Taming His Rebel Lady

by Jane Godman

  Gordie appeared and announced that dinner was served. Edwin rose and held out his arm to Iona. With a slight, ironic curtsy, she slid her hand into the crook of his elbow and walked with him into the formal dining room. Although the table that dominated the room could seat twenty people, their places had been set together at one end, and Edwin escorted Iona to her chair while Cù-sìth, excited at the prospect of food, danced around her mistress’s feet.

  “This Falcon would seem to be a man of means. A landowner, I surmise. Perhaps even a titled gentleman. If I were a betting man, I might put my money on him being a laird.” He watched her profile closely and thought she paled slightly. If that was indeed the case, she recovered swiftly as she took her seat.

  “Nay, Edwin, ye’ll not catch me with that. Leave my brother out of this. ’Tis known the length and breadth of the Great Glen that the Falcon is an Englishman.”

  He leaned over her shoulder, so close that his lips brushed her ear. He felt the shiver that ran through her. “Indeed. But what of his three companions, my love?”

  Marriage to Sir Edwin Roxburgh was proving very different from Iona’s former life. She was beginning to realise that, apart from the fact that she had shared his bed, Sir Donald had been more like an elderly uncle than a husband. His nature had not been warmhearted, but in his own way he had indulged his young wife. Iona’s beauty and proud lineage had been a source of pleasure to him, and he had delighted in the fact that he was the envy of all other men when he appeared with his lovely young wife on his arm. In fact, when she looked back now, Iona recognised that she had been greatly cosseted. She had been free to buy any gowns and jewels she chose, to ride her horses and hunt at will, to run the household as she wished and to visit her family home at Lachlan whenever she chose. Her second husband was proving to be considerably less easygoing.

  “Why can I not ride out when I choose?” The question followed her discovery that the stable boys had been instructed they must take orders only from his lordship.

  “Because I don’t trust you.” He was seated at the desk in the library, but had turned in his seat as she flung the door wide. “Do come in. I must have missed your knock.”

  Iona slammed the door behind her, resisting the temptation to kick it as well. “’Tis as if I am your prisoner.”

  “I’m glad we understand each other.” His cool manner was in complete contrast to the temper that fizzed through her veins, heating her blood to the boiling point.

  “Understand this, my lord—” she came to stand before him, twitching her riding crop furiously against her thigh, “—I’ll not stand being locked up at anyone’s command. Husband or jailer.”

  “What will you do?” The amusement in his eyes only enraged her further. “Climb out of the window?”

  She regarded him mutinously, a dozen plans, each of them more outrageous than the last, running through her mind. Perhaps she could send a message to her men and get them to come to her aid? No sooner had the thought occurred than she dismissed it. She had led her fellow rebels into a near death trap. She would not endanger them further. Her message had been for them to mind their homes and families. Hopefully they had listened. She would have to think of another way of dealing with Sir Edwin Roxburgh.

  “Come now, Iona. Instead of plotting my downfall—as you are so clearly doing at this moment—you might at least admit my stance is not unexpected. You cannot seriously have expected me to allow my wife to continue cavorting around the glens clad in tartan trews and sporting a blue bonnet with a white cockade?”

  She indicated her black riding habit. “Ye’ll observe, my lord, that I’m dressed in a demure manner as befits my Lady Roxburgh. Rest assured, I’ve no thought of any raids on the English this day. All I want to do is get some fresh air.”

  He looked her up and down, and something in his eyes warmed her face. “That reminds me, why do you still wear these mourning hues?”

  Iona opened her mouth to respond and then closed it. She had been about to point out that her husband was dead. But she was brought up short by the memory that it was more than six months since Culloden…and that she had a new husband.

  “Mayhap I mourn a way of life stolen from me by the English.”

  “Very theatrical. Since you are now married to this Englishman, I’d prefer it if you refrained from making such a public statement in the future.”

  “Is that an order?”

  He sighed. “Such constant belligerence is wearisome. I’d rather call it a request.”

