The Naked Laird

by Sally MacKenzie

  Why Ian wasn’t acting the gentleman and offering to take another room was odd, but he must have his reasons. Her stomach sank as the obvious reason immediately presented itself. He must already have arranged an assignation, most likely with Lady Remington.

  Mrs. Gilbert’s mouth flapped slightly, but it seemed the poor woman could not muster words. Ian spoke instead.

  “The solution is not that simple, Nell.”

  “Oh? Why not?” Nell turned again to Mrs. Gilbert. The housekeeper truly looked as if she would swoon.

  “The problem is ...” Mrs. Gilbert swallowed so they could observe her throat moving. “The trouble ... the difficulty is ... well, you see ...” She trailed off into silence, looking to Ian. Nell looked at him, too. His lips were twisted into an odd, almost desperate half smile.

  “The difficulty is,” Ian said, “there are no other bedchambers available.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Nell was still gaping at him as the door closed behind Mrs. Gilbert, but the click of the latch freed her from her stupor. She snapped her jaw shut, crossed her arms tightly, and stalked over to the hearth.

  Wonderful. He studied her stiff back. She might as well be wearing a sign proclaiming in large letters: KEEP OUT.

  What the hell was he going to do now? Ian looked around the tiny chamber. His eyes kept coming back to the bed. How could they not? It was just about the only damn stick of furniture in this little hole of a room.

  He couldn’t stay here. He certainly couldn’t sleep here. Sleep? Ha! Sleeping was the last thing he wished to do on that bed.

  He was an idiot, a complete and total idiot. One would think after all this time ...

  He glanced back at Nell. She was still staring into the fire, ignoring him exactly as she had these last ten years.

  Bloody, bloody hell.

  He wanted to shout, throw something, do something to make her acknowledge his existence.

  When he’d followed her to Pentforth Hall—he’d waited a week or two, thinking she’d come back on her own—he’d been turned away at the door. He, the Earl of Kilgorn, the master of the estate, had been sent packing. Not by MacNeill, of course—the butler knew who paid his wages. Mrs. MacNeill was the one who’d told him Nell refused to see him.

  Refused to see him! He clenched his hands into tight fists. The thought of it still had the power to infuriate him. Mrs. MacNeill had said a lot more, but he’d been too angry—well, and hurt, too—to hear it. Then he had thrown something—he’d been only twenty, after all, and new to such pain. He’d hurled some hideous knickknack into the fireplace. It had made a lovely crash as it shattered into a hundred pieces.

  He unbuttoned his greatcoat. Why had Nell turned him away? He still didn’t understand it. She was his wife. She had vowed to obey him. She was compelled by the church and the state to submit to him—and she hadn’t even had the courtesy to see him. It wasn’t as if he were some reprobate. He hadn’t caused her to miscarry. Damn it all, it wasn’t his fault.

  He shrugged out of his coat and threw it on the bed. And he’d loved her. She’d been his first, his only love. He’d been nineteen, little more than a boy, when they’d wed. A virgin still. He’d discovered heaven in Nell’s arms. He’d been happy, proud—damn cocky, really—when his seed had taken root so quickly. Yes, he’d been disappointed when she’d lost the babe, but he’d thought they would just try again.

  He shook his head. He couldn’t understand why he’d had to lose his child and his wife. Had Nell never really loved him? Was that it?

  Zeus, he had loved her. She’d taken his heart when she’d left. Nothing had ever been the same.

  He started unbuttoning his waistcoat. He was hot, tired, and dirty from his ride out from London. The bathwater was sitting there. He might as well use it. Nell couldn’t care; she’d already had her bath. She was still standing in front of the fire, combing her long, black hair.

  God, she was beautiful. He’d used to tell her some claptrap about how her hair was as dark as a moonless night. Silly cub—he’d fancied himself a bit of a poet when he was young. But it was true. Her hair was as black as a moonless night and her eyes as blue as Kilgorn Loch.

  But it wasn’t just her body that had wooed him. She’d been so full of life, so full of joy, when she’d been young.

