The Laird Who Loved Me

by Karen Hawkins

  She tried to contain a wave of shivers that danced through her, but couldn’t.

  His fingertips continued to slide across her skin. Then he paused at the lowest point of her gown’s neckline . . . and stayed there.

  She couldn’t breathe. Her hands clenched at her sides as she tried desperately to focus on something else . . .

  Then she gave in, threw her arms about MacLean, and kissed him for all that she was worth.

  Chapter 10

  If ye e’er have the chance to bend the ear o’ a great mon, dinna break it off wit’ the weight o’ yer words. Just bend it gently an’ speak yer piece an’ ye’ll do well enou’.

  OLD WOMAN NORA FROM LOCH LOMOND TO HER THREE WEE GRANDDAUGHTERS ONE COLD EVENING

  Alexander expected Caitlyn to get angry, to berate him for teasing her. What he didn’t expect was a hot, passionate assault.

  Her mouth opened beneath his and her tongue traced across his lip, hot and seeking. His groin tightened and he moved closer, running his hands over her back, her narrow waist, her rounded hips.

  Caitlyn’s arms tightened about his neck as she pressed herself to him. Her soft, full breasts rubbed against his chest, then he felt her hand slide down to his neck. In her excitement she tugged on his cravat, her other arm bent around his neck, holding him to her as if she couldn’t bear to let him go.

  God, but she was lush, her mouth hot, her body warm and pliant. This was why they’d taken such chances; this was why he’d flirted with a woman so different from his usual type.

  The passion between them was hot and instantaneous, flaring brighter. None of the women he’d made love to had sent his senses reeling in such a way. Perhaps that was why he’d been so angry when he’d discovered her trickery.

  That memory chilled his passion. He had to stop this, this very second—if he didn’t, he wasn’t certain he’d ever be able to stop. It took all of his self-control, but he broke the kiss and took two unsteady steps back. His entire body ached, protesting the delights he was missing.

  Her hand, still tangled in his cravat, caught him. “What … why are you—”

  He forced himself to lift a brow and say as coolly as he could manage, “We are done with this.”

  Had she known him better, she might have detected the faint quaver in his words or noticed that his hands were fisted at his sides. A hot flush flooded her face as she released him. “I see,” she said stiffly. She lifted her chin and said in a firm tone, “Fine, then. Just go.”

  Roxburge stirred as if to awaken.

  Caitlyn stiffened, but she didn’t look the duke’s way.

  Alexander knew he should leave, but somehow he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d left something undone. “Caitlyn, I—”

  She grabbed one of Alexander’s hands, then shoved something in it. Swiftly she bent, grabbed her gown by the train, and yanked it from beneath Roxburge’s foot.

  The duke awoke with a startled cry, which she ignored as she marched from the room, her head held high. She swept out of the room and slammed the door behind her.

  “Demme!” The duke rubbed his eyes with a shaking hand. “Can’t a man sleep in his own house?”

  Alexander started to answer, but his attention was caught by the realization that Caitlyn had shoved the snuffbox into his hand before she’d left.

  “MacLean?” Roxburge blinked up at him and yawned. “What in hell was that all about? Miss Hurst seemed quite put out.”

  “What gave it away? The fact that she nearly toppled you from your chair, or the way she slammed the door?”

  “Did she do that? By Jove, whatever for?”

  “I believe her anger was directed at me, and you just got in the way.”

  “While I was sleeping?”

  “Apparently so. Before you resume your slumbers, I should return this.”

  Alexander handed the snuffbox to the bemused duke, who took it, then opened his other hand and regarded the small ivory box with a confused air. “I thought this was— How did that get there? And how did you come to have my—”

  “I’d love to stay and explain, but I have a climbing date with a tree.” Alexander gave Roxburge a short bow and then stalked to the doorway.

  “Damn it, MacLean, you’re not making sense! Why on earth would you wish to climb a tree?”

  Alexander gave a sardonic laugh. “For the honey, of course.”

  Next time he’d find a task that was truly difficult—something where she couldn’t be helped by the servants she’d beguiled to give her a hand.

  It had surprised him to find the housekeeper and the maid standing watch outside the library. Caitlyn Hurst had a way of collecting admirers, both male and female.

