by Karen Ranney
How very handsome he was, his Celtic heritage showing in his high cheekbones, sharply angled jaw, and chiseled features.
Who was Ian, the brigand? Scientist, abductor, or simply a sorcerer, conjuring up a spell, throwing up a handful of dust and having it return as diamonds?
If she didn’t move, he was going to kiss her. If she didn’t say something now—something strict and proper—he was going to embrace her.
When he reached for her, she didn’t step back, and when he lowered his head, she only closed her eyes and waited.
He kissed her as if he’d never kissed anyone before, as if a kiss were something to be savored, a rarity. Tenderly, delicately, slowly, he explored the shape of her mouth with his.
She was almost dizzy from it, enough to reach up with both hands and rub her palms against the soft fabric of his jacket, to feel the firmness of his muscles beneath the cloth, sensing the strength and the tension in his shoulders and neck.
The door frame pressed against her bottom, but she wouldn’t have moved had someone shone a lantern on them. This shadowed and silent moment, near desperate with desire, was something she’d never forget.
She swayed, a helpless sound escaping her.
Kiss me more.
He kissed her as if he’d heard her entreaty, as if he were starved for kisses and she was the only one he would ever kiss for as long as he lived. She hooked her hands around his neck as he gripped her waist.
She could feel the heat of his palms as if her clothing were not a barrier.
Abruptly, he pulled back, his mouth no longer on hers. His breathing was harsh, his eyes dark.
He reached up slowly, giving her time to understand, and unlaced her hands from around his neck, allowing her to step down from her toes.
“Do not presume upon my honor, Emma,” he said, his voice rough. “It’s not made of stone. I’d say it’s more like sand around you.”
She lowered her head, closed her eyes, and willed her heart to cease its riotous race. What had she done?
Kissed a man. Kissed a man in utter delight and desire. Instead of shame, she only felt wonder.
She clasped her trembling hands together, taking a step back. Should she feel ashamed? She didn’t, and she wouldn’t.
She glanced up. His look was so intent it seemed to vibrate between them.
“From the moment I climbed into your window I’ve wanted to kiss you senseless,” he said. “I didn’t know that just being around you would render me the same.”
“Senseless?”
His lips quirked in a half smile. “Without a doubt,” he said.
He bent, pressed his lips against her forehead, an avuncular gesture that managed to be tender, also.
Turning at the door, he gave her one last look. Instead of speaking, however, he simply left her, closing the door behind him.
She thought about the kiss all night. She thought about it when she should have been sleeping. Instead, Emma paced from one side of Ian’s bedroom to the other, conscious of two things. She’d never before shared a kiss that left her so confused, and she wasn’t acting like a prisoner.
The fact was, ever since she had been abducted from her home, she’d been treated with greater care than at any time in the last five years.
Why wasn’t she afraid? Why wasn’t she terrorized?
Not every man in the world was evil. She’d had the misfortune to be married to one of them. Nor was her uncle a sterling example of character. But her father had been a good man, a man who cared for those around him, and acted with decency toward all. Ian seemed to be of a similar nature.
He was to be married. So was she, if she acceded to her uncle’s wishes, which she had no intention of doing. She’d made that decision earlier this evening.
No longer would she be subjected to a man’s will.
She lay her forehead against the door, feeling the wood cool against her skin. She huffed out a breath, impatient with herself. Longing kept her awake. Longing and something more, a need, a wish, a yearning.
She was no stranger to passion. She’d witnessed its effects on people from the very beginning of her marriage. She’d seen the dark side of passion, as well, and watched what people would do in order to express it, to feel it. She had felt it herself, sometimes brought about by Anthony’s herbs and potions. Sometimes, despite herself, her body had experienced pleasure.
But she’d always felt dirty afterward, as if she’d surrendered something more important. As if, in experiencing ecstasy, she’d relinquished part of her soul.
The kiss she shared with Ian had promised something more.
She checked the lock again, a habit from her marriage. Such an action was silly, since Anthony could easily have commanded a footman to break through the door. He’d never done so, but she knew better than to ever expect her husband to act the same from one day to the next.
What about Ian?
Would he be the same tomorrow?
And would she?
In two months he’d become a husband. No doubt soon after that he would find himself a father. Both roles decreed that he behave with some correctness. He’d acted rashly, with an impetuousness he’d never demonstrated, even in his earlier years.
First, he’d abducted a duchess. Secondly, he’d kissed her. Now, he was prowling the corridors of his home, his mind fixed on doing more than that.
Although it was too damn late—both in matters of time and inclination—to be regretful of his actions, he could use these sleepless hours for something worthwhile. Namely, finding his second cousin.
If anyone else other than his mother had asked him to check up on Bryce, he would have politely declined. But when his mother set her mind to something, both he and his sister obeyed. Bryce was the only one capable of ignoring the Countess of Buchane.
But then, Bryce was capable of a great many things, not many of them admirable.
