Scotsmen Prefer Blondes (Muses of Mayfair)

by Sara Ramsey

  “Careful, darling. If you insult him, I might have to steal something from you as revenge too.” He tossed another stone onto the pile, then flashed her a wicked grin. “Although I would likely start in your wardrobe. I’d burn all your prim day dresses if it meant I could see you in more gowns like the one you wore tonight.”

  Amelia blushed. He really was trying hard to charm her. But, heaven help her, she liked it.

  When the fence was down, he mounted and directed her to circle the sheep. “This should be easy enough. Ferguson’s new estate manager should have moved them several days ago — they’re almost out of pasture. Once we get the first sheep to go through the fence and find better grass, the rest will follow.”

  Despite her misgivings, she warmed to the task quickly. Pulling one over on Ferguson was remarkably satisfying, even if she was sure Malcolm was doing it to seduce her. If she thought the loss of the sheep might harm Ferguson — or, more importantly, Madeleine — she might have felt a twinge of guilt. But the Rothwell holdings in the south were nearly rich enough to rival Devonshire — thirty sheep wouldn’t break them.

  With Malcolm occasionally calling instructions, they herded the sheep through the gap in the fence. It wasn’t as easy as he’d made it sound, particularly since Amelia sat sidesaddle and was weighed down with yards of riding skirts. But there was something exhilarating about being outside, in the dark, engaged in an activity which her very proper upbringing hadn’t prepared her for.

  When the last sheep was through the gap, Malcolm started rebuilding the fence again. She didn’t have a watch, but it couldn’t have taken more than thirty minutes to move the sheep. They would be back at the castle before midnight. Would he say goodnight to her then? Or continue his campaign to break her resolve?

  After he rebuilt the other fence, he looked up at her from the ground. “Have I offended your delicate sensibilities? Or did you enjoy yourself?”

  “You know I enjoyed it,” she said. “Thank you, Malcolm. Our one night was lovely.”

  If she was disappointed that they spent it stealing sheep rather than kissing, she hid it so well that even she didn’t acknowledge it.

  But Malcolm wasn’t done. “There are still several hours of darkness, darling. And I intend to use every minute you’ve agreed to.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Malcolm’s behavior confused her. When he was civil to her in the dining room she had thought it was another ploy, believing that his occasional flashes of autocratic behavior were his real personality.

  But she had willfully blinded herself to the evidence. In the moonlight, the evidence spread around her for leagues. Every well-kept crofter’s hut and carefully maintained fence showed how he cared for the people he both led and served. Even Graves, as dreadful as he was, was loyal, and Malcolm hadn’t turned him away.

  That night, Malcolm treated her like a partner. She’d never had a partner before. She’d had friendship and camaraderie, and her fellow Muses of Mayfair shared similar artistic ideals. But she had never worked with someone or shared their sense of purpose.

  For the first time, she wondered if she had missed more of life than she had thought. Was solitude a fair price for independence?

  When they reached the castle, Malcolm dismounted first and strode around to help her slide off her saddle. He lifted her free of the horse, and as he set her on her feet, his hands stayed firmly around her waist.

  “Tell me what you want, Amelia.”

  The question surprised her, enough that she actually considered it. She wanted warmth, and adventure, and laughter — not the impersonal safety of a guest room. “I thought you had plans for us tonight?”

  It was the closest she intended to come to an invitation. He was either obtuse or stubborn, because he didn’t accept it. “That’s what I want. What do you want?”

  His hands on her waist burned through the velvet. She’d never thought of hands as heavy, but the weight of his touch rooted her to the ground. His eyes were that melted silver color again, warm and demanding even in the dimmest light. He looked like he wanted to kiss her.

  “Why do you care what I want?” she asked.

  He shook her, just a bit, just enough to make her wonder why her body thrilled at his touch when he could so easily break her. “Stop turning this toward me. I want you. You know that. But I also want you willing. I won’t have your passion at night and your hatred in the morning.”

