Never Kiss a Scot
Page 14
“I don’t fear your home. It’s just unknown to me.” She traced her fingers over his lips, and he caught her wrist, holding her fingers to his mouth. He kissed the pads of her fingers, and she shivered as a slow, delicious wave of arousal moved through her.
“I don’t want you to fear anything.” Brock curled an arm around her waist, pulling her flush against him. She wanted him again, but she was a little afraid. She was still sore from the first time.
“I know. You are wonderful. Did you know that?” She smiled up at him and stood on tiptoes to kiss him. She could feel his lips curve against hers, and for some reason she was deliriously happy. Their closeness was like a drug, lulling her into a sweet euphoria that she didn’t want to end. He suddenly lifted her up in his arms and carried her to the bed. He sat down on it and cradled her in his lap. She loved feeling like this, warm and safe in his arms while he kissed her. He reclaimed her lips, crushing her to him. She returned his kisses with a hunger that belied her outward calm. Perhaps she wasn’t too sore to—
“We should go, lass. If I hold you much longer like this, I will not be able to stop myself from claiming you again, and I know you must be hurting.” He nuzzled her neck, and she clutched his shoulders, sighing.
“I suppose. Let’s go and find our coach.”
He stood and set her down gently on her feet. They gathered their belongings and walked back down to the common room of the inn. Ashton and his friends were drinking at one of the tables, and a barmaid was bringing them plates of food.
“Care to have lunch with us before you go?” Ashton asked as they paused by the table.
Brock looked to Joanna uncertainly. “I will be happy to dine with them if you wish to.”
Joanna decided she would, as she would not see Ashton again for at least a month. “Yes, if you don’t mind, I would like that.”
“Very well. I’ll take our bags to the coach and tell the driver we will depart after lunch.”
The men stood as Joanna joined them. Charles winked as she looked at her brother and his friends. “Married at last, are we? Well, it suits you, Jo.” Cedric elbowed Charles in the ribs, and he grunted before muttering an apology.
“Lady Kincade, lovely for you to join us,” Godric, the Duke of Essex, bowed and she blushed. In just two days she’d gone from Ashton’s little sister to Lady Kincade. She had to admit, she rather liked the sound of that, especially if such a title made it easier to keep men like these in line.
Ashton pulled out a chair for her, and the other men waited for her to sit before they resumed their seats. Ashton gave her his plate, smiling in a way that reminded her so much of their childhood. When Brock returned, they shared a meal, the mood much more relaxed.
An hour later, she hugged Ashton again and with a falsely cheery smile waved goodbye and climbed into the coach with Brock. It stung to leave her brother behind, as well as her past. There was a tightness in her chest that only seemed to ease when she cuddled next to Brock. She sat beside him, leaning against his side, and he didn’t seem to mind.
She was happy to be with him, she didn’t doubt that, but it was sad to know that she was never truly going to go home to Lennox House again. She’d visit from time to time, but only visit. There was something undeniably sad to know that a person would never be a child in their childhood home again, that they’d left that part of their life behind. She reminded herself that she had a new home now, one she would fill with merriment and love with Brock.
16
Joanna and Brock rode in silence for a long while before she spoke.
“What is Castle Kincade like?”
Brock grinned, his mood beginning to brighten. “It sits upon a hill, not a big one, mind, but below it is a loch, with waters as blue as the summer sky. My mother had some gardens built, but they’ve fallen into disrepair in the years since she died. I have no talent for them, but perhaps you could set them straight.”
“I would like that very much,” Joanna agreed. The prospect of restoring the gardens his mother had once created seemed like a lovely idea. She was also relieved that she would have something to occupy her there. Joanna had never been the sort of woman to sit idly by when she could take charge of something.
“What was she like? Your mother, I mean.”
Brock stiffened slightly, and for a long moment Joanna wondered if he would even answer.
