Snowy Night with a Highlander

by Julia London

  “You were sleeping.”

  “No’ that!” she cried, punching him in the arm. “You know very well what I mean!”

  He rather supposed he did, and no less than one thousand responses sloshed about in his brain. “I did no’ want to alarm you.”

  She arched a brow high above the other. “No’ even when I was telling you what a wretched man you were?”

  He could not help the tiny smile that curved one corner of his mouth. “Especially then. By that point, I was too mortified to admit it was I for whom you held such contempt.”

  “You were no’ the only one to be mortified, I assure you,” she said low, and spun away from him.

  “I offer you my sincerest apology. I should have told you.”

  She glanced over her shoulder at him. “Aye. You should have indeed.” She smiled thinly. “But I suppose the damage is done. We should no’ dwell on it, aye? Let us just . . .”—she made a whirring gesture with her hand—“go on from here, shall we?”

  He felt a current run through him, the first wave of crushing disappointment. “Of course.” He gestured toward the door. “Shall we dine?”

  “I thought you’d never ask,” she said, and gave him such a brilliant smile that he felt a bit weak at the knees.

  In the dining room, he said very little. He felt incapable of conversation. He felt like a shell of a man, his body shrinking under the glow of her countenance, which brightened considerably over the course of the meal. She was animated, laughing at something Mr. Nevin had told her.

  He could sit for the rest of the night and watch her talk, her hands moving expressively, her face lit with her smile. Not once did she look away from his face. It almost seemed as if she did not see the ravages of the fire there. When she spoke, she looked him directly in the eye. Occasionally, while she was talking, she would touch his damaged hand and seem not to notice it at all. She was, he slowly realized, remarkably unfazed by the awful sight of him.

  Fiona then unabashedly mentioned her shock at seeing Blackwood, and her walkabout in the ruined wing this afternoon. “You could rebuild it,” she suggested.

  That brought his head up. It was a difficult subject for him. Part of him wanted to leave that burned shell to remind himself of his folly, of the shallow man he once was. Another part of him feared his ability to make it right. The two parts had left him paralyzed with indecision.

  “There is a home near Bath that I recently had the pleasure of visiting,” Fiona said airily. “It was built in the French style, with lots of windows and turrets. The French style with turrets would be quite lovely here, set against the hills, do you no’ think so?”

  Turrets. Why she thought them particularly French, he could not guess. He cleared his throat, glanced at Gaines, and nodded for him to begin clearing the dishes. “I have no’ decided.”

  “But the fire was quite a long time ago, was it no’?” she asked. “The girl who tended my bath said it was very long ago.”

  “Aye, but . . .”

  “But?”

  “Lady Fiona, it is a rather complicated matter,” he said, looking at her once more.

  She drew a breath, but seemed to think the better of responding, and nodded.

  With the meal concluded, Duncan could think of no reason to keep her. He feared any polite parlor games, feared being remotely close to her because then he would want to touch her and he would lose himself to a false hope all over again. As it was, he could not take his eyes from her. He could not breathe. “It is late,” he said, rising from his chair. “You’ve had quite a long journey. I will leave you to retire at your leisure,” he added as a footman stepped forward to help Fiona out of her chair. “Gaines will see you to your rooms.”

  He bowed his head and made himself turn. He quit the room without looking back, leaving his beating heart behind with Fiona.

  Chapter Eleven

  The supper had seened interminable to Fiona. Duncan hardly spoke and had kept looking at her as if he could not understand what she was doing at his gold inlaid dining table.

  She’d wondered that a time or two herself. But as she watched him stalk from the dining room—he could scarcely wait to free himself of her, she thought—it occurred to her that it was ridiculous to wait for Jack at Blackwood. She could just as easily wait for him at Lambourne Castle.

  “If you would like, mu’um, I could have a tot of whisky sent up to your rooms,” Gaines offered.

  “Where is the laird going?” she asked the butler, ignoring his offer.

  “I canna rightly say, but it is his habit to repair to the morning sitting room after supper.”

  “The morning sitting room?”

