by Karen Ranney
“I have no doubt that you were the perfect duke’s daughter,” he said.
“My life has been proscribed by my behavior.” She hesitated for a moment, then continued, “By expectations of my behavior.” She looked directly at him, her gray eyes unflinching. He was reminded of that afternoon in the Duke of Herridge’s study. “But I don’t know how you want me to act, Douglas.”
She began to arrange the food, unwrap the cheese from the muslin and slice it thinly. He was unaccustomed to being waited on, but he found it a heady experience to have his wife serve him.
“You couldn’t have said anything that pleased me more,” he said.
Now she looked confused. Good.
“I want you to act like yourself, Sarah. Not as you think is proper. Not as you believe people would wish you to act, but the way you feel.”
He reached out and grabbed one of her gloved hands between his. She was always covered up, always shielded, always protected from the gaze of others. He wanted to see her naked in the light of day, and although now was neither the time nor the place, he gave a moment or two of thought to it.
“I didn’t have the chance to tell you how exquisite you looked, standing there in our bedroom. Your legs are magnificent, your waist and hips perfect. May I say, Lady Sarah, that you have a magnificent derriere.”
“You said that.”
He was both amused and pleased to see the flush on her cheeks.
“You smiled,” she said.
“Is that why you went back to the cot, because I smiled? I was delighted, enchanted, overjoyed. Why shouldn’t I smile? I’m surprised I didn’t dance a jig.”
She looked startled again.
Slowly, he began to remove the glove, one finger at a time. She didn’t protest, remaining compliant. His gaze was on their hands, and when he glanced at her, it was to find that she was doing the same.
The air around them was still, a summer silence, as if nature itself were waiting. Not even a cricket chirped.
He turned her hand over and unbuttoned the button that stretched across her palm. One by one, he extracted her fingers from the silk. When her fingers were finally free, he removed the glove from her wrist, tossing it to the other side of the blanket. Now their hands were joined, palms touching. Hers was warm, warmer than his, as if an inferno burned inside her body, and it was only expressed secretly like this.
“It’s perhaps not fair,” he said. “You, a proper and virtuous duke’s daughter engaged in a liaison with an adventurer.”
“We aren’t engaged in a liaison,” she said. “We’re married.”
“Until the day we consummate this union, Lady Sarah,” he said, “this is nothing but a dalliance.”
“And once we have, you will treat me with the decorum I have come to expect of men in my presence?”
He lifted his head to look directly at her.
“Do you mean will I cease embarrassing you? Will I never speak of your breasts again? Or your bare back? Or the texture of your skin?”
“I really wish you wouldn’t say such things,” she said.
“Perhaps once we lie together, Lady Sarah, I will have other things to mention. The gasp of surprise as I enter you, for example. Or how your nails cling to my shoulders when you take your release. Or how your nipples harden into little pebbles as if they’re seeking my tongue to soften and warm them.”
“Did you not hear me?” she asked.
He leaned closer to her. “Understand this. You’re free to say anything you wish to me. I’m as free to disregard it.”
Slowly, she withdrew her hand from his and clasped her two hands together. She stared down at them fixedly, not at him.
He put his fingers beneath her chin and tilted her head up.
“Instead of a dalliance, Lady Sarah,” he said, “I think you and I shall have a love affair. If it goes no farther than my skin needing the touch of yours, and your body craving mine, then so be it.”
She looked away, then back at him. He could feel her tremble beneath his fingers and wanted to smooth his hand over her cheek. In actuality, he wanted to do more, to pull her into his embrace and warm her as he placed both hands on her back, pressing her closer. He would croon to her, soft syllables that meant nothing other than to convey comfort. He would ease her into passion and away from fear, until passion became more commonplace and fear only rarely felt.
He sat back, reached for some cheese and a jar of ale, and smiled at Sarah, unsurprised when she looked away rather than smiling back at him.
“Tell me about your grandfather.”
She prepared a plate for herself, then finally answered. “I don’t know anything about him. Donald Tulloch. Is Tulloch a common Scottish name?”
“Around Perth it is,” he said. “Was there a great deal of antipathy between your mother and her parents?”
“I’m not sure it was antipathy,” she admitted. “Occasionally, I think my mother was very sad about their rift. She never commented upon it, but more than once she said that two people can make a family. She and I were as much a family as any large group.”
“There’s every possibility that your grandfather won’t see you. Are you sure he’s even alive?”
“He was as of a month ago,” she said. She glanced at him. “I had my solicitor make inquiries.”
“You knew this day might come.”
“I was more concerned that my father would exile my mother to Scotland. I wasn’t sure where we would go, so I wanted to ensure that my grandfather would take us in.”
“Does he know you’re coming?”
She shook her head. “No, I never communicated with him, and I asked that my solicitor not inform him of my interest. But from what he was able to understand, my grandfather is alive and the head of the family.”
She fell silent. Was she wishing that Morna Herridge had been as long-lived as her father?
“But you don’t know anything else about him, or about Kilmarin?”
She shook her head again. “Do you?”
