Stella Cameron

by Fascination

  Stop. Now.

  “Thank you, Grace,” he said, certain that she would not notice how his voice rasped. Standing straight, he shook back his hair and straightened his shirt. “You have proved to us both that we will be a great comfort to one another in the days to come.”

  “But ...” Her face was flushed. Rather than cover herself, she held her bodice where Arran had drawn it—to frame her breasts.

  “It is very late, Grace,” he told her, taking hold of her elbows and backing her around the piano and across the room. “You must go to your bed now.”

  “But I don’t want to. I want you with me.”

  So brazen. “Soon enough, sweeting.” Soon, just as soon as he could adequately set the scene.

  “I am afraid,” she told him, and tears filled her eyes. “You are my only friend, the only one I can turn to. Please do not make me go away without you.”

  He brought her to the door. “What are you afraid of?”

  “Of being alone. Of—of what is supposed to happen to me.”

  “That you are to marry the marquess, you mean?”

  “Yes!”

  “I’m certain you will cope most satisfactorily with that event. For everyone’s sake.” He reached behind her and opened the door. “Go to bed, Grace.”

  “No.”

  “Yes.” Slowly he brought his face closer to hers, and her chin rose. He parted his lips, and so did Grace. He wetted his lips with his tongue—and so did Grace. She was a passionate man’s fantasy. “Oh, yes.”

  Arran kissed her, kissed her lips for the first time. Her mouth did not respond, but she tasted sweet. He knew he risked falling into the seething abyss he had sworn to avoid as yet, but he had to drink of her.

  Just one last, long sip to last the night. Slowly her lips softened and he felt her sigh.

  With gentle desperation, he lifted a breast into his hand and his manhood leaped.

  He reached his tongue deep into her mouth. She became very still. Arran stroked farther inside, and finally her tongue met his. His groan was echoed in her hushed moan, and Arran pushed his thigh between her legs.

  Grace threaded her arms beneath his and wrapped him tightly, pressed her center to him with all her might.

  Stop!

  Arran broke away.

  “Niall!” She groped for his shirt and tugged until he heard buttons tear loose. “Don’t stop holding me.”

  “Go to your room,” he told her, avoiding her eyes, locking his legs, willing the burning need to die. “Go now.”

  Instantly her hands fell away from him.

  “Go.”

  “Yes,” she muttered. “Yes, I must go at once. Quickly.”

  He could finish this as soon as he chose. There was no need to delay.

  “You’ve decided you do not want to share yourself with me?” she said. “My friendship no longer interests you?”

  Then he did look at her. “Oh, yes. Oh, yes, it interests me very much.” Steeling himself to resist the urges of his flesh, he pulled her bodice back into place. Why be in too much of a hurry? Restraint could only make the ultimate capitulation more tumultuous. He would not allow his mind to make those pictures now. “Come to me again tomorrow night.”

  “I do not think that is wise.”

  Arran regarded her sharply. “It is absolutely wise.”

  “No. I should not come here again.”

  Surely she wasn’t feeling guilty. He surveyed her tumbled curls, her kiss-swollen lips, her disheveled dress, and smiled. No, any protest was simply another ploy to bind him more tightly in her sensual snare. “Tomorrow night, Grace.”

  Taking a step backward, she shook her head. “I do not know what has possessed me here, but I know it has been wrong. I must not return.”

  Inclining his head, he smiled slowly, hooked a finger into her bodice between her breasts, and drew her close. “We both know what we must do, don’t we?”

  She shook her head again but less vehemently.

  “Of course we do. We have only begun what will become a great comfort to both of us.”

  “Niall—”

  “A very great comfort, and I thank you for it.” He thanked her deeply. “The same time tomorrow?”

  She stared at him as though mesmerized, but formed a silent “no” with her enticing lips.

  “Yes,” he murmured. “Yes, because there is so much more for us to accomplish together.”

  With that, he found a nipple and squeezed very gently with a finger and thumb.

  Grace’s lips parted and her eyelids drooped. She sought his arm and held on.

