Stella Cameron

by Fascination

  “My mama’s disappointment at not receivin’ that dragon has known no bounds.”

  “Your dear mama’s been dead for years.”

  His finger and Grace’s touched. Arran waited, but she did not pull away.

  “Not the point,” Mortimer said, all petulant annoyance. “Some things should remain in a family. Theodora would have enjoyed that brooch, wouldn’t you, my love?”

  “For God’s sake, Mortie!” Theodora’s plummy voice rang out. “I don’t give a damn about the wretched dragon. Do stop being a perfect ass, there’s a good boy.”

  By pure strength of will, Arran managed not to howl at the outrage and shock on Mortimer’s face. Others were not as successful in hiding their mirth. Not for the first time, Theodora had shown herself to have some spirit and common sense.

  “Dash it,” Mortimer muttered. “Worth a pretty penny, I can tell you.”

  Arran’s fingers stole over Grace’s. He turned up her palm and held her hand. “Let’s dispense with the details.” He reached into the black velvet bag once more and produced a handful of jewelry that caught the candlelight and sent flashing prisms in every direction. “Second installment on our agreement,” he said, dumping a ruby and diamond collar, bracelet, earbobs, and tiara into Grace’s lap.

  A collective “oh” went up.

  Grace tried to withdraw her hand.

  Arran held her tightly and extricated another fabulous bauble, this one from his pocket. “My future bride is fond of pretty things,” he said. “This should seal our bargain.” With that, he slid a ring onto her finger.

  The light in Grace’s eyes was like heated ice. When Arran released her, she wiped her palm on a napkin, never glancing at the twelve-carat cinnamon-colored diamond that glowed warmly from her hand.

  “A diamond that matches your eyes, my dear.” And it is as hard as your heart. “You are now officially my fiancée.”

  “Was that Great-Auntie—?”

  “No,” Arran told Mortimer shortly. “The ring was not Great-Aunt Maud’s. It is the Brown Beauty and it’s been in the Rossmara family for generations. An ancestor of mine took it in trade for sparing a life.”

  “Whose life?” Mortimer demanded. “Probably paid too much for it.”

  Arran favored his cousin with a disgusted glance. “It was taken in trade, I said.”

  “I meant the poor bastard who owned it. His life probably wasn’t worth what that gem is. Thing’s as big as a duck’s egg. Must be worth—”

  “It isn’t,” Arran said, beginning to lose his temper.

  “Oh, yes,” Mortimer said, undaunted. “Worth at least—”

  “It isn’t as big as a duck’s egg,” Arran said. “Try a hummingbird. Grace and I will be married on Saturday four weeks from tomorrow. The wedding will take place in the castle chapel.”

  Blanche Wren scrambled from her chair like an excited girl and rushed to Grace’s side. “Oh, my darling child, such exquisite things.” She scooped rubies and diamonds from her daughter’s lap and held them aloft. “My little Grace. I always knew she was a gem worthy of gems.” The idiotic creature tittered at her own small joke.

  “You cannot be serious, Arran!” Theodora’s voice pealed through the room. “You cannot possibly intend to marry in four weeks.”

  “I can and I do,” Arran said.

  “The guest lists must be drawn up,” Theodora persisted. “And the trousseau bought. And the wedding journey must be arranged.”

  “No need for guests.”

  “Well.” Theodora thrust her chin forward. “The idea. No guests. I can imagine the sort of rumors that will generate.”

  “Good. I sincerely hope those rumors will be justified in short order. It is my aim to produce several heirs in record time.”

  “We shall take poor Grace to Edinburgh,” Theodora announced. When Arran started to speak, she spoke louder. “I will not take no for an answer. We will not, will we, Blanche dear?”

  Blanche dear, an earbob held to the light between finger and thumb, shook her head vaguely.

  “Blanche, I implore you,” Theodora continued. “Men are such thoughtless creatures. If we do not insist, Arran will—”

  “I’ll send to Edinburgh for a modiste—a whole army of modistes. Everything shall be brought here, and Grace shall have whatever she wants.” He tried to make her look at him, but her eyes were downcast in a fiery face.