“Kilmarin is probably to the inhabitants of Perth what Buckingham Palace is to a Londoner. Parts of it are spectacularly ugly, and other parts are beautiful, a monument to what man can create.”
“My mother never said. In all those years, she rarely mentioned Scotland at all. It’s as if a door simply closed on that part of her life.”
He didn’t respond. What could he say? Sometimes, for the sake of survival, an individual had to wall off certain parts of his—or her—past.
“Is there no one you wished to see in Perth?”
“If there had been, I would have come home a long time ago.”
“There’s no one you would wish to see again?”
“Are you fishing for information, Lady Sarah?” he asked with a smile. “I was too young when I left Scotland to have broken many hearts.”
“But you have broken some,” she said. It wasn’t a question as much as it was a comment.
“Should I pretend to have been celibate since birth?”
She looked intrigued at the question, enough that he began to shake his head.
“I have your bottle of scent,” he said, and watched, delighted, as her face began to bloom with color. “Shall I return it to you? Or keep it in case we are forced to sleep apart again?”
Perhaps the key to winning Sarah’s heart was to keep her off-balance, long enough that she didn’t realize she was being wooed.
Chapter 19
Scotland had welcomed them with sunny skies for the past two days, but by afternoon, the scuttling clouds changed their nature, turning dark. Even the air felt different, heavy and filled with moisture.
“It looks like we’re in for a downpour,” Douglas said, studying the clouds. Through the hatch in the roof, he signaled for Tim to stop and pull the coach over to the side of the road.
“What are you doing?” Sarah asked, the first comment she’d directed to him since their meal.
He glanced at her. “We need to make arrang
ements. The loose gravel and dirt on the roads could easily turn to mud. In a few minutes, the carriage could become mired in it.”
“What do you suggest we do?”
“It all depends on what nature has in store for us,” he said.
But beyond that cryptic remark, he didn’t explain.
She glanced at Florie. Her maid didn’t like storms, and her growing discomfort would have been evident even to a stranger.
Sarah reached over and patted her arm.
“I’m sure it’s going to be fine, Florie. Tim is an excellent driver, and Mr. Eston seems to have a level head on his shoulders.”
There, did she sound suitably wifely? Her own voice was calm, devoid of any anxiety whatsoever. But then, she’d had years to practice her skills at prevarication. If she was afraid, she doubted anyone in the carriage could have discerned it.
She opened the door and peeked her head out to see Tim and Douglas standing by the horses in earnest conversation. Were they making decisions about their safety and yet not involving them?
She closed the door and sat back on the seat.
“Sometimes men are very difficult,” she said, a comment she should not have made under any circumstances.
Florie, bless her tactful heart, pretended she hadn’t spoken.
“Do you think there’s an inn nearby, Lady Sarah?” Florie asked a few minutes later.
“I sincerely hope not,” Sarah said. “I had planned on reaching Kilmarin today. I am not willing to spend another night at an inn.”
Douglas entered the carriage again, turned to Florie, and spoke to her first. “Tim says that you mustn’t worry. We’ll find shelter before the storm hits.”
Florie’s complexion was as pale as plaster, but she forced a smile to her face as she nodded. “Thank you, sir. I worry about my Tim, too.”
“As well you should,” Douglas said, which earned him a frown from Sarah. The last thing he should do was commiserate with Florie; it would make her hysterical. But he continued on, oblivious to Sarah’s censorious look. “It’s the lightning we have to fear.”
Finally, he turned to her. “We’re not far from the main road,” he said. “We’re going to go ahead and meet up with it.”
“Will we find an inn, sir?” Florie asked.
“We’ll reach Kilmarin first,” Douglas said.
They exchanged a long look, and she recognized that expression in his eyes. He was more than willing to be as implacable as a brick wall if it meant obtaining what he wanted. How very strange that she’d not recognized his stubbornness before they left Chavensworth.
He began to smile, a thoroughly charming smile if one didn’t notice the wickedness of it. His eyes, too, gave away his thoughts, and she was certain that if Florie weren’t here, he would have begun to laugh. Or perhaps something even worse, like scoop her up from the seat, put her on his lap, and proceed to nuzzle at her breasts.
That was not a thought she should have. She reached into the convenience pocket of the carriage, withdrew a blank note card, and began to fan herself. When his smile looked to have no sign of abating, she frowned at him.
“Mr. Eston,” she said. Just that, just his name, and it made his smile even broader.
“Stop it,” she said, her teeth clenched.
“I am doing nothing, Lady Sarah,” he said, still smiling. “Other than thinking first and foremost of your safety.”
She couldn’t dispute that remark although she wanted to find something to criticize. At least, openly. Heaven knew she had enough knowledge of his private behavior, but publicly he behaved like a perfect gentleman.
Not unlike those knights her mother had told her about, always concerned about their ladyloves. But those knights had sent flowers and composed poetry, and planted gardens. She doubted one of those knights would have whispered decadent suggestions in his lady’s ear, nor teased her with fingers, lips, and wildly improvident words.
She looked away, concentrating on the scenery through the carriage window. Within moments, the air darkened, the grass rippled with the increasing wind, and Florie moved closer to her. Sarah glanced at her maid and smiled reassuringly, then looked back through the window, ignoring Douglas. Not that it was easy.
