The Texan Duke

by Karen Ranney

  From conversations he’d had with the staff, Highland winters lasted for some time. He hoped to be gone from here by spring. He just didn’t know when spring arrived.

  He’d selected good men of character and determination to handle their assigned section of the ranch. They knew to report to Joe once a week. Joe would then forward on the reports to him. If anything needed to be done immediately, Joe and his lawyer together had legal authority to act in his stead.

  He trusted the men he left behind, and that was the secret of being able to manage two million acres. No one man could oversee it all, but if you brought up men from trail riders to ranch hands to managers, you created a dependable and loyal crew.

  That’s what Elsbeth was doing, whether she knew it or not. By putting herself out there to the crofters, by ensuring that they knew she cared about them, she was creating loyalty. She was the face of Bealadair and perhaps its heart.

  Had Gavin known that?

  Why the hell hadn’t his uncle written some kind of instructions or greeting? Why hadn’t he communicated with his brother? Connor had been surprised when Glassey had shown up at the ranch one day, armed with legal papers but no personal correspondence from the Scottish McCraights.

  If he’d been in Gavin’s position, Connor would’ve written a letter to his heir, telling him what he hoped for in the future, what he had done to bring it about, and the people he considered of value. Not one word. Not one letter. Nothing at all.

  In that, Gavin had been like his brother. His father hadn’t left a message, either. Not one damn thing.

  A flash of something white caught his eye.

  He stopped, turning to the left, trying to figure out what he’d seen. From his calculations, this wing was perpendicular to where the duke’s suite was located. Maybe he’d only seen a flash of something metallic or the glitter of the moonlight on snow.

  No, it had been higher than that, almost on the roofline. There, there it was again.

  He took a few steps to the left, braced his hands against the brick, and wished the gas lamps installed every few feet weren’t quite so bright.

  What the hell had he seen?

  “Connor? What are you doing here?”

  He glanced to his right to see Elsbeth standing there. She’d begun to loosen her hair from its proper braid, and it was tumbling down over her shoulders. Her cheeks were pink, either from exertion or from the cold.

  “I thought I saw something.”

  “What?”

  “Someone on the roof,” he said. “The parapet. A white figure.”

  Her smile startled him. If he studied her for a dozen years, he was certain that he’d never grow accustomed to her beauty. Now her startling gray eyes were alight with humor.

  Her teeth were so white that her lips always looked pink in contrast. He wanted to watch the way she spoke, the way her mouth moved, even how she sometimes bit her bottom lip.

  Or the way her smile faded into nothingness as it was doing right now.

  “Connor,” she said, and there was a note to her voice, something that hadn’t been there before. A caution? A warning? Or maybe only a question.

  He took a few steps toward her, but stopped when she held up her hand. She shook her head, then moved her gaze from him to the window.

  “You saw the White Lady,” she said.

  “The ghost? I don’t believe in ghosts, Elsbeth. I don’t know what I saw, but it wasn’t a ghost.”

  Her smile was back and it had a teasing edge to it. “You’re in Scotland now,” she said. “Every great house has a few ghosts. Bealadair is no exception. The White Lady is supposed to warn a McCraight.”

  “Addy has educated me on all Bealadair’s ghosts. That still doesn’t mean I believe in them.”

  He was close enough that he could smell her perfume, only she wasn’t wearing anything flowery.

  “You smell of bacon,” he said.

  “I was in the kitchen,” she said. “It’s not bacon. It’s pork roast.”

  “Were you cooking? Do you do everything, Elsbeth?”

  She shook her head. He took another step toward her.

  He reached out his hands and, before she could stop him, placed them on either side of her waist. There, he was touching her. Finally.

  “Is that where you went for dinner, the kitchen? I should issue an edict as the new duke that you are no longer allowed to eat in the kitchen with the rest of the staff or to hide in whatever room you choose.”

  He pulled her gently toward him and she didn’t say a word. Not one protest. Nothing. But her eyes widened and it was enough for him to stop and step away.

  “Why have you been avoiding me?” There, the question he needed answered. “You’re not at dinner. You’re not at the stables when I go. You’re never in the kitchen. I think you’re one of Bealadair’s ghosts. The Elusive Housekeeper. No one ever catches her, but you know she’s always there.”

  “I didn’t want to see you,” she said.

  It was the first time in his life that words ever had the power of a blow.

  He took another step back. “Very well,” he said. “Then I won’t bother you.”

  He was turning to leave her when she spoke again.

  “Oh, Connor, I was embarrassed. I’d managed to humiliate myself so completely.”

  He turned back. “How?”

  “How? You know how.”

  He reached her, placed his hand on her shoulder, and trailed his fingers down to her elbow, pulling her gently toward him. This time her eyes didn’t widen, but her cheeks did deepen in color.

  “My aunt’s idea might have worked, you know,” he said. “God knows I’ve thought of nothing else but.”

  “You have?”

  Her voice was tremulous, her smile fading in and out as if she cautioned herself not to show any emotion but couldn’t help it.

