by Lydia Dare
“I like being left with you.” He’d like his watch back, too. He turned back toward her bed and scooped the fob up in his hands. The chain was coated in something, and he nearly dropped his own heirloom. “What the devil’s on it?” he growled.
James spun to face her, ready to throttle her if she’d ruined his watch. He’d had it for ages. And ages. More than one lifetime, to be sure.
Miss Lindsay plucked it from his hand and began to wipe it with a soft cloth, rubbing until it shone brighter than any sun he could remember. “I was just cleanin’ it up for ye. Ye caught me right in the middle of it.” She dried the chain and then passed it to him.
He turned away from her and flipped the catch, opening the watch so he could be certain it was in the same shape as when she’d stolen it. And he knew she’d taken it. Why, he had no idea.
A lock of her hair fell over his forearm as she leaned over his arm, peering at the open watch face. James nearly groaned aloud. Instead, he simply raised his brows at her and tried to appear amused. Aroused was more like it. Highly aroused. “Is there something you wanted to see, Miss Lindsay?”
She had the nerve to blush. Color seeped into her cheeks. Could she be any more charming? “I was just admirin’ yer watch,” she murmured. “I dinna realize there was an inscription. What does it say?” One of her hands lay flat on his back where she steadied herself to lean around him. He’d feel that touch for days. Years, probably.
“Curiosity killed the cat, you know,” he teased, attempting to sound unconcerned.
Her eyes narrowed at him. “Yer watch has a quote from Shakespeare?”
She was as intelligent as she was beautiful. He turned and tweaked her nose, which provoked a scowl from her. “Shakespeare performed it. Ben Jonson wrote it.” Thirty years after James was born. What might she think if she knew his age?
“So, that’s what’s written in yer watch? ‘Curiosity killed the cat’?” He had to give her credit for being tenacious.
“No, it’s not,” he said crisply as he closed the watch and slipped it back into the pocket of his waistcoat. The heavy weight of it felt right. She muttered something that sounded very much like insufferable man. He chuckled as he crossed his arms and leaned against her bedpost. “I suppose I should leave. The dawn will arrive before we know it. Have you slept at all, Miss Lindsay?”
“Aye, yer stompin’ boots woke me when ye returned home.”
“Fibber,” he accused.
Her back straightened. “I havena gotten accustomed ta the new accommodations,” she said as she gestured to her room.
“I’m certain your new staff will make sure all is to your liking tomorrow.”
She snorted and shook her head, her black hair swaying across her back in one glorious mass. “If we’re able ta find someone ta take us on.”
Oh, they’d find someone, he had no doubt. She did nothing by half, and if she intended to staff Briarcraig, she’d have it done by the noon meal. “I like you, Miss Lindsay,” he blurted out. Then he bit back an oath. Where the devil had that come from? He could almost hear Blodswell cackling in his head.
She crossed her arms beneath her breasts. “Do ye, now?”
One step brought him toe to toe with her. “I do.” He said it loudly and clearly. And knew it was the truth. He lifted one hand to cup the side of her face. “How many daggers do you wear beneath that nightrail?”
Her voice trembled a bit when she replied, “Why are ye so concerned with what’s under my nightrail, Lord Kettering? One might think ye’d like ta inspect my person.”
“Oh, I’d like that very much, and you should call me James. May I call you Blaire?”
“That would be highly improper,” she reminded him, but she didn’t shove him away or attack him with darts or lances. Not even a sharpened hatpin.
“And propriety is something you worry about? Is that before or after you curse like a man?” Her gaze left his, and he immediately wanted to take back his words. She was positively enchanting. He liked her cursing. Wanted to hear more of it, in fact. He would particularly enjoy it interspersed with a gasp or two of pleasure. “How do you do it?” he finally asked.
“Do what?” She folded her arms across her chest, obviously annoyed with him. Good. It was safer for her that way.
“Manage to look so beautiful on the outside, and maintain so much strength and purpose on the inside.”