When Bryce wasn’t attending one of his favorite clubs, he unashamedly frequented music halls. Ian visited two before he found his cousin at the third, a place no more substantial than a roof over an inn yard, its interior consisting of one long gallery, and twice as many people as it probably should hold.
The audience, predominantly working men and women with a smattering of aristocrats and women who plied their trade on the street, was robustly singing “Champagne Charlie” at the top of their lungs. The air was smoky, the noise cacophonous.
A great many people were looking up, and following their gazes, Ian understood why. A woman dressed in little more than feathers and netting was balanced on a horizontal bar supported by two cords hanging from the center of the ceiling. She swung back and forth, occasionally raising a leg to expose the degree of her undress, inciting a roar of approval from the crowd that drowned out the singing.
People weren’t standing as much as leaning against each other, or draping themselves over chairs and tables. Most of the patrons were drinking beer. Evidently, if a man came to a place like this it was for one of two reasons—to drink his weight in beer, or find himself a companion for the evening. When he finally found Bryce, it was to discover that he was well on his way to doing both.
Bryce, however, was doing his best to ignore him.
His cousin was seated at a small round table, its three male occupants being entertained by a young woman who was nearly naked—the acrobat above them had on more clothing. She was sitting on Bryce’s lap, her feet on the table, her legs half spread, her giggling accompanying Bryce’s attempts to wedge his hand down her bodice.
Ian stood on the other side of the table, watching the tableau and finding himself curiously unmoved.
Even though they were second cousins, there was some familial resemblance. He and Bryce were roughly the same height and weight. Bryce, too, had the dark brown eyes prevalent in the
family. His hair, however, was nearly blond. Despite the fact that Bryce was five years his junior, his cousin looked older. Years of dissipation had given him pouches beneath his eyes and faint red lines around his nose.
His cousin’s greeting—about five minutes after Bryce had seen him—consisted of raising a beer in his direction.
“Why, if it isn’t my cousin. Here to join the merriment, Ian?”
The other two men saluted him with their mugs. Ian ignored them, pulled out a sum of money and placed it on the table in front of Bryce. Was he too intoxicated to take advantage of his offer?
“What the hell is that?” Bryce asked, staring at the money as if it were a hissing snake.
“Passage to Inverness,” Ian said. “Or Edinburgh, if you prefer. You can stay with Mother in the house there.”
“Why would I want to do that? The gambling’s not as good there as here, cousin,” Bryce said. “Everything is better here, don’t you agree?” He gestured with one hand, the other still firmly fixed in the bodice of the woman on his lap.
“I imagine everything looks better from the bottom of a bottle, Bryce.”
His cousin laughed. “The night is advanced, the moon beckons, and I’ve won a fortune at cards.”
“Mother is concerned for you,” Ian said, annoyed at the smirk on Bryce’s face.
“Which is the only reason you’re here, of course. The dutiful son, the Laird of Trelawny.”
“Stop soliciting her for money, Bryce. If you need any, come to me. Leave her alone.”
Bryce sat up, pushing the woman off his lap. She fell with a snarl, rising up on her knees, her hands on his thigh.
“Do you ever stop being responsible for everyone, Ian? Take your money, cousin, I don’t need it. I’ll never need it again.”
“I don’t believe in luck, Bryce. It’s a pity you do.”
“You’re the one to be pitied, cousin. You’re too young to be so old. I, on the other hand, lead a charmed life.”
His two companions nodded.
“A carriage nearly ran him down last week,” one of them said. “Nearly killed the bugger.”
“He’s a damn sight luckier than me, that’s for sure,” the second man offered.
“Go to Inverness, Bryce.”
“So you’re close enough to take care of me, cousin?” Bryce said. “I must decline such a gracious invitation.”
Ian was fast losing his temper. “Then find an occupation for yourself, Bryce, other than soliciting my mother for money. Something, preferably, with a future. Gambling won’t suffice.”
“I have,” Bryce said, leaning back in the chair and reaching for the woman.
She crawled into his lap again, stretching over him like a kitten, before draping her arms around his neck and turning her head to smirk at Ian.
“I’ve been giving my future a great deal of thought, cousin. And I’ve made plans accordingly. You might say that I’ve guaranteed my future.”
His smile didn’t reassure Ian one whit.
Ian folded his arms and restrained himself with some difficulty.
Bryce was at an age to make something of himself. But there was no passion as fierce to him as the game of chance. If Bryce could have parlayed that into a career, he would have been his cousin’s greatest supporter. Instead, Bryce was going out of his way to destroy his future. Or drink it away.
“How?”
“Congratulate me, cousin, I’m about to become a bridegroom. And not to just any bride.”
“And who is the fortunate woman?” Ian asked.
“An heiress.”
Bryce smiled at the woman on his lap while molding his hand around one of her globelike breasts. “God save the moneyed classes,” he said, and the others raised their mugs in agreement. “God save my heiress.”
“God help us all,” Ian muttered.
Chapter 10
Emma slept well into the morning. When she awoke, her first thought was that she’d missed breakfast, which was probably for the best. The less time spent in Ian’s company, the less temptation.
