My Seduction

by Connie Brockway

  Kate accepted the proffered dresses and managed a smile. “I don’t have any money,” she said. “But I am sure that the marquis—”

  Meg flapped a hand dismissively. “The captain already give me payment enough,” she said. “I never seen Callum Lamont bested and yer man done that and then some.”

  “What?” Kate asked. “When?”

  “Last night,” Meg said. “Just after ye’d gone up from yer bath. I come in here to find Callum danglin’ like a rag doll from tha cap’s fist, eyes bugged out and tongue lolling and every other man in the room lookin’ like the devil hisself had appeared.” She gave a short bark of laughter.

  “Then all of a sudden he drops Callum and is up the stairs before anyone knew what he was aboot. Not that anyone was like to follow him. Not lookin’ like he did.”

  “My God,” she whispered. “Is the man dead?”

  Meg shrugged with brutal indifference. “Nah. Heard him moanin’ while his lads dragged him oot. Bound to be hurtin’ today though,” she added with obvious relish.

  “All I am is ferocity.” Kate’s limbs began to tremble. She hadn’t believed him. She should have.

  How could she have forgotten, especially after witnessing his savagery at the White Rose? The man whose hands had shivered with liquid delicacy over her flesh had only moments before used those same hands to beat a man senseless. God. She pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes.

  She needed to get away from here. Find a sanctuary where men were civilized, and women were protected from the world’s ugliness, where a man did not come to his lover fresh from the fight.

  “I have to go,” she whispered urgently.

  Meg, misunderstanding, nodded. “ ’Course you do. Who’d want to stay here when a castle is waiting?”

  Kate began repacking what hadn’t been destroyed, focusing intently on the task, refusing to give her thoughts free rein. But her gaze kept straying to the rumpled bed and images of his body, sleek with perspiration, rippling with well-toned muscle— She slammed the lid shut on the trunk. She had to get out of the room. She wheeled about and fled, leaving the rest for Meg.

  Below stairs, a coppery-headed young man in smart, clean livery jumped to his feet. “Mrs. Blackburn? I be John, the marquis’s driver,” he announced proudly, hurrying ahead of her as she raced toward the door.

  She paused in her headlong flight, looking about distracted and uncertain. “I must settle with the innkeeper first.”

  “The marquis had me make all necessary arrangements, ma’am,” John said. “If you’d wait in the carriage, I’ll see your things are brought down.”

  “Oh. Of course.”

  He opened the door for her, bobbing his head respectfully as she exited. Outside an open barouche stood, its sides gleaming like black oil, gold braid holding back the half-collapsed hood. The stable boy stood by the heads of two magnificent matched bays, his face reflecting his awe. When he saw her, he flung open the carriage door and hastily extracted a set of steps from within.

  Kate climbed in, forcing her attention on the luxurious appointments. She had never been in so fine a carriage before, not even in York. The marquis was clearly very wealthy. The coach was extremely well maintained, and the horses perfectly groomed. Her visit was bound to be fruitful. She had made some disastrous decisions in the last few days, but coming here was not one of them.

  She took a deep breath. Kit was gone. That was the end of it. There. She took three deep breaths. There. She felt much more herself now. She was going to be fine. She was—

  “Mrs. Blackburn.”

  His smoky voice called from behind her. Her heart jumped into her throat, and for half a moment she remained where she sat, trying to compose herself. She turned.

  He was so masculine. So big and tough-looking. So overtly, overpoweringly male.

  He sat astride his gelding, the wind whipping the collar of his coat against his lean, bronze cheek. He went bareheaded, as though purposely defying the sun to reveal every scar on his well-weathered face. But he’d shaved, she noted. His jaw would be smooth.

  To refer to him as “Mr. MacNeill” seemed disingenuous, “Kit” far too intimate. “Christian. I…”

  This was impossible. Her skin tingled with sensual memories. The texture of his lips was imprinted on her own. Her breasts carried red abrasions made by his beard, and… Her gaze fell to his beautiful, lethal hands. Deep red gouges marked his wrists where his victim had clawed him. She swallowed.