  Well, no more. From now on, she’d only get tasks that she could complete by herself. And when she failed the next task, he would enjoy every moment she spent in his bed. Two weeks didn’t seem long enough to enjoy such hard-won pleasures, and he wished he’d asked for two months—perhaps even more. Well, if she enjoyed it enough—and he would make certain she did—she might consider lengthening the time. He’d take her to Italy perhaps, where there weren’t so many prying eyes. He’d enjoy showing her the treasures there, the art and the architecture. Venice was one of his favorite places. Perhaps he’d rent a palazzo for her, one that would suit her golden beauty, and enjoy the warmth of an Italian winter.

  The thought lightened his mood. He would make her his, brand her with his passion, very, very thoroughly.

  His body, never quiet after an encounter with the lush Caitlyn, leaped to full readiness. He ached for her, imagining her beneath him, crying his name as he— Alexander halted his wayward thoughts. First, he had to complete his own task.

  Despite Alexander’s words to the duke, it would be tomorrow before the beehive could be fetched. It was a pity, but it was too dark now.

  In the meantime, he’d retrieve that damned Celtic book from the library, and the next task he gave Caitlyn would be damned near impossible.

  Chapter 11

  There’s an old sayin’: “If’n ye must fight, then do it wit’ yer honor on yer shield and no’ under it.”

  OLD WOMAN NORA FROM LOCH LOMOND TO HER THREE WEE GRANDDAUGHTERS ONE COLD EVENING

  “Let me help ye, miss.” Muiren grasped the edges of the long glove and held it out.

  Caitlyn slipped her hand into one, then the other. “Thank you, Muiren.”

  “Ye’re welcome, miss.” Muiren glanced at the clock. “Ye’ve eight minutes to reach the blue sitting room.”

  “I know, I know. Where did I put my— Oh, there’s my shawl. I can’t seem to think clearly today. I wonder if Lord MacLean has already gone down to dinner and—”

  Muiren looked at her oddly.

  Caitlyn frowned. “Yes?”

  Muiren cocked a brow. “’Tis interestin’ ye said those two sentences together—that ye were disoriented and askin’ about Laird MacLean. Ye aren’t weakenin’ to the enemy, are ye?”

  Caitlyn’s cheeks heated. “Of course not! I’m just distracted. It’s probably because of the weather or something.” She refrained from looking out the window, where the night sky was just as clear as the day’s had been.

  Her problems had begun last night. When she’d retired to bed, she’d been euphoric at having completed her task. But the more she rested in her soft bed, the more she thought about MacLean’s face when she’d left the library after placing the snuffbox in his hand. Once he was over his surprise, she’d known he’d appreciated her efforts. He enjoyed a good challenge, just as she did. She wished she could catch a glimpse of the real Alexander MacLean, the man behind the cynical shell.

  When she’d met him in London, they’d been so caught up in the madness that had engulfed them, there hadn’t been room or time to connect in any other way. They’d been so engrossed in teasing the flame between them to new heights, in pushing the boundaries of acceptable behavior just a little further, that they hadn’t ever stopped and just … talked. So at the end of that
mad time, neither knew the other at all. She didn’t know what made him sad or if he liked orange marmalade or what sort of things made him laugh, how he felt about his brothers and sister, if he preferred the quadrille over a Scottish reel. She didn’t know if he liked to dance at all because they’d been so busy doing other, less . . . socially acceptable things.

  She sighed, doubting they’d ever have a normal, casual conversation. Right now, she had her hands full trying to win their wager. And when she won, he would be too angry, his pride too wounded, for them to ever share a simple conversation. For some reason, that saddened her.

  “Och, look at the time!” Muiren adjusted Caitlyn’s shawl, then went to open the door. “Ye’d best hurry, or ye’ll be late fer yer dinner. Ye know how her grace can be when it comes to time.”

  Caitlyn left her bedchamber. Where was MacLean, anyway? Why hadn’t she seen him even once today?

  This morning she’d looked forward to seeing him at breakfast. She wasn’t going to gloat over her accomplishment, but she did plan on enjoying it. But MacLean hadn’t given her the chance. He hadn’t even come to breakfast. In fact, he’d avoided her all day.