  He dropped the waistcoat on top of his coat. He’d been such a fool. He’d left Pentforth angry—livid—but the anger had faded quickly. He’d missed her so much her absence was almost a physical pain. So he’d written to her, letter after letter that first horrible year, sweating over each word—even, much as he cringed to admit it, crying over some. He’d never got one single word in reply.

  How she must have laughed at him—if she’d even bothered to read what he’d written.

  He’d sent her one last note on her nineteenth birthday. When that, too, was met with silence, he’d washed his hands of her.

  Except he hadn’t. She haunted him, even when he was in another woman’s bed. And now the image of her naked in the tub, water streaming off her lovely, full breasts, was seared into his brain for all eternity.

  Perhaps this was good, seeing her again. If he were lucky, the experience would be so painful he’d finally be cured of her.

  “Has Lady Remington arrived yet?”

  “What?” He looked up. Nell was still staring at the fire. Her voice had been carefully devoid of emotion. Why? Did she know Caro was his mistress? Surely she didn’t care.

  “Lady Remington. Is she here yet?”

  “Lady Remington is not coming.” He untied his cravat. Caro had been a crashing bore about it, too. She’d tried to get him to procure an invitation for her, but he’d realized he liked the idea of being free of her for a few days—a definite sign it was time to give her her conge.

  “Oh.”

  He stared at Nell. Her tone ... she sounded pleased by Caro’s absence. “Why do you care whether she is here or not?”

  Nell shrugged. “I merely wished to know if I’d be sitting down to table with my husband’s mistress.”

  “Ah.” So she did know about Caro. He shouldn’t be surprised. He hadn’t tried terribly hard to be discreet. Caro was a widow, and he hadn’t thought his wife would care if he fornicated on the floor of Almack’s. Well, she shouldn’t throw stones. “And I take it I won’t be stumbling over Pennington?”

  He tried to keep the venom from his voice. He didn’t want Nell to think he was jealous, that he cared one iota what she did in her bed. He yanked his shirt out of his waistband.

  “Mr. Pennington?” She finally turned to face him. “He’s the Pentforth estate manager. Why would he be here?”

  “MacNeill said the man’s become slightly more than an employee.” He couldn’t stop himself. “Or that he’s being employed to ... manage more than the estate.”

  “How dare you?” Nell’s eyes flashed and she stepped away from the fire. “And I do not appreciate you setting the servants to spy on me.”

  He grunted and grasped the hem of his shirt. “MacNeill isn’t a spy—he’s the butler.”

  “He’s a spy as you very well know and—what are you doing?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” He pulled his shirt over his head. When he emerged from the linen he noticed Nell was eyeing his chest as if she was both appalled and fascinated. He glanced down. His chest looked exactly as it always did, but another part of his body was responding to her attention in a completely inappropriate manner. She’d best not let her gaze drop or she really would be horrified. He looked back up at her. “You’re done with the water, aren’t you?” His hands went to his fall. Nell squeaked.

  “You’re taking your clothes off!”

  “One usually removes one’s clothing before bathing.” She was acting like a shy little virgin. What was Pennington doing—or, more to the point, not doing—with her? Surely the man didn’t make love with his clothes on?

  “But you can’t ... I mean ... you shouldn’t ... You aren’t really going to get into that
tub, are you?”

  She shouldn’t be so nervous. It must be an act. Even if Pennington was an unexciting bedfellow, she’d entertained enough other men, according to MacNeill, not to be alarmed at seeing him naked.

  “I did just arrive. The water is here, and I don’t care to present myself to Motton’s guests in all my dirt.”

  She looked around the room. “Aren’t you going to wait for your man?”

  Did she think he’d hidden his valet in his bag? He shrugged—and noticed how her eyes widened slightly at the movement. “Crandall wasn’t feeling quite the thing, so I left him home. I can do fine by myself.”

  Damned if her eyes didn’t keep coming back to his shoulders and chest.

  He stepped a little closer to the tub and her tongue actually slipped out to moisten her bottom lip.