  He regarded her with the old, inscrutable expression. She couldn’t do this. She was not a woman who took lovers and then met them the next day as if nothing had passed between them. And yet what choice did she have, with the boy standing there, his ears pricked and his expression interested? “Thank you for accompanying me here.”

  “Next you will be offering me references.” He sounded mild enough, but heat flared in his eyes, and she felt an answering flush.

  For a moment she thought he would say something else, something disastrously intimate, but he only said, “I’m afraid you’re not shy of me yet. I promised to see you safely to the castle, and that’s where I will leave you.”

  Please. No. Being with him was like opening a wound. “That isn’t necessary.”

  “I disagree. You’ve seen the sort who lives here. The roads are filled with the same, and none with the benefit of knowing you’ve already been robbed. This carriage is too fine. The marquis might as well have sent out an invitation to every highwayman in the district.”

  She flushed more deeply. “I believe he had my comfort in mind.”

  “And I have your safety in mine,” he clipped out.

  “And you always keep your word,” she answered heatedly, immediately regretting it.

  “You would know, ma’am.” His voice dropped low, and she flushed, her gaze dropping as she recalled how last night she had used his fealty to his word to gain his bed. His teeth clenched. “That’s not—”

  Before he could say more, John emerged from the inn, smiling delightedly. Kate drew back. Kit pulled Doran from the side of the carriage.

  “I’ll be comin’ the distance with you, lad,” Kit told the young coachman, winning a surprised look of gratitude. “But I’ll be riding ahead a bit to mind the road.” He touched his heels to Doran’s flanks and sprang ahead up the steep track leading out of the fishing village.

  He did not return.

  The drive was long and necessarily slow. Toppled mountains fell into the sea, mile after mile of rents and inlets tearing into coastline. Breakers pounded against hidden pockets and subterranean caves, spewing geysers high into the air and veiling the feet of the cliffs in shimmering mist. Kate caught her breath as she looked down over the edge of the road where the sea wall plummeted into the foaming surf.

  ’Twas small surprise Charles and Grace had died yachting in such a place. The only wonder was that they had trusted themselves to venture out at all.

  But too soon even the coast’s drama could not keep the previous night’s memories at bay. Images crowded her thoughts, and her other senses were quick to ignite them: Kit’s mouth on hers, Kit’s arms around her, Kit whispering in her ear, urgent and passionate.

  Finally, in desperation, she leaned forward. “Have you worked for the marquis long?”

  John nodded easily. “Born at the castle, I was. My da was head coachman before me.”

  “Ah. Then you knew my cousin, Mrs. Murdoch?”

  John’s smiled faded. “Aye.” He shook his head mournfully. “Terrible business, that. But don’t you fear, ma’am. The marquis is set on finding those responsible and seeing justice is done.”

  Kate stared at him in bemusement.

  “They’ll not go unpunished,” he avowed staunchly. “And why would they ever think they would? Killing the master’s own brother and his lady. Mad, they must be.”

  “Killing them?” Kate echoed in confusion. “But… they died in a yachting accident.”

  John’s ears grew bright red. �
�Oh! I thought ye knew!”

  “Knew what? What happened?” Kate asked. “The marquis wrote to us that Grace had drowned in a boating accident. Isn’t that true?”

  John stared miserably ahead, his shoulders hunched. “That’s what we all thought at first. But…”

  “Tell me, please.”

  He rubbed a hand through his coppery hair. “There weren’t any water in Mr. Charles’s lungs, though they pulled him from the sea, and so the marquis knew he hadn’t drowned. And once that idea was planted, well, there were marks we thought come from bein’ tossed against the rocks, but afterward it seemed like— I’m sorry! Oh, ma’am! Should I pull over?”

  “No. I will be fine.” She steadied herself with a hand on her stomach. “Why wasn’t my family informed of this?”

  “I could not say, ma’am,” John said glumly. “And I reckon I said enough already.”

  “Who killed them?”

  John’s shoulders lifted. “Highwaymen. Smugglers. Everything possible is being done to find out, that you can be sure of, Mrs. Blackburn. Smugglers been in Clyth long as I can remember, but they crossed the line this time, and I ’spect they know it and that’s why they went to such pains to make it look like an accident.”