  She regarded him speculatively. “If I accede to your request, might I in turn be granted the favour of a ride, my lord?”

  Edwin laughed, then startled her by reaching out swiftly and clamping both hands around her waist. He drew her close so that she stood between his open knees. Her heart gave a thud, and all trace of anger took flight as anticipation replaced it. She was achingly conscious of each point at which their bodies connected. Of his knees holding her lightly, but firmly, in position. Of the concealed power of his hands as his fingertips dug into her flesh through the stiff material of her gown. It didn’t matter how much he infuriated her, she couldn’t deny the magnetic power of his personality. Sir Donald had pampered and spoiled her, but she had been a girl at that time. She was a woman now, and there was something about Edwin Roxburgh that ignited more than her temper.

  “I have never met anyone who can arouse such a range of emotion within me as you, Iona. You can drive me from fury to laughter within a minute. But perhaps that is not remarkable since we began our acquaintance by attempting to kill each other and ended it at the altar.”

  “As I remember, I came off worst from our first encounter.” Iona was annoyed that her voice sounded breathy.

  “A circumstance for which I apologise. But you must remember that I didn’t know you were a woman.”

  Iona raised her chin. “’Twas a fair fight. Woman or not, I nearly had you a time or two. Admit it.”

  His arresting dark eyes narrowed slightly, as if her response intrigued him. Then he smiled, and she wished he wouldn’t be so devastatingly handsome. It was very difficult to remain aloof when she was this close to so much masculine perfection. She couldn’t think. All she could do was stand imprisoned between his legs like a moonstruck maiden and gaze at his beautifully carved mouth, his rugged jaw, his…

  “Are you listening to me?”

  “Hmm?”

  “I agreed that you display great skill in a sword fight and that, yes, I was indeed fearful for my life once or twice. I expected at least smugness from you, if not jubilation. Instead, you seem miles away.” Edwin’s expression was bemused.

  “I was thinking of something else.” I was thinking about how much I want to touch your lips. Good Lord, she must take care not to say that aloud. “You won in the sword fight, but ye need not think that means ye will be the winner in our marriage.”

  “Yours is a novel approach to the married state. I had not considered wedlock to be a contest until now. Must there be a victor?”

  She tossed her head defiantly. “It would seem so, since you are determined always to have the upper hand.”

  Edwin regarded her with his head on one side, then, as quickly as he had caught hold of her, he opened his legs and released his grip on her waist. Iona did her best to quell a flutter of disappointment. After all, she didn’t want anything to happen between them. She was happy for this marriage to be a platonic one. Wasn’t she?

  “Go and change your gown for one less somber, and I will compromise by joining you on your ride.”

  “I don’t need an escort. I know these hills and glens better than any clansman.”

  “Maybe so. It would gratify me greatly to have the pleasure of your company, however.” She regarded him with suspicion, seeking an ulterior motive in his expression. His answering smile was all charm. “Be at the stables in ten minutes. I will have them saddle Aoidh.”

  Iona bit back the retort that sprang to her lips. While she wanted nothing more
than to blurt out her fury at being placed in this position—that she, the mistress of Cameron House, should be forced to rely on an English stranger to have her horse made ready—she knew it would be self-defeating. Subtlety was new to her, but she was beginning to recognise that where her new husband was concerned sometimes head-on confrontation was not the way.

  She sketched a half-curtsy. Because she was still standing between his legs, the action brought her knees into contact with his inner thighs. Something flared in the depths of his eyes. Something dark, dangerous and very interesting. Maybe there were other possibilities that might prove more enjoyable than platonic.

  “Ten minutes to change my dress?” She was running for the door as she spoke. “I will meet you at the stables in five.”

  Chapter Six

  “Mo Chreach!” Iona almost bit through her bottom lip as Edwin snipped the twine that had stitched the edges of the wound in her arm together and pulled each piece of thread free of her flesh. The deep gash had healed well, thanks to his ministrations, but she would forever be left with an angry, red scar to remind her of their first meeting.

