A Scotsman in Love

by Karen Ranney

  The older man just nodded.

  “We think they should be protected, but I’m beginning to think that we should be protected from them.”

  Tapin’s lips curved in what might have passed for a smile in another man.

  “Quite so, Your Lordship.”

  As Robert left the office, the thought kept niggling at him. How the hell might he intimidate Margaret Dalrousie? Or perhaps that wasn’t the correct word. How did he prevent her from affecting him as she did?

  Ah, that was the question, wasn’t it?

  Chapter 20

  Margaret took aim, closed one eye, and cautioned herself about the recoil. She was becoming used to the sound of the pistol, the horrifying noisiness of it. The stench from the burning gunpowder didn’t bother her as much—years of breathing linseed oil had inured her to odors.

  She squeezed the trigger and was pleased to note the shot was not far off the mark. Each day, she became a little more accustomed to the gun in her hand, and with the familiarity came a little more skill. Shooting a gun had some similarities to painting. The act of pulling the trigger didn’t require dexterity, but there was a certain connection between the eyes and hand.

  Would she be able to shoot him? Of course she could. Even if it meant her soul was in damnation forever? She didn’t believe that. The God of her belief allowed for retribution. Wasn’t there a saying: an eye for an eye? In this case, the life of someone who’d wasted it, who preyed upon the weak and defenseless, who delighted in the suffering he caused or didn’t notice it at all.

  Could she kill him?

  Oh yes.

  If it meant she was damned to Hell, at least it would be warmer than Russia or Scotland.

  Margaret reloaded, another task at which she was becoming proficient. Instead of seeing his face at the end of the barrel, she saw the Earl of Linnet, his eyes filled with pain. The image changed to become a man enraged, his face stiff with anger.

  The rage on his face was better than his stoic expression of pain. She would rather have his eyes blazing at her than be encapsulated in grief.

  Did he ever smile? When was the last time he’d laughed? She’d made him laugh, he’d said. When?

  She was spending entirely too much time in thoughts of him, but perhaps that was natural, considering the painting was taking up so much of her energy. She woke in the morning filled with enthusiasm, entering the tiny trunk room immediately after breakfast to begin work. Sometimes, she’d paint until just before the light faded, unaware until dusk the entire day had elapsed.

  She’d found herself again, and it was because of the Earl of Linnet. Fate or circumstance had led her to this magical spot in the Highlands to heal. The last year had been a time of reflection, months in which she’d been forced to relinquish the frenetic life she’d been living. With her basic necessities seen to by the small bequest she’d received, she no longer feared for her very survival. She hadn’t had to paint in order to make money.

  Was that why this portrait was a labor of love?

  In all the years she’d been painting, all the sittings, all the practice and experimentation, she’d never felt what she did now. Perhaps her compassion was engaged, her need to express to McDermott her understanding of his sorrow. Perhaps it was her own sadness about Amelia and Penelope making her so careful about each stroke of the brush.

  She had always cared about her work, but she’d never cared this much.

  How very odd that McDermott had that affect on her.

  Why had she told him so much about her life? She’d never done so with another human being, not even her rather intrusive maid in Russia. Another few moments, and she might have divulged even more information about herself. Why? What was there about the Earl of Linnet that made her want to confide in him, when she’d never before felt the need? Was it because she saw in him the same loneliness she felt?

  She lowered the pistol, surprised at the thought.

  When she awakened in the middle of the night, it was hard not to feel alone. She had no friends nearby. Never mind that she’d made a point of not cultivating friendships for years. She’d been a woman on the fringe of society, someone not subject to the rules but not wholly exempt from them either.

  She was not lonely.

  Granted, it was sometimes difficult to witness Tom and Janet’s devotion to one another and know she would never be privy to such an emotion. Perhaps her fame might attract a man’s attention, but the shame she’d endured would push him away again.

  She raised the pistol, and this time she envisioned him at the end of the barrel. With great deliberation, if not a little pleasure, she pulled the trigger.

