The Laird Who Loved Me

by Karen Hawkins

  Alexander frowned. “I refuse to get embroiled in affairs belowstairs.”

  “Most unwise, my lord, for they are essential to your basic comforts.” MacCready crossed to the tray that sat before the fire. “Normally for breakfast in your chambers you would receive poached eggs, ham, toast, fresh fruit, and coffee.” He lifted a server from the tray. “Two pieces of black toast, a piece of ham fat, and a cup of tepid tea.”

  “Bloody hell! I should have gone down to breakfast this morning. If I hadn’t wanted a bath to soak the soreness from my back, I would have done so.”

  “My lord, there’s more. Though I black your top boots myself, using my special champagne mixture, I don’t usually polish your other shoes. Have you noticed the condition of your footwear this morning?”

  “I hadn’t looked.”

  MacCready shuddered. “Pray do not. Do, however, look at your newly starched cravats—a service performed by the laundress and her daughter.”

  “They left them wrinkled?”

  “Oh, no, my lord. These are well-trained servants.” MacCready crossed to the dresser, where a stack of fresh cravats lay. He removed the top one and held it out.

  “Good God, it’s as stiff as a plank of wood!”

  “Exactly so. In order to bend it about your neck, you might need a hammer.”

  “Blasted hell! I’m going to rue the day I allowed that woman to talk me into a modified course of action.”

  “Oh, no, my lord. However difficult the current situation, this is a much better plan than ruining the young lady without a fair trial.”

  “She didn’t need a fair trial; I already know what she did.”

  “My lord, a young girl—”

  “She’s not a schoolroom miss. She’s three and twenty.”

  MacCready smiled tolerantly. “To me, she is a young girl.”

  “To me, she is a pain in the ass,” Alexander muttered.

  “I understand from Mrs. Pruitt that the young miss is the daughter of a vicar.”

  “Yes.”

  “And has been sequestered in the country most of her life.”

  “You’d never think it if you saw her in the drawing room, fending off suitors.”

  “Fending them off: exactly, my lord.” MacCready collected the overstarched neckcloths and placed them on a small table by the door. “My lord, men our age know that actions speak louder than words.” He paused. “I wonder if that’s the message the young miss is attempting to deliver?”

  “The only message Caitlyn Hurst is trying to deliver is that she needs her good reputation in order to return to London, where she’ll dupe some fool into offering for her.”

  “Marriage is not a disreputable goal, my lord.”

  “It is when it’s procured by guile.”

  “From what I’ve heard, I don’t believe Miss Hurst is that sort of woman. However, you know her best.”

  “Damned right, I do.” Alexander had told MacCready of his agreement with his fair enemy, but he hadn’t mentioned the full price Caitlyn would pay if she lost. Some information was not meant for servants’ ears. “MacCready, how am I to quell this servant uprising? I’ve no wish to find my unmentionables starched.”

  “Fortunately we have Hay firmly on our side, due to Mrs. Pruitt’s calling him a ‘creaky old bag of musty bones’ during an especially tense moment this morning.”

  “That is fortunate for us. What will you do?”

  “Recruit for our side, my lord. Since I cannot quell the rebels, I can at least fortify the bastion.”

  “Fine. A footman or two to assist in the next battle would be an excellent boon.” Let them climb the trees.

  “Very good, my lord. I require only one thing. I must have your assurance that your behavior toward the young miss is honorable.”

  Alexander eyed him coldly. “My behavior is my own concern.”

  MacCready folded his hands behind his back and stared at the ceiling.

  A flicker of something that in another man might have been guilt made Alexander’s jaw clench. It was merely irritation at having to explain himself, but it left a sour taste in his mouth. “I’ll be just as honorable as the lady herself. How is that?”

  MacCready beamed. “That will do quite well, my lord. Quite well, indeed.”

  “Good. Now, I must dress. I’ve a meeting with the ‘young miss’ and I don’t want to be late.”

