The Lady and the Highlander

by Lecia Cornwall

  “Mrs. Groves is helping Morag make jam tarts for the wee ones, Fussle is teaching Bear his letters, and Dux is reading a book that Sir Hamish gave him to study,” he said. He paused. “Might I speak with ye for a moment alone, Laire?”

  “Jam tarts?” Hoolet said. “I think I’ll go and see. Can we finish the gown tomorrow, Laire?”

  “Of course,” Laire said.

  They waited until the girl’s footsteps had faded away on the stairs. Iain swung the door shut and flicked the lock with his thumb. Then she was in his arms, and his mouth was on hers, hungry. He grabbed her skirt, pulled it up, and she fumbled with the buttons on his breeches. “A kilt,” she said. “You need to wear a kilt.”

  He didn’t answer. He lifted her leg to his hip and pressed his erection against her, groaning. She clung to him, panting. He entered her in one quick, filling stroke. She tilted her hips and rode with him. She dug her nails into his shoulders as she felt the pressure build. “Iain!” she gasped. She shuddered, felt her inner muscles pulse and clasp him. He kissed her hard, muffling her cries, and filled her one last time before he found his release.

  He kissed her gently, still inside her, their hearts pounding together. “I’ve wanted to do that all day,” he said. “God help me.”

  She smiled. “I thought everyone could tell, at the salon, what I was thinking.”

  He kissed her eyes, her nose, her cheeks. “And what were you thinking?”

  She swiveled her hips, and he groaned softly. “This,” she whispered in his ear. She felt him growing hard again inside her.

  “Ye’ll be the death of me, Laire MacLeod,” he murmured, and he carried her to the bed this time.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Her longing for him was sweet torment. In the following week, Laire managed to visit Lindsay House almost daily—for Hoolet’s sake, or so she told Mrs. Groves, since the ball was mere days away. She and Iain managed to slip away only twice. They made love quickly, furtively, listening for footsteps, starting at shadows. He left her breathless. It became as much torment as joy to see him in company, at her uncle’s salons or at dinner, to try and exchange pleasantries as she felt his eyes on her, remembered how he looked when he loved her, the strain of passion on his face, the curl of his lips as he came inside her . . .

  She longed for him with an ache that near stopped her heart when they were apart, and she counted the hours until they could touch again.

  And when she saw him again, her heart began to beat again, and desire made her body turn liquid.

  And she knew it for what it was. She was in love.

  “Laire, we must talk,” Iain said as they adjusted their clothing in a small storeroom on the third floor of Lindsay House. Weeks had passed and Laire’s uncle still refused to speak of the danger her family was in. He sent his niece to balls and parties to try and distract her, refusing to hear more about poisoned wine and mysterious potions.

  Laire and Dux spent their days scouring books and papers, asking doctors and scientists hypothetical questions, but they had found no cure, no precedent. It was early January. The Duke’s ball was scheduled for Twelfth Night. The earliest spring birds were mere weeks away from returning in February. Bibiana would expect him back. Or she would come looking for him. He wondered how much time he had left—they had left—before she found him He watched Laire struggle with the buttons of her gown. Her hair had come loose, hung over her shoulders in a love-rumpled tangle. Her face was flushed with sex, her eyes bright, and his heart expanded in his breast.

  She smiled knowingly. “Oh, it’s talk you want, is it?”

  “I want you to reconsider leaving Scotland.”

  She scanned his face. Her smile faded. “With you?”

  “Aye.”

  Her hands fell away from her buttons. She clasped them together. She looked away, scanned the room, and he saw tears in her eyes. “I want this more than I can say, Iain. But I can’t leave. Not while there’s a chance to save my family. There’s still time—before spring. I might find something, or convince my uncle.”

  He frowned. “If I speak to him, ask him, and he refuses once again, will ye come away with me?”

  She touched his face, a light brush of her fingers over his cheeks, He caught her hand, kissed it.

  She pulled away. “I love you, but I love them as well. I have a duty to them. I am not free to do as I please.” she said. He read anguish in her eyes. “Please do not ask me to choose. I must—” She left the rest unsaid, but he knew. He watched her leave, walk out of the storeroom with her chin high. He stood without moving until her footsteps faded.