“My mother was tenderhearted. There wasn’t an injured animal or wounded person that she didn’t try to heal or help. There was a light in her eyes, one that I can see in you. It reminds me so much of her.” His voice roughened, and Joanna squeezed his arm, wanting to show him her support. Brock drew in a steadying breath before he continued.
“Brodie called her an angel when we were little. He thought she came down from the clouds to be our mother. And Aiden…he is so like her in spirit—loving and easily hurt.”
“Are you like your mother?” she asked.
Brock shook his head. “I know I am not.”
Joanna was worried he’d say he was like his father, but thankfully he didn’t.
“I think you are,” Joanna said quietly. Sometimes speaking the truth, one that someone needed to hear more than they could ever admit, was a way of showing love. And she wanted Brock to feel her desire to love him. She didn’t yet, but she would love him someday soon. It was like the way she could always sense a coming storm—she could tell that she would love this man more than her own life. She hoped that when that day came, she would find he had come to love her too.
They dissolved into another silence, this one longer, more contemplative, but no less peaceful. She liked that about him. Being with him was restful, at least when they weren’t kissing. He was so different from the men in London and Bath, who were desperate for conversation, but the depth and value of that conversation was often shallow. When Brock spoke it was to make a difference, to share part of himself with her.
“Would you sing me another song?” she asked, closing her eyes.
Brock chuckled. “Am I to be your Scottish songbird, lass?”
“Yes,” she giggled. She laid her head on his shoulder as he started to sing sweetly in her ear.
Frae that sweet hour her name I’d breathe.
Wi’ nocht but clouds and hills to hear me,
And when the world to rest was laid
I’d watch for dawn and wish her near me,
Till one by one the stars were gone,
The moor-cock to his mate called clearly,
And daylight glinted on the burn
Where red-deer cross at mornin’ early.
The sweet, almost mournful tone tugged at Joanna’s heart.
The years are long, the work is sair,
And life is aftimes wae and wearie,
Yet Foyer’s flood shall cease to fall
Ere my love fail until my dearie.
I’d loved her then, I loved her now,
And could the world wad be without her.
The notes trailed off into silence, yet Joanna felt the tune hum deep beneath her skin in the most wonderful way. She’d never been talented when it came to music; she’d been more proficient at sketches and watercolors, one of the many interests and talents young ladies were expected to focus on rather than the interests that truly called to her. She’d been fortunate Ashton was her brother, because he had encouraged her to learn about economics and business as well as managing investments. She wasn’t as gifted as he was, but she did have a knack for it.
“Brock?” she whispered.
“Hmm?” His reply felt intimate in a way that made her blush.
“I love when you sing to me.”
His arms tightened around her body as he pulled her closer.
“Then I shall sing often,” he promised.
They passed the remaining evening and the following day inside the coach. They paused for breaks to rest the horses, to see to their needs and to take quick meals. When the coach stopped for a final time Joanna awoke from a light
sleep that she hadn’t even been aware she’d drifted into. Brock opened the coach door and offered her his hands, helping her down. She looked up, gaping at the stone edifice towering above her. It was breathtaking. The fierce gray stones in the jagged edges of the parapets along the roof were like a wolf baring its teeth. Yet there was a softness to it, the way the stones were smoothed from years of rain rather than pitted and craggy. Whoever had built this castle had built it with love and thought, not in haste to defend against enemies.
“What do you think?” Brock asked, shifting on his feet.
“It is wonderful,” she exclaimed, her gaze sweeping over her new home.
This is my world now. The sweeping clouds and the still waters of the lake beyond the solitary castle, standing like an ancient ring of stones amidst the distant hills.
“Come, let me show you inside.” Brock offered her his arm, and she lifted her skirts as they crossed the gravel carved road and reached the tall semicircular arched doorway.
