Kissing the Countess

by Susan King

  The sheer size of the room took her breath—lofty plastered ceilings, tall windows, and high, pale walls created a sense of spaciousness that even the large four-poster bed could not diminish. Drapes, coverlet, half canopy, and a chaise longue in serene creamy damasks and pale floral chintz harmonized with an expansive Belgian carpet in a green leaf pattern. Small oil paintings, polished mahogany furniture, and a glassed bookcase graced the room as well.

  Compared to the simple decor and modest proportions at Glenachan House, this bedroom seemed like a queen's chamber. She murmured in admiration as Mrs. Baird pointed out the private dressing room, water closet, and large, tiled bathroom. Deirdre, one of the housemaids, was already in the bathroom filling a porcelain tub with steaming water from brass spigots for her evening bath. The girl looked up with a shy smile as she stacked thick linen towels.

  "A cistern on the roof supplies hot and cold water for this floor and for the kitchen," Mrs. Baird explained. She held herself stiffly and seemed so formal and expressionless that Catriona wondered if years of serving the previous earl had made her humorless. "Sometimes we have a bathwater shortage if there are several guests. Then water will be brought up for your requirements."

  "Thank you," Catriona replied. She stopped short of revealing that she took baths in a hip tub in the closed pantry of Glenachan House late at night after filling the tub laboriously. A cistern and a private bath were astonishing luxuries to her.

  Mrs. Baird opened another door. "This leads to the wee sitting room that you share with Lord Kildonan. His room is through that opposite door there."

  His room? Peeking inside with surprise, Catriona saw a cozy room with a small fireplace, a window, and armchairs and a small sofa in leather arranged on a worn Oriental carpet. The opposite door was partly open, and she saw a smaller room, dark and cozy, with deep green walls and mahogany furnishings. Then she heard Evan speaking quietly to someone. A moment later, he appeared at the connecting door, about to close it.

  His gaze touched hers, piercing and intent. Then he nodded and clicked the door shut.

  "Deirdre will be your lady's maid for now, until you choose one you prefer," Mrs. Baird said. "The previous countess was not in residence at Kildonan, and Lady Jean brings her own girl, so we do not have a trained lady's maid for you."

  Catriona nodded, unsure what use she might have for a lady's maid or indeed how to choose a maid. "Deirdre will do a fine job," she said, smiling at the girl who was arranging lotions on a tray that held fresh flowers.

  After Mrs. Baird left, Deirdre helped Catriona out of the blue silk gown. The young maid had a gentle manner, and Catriona began to relax a little as Deirdre unwound and brushed out her hair. While Deirdre unpacked her two portmanteaus, Catriona closed herself in the bathroom and sank into hot, fragrant water. Sighing, she closed her eyes.

  Only a day ago, she would have sold her soul for such heat and comfort. In a way, she had—that cold night in the hut, craving warmth, she had gone willingly into Evan's arms.

  Remembering his touch, the heat and pleasure of skin against skin, her mind further conjured the feel of his lips and hands. She wondered if Evan expected to share her bed tonight, or if he shared her reluctance over their hasty marriage.

  Moaning low, conflicted, she sank into the hot, rose-scented water until she was nearly submerged, her hair floating out in rich streams of dark bronze. Her body craved the comfort and power of his touch, but her mind was a jumble of uncertainties.

  Chapter 12

  Standing before the connecting door late that night, Evan paused. This was his wedding night—he had certain rights now, but he was not the sort to claim them without consideration. And he was not sure what his bride wanted. Tightening the belt of his maroon silk dressing gown, he knocked. When she answered, he entered the room.

  Catriona glanced up from the book in her hands, her eyes wide and a little wary. Enthroned in the big bed, sunk deep in lacy pillows under an ivory coverlet, she looked lush and beautiful. Her long, graceful form was swathed in a prim white nightgown with a high buttoned neck and lacy flounces.

  She looked so vulnerable, he thought, yet he recognized that touch of wildness he had seen in her before, in the spark in her eyes, the fiery gleam of red hair flowing over her shoulders. The sight of her stole his breath, and his body clenched deliciously in response. He moved toward her.

