My Seduction

by Connie Brockway

  She didn’t know. Next month? Next week? Never? The idea that she might never see him again, that when he left the castle it would be with the specific goal of searching for a traitor and murderer, set her limbs trembling and her breath staggering in her lungs. But not today. “Maybe …in a few days.”

  He held her gaze. “Tomorrow, Kate. Don’t ask more than that. I beg you.”

  He would do whatever she asked. He’d sworn to it. He would even stay, and for as long as she bid him do so. But she could not tether him to her with a vow. She could not ask him to stay and witness her encourage the marquis with every remembered wile at her disposal. She was bad, yes, but not wicked.

  “Tomorrow.” Her voice broke, and she shut her eyes, not wanting him to see her in tears.

  “Do you know what the first thing I noticed about you three years ago was?” he asked softly. “It was your courage, Kate. I grew up respecting courage above everything except loyalty. When I saw you that first time, you were like a brand, so fierce and so valiant.”

  She scoffed, sniffing, amused in spite of her sorrow. “That was not courage, Kit. That was fear.”

  “I did not know your father, Kate, but in the army I learned his reputation. Colonel Roderick Nash was a just officer and a thoughtful tactician. But above all, he did what needed to be done, without hesitation. You’re like that, Kate. You have that courage.”

  “Rubbish!” She was nothing like her father.

  Kit caught her chin in his strong fingers, moving closer. “Your mother was already dying, and your older sister hadn’t woken to the fate awaiting you, and your younger one was still trying to make sense of it. In one short year, everything you were and everything you expected to have and to be had been stripped away from you. All comfort and security vanished. A lifestyle. A husband. A father. All gone. But you knew what had to be done, and so you did it.”

  He tilted her face so that the light streaming in from the high windows fell full upon her visage. “What can one call that but courage? Your father would be proud.”

  He was wrong. Her father would not be proud. She was a coward. She would not give up wealth and comfort and security. Not for pride. Not for love. She couldn’t.

  But she could steal one more moment, one more kiss. Boldly, she put her hand on his chest. His heartbeat thundered beneath her palm. She edged closer. Her hem brushed across the tips of his boots.

  “Kit.” Her fingers curled against his muscular chest.

  “Someone might come in,” he whispered, his voice dark and hopeless and tender.

  “I don’t care.”

  “Yes,” he avowed, a tincture of savagery in his pronouncement, “you do. You should. You’ll be safe here, Kate. Well cared for. You’ll live the life you once had.”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ll be safe.” He was still worrying over her safety. “I saw this Captain Watters and his men heading for Clyth this morning. He’ll find those responsible for your cousin’s death.”

  He did not know Charles had been involved with the smugglers and that that is what had occasioned his death. He needn’t worry over her safety. She wasn’t a smuggler, nor had she betrayed anyone.

  But yourself.

  “I am not rich,” she said, seeking to reassure him without breaking the marquis’s confidence. “I am not going anywhere unescorted. The marquis is well aware of the situation in the region, and I am certain he will take every precaution.”

  “And whoever was at the castle on the moors was hunting me, not you,” he went on, searching her face. “You’ll be safer without me, in fact.

  “I can’t stay, Kate.” His tone demanded that she acknowledge the impossibility of his staying, that she understand that he was not abandoning her.

  Everything you want is within your reach, Kate Blackburn. All you have to do is watch Kit MacNeill walk out the door. “Of course you must go.”

  He suddenly reached out and cupped the back of her head, pulling her roughly toward him. His breath had gone ragged. She melted eagerly against him, her lips opening.

  “God help me,” he muttered roughly. “Not without a kiss”

  He crushed her mouth beneath his. All the want and frustration and pain of longing filled that kiss, blistering her with desire. She met his passion with equal ardor, wrapping her arms tightly around his neck and pulling him closer, molding her body against his as if by doing so she could somehow become part of him, kissing him back with all the yearning and hopelessness inside her. For one fleeting instant, he held on to her as if he would never let her go.

  Then he did.

