by Julia London
She gasped, drawing a ragged breath. The feeling was so exquisite that she turned her head to one side and closed her eyes, her body focused entirely on his hand and finger and the wild burst of sensual pleasure that had suddenly erupted in her. He pressed a hand against the small of her back and pushed her into his body. His mouth skimmed her forehead and her temple while his finger slid deeper and deeper into the folds of flesh between her legs, rubbing gently. He moved his mouth down her cheek, to her lips, gliding over them so lightly that they tingled with the whisper of his kiss, then returning again to kiss her delicately, his mouth as careful and light as his finger.
Mared’s pulse was beating so hard that she could not seem to catch her breath; she sighed into his mouth. Payton pressed against her as he cupped her chin with his hand, turning her head slightly and kissing her so delicately that she could feel herself sliding fast down a long slope into something soft and warm and utterly explosive.
He dragged his mouth from her lips to her ear and bit her lobe. “Let me pleasure ye, lass,” he whispered, moving his finger faster.
Mared opened her eyes, saw the sun behind the trees. Diah, her body wanted it, more than she’d ever wanted anything, and she could feel herself coming perilously close to ecstasy. Yet it seemed wrong somehow, so wrong to want him, so wrong for him to want her. There was little that would make her his more completely than this, and as much as she desired him, she did not want to marry him. But his finger was moving faster and harder, and her skin seemed to be melting away from the bone.
“Let me pleasure ye,” he said again, his voice gone coarse with desire. Mared was frantic to feel the eruption that was imminent, and just as frantic to stop this and move away. She gasped at the spiraling sensation and opened her eyes, her gaze landing on the black wool of her housekeeper’s gown. It was the gown that broke her from her trance, and she brought her hands up to his chest, pushing as she cried out “No!” at the exact moment she erupted with pleasure and her body disengaged from her mind. Mared caught a sob in her throat and brought her hands to her face, mortified by what had just happened and utterly astounded by the pleasure of it.
Payton was still near enough that she could feel his body stiffen, could feel his head lift away from her, his hand fall away from her body. And even though he was standing very near, she suddenly felt alone and very cold.
She opened her eyes. Payton was rubbing his forehead, his jaw clenched. When he realized she was watching him, he stooped down, picked up her gown and pushed it into her hands. “Ye’ve chores to attend,” he said gruffly.
She couldn’t bear the look in his eyes, that mix of disappointment and resignation, and perhaps even a wee bit of disgust. The light had gone out of them, that burning, deep light that had made her feel woozy and desperate to be near him.
He turned to leave, and as he walked up the hill to Murdoch, Mared panicked again. “Payton!” she called out to him. Her cry clearly startled him; he jerked around to her. But Mared couldn’t find words to explain the vicious conflict of emotion battling inside her. She was so stunned, so mortified, so alarmed by her actions that she just couldn’t find any words at all.
He waited, but when she could not speak—or would not, as it must have seemed to him—he mounted Murdoch in one long stride and took him by the reins, sending him on through the brush toward Eilean Ros.
He did not look back.
Thirteen
D ays passed after that hot afternoon without Mared’s catching even a glimpse of Payton. She recognized that it was her doing, and though she wanted to see him, she had no real cause to see him. Her feelings for Payton had changed somewhat—but she still wanted her chance to live life on her own terms.
One Sunday, Mared donned her green walking gown and her boots and marched off to church to meet her family. After services, the Lockharts returned to Talla Dileas, where her family insisted on hearing every detail of her servitude to Douglas. Mared assured them she was being treated well. She did not tell them that she had refused to take on the role of housekeeper completely and had, in fact, managed to bypass, for the most part, the hard work that housekeeping entailed. Frankly, her family seemed much more interested in the way Douglas lived than in her housekeeping responsibilities.
Later that afternoon, when Mared accompanied Ellie and Anna to the gazebo, Ellie asked her how she truly fared.
“Quite well,” Mared said with a halfhearted shrug. “He leaves me well enough alone.” He left her completely alone. For all she knew, he’d up and moved to Edinburgh to avoid her.
