She wiped her damp eyes with the back of her hand. “How did you know to look there?” she gasped.
“I remembered how we broke the wardrobe door. You had pulled the mattress off the bed and you were jumping on it, trying to reach your corset. You knocked against the door during one unfortunate leap.”
Her cheeks flamed hot. “Why would I have needed to reach my corset?”
He grinned at her, and her stomach did that unfortunate twisting thing again. “It was on the drapery rod.”
She swept her gaze from the tip of his boots all the way to the brown curls atop his bare head. He was quite the tallest man she had ever seen. “I find it hard to believe I needed the help of a mattress to lift me in reach of the drapery rod when you could have just plucked it down for me.”
His face dissolved into a brilliant smile. It touched every part of his features, transforming his bearded visage from something potentially wild into the kindest of vistas. “Oh, I did not say I was trying to help you. I was enjoying the view of your bonny, bouncing breasts far too much, as you danced about on the mattress.”
Georgette’s ears tingled around the edges. She had imagined doing things with him, but the notion of jumping on a mattress had not been among her imagined activities. “So you have your purse,” she said, anxious to change the subject from bonny breasts and the like. She paused, then tried out the new name she had earned the privilege of using. “James.”
He slipped the leather wallet into his front coat pocket. His eyes slid across the top of her bodice. “Aye, and I have your corset too. At my house.” He cleared his throat. “I suppose I should return that.”
The thought of him returning such a personal item after he had touched it seemed more wrong than whatever he might have touched in the process of removing it. “That won’t be necessary, thank you.” She eyed his bulging coat. “You should really keep your money purse in the inside pocket of your coat, you know. Anyone who has been to London knows you risk pickpockets to have it sitting there, just so. Why, there isn’t even a flap, or a button on that pocket. It could fall out if you so much as bent over.”
“Having not been to London, I will have to take your word for it.” He had the grace to look chagrined. “So not only did you not take it, you are dispensing advice on how not to fall victim to thieves.” He shook his head. “I am sorry I accused you of stealing it.”
It felt good to have him admit it, after all the turmoil of the last hour or so. “You can make it up to me by granting me an annulment,” she told him.
His brow lifted. “Lady Thorold, we are not married. As we have already discussed at length.”
This, then, was the missing piece of the night, and still a point of contention. “If I am to call you James, you should call me Georgette. And Elsie saw us get married. Even the innkeeper, odious man that he is, thinks we are married.”
He shook his head. “I told you. I am remembering more now. There was a ceremony that appears to have confused some of the bystanders, but it was a sham, a lark carried out in the public room for the benefit of a good laugh.”
She blinked at him. “I do not understand.”
“It wasn’t real, Georgette. So you do not need to worry.”
“THAT DOESN’T EVEN make sense,” she retorted, her fingers curling into fists at her side. “Who pretends to be married?”
“Someone deep in their cups,” James admitted. He had certainly fallen into that category last night. And he regretted it. Not because of what he had done, or whom he had done it with. Now that his memory was more settled, he could be a little proud of how he conducted himself in that regard. It had been damned hard not to take advantage of all she had offered him.
But he could not help but feel poorly because it so obviously agitated her today. “We don’t often do things with the right degree of forethought in those situations,” he added kindly.
She met his gaze with a glare that might have set fire to paper, had he been so careless as to wave the ill-considered summons about again. “I do not drink,” she told him. When he raised a brow, she started pacing, a lit fuse in full skirts. “Neither do I kiss strange men, nor sit upon their laps, nor pretend to get married.”
James watched her stalk her absent memories with growing sympathy. She was right. It didn’t make sense. But with the familiarity of the room and the sight of her to guide him, his memory had become close to flush in the past few minutes. There were still pieces missing, such as what they had done in the time between when they had left the Gander and returned to this little room. And of course, what in the devil he had done with his horse. But he finally remembered some essential bits. The money purse and the mattress were part of it, but most importantly, he remembered why they had done it.
“Miss Dalrymple told you I was a solicitor, which was how you came to be sitting on my lap,” he told her. She slowed her maddening tempo, her head tilting toward him, and he was encouraged to keep on. “You said someone was trying to marry you against your will. Whispered it my ear, and asked my legal opinion on the matter.”
Her feet ceased moving. “And your opinion was I should pretend to marry you?”
He chuckled at that. She had a wicked tongue. He remembered that now too. “I explained your best recourse was to wed someone else, someone who could protect you. And you said you wouldn’t be repeating the lamentable experience of marriage anytime soon.”
That memory sobered him a little. He recalled the darkening of her eyes as she had described her first bastard of a husband. It had tugged at him then, and it tugged at him now.
He spread his palms upward in a mute apology. “I offered to show you how easy it could be to marry the right man. Pretending to do it wasn’t the brightest thing we could have done, but I was drunk, you were beautiful, and the magistrate was all too willing to perform. But going through the motions doesn’t make it real. There has to be intent.”
Her gaze bored into him. “Do you trust your memory, truly?”