  Downstairs, Caitlyn declined to go riding with the others. Normally a picnic on the far edge of the lake would be the exact sort of activity she enjoyed, but MacLean had sent a note requesting a brief meeting. She’d gladly give up a dozen picnics to settle the next round of their contest.

  It had been the first thing she’d thought of this morning upon arising. She’d looked forward to breakfast with special excitement expecting to see MacLean, but he hadn’t shown.

  Caitlyn had hidden her disappointment, but her grace was another matter. As the minutes passed and MacLean still did not appear, the duchess’s laugh had become brittle, her air tense. As if suspecting that MacLean might be watching from some hidden vantage point, the older woman had made a production of going on the ride, flirting heavily with a politely bored-looking Dervishton.

  Caitlyn thought she knew why MacLean hadn’t come to breakfast. If she’d fallen out of a tree, she’d have spent the entire next morning soaking in a deep copper tub. But he wasn’t the sort of man to admit feeling anything other than perfectly well, even if his entire body was a mass of bruises.

  She yawned as she leaned against the library window, her eyes heavy. She’d barely slept a wink last night. Every time she’d closed her eyes, the events of the day before would barrel through her mind—of her thudding heart when MacLean had kissed her, of his bruised face and lip after his fall, of the burning look he’d given her as he’d left the sitting room.

  Caitlyn turned from the window and meandered about the room, admiring the opulent furnishings, running a hand over some ancient books set on a low wooden display table. Some were old texts, drawn in ink and so painstakingly painted that the letters themselves became the art. One book consisted of thin sheets of beaten metal that held intricate maps of the world as it had been charted in the late 1400s. “Fascinating,” she murmured, running her fingers over the carved maps. The workmanship simply astounded her.

  She left the display table and sat at the huge oak desk, smoothing her hands over the polished wood and admiring the warm sheen caused by the application of multiple coats of furniture wax.

  It would be odd to go home after being here. She smiled thinking of Papa’s cozy and cluttered library. It was so small that any one of the dozen or so rugs in this library would cover the floor of the entire room. His desk was small and plain, the drawers often stuck, and the surface had a crack that he covered with a large felt blotter.

  Her smile trembled, and she was suddenly acutely homesick. Right now, Papa would be teaching Robert and Mary their daily Greek lessons. He taught the more high-spirited William and Michael separately, saying they needed “more repetition.” The thought made her chuckle, even as her heart ached.

  To stave off tears, she picked up the small book of Arthurian stories, carried it to the settee, and settled among the cushions. She already knew what MacLean’s task would be, and she flipped through the book looking for inspiration for the final task. One couldn’t prepare too much for a big challenge. She smiled, thinking how funny MacLean had looked last night, dressed in his elegant evening clothes while sporting bruises and scrapes. Yet nothing could diminish his astonishing good looks or that dark, brooding presence. If anything, his wounds had only enhanced them.

  Blast all men. Women aren’t blessed with the ability to look good and disheveled. Life is most unfair.

  His rendition of his adventures and his commandeering of Dervishton’s mount had been humorous, although she hadn’t laughed when she’d first heard he’d been injured. For one paralyzing moment, she’d been struck with raw fear. As if, in losing MacLean, she�
��d have lost something precious. Even now, if she thought about his being seriously injured or worse, her heart swelled as if to reject the thought. That is ridiculous! I have no claim on the man at all. But his next task—retrieving the bow from Lady Kinloss’s nasty-tempered dog—wasn’t dangerous in any way. Oh, he may get his fingers nipped, but no more.

  She adjusted a pillow behind her and settled in for a nice read. The leather cover was soft beneath her fingers, the musty scent of leather and old paper tickling her nose. She carefully paged through the delicate leaves and found an interesting chapter. She was immediately drawn into the story of brave Culhwch and his passion for the beautiful Olwen, reading how he worked so tirelessly, performing task after task to prove his love.

  It was a romantic story, filled with hope and promise. As she read, Caitlyn absently kicked off her slippers and tucked her stockinged feet to one side beneath her skirts, leaning on her elbow so that the sunlight spilled across the pages.