  “A girl deserves to enjoy this time.” Theodora’s voice took on a relentless tone. “She should be feted, Arran. Theater. Musicales. Salons. Balls—not that there are any real balls in Edinburgh at this time of year. But you must show her to Society or tongues will wag.”

  “Wagging tongues have never concerned me.”

  “Be that as it may,” Theodora said icily. “We have family reputation to consider. Where do you intend to go for your wedding journey?”

  “There will be no wedding journey.”

  “Arran.” Struan, speaking suddenly from his place much farther down the table, silenced the rest. “Is this what Grace wants, too? Does she want a four-week imprisonment during which she is outfitted for ... for what, one wonders? And then a marriage followed by ... by what, one wonders?”

  An awful tension followed. “Thank you, Struan,” Arran said at last. Time enough later for words with his brother. For now he must keep matters smooth with his family. “Thank you for pointing out how thoughtless I can be. I am a selfish man when it comes to things I ... things that are mine. If Grace would enjoy a short visit to Edinburgh, so be it.”

  When Grace said nothing, Mortimer slapped the table, causing glass and china to jiggle. “There you have it, then. Capital, Arran, capital. Know you can’t stand the city. We’ll take Grace under our wings, won’t we, Theodora?”

  “It will be our pleasure. The house in Charlotte Square will be perfect.”

  His house in Charlotte Square.

  “We’ll make certain Grace sees and is seen and—”

  “You will take Grace to Charlotte Square,” Arran said, cutting off Theodora’s babbling. “She may purchase whatever she pleases. As much as she pleases. You may arrange whatever entertainment can be accomplished in one week. Then I shall expect her back at Kirkcaldy.”

  “He’s in such a hurry,” Blanche said, her smile beatific. “Is there anything so wonderful as true love?”

  Arran stared at Grace’s bowed head, at her smooth hair and the clear-cut bones of her face. Something odd stirred within him, a tightening of the gut, a long drawing in of breath he couldn’t seem to release. His jaw clenched—and his fists where they lay on the table.

  He felt ... possessive.

  The next sound he heard was a chair scraping. “I think we should call it a night.” Calum’s voice was different, harsh.

  Arran ignored him. “Do you want to go to Edinburgh, Grace?”

  Her lips trembled, then tightened into a line. She whispered something he couldn’t make out.

  Possessive? My God, he would not allow himself to crumble before another woman with Thespian skills.

  “Grace,” he said clearly. “Kindly answer me. Do you wish to go to Edinburgh?”

  “Of course she does,” Theodora announced.

  “Naturally,” Mortimer agreed.

  “My little lamb always did enjoy entertainments,” Blanche said. “And we’ll all take great care of her for you.”

  Grace bent farther over the table until her face was obscured.

  Arran was disquieted to feel his heart thud. Her hands were in her lap, and he covered them there. “Grace?”

  She shook her head.

  “You’ll love it,” Melony said. “We’ll go everywhere and do every—”

  “For the love of God,” Calum shouted. “Are you all mad? Can’t you see this is too much for her?”

  Arran’s head snapped up. He scanned the circle of faces. Blanche, greedily clutching jewels, Struan frowning, Calum glowering, the servants turned to see-nothing, hear-nothing stone—and the Cuthberts’
avid concentration.

  “Get out,” Arran said, low, menacing. Then he roared, “Get out, I tell you.”

  Calum and Struan left at once, striding from the room side by side.

  Tears, one, and two, fell on the back of Arran’s hand in Grace’s lap. Her shoulders began to shake.

  “You may go to Edinburgh if you wish,” Arran said. His heart turned completely and unpleasantly in a way he had never felt before. “Will that please you?”

  “I don’t know,” she whispered.

  “Out!” He swung his attention to the servants, and they smoothly departed.

  Blanche placed the earbob on the table and poked Grace’s arm. “You silly girl. Such a fuss. How could you shame me so?”

