Until now. Now Pennington had forced her out of Pentforth. Annie had started giving her advice. And Ian—
Dear God, what was she going to do about Ian?
He’d never cried, never shed one tear over their baby. No, he’d wanted to go back to bed as soon as they could and try again. He’d said something stupid about getting back on the horse right after you’d fallen off.
Mrs. MacNeill had told her he’d come after her, but she hadn’t wanted to see him. She’d torn up all his letters until he’d stopped sending them. She’d counted all his mistresses over the years, each one evidence that he had no heart, had never loved her or the baby.
But now that she’d seen him…
She sat in the chair by the fire and tucked her feet up under her. The flames flickered and leaped. A log snapped; she breathed in the scent of wood and ashes.
Seeing him was making her feel things again. She did not want to feel again…did she?
Her life was calm—and empty.
She glanced at the bed. Ian was here—would be very much here shortly. And Lady Remington was not.
What was she thinking? Was she completely daft? Of course she wouldn’t…would she?
She lusted after him. There, she’d admitted it. Was that so evil? Men lusted for women—couldn’t women return the favor?
Lust wasn’t feeling, really. It was a response to an animal instinct—and apparently Ian could definitely stir animal instincts in her. And if Lady Wordham was correct…well, perhaps she could solve one of his pressing problems. Perhaps she could give him an heir.
They wouldn’t have to go back to what they’d had. That was impossible. And they wouldn’t even have to go back to living in the same house. Many married members of the ton didn’t. But they could share this bed and see if anything came of it.
And if something did? If Ian gave her a child and she lost it again—No, she would not think about that. Just for tonight, she would try facing this as Ian must face all his bed play. As all men must.
And Ian was apparently very willing. Very apparently willing. She bit her lip, remembering exactly how willing he had looked. Very long and thick and eager.
She pressed her legs tightly together and shivered. She was damp and achy—and that was a minor miracle. Nell rested her cheek on her hand. Her skin was so hot—it must be because of the fire.
Ian had looked so funny chasing that wee monkey around Lord Motton’s drawing room. He was so large, and the silly monkey was so small and noisy and, well, cocky. It had shrieked and swung on the curtain rod while Ian and Lord Motton had shed their coats and discussed a plan of capture. She smiled. She hadn’t laughed like that in years.
He’d looked very nice in his shirtsleeves. He looked even better with no shirt at all. Or breeches. Naked as he’d been…
She fanned her hand in front of her face. The fire was extremely hot this evening.
She should go to bed. It was late. She was tired.
Tired—but nervous. She looked at the bed. Her stomach twisted into a tight knot. It was far too small, too narrow, too…too bedlike.
Where was Ian? Had Lord Motton found him another room?
Her stomach sank.
And that just proved she was daft. She should not be disappointed, she should be relieved. She was relieved. She’d just been saved immeasurable embarrassment. Ian would surely have laughed had she mentioned babies to him.
She jerked back the covers and climbed into bed. She shivered. The sheets were cold. Ian had always warmed the bed….
Idiot! Ian had not been in her bed for years. She was used to sleeping alone. She was being—
What was that? It sounded like…Oh, God, no, it couldn’t be.
It was. She stared in horror as the hallway door began to open.
“Brandy?” Viscount Motton paused with the crystal decanter in his hand.
“You don’t happen to have any whisky in that cabinet, do you?” Ian sat back in the large leather chair and stretched his feet toward the study’s fire. Everyone else had gone off to bed, including Nell. Damn and blast. He’d best get good and drunk if he hoped to survive the night.
“You’re in luck.” Motton grinned and moved a few other bottles, bringing out a flask labeled DR. MACLEAN’S SPECIAL TONIC. “I’ve a wee bit.”
“I don’t think a wee bit will be enough unless you can find me another bedchamber tonight.” Thank God Motton poured with a heavy hand. Ian took the proffered glass.
“I am sorry about the confusion. Here.” Motton put the flask on the table by Ian’s elbow. “It’s yours. I’ve got another one or two where that came from—and I might have a cask stored away in the cellar.” He pulled out another bottle as he spoke and poured himself a hearty dose of tonic.