  “I’ve been lusting after you, Elsbeth Carew. Is that an insulting thing to say?” he asked. He honestly didn’t know. Would a woman be horrified to know that she’d featured prominently in his dreams or that she was perpetually in his thoughts? Who the hell did he ask other than the woman in question?

  “I can’t think that anyone would be insulted by such a thing,” she said.

  That was too careful an answer for his peace of mind.

  “Are you insulted? Does it make you want to hide even further?”

  She startled him by reaching out and grabbing the lapels of his jacket. He hadn’t expected that.

  “Would you be insulted to know that I feel the same? I can barely get any work done, Connor McCraight, for thinking of you. The cattle inspection took longer than it needed to because I kept seeing you standing on the other side of the pasture, grinning at me. You with your fancy saddle and your hat.”

  The word was flummoxed. His sister, Dorothy, had used it once, and he’d demanded to know what it meant, and then accused her of making the word up when she couldn’t give him an instantaneous definition. He’d discovered the meaning later and the word was perfect for this moment. Flummoxed: to be startled, to have one’s world turned upside down.

  He didn’t have a thing to say. Not one coherent statement occurred to him. So he did the only thing he could think of doing. He kissed her.

  There wasn’t a doubt in his mind that he was making a big mistake kissing Elsbeth again. But that part of his brain was instantaneously silenced by the feel of her lips.

  He half expected her to pull away, act indignant, and lecture him on the impropriety of his actions. What he didn’t anticipate was Elsbeth linking her arms around his neck. She stood on tiptoe, tilted her head a little, and silenced every gentlemanly instinct that might have led to his restraint.

  She moaned and that was his undoing. He wouldn’t have released her if someone tried to come between them with a branding iron.

  He wanted to touch her everywhere, this surprising, sensuous, beautiful woman, who smelled of pork roast and knew one end of a cow from the other.

  C
hapter 29

  “Where is your room?” he asked. No, it wasn’t just a question but a demand, uttered in a voice that sounded unlike him. “Where is your room?”

  She took his hand and led him through the corridor. He didn’t remember anything but the lit sconces and a vague glimpse of a crimson runner.

  He entered her room, slammed the door closed with his back as he reached for her again.

  The madness gripping him was something he’d never before felt. As if his mind weren’t his own but belonged to some other creature, one without thought as much as need. He had to touch her, feel her skin, breathe in her scent.

  He had never experienced this, never lost his sense of place. He didn’t care where he was at the moment, only that Elsbeth was in his arms, that he was kissing her, then trailing his lips down her throat, hearing her catch her breath on a gasp.

  He didn’t understand what was happening, but then he realized that understanding wasn’t important. All he needed was Elsbeth.

  “Forgive me,” he said a moment later, his conscience finally making itself known. He dropped his arms and forced himself to step back. He couldn’t look at her, couldn’t see those well-kissed lips without wanting to kiss her again.

  “Forgive me,” he said again.

  “Forgive you?”

  She did that sometimes, repeated his comments as a question. He realized she did so in an effort to give herself time to respond.

  He glanced at her.

  Her eyes were wide, the expression in them one he couldn’t decipher. She didn’t look horrified. She certainly didn’t appear angry. Confused, perhaps.

  Well, they were in that together, weren’t they?

  He should take another step away from her, back out of her sitting room entirely. He should not be here, alone with her.

  He forced himself to study his surroundings rather than look at her again. It was not the sort of room he would’ve picked out as being Elsbeth’s. Everything in it was upholstered in a dark blue fabric that struck him as masculine.

  The curtains on the two windows on the far side of the room hadn’t been closed, revealing their figures in a dark reflection. He stood there, braced against the door, his arms folded. Elsbeth stood in front of him, silent and still.

  How did he extricate himself from this situation? Could he simply turn and walk away without a word? How did he leave, especially when he didn’t wish to? When all he truly wanted to do was to take her to her bedroom and love her until the dawn sun illuminated those windows?

  “Will you kiss me again?” she asked.

  She wasn’t smiling. Nor was she frowning. Instead, he only saw warmth in her eyes.

  He shouldn’t. He should escape this room before his better nature got suffocated beneath his body’s wishes and wants.

  Instead, he put out his hand, palm up.

  She took a few steps toward him, still smiling.

  “Elsbeth,” he said, murmuring her name against her lips.

  She was magic. The moment was magic. Perhaps that wasn’t the best word, but it was the only one that made it through his physical responses to lodge in his brain.

  His heart was racing; his breath was short. His body reacted to her as it had from the first, tightening, hardening, despite the company or the lack of provocation. He wanted her as he had since that first snowy night when a smile danced on her face.

  “Elsbeth.”

  “Connor,” she said, her lips curving beneath his.

  She had to take this seriously. She was in great danger. He wasn’t at all sure he could control himself around her, especially when she pulled back, her eyes alight with mischief and daring.

  She didn’t speak, merely turned and held out her hand this time.

  He didn’t hesitate but grabbed her fingers, letting her lead him wherever she wanted to go.

  Hopefully, to her bed.

