by Paula Quinn
And just as fiery as when he left her.
He shouldn’t have come back.
“Aye, Miss Buchanan, ’tis I come to save ye, whether ye like it or no’.” His sharp eyes didn’t miss when she balled her fists at her sides. “Or in this case, ’tis more likely I’ll be savin’ Roddie Menzie.”
Chapter Four
Could her day get any worse? First Roddie, now him! Oh, not him! Where the hell was Malcolm Grant? Did she hear Darach’s declaration right? Was he here in his cousin’s stead… to “save” her? She wanted to laugh, and then scream and wail at her brother. William had put her in the position where she needed saving. Though she couldn’t forget that she had a part in her demise, too. She had agreed to marry the Menzie chief, on parchment only, to save Ravenglade. She didn’t want to leave the castle… or Darach Grant’s bed. She’d trusted Will when he promised her that Malcolm Grant would return and take back his castle himself, saving them. But Malcolm wasn’t coming and she and Will had to depend on Darach to help them. She’d always hoped Darach would return. Finally, he had, but not for her. For Ravenglade. Everything was always for Ravenglade. But this castle wasn’t theirs. She knew it, she always had. Darach being here in Malcolm’s stead was part of her punishment for trying to hold on to what didn’t belong to her. The other part was having to agree to marry Roddie.
It wasn’t going to happen. She didn’t care if the Menzies took Ravenglade and burned it to the ground. She wasn’t some high-born noble’s daughter, promised to wed for peace between countries, or for a home that wasn’t hers. Her father had drowned. She was free to wed whom she wanted. And she didn’t want Roddie Menzie. She didn’t want to think about Darach Grant being here, looking better than she remembered, if that was possible.
“I don’t care what we must do, Will,” she said, turning to her brother and ignoring their unwanted guest. “There’ll be no marriage.”
“We’ve already discussed what will be done,” Darach answered in Will’s place. “Ye’ll both do exactly as I say.”
She pivoted around slowly and shot him a cool glare. He was just as arrogant, too.
“Ye have nothing to do with this, Mr. Grant. Kindly mind yer own affairs.”
One corner of his mouth hooked into a smile that convinced her that he minded them well.
“Ye and yer clan will come oot of this unscathed,” he promised. “If ye put this matter into m’ care. If ye refuse, then ye’ll be fat with Roddie Menzie’s brat by next summer.”
The thought of it sickened her, but if she accepted Darach’s help, what would he expect in return? She wouldn’t be another one of his conquests. “I won’t be in yer debt. We don’t need yer help.”
“Ye’ll likely lose yer brother,” he continued as if she hadn’t spoken, “and more than half yer kin. M’ kin have fought the Menzies in the past. I was present fer one such battle and I can tell ye now, yer side willna’ beat them.”
She knew he was right. Her life had been given to Roddie, agreed upon by her and signed over by her brother, chief of the Buchanans of Aberfeldy. Roddie would never abide a broken agreement. There would be much fighting. Much dying. She flicked her eyes to her brother.
She wouldn’t let him die because of her stubborn pride.
“Verra’ well then, Mr. Grant,” she agreed, returning her attention to him. “What would ye have me do?”
She read his answer in his face. Oh, his face. She knew it well. She had thought of it often. She tried to look away from him but his warm, verdant gaze held her captive. His lush, decadent mouth conjured images that made her breath quicken. How could a man make her kneecaps buckle with so little effort? She was entranced all over again by the faintest hint of danger and amusement that made his emerald eyes twinkle.
He was back and she no longer wanted him to be. He tempted her to drag him in for a deep, passionate kiss and then beg him not to leave again, or slap her hand across his face for all the sleepless, haunted nights he’d caused her. Her logic told her he couldn’t be trusted. She had to guard herself against him or he would charm her logic right out of her head like he had before, and then leave her again.
“We’ll discuss it over breakfast,” he told her, oblivious to the danger of his dismissive tone, especially since it involved such an urgent matter. “By the way,” he glanced up vaguely from her brother’s correspondence with Roddie. “Have either of ye heard a word from Ravenglade’s beloved cook, Henrietta?”