  That was how Alexander found her when he walked into the library half an hour later. Caitlyn was curled on the settee, nose deep in a familiar, small leather book. The sunlight spilled over her shoulder and across the page, reflecting light on her face, her expression completely engrossed.

  He couldn’t help but think of his library at MacLean Castle, which occupied two floors of one turret; it was his favorite place in the castle. Seeing Caitlyn so engrossed in her book, her stocking-covered toes peeping out from beneath her skirts, made him wonder what she’d think of his library. She could curl up on its wonderful cushioned window seat, the sunlight warming her on winter days, and read to her heart’s content.

  He frowned. Good God, next I’ll be wondering how she’d like the gardens!

  She turned a page, her lips moving slightly as she read. Alexander instantly wanted to capture them with his own, to steal her attention from the book with bold, greedy kisses and a passionate touch. Yet even with the opportunity before him, he hesitated.

  He wasn’t the sort of man who had to prove his virility by conquering every bit of muslin who danced by. He preferred women who held their own, sophisticated women who knew the rules of the game and expected nothing but mutual pleasure in return. Women like Georgiana.

  Yet he was reluctantly beginning to appreciate Caitlyn’s fiery independence and spirit. She simply enjoyed life, living the challenges thrown her way with unflinching enthusiasm, just as she enjoyed the delicious dishes prepared by Georgiana’s chef. In so many ways, Caitlyn’s unfettered joy in even the simplest of things was damned appealing.

  Unfortunately, it was equally obvious that she wasn’t the sort of woman to accept a halfway anything—neither a friendship nor a relationship. From their flirtation in London, he knew she was all-or-nothing. Once she began something, she didn’t stop until she reached the conclusion, good or bad.

  As much as he hated to admit it, he was a hairbreadth from developing a case of pure, hot lust for the demure Miss Caitlyn. He rather wondered if perhaps it hadn’t already happened.

  She shifted on the sofa, and her trim foot and ankle slipped from under her skirt. He’d seen plenty of women’s ankles, but this was the most of Caitlyn Hurst he’d ever seen. Her gowns, while fashionable, were tantalizingly conservative. Where other women might lower their neckline to expose the curve of their breasts, Caitlyn’s were always neatly covered with rows of lace and ribbons. Seeing just an ankle made his body heat as if she were naked.

  Damn it, why couldn’t he feel this flicker of heat for an older, wiser, less … less virginal woman?

  Before, he’d been certain her innocent air was false and that he’d fallen for it like the biggest lunk. Now, having spent some time with Caitlyn, he had to admit he’d been wrong. Innocence filled every movement she made; every guileless statement, every unguarded pout of her full lips. It was genuine—which wouldn’t have been an issue if it didn’t also drive him mad with desire.

  So where did that leave him when he won the wager? Could he really take an innocent woman as a mistress? Looking at the slender, graceful foot encased in a silk stocking, he was afraid that he could.

  She turned a page, one slender finger following the text down the page. The sunlight warmed her cheek and traced the delicate line of her throat. His throat tightened when he thought of tracing that line with his lips, of tasting her sweet skin and—

  Hell, why was he standing here, just thinking about it? She was here, and they were alone. For both their sakes, he needed to convince little Miss Perfect Hurst how dangerous he truly was. The sooner she realized that and took more care not to be caught alone, the better it would be for both of them.

  He moved forward until he stood at the very end of the settee. Her head remained down, her gaze moving across the page, and he waited for her to feel his presence the way he felt hers. It was an almost physical tug, as if a thousand heated strands tied them together, tightening more the longer they remained in the room together.

  She lifted her head a bit. She blinked once, slowly. Then, her cheeks pink, she turned her head and lifted her gaze to his.

  He’d had a quip ready, but on meeting her gaze, his words vanished. Everything melted away except her. Her soft, soft lips and big brown eyes, so beautiful that a man could easily drown in them.