  “I have to leave.”

  She couldn’t let him go without knowing… without letting him know… without hope…

  “The marquis has accepted an invitation for us to visit his neighbors tomorrow,” she whispered. “When we return… he asked me to stay on.”

  Kit’s body tensed, but his eyes remained fixed on hers.

  “I…” She swallowed. “Can you think of any reason why I should not stay here with him?”

  Five heartbeats. That is how long it took, she discovered, to break a heart. Five heartbeats during which hope rushed, welled, suffused her with joy, and—

  “No,” he said. “No. I cannot.”

  —died.

  TWENTY-TWO

  LIVING WITHIN ONE’S MEANS

  A FOOTMAN SNAPPED TO attention as Kit strode past, and a maid smiled timidly at him. He saw neither.

  Kate had asked him as clearly as her station and pride would allow that he make some claim upon her. He lifted the door latch with a shaking hand. She must never know how completely she’d undone him, or how desperately he’d wanted to do so. He was a selfish brute, but not that selfish. He would leave her with the good marquis, where her future, and her sisters’ futures, were assured. And in the years ahead, when he thought of her, he would be satisfied with the idea that, for however short a time, a lady had considered sacrificing everything she valued for him. It was a trade he could live with.

  He walked outside, where winter had retreated a half step, the air thin but mild and the sky pale, and headed for the stables. It was deserted save for the horses. He found Doran and ran his hand down the gelding’s rear leg, lifting his hoof. He could see no discoloration and, gently probing the frog, found no evidence that Doran felt any discomfort. He’d ride tomorrow.

  A furtive sound brought Kit’s head up in time to see a feminine figure hurrying between the stalls, clutching the handle of a swollen valise. It was Mertice Benny, the marquis’s ward. She made it to the end of the aisle, set the valise down, and attempted to open the last stall door. The latch had evidently stuck, and she pulled angrily on the handle.

  “Allow me,” he said.

  She jumped, wheeling around with her hand at her throat. “You startled me!”

  “It was most unintentional, I assure you. May I offer my assistance?”

  She regarded him suspiciously, and Kit felt a prick of irritation. Her virtue could not be any safer than with him.

  “Well?”

  She flounced about and gestured irritably toward the stall, indicating, he presumed, that he might have a go at opening it.

  Why not? He examined the stall door and found a piece of wood jammed near the hinge. He pried it out with his dagger, and the door swung open, revealing an empty stall. Empty except for a set of luggage stacked inside. New luggage, by the look of it, the leather still shiny and the brass locks bright. Odd place to store new luggage.

  Noting his quizzing glance, Merry tilted her head haughtily, daring him to question her. The truth being that he didn’t give a bloody damn about her or her luggage, he stood aside while she picked up the valise and dragged it inside.

  “I am…planning… on taking an extended trip,” she panted as she rearranged the heavy luggage. “And I see no reason why my room… should be littered with baggage… when this is a perfectly reasonable place to store them.”

  “Some perfectly unreasonable thieves
?” he suggested blandly.

  The girl scowled and gnawed on her lower lip, obviously debating whether to give him the set-down she so richly wanted to or try to wheedle him into doing her bidding—whatever that might be. At least she was a distraction, however short-lived, from Kate.

  She tried a coquettish smile. He supposed it might even have been a fairly good one… if one cared. “Please don’t tell the marquis.”

  “Tell the marquis what?”

  “About the luggage. About my… leaving.”

  About her eloping. The pieces fell neatly into place. She was running off with someone, and Kit had a fairly good idea who that might be. Her face was not particularly transparent, but his life had often relied upon reading people, and this girl was as false as a beggar’s empty sleeve.

  “The Murdochs wouldn’t understand. He isn’t like them.” She fair quivered with ill-contained excitement.

  So Merry’s admiration for the stalwart Captain Watters had been a red herring; otherwise she wouldn’t have used the term “like them.” Captain Watters was decidedly “like them.” No one would have objected to a match with the captain of a militia unit. No, the little fool was going to elope with Callum Lamont.

