Rising onto her toes, she edged nearer, making soft, hungry noises in the back of her throat.
A shout outside, followed by laughter and a series of rapid thuds against the outer wall, reeled in his lust.
Mais que diable faisait-il donc?
What the hell was he doing?
If the snow fight hadn’t brought him to his senses, how far would he have gone? Seonaid deserved better, and he couldn’t offer her anything but admiration from afar.
Kissing her breathless isn’t exactly drawing room decorum.
She wasn’t a loose trollop whose skirts he could lift for a few blissful moments and be done. She was the gently bred sister of a man he admired, and who had warned him away from her.
Fool.
Giving her another soft kiss, he set her from him. “Forgive me, ma petite. My behavior is inexcusable.”
Cocking her head, her lips moist and reddened from his onslaught, she smiled shyly. “Don’t apologize. I enjoyed it. Very much, as a matter of fact.”
Dammit. Drawing upon Herculean strength, he managed to resist yanking her into his arms and taking advantage of the hay pile.
“As did I, but it cannot happen again. We must think of your reputation.” Jacques tenderly brushed a stray curl from her flushed cheek.
He should have considered that before he agreed to stay and watch the birth, but he’d been a selfish bâtard. Anyone could’ve seen them kissing through the window, though doubtful since they stood in the farthest, darkest corner. Nevertheless, he’d been alone in here with her far too long.
She continued to stare at him, as if she could see his soul and read his thoughts.
Mayhap she could. Had she known what would happen between them? She’d known about Freya. What else had Seonaid perceived and kept to herself? Such an intriguing, mesmerizing woman. And she couldn’t be his. Ever.
More laughter and shouting echoed outside, and again, snowballs pelted the building.
Best put a respectable distance between them, in the event someone entered. As he stepped away, she faced the cat family once more.
“Jacques, may I ask something of you?”
Unrolling one of his sleeves, he glanced up, his eyes hooded. “Oui, ma petite.”
She peered over her shoulder, an unfathomable light in her almond-shaped eyes. “I have need to rid myself of my maidenhead and wondered if, perhaps, you’d consider ah, assisting me?”
Chapter 13
Seonaid hadn’t meant to blurt the request, hadn’t known she’d chosen Jacques for the task until the words left her mouth. Holding her breath, she clamped her jaw until her teeth protested by sending jarring pain to her taut cheeks.
What a botched, inept proposition. Assisting her. As if she required a package carried from the milliner’s or a book retrieved from an upper shelf.
Oh, by the by. I have a small task for you. Please relieve me of my virginity at your earliest convenience.
After his plundering kiss sent her mind and emotions toppling breast over bum, had she instinctively known he should be the man to end her visions? Must be the man she lay with?
Oh, how she wanted to.
Admitting her yearning warred with her astonishment and confusion. Mayhap the intense dislike she’d harbored had truly been nothing but vehement denial of her instant attraction.
For certain, what he’d agitated in her since the inn wasn’t animosity or indignation.
His expression unreadable, Jacques slowly continued to right his clothing. Behind him, the lantern light reflected off the top of his ebony hair, but didn’t light his silhouette’s bold planes.
Did the muscle of his jaw flex? Was the line of his mouth thinner? Sterner?
An uncomfortable, pregnant silence filled the outbuilding. Even the animals, except for Freya’s contented rumble, grew quiet, as if they, too, awaited his response.
Much hinged upon his answer.
Squeezing the cloth she’d used to wipe the kittens, Seonaid inwardly cursed her impetuous impulse. Her outburst put them both in a deucedly difficult position.
Sensing her dismay, Chester sidled near and whimpered once, leaning into her legs. Amazing what animals sensed, one reason why she preferred their company to humans’ obtuseness at times.
She tightened her grip upon the wadded cloth.
Why didn’t Jacques say something?
He’d finished fastening his shirtsleeves and set his attention to buttoning his waistcoat, failing to lift his eyes even once.