  "Good evening, madam," he murmured.

  "Lord Kildonan." She flipped book pages nonchalantly. Her fingers trembled.

  He wondered where to begin, what to say. Shoving his hands in the pockets of his silk brocade robe, he glanced around. New fabrics had been installed, but the furnishings were those his mother had used years ago. The leafy patterned carpet had been hers, too. He remembered tracing its design with small fingers, long ago, in happier times.

  "I trust you are—no, please, go ahead," he said, when she began to speak and stopped.

  "I only wanted to say that it's a lovely and comfortable room." She folded her hands. "Was this your mother's room?"

  "Aye. My parents used this suite years ago, before... she left. She was no more fond of him than you were," he said wryly.

  Catriona blinked and did not comment, but he saw comprehension in her eyes.

  "My sister had the rooms redone after he died." His own newly redecorated room was smaller and cozier than Catriona's, in dark greens and dark wood—he liked its warm cave-like feel. "Both rooms are quite nice now."

  "But you did not expect to install a wife here."

  "Well, not so soon," he admitted. God, he did not know quite what note to strike with her.

  Last night she had come willingly into his arms when the compassion of strangers had blossomed into poignant, stirring intimacy. He wanted that natural magic back again for both of them, but did not know how to recapture it.

  The discussions, the tensions, the marriage—the return to civilization—had ruined that dreamlike night, and it would take some effort to get that back, he realized.

  He walked toward the bed. "What are you reading?"

  She peeked at the spine as if she did not know herself. "I found it on the bookshelf.... Sir Hugh MacBride, The Enchanted Briar." She flipped a few pages. "Oh! This is inscribed by the author—'To Master Evan. Yours affectionately, Sir Hugh. Dundrennan House, Christmas, 1840.'"

  "I turned twelve just before Christmas that year, and Sir Hugh gave me the book as a gift. I'd forgotten it was here."

  "I see. So you'll turn thirty-one in December?"

  "Aye. And... might I ask? I don't even know your age, though I suspect you're not nearly as old as your bridegroom."

  "Twenty-seven in September. Quite the spinster."

  "No longer that," he said, watching her. Aware of her intent gaze, he knew they were both using the conversation to edge closer, exploring the moment. He felt tentative, and did not like it. He preferred action and quick, uncomplicated truths.

  In the shieling hut he had known what to do. Following heart and instinct that night, he had allowed need and passion to lead him along a path of fire. Not the best decision—but in the moment, with the girl going along with him, it was best for both.

  Now he danced around pretty social conventions, even though he burned to pull her into his arms and make love to her again, fully and fervently. Legitimately and sincerely. He wanted her to know that he would honor the marriage. But the dance that had caught them both was intricate, its design delicate. One wrong step and hearts and hopes could shatter.

  She looked down at the book. "It's lovely that you knew Sir Hugh personally. I have always enjoyed his poetry."

  He did not want to talk about poems. He wanted to take the blasted book from her and toss it across the room. Instead, he sat on the foot of the bed, his weight sinking the mattress a bit.

  "Catriona," he said.

  She raised her knees to draw her feet away from him. "Did you know Sir Hugh well?" She turned more pages.

  "I know his son and heir, Aedan MacB
ride. I was invited to his home during school holidays. I attended Eton and then Edinburgh University with Aedan, who's is now laird of Dundrennan, and with Aedan's cousin, Dougal Stewart. We three are good friends still. I hope you will meet them someday."

  "How nice to have such good friends, and to have known such a great man."

  "To be honest, I saw little Sir Hugh himself. I went fishing and hillwalking with the lads and yearned rather pitifully after the lasses, the sisters and cousins who were there too. Romantic poetry was a means to an end with the girls, though no doubt I made a fool of myself." He grinned sheepishly.

  She laughed. Evan loved that musical sound, sweet notes up and down a scale. She gave him a mischievous look and slipped out of bed to cross the room, replacing the book on the bookshelf near the chaise longue.

