and served the courses with good speed. Afterward, she went up to bed. There would be no more evenings spent researching the treasure, she supposed, any more than there would be tender nights in bed with Coll. Still, when she went to sleep, she left the door unlocked.

  She awoke the next morning, unsurprisingly, in a cold and empty bed. At breakfast, no one was in the dining room but her and the footman.

  “I presume Mr. Munro is not joining us this morning,” she remarked coolly, thinking that she should say something just to show his absence did not gnaw at her insides.

  “Nae, I wouldna think sae, with the heid he’d have on him this morning.” Jamie cast a wary glance at her.

  So Coll had spent the evening drinking. He had probably walked straight to the tavern when he left her. Violet wondered bitterly if he had spent the evening with a serving wench as well as a bottle of whiskey. Was he drowning his disappointment because Violet had turned him down or celebrating his newfound freedom? Better not to think of that.