The cook? She had to wait until the morning to talk about her future, but he wanted to discuss the cook now?
“I may have heard some gossip about her,” Janet told him and patted a yawn. “But we’ll discuss it over breakfast along with… What was the other topic?”
The slight bend at the corner of his lips infuriated her. “Yer future,” he reminded her.
“Aye.” She didn’t let him rattle her. “My future,” she agreed with a chilled smile of her own.
She peered at him. Were those stitches in his lip? She noticed the slight discoloration around his left eye and cheekbone, darker along his jaw. This made the second time she’d met him and he was beat up and bruised. Did a month ever pass in his life when his face didn’t bear witness to his overconfident mouth? She wondered who pummeled him this time—and how he would ever keep them safe.
“Did ye fall off yer horse and smash yer face into a rock?”
“Do I look that bad?”
He looked damned extraordinary. He didn’t wear his customary Highland plaid, but rather riding pants and dusty boots with a white linen shirt belted and slightly flared at the hips. “Not any worse than the last time I saw ye.”
“That’s a good thing, I suppose.” His short laugh released a dozen butterflies in her belly. “I havena’ been jumped by a dozen men since I rode through yer hometown last spring.”
She’d forgotten how much he enjoyed riling her. “Well, I fer one am delighted that my kinsmen who attacked ye were mostly old men, else ye would not be here tonight.”
He tossed back his head and filled the solar with his hearty laughter.
Looking at him made it hard to think, so Janet turned away. She needed to get away and clear her thoughts.
“I’ll be retiring to my room and will see ye both in the morning then.”
The instant she cleared the solar she bolted up the stairs. She had to get her things out of his chamber before he discovered her.
He would think she slept there because she missed him, that she was waiting for his return! And he would be correct, damn it! She simply refused to ever admit it to him. She’d never tell him that she had wished he were there with her at night, locked in her arms, smiling that purely decadent grin at her. Only her. But he was a heartless rogue and she would never let him know her heart.
Her mind raced with what to clear first from the room.
There were fifty-seven rooms in Ravenglade and because many in her clan chose to stay in their own village, in their own homes, most of the rooms were empty.
She dashed to one of them and threw open the door. Then she ran down the hall to his bedchamber, burst inside, and gathered as much as she could in her arms and raced back out. She didn’t realize how many gowns she owned and cursed her own vanity. She collected her slippers, combs, and ribbons and hurried back to her new room a second time. By the fourth trip, her breath came heavy. She should have carried her trunks out first, now she was tired and could manage only one at time. She had to hurry, some of her most valued items were in those trunks.
Darach climbed to the top of the stairs and saw his bedchamber door ajar, candlelight coming from inside. He proceeded cautiously and stepped inside, pushing the creaking door open with him. He looked around. The bedchamber was empty and in disarray, like someone was moving in or out in a hurry. He took a deep breath and let Janet Buchanan’s scent flow into his lungs.
He lifted a pillow off the bed and brought it to his nose. She had been sleeping in here while he was gone. What did it mean? Did she car
e for him all this time? His mouth went dry and he felt his heart accelerate a bit. He shook his head, refusing to let it mean anything to him. But to her…? Damn, but she must have panicked when she saw him, knowing she had to get out of here before he discovered her. He smiled and looked toward the door. Prideful wench. If she would have admitted to using his chamber he would have been perfectly happy to let her stay, instead of moving everything herself. He looked around the room now. Traces of her still remained—a thin vase of dried flowers set inside the deep window, a small clay pot filled with scented oil she hadn’t gotten to yet, a hair clip she must have dropped. He picked it up and examined it. A few long strands of golden hair were coiled throughout its teeth. He brought it to his nose and inhaled.
He remembered how good she smelled that morning when her clan had captured and beaten him, bound his wrists and ankles, and then left him in her care. It was her scent that haunted him, and the way the firelight in the barn fell over the contours of her face. Hell, she was a flame of fire. Bold and strong-willed—he liked how she stood up to him. He’d tried to put her out of his thoughts but he succeeded only in burying her in his heart, never truly letting her go.