Ian swirled his glass and watched the golden whisky glow in the firelight. It smelled of the sea, of peat, of Scotland, of home. The first sip slid smooth and fiery over his tongue, down his throat to bloom into warmth throughout his chest. “Och, man, ye have some bonnie whisky here. Where did ye get it?”
Motton shrugged and sprawled in the chair across from him. “I have a few friends in Scotland.”
Ian took another swallow and closed his eyes. Heaven. “Good friends. And have you friends among the gaugers as well?” He opened his eyes to regard the viscount. “Or shouldn’t I ask?”
“I’m sure you shouldn’t. You must know I support the efforts of our excise men wholeheartedly.” Motton grinned. “Except when I don’t.”
“Hmm. I’m no lover of the gaugers, that’s a fact. Just tell your Scots friends the Earl of Kilgorn sends his regards and thinks he might have a definite need for their tonic in future.”
Motton nodded. “I believe they’d be happy to hear that. I’m sure they wish you to remain healthy and vigorous.”
“Aye.” Vigorous. Damn, why did that make him think of Nell and the blasted bed upstairs? He took another swallow. “Seems odd an English viscount would know any Scottish distillers. Not that I’m complaining, you understand.” He rolled a mouthful of whisky on his tongue. Mmm. “In fact, forget I even mentioned it.”
Motton smiled slightly. “Let’s just say I spent some time in Scotland when I wished to blend into the surroundings.”
Ian sat up straight. “Spying for the crown?” He lived among the Sassenach—even counted many as friends—but he was a Scottish laird first and foremost. If Motton had betrayed—
“No, no. Nothing so organized, I assure you. And my interest was with Englishmen, not Scotsmen.”
Ian grunted and studied Motton, then nodded. His gut told him the man wasn’t lying, and he believed his gut. It had never before led him astray…except with Nell. God, Nell! What was he going to do about Nell?
He refilled his glass.
“Careful,” Motton said. “The whisky’s strong.”
“Aye, and I need strong whisky to get me through this night.”
Motton half smiled. “I’ve left all the arrangements to Aunt Winifred. Perhaps she’ll find something in the morning.”
“Perhaps she’ll find some new way to torture me. I mean no disrespect, Motton, but your aunt is short a sheet, wouldn’t you say?”
“Not at all. I think you’ll find she’s amazingly knowing.”
“Knowing? How can you say that? Everyone kens Nell and I have lived apart these last ten years. I canna fathom how your aunt dinna know that, too.”
Motton shrugged, his damn eyes gleaming, his lips curved into a smirk. “Maybe you should take advantage of the situation Aunt Winifred has placed you in. I didn’t get the impression you hated Lady Kilgorn.”
“Hate Nell? No, of course I don’t hate Nell.” Ian gulped the whisky left in his glass and picked up the flask to pour a drop or two more. Nothing came out. He turned the flask upside down. Still nothing.
“Here.” Motton pushed his bottle toward him.
“I don’t want to take your whisky, man.”
“Please. I have plenty.” He held up his glass as
evidence. It was still half full. “And as I said, I have more if thirst overtakes me.”
“Oh, well, then, thank you.” Ian didn’t need to be urged again. “This really is verra good whisky.”
“I’m glad you like it.” Motton smiled, then looked down as he swirled the golden liquid around his glass. “So you don’t hate Nell?”
“Och, no. I love her. Have loved her forever. Never stopped loving her.” Ian sniffed and swallowed his whisky. Spirits didn’t usually make him maudlin. Maybe it was his age. Now that he was thirty, he had to face the fact that he wouldn’t live forever.
“And I got the distinct impression that she cared for you.”
“Nay, you’re wrong there. She hates me. Walked out on me exactly ten years ago.” Ian closed his eyes. God, he never wanted to relive that day. He’d come downstairs in the morning to see her standing in the front hall, a few portmanteaus and bandboxes on the floor around her, waiting for the carriage to take her out of his life.