  “But why kill my cousin and her husband at all?” Kate asked. “Why not just rob them and leave them be?”

  “Mr. Charles weren’t one to take being robbed lightly. And if he saw the men’s faces…” He trailed off. “But nothing will save them now, the blackguards, because when the marquis realized murder had been done, he sent to Edinburgh and straight off the militia come to put things right. And now they have their own reason to catch the culprits.

  “Fact is, Mrs. Blackburn,” John said confidingly, “their captain was killed soon after they arrived, and some say that the smugglers are responsible for that, too.” He nodded. “Don’t worry. His replacement arrived last week, and a finer, fitter officer and gentleman you never hoped to see. Now there’ll be justice for Charles Murdoch and your cousin, ma’am!” he finished triumphantly. “You just wait and see.”

  Parnell was small as castles went, built in a standard, square pattern around a diminutive interior courtyard that Kate glimpsed as they rode past the wide, nonfunctional gate. Happily situated in a rock embrasure above the sea, it had thus been spared the wear most fortress castles incurred, and the stone, though several hundred years old, sparkled as if newly quarried, the many windows gleaming with golden light in the slanting rays of the morning sun.

  It was wonderful, Kate thought with a touch of desperate longing, pristine and well-kept and orderly and very much protected. The carriage ground to a halt, and John leapt down, hurrying to hand her out. The door to the castle opened, and there stood the eighth marquis of Parnell, James Murdoch.

  She remembered him as a nice-looking youngster, but he had grown into an elegant man with dark blond hair that complemented his large, hazel eyes. He stood just above middling height and had a trim, athletic build that his exquisitely tailored clothes accented. His cravat would make snow weep with jealousy. He was, in a word, perfect.

  “Mrs. Blackburn! Even in sad circumstances it is a pleasure to see you again!” He bowed at the waist, and she returned a small curtsey.

  “Thank you, milord.”

  “No. Please. Your cousin was my sister. I insist on the familial rights. You must call me Parnell.”

  “As you will, sir.”

  “Allow me to welcome you to my home,” he said without making any attempt to hide his pride. Kate liked him for that. She’d had too much of enigmatic men. His open pleasure was refreshing. He stood aside, and Kate moved past him into a wide, light-filled great hall, the black-and-white-checkered flag-stone gleaming ebony and sparkling white. A cluster of maids were assiduously at work bleaching the marble staircase that flowed in a gentle spiral up to a mid-story landing marked by a series of tall, slender windows.

  “How lovely.”

  “I am delighted you approve.”

  “Milord.” A footman spoke from beside them.

  “Yes?”

  “Captain Watters’s compliments, sir. He asks if you would meet him this afternoon at your convenience.”

  Watters, Kate recalled, was the murdered Captain Greene’s replacement. Her tentative pleasure dissolved.

  “Inform the captain that I am previously engaged,” the marquis said, “but that after dinner I shall be happy to meet him in the library.”

  “Yes, sir.” The footman bowed

  The marquis turned to her, and his expression grew concerned. “I am a poor host. You are tired. I will have your maid shown the rooms as soon as she comes in, and then—”

  “I have no maid.” Her eyes dropped in embarrassment. Now he would know the quality—or lack thereof—of his sister-in-law’s relatives. “She decamped.”

  “How frightful for you,” the marquis exclaimed sympathetically. “Then we shall have Peggy perform the necessary duties while you are with us. She was your cousin’s maid.”

  “Thank you.”

  The door opened, and John appeared, laboring under a crate. Behind him, carrying a traveling trunk as easily as if it were a leather satchel, came MacNeill. His gaze was flat, his manner aloof.

  “Your driver, Mrs. Blackburn?” the marquis asked, studying Kit with open and friendly interest. “He looks able to handle himself in any difficulty. I shall commend the carriage company.”