He cursed his cousin Malcolm for bringing him back here and stirring up the embers. He was safer if she remained buried.
Out of all the chambers in Ravenglade she’d chosen to stay in this one—in his bed. Did he fill her thoughts at night while she’d laid her head on his pillow? It didn’t change a damn thing. In fact, it made things worse! It made him long for her even more.
He had to keep a clear head though. He had to save her and Ravenglade from Roddie Menzie. From the moment he’d read Menzie’s agreement to the marriage proposal, he’d had no choice. He wasn’t about to let her marry Roddie Menzie, or any other damned Menzie for that matter.
He swept his gaze over the trunks on his bed. The lid on one had come askew and something that looked like parchment peeped out at him. He reached for it. It was a small bundle of letters, all unfolded pages, written in clear, slightly slanted writing. Letters from a lover? He picked one up and examined it. They weren’t written by a suitor, but by Janet, penned to herself.
I dreamed of him again. I know that sleeping in his bed only contributes to his nightly visits. Yet I cannot leave it, fancying somehow that he is there with me. I am a fool, cast under a spell fashioned of emeralds and gold, and a double-edged tongue sharper than any sword. I am a slave to the ghost of a man who has clearly fergotten me. Och, how I do hate him.
This was about him—it had to be. She thought he’d forgotten her and because of that she hated him? Why did the idea of her hating him make him want to go find her and set her straight? He hadn’t forgotten her. Not even for a moment.
Damn it, this wasn’t good. It wasn’t good at all.
Chapter Five
Two more trips and she would be finished. If Darach was drinking with William downstairs, she had a bit of time yet. She reached the doorway and skidded to a halt. He was standing there beside his bed.
He turned, as if he could hear her heart about to burst from her chest.
Were those her letters in his hands?
“Mr. Grant!” She rushed to him and snatched the letters from him. “These are my cousin Margaret’s things, if ye dinna’ mind. She used yer chamber last eve—”
“Yer cousin.” He raised an eyebrow and nodded with her when she did.
“That’s correct.” She forced herself to smile. “Margaret. When I told her ye had returned, she insisted that I help her remove her things.”
“Why?” he asked, stopping her when she would have stepped around him to get to her trunk.
“Why?”
He nodded. “Why did she send ye and no’ come herself to fetch her own things?”
She studied him for a moment or two, doing little to disguise the flash of frustration in her eyes before they dipped to her hair clip in his hand. Damn it all to hell.
“She’s heard about yer prowess with women, Grant. She fears ye will try to seduce her when ye have her alone.” She swiped a curl off her nose and pushed past him, then shoved her letters back inside her trunk. “I told her ye could be easily subdued with a kick to the groin, but she’s a meek thing and—” She stopped, staring at the trunk.
“Did ye read any of those letters?” she asked, turning her worried eyes toward him.
“Why?” He moved toward her. “Who wrote them? Miss Buchanan, does yer cousin Margaret—have a lover?”
“Nae!” she insisted, wanting to slap that grin off his face. She turned for the trunk instead of watching him. “’Tis just that Margaret wouldn’t want ye snooping around in her things. She does not like ye.”
“Is that so?” His laughter filled her head like fine wine. “Well, I dinna’ think I like her either.”
She straightened with the trunk under her arm and swept her hair back. “I’m pleased to hear that, Grant.”
“That I dinna’ like her?” he asked.
“Nae. That ye think. I was beginning to doubt ye knew how.”
“In truth, when I rode all the way back here from Skye to save ye, I doubted it, too.”
Her eyes flashed and her lips tightened, but she managed a smile. “Ye came back to save Ravenglade. Not me.” She stepped around him to leave but he blocked her path.
“That’s true,” he said in a low voice, taking the trunk from her and setting it at his side. When he straightened again to his full height, he moved closer. So close, in fact, that the sudden fragrance of smoky firewood and something more male assailed her senses and went straight to her head. “But mayhap I’ve changed m’ mind. Mayhap I should keep ye fer m’self.”
