The Devil Wears Tartan

by Karen Ranney

  “Is it the same size with every man?”

  She still had not moved, and neither had he. No more than a few feet separated them, but it felt as wide as Scotland.

  “Or is it in proportion to a man’s body? Like an arm or leg?”

  With one hand he lifted himself, as if in offering. “So you’re satisfied, are you?”

  “Should I truly answer that? Wouldn’t it make you even more insufferable than winning at golf?”

  “I promise not to become insufferable.”

  “Then of course you know I’m satisfied,” she said. “But you haven’t answered my question.”

  “I haven’t the slightest idea how I rank among men,” he said. “Perhaps I’m a little larger than most. Or simply average.”

  “Does it always stay that way? How on earth does it fit in your pants?”

  He was smiling broadly now, but it wasn’t the kind of smile that had an edge of ridicule to it. She had pleased him, she could tell.

  Two of his fingers slid up the shaft, and she wanted to replace his hand with hers.

  “It doesn’t always stay this way,” he said. “Seeing you naked has an effect on it.”

  She shook her head as if to negate what he was saying. “It was that way before I was naked.”

  “Talking about it with you has that effect as well.”

  “Can you find pleasure simply with words?”

  She lifted her gaze to find that he was looking at her intently. “Words don’t affect me as much as images. Remembering you, remembering entering you, now that affects me.”

  “The first few times were different,” she said, taking a few steps closer to him. “Not like now.”

  “That’s because you were innocent.”

  “I wasn’t, actually.”

  “You were, more than you know. Or if you do not choose to recognize yourself as an innocent, then perhaps another word would suffice. Unaccustomed.”

  “Unaccustomed?” she said.

  “To me.”

  He reached out and pulled her closer with one hand. His hands were on her shoulders, and his eyes were on her breasts, but she ignored what he was doing in favor of placing her hands on that beautiful instrument, hot to her touch. It quivered as if it recognized that she was there, nearly bobbing up and down in eagerness.

  She felt breathless and yet utterly calm.

  “Lovers must become accustomed to each other,” he said softly.

  When he turned and began to walk toward the bed, she followed, reluctantly surrendering her grip on him. She climbed up to the mattress and reached for him again, and he didn’t demur when she gripped him between her palms and held him tight, fascinated at the length and strength of his erection.

  She was seated at the end of the bed, naked and almost unconscious of the fact until his fingers slid across her breast in a gentle touch, so light and delicate it might have been a feather.

  He knelt on the bed in front of her. She rose up on her knees and placed one hand behind his neck, extending her fingers upward into his soft black hair.

  Gently, she pulled his head down for a kiss. He acquiesced but kept the kiss light when she wanted to deepen it. She pulled back to find him smiling at her, a teasing glint in his eye.

  He pulled her up until she was pressed against his chest. Her fingers curled around his cock, and he made a sound deep in his throat. But he didn’t pull her hands away.

  They were so close that a whisper could not come between them. But he didn’t kiss her again, choosing instead to tuck her head into that spot between neck and shoulder. His right hand traveled up from the small of her back and then down the line of her spine, repeating the movement until she began to anticipate the stroking of his hand against her skin.

  His fingers splayed against her shoulder and then down her arm, his palm cupping her elbow before trailing down her forearm and wrist to the back of her hand.

  His knuckles brushed against her nipple, and it hardened instantly.

  “Marshall,” she said, breathing his name against his throat. She was weak, filled with sensations. His hands were everywhere, smoothing, sliding, touching, and measuring. She felt as if he were learning her, that he would soon know each curve and joint, each separate crevice and mound, each muscle and bone.

  Slowly, with great deliberation, he laid her down on the bed. In perfect silence, he entered her, their gazes locked.

  This moment was silent and perfect and beautiful, like a baptism or a wedding.

  Her hands held on to his shoulders, and then trailed to his back. When he bent his head to kiss her, Davina finally closed her eyes. Her last glimpse of Marshall was smiling, the look in his eyes one that made her want to weep. As he brought her pleasure, he also gifted her with love.

  Even though most of his wealth had come to him courtesy of the ocean and clipper ships, Garrow Ross didn’t particularly like anything nautical, including the stench wafting from the sea. So he settled for sitting in his office above the large warehouse he owned in Perth with the windows tightly closed and the shutters blocking out the tall masts of the ships docked not far away.

  The accountancy report he read made for boring reading for anyone but him. His wealth—growing by the day—was represented by a substantial column of figures. All in all, it had been a prosperous month and looked to be an even more prosperous year.

  The goods located in his warehouse were plentiful, most of them imported from the Orient, India, or the Continent. But the bulk of his wealth was not derived from goods that were purchased by the average buyer.

  He was no longer the poor relation of the Ross family, looked upon a little askance because he was in trade. A fortune could purchase a great deal of respect.

  He signed his approval of his accountants’ records and then put the sheaf of papers to the left of his desk. His secretary would pick it up in a matter of moments. On the right of his desk was a leather folder, another missive from one of his captains.

  In his pocket was a present for Theresa, a string of perfectly matched pink pearls. Theresa would be suitably grateful, he knew. She liked presents, and he’d seen that acquisitive glint in her eye.