He canted his head a quarter angle. “It seems clear enough to me now. And I have it on good authority from a reliable witness it was not real. The magistrate who orchestrated the spectacle, for one.”
Her tongue darted out to moisten pink lips. “So we aren’t married?” she asked, her voice hesitant and yet hopeful.
“No.” He added an emphatic shake of his head. “Not by my reckoning.”
“But we did . . . things last night. Outside of marriage.” Bright spots of color rose on her cheeks.
There were a whole range of possibilities to be inferred from that. Yes, things had been done. Things he was tempted to do again. But he was trying to reassure her, not upset her.
He took a step toward her, and when she did not back away he moved closer still. He tipped her chin up with a determined finger. He could feel her taut skin twitch beneath his finger. Her lips drew his eye like a bright, flashing stone, tumbling in water. “Things,” he chuckled. “That is one way of describing it.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I’ll have you know, I do not normally do things either . . .”
Her mouth drew him closer still, and then almost without thought, he was silencing her objections with his lips. It was not a planned seduction, or an attempt to change her mind. He simply wanted to quiet the private revulsion he heard in her voice.
She went still beneath him. He paused, hovering on the edge of temptation, waiting to see what she would do. Her lips parted beneath his and he felt the tentative touch of her tongue. That was the moment when he could have stepped back and done the gentlemanly thing. Instead, he gave himself over to the sort of kiss she offered back.
He kissed her properly, just to see if his memory was correct, just to see if the woman he had known last night still breathed inside the proper, buttoned-up miss he found himself with today. He gathered her close and surged into her mouth, as if he could swallow her objection
s and challenge her self-doubts. Her hands came up and fisted in his coat lapels. Her chest pressed upward, a charity that could not be refused. He lifted his palm to her breast as he kissed her, smoothed a finger over the fabric that hid her body from view. Today there was no corset to impede his discovery, no whalebone obstruction to grapple with.
His memory was more torturous than helpful. He recalled that when he had finally unwrapped her last night, her nipples had been a mouthwatering splash of color against impossibly pale skin. But now they were covered, strangers tucked away out of sight. He wanted to meet them again.
One button of her bodice fell to his fingers, then another, creating just enough space to slide one hand in. His fingers inched over the edge of her chemise and his anticipation was finally rewarded, skin on skin. She quivered under his hand, as if experiencing his touch for the first time. He was reminded that in her thoughts, she was, and he found himself grateful for the gift of her memory loss.
He circled her nipple with a deft finger, and her resultant gasp of pleasure sent his self-control into dangerously thin territory. Oh God, the feel of her without a corset was just sublime. Her body pressed inward, a wall of fabric teasing against his straining erection. The faint, screaming objections of propriety fell away at that touch. It was all exquisite promise and denied release. He felt the flutter of her hands, fairylike against his chest, tangling in his jacket.
His coat was halfway off his shoulders when the sound of his money purse hitting the floor jerked him back to present circumstances.
Goddamn it. He broke off the kiss, breathless from the shock of reality’s intrusion. Coins and five pound notes lay scattered about their feet, a testament to the fact they had both nearly lost their heads. She was as close to sitting in his lap as a standing woman could be. He could almost hear her pulse, hammering in his own ears.
He put his hand gently against her, pushing her back a safer distance. He had just kissed a woman who made it very clear she did not want anything to do with him. He pulled his coat back across his shoulders, seating it properly with a violent shake. Could he sink any lower, or prove himself any more of a fool?
“I am sorry.” He winced as his words came out torn and ragged. “I should not have done that.”
Her hand rose to her lips. She blinked, her eyes a bewildered shade of blue. “We should not have done that,” she corrected.
James knelt and applied his attention to the matter of his scattered savings. It was necessary to keep from focusing on the accusation he feared he would soon see in those lovely eyes, edging out the lingering pleasure bit by bit. What had he been thinking? There was no logical argument that could be made in his defense. Last night she had been a willing participant. Hell, one minute ago she had been a willing participant.
But she was also not interested in making their arrangement permanent. Had offered him two hundred pounds for the pleasure of not having him.
Had just agreed it was a mistake.
She did not want him, no matter that he had just made her flush pink with pleasure.
A memory twisted, of another time and another girl. Elizabeth Ramsey, the minister’s daughter. It had been so long ago it lay inside him with scarred, wrinkled edges, but the wound was still raw at its center. Elizabeth had not wanted him either, had toyed with him and then gone on to choose David Cameron as her lover, until her circumstances and Cameron’s unexpected departure had demanded James play the hero.
But Georgette was not Elizabeth. She had clearly enjoyed his kiss, but she was not asking him to play the hero. In fact, she was demanding he not.
Which left him with nothing to do but clean up his mess.
He gathered up the five pound notes and stuffed them in the half-empty wallet, then reached for the coins that had scattered within arm’s reach. She had been correct about the matter of his front pocket, it seemed. But what an ungraceful way to learn the lesson.