  “It is where he has situated a library,” Gaines explained. “The library was in the west wing before the fire. A wee bit of whisky, then?” he asked, holding up the decanter.

  “Actually, Mr. Gaines, I shall have it now,” she said, and held out her hand for the tot. She extended the other for the decanter. “All of it.”

  He looked surprised by that, but handed it all to her nonetheless, and watched, his brows almost to his hairline, as Fiona poured a tot and tossed it back. “Thank you,” she said hoarsely as she handed him the empty tot. She smoothed the lap of her gown and marched from the dining room, gripping the decanter. But instead of turning left toward her suite of rooms, she turned right, toward the morning sitting room.

  When she reached the door at the end of the corridor, she rapped lightly, then leaned forward, listening.

  “No whisky, Gaines, thank you,” he said from within.

  “No whisky indeed,” she muttered, and opened the door.

  “No whis . . .” Duncan’s voice trailed off when he turned his head and saw her there. He hastily came to his feet; the newspaper he was holding in his lap fluttered to the floor. “I beg your pardon,” he said, and put his good hand behind his back, standing stiffly.

  “No, laird, I beg yours,” Fiona said smartly, emboldened by the tot of whisky. “I must thank you for seeing me to Blackwood, but as my brother is no’ here, I have come to a decision.”

  “Oh?”

  “I see no reason to burden you further with my presence. I see no reason for us to continue this . . . familiarity, aye? Lambourne Castle is but a half day’s drive from here, and I shall be perfectly fine there until the earl returns from his hunting or . . . or whatever he is doing at Bonnethill,” she said with a dismissive flick of her wrist. “If you would be so kind, I should like to go home for a time.”

  “Home,” he echoed.

  Was he daft? “Aye, home. The house where I was brought up. The house where I shall now reside. Lambourne Castle.”

  Duncan swallowed. He glanced at his bad hand, then at her again. “Do you mean . . . do you mean to say you intend to remain in Scotland, then?”

  What did he care if she did or did not? She shrugged and set the decanter down with a thwack. She hadn’t thought it through entirely, but it suddenly seemed the place for her. She could be the little spinster who lived at Lambourne Castle. She would tend her garden and make remarks about society and people would flock to her to hear her tales of spending a few years in the highest reaches of London society. Perhaps Lady Gilbert would call on her here, and she would have a large soirée.

  Except that she didn’t think Lady Gilbert’s husband would be in favor of the journey.

  “Perhaps I will!” she said firmly. “Much depends on my brother, of course—he might need me in London—but Lambourne Castle is quite nice, is it no’, if one enjoys the moat and parapets?”

  Duncan pressed his lips together and nodded. “Quite,” he said curtly.

  He seemed almost pained to hear it. Well, he could bloody well be pained! Fiona was not a shy young debutante so easily influenced by his remarks as she’d once been. She would not run to London! “I am sorry if that displeases you, but I shall be very busy at Lambourne, I assure you. No one has been about for so long, I imagine there is quite a lot to be done.”

&n
bsp; “Lady Fiona—”

  “And really, I should no’ bother you in the least, as there is quite a lot to be done here. How can you leave such a magnificent home in such a state?” she cried, throwing one arm wide. “It is a jewel in the Highlands, yet you let it rot! If I am to remain in Scotland for a time, I could be persuaded to help you, you know.”

  She could scarcely believe she’d just said it. She hadn’t even really thought about it before it came tumbling out of her mouth. But there it was.

  He stilled and looked at her closely. “Perhaps I shall accept that offer,” he said low.

  “Good.”

  He was looking at her in a way that made her feel oddly exposed, and Fiona blushed. He’d always had that effect on her—just a look with his brown eyes could make her feel warm and a little weak in the knees. “You need someone like me, if you must know,” she added pertly. “Someone who is no’ afraid to say what must be said.”

  A soft smile curved his lips. “No one would ever accuse Lady Fiona of being afraid to speak, that is true.”