  She would choose them.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Edinburgh

  Rafael staggered off the ship. His empty belly felt like it was clinging to his backbone, and still the sway of the ship threatened to make him puke again.

  “Go and hire a carriage and see to the baggage,” Bibiana said without mercy. She had a house here. She had houses everywhere. This one had once belonged to a wealthy and elderly gentleman that Bibiana met in Paris, on his honeymoon with his very young wife. She had seduced both husband and wife, and when the gentleman died some weeks later and the young wife disappeared, it turned out that the Edinburgh house had been willed to Bibiana.

  “Wake the servants,” Bibiana ordered as they pulled up at the front steps. “And order them all to leave.”

  She floated up the steps like a dark goddess, and Rafael paid the coachman.

  “Cold night,” the driver said, watching Bibiana walk away, her red cloak flying behind her like blood-soaked wings.

  “And about to get colder still,” Rafael muttered, and hurried after his mistress.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  On Tweltfth Night, the night of the ball, Laire descended the stairs and watched her uncle’s eyes light up.

  She was dressed as Diana, the goddess of the hunt, in a gown of purple velvet and violet satin brocade that matched her eyes. Pearls, sapphires, and amethysts adorned the sleeves, hem, bodice, and the half mask. Her dark hair flowed to her hips in a silken curtain, and a small bow and a silver quiver filled with arrows completed her costume.

  “Oh my dear. You look lovely,” Sir Hamish said, straightening his own costume, a simple black domino. He carried his mask in his hand, an antique mask with a long bird’s beak, the kind once worn by physicians in Venice to ward off the plague.

  Mrs. Groves sobbed at Laire’s beauty.

  Uncle Hamish took her arm and led her out to the coach. “I have received requests from several gentlemen to call upon you. At this rate, your father will have to come to Edinburgh to meet your suitors.”

  She smiled, but didn’t speak. There was no point in saying yet again that Papa was indisposed, drugged, bewitched. And Laire only wanted only one man . . .

  “Of course, I can see Laird Iain Lindsay is rather fond of ye,” her uncle said, and Laire looked at him quickly in the dark. “Aha! I daresay if there was enough light, I’d see ye blushing, niece. Is he the one ye like best? I think he’s rather rough myself. Too bold,” he said. “But it’s for your father to say, since Donal’s a bold Highlander himself. Just don’t give your heart too soon. Dance with other gentlemen tonight, enjoy yourself, flirt—just a little, mind. I shall be keeping a close eye on ye, and I’ll be watching Iain Lindsay. You are like a rare flower to me, and I will do all in my power to protect you.”

  She didn’t speak, couldn’t. She loved Iain, and she’d refused him. She’d made her choice. For her, there was no other man. But she could not abandon her family. She tightened her gloved hands in her lap, fighting the pain in her heart.

  “Thank you, Uncle. I promise to be good.”

  Iain wore his plaid and bonnet and a fine jeweled Lindsay brooch on his shoulder. Morag began crying the moment she saw him. “Ye look like your grandda, Laird, and he was a handsome man.”

  Dux’s costume was the wig and robes of a hanging judge. Wee Kipper regarded him balefully. Bear wore an
ancient soldier’s breastplate, found in the attic, and a rusted helm.

  But everyone gasped as Hoolet descended the stairs, dressed as a sprite. Her green gown made the most of her tiny, slender figure. She was no longer a girl, but an elegant young woman. Her hair was piled high on her head, woven through with ribbons and gems to give it sparkle. She’d borrowed from the jewelry she’d found in the house. She touched the garnets at her throat. Mairi’s garnets. “I hope ye don’t mind if I borrowed these, Laird.”

  Iain saw no reason to rebuke her. “Ye look lovely.” He bowed and offered her his arm. “Shall we go?”

  She took a deep breath and smiled at him. “Aye, Laird.”

  Dux took her other arm, and Bear fell in behind them.

  “Are you certain she’ll be at the ball?” Rafael asked, watching Bibiana brush her golden hair. He’d been sent to watch for Laire MacLeod outside the home of Sir Hamish MacEwan, the man who had written to Donal MacLeod.