  Golden lamplight haloed her form and shone through the translucent fabric of her nightgown. He could see her full, round breasts, her beautifully shaped legs, the sultry curves of her hips and slender waist. His body surged at the sight, but he only crossed his arms and lifted a brow slightly.

  He had known her only briefly, true—but he knew more than most grooms knew about their brides on the wedding night. He already knew her lush curves, the way she tasted, the sound of her breathing as she slept in his arms, and he could not forget that easily. She worked some magic over him, all unknowing, and he was caught fast—and could not explain any of it.

  "My dear," he said, and stood, coming toward her. Lord, he thought, he did not even know how to address her. "I suppose we ought to... discuss our arrangement."

  She turned, arms folded over her bosom. "Arrangement?"

  "Aye. Our meeting and the ur marriage was a shock to both of us. And I know you are not the most content of brides."

  "We scarcely know each other," she agreed.

  He tilted his head. "Marriages have been made from less."

  "Aye—though I am still puzzled that you went through with this." She narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. "Does the earl need a countess so much?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "A Highland girl and her family to take care of Kildonan in the earl's absence, who can smooth his way with the locals?"

  He frowned, felt his temper stir. "Is that what you think? I did what I thought was right today. I want to give this a fair chance. It is a beastly business to undo a marriage." His parents had lived separately for twenty years to avoid the ordeal of divorce in the courts. "And we cannot simply annul our union."

  "We cannot," she said. "I thought you wanted to wait a few weeks to see if—" She stopped. "If a child comes of it."

  "Regardless, I think we can get along well together."

  "We had to get along in that shieling hut, or perish. And I believed you were—just Mr. Mackenzie. A man I could trust."

  "You can trust me by whatever name I have." He shrugged. "Besides, what was I to say? That I am the gentleman you loathe most in the world, and then invite you to sleep beside me?"

  "I would have appreciated having the choice," she snapped.

  "If I had told you, madam, we would both have frozen."

  "Why do you want this marriage?" she asked bluntly.

  He paused, frowning. He did not know how to explain that he felt compelled to be with her, that he felt desire, respect, and a kinship of lonely souls with her. It seemed, suddenly, needful and desperate, and he was not that. Never that.

  A small war waged inside him between fierce craving—physical desire and some deeper, indefinable need for love—and his very logical self, which cautioned him to go slowly, dance the pretty dance and see what came of it.

  Delve into marriage, or slow down to courtship? He frowned. He had closed off his heart for two years—yet in Catriona's company, he felt healed, understood, whole inside. No woman had ever affected him like that before. He wanted to be with her, whatever it took.

  But he could not risk opening himself up too much. Pride and natural reserve made him shrug. "I am accustomed to risk, and I am willing to take a chance on this marriage. Apparently you are not so convinced to try."

  "I will not merely accept this because it is convenient," she said crisply. "Good marriages are made of far more than... attraction and necessity." She blushed.

  "Love? That's a rare thing, my lass. I've heard it happens, but it's not portioned out to everyone who makes a match. Still, many marriages do quite well without the ideal of love."

  She watched him, brows tucked. A little light seemed to go out of her eyes, and he cursed himself for speaking his mind.

  "You do not expect to love your wife, yet you wish to be married to her?"

  He hesitated. "It is not easy to explain. Fate took a hand, but we have chosen well. You will be an excellent countess, and you got your much-needed rescue. You would be in poor straits without this marriage, I'm afraid. And that is my doing."

  He knew he sounded cold, but he could only reveal so much of his feelings all at once. He felt compelled to be with this girl but did not know why. Nor was he one to question things endlessly. Both logic and instinct said this was a good match. And he would be damned if he would spend his wedding night discussing love, when he had always believed it could not come to him.

  "I know our first meeting was unusual, but—"

  He laughed, could not help it. She pursed her mouth, and he nodded. "Sorry. It was. Go on."

  "And I know our, ah, encounter happened out of fear and desperation and... a need to survive."