The sturdy oak was intricately carved and weathered by centuries of harsh Scottish winters. Brock pushed on the rusted latch, and the heavy door swung open on its ancient hinges. She stepped into the dim interior with Brock, feeling like a woman being taken into a dark fairy realm. She caught sight of curving stairs, tapestries hanging against the stones while shafts of light pierced the darkness from tall windows. The dusty, old feel of the castle would have scared away any number of new English brides, but not her. Joanna was instantly bewitched with the cobwebs clinging to the chandeliers that glinted like gossamer in the sunlight. It was rather how she’d envisioned the castles in her Gothic novels, but at least here there would be no lurking ghouls or terrifying specters to send her fleeing onto the moors at midnight.
Brock smiled nervously as he waved a hand about the entryway. “Welcome to Castle Kincade. Such as it is.”
“Oh, Brock,” she said with a sigh and ran to him, hugging him. “It’s magnificent.”
“You mean that?” He tilted her chin up, studying her closely, as if trying to find some sign of deception. But he wouldn’t find any. This was a place of magic, a place she felt drawn to, connected to in a way that defied any explanation she could give.
“You truly like it?” Brock asked.
“I do. Now, show me everything.”
Brock led her through a corridor that contained a dozen or more bedrooms, then the courtyard, which held a small herb garden and a rose garden. He took her to the windows of the tower, where he pointed to the outside gardens. They reminded her a little of Vauxhall in London, but he was right, they would require a lot of attention. Then he took her down to the large kitchens. They were dark, only firelit. A squat, red-faced woman sat by the fire, roasting a pot of potatoes over the flames.
The woman leapt to her feet when she saw Brock. “My lord!”
“Mrs. Tate, this is my wife, Joanna, the new mistress of Castle Kincade.”
Mrs. Tate’s eyes widened as she took in Joanna and dipped into a hasty curtsy.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Tate.” Joanna smiled at the woman, but she saw a flash of dislike in the woman’s eyes when she heard Joanna’s English accent, before the dark look was buried beneath a polite mask.
“Congratulations on your nuptials, my lord,” the cook said. “I hope you will be as happy as the great master was with your mother.”
Brock tensed at the mention of his parents, and Joanna squeezed his arm gently in silent support.
“Thank you,” Brock murmured. “I’m sure you and Lady Kincade will have much to discuss regarding the running of the kitchens, the menus for dinner, as well as the other household accounts. Joanna, her brother has seen to much of the work as well while I’ve been focused on the tenant farms and animal husbandry. I’m sure he’ll be glad to divide the work between you and himself. It’s time we changed from how my father ran things. Don’t you agree, Mrs. Tate?”
“I thought the great master ran things just fine,” she muttered, arching a brow in skeptical challenge. Joanna swallowed back a bitter taste. This was not going to be easy; she would have to convince the cook to trust her.
“Mrs. Tate, have you seen Mr. Tate? He did not greet us when we arrived,” Brock asked in a low voice.
“Oh! Mr. Tate was seeing to the books in your study, my lord.”
“Ach, good.” Brock escorted Joanna from the kitchens. As they left, she glanced over her shoulder one more time and saw Mrs. Tate still frowning.
Oh dear. She wasn’t looking forward to dealing with Mrs. Tate, but she suspected it was due to the fact that she was English. The Battle of Culloden was still fresh in the minds of many, especially the Scots.
She and Brock returned to the main hall, and he took her down a narrow corridor.
“This is my study. You may visit me anytime here. Unlike some men, I will not bar any of my home from you. Every room is as much yours as it is mine.” He opened the door, and she followed him into the study. A man sat at the large desk, poring over account books.
“Ah, Tate, there you are. Allow me to introduce you to Joanna, my wife.”
“Wife?” Tate rose from his chair, frowning slightly at Joanna. “You have married, my lord? I received no letter about such a thing.”