They had argued the night before. He’d said so many things he hadn’t meant. He’d been so frustrated—sexually, yes, but more than that. He’d had no idea how to bridge the chasm that yawned between them. He couldn’t bring the baby back—and it had not been a baby, really. Her belly hadn’t even begun to swell.
These things happened. She wasn’t the only woman to lose a child early on. The only thing to do was to try again—but she wouldn’t let him touch her.
He’d ended the argument by telling her if she wouldn’t be a wife to him, she should leave. He’d regretted the words the moment they’d left his mouth, but he couldn’t call them back. He’d seen how her eyes had hardened, how she’d drawn further into herself.
He’d thought she’d be better in the morning. Not over it—he was beginning to think she would never be over anything—but better. He’d never thought she’d actually leave.
She’d had no destination. His heart still clenched at what would have happened had he not come downstairs. Surely his coachman would never have dropped her at an inn—not and keep his employment. He’d tried to persuade her to stay, but when that failed, he’d told Seamus to take her to Pentforth.
He’d thought she’d be back in a few days, a week at the most.
“I don’t think she hates you,” Motton said.
“Och, man, she does. If ye’d seen the look in her eyes the day she left…” It had been as cold as the loch in the dead of winter. She’d looked straight through him, as though he weren’t there—or as though he were the lowest sort of vermin.
“I saw the look in her eyes at dinner tonight. I wouldn’t say it was hate; I’d say it was longing.”
“Nay. Nay, ye’re wrong.” Ian studied his whisky. Could Motton be right? Was it possible Nell had softened toward him? Forgiven him?
Forgiven him for what? He’d done nothing wrong. He hadn’t caused her to lose the babe. If later he’d not kept his wedding vows, well, neither had she. She’d left him—and had taken up with Pennington and the rest.
No, he’d been faithful to her until she’d deserted him, but then, well, what could she expect? That he would live as a monk when she barred him from her bed? Not bloody likely.
“Do you wish to reconcile with Lady Kilgorn?”
“What?” Damn, he’d forgotten Motton was even in the room.
“Lady Kilgorn—do you wish to reconcile with her?” Motton met his eyes, then examined his own whisky. “Lady Remington has been putting it about that you are going to divorce your wife and wed her.”
“Lady Remington is not in my confidence.” And she damn well was not going to be in his bed ever again. “I have no idea where she would get such a ridiculous notion.”
“No idea?”
Ian could feel his face flush. Yes, he’d gone to too many society events with Caro. He’d been bored, and it had been easier to let her attach herself to him than cut the connection. No more. If the damn harpy had the gall to approach him again, she would be in no doubt at all as to his sentiments.
“Lady Remington is of no interest to me. None.”
Motton nodded. “Perhaps you should tell Lady Kilgorn that.” Motton’s gaze was steady. “Perhaps you could effect a reconciliation.”
“N-nay.” Could he make up with Nell? He would not have thought so before this damn house party, but now? Was Motton right? Did Nell care for him? Long for him, even?
She had certainly looked at him when he’d been naked in their room. She’d not been able to take her eyes off him. And she’d been jealous of Caro…
He should try. He would try.
He finished the last drops of whisky and staggered to his feet. “G’night, Motton.”
Motton frowned up at him. “You’re sure you haven’t had a little too much whisky? Perhaps a spot of coffee—”
“I can hold my liquor.”
“Yes, well, you are holding a rather great quantity at the moment. I’m not certain—”
“I am certain—and I’m certainly impatient to go to bed”—he waggled his eyebrows—“if you take my meaning.”
“I’m afraid I do. Look, Kilgorn, you might want to be slightly less, um, elevated before you approach Lady Kilgorn.”
Ian held up a hand to stop Motton—and then used it to brace himself against the bookcase. He spoke carefully. “I liked your earlier advice better, and I believe I shall act on it immediately.”
“Oh, dear God.”
Ian grinned. His melancholy had quite dissipated. “Prayer is very good, Motton. I’ll leave you to continue your devotions.” He turned carefully and headed for the door, taking advantage of the chairs, the desk, and the bookcases to guide and steady his path.