  Her attention was definitely titillating. Part of him was exceedingly stimulated. If he opened his fall now, she would get quite the eyeful.

  Could he ... was it possible ... Should he try to seduce her? Likely he’d just be opening himself to more rejection, but it might be worth the risk. He was ten years older; his heart was now carefully guarded.

  If he could get Nell into bed, perhaps he’d finally realize she was no different than any other woman. He’d be cured of her.

  He smiled slightly. It was worth a try. As Nell pointed out, Caro wasn’t here. And they were stuck in this small room with its small bed. “Crandall may not be here, but you are. You can help me.”

  “Oh, no, I—” She clutched her comb in her hands and backed toward the fire.

  “Careful. You don’t want to set that lovely dressing gown aflame.”

  “Ack.” She jumped away from the hearth.

  He sat in the chair and stuck out his legs. She was still darting glances at his chest. “Come help me get my boots off.”

  “Your boots?”

  “Yes.” He lifted a leg. “These leather things on my feet.”

  She frowned. “I know what boots are.”

  “I thought you did, but I was beginning to wonder.” He tried to assume his most pitiful expression. “Please? I could get them off myself if I struggled, but it would be so much easier if you helped.”

  She glanced at the door. “Annie should be here any moment.”

  “I doubt it. I believe Mrs. Gilbert decided we needed our privacy.”

  “Privacy? Since when do servants affect one’s privacy?”

  “Since one has been estranged from one’s wife for ten years,” he said softly. “I can act as your maid. I did so enough times when we were first married.”

  Nell flushed. “That was different. And we won’t be doing anything that requires privacy.”

  The details of the action which most required privacy popped into her mind. She closed her eyes briefly. She had not considered that ... activity in years. She did not want to think of it now, but it was as if a carefully built dam had burst. Memories flooded her, swamping rational thought. She could almost feel his fingers on her skin, his mouth on her breasts....

  The fire must have caught a fresh log; the temperature had risen precipitously.

  She glanced at his chest—and shoulders and arms—again. Had he had such sharply defined muscles when he was younger? Surely not. She would have remembered such sculpted curves.

  But she did remember the feel of his arms holding her tight, keeping her safe. She remembered the comfort they’d given her when the midwife had told her she’d miscarried.

  How could she have forgotten that? Ian had held her while she’d sobbed, her dreams—her trust in the world—gone with her child.

  She blinked back tears. She didn’t want to remember. Remembering hurt too much.

  “No? We won’t be needing privacy?” Ian half smiled at her, his eyes gleaming ever so slightly. “What a shame.”

  And that smile. It turned the hard, stern laird into a sly, beguiling man. It made him look years younger—too much like the lad she’d fallen in love with.

  Ridiculous. That lad—and the lass she’d been—were long gone. If she were going to entertain memories, she should consider all the mistresses he’d had. She pulled her dressing gown’s belt tighter and glared at him.

  “Dinna frown so at me, Nell.” His eyes seemed to invite her to share some secret with him.

  “Then don’t ...” Don’t what? Tease her? Mock her?

  Seduce her?

  That was what she feared, wasn’t it? But why? She could not be seduced; she had put all that behind her when her babe died. She closed her eyes, waiting for the familiar, terrible sadness to well up.

  It didn’t.

  She was just tired and upset. Distracted. She’d not expected to see Ian.

  She glanced at his chest again ... and then forced her gaze down to his boots.

  It would be childish not to help him. She would assist him now, and then go sit on the bed ... well, perhaps not the bed. She would move the chair as far away as possible from the tub and read until he had bathed, dressed, and left, giving her the privacy to get dressed herself.

  “Oh, very well.” She stepped closer, grasped his boot, and jerked. It stuck for a moment and then slipped off more easily than she’d expected.

  “Ack!” She toppled backward, sitting down hard on the floor.

  “Are you all right?” Ian was obviously struggling not to laugh. He’d best not—if he did, she’d break his head with this blasted boot.

  “I’m fine.” She scrambled upright and grabbed the other boot, tugging it off more carefully. “There. Done.”