  “I don’t hate you,” she said.

  Malcolm grinned a little at that. “I don’t hate you either. Marriages have survived with less.”

  He did kiss her then, just the briefest graze across her lips, so quick she didn’t realize what was happening until he’d pulled away. “Then if you don’t hate me, does that mean I have your passion?” he asked.

  He was intent on making her confess it. She’d rather let him be the aggressor in their seduction, if only so she wouldn’t feel like she was giving up. It wasn’t fair to him — but when was life ever fair?

  “Your touch is not unpleasant,” she allowed.

  A lesser man would have been wounded. He had the audacity to tweak her nose. “You’ll have to do better than that, darling.”

  Her horse started to move away from them on the drive, and Malcolm let go of her to retrieve the reins. When he had both horses in his grip, he turned back to her. With his eyebrow raised in silent question, he looked like a king disguised as a groom — strong, confident, and utterly in command.

  But he wouldn’t command her into his arms — at least not tonight. She had to take that step alone, if she wanted it, and trust that he would catch her.

  “Will you keep me out here all night for my answer?” she snapped, not ready to confess.

  He jerked his head to the side of the castle and the stables beyond. “I must tend to the horses, since I sent the grooms to bed. If you want me, wait for me in my chamber. If you don’t, hide in your room. I shouldn’t be more than half an hour.”

  “And if I am not waiting for you? Will you call off the wedding?”

  His mouth turned grim, betraying the warrior concealed beneath the words that promised her a choice. “No.”

  It was abrupt, harsh, final. “I thought you wanted me willing?” she said.

  “In bed, yes. But you’re utterly compromised and I’m the one who did it. By the time Lady Harcastle reaches London, I’m sure the length of Britain will know that you’re ruined. The ton won’t accept me if I abandon you, and even if they did, I couldn’t live with myself. So it’s time to cut bait, darling. You will marry me.”

  She took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of heather and the cooling leather of their saddles. She wanted to run, to deny him, to preserve everything she’d so desperately fought for.

  But she also wanted him. And her breath came out as a sigh when he finished his declaration. “You will marry me,” he said again, as though he didn’t think she’d understood. “But the kind of marriage we will have — that’s a choice.”

  “You would consent to live in separate houses?”

  She didn’t necessarily want to, but she had to know. Her horse nickered in protest as his hand tightened on the reins. “Separate counties, if you like. You can have a marriage of convenience, although you must attend certain functions. And give me an heir or two, of course. I’ll take them and raise them, so they won’t interrupt your precious letter-writing.”

  He’d struck hard, in more ways than he realized. She was too careful to reference the letters, but his statement about children surprised her. “You would take my children away from me?”

  “Our children,” he said. “Any court would give me custody. But it doesn’t have to be like that. We can share a house. I’m certain the pleasure we’ll find there will more than make up for the lack of sleep.”

  She laughed at his playful leer. “Such a noble offer, my lord.”

  He made an elaborate bow. “I only make promises I can keep.”

  She hesitated. In some corner o
f her heart, she knew she had already lost. There was no way out that she could see — and if she was trapped, she would rather be seduced by the reiver than ordered about by the autocrat.

  He noticed her hesitation and pressed his advantage. “You can have all the pleasure you’ve denied yourself, Amelia. You don’t have to be locked away with your letters for the rest of your days. If you come to me tonight, I’ll show you. If you don’t come...”

  He trailed off. Their eyes met. She saw the hunger in his, and wondered what he saw in hers.

  He kissed her, swiftly, suddenly, not waiting for her answer. She molded herself to him, wanting him to accept her kiss in lieu of the words she couldn’t say.

  But he wouldn’t give her that escape. He broke away, his breath ragged with the effort.

  And when she tried to kiss him again, he stepped back. “If you don’t come to me tonight, I’ll try again. But only if you ask me. Don’t test my patience, darling.”