Before she could answer, he bent to quickly touch his lips to hers. She froze, her lips pressed tightly against his. He opened his eyes briefly, only to find her staring at him, her lips puckered against his. He chuckled against her mouth and drew her to him with his arms around her waist. She stepped toward him with no reservation at all and let him draw her close enough that her breasts pressed against his chest, close enough that his legs tangled in her nightrail.
“Lord Kettering,” she protested mildly when his hand slid down her back and cupped her bottom, almost as though it had its own free will. But she didn’t pull away. She should have pulled away.
“James,” he whispered as he briefly lifted his mouth from hers. This time, when he bent his head, he coaxed her lips apart with gentle nudges, and then he swept inside. She teetered on her feet, but he used her wobbliness as an excuse to pull her closer to him. He would draw her into him if he could. What he wouldn’t give for her to draw him into her.
The beating of her heart began to skip like she’d run a great distance, the soft breaths that escaped her nose tickling his cheek as she tilted her head to kiss him more deeply. The witch wasn’t afraid of him, that much was obvious. Perhaps she should be.
Their brief interlude was long enough to show his desire for her. But short enough that it wouldn’t scare her. It wasn’t nearly enough to quench his thirst for her, but it would do for now. He pulled back, looked down into the interminable depths of her eyes, and forced himself to release the little innocent. She wobbled slightly on her feet when he let her go, and one of her hands landed on her chest. “Dear me,” she whispered.
“Good night, Miss Lindsay,” he said as he turned and quit the room.
He strode quickly and quietly to his bedchamber and wasn’t a bit surprised to find Blodswell sitting back in a chair by his four-poster and wearing a huge grin.
“Oh, I believe you’re in trouble now,” the man gloated. He nearly glowed with glee. What was bad was that the damned blackguard was one hundred percent correct.
“Go to the devil,” James grumbled.
“You’d hardly be the first to wish me there. The poor devil will be waiting forever.” Matthew chuckled. “Now, why don’t you tell me all about Miss Lindsay?”
James scrubbed a hand across his face. “I already told you all I know about the lass.” Though he’d neglected to tell Matthew how she affected him. That was not particularly any of his friend’s business.
“Come now,” Matthew prodded, “I’ve known you all your life. Don’t think you can hold out on me. I know you too well.”
Too well, indeed. Matthew owned the estate neighboring his in Derbyshire. He’d been a friend of James’ father centuries ago. He’d even taught James how to sword fight when he was a boy, though at the time James had had no idea that the earl was so proficient with the weapon due to having actually been a knight in the Crusades. But most importantly, Matthew had been there when James most needed him, the night he’d been attacked by highwaymen and left for dead. And he would have died, had Matthew not come to his aid, had he not eased the way for James’ life-after-death.
He heaved a sigh. “I don’t know what to tell you. Something about her calls to me. That’s all.”
Matthew’s grin faded, only to be replaced by a grim expression. “Calls to you?”
“I just want to be near her.” He couldn’t explain better than that. He felt like a green lad. He scrubbed his hand against his forehead.
His friend nodded knowingly. “Developing an attachment for humans does happen on occasion.”
“Has it happened
to you?” James asked, though he knew the answer. Matthew cared for all creatures and was the most loyal of men, but he’d never formed an attachment with anyone. Not in over six hundred years.
“There’s always the future.” Of which they both had an endless supply. Matthew rose from his seat and started for the door. “May I offer a suggestion?”
“Of course.”
“An attachment for one of the witches isn’t wise. Enchant her, and be done with it.”
James winced.
“What’s the meaning of that look?”
He might as well tell him that unfortunate bit. Matthew wouldn’t let up until he knew the truth, all of it. “I tried.”
“I beg your pardon?” His friend stepped closer to him.
“You said to enchant her. I tried. This very evening. It didn’t work.”
“Well, now that I’ve never heard of.” Matthew’s brow furrowed with deep concern. “I wonder…”
The way his friend said those two words sent an icy chill down James’ spine. “You wonder what?”
Matthew shook his head. “I wonder what sorts of spells the Còig might have cast upon you in your dormant state.”