  Oh Lord. She was beginning to feel very wobbly and put a hand to her nape as she cast her gaze at the carpet. “But now I think there is naugh’ more to say,” she said. “Other than that I should very much like to thank you for delivering me home. I . . . I could no’ have come alone. It would seem my uncle was right again.”

  “It would seem.”

  “Aye.” She was surprised by the feeling of sadness that suddenly rose up in her. She looked up and smiled sheepishly. “Well then. Thank you, laird. I shall leave you in peace.”

  That was it, then. The night they had shared notwithstanding, that was it, all that could be said between the two of them. And as she was not one to reveal how distressed she truly felt, Fiona turned to go.

  But Duncan suddenly moved, crossing the room, shutting the door and locking it. He turned around, his back to the door, and looked at her again, only this time, his gaze locked with hers, and in that gaze was a world of meaning. “Fiona . . .”

  The way he said her name was like a caress. It was soft and low, trickling warmly into her consciousness like the bit of whisky she’d drunk.

  “I . . .” He paused and stared helplessly at her.

  The mighty laird of Blackwood seemed unsettled. Uncertain.

  He cleared his throat, looked down as he ran a hand over the top of his head, then looked up once more, catching her gaze and holding it. She could feel the intensity of it, could feel that magnetic pull between them again.

  “I . . . I canna express to you how . . . how much I regret what I said all those years ago. I will be honest—I donna remember it, but I’ve no doubt I said it. What I can no’ understand is how I might have possibly dismissed someone as . . .”

  He paused and let his gaze drift over her, and Fiona felt herself on the edge of some precipice.

  “As beautiful,” he said, his voice breaking slightly, “or as vibrant as you. Fiona, in a very short time, I have come to simply . . . adore you.”

  Fiona’s mouth gaped. It felt as if time had rewound itself, and he was saying the things she’d wanted him to say eight years ago.

  “I was a bloody fool,” he said, his face darkening somewhat.

  “What?”

  “A bloody, ignorant fool,” he repeated, only more adamantly, and Fiona’s heart swelled in her chest, choking the breath from her.

  “And now?” he said, clenching his fist at his side. “Now I would give what is left of Blackwood to make amends to you. But I harbor no illusions, lass—I know I canna repair it.”

  “What—why?”

  He scowled and turned away from her. “Must I say it? The scandal that surrounded Devon’s death. My useless arm, of course. My . . .” He gestured impatiently to his face. “My scars.”

  Fiona took a step closer to him. “What scars?”

  Startled, he turned to look at her. “Fiona! I treated you contemptibly—you and others. I was vain and proud and . . .” He made a sound of disgust. “I am a changed man, Fiona. In my heart I have changed. I am ashamed of what I was then and I leave the burned shell of my house to remind me of it every day.”

  Her heart went out to him. Oh, how he must have suffered! She took another step toward him, and another. “Have you no’ punished yourself enough for it, then, Duncan?” she asked him softly. “Can you no’ see that it is time to build a house as a testament to the man you are now?”

  His eyes filled with helplessness. “I am but a shadow of the man I was.”

  “Oh, but that is where you are wrong,” she said, moving closer. “You saved my life by risking your own, Duncan! You saved my life. And . . . and your generosity to the Nevin family was astoundingly kind.” He glanced skeptically at her; Fiona nodded adamantly. “I was there when your gift was delivered to Mr. Nevin. You cannot imagine his happiness. Do you see? You are more than the man you were then,” she said again. “You are strong and giving and handsome and . . . breathtaking in your sincerity.”

  As she spoke the words, she realized how true they were. He was a completely different man now, a better man.

  “Ah, Fiona,” he said sadly. “Can you really see past this deformity? It is no’ a pity you are feeling?”

  She responded by taking the last few steps to where he stood. She reached up; he recoiled, turning his face, but she caught his chin in her hand and turned his face toward her. With her eyes on his, she pressed her palm against his damaged flesh. “I see no deformity. I see only you, a man greater now than he was before. A man who is kind and thoughtful and sincere. I see only you.”