  “Whoever you’re aiming at is certain to be dead.”

  Of course the Earl of Linnet would be here at this exact moment.

  She turned to face him, biting back her smile. What did she care he’d finally returned to Glengarrow?

  “You’ve moved the painting. Have you stopped working?”

  He was dressed in his greatcoat, his face windburned, his hair askew, looking fierce and annoyed.

  “Well?”

  He folded his arms and frowned at her. In the next moment, he would begin to tap his foot imperiously, she was certain of it.

  “You are a very autocratic man, McDermott,” she said, turning her back on him. “I do what I wish, when I wish.”

  “Not as long as I pay you, Miss Dalrousie. A not-inconsiderable sum of money, I might add.”

  She glanced over her shoulder at him. “Worth every pound, McDermott.”

  He looked as if he wanted to say something, then hesitated. “I’ve no doubt, Miss Dalrousie. Which is why I question why you are not working.”

  She turned. “Am I allowed to question why you whittle away your hours in Edinburgh?”

  “I was there on serious business.”

  “No doubt,” she said, lowering the gun to a stump nearby.

  “I was in Edinburgh to discover whether or not the rumors I heard were true.”

  “You don’t appear to be the type to follow rumors,” she said.

  “I do when they speak to starvation.”

  She held herself still. “Who is starving and why?”

  “Highlanders, and I haven’t the slightest idea why it continues.”

  “You must do something.”

  He frowned at her.

  “I know what it’s like to go hungry and to be afraid, even as a child, that there would be no more food. You must do something.”

  “Why do you think I can change what a country hasn’t altered?”

  “You’re McDermott. Of course you can change it.”

  Something struggled between them, either irritation or attraction, some emotion difficult to qualify, but present from the very beginning.

  “I’m sending some ships,” he finally said. “It might not be enough.”

  His eyes were not haunted today, looking merely tired instead. Anyone looking at him would know he hadn’t slept well. The lines around his eyes had deepened in the week he’d been gone. Had he ridden all the way from Edinburgh? In this weather? Foolish man. He would not see it that way, of course.

  She wanted to reach out and trace one finger across a particularly deep line, coax his face back into youthfulness. He was too young to wear such marks of grief and pain.

  “I haven’t changed my mind,” she said, answering his earlier question. “I simply wanted the canvas close.”

  He nodded, and would have turned away had she not stepped forward.

  “I am not cold,” she said. “Because I fail to express every emotion doesn’t mean I lack them. Must I weep at a sunset to prove I see its beauty? Or cry at a tale of unrequited love in order to demonstrate I have a heart?”

  “The fact I angered you is proof you’re not cold. Forgive me for that.”

  “You don’t have to apologize in order for me to continue to work on the portrait,” she said. “I’ve been working every day.”

  “I thought I needed
to be present?”

  “That was hardly possible, McDermott, if you were in Edinburgh. And if you believed that, why did you question whether or not I was working?”

  They stared at each other for a moment, neither speaking.

  “Why are you here?” she asked softly.

  “I’ll be damned if I know,” he answered. He advanced on her, his eyes fierce, his mouth thinned to a grim line. “To tell you I’d returned. To question you about the painting.”

  “You could have sent word through Janet.”

  “Oh, but Janet doesn’t annoy me, Miss Dalrousie. You do, possibly more than anyone I’ve ever met. Do you do so deliberately?”

  She stood her ground, tilted her head back, and smiled. “What would you say if I answered yes?”

  Good, she’d startled him.

  “It is an amusement taunting you, Your Lordship. You rise to the bait only too well. You, too, are an annoying man. Aristocratic, arrogant, autocratic. You are the equal, easily, of any prince I ever met in Russia, any count in France, and any earl in England.”

  His emotions seemed so close to the surface one errant word might cause him to erupt in anger. Strangely enough, she was neither afraid of him nor frightened of this confrontation. Instead, her blood raced, and her skin warmed.