  He’d stood in the cold for hours and had seen her only once, alive and well and in the company of a watchful old biddy.

  He also watched Lindsay House, and felt a hard rush of jealousy that Bibiana’s sealgair had such a fine home. Iain Lindsay had cast off his black leather garb, put away his sword and bow, and he looked quite the fine gentleman. Rafael sneered. It didn’t matter. He’d played Bibiana false, and he’d pay the price.

  “Of course she’ll be at the ball. Her uncle is a friend of the duke’s,” Bibiana said. She frowned at her reflection in the mirror. “Our sweet Laire is the toast of Edinburgh. Did you know that? She’ll be the belle of the ball, and the men will flock to her like dogs around a bitch. And Iain Lindsay, my sealgair, my Laird of Craigmyle, will be right by her side.”

  Rafael felt another stab of jealousy. Iain Lindsay was a bloody laird?

  He watched as Bibiana powdered her face until it was white and outlined her eyes with thick black kohl. She painted her lips scarlet.

  He helped her lace up her black-velvet gown. She looked magnificent. The bodice was so low it pushed her lush breasts halfway to her chin and showed the teasing sight of the top half of her rouged nipples. Rafael swallowed at the sight of her, beautiful, terrifying, powerful. She donned a hooded cloak made of glossy black feathers.

  She stared at the reflection in the mirror. “Who’s the fairest of them all?” she purred.

  “You are,” Rafael said, awed by the vision of her. “You are.”

  She opened the jewel box and put on her rings—Iain Lindsay’s signet ring went on the finger next to the large crystal she was never without. It flashed in the candlelight, lit her eyes and her hair. She reached for the last ring, the raven’s head carved of onyx so black it stole the light and held it. Bibiana slid the ring onto her finger and held her hand before her to admire it. The bird’s ruby eyes glittered with malice. “One nip of this bird’s beak, one drop of poison, and Laire MacLeod will die,” she murmured. “And Iain Lindsay will be mine forever.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Hoolet trembled as she gazed at the crowd of fine folk making their way up the front steps of the Duke of Argyll’s Edinburgh mansion. Footmen lined the sweeping steps, their polished shoes and white wigs bright in the light of a hundred torches. She stopped where she was and gaped. “What if they discover I’m not supposed to be here?” she whispered, looking at Dux and Bear.

  “We have an invitation,” Dux said. “Sir Hamish arranged for it. He took a card out of his pocket. “See here? Mssr. Robert Macintosh and guest. That’s you . . .” He took her hand from Iain’s sleeve and dropped it on his own. “Come, Mistress—?”

  “Jenny,” she said softly. How long had been since she’d said it aloud, or heard it said? “Jenny Brodie.”

  “Then come along Mistress Brodie,” Dux said, and led her up the steps.

  “Farlan Kilgour,” Bear called after them. They turned to look at him. “That’s my name. And now that we’re all properly introduced, let’s go inside out of the cold.”

  His Grace’s butler took their invitations and announced them. Ian scanned the crowd for Laire. The ballroom was crammed with people already, gleaming in silk and satin, glowing in velvet. Lavish jewels caught the candlelight and shot shards of light around the room.

  He frowned. Everyone was disguised behind half masks, and it was nearly impossible to recognize anyone.

  Hoolet hurried off with Dux and Bear. Iain pushed through the crowds. He should have asked Hoolet to tell him what Laire would be wearing, how he’d recognize her. Costumed bodies swarmed around him. Masked balls always brought out the devil in people who felt free to misbehave while their true identities were hidden. Manners and morals slipped or were disregarded altogether. Wine and whisky flowed, and the crowd was merry. Iain felt a bead of sweat slip down his spine. The scene was all too familiar. In his mind, the dancers became Bibiana’s victims, MacLeod’s daughters, Mairi . . . the colors whirled and spun until the whole room revolved.

  Where was she?

  He scanned every corner, every chattering clutch of ladies. There were many rare beauties in attendance, but none of them was Laire.