She laughed, drawing his gaze to her mouth. “My, my, Grant, but ye certainly havena’ changed. Ye are as cocky as before.”
“Ye’re no’ the first to think so.” Letting her hear the smirk in his voice, he raised his fingers to her face and caressed the sweet contour of her chin. He stopped suddenly at the pinch of steel at his groin. He looked down at the small dagger in her free hand, poised between his legs.
“If ye don’t remove yer hand from my face, I’ll most likely be the last.”
Her promise was made of silk and steel, convincing enough to keep him still. Close enough to look into her eyes, Darach drenched his vision in what he saw. A strong, fearless lass, who at present, was enjoying herself immensely. A spirited mare with lightning-quick hands and a merciless tilt to her lips.
“I only wish to kiss ye, lass. Nothin’ more,” he promised quietly, pressing her, drawing her in with a finger under her chin. She wouldn’t kill him. Not with a marriage to the Menzie chief looming in her future. He tilted his head and grazed her mouth with his, just lightly enough to share breath, short and instantly heated. He watched her eyes close, her lips parting ever so slightly to receive him more fully.
He paused. What was he doing? Hadn’t it taken him months to put Janet out of his mind? Didn’t every lass he’d pursued since meeting her pale in comparison to her fiery spirit? She made him want to tame her, even though he knew he never could. No one ever would. Should he pursue her this time? She claimed to hate him but he doubted it to be true. What if it wasn’t true, and he broke her heart when he left yet again? He might want Janet Buchanan, but Grants didn’t lose things like castles… or hearts to Buchanans. What if his kin didn’t accept her?
“The thought of yer mouth on mine repulses me,” she said shakily, moving back.
She was lying. Darach smiled. He didn’t want to think about his kin or past feuds, or anything but Janet’s mouth. She’d been sleeping in his bed. She thought of him enough to feel the need to write about it—just like he did. It shouldn’t feel like a victory, however small, but it did. And since Darach already knew that victories with Janet would be few, he allowed himself to take enjoyment in it. He took a step closer and dipped his lips to her ear. “Prove it.”
Just as he suspected, she couldn’t. She fell weak when he took her up in
the crook of his arm. She didn’t resist his hungry mouth, but searched his with equal abandon.
She awakened his every nerve ending, sending scorching heat through Darach’s body. He stopped thinking and kissed her the way he’d dreamed of kissing her long after he’d left her the first time. With a tight groan and an arm beneath her waist, he hefted her up, closer, if that was possible, and supported her back and her nape while he bent over her and deepened their kiss. He felt her resistance, very slight. Another man might have ignored it. But Darach wasn’t another man. He wanted to fit her between his thighs and let her feel what she brought him to, but he’d promised that he wanted only a kiss.
So he steadied her and set her firmly on her feet.
He’d gone daft. It had to be that.
She may have swayed. He knew he did.
She stared at him through hooded eyes, almost making him regret stopping. “If ye ever do that again,” she warned an instant later, looking more clear-headed, “I’ll scratch oot yer eyes.” Without waiting for his reply, she bent and plucked her letters from the trunk. “I’ll send someone tomorrow fer the rest of Margaret’s things. Now move aside and let me pass.”
He obeyed, smiling as she left his chamber. Returning to his bed, he wasn’t completely sure if he wanted to bed her or toss her out the window. He picked up his pillow and smelled her fragrance all over it.
Bed her.
Most definitely.
Chapter Six
Janet didn’t sleep well at all that night. It wasn’t because of her fear of marrying Roddie, or the unfamiliar bed, though the mattress was lumpy and the blankets were musty and she sneezed for a good half hour after getting under them. No, her eyes wouldn’t stay closed for longer than ten breaths at a time thanks to the memory of Darach Grant and his mouth on hers, hot and hungry. His broad, callused fingers touching her jaw like he had every right to. Then, holding her up while she draped over his arms, weak and helpless. He didn’t fear her dagger and boldly took what he wanted before dumping her back on her feet. Saints, if he hadn’t stopped, she would have let him seduce her on his first night back at Ravenglade. She would have loved it, too, until she hated herself in the morning.