  With a groan, Duncan abruptly caught her up in his arm. He kissed her as he twirled her around, putting her back against the wall. “I canna resist you. You’ve made me feel more alive than I have felt in a very long time.”

  His kiss was urgent, his embrace fiercely possessive. It filled Fiona’s heart—she wanted to be possessed, body and soul. She threw the last vestiges of her pride and virtue to abandon, raking her hands through his hair and returning his kiss with an urgency of her own. She’d never felt so wildly aroused as she did the moment he swept her up, never felt so emotional as this.

  She caught his face in her hands as his mouth moved from her lips to her neck, then down her body, to her bodice, nibbling and kissing the flesh of her bosom.

  Fiona closed her eyes and pressed her head against the wall, reveling in his attention to her. She was an alluring woman who could entice a man to do this. She felt feverish, on fire, as if they’d denied themselves for a lifetime instead of a day or two. Duncan’s mouth and hand caressed every curve of her body, every patch of exposed flesh, so that her body was quivering with anticipation, her skin consumed by his touch.

  She slipped her hands inside his coat, running them across the breadth of his hard chest, the flat plane of his abdomen, and up again to his neckcloth, which she quickly untied, loosening it so that she might put her hands into the space between his collar and his shirt and feel his flesh.

  But Duncan caught her up again, holding her against him in a one-armed embrace, and strode to a divan. He deposited her there, then stepped back and hastily unwound the neckcloth. His fingers flew down his waistcoat, which he discarded along with his coat. He went down on one knee beside her and tenderly caressed the hair at her brow. “I was a bloody fool all those years ago, lass. You are beautiful, Fiona, a Highland beauty.”

  He could not have seduced her more completely. Fiona sat up, put her hands to his waist, and pulled his shirttail from his trousers. She moved to lift the shirt over his head. Duncan’s immediate reaction was to try and stop her, but Fiona caught his hand and pushed it away. With her eyes on his, she slowly lifted his shirt, her hands sliding up the skin of his chest, her fingers grazing his nipples, his sternum, and up, until she felt the ravaged skin of his shoulder.

  Duncan winced; Fiona stilled her hand. “My . . . my body is hideous,” he muttered.

  “It is beautiful,” she assured him, and she meant i
t. His skin might be horribly scarred, but he was a strong, virile man, and no puckered skin could change that. She rose up on her knees and pulled the shirt over his head, tossing it aside, and looked unabashedly at his arm and shoulder, running her fingers over the worst of it. It was misshapen; the skin had healed in such a way that it pulled his arm to a strange angle. She leaned forward and kissed his chest. His shoulder, his arm.

  “ ‘Bòidheach,” she whispered as her fingers fluttered over his shoulders and neck, across the ball of his throat and down, to the hard plane of his chest. Beautiful. . . .

  Duncan drew a ragged breath as she explored him with her hands. “I thought the journey would never end,” he said roughly. “I could no’ bear to sit beside you and no’ touch you. I could no’ lay beside you and no’ think of loving you. You are right, Fiona. I need you. I have needed you desperately.”

  “If you need me, then make me yours,” she said audaciously.

  He cupped her face, pressed his forehead against hers a moment, then lifted his head and looked at her, his brown eyes probing deep. He watched her eyes as he slipped his arm around her back and expertly sought the fastening of her gown, his fingers moving down the row of buttons. He pushed her gown from her shoulders, along with her chemise, down her body until her breasts were bared to him. His gaze dropped to her breasts; he drew a ragged breath as he caressed them with his fingers before catching her around the waist once more and carefully lowering her to the divan again.

  He kissed her madly before moving down her body to her breasts, taking one into his mouth and sucking the hardened peak onto his tongue.

  The sensation was spellbinding. Fiona closed her eyes—a consuming desire began to rise up in her; she could feel it growing with every stroke of his tongue, with every caress of his hand until she felt frenzied with it. She kissed his head, kneaded his shoulders, ran her fingers down his back and up again as he laved her breasts. When he lifted his face to kiss her, she took it in her hands and kissed his eyes, his lips, his chin.