Revelation struck with lightening’s sudden force and speed.
He didn’t want her.
Previously, she hadn’t been concerned with her figure or looks. Possessing neither Isobel’s exquisiteness, voluptuous shape, or brilliant intellect, nor Adaira’s darker exotic beauty, daring, or uncanny gift for breeding horseflesh, Seonaid had been content to remain unnoticed and unremarkable.
Mother insisted she was nothing of the sort, but the looking glasses didn’t fib, and until this moment, Seonaid hadn’t minded that much that she was simply ordinary and unexceptional.
A man’s rejection quickly brought her inadequacies to light, however.
Most particularly when the rogue she’d approached for a dalliance boasted impossibly broad shoulders, narrow hips, and legs whose muscles were clearly visible through his pantaloons. Never mind his suaveness and sinfully striking looks.
Likely, he had his choice of beauties, much like delectable sweets presented on a china plate, and he indulged his taste whenever he pleased.
More fool she for not having considered rejection.
Humiliation like none she’d ever experienced surged from Seonaid’s chilled toes to her burning hairline, searing every pore and nerve in between. She mustered a trembling smile and fiddled with the kittens lest she see his scorn or revulsion.
After he’d kissed her that third time, she’d been certain, had assumed he found her desirable and would accept her unconventional offer.
Desperately seeking a reason to keep her back to him, she picked up a kitten. Cuddling its wee form beneath her chin, she closed her eyes and tried to calm her uneven breathing.
“You needn’t answer. Suggesting such a scandalous thing was rash and brazen.” And naïve and foolish. Her brimming tears squeezed between her eyelids and spilled dual, scalding paths over her cheeks. Yet somehow, she succeeded in keeping her voice steady. “Please don’t judge me or think me immoral.”
How could he not? For God’s sake, she’d proposed he take her virginity with the casualness of a haut ton peeress offering a guest a cup of tea and a biscuit.
Still, he didn’t utter a syllable.
Could one die from mortification?
Death was preferable to this shame.
A penitent laugh escaped her, the stricken sound pathetic and tinny even to her ears as she returned the kitten to its mother. “I assure you, I don’t make a habit of offering myself to men.”
Large, warm hands cupped her shoulders, and Jacques kissed the crown of her head, his lips warming her scalp. “I swear, I’ve not received a request I honored more in my life, chérie, but we both know my answer must be non. I won’t disgrace you so.”
She wanting nothing more than the scuffed, straw-littered floor to swallow her and extinguish any sign she’d ever lived. How could she look him in the eye again?
Or her parents?
They’d be horrified if they discovered what she’d done. Who would tell them? Certainly neither she nor Jacques would be that imprudent.
Given his reputation as a rake, she assumed—hoped—he’d consent. Oh, she wasn’t naïve enough to believe anything more than physical attraction enticed either her or Jacques.
But losing her innocence to a man whose gaze sent her pulse frolicking ranked far above either surrendering her virtue in a loveless marriage or turning into a fusty old crone children pointed and laughed at.
Or ran from in terror.
You could accept your exceptional talent.
He sighed into her hair, then after a tender squeeze, withdrew his hands and stepped away.
“I shall, because I don’t want a scandal or you compromised, but don’t think, ma petite, I don’t want you. I cannot offer you marriage. At least not at this time. Perhaps never, and I won’t deceive you and pretend otherwise. I’m a poor man trying to restore my estate, as I’ve explained before.”
“I know, and I do understand.” And she did. He’d made his position clear from the onset. Chagrined to her bruised soul, she couldn’t restrain her sobs any longer. “It’s all right. Now, please go.”
Their previous mutual disdain had been far easier to bear than his rejection or scorn.
He touched her bent neck, the softest of brief caresses. “I’m not sure of your reasons for offering your innocence, Seonaid, but the act cannot be undone. I pray you reconsider whatever has you so distressed you’d make such a sacrifice, and if I can assist in any other way, you’ve simply to ask me, oui?”