Would Nell be in bed already? Mmm, yes, certainly. In bed. Stretched out under the covers, hair down—surely she didn’t braid it? Well, if she did, he would unbraid it and spread it out over his pillow.
He misjudged the height of a step and had to grab the banister to keep from tumbling up the stairs. See—his reflexes were splendid. He’d always been able to hold his liquor. Hell, he could drink many a man under the table. Of course he wasn’t drunk. Maybe a little elevated, all right, he’d grant Motton that, but only a little. Just enough to take the edge off.
He reached the top of the stairs and turned down the hall. Damn it, someone had carelessly placed a small table against the wall. Didn’t they know people had to walk here? He caught the vase before it tumbled off, but the flowers in it cascaded to the ground. Well, that was easily fixed. Not all the water had escaped. Just scoop the flowers up and shove them back where they’d come from.
Ah, here was his room—their room. He fumbled with the doorknob, pushed the door open…Splendid! Nell was already in bed. He grinned.
“I’m here, lass, and I’m verra ready.”
CHAPTER 5
“Ian.” Nell’s heart slammed into her throat. She tried to swallow it back down where it belonged. It was not moving. She had to whisper the words around the lump. “Ready? Ready for what?”
He looked so…big. He filled the doorway. She pulled the coverlet up as a shield.
Were his eyes a little reckless? Had he been drinking?
“Ready for bed.” He stepped all the way into the room and closed the door behind him. “And to sleep.” He grinned. “Eventually.”
She shivered in a most embarrassing place and pulled the coverlet higher. “What do you mean exactly?”
“Exactly?” He unbuttoned his waistcoat. “Hmm, what do I mean exactly?” The waistcoat hit the floor. “Let me think on it.” He pulled his shirt out of his waistband and jerked it over his head.
Oh, dear God. She could only stare at him. Her mouth was dry—but another part of her anatomy was exceedingly wet. It shivered again, anxious, eager.
Her stomach shivered with…fear?
Should she really do this? Could she feel only physical sensations or would she feel more? Did she want to feel more? And if she…if his seed…if she became pregnant…
She coul
dn’t think.
The firelight played over Ian’s skin, revealing and then hiding. He was definitely larger than she remembered. Well, he’d been hardly more than a boy when they’d wed. Now he was every inch a man. Chiseled muscles bulged in his upper arms and his chest down to his flat stomach and—
Oh, my. His muscles were not the only part of him bulging. Had he always been so large there or had his…his…had that grown, too?
“Care to have a closer look, lass?”
“What?” She tore her eyes from his, um, well…she tore her eyes away to look up at his face. The blasted man was smirking. And he was coming in her direction.
She swung around to face him as he approached, her feet dangling over the side of the bed, the coverlet still held in front of her.
Ian laughed and twitched the cloth out of her fingers. He reeked of whisky.
“You’re drunk.”
“Nay.” He smiled, the blasted dimple she hadn’t seen in forever appearing in his right cheek. “Weel, maybe a wee bit bosky.”
More than a wee bit. She’d get bosky herself just inhaling his fumes. This was a bad idea.
He took her hands and held them against his naked chest. His skin was warm; the hair, soft and springy under her fingers. She felt his heart beating.
“Your hair’s like night; your skin like cream, so soft and smooth.” He brushed her hair back from her face, his hands tangling in its length. She closed her eyes to concentrate on his touch.
His fingers skimmed over her forehead, her cheeks, down to her chin. He tilted her face up—dear Mother of God, was he going to kiss her? Her lips felt swollen; she parted them in anticipation….
His mouth touched hers, his tongue slipped inside.
Mmm. He filled her with heat and whisky and a taste that was his alone. Desire pooled between her legs, hot and wet. Her lips felt swollen there, too. She spread her knees and Ian’s leg came between hers. His fingers plucked at the skirt of her nightgown and pulled it up to her thighs so he could push her knees farther open. He stepped closer.
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