  He replaced his fingers with his palm and made tight little strokes back and forth.

  Her knees began to sag.

  Arran’s hands went to her waist and he shook her lightly. “So much more, Grace. Don’t you agree?”

  Her eyes flew open. Her cheeks were wildly flushed.

  “Of course you agree.” He straightened her bodice again. “Run along now, there’s a good girl. We’ll meet here tomorrow at the same time.”

  Once he’d urged her out, Arran shut the door and all but threw himself against it. He had not spilled his own seed since he’d taken his first female. Tonight he was perilously close to breaking that record.

  Somehow he returned to the windows and forced one open against the straining wind. Leaning out, he turned his face upward and closed his mind to everything but the cold rain that took too long to douse his ardor.

  Chapter 6

  Grace said a prayer that the dark circles beneath her eyes would not be noticed, and knocked on the door to which Mrs. Moggach had gruffly directed her.

  “Mr. Innes wants to see ye,” the woman had said the moment Grace entered the dining room that morning. Mrs. Moggach’s mouth had turned down in surly disdain. “Ye’re to go to him now.”

  Grace had set off at once and without breakfast. Not that breakfast appealed in the slightest, so disturbed was she by the previous night’s events.

  No voice commanded Grace to enter, and she knocked again. These rooms—on the ground floor of the castle’s most easterly wing—were far-flung from her own quarters. Really, this place was ridiculously large. What a waste it was for one old man and a gaggle of mostly nasty servants to occupy so little of so much.

  Impatient, Grace turned the door handle and slowly entered a small study beyond.

  Empty.

  She walked to a rosewood desk strewn with papers, and looked around. Books were scattered everywhere. Bending, she studied titles. A Romany History. Kings Without Countries. People of the Moors. The Heather Crown. Grace sniffed and straightened. She had no idea what might be contained in such volumes. Mr. Innes was a silent, apparently thoughtful man who made her slightly uncomfortable. Nevertheless he was very handsome, and women undoubtedly found him attractive.

  But he was not Niall. Scalding heat dashed up her neck and into her face. Places in her body for which she knew no names began to throb as they had throbbed last night.

  A suspicion had been swelling within her ever since she’d left Niall and rushed back to her chamber. Her first reaction to his touching her must have been correct. Regardless of what he said and regardless of how much she wanted to believe him, it was not appropriate for a man to see, let alone put his fingers where ... She was freshly afire over every inch of her skin.

  Liberties. The ladies who were Mama’s friends had—on many more than one occasion—spoken darkly of liberties. These were apparently the inappropriate actions of gentlemen toward females to whom they were not related. She had not quite understood what was meant, but heads had been wagged in her direction and Mama had been reminded of her heavy responsibility as the sole parent of an unmarried woman.

  The females who had supposedly been prey to these liberties had been referred to as wicked and weak and as strumpets. The inference was that they had caused the understandably susceptible gentlemen involved to lose their heads and do things that were absolutely wrong and which they would not have do
ne unless tempted beyond endurance.

  Grace clutched handfuls of her skirts. Niall had been taking liberties, she just knew it.

  She was wicked.

  She was a strumpet.

  She was so weak.

  She must not go to him tonight.

  Her hands stole up to cover her breasts and she closed her eyes.

  “Niall,” she whispered. “I want you to touch me again.” She was wrong, but she wanted to forget the marquess and think only of the man who filled her thoughts in every waking moment.

  They did share something deep, something that drove her to want to be with him. And that same deep something made Niall mistakenly feel that he needed to touch her to share himself with her in that way.

  That was exactly what caused last night’s happenings.

  And—wicked as she might be—she wanted them to happen again.

  Rattling startled her. She dropped her arms and spun around.

  Mr. Innes, with Father Struan at his heels, opened French doors and stepped in from a stone-balustraded terrace, bringing with him a gust of fresh, rain-washed air. At the sight of her, his dark brown brows shot up. “Miss Wren. What are you doing here?”