Joanna stared at Mr. Tate, shocked that the steward of the estate had taken such a tone with his master.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t have time to inform you.” Brock stared at Tate. “Joanna is Rosalind’s sister-in-law by marriage, and now she is my wife. Joanna, Mr. Tate is the brother to the cook, Mrs. Tate. Mrs. Tate isn’t married, but we’ve always called her missus for as long as I can remember,” he explained to Joanna before turning back to his steward. “Mr. Tate, please make sure Joanna has everything she needs.”
Tate closed the account books and bowed formally to Joanna.
“I apologize, my lady. I was shocked to hear of the sudden wedding, that is all.” He offered her a smile, but it wasn’t as warm as she’d hoped.
“Thank you, Mr. Tate.” Joanna smiled at him, trying to be cordial.
“Why don’t I show you to your rooms,” Brock said, and then they left Mr. Tate to his business in Brock’s study.
They went up the elegant winding staircase and down one of the corridors. Joanna stared at the lovely tapestries lining the walls. One depicted a unicorn trapped in a small circular fence. There was something about the scene, the tranquil immortal creature allowing itself to be captive while flowers bloomed around it and the animals in the woods looked upon the snowy-white beast in fascination and awe.
“My mother loved this tapestry.” Brock’s rich voice rumbled from behind her, pulling her out of the spell of the intricately woven tapestry for a moment.
“It’s beautiful.” Joanna gazed at the almost shimmering strands of the white thread. The unicorn almost seemed to breathe in the light coming from the windows opposite. She wasn’t sure why, but she felt a sudden mix of joy and sorrow at the sight.
Brock placed a hand on her waist, and the comforting touch sent a bolt of excitement through her. She turned so she could see his face. His dark brows arched over his storm cloud–colored eyes. They made her think of the summer storms that swept over fields of bending trees and bursting with lightning. Beautiful, frightening, and yet so full of life and energy.
She reached up, gripping his waistcoat at the neck and tugging his head down to hers. She needed to kiss him. In a strange way, it seemed that she could express herself with small, little things like kisses when words failed her.
He returned the kiss, his tongue slipping between her lips as he moved her backward, pressing her against the unicorn tapestry. The sun-warmed cloth heated her back, and she felt cocooned between it and Brock’s body. He mastered her mouth with wicked kisses that flushed her with heat and hunger in equal measure. It never seemed like enough. One kiss from him was a spark inside a tinderbox. She lit up, as though lightning was surging through her in violent, powerful explosions. All from one kiss.
“Is it always like this?” she asked, still clutching his waistcoat collar.
“I…” He hesitated. “I’ve been with a few women before—not many, mind, but a few—and it has never come close to this, lass. Not like it is with you.” His lips softened into a seductive smile that seemed almost boyish in its charm. Her heart skittered in her chest.
“Truly?” She felt foolish for wanting him to reassure her, but she was falling in love with him bit by bit, like sliding down a rain-slicked hill in the spring. Soon she would be hopelessly in love with him, and it terrified her to think she would be the only one who felt that way.
“Aye. You are different from all the rest.” He nuzzled her before stealing another faint kiss, and the ghostly press of his mouth to hers was felt down to her core. It was not a kiss to seduce nor to inflame desire. It was one that expressed affection, to linger like a sweet dream.
“Come.” He led her down the corridor and stopped in front of a closed door.
“These will be your private chambers for when you wish to be alone. I understand that gentle ladies need their private sanctuaries.” He opened the door for her and showed her inside. The room was circular and very unusual. A fireplace was to the right and a four-poster bed to the left. There were two large windows, one close to the fireplace and one closer to the bed.
“Are we in the tower?” she asked, trying to make sense of the large circular space.
“Aye. There are a few large spaces such as these. My mother converted them into guest chambers when she reminded my father that we were no longer fighting the English and had no need for armories and such.”
Joanna gazed at the room in wonder. Perhaps it’d once been a medieval armory, but all she saw now was a place of peace, decorated with feminine touches. The bed coverlet was a pretty shade of emerald with gold fringe, and the vanity was made of a beautiful rosewood with a mirror inlaid into it. Everything in the room was elegant.