“Preventing me from being able to enchant, you mean?” Had James needed to breathe, all the air would have rushed from his lungs. The witches had said something about victims, hadn’t they? Were they trying to level the playing field? What else might they have done while he slept?
Then again, if a spell cast could disarm him… “Perhaps Miss Lindsay could be persuaded to restore my abilities.”
Matthew shook his head only slightly. “She’s not their healer. But even if she were, you’re not ill. Your inability to enchant others is the result of magic, not a natural occurrence.”
Which again led him back to Blaire Lindsay. “Then magic can reverse the spell.”
His friend smiled weakly as though he was a simpleton. “If the five of them did this to you, it’ll take all five to undo it. Miss Lindsay alone is not enough.”
The entire coven. The daughters of the five women who’d wronged him. He felt a bit hollow at the prospect. “Then we’ll have her take us to them. I can’t go around ’til the end of time unable to enchant humans. I’ll starve.” Or take up an unseemly diet of spotted calf and sheep. He still couldn’t get rid of the awful taste in his mouth. Sustenance was sustenance after all, but he couldn’t imagine living on such things forever.
Matthew nodded. “But we’ll need your ring first. It’s here somewhere. We have to find it.”
Eleven
Morning sun filtered in through Blaire’s beveled windows. She opened one eye to stare accusingly at the light as though it alone was responsible for her lack of sleep. But alas, she had no one to blame but herself. And him. She mustn’t forget him.
James. He’d asked her to call him James. She shook her head at her own foolishness. James indeed!
Lord Kettering had actually kissed her! How was she expected to sleep after that kiss? Brief as it was, she’d felt it all the way to her toes, like a burst of warmth that washed over her entire body, leaving her breathless in its wake. And then he’d disappeared before she could regain her composure and properly thrash him for it.
Blaire groaned again. Why had she allowed such liberties? Though she didn’t think she could have stopped him. Then there was the niggling little feeling deep inside that whispered she hadn’t wanted to stop him. Even worse, she’d relived it in her mind all night. His strong, sculpted lips pressed ever so gently to hers.
She turned on her side and crashed her fist into a stray pillow. What a complete dolt she’d turned out to be. “Dolt” was the correct word on so many levels. Not only had she allowed liberties to a man she barely knew, but what she did know about him wasn’t at all reassuring. He was dangerous. He was some sort of villain, or he’d never have been imprisoned here. Her mother had helped trap the man, for heaven’s sake. And she’d let him kiss her. No doubt about it, she was a dolt.
The intelligent thing would be to stay as far away from the man as possible, since she didn’t seem to have any self-control where he was concerned. But that was impossible. If she stayed far from him, she couldn’t learn why he’d been locked away here. And she couldn’t let him go gallivanting off about the Highlands until she knew exactly who or what she was dealing with. What a conundrum.
That was it then. She simply had to gain control of herself. There was no other way to get the answers she needed. The blood of generations of battle-born witches who’d come before her coursed through her veins. They had been strong. She could be strong, too. And no matter what, she couldn’t allow him to kiss her again. Ever.
Her mind made up, she rose from bed, tore open her wardrobe, and retrieved the dowdiest dress she owned. Grey wool. Not alluring in the least. Kettering wouldn’t want to kiss a woman wearing scratchy grey wool. It would remind him of a washerwoman. The grey dress was perfect.
Blaire quickly dressed and fixed her hair in a simple chignon, which wasn’t the least bit complimentary. That should do well. She looked like an impoverished governess. Splendid.
She was finally ready to start the day with enthusiasm, despite her lack of sleep, but she desperately needed answers to her questions. She threw open her door and then took an immediate step backward and gasped.
Standing before her, waiting for her, it appeared, was Lord Kettering, who was holding Bruce, the feral cat, in his arms. “Good morning,” he crooned, his deep voice touching her soul.
Blaire shook the effect off. She was strong. At least she was going to be today. “What are ye doin’ with that beast?”
“He was hiding out in my wardrobe. I thought he might belong to you.”