“Oh?” Ellie asked, exchanging a look with Anna.
“Aye. I think he scarcely cares if I should live or die,” Mared said with a sniff of indignation.
“That seems odd,” Anna said thoughtfully. “He was so very caring before…now.”
Mared shrugged and drummed her fingers against the railing.
“What of the supper party?” Ellie asked.
Mared stopped drumming her fingers. “Supper party?”
“The supper party he is hosting in a few days.”
Her stomach clenched. “What supper party is this?” she asked, her voice noticeably less sure.
“Oh,” Ellie said, turning a wide-eyed look to Anna. “We assumed you knew. W-we declined, of course,” she said quickly. “We didn’t think it was proper, with…you know…” Ellie put her hand to her nape. “The situation,” she muttered.
“What sort of supper party?” Mared asked suspiciously.
Ellie rubbed her nape harder. “A rather large one. More than a dozen guests, I should think.”
“Who?”
“Who?”
“Who is invited to attend?” Mared demanded impatiently, turning fully to face her sisters-in-law. The two of them glanced at each other from the corners of their eyes. “Who?” Mared asked, a little louder.
“Miss Crowley,” Ellie said. “And her family, I believe.”
The knot in Mared’s belly tightened a little more.
That Monday, Rodina and Una were practically bubbling with the news that there was to be a supper party and that Miss Crowley would be in attendance. They were of the firm opinion that Miss Crowley would soon be their new mistress. Mared feigned indifference, much to the girls’ chagrin.
As the week wore on, Mared grew weary of hearing about the blasted event. On the day the happy affair would occur, Beckwith found her reading a newspaper from Edinburgh while Una dusted in the green salon. He glowered at her.
“Aye?” Mared asked politely.
“The stores, Miss Lockhart. There hasn’t been the least bit of work done on the stores since Mrs. Craig’s passing, and therefore, they are pitifully low on a variety of household goods.”
“Oh,” she said, and turned back to her paper. “Must I really, Mr. Beckwith? I don’t care for it down there. It’s dark and cold and it smells.”
“Aye, Miss Lockhart, ye must.”
“Oh all right!” she said curtly and stood up. “Carry on, Una!” she said brightly, and with a smile for Beckwith, she headed for the dungeon.
The task seemed to take forever. But it wasn’t the tedium of the inventory that kept her so long—it was that she could think of little else besides Beitris and Payton and the horrid affair that was to be held here tonight.
It didn’t help that as she worked, she could hear Beckwith and the footmen preparing for the arrival of guests. At one point, she was called upon to open the china closet, and the expensive blue Wedgwood china was removed to be used for the supper, along with the Storr silver serving pieces. Mared knew from her family’s plunder of their own silver and china that the contents of the two closets could bring enough for the upkeep of Talla Dileas for an entire year.
Charlie also took two trays of crystal stemware, and Mared saw Beckwith come up from the wine cellar more than once with several dusty bottles. So Douglas thought to make a show of it, did he? She wasn’t surprised. Douglases, by their very nature, were a bunch of preening peacocks
. One need only look at Miss Douglas to know it was true—the woman was absolutely obsessed with her appearance.
Mared was still laboring over the inventory, trying to remember what she’d just counted instead of thinking about Douglas, when Beckwith came for her again. “The laird would see ye in his chambers, Miss Lockhart,” he said stoically. “There is something to do with his clothing and having it repaired.”
A rush of fire flared up in her chest. She couldn’t see him now, not after all these days had passed, not when he was on the verge of offering for Beitris. “His clothing! Do ye no’ have someone to see after it, Mr. Beckwith?”
He frowned at her and glanced at his pocket watch. “As ye surely must have noticed, we’ve no valet here at Eilean Ros. Now I’ll thank ye to hurry along, Miss Lockhart, for ’tis nigh on six o’clock and guests are expected within the hour.”
“Perhaps ye might suggest a valet, sir,” Mared said impertinently, but Beckwith had already walked smartly away. “He’s extraordinarily fond of his clothing, aye?” she called after him. “Perhaps in addition to suggesting a valet, ye might suggest he employ another housekeeper!”