She debated whether she should leave the room, or remain inside like a proper prisoner. The storm ended her confusion. She opened the door and peered out into the corridor and beyond to the walled garden. Any thought she might have had about spending some time in the garden was moot because of the downpour.
A few minutes later the young maid arrived with a breakfast tray.
“It’s a soggy day, isn’t it, miss?” she asked, placing the tray on the desk. “The master said that he’s busy with his work today, but if you need anything at all, you’ve only to ring and one of us will come.”
She gestured to the fireplace, and to the bellpull hanging beside it.
“I’m also to ask if you’d like a fire, miss. Because of the day.”
“I’m fine,” Emma said, feeling absurdly disappointed that she wouldn’t see Ian. How paradoxical of her that, at the moment she was denied his presence, she yearned for it.
“Could you tell me who’s in charge of the garden?” Emma asked.
The young girl straightened in the act of removing the dishes and cup from the tray and blinked at her.
“I don’t think we have anyone in charge of the garden, miss. It’s always been just the way it is. Oh, the master’s mother comes occasionally and fiddles with things. She plants a few bulbs and trims a few branches but it’s allowed to grow just the way it wishes. It’s a Scottish garden after all.”
“Are you allowed to do whatever you wish, being Scottish?”
“Aye,” the girl said with a smile. “That I am.”
When she was done arranging the dishes, Emma thanked her. Once again the young maid smiled at her, and it seemed to Emma that there was something in her eyes. A touch of compassion, perhaps. For being a prisoner, or for not being miserable in her prison?
This chamber would do as well as her own.
She ate her meal, more lunch than breakfast, and as tasty as the dinner had been last night. She must congratulate Ian on his cook. Perhaps that would be enough of a ruse to go in search of him. How foolish she was to want to see her jailer. How silly could she be? But none of the books in which she’d been so absorbed yesterday captured her attention now. She tried to read, one after the other, and ended up closing the covers, dissatisfied and slightly disconcerted by her inability to concentrate.
What was he doing? What was occupying him to such a degree that he hadn’t even come to check on her?
Had he regretted their kiss? Is that why he stayed away? Had he been secretly appalled by her cooperation? Or would it be more correct to call it eagerness?
Emma lay back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. Two days ago she’d been perfectly content with her life. Two days ago she might have even called herself happy. Granted, there were days when sadness seeped in or when memory overwhelmed her.
She’d been fortunate to escape Anthony’s domination. If her uncle attempted it from time to time, it was a small price to pay. There were enough small victories in her life to compensate for the difficulties. For the most part, people left her alone. Until now, she’d resigned herself to a very quiet and sedate existence.
Suddenly, however, the life she’d planned didn’t seem to be enough. Now, she wanted more. What else she wanted was not so easily defined. The brush of a man’s hand on hers. A masculine glance of appreciation. The whisk of a night beard against her cheek. She wanted a kiss and more.
Passion, ecstasy, bliss—without the price she’d always paid for them.
Ian worked on his notes until nearly midday. Perhaps it was the hours searching the music halls for Bryce the night before that had taken a toll on both his concentration and his linguistic abilities. Or perhaps it was simply the fact that the Duchess of Herridge was still his gues
t and occupied too much of his mind.
He’d given the Earl of Falmouth a day to obtain the mirror. He should send a footman to recover the mirror, then arrange to send Emma home. Each minute on the clock reminded him of his duty, even as it increased his dread.
He didn’t want to send her home. His reluctance was not solely based on the fact that he’d been overwhelmed by her, by one simple kiss.
The Earl of Falmouth had struck her, hardly the act of a caring relative.
The notes finally done, he walked around the courtyard to the small laboratory he’d created here in London. The equipment was not as expansive as what he had at home, but it would do to occupy him. He needed something to divert his attention from Emma.
Ian lit the sconces against the gray day, then uncovered his microscope. After polishing the lens and arranging the slides in order, he checked the settings and opened his notebook. His work would eat up the hours.
He should talk to her, see if there was anywhere else she could go. Perhaps she had friends with whom she could stay. Or acquire her own establishment. She was a widow, after all, and not entirely subject to the same rules that governed a single woman’s life. Besides that, she was an heiress. Her father had left her a fortune. Surely she had the money to do what she wished.
Anything but live with someone who had struck her.
Why, then, didn’t he simply ask her? Why was he avoiding her?
He should not involve himself in the Duchess of Herridge’s life. Nor did he have any business feeling protective of her.
Strange, that the woman he’d abducted had almost nothing in common with the rumors that circulated about her. Her beauty was undeniable but he’d known other beautiful women. Her intelligence interested him, as did her rarely seen sense of humor. But it was the look in her eyes he found fascinating. Almost as if emotion were buried beneath emotion, layers of secrets hidden in their blue depths. He’d glimpsed fear there, and worry, and more than once a little sadness. He’d been tempted to ask her if he was correct, then counseled himself that it wouldn’t be wise to learn more about her.