  “You needn’t look like that. I would think you of all people would understand.”

  He arched a brow, though acknowledging that her prick had struck deep. He was decidedly more of Callum Lamont’s ilk than Captain Watter’s. Still, he only said, “Understand that you’re running off with a thief and a smuggler?” He paused. “That is what you’re doing, isn’t it?”

  For a second, she looked surprised then replied hotly, “It’s none of your concern. Besides, we’re married.”

  “Married?” She had surprised him, after all.

  “Aye,” she said haughtily. “This is Scotland. It isn’t hard to do.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  She shrugged. “I don’t care. But you need only ask the blacksmith in Selwick.”

  “You are a fool.”

  “Oh, come, Captain. The English have been eloping across our borders for years. There is no reason a Scotswoman shouldn’t make use of one of our most celebrated customs.”

  “You think running off is all very romantic and adventurous,” he said. “It’s not. It’s squalid and vulgar. And the road is lonely.”

  She lifted her chin. “But I won’t be alone.”

  “Not yet.” He regarded her pityingly. “But how long do you think he will he stay with you? A month? A year? Until he dies in some drunken brawl or at the end of a rope?”

  “No one will catch him. He’s too clever by half,” she stated, and Kit stared at her in amazement.

  By God, she actually believed it. He tried another tack. “Perhaps not. But the romance will only endure as long as your beauty. How long will that last, do you suppose? A hard life without the sort of luxury and cosseting you are accustomed to enjoying tends to leach away a woman’s looks.”

  “Mrs. Blackburn doesn’t appear to have suffered unduly,” she said slyly.

  The attack was unexpected, and Kit regarded her with some respect. The kitten was a cat after all, and she had sharp claws.

  “Mrs. Blackburn is exceptional,” he said. “She is also wise enough not to let impossible fantasies rule her life. You would do well to emulate her.”

  “So stiff, Captain MacNeill?” she purred. “Who was it you said was wise not to let fantasies govern Mrs. Blackburn’s life? I could have sworn you said her, but I think”—she sidled closer—“I think it’s you who have decided for her.”

  He’d satisfied whatever impulse he’d had to warn her. He turned away, but her hand shot out and grabbed his sleeve.

  “I’m right, aren’t I? You’re leaving her.”

  “She’s not mine to leave or not leave,” he said with a calm he wished he felt.

  Merry laughed. “No more than the sun belongs to the day and the moon to the night. Do you think it isn’t obvious? The way you watch her. The way she doesn’t watch you.”

  “You’re imagining things.”

  “You great bloody fool,” she sneered. “You’d leave her here? For him? Do you know what happens to a person who is discarded like that? Love turns into hate, Captain MacNeill. And hate is a fertile ground. It breeds all sorts of trouble.”

  “Shut up,” Kit said. Her words were like poison, insidious and lethal.

  She sidled closer to him. “Do you want her to hate you? Because she will. What? That never occurred to you? You thought she would thank you for leaving her here?” She shook her head. “Never! She will hate you, hate herself, and hate the marquis, because she will always remember that you made the choice. She will not think of the poverty you think you are sparing her. She will think of pleasure and passion, and every thought will be tainted with hatred because you left her behind!”

  Her voice was thick with vitriol. “I’m not being left behind. Not again.”

  She wheeled around, her skirts snapping, and stood with her back to him. She took a deep breath and then another, calming herself. When she looked around again, the fight had drained from her. She looked exhausted, her nerves near unraveling. She lived on a razor’s edge, fearing her lover and fearing not to go with him even more. “Are you going to tell the marquis?” she whispered.

  He regarded her in astonishment. “I have no choice. How can I not tell him that his ward is running off with a possible murderer?”

  “He’s murdered no one,” she declared. “I swear to you that he did not kill Charles or Grace. I know for a fact he is innocent of their deaths, because I know who is responsible.”

  “Who?”