  She deliberately turned her back on him again, staring at the target. “Go away, Your Lordship,” she said, uncaring if she was rude.

  When he placed his hands on her shoulders and turned her, his strength evident in that one small gesture, it felt as if she’d been waiting for him to do exactly that for a very long time.

  When his mouth lowered to hers, she made a sound of startled surprise, then was swept away in a sensation she had never before felt.

  Long moments later, she was aware she was walking, and that his hand was guiding her back to her cottage. Suddenly, they were in the kitchen, the warmth causing her cheeks to sting.

  He kissed her again, and she forgot about everything but the feel of his lips on hers. His face was warm, the stubble on his cheek abrading her palm. He smelled of bay rum and the patchouli that filled all the potpourri jars and bags at Glengarrow.

  Her whole body felt as if it were glowing. Excitement spiraled up her spine. Her hands flattened on his chest as she stood on tiptoes to deepen the kiss.

  Don’t end this.

  All too soon, it was done, and they pulled apart, each breathing raggedly. She stared at his chest. His hands rested on her shoulders. Thought was impossible in that moment, as was censure.

  “Where’s your chamber?” he asked softly.

  She glanced up at him.

  At this moment she should protest, should tell him she was not as easily overwhelmed as this. Oh, but she was.

  She told him, and in moments, he’d mounted the stairs, his hand pulling hers like two conspirators about to engage in wickedness for the sheer fun of it.

  In seconds her scarf was on the floor, and then her cape, then one by one her garments discarded as easily as pieces of paper fluttering in the wind.

  She was cold and unprepared for the feeling of vulnerability as he stood there still dressed in his snow-dusted greatcoat.

  She should’ve covered herself, should have reached out with modest hands and shielded her breasts or her womanhood from him. Instead, she fought back both the cold and her shyness or modesty and stood there unashamed and unafraid.

  Like it or not, she was who she was. Nothing, not wishes or dreams or prayers could change that.

  Silently, he led her to the bed, and she went, releasing his hand as she sat on the edge of the bed as if he were a courtier and she a queen.

  McDermott dispensed with his own clothing as quickly as he’d rid her of hers.

  When he was done, she lay back on the bed, her arms braced behind her, hands flat on the covering.

  He was magnificent. His clothing had not hinted at such a masculine physique. If she ever painted a naked male, he would be the one she chose, his penis jutting out magnificently, erect and ready. Everything about him was perfect, from his muscular arms to his lean stomach, to hips that led to beautifully shaped buttocks. His legs were muscular as well, and hair was sprinkled over his body. He was not so much hirsute as all male.

  Two scars marred the perfection of his body—a long vicious one nearly transecting his torso, and a fainter line from his right hip almost to his knee.

  Strangely enough, the scars didn’t take away from his utter beauty. Instead, she looked on them as she might a masterpiece defaced by a saber cut. The painting wasn’t judged lacking.

  His anger had faded, and there wasn’t a hint of sadness in his eyes. Instead, he looked as confused as she felt.

  He kissed her.

  She didn’t understand how she could lose the sense of herself, so easily. She wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face in the shadowed space, hearing the harsh rasp of his breath, nearly as fast as hers. Was his heart racing as well?

  He pulled back, tipping her head up for another kiss. She closed her eyes. She, who had never admitted defeat to anyone, who’d defied the world itself, readily surrendered to McDermott and his kisses. Dear heavens, how he kissed. He pulled her mind and soul free of its body, and it went soaring away, leaving only pleasure behind. She made a sound in her throat, and he deepened the kiss in response.

  She stroked a hand from his shoulder down across his back, feeling the tightness of his muscles, the strength of his body.

  Her body warmed, heat pooled in secret crevices, readying her for him.

  Somehow he seemed to know, because he gathered her up tightly in his arms and rolled with her.

  A grimace of pain shadowed his face.