She knelt down, displacing the air around him and treating him to a spectacular view down her gaping bodice. James tried to avert his eyes, truly he did, but his body disagreed with his instincts, because the rounded tops of her breasts looked every bit as glorious as they had felt beneath his fingers. She cleared her throat, amusement feathering the edges of the sound.
He raised his eyes, only to be confronted with the sight of Georgette waving something in front of his face.
“What is this?” she asked.
James took the scrap of paper from her. “It is a receipt. For money paid to the blacksmith.” His memory prodded him, demanding completion.
“I can see that.” Her voice seemed muffled to his ears. “Do you think that is where you might have misplaced your horse?”
Hell and damnation. What had they done? James shoved the receipt into his purse, alongside the rest of the coins. He was sick with the possibilities. She did not appear to hate him, not yet, but the day was not over. “It stands to reason we should investigate the possibility.” He stood and helped her to her feet. “You’d best come with me.”
Her lips parted in surprise. “Surely you don’t need me. I had hoped to be on the next coach, now that this matter about our marriage is resolved.”
She was leaving. Of course she was leaving. What was there to keep her here, except the investigation of the last remaining bits of his memory loss? “There is no coach tonight,” he told her. “The town closes the street to carriage and horse traffic, after they start the bonfire. And I expect there are questions you’ll want to ask the smithy.”
“I . . . I don’t understand.”
James sighed. “What we did in the time between when we were seen leaving the Gander and when we returned to take this room is still unresolved.” His gaze fell to the ring she twisted nervously on her finger. His ring. The ring that still demanded some sort of explanation.
“And unfortunately,” he admitted, dreading the words but knowing they were all too true, “the usual place to get married in Scotland is the blacksmith’s shop.”
Chapter 20
THE SMELL OF heated coal announced their arrival at the blacksmith’s shop a block in advance. As they moved closer, the smell of burning hooves introduced itself too. James had wondered if they would be too late, given it was approaching five o’clock on Bealltainn Eve, but the sound of a hammer ringing on steel assured him the man was still bent over his day’s tasks.
Pity. He was not looking forward to this interview, and would have been quite willing to delay it until morning. For the first time all day, he had a pretty good notion of what to expect before he asked the questions. His memory had settled with the discovery of the receipt in his purse, and he was quite sure he remembered all of it. All that was left to do now was to check the evidence and sort out which pieces could be undone.
Georgette’s gentle grip on his arm told him she still hoped for an easy resolution. He let her think that. She would be shattered soon enough.
The blacksmith grinned at them over the top of his leather apron as James approached the shop with an uplifted hand. “Oho, MacKenzie,” the man called out. “Not like you to be so late. Was expecting you back for your horse hours ago.”
James covered Georgette’s tightening fingers with his own and squeezed. “I had an unavoidable delay.”
The man released the bellows and came around the edge of the forge, wiping his hands on his apron. “Well, I replaced the missing shoe first thing this morning, and he should be as good as new. He’s tied up out back, and wanting some oats over the bit of hay I tossed out for him.”
James nodded. Yes, so far his memory was proving correct. They had slipped out of the Gander after his fight with MacRory, and he had been drunk enough he had forgotten to pay for the physical damage wrought in the pub. He had kissed Georgette good-bye, fully intending to let her go. But she had difficulty walking, no doubt due to the feathers still attached to her feet. Moreover she had been fright
ened of the nameless, faceless man she claimed had threatened her. And so James had put her up on Caesar, intending to transport her to safety of his own house. Halfway down Main Street, the horse had thrown a shoe, right in front of the bloody blacksmith’s shop.
“Thank you for the loan of the mare last night,” James told him. “Although you should know, the beast came up lame before we made it four blocks. I don’t think the horse will be much use as a riding animal in the future,” he added. “David Cameron has the mare now, and I expect he’ll want to keep her.” He grinned then, one good thing coming out of this mess. “You’ll need to contact him about what he owes you.”
“I reckon I know where to find him.” The blacksmith glanced between James and Georgette and grinned. “Congratulations, again. I was right proud you picked me for it.”
“What, exactly, did we pick you for?” Georgette asked beside him, her voice as thick as the smoke coming off the forge.
“Why, the nuptials. You were the third couple I married this week, although I suspect the others won’t last a fortnight before they start at each other’s throats. You two seem different. Happier, I suppose.”
James heard the whistled intake of air in Georgette’s throat. Her hand dropped from his arm. He felt the loss of contact like a fist to his abdomen. “Did . . . did we actually get married?” she stuttered.
Not that James blamed her. They had both done a lot of swinging back and forth on this particular issue today. She didn’t remember, but he did. They had banged on the blacksmith’s door and the man had come, bleary-eyed in his nightshirt, and presumed they were there to elope. It had been her decision, not his. But he had not objected.
In fact, he recalled being all too willing.
Georgette’s stunned reaction seemed to confuse the blacksmith. He picked up a rumpled sheaf of papers from a nearby shelf, flipped through several pages, and presented it to them. “He gave you a ring. Signed my register and everything.”
What Happens in Scotland Page 18