  He led the horses away, leaving her standing in the drive. She walked slowly toward the stairs. The gravel crunched under her feet, matching the echo of his steps as he strode into the night.

  She knew what she had to do. But how would Malcolm react?

  * * *

  She paced, turning small circles in the area between the fireplace and the bed. It was what she did when a plot in her manuscript led her straight into a wall. This felt like those moments writ large, a trap that had engulfed her rather than her characters.

  Malcolm wasn’t a trap, to be fair. He was an unexpected fork in a road she thought she’d mapped to the end of her days. A week ago, her road led to her own cottage in Sussex and a life spent covered in ink and blotting sand. Tonight, the road offered a partner and a life spent covered in Malcolm’s kisses.

  If she had the courage to pursue it.

  But what took more courage? Staying on the path she’d planned for against all of society’s expectations, or setting off on a new path, one that society would expect her to embrace? She had given everything to her writing, sacrificing companionship for art, comfort for the threat of ruin. Was Malcolm an even bigger risk, or a cowardly escape from the life she’d built herself?

  Amelia forced herself to take off her hat and gloves and sit by the fire, but she couldn’t stop twisting her fingers in her lap. These questions were useful when plotting a story, but if she thought of her life solely in terms of logic and the structure of a perfect plot, she would go mad. Logic told her to leave him before she was hurt — or, more likely, before she hurt him.

  When she heard footsteps in the hall, she stopped breathing. Her logic reared up within her, told her to flee when she heard the doorknob turn, made one last attempt to stop her...

  But when Malcolm strode through the door, scanned his room, and finally let his eyes rest on her, logic lost. All she could say was, “Malcolm, I want you.”

  He was on her an instant later. She’d barely risen from the chair when he dragged her into his arms, his lips meeting hers before she had a chance to take a breath. It wasn’t polite, this kiss — it was demanding and hungry, and all those other indelicate feelings a spinster wasn’t supposed to have.

  She discovered she didn’t want polite. She moaned against his mouth, and when he opened his lips, she was already waiting for his tongue to claim her. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him closer. He slid a hand under the curve of her buttocks and lifted her, angling her toward him, leaving only her toes to graze the carpet. She felt the length of his erection between them, and maybe it should have frightened her, but she felt a fierce kick of pride. She’d caused that — and with this man, she wanted what it offered.

  Her life always came back to words, but for once, she couldn’t track her observations as they happened — her words found it impossible to keep up. Within the swirling heat of their kiss, she registered impressions, like the stubble of his shadowed beard abrading her hand as she caressed his jaw. The wild taste of his mouth, whisky mixed with the barest trace of salt. The low growl in his throat as she nipped his lip — the answering thrust of his tongue as he deepened his claim.

  Cool air skimmed her skin as he hiked up her skirts. The little breath she still had rushed out of her lungs as he broke their kiss to scoop her up into his arms, and she instinctively wrapped her legs around his waist. The bulge in his breeches jutted dangerously close to her most private place, drawing all her attention to the throbbing between her legs.

  “Please, Malcolm,” she whispered into his neck.

  He shifted her up, even closer, and kissed her again. He was slower this time, almost gentle — almost polite.

  But not quite.

  One of his hands cupped her derriere, pushing her hard against him, and the slower pace of their kiss let her feel everything else. His scent worked its way through her, the tang of his sweat, the heady combination of leather and exertion. She should have felt dirty, should have wanted the pale, perfumed skin of a London gentleman instead of Malcolm’s callused hands stroking her waist.

  She didn’t want a gentleman. She wanted him.

  And she wanted him now.

  “Please,” she said again, more demanding this time.

  He pulled back just enough to see her clearly. His face was almost impassive, a statue carved out of granite, and she might have thought that he was unaffected by her. She’d gotten better at seeing into the depths of his eyes, though. And in the flickering firelight, she saw how much he wanted her, too.