  She didn’t break the spell with words, only placed her hand gently against his hip on the worst of the scar and rested her cheek against his chest.

  With words that sounded like an apology, he laid her back on the bed and lowered himself over her. Suddenly, he was inside her, thick and full, invading her and stretching her. There was no pain in this coupling, no discomfort, only a sense of completion she’d never expected.

  She’d wanted to ask him to be gentle, to be considerate, to understand this would be difficult for her. The quickness of his invasion made that point moot, while her compassion had easily banished any fear. She was lying with a man, and she’d never thought it would happen. She was lying with a man, and all she felt was a giddy sense of delight.

  She wanted him to touch her breasts, to suckle on her nipples, to touch her skin and stroke his hands over her body. The sound of his breath was harsh in her ear. Softly she whispered, “Will you not kiss me again?”

  He raised his head and stared down at her. “Do you orchestrate even your lovemaking, Margaret?”

  Her hands reached up to grip his shoulders, and she traced a line down to his elbows and back up again, feeling the strength of his arms. Her fingers had never before been so talented, able to discern the dusting of hair on his arms, the angle of bone, the flexed muscles, the texture of his skin. When her fingers reached out to trace the taut column of his neck, her thumbs brushed his jaw. And then slowly, with great care, she allowed her fingers to rest on his hollowed cheeks.

  If she had the ability to communicate by touch, she’d press her hands against his face and allow all of what she was feeling to be transmitted to him. Gratitude, perhaps, that she wasn’t afraid or in pain. On the contrary, what she was feeling was the most delightful heat winding its way throughout her body. Confusion, that he was the one to bring her pleasure. But the strangest feeling of all was this odd desire to hold him close and comfort him, give him her body to use as he would.

  She pulled his head down for a kiss, silencing her thoughts for several long moments. When it ended, she opened her eyes and looked up at him.

  The sadness was back in his eyes.

  “If you regret this, if you’re chastising yourself even now, McDermott, then you should end it now. Leave me and go back to your celibate life.�
�� She frowned at him. “Are you celibate?”

  “Do you always issue demands of your lovers, Miss Dalrousie?”

  “Since you’re my first lover, yes, I guess I do.”

  His look of confusion did not match well with his scowl. “What do you mean by that remark?”

  Instead of answering him, she wiggled beneath him, a movement that had him narrowing his eyes at her. He hadn’t diminished in size, even though he’d not moved in the last few minutes.

  “I think you hate yourself because you’re human and alive. I don’t think you want to feel what you’re feeling, and the greatest punishment you can give yourself is to refuse to feel anything. If that is the situation, I would appreciate it if you left now.”

  “I was giving you time,” he said between clenched teeth, “to accustom yourself to me.”

  “I’m accustomed, McDermott. I’m practically eager.”

  “Then prepare yourself, Miss Dalrousie,” he said. He thrust his hips forward. “Is this what you want?”

  Her vision grayed, all sensation narrowing to the one spot where they joined. Utter delight mixed with wonder.

  She pressed her hands against his buttocks, urging him to move. He made a sound like a growl deep in his throat and began to thrust, slower at first, then with greater speed, transporting her to a destination she’d never before gone. She gripped his shoulders tightly, wrapped her feet around his calves, and held on to him as if he were the only support in a world suddenly foreign and unknown.

  Pleasure mounted from where they joined and spread throughout her body, little flecks of flame dancing across her arms and down to her toes.

  He kissed her again, and this time she didn’t bother trying to hold back her moan of delight.

  He lowered his head, trailing a line of kisses over her collarbone to her shoulder, then to her breasts. Please, her breasts. Her hands gripped him at his sides, thumbs measuring his ribs as he suckled her.

  She’d never felt what she felt now, a burning ferocity, a need flogging her heart and shortening her breath. She was both cold and hot, sweaty and chilled. She wanted his hands on her, his body on hers. But more, she wanted the pleasure hinted at in the power of his kiss, in each slow movement of his body in hers.