  “Keep still,” he ordered, bending closer to his task. He had brought her to stand before the window so that he had enough light by which to see what he was doing, and since she was clad only in her diaphanous shift, Iona shivered slightly as the draught chilled her.

  “I’m cold,” she grumbled. “And ’tis easy for you to say ‘keep still’ in a stern voice. ’Tis not your flesh that feels like someone is sticking red, hot needles into it over and over. Aye, and all for his own pleasure.”

  Edwin was seated on the window seat while Iona was standing, and he paused, smiling up at her. “I wonder if your outlook on life might have been rather different had you been spoken to sternly more often, Iona. No, don’t toss your head at me. That will make my task more difficult.”

  As he snipped another piece of twine, Iona dredged her memory for her father’s favourite insult. What had it been? It was something to do with a useless, rotten carcass. “Ablaich gun fheum,” she muttered in the general direction of Edwin’s dark head.

  He sighed. “I do hope that was not another comment on my parentage. Might I remind you that it is forbidden to speak Gaelic?”

  “Aye, you English must take the very words from our mouths,” Iona fumed, her teeth beginning to chatter. “I suppose ye’d have me change the names of my animals, since they have fine, proud Gaelic titles, would ye? Shall I give them good English names to suit your tastes? How about I call my dog Rover from now on instead of Cù-sìth and Aoidh can be Dobbin? Mayhap I should change my own name to Elizabeth? Although, since your country is ruled by Hanover, you would probably prefer Caroline.”

  “While you have been ranting, my sweet harridan, you will be pleased to know that I have finished. You are free of your stitches.” Edwin effectively silenced any further outpourings by running his tongue lightly along the length of her scar.

  His action instantly drove the acid from her tongue and the chill from her flesh. Instead, sweet, honeyed warmth flooded her veins. Her eyelids suddenly felt heavier, her lips fuller and, to her chagrin, her nipples betrayed her by hardening in a way that had nothing to do with the cold. Heat flooded her cheeks. Fearful that, since her clinging shift left little to the imagination, Edwin might become aware of her arousal, she started to turn away. His hand encircling her upper arm forestalled her. His eyes were level with her breasts, and his expression told her that he knew exactly what she was feeling.

  “I think you are being less than honest about your feelings for all things English, Iona.” His voice was husky. Temptingly so.

  “I don’t know what you mean.” She suspected he could sense the pounding of her heart. She hoped he could not also detect the equally wild pulse that had begun to beat between her legs.

  “Oh, I think you do. I think there is something you want right now that is entirely English.” He lifted his head to flash that devastating smile at her. Unable to speak, she shook her head. “No? Are you sure?” Still rendered mute by the storm of emotion raging through her, Iona nodded.

  Deliberately keeping his eyes fastened on hers, Edwin lowered his head. Through the flimsy material of her shift, he fastened his mouth over her nipple. Lightly, he ran his tongue back and forth over the sensitised bud. Stunned, Iona rode the waves of sensation that crashed over her. She wanted to scream in delight, to run away, to grasp his hair and hold him to her so that he never stopped, to fight him, to climb onto his lap and twine her limbs around his. She wanted to do all of those things at once.

  Edwin’s hands moved behind her and down to her buttocks, cupping and separating them through the thin cloth. He took her nipple fully into his mouth, sucking it hard, and Iona could no longer prevent a hungry groan from escaping her lips.

  At the sound, he released her, a gleam of triumph in his eyes as he looked up. “Is there really nothing English that you’d like, Iona?”

  Horrified at the intensity of her reaction and his contrasting calm, she drew away. “There is nothing English I either like, want or need.”

  Edwin laughed. “One day, I will make you eat those words, my rebel lady.”

  The implication behind his statement made her shudder with an anticipation that was both fearful and pleasurable.

  Edwin soon learned that Iona always rode as if pursued by demons. An accomplished and experienced rider himself, he was forced to use every ounce of skill he possessed to keep her in his sights as she and her mare danced along the highland tracks as if they were floating just above the ground.