  She flushed, a soft blush of pink that crept through her skin and made him curl his fingers into his palms to keep from reaching for her. His body hummed, so aware of her that it hurt. She felt something as well, for her full breasts were rising and falling with her quick breaths under her modest blue gown.

  He opened his hands and realized they would just span her waist. Once he had her against him, he would slide his hands to her rounded hips. His fingers curled when he thought of cupping her full bottom through her gown.

  His body reacted swiftly, his cock swelling to a full erection.

  Her lips parted as she, too, seemed to fight for breath. Her gaze flickered over him, touching his mouth, his shoulders, then down to his riding breeches. He knew she could see his reaction, and he waited for her to look away or express dismay of some sort, which would keep them both safe from the lust that surged between them.

  But she didn’t. Her gaze widened in sensual fascination.

  Alexander could stand no more; he dropped onto the settee.

  Eager, Caitlyn’s brown eyes sparkled, her lips parted, and she dropped the book, letting it tumble to the floor as she reached for him.

  Chapter 13

  Dinna be thinkin’ that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. That’s no’ the organ men think with.

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

  With one smooth movement, she grasped his lapels, pulled herself to her knees, and pressed her mouth against his.

  He’d thought they’d talk, but there was no talking with Caitlyn Hurst. Not today. Stunned, he simply accepted her embrace as her hot mouth urged him on. He wrapped his arms about her and kissed her back with all of the passion built up inside him.

  Her mouth opened beneath his and her tongue hesitantly brushed his lip. He moaned and deepened the kiss, pulling her more firmly into his lap. Her arms tightened about his neck, and his hands roamed over her, feeling the smooth line of her back, the gentle swell of her hips, the way the curve of her ass fit his hand.

  He was afire, his body so racked with passion that he ached even as he held her.

  The damn pillows on the settee were getting in the way. He stood, lifting her with him, kissing her madly, passionately, until neither of them could breathe. These were the kisses they’d once shared so clandestinely; kisses as forbidden as they were unexpected.

  She rubbed against him, unconsciously rocking her hips and sending ripples of heat across his body. He nipped at her lush bottom lip before plundering her mouth anew. He couldn’t get enough of those sweet kisses, so artlessly passionate, so generously given.

  Damn, but she was a hot piece, eager and playful, and delightfully
urgent. He slid his hands up her sides, allowing his thumbs to graze her nipples. She gasped against his mouth and arched fiercely, hotly passionate.

  He cupped her breast, savoring the fullness, his thumb circling a nipple. She shivered in his arms, her breath catching as he increased the pressure. Her eyes closed and a moan escaped as she pressed against him with obvious delight. She grasped his shoulders and rocked her hips against his, tormenting even as she pleasured.

  Unable to stand another moment, he lifted her up and carried her the few steps to the heavy display table. He set her upon the open books to keep her from rubbing against him and causing him to lose control. Heedless of anything but the need to keep her here, within his arms, he cupped her face between his hands and worshipped her warm mouth.

  She slipped her hands about his waist and pulled herself forward, locking a heel around one of his legs.

  Alexander stood stock-still and found himself staring directly into Caitlyn’s wide brown eyes. Slowly, deliberately, she lifted her other leg and hooked her heel about his other leg until they were in the most intimate position imaginable, her legs splayed about his hips, her skirts rucked about her waist.

  He’d never envisioned himself as the type to lust after an innocent, virginal, too-stubborn-for-her-own-good slip of a woman. And woman she was, for all that she looked like a schoolroom miss. A girl would simper and flutter every time a man looked at her. Caitlyn Hurst didn’t flutter—ever.

  She didn’t even flutter when a prudent woman should. She calmly accepted heated glances from Dervishton, puerile flattery from Falkland, and definitive threats on her virtue. Those last were Alexander’s forte, and if she had any common sense, she’d be afraid. Very afraid. She definitely wouldn’t be perched on the edge of the display table in the library, her legs wrapped about his hips.

  He wasn’t used to walking away from such temptation, and she had little control over her impulses. She didn’t seem to realize that the more time they spent together, the more danger she and her damned virtue were in.