  “No, sir,” she said, feeling her color rise. “He is… That is to say—”

  “I owed a debt to her father, sir, that Mrs. Blackburn kindly allowed me to repay by seeing her safely on her journey,” Kit said smoothly. His cape had swung back, revealing his dark green regimental jacket.

  “Ah. You are a military man,” the marquis said. “That explains it. I’ve heard innumerable stories about the loyalty Highlanders have for their commanders. Holdover from the old clan system, I suppose?”

  MacNeill didn’t bother to correct the marquis’s misconception. Why should he? He would be gone soon. He could care less what the marquis thought of him. “That’s right, sir.”

  “Very good …er…”

  “MacNeill, sir. Kit MacNeill.”

  “Mr. MacNeill,” the marquis said, smiling. “Thank you for delivering Mrs. Blackburn safely. I am most beholden to you.”

  MacNeill’s gray-green gaze touched her with deliberate carelessness. “I was happy to be of service.”

  Kate’s chin snapped up. How dare he make his indifference so obvious? Did he fear that their night together would turn her into a romantic ninny? That she would throw over everything that she had hoped and worked to achieve at the mere thought of his touch? His mouth? His whispered words? That she would make a scene by insisting that he offer for her hand?

  He needn’t fear. She was not some silly schoolroom miss, her head stuffed with sugar-spun mawkishness.

  “You’ll stay with us a few days while your mount recovers, won’t you?” the marquis asked with complete sincerity, a quality MacNeill likely wouldn’t be able to identify, not being acquainted with it in his own makeup. “Of course you will. I’ll have a room made up at once— No, no! No sense in protesting. I insist. Least I can do.”

  Before Kit could answer, the marquis raised his hand. “Here, John! Bring Mr. MacNeill’s mount down to the stables. John’s a magician with horses, aren’t you, John? Of course you are.”

  “Really, sir. That is not necessary,” Kit said. At least he had the grace to look uncomfortable.

  “Of course it is,” the marquis assured him. “Can’t have Mrs. Blackburn’s protector bedding down with the militia like some commoner.” He eyed MacNeill’s tattered and worn plaid surreptitiously.

  “Peggy!” A small, no-nonsense looking woman bustled forward. “Take Mr. MacNeill up to the tower room and see that he is taken care of, and you might give his coat a brush-down, eh?” He gave MacNeill’s jacket a telling look. “We sup in three hours.”

  With a short word of th
anks and a slight bow in her direction, MacNeill followed Peggy up the staircase, and God help her, Kate could not control the deep sense of relief filling her.

  The marquis held out his hand.

  “Now, my dear Mrs. Blackburn, there is much to tell you.”

  EIGHTEEN

  CONTRIVING TO EXTEND ONE’S STAY IN CONVIVIAL SURROUNDINGS

  THE WARMTH OF THE MARQUIS’s greeting bolstered Kate’s flagging spirits, and the kindness in his expression dispelled any lingering discomfort occasioned by MacNeill’s sardonic manner. Her gaze unwillingly lifted toward the top of the stairs where Kit had disappeared.

  He’d had no difficulty handing her care over to another man. Why should he? He had important things to do, people to kill. She should be pleased he’d been so circumspect. There hadn’t been the merest hint that they had anything but a civil association. She must remember that he acted in her best interests and be properly appreciative of it rather than feeling petulant and unhappy and—

  She forced a bright smile to her lips and prepared to give her full attention to the marquis.

  “I suspect you would like to see your rooms,” he said. “But if I might first impose upon you for a few minutes of your time, I would be greatly obliged.”

  “Of course,” Kate said. He waited while the footman took her cloak and bonnet and then hastily stripped her gloves off before he could see the patches on them.

  “If you please?” He offered her his arm.

  The ability to gauge the exact degree of pressure that signaled friendship without forwardness came back to her at once, as if she had shed the last three years as easily as she’d shed her gloves. It was all familiar: the soft murmur of polite conversation; the susurration a hemline makes while sweeping across a thick, rich carpet; the angle at which one carried one’s head to denote interest. All the little things that made life gracious and endurable. She made a mental note to include a section on keeping one’s social skills honed in her book.

  Yes, she thought with determined conviction, this is where I belong.