  True to her word, the morning Edwin had challenged her to change her clothes, Iona had entered the stables a mere five minutes after she dashed out of the library. She had exchanged her black riding habit for a woollen jacket in a deep forest green. This garment was fitted so exactly to the curves of her upper body that she might have been sewn into it. Heavy, metallic silver braid followed the front seam, emphasising the fullness of her breasts and the contrasting slenderness of her waist. The jacket fanned out over her hips and was worn with a matching skirt. She had piled her hair up beneath a jaunty bonnet in matching silver and green. In her grey widow’s weeds, she had been the most attractive woman Edwin had ever seen. Now, he was kneed in the groin by her beauty. She took his breath away and, in her own stubborn way, refused to give it back again.

  “Why are you staring at me like that?” Iona had rubbed her nose as though fearful that there was a mark on it.

  Edwin wondered briefly what his London friends would say if they could see the man they thought of as the rakish, assured Lord Roxburgh gawping helplessly at this engaging sprite who was, in so many ways, more boy than woman. Finding his breath, and his composure, he had offered her his hand so that he could help her mount Aoidh. “Your outfit suits you.”

  She had blushed, running a hand down the fine cloth. “Indeed, ’tis mighty pleasant to wear colours and fine cloth once more.”

  Since that occasion, this early-morning ride had become a daily occurrence. It was one to which Edwin looked forward more and more. He knew Iona felt the same, but he suspected her enjoyment was focussed solely on the ride. His, however, was becoming increasing centred on her company. Careful, he warned, himself, as he urged his mount after hers, dangerous territory lies ahead. And he was not thinking of the narrow, loch-side path they followed. He had not reached the age of twenty-eight without feeling something more than physical attraction for a woman occasionally. But he had always managed to ruthlessly suppress any more tender emotions. The reasons why were too deeply ingrained within him to bear examination.

  This is who I am, he told his subconscious self when a little voice in his mind tried to murmur “why not?” Leave me be. I would only hurt her anyway. The warmth he felt toward Iona was proving a little harder to fight off, that was all. Probably because she was so utterly unlike any woman he had ever met before. He would win this fight. He always did. It was made harder—he almost laughed aloud
at the double meaning—by the fact they were married yet his pride would not allow him to bed her. It was a situation that was leading him to indulge in some quite remarkable fantasies.

  Her reaction to his teasing action when he had sucked her nipple had both delighted and infuriated him. Why couldn’t she admit she wanted him? That bloody Scots pride of hers had to get in the way every time. Well, she would have to be the one to come to him. He wasn’t going to beg, no matter how much he wanted her. And, by heaven and all the saints, how he wanted her.

  The object of his discomfort, apparently oblivious to the effect she was having on him, reined in and turned her head to smile up at him. There it was again. That feeling that began in his chest and quickly radiated south to his groin. God, she was stunning. He wanted to haul her off that horse, throw her down on the cold, hard ground, drag up her skirts and…

  “Pardon?” He realised he hadn’t been listening to what she was saying.

  “I said this is one of my favourite views over the loch.” Iona regarded him with a look of consternation. “Are you feeling quite well?”

  Edwin had been shifting position in an attempt to ease the pressure of the saddle against the granite hardness of his erection. Since an explanation was out of the question, he decided the wisest course of action would be to ignore Iona’s question. Instead, he turned his head to gaze across the valley. Above the heather-fringed loch, the vast hulking shape of Ben Nevis dominated the landscape. Weak sunlight glared off the snow-capped peaks and was reflected in the placid surface of the waters. On the far bank, the settlement of Fort William nestled cosily into the shadow of the mountain. The spot where they had paused was on a steeply sloping, wooded hillside. The morning mists were still rolling between the trees and a promise of frost lingered in the air. The breeze carried with it the mingled scents of pine and peat. A kestrel swooped over their heads and flew low into the valley. The pride in Iona’s eyes was fierce and irresistible.