  She shook her head. “I won’t tell until we’re well away from here. Then, I swear, I will write, revealing everything. If you let me go. Tomorrow, when the others go to the MacPhersons, I intend to stay behind. We’ll leave then, and no one will ever see us again.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She ground her teeth in frustration. “I tell you, he did not kill Grace and Charles. Would I elope with someone who’d killed my dearest friend? My only friend?!” Her gaze was hot but level. She sincerely believed Lamont to be innocent of the crime. “Besides, we are married, and finally, this is none of your affair.”

  She was clearly convinced Lamont hadn’t killed Grace, and she would be in a better position to judge than he. Maybe she was telling the truth, and if she wasn’t…? Well, she would be gone and thus less likely to bring scandal down upon the Murdoch family. And thus, upon Kate. And if she had married Lamont, there was naught he or the marquis or anyone else could do for her.

  “All right,” he said, knowing he acted against his better judgment. But then, his judgment of late had been none too good.

  “Another!” Callum Lamont rasped, raising his cup and rubbing at his throat. He thought his pipes had been permanently busted and he’d like as not spend the rest of his days croaking like a bullfrog, and that wasn’t right. Especially since he’d once saved the bastard’s life.

  He stared moodily into his empty cup. Ungrateful, that’s what it was. Well, he’d teach him some manners, especially since there wasn’t anyone around anymore to watch his back. None of that Scottish wolf pack ran together anymore, it would seem. Not surprising, seeing how their “brotherhood” hadn’t withstood a bit of treachery.

  The thought brought a smile. “I said another!”

  Meg slunk over to refill his cup and then, looking quickly around, slipped a sealed letter onto his lap. Callum pushed a coin into her hand, her payment for acting as a courier between him and the castle. She darted away as if she feared for her virtue, and Callum felt a ripple of offense.

  He had never forced himself on a woman, and he never would. He didn’t need to coerce a woman into his bed. Women flocked to him like bees to honey— the mirror explained that easily enough. But it wasn’t just his success with other women that kept him from the Megs of the world, it was his heart.

  He’d already given it to a lad
y, a true lady, one as beautiful as a rose and just as prickly as one, too. Not that he minded a thorn or two, he thought, his memory unfurling over evenings when she had warmed his bed and he had warmed her in all other places. Soon they would be together again.

  Callum Lamont, bastard and foul-tempered, murdering demon that he was, loved mean but true. He was as faithful as the tides and just as unfailing. But musing on Merry’s charms wasn’t getting either of them any nearer their fortune, so with a sigh he tore open the letter’s seal and got down to business.

  Carefully, he studied the elegant hand. There were only a few words, but they caused him to break into a grin. He crumpled the sheet and tossed it into the fire, and as he watched the flame consume it, he laughed.

  Who said work and pleasure never mixed?

  TWENTY-THREE

  LEARNING TO LIVE WITHOUT

  KERWIN MURDOCH STOOD BESIDE the luggage filling the hallway while Lady Mathilde kept up a running patter to Kate and the marquis gave last-minute instructions to the butler. Miss Merry would not be going with them. She had told the marquis she would not shorten her mourning period for “dearest Grace” by so much as an hour, and that to force her to do so would be unforgivable.

  The marquis, clearly caught unprepared, had been put in a dreadful quandary. He had refused the MacPhersons’ initial invitation, only to ask that the invitation be reissued so that he might accept it. Now he must renege.

  Lady Mathilde, concerned that her reentry into society was being revoked, pointed out that the girl would do very well alone in the castle guarded by those of Captain Watters’s men left behind and their own fifty-odd servants. But it took a letter, arriving via the hand of a militia courier, to persuade the marquis that his ward could remain safely at the castle.

  Lady Mathilde, having satisfactorily dealt with the obstacle presented by Merry, muttered to herself as she mentally dissected her wardrobe. “Half a dozen dresses for the day? Should do. But only four for the evening. I hope it suffices. Lord knows what MacPhersons’ flues are like this winter. Place could be warm and snug or drafty as a cathedral. One must be prepared for either,” she told Kate.