A moment later, the latch clicked, the sound resonating in the small enclosure, and she buried her face in her hands, weeping for far more than shame and mortification.
“Assist in any other way? There isn’t another way.”
That she knew of.
How could she face Jacques after this? Surely things would be awkward and strained between them, going forward. She sniffled and, squaring her shoulders, dashed at her tears. Well, she’d caused this situation, and she must face the consequences with grace and poise.
Her loud, disdainful snort startled Freya, who leapt to her feet. The kittens weakly snuffled, issuing tiny mewing protests.
“Oh, forgive me, darling. Your bairns miss their mama already.” Gently petting the leery cat, Seonaid coaxed her to lie down once more, and the distraught kittens nuzzled her teats. “There’s a good lass.”
Too bad Seonaid’s circumstances weren’t as easily remedied.
She must be patient, wait for the house party, and in the meanwhile, pray no more visions came upon her in public. She would focus on her blessings and stop bemoaning the episodes. And she’d avoid Jacques at every turn, else she walk about continually red-faced.
Silly, self-pitying ninny.
Why get in a dudgeon about what might or mightn’t be? She’d been so focused on her plight, she’d overlooked how much she had to be grateful for.
Chin up, stiffen your backbone, and stop behaving like a childish nincompoop.
Och, imagine if Jacques hadn’t been a gentleman and agreed to her reckless suggestion. Misjudging him chafed her conscience. He didn’t seem the same opportunistic scoundrel who’d snatched a kiss in Paris.
After giving Freya a final pat, and tucking a towel around the kittens busy nursing once more, Seonaid secured the pen’s latch. True, she couldn’t deny that she wished for the ability to use her gift to foresee her future and others too.
Would she marry? If so, who? Would she have children? Suffer heartache? Would her family?
Had Jacques, in fact, been a spy?
His manner reminded her of Ewan’s, and she couldn’t prevent her mind from again making the comparison.
Would his mining venture be profitable, and would he succeed in renovating his estate?
How she wished she could see those details. No, not entirely true. She wanted to know if the outcomes were favorable, not the reverse.
And that made her a shallow coward.
In any event, it mightn’t make a difference as far as Jacques was concerned. A kiss did not a proposal make, and her premature contemplations would surely lead to more heartache.
Still, it would be helpful to have a morsel of knowledge in advance.
Wrapping her pelisse about her shoulders, she released a sorrowful sigh. Her second sight never worked that way, and after nearly a decade, she didn’t expect her gift to abruptly change.
Gift.
Odd, that at this moment, she considered the sight of a seer a gift. This confounded double-mindedness had her at sixes and sevens. One moment, she loathed the second sight and would do anything to quell her visions, and a bit later, she bemoaned not having the ability to foretell the future.
She’d better make up her mind what she truly wanted and stop behaving like an indecisive, feckless halfwit.
Well then, until the Lord provided a means to remove it—or Seonaid forced the issue through marriage—she’d endure the visions with much more grace than she had in recent days.
She’d throw herself into preparations for the house party and start assembling a trousseau. That ought to keep her occupied. Busy hands and an occupied mind worked wonders to keep unwanted musings at bay.
Feeling more optimistic than she had in weeks, Seonaid bid her pets farewell and stepped from the outbuilding.
A snowball splatted against her shoulder.
“I saw that, Bruce McKenzie.”
“Nae be me, Miss Seonaid.” A broad grin wreathing his round-cheeked face, the lad pointed to a strapping tartan-clad man. “Douglas McLean be guilty of hittin’ ye.”
“Ye be too much of a temptation, lass.” A devilish smile creasing Douglas’s chiseled face, he let loose with another miniature, white cannonball. This one splattered below her chin, sending wet gobs trailing between her pelisse’s collar and her neck.
“Try to hit me. I dare ye.” Skipping about the bailey, he waved his arms, challenging her.
Overgrown child.