  “Get out, I say.” Arran directed the full force of his rage at Blanche Wren, then at the rest of them. “All of you.”

  Amid the swirling rustle of silk and satin skirts, the room cleared in moments.

  “Thank you,” Grace said softly.

  Her neck was white and childishly vulnerable above the silken lavender pelerine. A single wisp of hair escaped into a curl at her nape. Arran had an overwhelming longing to touch it.

  He must not. “Please don’t cry. I’m sorry if I was unduly harsh.” Females were given to fits of the vapors, particularly females skilled in manipulation of the male. “Please don’t upset yourself further.”

  “No. You are kind. I knew you were.”

  This was not as he had planned for the evening to end. He had intended to make his announcements, then leave the company with no doubt that he was a man in control of himself and his destiny. “Would you like to go to Edinburgh? For the shopping and so on?”

  Her shoulders rose. “I ... I think I might.”

  “And then you will be satisfied to live quietly here?”

  She looked up. Her lovely amber eyes glistened with tears. “As long as ... Niall—Arran, as long as we can ... I would not have married the marquess,” she said in a rush. “I intended to tell you as much, but ...”

  He withdrew his hand, and where they’d touched hers, his fingers burned. “I am the marquess.” What trick was this?

  “I mean that when I thought the marquess was someone else ... when I thought you were Niall, then I intended to tell you that I wanted you, not the marquess.”

  “Then why didn’t you?”

  “You were so angry. You are always so angry. Please listen to me. Please believe me. We did not meet under the best of circumstances, but I quickly learned that we do have an intimacy of spirit. The yearnings of my heart are the yearnings of yours. As soon as I allowed myself to think clearly, I knew it. That’s when I decided that I could not marry some old marquess for the security he could give my mother and me, because I would never be happy with anyone but you.”

  She lied. She lied to try to get what she wanted, everything she wanted—Kirkcaldy, a title, perpetual wealth and comfort ... and the adoring attention of the man she desperately wanted to control with her body.

  Isabel had seduced him into marriage with her charm, with her body.

  Isabel had nearly destroyed his soul and ended his life—with her body.

  “I wonder when you intended to reveal your enlightenment to me.” He rose from the table.

  “I told you. On the night when I almost changed my mind about coming, but did so anyway.”

  “Ah, yes, the night of the ruff and the pretty stockings.”

  “Please, my lord. Do not speak of—”

  “The night when you wore nothing beneath your robe.”

  “I told you I almost did not come, but—”

  “You changed your mind? Yes, I remember. But I do not remember your attempting to declare your undying devotion to me.”

  “I was confused!”

  “Confused? Conveniently confused. I also cannot recall any announcement of your decision to refuse the decrepit old man you had agreed to marry—sight unseen.”

  “You muddled me.”

  “And the following evening, when you could have come to me again and revealed your true feelings, you stayed away.”

  “You—”

  “And when I sent word for you to come to me—as the Marquess of Stonehaven—you did come. What have you to say about that?”

  Slowly Grace stood up. She raised her chin and stared straight into his eyes. “Why am I trying to convince you of something you don’t wish to believe? You are exactly what they say you are: a Savage! You are without human feelings and wish to remain so. Very well, I give up. You are right. All I want from you is comfort and security.”

  Arran crossed his arms. He did not like the tightening of muscles in his gut.

  Picking up the black velvet bag, Grace scooped her newfound treasures inside and drew the string tight. She cradled the bounty in the crook of her arm and swept from the room.

  Minutes passed and the stillness became unbearable. Arran caught up a decanter of brandy and a glass and trailed back into the salon to sit in a chair near the fire.

  The spirits burned his throat—at first. Soon he felt nothing but the dulling warmth seeping through his veins. He studied his mother’s portrait. His father had said of his wife that she was the best judge of character he’d ever met. If Elizabeth said a man or woman was true, well, then they were true. If she said otherwise, best steer for clearer waters.

  Arran could use his mother’s insight right now.

  He filled his glass again, drank, and stared morosely into the fire.