Beckwith responded by disappearing up the stairs.
Mared slammed the accounts book shut. “Repair his clothing, indeed, as if I am expected to be the bloody house seamstress as well!”
Nevertheless, she put the inventory away, snuffed out the candle, locked the dry provisions room, and marched on to see after the emperor. She walked past the main dining room on her way up and clucked at the large bouquets of white hydrangea on the table.
She rolled her eyes at the extravagance and continued on, pausing only briefly in the foyer to check her appearance in a mirror. With a little pinch of her cheeks and the smoothing of a thick strand of hair that had fallen from her braid, she continued up.
The door to the master suite of rooms was slightly ajar, and when Mared knocked, she heard a muffled reply from somewhere deep within. She hesitated briefly, for she’d not clearly heard him bid her enter, but then again, he’d sent for her, and surely he’d find fault if she didn’t enter promptly. So she pushed the door open a little farther, poked her head around the door, and almost shrieked.
He was just walking from his dressing room, looking curiously at the door. He was wearing formal black trousers that were precariously unbuttoned and riding low on his hips. And nary a stitch more.
The rest of him was completely and deliciously bare.
Mared felt the heat rise up in her face as she glanced at the thin line of hair snaking up out of his trousers, over the flat plane of his stomach, and to a very muscular chest. His golden brown hair was wet and brushed back and touched broad shoulders that looked as if they were capable of holding up the entire world. His square jaw was cleanly shaven. He folded his arms across his chest, muscles protruding beneath his skin as he watched her staring at him.
She gulped down the unwelcome lump of longing and tried to think what to do instead of imagining what he might look like completely naked. Unfortunately, her thoughts were rather jumbled and her entire body seemed intent on looking at him.
He was, judging by his glacial expression, quite aware that she was ogling him, and while she knew it was unseemly and really quite rude, she could not, no matter how she tried, turn her gaze away. He was just so…breathtakingly handsome. Desirable. Delectable. She would, she thought baldly, were she a harlot and he not a Douglas, very much like to swim with him in the loch.
Payton cleared his throat; she jerked her gaze from the obvious outline of his male parts to his eyes. “Are ye quite finished with yer inspection, then?”
Her blush deepened and she looked away. “I, ah…” She looked at the ceiling. The bed. The floor. Anywhere but at him. “I beg yer pardon, milord, but ye did indeed startle me,” she reminded him.
“That is why, Miss Lockhart, I bid ye to wait a moment.”
She risked a peek at him from the corner of her eye. He was still staring at her, half-naked, as if he expected her to speak. How could she possibly speak to him when he looked so magnificent? Damn him, but it rendered her completely incapable of reasoned thought. “I didna hear ye well,” she said.
“Obviously.”
Was it her imagination, or was there the barest hint of a smile in his gray eyes?
He put his hand to his waist. “What is this, Miss Lockhart? Why are ye blushing like a maid? Surely ye’ve seen a man before now.”
“Of course I have,” she said hastily and cleared her throat. “I mean to say, I’ve two brothers, ye’ll recall.”
“How could I possibly forget them?” he drawled.
She put her hand to her nape and looked at the floor. “Ah…beg yer pardon, but Mr. Beckwith said ye had clothing that needed repair.”
He snorted. “Repair is putting it kindly. Replacement is more likely. I warned ye to have a care with the laundering.”
“I donna know what ye mean,” she lied.
“I mean,” he said, walking to the bed and picking up a shirt from it, “that when I saw the purple neckcloths, I foolishly gave ye the benefit of the doubt. I know ye donna want to be here, but I’ll no’ abide such carelessness with the clothing.”
“I’m no’ careless,” she protested.
“Then explain this, if ye will,” he said, and with one hand still on that trim waist, he held up a shirt with one finger. A blue shirt. A blue shirt that had once been very white. “’Tis abominable.”
Abominable. What he’d done was abominable, enslaving her and then making her come out of the pool when she wasn’t decent. She was so offended by his attitude, she frowned at him. “I’ve done what ye’ve commanded, sir! I told yer Mr. Beckwith I had no notion how to launder, and he wouldna help me in the least!”