  Then he saw her, a slender lass in purple velvet with long dark hair. He felt the familiar clutch in his gut, the skip in his heartbeat, knew her instantly. Masked, she was standing in a crowd of eager gentlemen, all leaning in on her, whispering, flirting, touching, their white teeth flashing.

  He saw the glitter of her eyes through the slits of her mask, noted the curve of her lush lips as she smiled at her suitors. Was she charmed, besotted? Iain’s hands curled to fists against the wool of his plaid. Jealousy consumed him, and he reached for his dirk, and remembered it wasn’t there. This was a party, not a brawl. He was Iain Lindsay, Laird of Craigmyle, a gentleman. The rough Highland sealgair had no place here. He stood amid the cream of Edinburgh society and wondered who he truly was. He watched as a man picked up Laire’s hand and kissed her palm, and her smile dazzled every man in sight of her, even Iain, even halfway across the damned room, and he wished he had his bow and his dirks about him.

  He stood where he was, watching her flirt with another man. She’d refused him . . . No doubt this man was some worthy gentleman, the kind her father would approve of, the kind she should marry.

  If he’d hoped for redemption in Laire’s arms, for absolution, he’d been a fool. His sins could not be washed away so easily. He’d pay for this, for falling in love, for hoping, for failing, for the rest of his lonely, worthless life.

  He had to leave, disappear. He couldn’t bear to stay, to watch as Laire—Someone bumped his shoulder hard, and he looked up.

  Straight into Rafael’s mocking eyes.

  The butler gaped as the exotic beauty swept in, rendered speechless. The footmen by the doors stared too. The lady wore a long cloak made of glossy black feathers. She pushed back the hood to reveal gleaming blond locks. She wasn’t wearing a mask. Instead, her face was painted in stark black and white, with a savage slash of red across her lush lips. It was sinful, bold, and the butler felt his old heart kick, and his cock stir.

  For a moment she paused at the top of the steps and scanned the crowds below her with a cold silver gaze, regal and haughty.

  “Your name, mistress?” the butler managed.

  “Lady MacLeod.”

  She didn’t wait for his announcement. She descended the stairs with her head high, and her feathered cloak flowing behind her.

  Laire curled her fingers in her amorous suitor’s grip. His mouth was too wet, too intimate, and she could smell brandy on his breath. Other men crowded her as well, competing for her attention with silly, meaningless compliments. Her flirtatious sister Meggie would have loved every second of it, but Laire looked anxiously around the room, searching for Iain. He’d be easy to see, taller than any other man here, but there was no sign of him.

  “Would you care to step outside where it’s cooler, my dear?” someone whispered in her ear, grasping her elbow, stroking her flesh through the thi
n silk of her sleeve.

  She pulled away. “No thank you,” she said primly.

  “A glass of wine?” someone else asked.

  “I’m not thirsty,” she said, striving for a light tone.

  Will you dance, mistress? Will you stroll the room? Will you allow me to escort you to supper? A thousand eager questions flew at her until she felt lightheaded, overwhelmed. The room was too warm, too crowded, the laughter and chatter too loud. Her heart thumped. She needed air, space, light—and Iain. She needed Iain most of all, his tall body shielding hers, his hand under her elbow, staying her, his formidable gray gaze warning all other men away. She’d refused him. He would not come now.

  “Is there any water?” she asked.

  Four men reached for glasses of wine as a footman passed with a tray held high, and presented them to her. “Drink,” one said, pressing the rim of a glass against her lips. The sweet white wine was cool on her mouth. She instinctively licked her lips, tasted sweetness. It was refreshing. She grasped the glass, sipped, felt the liquid cool her throat. It bloomed in her belly, soothed her. She sipped again, and grinned. The room looked brighter, and her limbs loosened pleasantly. She turned and smiled at the pack of men around her.

  Rafael held Iain’s stare, his dark gaze knowing, mocking. He turned and looked at Laire, his thin lips curving into a grin. “Bibiana’s here, sealgair. She’s come for the girl.”

  “No.” Iain could not hear his own voice over the cacophony. His bones turned to water. He spun to look at Laire, still standing among her adoring coterie. “Laire.” He willed her hear him, to look up.