  She hadn’t been the only one to miss him, either. The duchess had made several comments at breakfast and had snapped at a surprised Lady Kinloss, who’d made the error of asking his whereabouts at luncheon. Caitlyn had spent most of the afternoon taking a long walk down to the original castle site with Lord Dervishton, Sally, and the Earl of Caithness. She’d tried not to think of MacLean on the walk, but it had been impossible. Where was he?

  The whole thing was a bit odd. Maybe he had—

  “Caitlyn!”

  She turned as Sally Ogilvie came down the hall. The young woman was dressed in a lovely gown of white crepe spotted with white satin over a sarcenet slip, trimmed at the neck and sleeves with wreaths of black silk flowers. Her brown locks were curled about her face, and a lovely China shawl was draped about her shoulders.

  Sally regarded Caitlyn with an admiring look. “My, but that’s a simply gorgeous gown!”

  Caitlyn smiled. “Thank you.” It was one of her favorites, made of white British net over a blue satin slip, ornamented with a row of blond lace at the bottom and decorated with knots of blue ribbon at the neck and sleeves.

  Sally shook her head in wonder. “Honestly, if you’d had that gown smuggled in from France and had to meet a mysterious woman in a black cloak under dark of night to receive it, I wouldn’t have been a bit surprised.”

  Caitlyn laughed and hugged Sally. “That is the nicest thing anyone has said to me since I arrived.”

  “That really doesn’t say much. The duchess has barely spoken to me, and she’s yet to remember my name.”

  “I find a few of the ladies a bit intimidating, too.”

  “They can say very cutting things in a nice voice, and I don’t know how I’m supposed to take that,” Sally said.

  “It’s a quandary. Do you ignore the words and accept the tone? Protest the words and ignore the tone? Are we even allowed to do so, considering we are so outranked?”

  “Lady Kinloss isn’t too bad; she only speaks to me when she wants the salt. The rest of the time she looks at me like this.” Sally reared back, tilted up her chin, and looked down her nose, her eyes crossing slightly.

  Caitlyn burst out laughing at such a creditable imitation. “Promise that you will be on my side if we play charades.”

  Sally grinned. “With pleasure.”

  “Excellent, for I’ve never been very good at it. My sister Mary is quite accomplished and has often said she’d like to work upon the boards, which horrifies my mother.”

  “I can’t imagine mine would have much patience with such a suggestion, either.”

  They reached the lower landing and heard voices in the front room, where the guests had gathered.

  Sally adjusted her shawl at her elbows and said idly, “I wonder if Laird MacLean will be at dinner after his accident.”

  Caitlyn halted in her tracks. “Accident?”

  “Didn’t you hear? No, I can tell you didn’t from your expression.”

  “Was he badly injured?”

  “Lud, no! I know, for I saw him enter the house about an hour after we returned from our walk.”

  Caitlyn pressed a hand to her chest, where her heart thumped so hard she could feel it beneath her fingertips. “Thank God for that,” she said weakly. Had he been injured while attempting to collect the beehive? Surely not. “Do you know what happened?”

  “Yes, and it’s most odd. For some reason, he attempted to climb a tree.”

  Oh, no! “And?” Caitlyn asked breathlessly.

  “I asked him why he was climbing a tree, but he was quite vague, and even his limp—”

  “He was limping?”

  “Lud, yes. It was obvious he’d been through quite an experience, for he was thoroughly wet and covered in mud and leaves, his face was swollen, and—”

  “Oh dear!”

  “He said it all began when he was chased by bees.”

  “But … at this time of the year, aren’t the bees gone or asleep? That’s what he—” Caitlyn caught herself. “That’s what I’ve heard, anyway.”

  “Yes, but it’s been unseasonably warm. I daresay the bees were quite angry at being bothered.”

  Caitlyn pressed a hand to her forehead.

  Sally’s grin faded. “I thought you’d find it humorous.”

  “Oh, I do! I just have a headache.” A big headache—a six-foot-three-inch, black-haired, green-eyed headache, which was the worst headache of all. “Did Lord MacLean seem very upset when he returned?”