The explosive crack of thunder made her jump. Florie grabbed her arm and let out a little squeal. Sarah looked across the carriage at Douglas, and he smiled reassuringly. Without speaking a word, he held out his hand, and she took it, the three of them now linked by a touch.
“If we can’t find shelter soon,” Sarah said, “I think we should stop and let Tim join us. It can’t be safe for him out there.”
Douglas nodded.
“Who is Alano?”
He frowned. “You’ve met Alano.”
“Yes, but who is he?”
“Why are you asking now?”
The carriage was beginning to be buffeted by the wind, and she could hear Tim yelling encouragement to the horses.
“Are horses frightened by the elements?” she asked.
“I would imagine that all animals have an instinctive need to feel safe. Anything different might be perceived as being frightening.”
She nodded, distracted by another crash of thunder.
“Do you really care about Alano, or is that your way of avoiding the storm?”
“I am not afraid of storms,” she said. “I deal quite well with any natural occurrence.” She frowned at him intently.
“Do you?”
The horses whinnied, and she closed her eyes, trying to ignore the fact that Florie was holding on to her arm with a talonlike grip.
“I met Alano in France. I was fourteen at the time. He rescued me from a situation I couldn’t hope to escape on my own.” His glance seemed to encompass the past. “He became a mentor to a very angry young man. Now he’s my second-in-command, if you will.”
“Like a majordomo?”
“More a friend,” he said.
Thunder shook the carriage, followed instantaneously by the flash of lightning. Florie screamed, then immediately clamped both hands over her mouth. If Sarah hadn’t been discomfited by the storm before, she was now.
Douglas squeezed her hand reassuringly, his attention on the landscape.
“It’s not long now,” he said, pointing with his free hand. “That’s our destination.”
She peered through the rain. “We’re at Kilmarin?”
“We are,” he said.
Sarah was not given to listening to portents or believing in omens. However, there was something about the stormy afternoon that scratched at her nerves. The rain fell in sheets, threatening to wash the carriage away as it climbed the hill leading to Kilmarin. She could hear Tim shouting to the horses. The carriage trembled in the force of the wind as Sarah tried to ease Florie’s fears while appearing outwardly calm herself.
A quarter hour passed—a bad quarter hour in which Sarah was certain they were going to be washed away. Florie was still given to excited outbursts every few minutes, and Douglas glanced over at Sarah often enough with a concerned look in his eyes to let her know that she hadn’t been quite successful at hiding her own anxiety.
“We’ll be there in no time at all,” he said.
She only nodded.
Through the rain-sheened window, she couldn’t see much of Kilmarin. What she could see amazed her. Had Douglas felt the same upon viewing Chavensworth?
She’d always considered Chavensworth a magnificent estate, almost preening when people mentioned it in London gatherings. But from the glimpse of her mother’s childhood home, she was quite certain that Chavensworth was much smaller in size.
The road on which they were traveling seem to wind around the mountain. When she mentioned as much to Douglas, he only nodded. Some moments later, he spoke.
“I imagine it was constructed that way for defense,” he said. “Remember, Kilmarin was built seven hundred years ago.”
“Chavensworth is quite old as well,” she said, feeling an absurd desire need to
defend her own home.
He only smiled faintly, his attention on the road.
She preferred to ignore their upward climb, as well as the fact that the higher they traveled, the narrower the road seemed. Another way of Kilmarin defending itself? At least she faced the side of the mountain, and not the cliff. She wasn’t exceptionally fond of heights, especially in a storm of this magnitude.
A gust of wind pushed eagerly against the carriage, and the vehicle shivered in response. Perhaps they would be thrown off the road entirely, to plunge down the side of the mountain. Her compassionate errand would end in the deaths of four people.
She closed her eyes, patting Florie’s hand reassuringly even as she wished her maid would simply hush.
A bolt of lightning struck too close for comfort, and her eyes flew open to meet Douglas’s gaze.
“We are there,” he said softly.
She knew, without a doubt, that if Florie had not been there, he would have taken her into his arms and held her there as he had so many nights after her mother died.
The road abruptly leveled so they were no longer climbing uphill. Instead, it seemed as if they had come to an entrance of sorts, the shadows in front of them becoming an iron gate.
“Just how many defenses does Kilmarin need?”
“You’re talking about a country that has its share of ruined castles,” he said. “Evidently, Kilmarin has just the right number of defenses.”
She heard Tim shouting again, but this time his directions weren’t for the horses. The carriage slowed and stopped. Despite the fact that it was still raining hard, Douglas opened the door.
“Where are you going?”
“To gain admittance to Kilmarin. I doubt they welcome visitors.”
Another difference from Chavensworth. They had never turned away a traveler. Yet she couldn’t imagine anyone coming to Kilmarin’s gates voluntarily.
“You’ll get wet.”
“Yes,” he said, smiling. “I imagine I will. But I’ll also dry. Nevertheless, thank you for your wifely concern.”
“I’ll not care for you if you become ill,” she said.