  Now all he had to do was ensure she never knew exactly how he made his money.

  He smiled. It shouldn’t be all that difficult. Theresa was a toothsome female, but she also tended to be vacuous. Unlike her niece, Theresa had no curiosity, no interests other than her wardrobe and her newest hairstyle.

  Davina was an annoying chit. Well, let her play at being Marshall’s bride. Such devotion might actually keep Marshall sane for a while. Then again, Marshall might lose his mind completely one night and snap the little bride’s neck. That was all too possible.

  Chapter 20

  Moonlight spilled into Davina’s bedroom, casting the chamber in a strange blue hue. It wasn’t the moonlight that woke Marshall, however, but hunger.

  His appetite had been affected ever since his imprisonment. The last year he’d been slow to put back the weight he’d lost in prison, a fact that Jacobs had mentioned on more than one occasion. There were also too many nights when wine dulled the edge of his hunger.

  Tonight, however, he was ravenous. He could have eaten a side of beef if it had magically been produced in the middle of Davina’s bedroom.

  They’d slept for hours, curled into each other. He hadn’t slept for so long in months. Hours of dark, sotted sleep devoid of dreams.

  She was restless, preparatory for waking, and a part of him wanted her to awake, wanted her to know he’d not abandoned her after they’d made love. He studied her as she slept, wondering what it was about this woman that enticed him so much, made him want to smile at the same time he wished to kiss her.

  He had not, despite the invitations, taken a mistress on his return from China. It was not truly him they wanted, it was the earl those women lusted for, the steward of Ambrose, the diplomat. His position, his person, his very identity was a commodity, and that he reluctantly accepted, but he
wouldn’t tolerate pretense in his bed. Therefore, he’d remained a celibate man until his marriage. Abstinence had been more tolerable than expedience.

  Yet it wasn’t simply pleasure he felt when looking at her. She was loyal, and witty, and possessed of her own courage. But admiration wasn’t the complete answer, either. Some other emotion, something more important and less suitable to examination, made him want to protect her, shelter her, and keep her safe from anything and anyone who might harm her—even himself.

  He pressed a soft kiss on her bared shoulder and then covered it with the sheet before leaving the bed. After donning his trousers, he glanced at the clock on the mantel, surprised that it was nearly midnight.

  “Where are you going?”

  He turned to find that she’d rolled over and was regarding him sleepily. She raised up on her elbow and smiled at him. Her hair cascaded over her shoulders, and she impatiently pushed it back.

  “You look like some sort of enchanting mystical creature in the moonlight,” he said.

  “Is that a compliment to take my mind from the fact that you’re leaving me again?”

  “Only temporarily,” he said. “I’m hungry. Are you?”

  She shook her head. “You’ll come back?”

  “I’ll come back,” he said. “You’re my talisman, remember?”

  “Don’t forget,” she said, and curled up on his side of the bed, her hands gripping the pillow he’d used.

  He left the room smiling.

  As a boy, he’d haunted the kitchens, having an affinity for Cook’s biscuits. Tonight he easily retraced the steps of two decades ago. On the lower floor the walls needed cleaning, and there wasn’t substantial enough lighting in this area. He made a mental note to address both of these issues as well as new furnishings.

  His grandfather had always been fond of telling him that inherited wealth traditionally lasted only three generations, but that the Ross family had been the exception to that rule. The old man had added a caution: “It doesn’t matter what your title is, son,” he’d once said. “If you’re devoid of income, a fancy title is like peacock feathers on a chicken. Pretty, but useless.”

  Like his father, Marshall had an affinity for making money, even when he hadn’t been paying any attention to his investments. His grandfather would be happy to know that Marshall hadn’t stripped the family coffers. All the family ships had made a fortune in the spice trade and in importing cotton from the southern United States.

  Cook had baked yesterday, and there was an assortment of loaves and rolls. Marshall put a few into an empty basket he found at the end of a shelf.

  He carried a wheel of cheese to the large oak table in the middle of the kitchen and sliced off a portion. From the shelves on the right side of the sink he grabbed a plate and a mug. The plate he put down on the table, and the mug he carried into the larder. There, resting on the floor was a large keg that he suspected held ale. When he tapped into it, his suspicion proved to be correct.

  He took a sip and smiled in remembrance. As a boy home from school, he’d slipped down here to meet his boyhood friend Daniel. Together they’d ended up being inebriated on more than one occasion. The ale might taste refreshing, but it had been brewed at Ambrose, and had a more powerful kick than some types of whisky.

  Daniel had accompanied him to China, and had died there. Marshall had brought the news back to Jacobs himself. As the boy’s grandfather, Jacob had been against the adventure, but he’d received the news of Daniel’s death with great stoicism.

  They rarely discussed Daniel after that day. But Marshall lifted his mug to Daniel’s memory now.

  “Here’s to the old days, Danny.”

  Marshall heard a noise, a slight scrape of sound, and whirled. Was Daniel’s ghost responding in kind? But there was nothing there. Nothing real, at least. He heard the sound again, coming like a faint knock.