He’d teased her good-naturedly for as long as she could remember, and he made her laugh with his silly antics. His guffaw became a strangled choke when she hurled a hefty blob straight into his face.
Laughing, she scooped another handful of snow, and then hurled that one at Douglas too.
Retaliating, he pelted her with three at once, and the shiny-nosed children exploded with laughter.
Others in the courtyard joined the fray, and she spent the next few minutes in a rousing snow fight.
Panting, teeth chattering, and wet to her soggy stockings, Seonaid waved farewell. A hot, oil scented bath and a cup of piping hot whisky and honey-laced tea lured her indoors. “I’ve had enough. I’m freezing.”
Douglas trotted over to her, his usual half-grin slanted across his kind face. His leaf-green eyes twinkling, and droplets plopping onto his face from his saturated nutmeg-colored hair, he fell into step beside her. “It’s happy I be to see ye home, lass. I feared ye’d marry a Sassenach dandy and break my heart.”
Instead of returning to the keep’s warmth, Jacques detoured to the stables. Besides needing time for his raging erection to subside, Craiglocky boasted the finest, largest horses he’d ever seen. Truly magnificent giants.
Smiling in appreciation, he scratched a colossal gray’s forehead. This one stood eighteen hands, maybe more.
A fly’s sneeze could’ve knocked him over when Seonaid offered up her innocence. Dangerous, that. Another, less scrupulous man would’ve tossed up her skirts in the outbuilding without a second thought.
The gray blew against his shoulder, and Jacques scratched the beast’s broad forehead again. The letter in his pocket crackled as he stretched his arm high overhead.
His curiosity demanded he probe to discover Seonaid’s reasons for her boggling request, but what good would that have done? He couldn’t exactly tattle to McTavish and explain how he came by such knowledge, and Jacques wasn’t a close friend or family member she’d welcome advice from.
When had her hostility transformed to attraction? For he’d no doubt she felt the same undeniable, powerful draw he did for her. An allure he must—must—put from his mind.
What a turnabout in a week’s time.
He couldn’t help but think her request had something to do with her visions or Fletcher. Mayhap both.
Running a finger across his mustache, he scowled.
&
nbsp; The thought of Fletcher cooled his ardor swifter than running barefoot and bare-arsed through the snow covered pasture visible beyond the stable’s partially open doors whilst being bombarded with rock-hard snow pellets.
Leaning against the stall’s rough door, he withdrew the letter, then rotated it twice.
Ah well, might as well see what dark news Faucher sent.
What a fussy, gloomy fellow, always predicting the worst.
With a flick of his thumb, Jacques broke the seal, then swiftly perused the single page of scribbled writing.
Merde.
All but a few faithful staff had left the château, and though his creditors promised they’d wait until March to collect, they demanded a partial payment now.
Which brought Faucher to the true point of his letter.
Jacques could picture the sweat dripping from the nervous little man’s face as he wrung his hands and spluttered the news.
An anonymous buyer had come forth offering a generous price for the estate. A very generous price, in fact.
Suspiciously generous.
Chapter 14
Mentally checking off what she intended to accomplish today, Seonaid skipped down the last riser, her boots clacking noisily against the smooth stone. As a child, she jumped up and down the stairs, deliberately creating the eerie echoes.
Giving in to impulse, she hopped up the riser, then bounced down again. The sound spiraled hollowly up the stairway, and she grinned.
The medieval castle, with its one-hundred-seventy-plus rooms, never frightened her. Well, the dungeon proved rather sinister. Many generations ago, people had died in the keep’s bowels. Some tortured, local legends claimed.
Despite the sun streaking through the mullioned window high above the keep’s entry and splashing miniature rainbows onto the ancient walls and floor, she shuddered.
Enough morbid musings.
Except for an occasional glimpse, she’d managed to evade Jacques for nearly a week. It helped that the weather had cleared, melting the snow, and he’d made several trips to his mine.
Scandal's Splendor (Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Book 4) Page 12