  “Thank you.” He stood, not giving her a moment to retreat to a safer distance. She leaned back quickly and lost her balance again. He caught her, his grip strong but gentle.

  His skin was so close now. She was tall, but he was taller. If she leaned forward ever so slightly her lips would brush his chest. If she stretched just a little she could kiss his collarbone. If she—

  She stepped back and he let her go, but there was a light in his eyes that did unsettling things to her stomach.

  “You’re welcome.” She spun away. Her disquiet was completely understandable. Seeing Ian—being in the same small room with him—was a shock. Once she adjusted to the situation, she would be fine.

  Right. And she’d be just as fine sharing that very, very small bed with him. He’d used to spread out, taking over all the space. Did he still?

  She was not about to find out. Mrs. Gilbert must be mistaken. There must be some other solution—some other room that he—or she—could move to. Perhaps she could share with one of the other women.

  She would ask him to move the chair to the other side of the room now and then later, when she was dressed, she would seek out Mrs. Gilbert.

  “Ian—” She turned without thinking and found herself staring at his naked back while he searched through his valise. At his narrow, muscled arse.

  “What?” He shifted to face her and now she was staring at something else, something that blossomed under her gaze, growing thick and long and ...

  She wrenched her eyes to his face. His expression was stark and ... hot. His lips curved into a half smile.

  “Lass, ye can look as much as ye like.”

  She whirled back to the fire. “Don’t be ridiculous.” Ian had always been so comfortable in his body. He’d used to think nothing of walking naked around their room—

  He’d best not be thinking he could do that here.

  She had to get other accommodations. Being here with Ian—she felt unwell. Achy. Needy.

  She didn’t want this. She didn’t want to feel anything. Feeling hurt too much.

  She heard water splash against the sides of the tub.

  “Can you hand me the soap, Nell?”

  “Get it yourself.” She was not going to look at him again. She should just walk out right now—but she wasn’t dressed and she certainly wasn’t going to get dressed with Ian in the room.

  “I can’t reach it. Please, Nell?”

  Oh, for
God’s sake. “Where is it?”

  “On the floor under the chair. It probably went flying when you did.”

  She felt herself flush. Could anything be more embarrassing than to go flopping naked toward the floor when seen by one’s estranged husband for the first time in a decade? “Are you certain you can’t get it yourself?”

  “Aye. It’s out of reach—and if you turned around, you’d see I’m already in the tub.”

  “I know you’re in the tub. Can’t you get out and get it?”

  “I’d drip all over Motton’s floor. It’s not like I’m asking you to go to Glasgow, Nell.”

  “Oh, very well.” She carefully averted her gaze, moved to pick up the soap, and thrust it in his direction. He chuckled.

  “What, Nell, are ye shy? Ye dinna used to be. Ye used to look quite eagerly.”

  “Stop it!” She did look then. She was angry enough that she had no trouble focusing only on his face. “You can’t walk back into my life—by accident—and act as if the last ten years never happened.”

  His face grew still, his eyes hard. “You’re the one who walked out, Nell. I tried to see you; I wrote you letter after letter. You refused me at every turn.”

  She pressed her lips together. She had been mad that first year—angry and crazy. But it didn’t matter. Ian hadn’t understood, would never understand why she’d mourned such a wee speck of a thing, a baby that had died before her belly had even begun to swell.

  She could not talk about it now.

  “I—” She shook her head. “It’s ... there’s just too much time gone. The wound’s too deep to heal, certainly by something as frivolous as this chance meeting—this accident of hospitality.”

  “Perhaps this accident is an opportunity.”

  He was not going to cut up her peace like this. She had worked too hard for too long to attain it.

  “Could it be you are just looking for someone to warm your bed while Lady Remington is unavailable? Is that what this is about?”

  Ian flushed. Ah, so she had hit the mark. She ignored the hollow feeling that thought provoked. Anger was what she wanted. Anger had always saved her in the past. “Where is Lady Remington, by the way? Did she have a prior commitment? I would have thought she’d break it to come here with you.”