“And why would ye assume Beckwith would know a whit about laundering, lass? He’s a man, a butler, and men and butlers are no’ in the business of laundering clothes!”
“That, sir, is yer fault.”
“That, miss, is the way of the world. Now come closer, will ye, and look what ye’ve done.”
“There’s no need. I saw it plainly the day I laundered it,” she said, folding her arms tightly.
“Aye, but I’d like for us to look at it together. Come here,” he said sternly.
Mared sniffed and reluctantly walked forward. He held the blue shirt out on his finger. She gave him a look of impatience, tried to ignore the pleasing scent of his cologne, his freshly washed skin, and stared down at the garment. It was indeed awfully blue—it had not looked quite so blue in the moonlight when she gathered it from the drying bench. And he’d kindly not even mentioned the wrinkles.
“I suppose this is yer idea of revenge, aye? To ruin my clothing when I have fourteen guests arriving within the hour?”
“Fourteen!” she exclaimed.
“Aye. Fourteen. Now what shall I wear, Miss Lockhart?”
“Ach, ye’ve plenty ye might wear,” she said with an impertinent flick of her wrist. “Ye’d know it if ye looked in yer wardrobe instead of leaving that to others.”
“Thank ye for the advice. Now if ye would, fetch me a white shirt.”
Mared tossed the shirt onto the bed and whirled around, marching for the dressing room.
“And donna think for a moment I’ve no’ noticed the gaping hole in the bed linens!” he called after her. “That hole is the size of a dinner plate! How could one possibly create a hole so large?”
By working very hard at it, Mared thought, and bit back a triumphant laugh as she threw open the doors to his wardrobe. “If ye donna care for my laundering and ye are incapable of dressing yerself, then perhaps ye might hire a valet, milord!” she shouted at him from the dressing room.
“I am perfectly capable of dressing myself, provided the clothing is laundered and properly pressed!”
“Bloody hell ye are,” she muttered beneath her breath and dug through the various coats and waistcoats and shirts and finally found a pristine white linen shirt. She
removed it from the wardrobe and returned to the master chamber, and paused, curtsied deep, then held the shirt up for his inspection.
He snatched it from her hand and pulled it over his head, then shoved one arm into it. “Ye are fortunate that ye found this shirt, ye are.”
“Oh, aye, I am so very fortunate!” she said with a roll of her eyes. “And what might ye have done had I no’ found it, pray tell?”
He laughed darkly and slipped the other arm into his shirt. “No’ what ye’d hope, ye wee banshee. I’d have turned ye over me knee, bared yer bottom, and spanked ye like a child since ye insist on behaving like one.”
That certainly brought a provocative image to mind. “Honestly!” she scoffed. “Ye may have kidnapped me, but ye’ll no’—”
“Kidnapped ye? Rubbish!”
“Aye, ye did!” Mared insisted, unable to keep her gaze from his hands as they disappeared into his trousers to tuck in his shirttail. “Ye hold me ransom from my family, and that is kidnapping!”
“I hold ye as collateral on a debt. That is no’ kidnapping, that is mercy on yer family.”
“Say whatever will allow ye to sleep at night,” she answered primly.
“I sleep quite well, never fear.”
“Do ye indeed? And who makes yer bed in the morning? Ye donna sleep—ye struggle.”
He scowled at her as he buttoned his trousers, unnoticing as her gaze followed his hands. “If I donna sleep at night it is because a madwoman closes the rooms of my house and ruins my clothing and hides the silver to avoid polishing it and lies about as the housemaids perform her work! Fetch me a neckcloth. A white neckcloth.”
“Fetch this and fetch that,” Mared mimicked him and walked to the bureau, opened the drawer, and stared down at a row of neatly folded neckcloths. Only three were suspiciously blue. “I never claimed to be a housekeeper or a laundress,” she reminded him. “If ye seek yer laundering from the likes of me, ye shouldna expect it to be done properly.”
“I expect ye to learn it!”