  “I didn’t think you would be here,” he said.

  She exhaled. “I didn’t think I would either.”

  He paused. She saw some battle play out over his face, so quick she might have missed it had she not been dying to understand his thoughts. The consequence wasn’t what she expected.

  He set her on her feet.

  Her skirts fell around her. The velvet settled in heavy folds, suddenly feeling like a tomb in which her desire would be buried alive. She must have gaped at him, because his hand came up to tap her chin and shut her mouth. His thumb slid across the corner of her lip, and he almost leaned in to kiss her again.

  She would have accepted it. But at the last moment he pulled back. “Are you sure you want me?” he asked.

  She was dazed by his kisses, too dazed to understand what he was driving at. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

  “I know you want me now. But I don’t want you hot one minute and cold the next. I’d rather have a marriage of convenience than come to your room every night wondering whether I’ll get the whore or the nun.”

  “That’s not nice.”

  He shrugged. “This could just be another strategy on your part. If it’s not a trick, then tell me what you want — show me what you want. But if you can’t stomach the thought of sharing my bed every night, then get out.”

  She was out of her depth. Usually she was the one who saw five steps ahead. But while she was scheming her way out of their engagement, Malcolm had been planning for their inevitable future together. So when he demanded her view of it, she didn’t have any logic ready.

  All she had was instinct.

  And instinct told her to jump.

  She bridged the distance between them and twined her fingers with his. “This isn’t a trick. I want the pleasure you promised me, Malcolm. And I want it tonight.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Amelia held her breath as she waited for Malcolm’s response. She had never done anything so brazen. But knowing that he wanted her — not her dowry, or her bloodlines, but her — was enthralling. She would see where that desire led.

  And if he hurt her, or broke her trust, she could still find her way back to her original path.

  He was tightly wound, a grim warrior surveying his captive. Or maybe he was the captive and she was the warrior queen, able to grant mercy if he pleased her. She glimpsed every story between them in that moment, read the web of tangled roles, felt the shifting balances as he regarded her. He took a step toward her, lifted her again, a
nd she sighed against his ear as he cradled her in his arms.

  But when he set her on the edge of the bed, he didn’t join her. “If you claim you want pleasure, I await your command,” he said.

  His eyes were hooded and his thoughts were unreadable as he stood before her. She looked away from his eyes, down the slightly crooked nose, the tight lips, the firmly sculpted chin, to the broad shoulders and chest below.

  She threw her lot in with the devil. “Take off your jacket,” she ordered.

  He raised an eyebrow but complied, shrugging out of the tightly fitted jacket and tossing it on a nearby chair. His shoulders were just as wide in his linen shirt as they were in his jacket — no tailor’s artifice was responsible for the way she swallowed at the sight of him.

  Then he waited.

  “Do I really need to ask for everything?” she said, her cheeks already flaming as she struggled to articulate her desires.

  Malcolm grinned then, and even though his smile disappeared almost as soon as it arrived, it gave her heart. “This is your adventure, darling, not mine.”

  “Very well, then,” she said, hoping her blush would die. “Remove your cravat and your waistcoat.”

  Malcolm did as he was instructed, slowly, leisurely, with nothing to hide. His long fingers slowly untied the starched linen cravat, slipping it loose from his neck and letting it slide to the floor.

  His eyes met hers as he began to unfasten his waistcoat, and her breath caught. He seemed to be daring her to continue — but could she handle what she asked for?

  She broke away from his gaze and watched as each button came free. He threw the waistcoat to join the jacket on the nearby chair.

  “Your shirt next,” she said, feeling a thread of heat uncurling deep inside her.

  He didn’t bother with the ties that held the shirt closed. He tugged violently at the neckline, tearing the cloth as he pulled the shirt over his head. She watched the muscles of his stomach ripple as he lifted his arms to pull the shirt off. She had to clasp her hands to stop herself from reaching out and skimming her fingers across the flat planes of his belly.