  No man had ever been in her suite. Not many people had been invited inside. She had never considered that she would lead Connor into her sitting room, turn, and face him in front of the fire.

  She wasn’t just being improper; she was turning propriety on its ear. She was being shocking, unlike herself. She might, if she were given to lying, claim that the duchess had given her the idea. By suggesting seduction, Rhona had broken down the barrier of Elsbeth’s morality.

  That was foolishness, wasn’t it? She’d wanted to kiss Connor long before the duchess said a word to her.

  She might never marry. Tomorrow she’d leave for Inverness to arrange for a home. Somewhere away from Bealadair, the place she’d known for most of her life.

  The future would be different. The responsibility would be gone, but so would the sense of belonging. She would answer to no one but herself, and perhaps that’s what she felt at this moment, the beginnings of that self-determination.

  She tossed her shawl to a nearby chair, faced Connor with everything she felt showing on her face. Confusion, a little fear, excitement, enthusiasm, need, and desire. Desire, a word she had never considered part of her character. Not once had she thought she was a woman who might give herself to a man freely and without thought of commitment.

  Her entire life, she’d been shoehorned into a role. More than once, she wondered who she might be if her parents had lived, if she’d been surrounded by people who loved her unconditionally. Who would she have been? How would she have acted? Would she have been as restrained as she felt now, living a borrowed life in a borrowed room in a borrowed house?

  This, then, might be her true self. She was not acting as someone else wished her to act. If she engaged in seduction, it was for her own sake and not for the McCraights.

  She took another step toward him, extending her hand. He didn’t reach out to grab it. Instead, Connor stood there watching her silently. She had the sudden thought that she might truly have to seduce him. He would not be guilty of overwhelming her with passion.

  She would never be able to claim that he waylaid her or kissed her into submission. Or did anything other than what she truly wanted. He was, with his silence and his immobility, forcing her to go to him.

  How did she seduce him? Oh, there were a few sweethearts among the staff, and she’d seen them laughing and engaging in a kiss behind a door or in the butler’s pantry.

  But she and Connor weren’t sweethearts, were they? Yet there was something between them, something that made the air feel as though it had sparks. The same kind of feeling she got when she walked across the carpet in the winter, and then touched a door latch.

  However much she’d tried to avoid Connor this past week, she hadn’t been able to stop thinking of him. Being in the same room with him changed her, made her feel foolish and young.

  Yet the words to banish him would be so easy to say.

  Go away, Connor. He would go; she knew that. He would turn without another word spoken, perhaps smile at her or not. But there would be a look in his eyes that she would understand. An acknowledgment, perhaps, of her inexperience.

  She wasn’t a duke’s daughter. She wasn’t a McCraight. Tomorrow, she would go off to Inverness to make arrangements for a lonely future. Why should she save herself?

  If she did marry—and that possibility was so remote as to be laughable—then her future husband would simply have to understand that she came to him with a past. She wouldn’t be the first woman to do so.

  She walked away from Connor, heading for her bedroom. Only once did she turn and look at him, wanting to bridge the distance between them. Would he know that with that look she was granting him admittance into her bed?

  Would he refuse the invitation?

  He followed her slowly, and she wanted to stop and watch him move. She liked everything about this man, including the way he commanded a room, even her small sitting room. She liked the way he walked as if energy was coiled inside him.

  She opened the bedroom door. A screen was erected in the corner, near the bathing room. She went to it now and with shaking fingers began to unbutto
n her bodice.

  She had never had a maid. Gavin had asked her, more than once, if she wanted one. She had always answered no because of her privacy. She wasn’t for parading around in her unmentionables in front of another person. Yet that’s exactly what she was intending to do now, wasn’t it?

  The screen moved and suddenly he was there, overwhelmingly male.

  “Elsbeth,” he said, his voice deep, a baritone that skittered along her nerve endings.

  She looked up at him. Where had she gotten her courage? Where had her momentary daring come from? She wanted more of his kisses. She wanted to be held. She wanted to know what passion was like—if it was a cousin to this startling feeling she had whenever she was around Connor. She was never more alive than when he was near. As if something in her responded to him.

  “This isn’t wise,” he said.

  Of course it wasn’t, but she didn’t want to hear that from him. Why must he suddenly be the voice of reason?

  Her bodice gaped open, revealing the lace and black ribbon adorning her shift.

  She took two steps to him, placing her hands on his chest and running them slowly up to the back of his neck. She tilted her head back and looked into his eyes, wishing he was as improvident as she felt at the moment.

  Yet he’d come looking for her, hadn’t he?

  She didn’t want him to be thoughtful or rational. Slowly, once again daring herself, she pulled his head gently down.

  “It may not be wise,” she said softly, “but it’s what I want.”

  And then the world changed.

  The reasonable Connor disappeared, replaced by a man who was wild, undisciplined, and thoroughly irresistible. She had the sudden thought as he backed her up to her bed, that this was seduction. When you’re offered a choice and your mind tells you it’s not an intelligent one, but your heart and your body overcome any resistance. She found herself smiling as he kissed her, then laughing as he nearly ripped her clothes from her body.