“No. I meant ta ask what ye’re doin’ with the beast all cuddled up in yer arms like that. He’s wild.” Although Bruce didn’t look very wild at the moment. In fact, he looked into Kettering’s eyes with an adoring gaze.
“Some beings find me to be quite enchanting, in case you didn’t know,” he said slowly, the corners of his lips turned up in a smile as he leaned his weight against her doorjamb.
“I had no idea,” she murmured. Oh, she knew. She knew the man was mesmerizing. Poor Bruce seemed almost as besotted as she was herself. “Some creatures are no’ so bright.” She rested her index finger on her chin and pretended to think it over. “Are they blind? Deaf?” she tossed in for good measure.
The man had the good grace to chuckle.
“Are ye plannin’ ta tell me that ye like me again, Lord Kettering?” If her dowdy garb didn’t turn him off, perhaps her flippancy would.
“I thought we were past the ‘Lord Kettering’ business, Blaire. I asked you to call me James.” He stroked across Bruce’s head, and the cat leaned in to him. He was missing half of his left ear, but Kettering still crooned to him as though he was the most beautiful of beasts.
“Aye, ye did. I dinna accept.” She pushed his shoulder to move him out of her doorway and then closed her door behind her.
“Where are you off to in such a hurry?” Kettering asked from one step behind her. The man moved as fast as she did.
“Breakfast,” she muttered.
He hovered like a gnat. Which made her want to swat him. “Then what are your plans?”
She spun quickly to face him. So quickly that he nearly ran into her. He reached out to catch her, dropping Bruce to the ground. The cat sent her a caustic glare. She bumped the feline gently with her foot to shoo him away, and got a hiss and raised claws for her trouble. “Blasted cat,” she hissed back.
“Your plans, Blaire?” Kettering asked again.
“I am headed inta the village of Strathcarron ta hire whatever staff can be found. Why are ye so interested in my plans, James?” she asked, then winced aloud as she realized she’d used his first name. It couldn’t roll around in her head through the wee hours of the morning and not come out of her mouth at some point, she assumed.
“The sound of my name on your lips is one of the
sweetest I’ve ever heard, darling girl.” He reached out to caress the side of her face, but she brushed his hand aside. In truth, she wanted to be just like Bruce and lean into him. And almost caught her eyes closing as she did so. She shook off the thoughts.
“Doona get used ta it,” she tossed at him as she shoved his arm away.
“I like your hair like that,” he said as he caught her hand in his and squeezed it gently, his eyes searching hers.
Now she was certain. The man was daft. Or foxed. She reached up to touch his forehead with the back of her hand, like she might if Brannock was feverish. “Are ye ill, Lord Kettering?” She caught his face between her hands and looked into his black-as-night eyes. They weren’t bloodshot. And he looked right as rain. He wasn’t foxed. “Or does madness run in yer family?” She put her hands on her hips and glared up at him. Blast him to Hades! Kettering still wore that annoying grin.
“You think I’m daft because I like your hair?” He cupped the side of her neck against his palm, with his thumb moving toward her collarbone. “I like the way it shows your neck.” He leaned in and said very quietly by her ear, “So graceful and strong. And your pulse pounds at the base of your throat. I think it’s beating like a drum right now. In fact, I can see it.” He touched his lips to the side of her throat.
Blaire gulped. “Ye have lost yer bloody mind, Kettering.”
He lifted his lips long enough to whisper the word, “James.”
Blaire clenched her jaw and fought the flutters in her belly. “Ye’re about ta lose yer bloody hand, Kettering, if ye doona remove it from my arse.”
***
How the devil had that happened? One moment, he was trying to enchant the witch. The next, his hand was on her lovely little bottom as he clutched her to him and set about devouring her whole. Yet, he hadn’t entranced her at all. At least not in the way he’d attempted.
Oh, James had affected her, but it was on a very primal level. The witch was aroused. He could tell by the way her heart beat at a runaway rhythm. The way her pulse jumped beneath the delicate skin at the base of her neck. But he hadn’t entranced her at all.