  "It was rather pleasant helping each other survive."

  She scowled at him. "But what if we are not compatible without danger and risk? We got along then because we had to. But in ordinary circumstances we have little in common."

  "We have this glen in common," he said, wafting his hand toward the window, where the moon was a clean slice of light over the dark, primeval mountains. "We have our educations and our Highland heritage. We have our shieling hut... and our wedding."

  She looked away. "Our somber wee wedding."

  "Not a very happy affair, true. But the bride was lovely," he added quietly. His glance slid down the length of her body for a moment, where the candlelight shining through her gown had continually drawn his gaze.

  She seemed to realize suddenly that he could see through her nightgown, for she snatched a paisley shawl from the chaise longue and swept it around her shoulders. Its folds did not obscure his view of her excellent legs.

  She crossed her arms. "If only we could start over."

  "I have no desire to fall off a mountain again," he drawled.

  "I meant that most relationships that lead to marriage begin with introductions, friendship, then... courting, and after affection, and, and love... and marriage. We began backward."

  He stared at her. She was right. Whether it was a dance, a pathway, a mountain to climb, or a marriage—one had to take things step by step. "We could start again. Without the mountain or the ice storm."

  "Just start again. We could." She looked up at him, her eyes sparkling suddenly. Then she thrust out her hand. "I am Catriona MacConn, sir. The minister's daughter." She smiled.

  She had elusive dimples. God, she was beautiful, he thought. Laughter and smiled transformed her handsome face into something extraordinarily, fleetingly beautiful.

  "And you are not Mr. Mackenzie," she said.

  His lips twitched. "Lord Kildonan." He took her hand, her fingers slim and cool in the cage of his, and bowed deeply. The chaise longue stood between them like a barricade.

  Her dimples deepened, her blue eyes sparkled. In her translucent gown, her wild, fiery hair loosened, her breasts lifting beneath the fabric, she was more than enchanting—she was passion itself.

  Looking at her, he felt an invisible blow, a rolling punch to heart and gut. For a moment he wondered, rather astonished, if he could fall in love. Was it even possible?

  He had climbed mountains, sunk deep into the ocean, had risked his life countless times. He had not quailed at stepping open-eyed into
an impulsive marriage to save the girl's dignity. But nothing made him quake as much as the thought of love.

  Heart thundering, he kept hold of her hand and walked around the barricade of the chair, turning her to face him. He drew her slowly toward him. Something burned within him to be said. It had nothing to do with courteous little games to ease the awkwardness between them.

  "We will start again if you want," he said in a low voice. "This is your wedding night, and you should have all your will. But I do not think we can wipe clean the slate and make a little innocent friendship between us just to see where it leads."

  "If we had been introduced as the earl and the minister's daughter—perhaps we could—"

  "Could we?" He pulled her closer, and she did not resist. "What would you have felt if you had met me for the first time in your father's church or in some matron's drawing room at teatime? Tell me." He slid a hand along the side of her face, cupping the delicate, stubborn contour of her jaw.

  "I would have... felt an attraction to you," she breathed.

  "Do you feel it now?" he murmured, dipping his head low.

  "Oh, aye," she whispered, leaning back her head. He touched his mouth to hers.

  Feeling her lips move sweetly under his, he pulled her close to kiss her as he wanted to do, swift and hard. Sliding his fingers into her hair, feeling its softness cascade over his arm, he kissed her until he trembled from the indefinable force that rushed through him.

  Sweeping her full into his arms, he pressed his hips against hers, felt her lush shape and blessed warmth through flimsy layers of silk and gauzy cotton. He knew how intimately they fit together, knew she was aware of that too, as he kissed her, bending her back, and he felt his body harden for her, hot and insistent, his desire impossible to hide. But he held back.

  Keeping himself aloof and alone for so long, now he felt a faster, deeper desire for her than he had ever expected. Yet he would not let himself appear needy. Even if, deep inside where he kept his secrets close, he wanted to be loved, and to love, more than anything else in life, he would not let it be known.