  She hoped she was no longer red-faced. “You sent for me.”

  “I did?”

  “Good morning to you, Miss Wren,” Father Struan said, stepping around Mr. Innes and smiling as if the very sight of her made him enormously happy. “You are looking particularly fetching today, my dear. My brother is a very lucky man.”

  Grace tried to smile back, not a particularly good attempt. “Thank you.” She did not feel at all fetching. “Good morning, Father.” In her experience, no man of God had ever looked remotely like Father Struan. Even in his threadbare black garb, his impressive bearing and physique were impossible to

  ignore. And his face ... Father Struan was exceedingly handsome.

  Mr. Innes tugged a watch from his waistcoat pocket and frowned at its face. “It’s later than I thought,” he said, sounding irritable.

  Grace decided that Mr. Innes was a trifle formidable. “Mrs. Moggach said she’d sent Florence to you with a message and that you would want to talk to me.”

  He closed the door behind him. “No doubt that’s what this is about.” Patting of pockets produced crackling, and he pulled out a crumpled sheet of paper. “Here we are. Does Florence ever speak coherently?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know.” She forbore to point out that she had been at Kirkcaldy but a short time and hardly knew the servants—or anyone else here—at all.

  “Four Meissen-style porcelain flowers,” he read aloud. “Gilded leaves. A gold brooch in the shape of a bow and set with sapphires. One small bleu celeste cup and saucer—Vincennes. Pearl earrings with diamond drops. An enameled chicken—Russian—with five topaz eggs. Gold fork with single large ruby set in handle. Mm. Hmm. And so it goes.”

  Grace worried the muslin ruffle at the wrist of one yellow sleeve. “What is this about, Mr. Innes?”

  “Theft,” he said simply, tossing the paper on the desk. “A series of thefts, to be precise. Mrs. Moggach reports that there are small treasures missing all over the castle.”

  Grace’s mind became blank. She stared from Mr. Innes to Father Struan. The latter winked at her and showed no particular concern with the discussion.

  “Evidently our trusty housekeeper expects me to inform the marquess that we are under siege from what she terms wicked villains,” Mr. Innes said. “What do you think of that, Miss Wren?”

  She approached until she stood across the desk from him. “What should I think? Why would Mrs. Moggach ...” A dreadful notion formed. “Is Mrs. Moggach suggesting that I know something about these thefts?”

  “Not a possibility,” Father Struan said lightly. “Don’t give it another thought.”

  Mr. Innes looked at her, and she noted how very dark his eyes were. They appeared to be quite black. “Of course that is not what she’s suggesting.” When his lips settled together, Grace noted how the corners turned up in repose and how distinct were the curves of his lips. She decided she would like to see him laugh.

  “Since you are to become mistress here, I presume that Mrs. Moggach thinks you should be informed of what she considers to be a serious matter.”

  “Then why didn’t she simply tell me herself?”

  “The workings of the female mind have never been clear to me.” He did smile then, and Grace felt her own mouth twitch in response. Mr. Innes was indeed a very well-favored man. He might be unfamiliar with the workings of the female mind, but Grace was not. There were more than a few feminine thoughts revolving around this tall, lithe, darkly compelling man on this morning—of that she had no doubt.

  “Well, Mr. Innes. You have told me about this unfortunate situation, and I thank you. I fear I cannot help you decide how to proceed.”

  “The marquess will decide—if there is any decision to be made.”

  Father Struan made a slight humphing sound. “He’s very good at that sort of thing—decisions, that is. Tossing them about. Tossing them out entirely, I shouldn’t wonder.”

  Grace frowned at them both. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean,” Mr. Innes said, “that I cannot imagine it being possible for anyone to be certain as to what is where—or where it is not at Kirkcaldy. Do you agree with me, Struan?”

  “Bit like thinking one sees a fat fish among the rocks in a river, I should imagine,” Father Struan remarked. “Blink, and you’ll probably discover your fish was one more rock. Do you agree with that, Miss Wren?”

  Grace suppressed a chuckle. “I do agree.”