  It wasn’t possible . . .

  The girl had lied about her feelings for him. Hadn’t she?

  Chapter 17

  At last.

  At last she could go to him.

  Too long had passed since they’d been together.

  An hour was too long; a day—any day when she could not hope to feel his wonderful, strong hands upon her—was too long.

  Waiting drove her mad, and made her desperate for him—a condition that could only heighten their pleasure.

  Praise God the staff at Kirkcaldy had grown increasingly fat and lazy. They watched nothing with interest except their own comfort. Leaving via the door beyond the meat and fish pantries—the route that brought her closest to her destination—without being seen, and slipping out into the kitchen garden, was accomplished with ease.

  He would be so pleased to see her—to enjoy what she had planned for him, for them. She patted a pocket in her dark cloak where certain titillating trifles were stowed. First she would show him how they were best to be used, and then he would return the favor ...

  His legs were massively muscled and hard. Oh, yes, he was a hard man.

  She raised her face and laughed.

  Buttocks like iron that did not yield beneath her fingers. Thick hair upon his chest hiding flat nipples that leapt when she licked them. Shoulders so broad that when he rocked over her, he shut out the light—when there was light.

  The night was black and warm—seething. Her breasts tingled, and her belly—the place between her thighs, and higher inside where he would reach with his huge shaft.

  She reached the brown gelding she’d managed to take from the stables earlier and hide behind tall boxwoods beyond the kitchen garden.

  Her destination wouldn’t take long to reach. The gelding trotted amiably downhill toward a cluster of buildings that lay to the west of the castle but still inside its great wall.

  The evening had been entertaining enough. And satisfactory enough. Yes, he would be pleased to hear that their plans were once more going as they must.

  Lights showed in the horse barn she sought, and the sound of raised voices reached her. She frowned. He’d said that if she could come, he’d be alone by now. Dismounting, tossing the reins over the horse’s neck, she hurried to an open doorway and flattened herself to the wall outside.

  “Not there, man.” The voice she heard was unmistakable. A voice filled with authority. The voice of a man who always knew what he wanted and got it ... almost always. When what
he wanted didn’t please her, he didn’t get it. She smiled. Tonight they both wanted the same thing.

  “William! Distract the mare, damn you.”

  He was above her, in the loft where they’d met several times before—but he was speaking to someone below, she could tell that.

  Risking a peek into the building, she saw not one man, but two wrestling with a small mare while a third stood aside with a gray snorting stallion. The business at hand took all of the men’s attention. She slipped inside the stone barn, moved swiftly to the staircase leading to the loft, and climbed silently up.

  With his hands braced on a low wooden wall running the length of the building, he stared down, completely absorbed. “Damn it!” he shouted. “She’ll do him mischief, kicking like that. Get a feed bag on her. Use your heads.”

  “Mayhap we should wait till the morrow,” a voice called from below. “She’ll not take anythin’ as well bein’ this skittish.”

  “She’ll take him well enough.” The laugh was strong, deep, and so sweetly familiar. “No different from a woman, laddies. Sometimes they need to be persuaded, but in the end they can hardly wait for more of the same.”

  A woman. He made the words sound impersonal, as if there were many women for him, and they all as one. Bravado. The strutting call of men to men. He would pay for that by some means she would devise.

  “Psst.” She stood at the top of the stairs, hidden from the floor of the barn, but not from the man who liked to give orders and watch them fulfilled. “Psst!”

  His face turned sharply toward her. He narrowed his eyes and shook his head in dismissal.

  He was dismissing her?

  She almost laughed aloud.

  “Go it again, laddies. He’s ready for her.”

  A squirming dart of desire tugged deep inside, and she pressed the heel of a hand down her belly to her mound. The stallion was ready to mount the mare. Lucky little mare. Poke your head into the feed bag and see what gets poked into you. She’d seen it often enough, the rearing of sweating, muscled power.

  Swallowing a moan, she slid to her knees. Never mind his damn rutting horses, she was ready.

  “Come here,” she whispered loudly.