  Was it happening again? Had darkness brought about his lack of connection with the real world? Was he descending into madness again? If so, he was grateful that Davina was nowhere near. She was safe in her chamber.

  He took a few steps out of the larder and stared through the window. He wouldn’t have been surprised to see his visions hovering there in the darkness, floating some feet above the rain-dampened ground. His visions were not susceptible to the rules and boundaries of nature. They existed within his mind, and were therefore capable of anything.

  “Richard?” There was no response.

  He called out a few more names, but none of them materialized.

  The sound came again, delicate, almost muted. Suddenly a hand pressed against the glass, fingers splayed. He steadied himself, waiting, but the fingers didn’t come through the glass and the figure didn’t seep through the solid wall. Just that hand pressed against the glass.

  Perhaps this visitor was more mortal than hallucination.

  He took his knife with him and reached the kitchen door, pulling it open. He stood on the stoop and stared at the visitor, wondering if it truly was a hallucination, or if nature and fate had conspired to bring him his past in the flesh.

  Davina walked down the grand stairs and through a series of hallways that led to the East Wing. The Pharaoh Wing, she’d heard one of the young maids call it because of the statue at the end of the corridor. Evidently Aidan could not bear to be parted from this particular rendition of Seti and had him carted to Ambrose proper.

  She’d been to the kitchens only once, and that had been with Nora leading the way. As the Countess of Lorne, she needed to inspect all areas of Ambrose, despite the fact that Mrs. Murray ruled the estate with her dictates and ever-present ledger. There was no waste at Ambrose, nothing unaccounted for, little food left over for the poor, and the great house ran with surprising dexterity and economy.

  Davina was pleased by that revelation for two reasons—it meant she had no need to seek out Mrs. Murray in an attempt to educate her on frugality. In addition, the housekeeper would be occupied in her efforts to keep Ambrose running as smoothly as it had been. She wouldn’t have time to concern herself with Marshall.

  The sound of voices alerted her to the fact that Marshall wasn’t alone. That explained why an hour had passed and he hadn’t returned to her room.

  She turned the corner and entered the kitchen to find Marshall sitting at one end of the table piled high with food. Seated beside him was a younger man.

  As she approached them, the stranger turned to her, and she was startled by the brilliant blue of his eyes. However beautiful their shade, they could not deflect from his shocking condition. He was too pale, and almost gaunt. His face was narrow and all angles, his brow prominent, his jawline sharp. There was not one ounce of spare flesh anywhere on his face.

  She’d never before seen anyone who so closely resembled a skeleton.

  He was dressed as a sailor, one evidently parted from the service, since he wore no hat and his uniform had seen better—and cleaner—days. The dark blue jacket hung from his shoulders, and revealed almost fragile-looking wrists.

  Marshall stared at her for a minute, as if deciding whether to introduce the stranger to her. Finally he nodded, a gesture that demonstrated his reluctance more than any words.

  “Jim, I’d like you to meet my wife, the Countess of Lorne. Davina, I’d like you to meet Jim.”

  There was no other information forthcoming. Nor did Jim appear surprised at the paucity of that introduction.

  “Welcome to Ambrose,” Davina said. She added a smile to her welcome.

  Her aunt would have been proud of her composure.

  “Thank you, Your Ladyship.”

  Now what was she supposed to say?

  “You’ll stay with us for a while, certainly?” There, a little more politeness. “I will send one of the maids to ready a room for you.”

  Jim didn’t say a word, but his face was suddenly suffused with color. Her heart went out to the young man. It was not his fault, after all, that Marshall was being rude.

  “
I don’t want to be any trouble, Your Ladyship. I just came to see the earl. I don’t need to stay.”

  “Unless you have someplace that you must be, Jim,” she said kindly, “is there a reason why you cannot remain with us for a little while?”

  She did not miss the look that Jim sent Marshall. Nor was she oblivious to Marshall’s small smile. A gesture of welcome, evidently, from the grin that joined the flush on the young man’s face.

  “Thank you, Your Ladyship. I would like to stay, very much. I’m a little tired. It was a very long walk from Edinburgh.”

  “You walked?” she asked, shocked. “And how long did that take you?”

  “Days,” he admitted. “I’m not used to walking, but I’ve not been out of the navy long.”

  “What Jim is not telling you,” Marshall said, “is that he was very ill for a very long time. You’ll stay, then?” he asked.

  “I will, sir. Thank you,” the young man said, looking as if he might cry.

  Marshall stood and left the room, only to return a moment later. “I’ve sent the scullery maid for Mrs. Murray,” he said.

  Davina sat at the table, poured another cup of ale for Jim, and busied herself slicing cheese that probably no one would eat. At least she was doing something, occupying herself with activity rather than looking at Marshall or their guest.

  The moments passed silently, in a tense silence broken only by commonplace sounds. She didn’t ask any questions. Nor was Marshall generous with answers.

  When Mrs. Murray appeared in the doorway, Davina was almost happy to see her.

  The other woman was beautiful as usual, her hands folded neatly in front of her. The ever proper Mrs. Murray, even at this hour of the night. She was attired in a dark blue wrapper with white piping on the color and cuffs. Her hair was braided and wrapped in a coronet at the top of her head.