  “He was positively black with irritation.” Sally broke into a huge smile, her eyes twinkling. “You haven’t heard the best part of the story yet. When MacLean returned from his misadventure, he was on Dervishton’s horse.”

  “How did that happen?”

  “After our walk, Dervishton went to exercise his new horse. Lord MacLean’s horse bolted when the bees swarmed, and he was forced to walk back to the house. But somewhere between there and here, MacLean ‘borrowed’ Dervishton’s mount.”

  “You think MacLean took Dervishton’s horse?”

  Sally’s eyes twinkled. “Dervishton didn’t return until much later, and he was on foot. He was furious, too.”

  Who cared about Dervishton? “How injured was Lord MacLean?”

  “He had several stings and they were beginning to swell. On seeing his condition, naturally Lord Caithness and I offered to fetch some remedies from the kitchen, but MacLean rudely refused our offer of help, sent for his valet, and retired to his bedchamber.”

  “I don’t suppose you know how badly he was stung?”

  “Oh, he’d sustained a dozen stings, and several bruises and scrapes, too. He took the brunt of the injury from falling onto his rump, for that was the part he kept rubbing.”

  “He fell out of the tree?”

  “I have no idea. When I saw him, he was in no mood to talk.” Sally frowned. “I do wonder how he came to be so wet, though. He looked as if he’d been caught in the rain, but the sky was perfectly clear today.”

  Caitlyn wished Sally knew more details. “You’re certain he wasn’t seriously injured?”

  “I’d venture to say that his pride was hurt much worse than the rest of him.”

  Caitlyn could believe it. “As irritated as he must have been, I’m surprised the weather didn’t turn.”

  As soon as the words left her mouth, Caitlyn wished she could unsay them. Sally’s eyes widened, her brows shot up, and she grasped Caitlyn’s hand between her own. “You know of the MacLean curse?”

  “I’ve heard a few stories, but who knows if they’re real?”

  “It’s probably all exaggeration and gossip, but sometimes I wonder.” Sally slipped an arm through Caitlyn’s. “We’d better hurry or we’ll be late for dinner.”

  The duchess was already frowning when they entered, and her expression darkened when Dervishto
n, who’d been at her side, broke away as soon as he saw Caitlyn.

  “Oh, dear,” Sally said under her breath. “Her grace seems angry about something.”

  Dervishton reached them just as Lord Falkland did. They both bowed, and Falkland hurried to say, “Miss Hurst! I am so sorry I missed the walk today.”

  “Miss it? Lord Dervishton said you’d decided not to come.”

  “I knew it!” Falkland sent a hard glare at Dervishton.

  The older lord shrugged gracefully. “All is fair, Falkland. All is fair.”

  “With you, all is unfair. I should—” Falkland’s attention was caught by a movement at the door, and there it stayed. Every eye followed.

  Though MacLean was dressed in his usual elegant evening attire, his bottom lip was swollen on one side while a large red welt rested on the crest of his cheek. As he walked into the room, his limp became obvious, as was the wince that crossed his face with each step.

  Caitlyn had moved toward him before she even realized it, but the duchess was quicker. She swept forward, calling for a footman to bring a chair, which MacLean curtly refused. Lady Kinloss and Lady Elizabeth followed, both offering advice and asking a clamor of questions.

  Over their heads, MacLean’s gaze locked with Caitlyn’s, his cold eyes hard.

  There was nothing to be done. Caitlyn pasted a smile on her lips. As she turned to take her place beside Sally, she found Lord Dervishton’s gaze on her.

  He looked past her to MacLean, then back, his gaze considering.

  Caitlyn’s cheeks heated and she hurried to say, “I’ve heard that a poultice of salt and water can help a bee sting.”

  Dervishton shrugged. “MacLean’s valet produced just such a cure, but his real injuries came from the thistles.”

  “Thistles?”

  The viscount quirked a brow, sudden amusement in his gaze. “You haven’t heard the story?”

  Sally broke in, “I told her what I knew, but it was very little.”

  “Indeed?” Dervishton sent a darkly amused glance at MacLean before he said with mock concern, “You should all be informed of what occurred, then. For some unknown reason, MacLean was in a tree attempting to remove a hive when the bees swarmed out and chased him. He leapt to the ground—”