  “Would you think it impertinent of me to suggest that you call me Calum?” Mr. Innes said, somewhat gruffly.

  To her surprise, she felt a warming toward him. “I should like that. And you must call me Grace. You also, if it pleases you, Father. Are you certain the marquess is well enough to be bothered with petty household matters?”

  Calum hesitated before saying, “Do not concern yourself further with this. I’ll speak to Mrs. Moggach myself.”

  “Perhaps I should go to the marquess now.” Grace became utterly still as she awaited his response. She wasn’t certain why she had made the suggestion unless it was that she’d become desperate to end her suspense. “Would it not be a good idea for me to speak to him about this issue?”

  Calum had rested his broad, long-fingered hands on the desk and braced his weight. He was reading the note again and absently said, “His lordship doesn’t care for daylight.”

  “Not at all,” Father Struan echoed.

  “What does that mean?” Perhaps she’d misheard them. “Did you say he doesn’t—”

  “Doesn’t like daylight,” Calum repeated. “Yes, that’s what I said. He sleeps in the early morning and prefers not to see anyone before nightfall—not then if it can be avoided.”

  Grace puffed up her cheeks and let the air slowly escape. “How peculiar.” Then she remembered what Mairi had said. “He is only seen ... He is truly a night person? He never goes about in the daytime?”

  Calum’s face came up. “No—yes. That is, he finds the night soothing.”

  “Very soothing.” Father Struan sighed and nodded.

  “Oh, I see. His illness, I suppose. For some reason he feels more pain in daylight. Perhaps his eyes are affected?”

  “Perhaps.” Calum’s expressionless stare had returned. “It is simply his preference. I think he would prefer that you not question his habits. His lordship is a very private man.”

  “So private that he chooses not to see the woman he is supposedly to marry,” Grace retorted. “When you approached me in London you said the marquess wished for someone to ease him in trying times. Surely these are trying times and I should be with him.”

  Father Struan, very serious now, said, “We must not hurry these things.”

  Calum said nothing. He folded Mrs. Moggach’s note and returned it to his pocket.

  “Well,�
�� Grace said, irritated at his high-handed silence. “Evidently my suggestion does not meet with your approval. But I’m grateful to have been included in this domestic detail. Now perhaps I can eat my breakfast.”

  “Absolutely. We cannot have you fading away before the nuptials.”

  Predictably, Father Struan added, “Absolutely

  not,” before seating himself in a chair beside the desk and pulling a small book from his pocket. He began to read.

  “Let me start you on your way to breakfast,” Calum said.

  She cast him a sideways glance as he ushered her from the study. “One begins to wonder when those nuptials will be. Of if they will be.”

  “They will be, as you put it. And soon, I think. Very soon.”

  Grace’s stomach turned most unpleasantly.

  “I’m glad you are so anxious to be joined with the marquess.”

  The term “joined” had never been something she understood in this context, but she nodded at Calum. “My mother assures me that we will all be happier after the wedding has taken place.” Grace did not agree, but she was tired of uncertainty.

  In the great hall, Calum took his leave of Grace and strode away toward stairs that led down to the kitchens. She hovered beside an intricately carved stone screen. Above her head was the minstrel’s gallery, draped all about with heraldic and military colors. Even her breathing seemed to echo upward into the painted ceiling domes.

  She did not belong here.

  Another’s breath made rapid gasping sounds and Mairi arrived, panting, at Grace’s side. “Och, there ye are. Ye fair worried me, miss.”

  “Why?” Grace patted a plump shoulder and tucked wisps of fine hair behind the girl’s ear. “Calm yourself, Mairi. I can’t imagine why you were worried about me.”

  “Grumpy—” She ducked her head and glanced quickly all around. “Mrs. Moggach said she hadna seen ye this mornin’. I was afeared somethin’ had happened to ye.”

  There was no point in stirring up trouble among the staff by telling Mairi that Mrs. Moggach certainly had seen Grace. “Well, as you see, nothing has happened. I’m in fine health.”