A Well Favored Gentleman: Well Pleasured #2

by Christina Dodd

  Alanna clung as they jerked forward. Sticks poked her sides and back as they jolted along, and she wished she could have walked to the manor. But the swelling of her ankle hadn’t subsided and she’d lose her nerve if she waited another day. She yearned, with all her might, to be going the opposite way, climbing the fells or seeking the moist scents of the forest. She was breaking her word to herself; she was returning before Mr. Fairchild had died, and she knew, in her heart, he would find one more way to ravage her.

  She thought of how Brice would stare at her, how Edwin would whisper speculation with a shocked expression. She knew every noble in Scotland would speculate about where she had been, and with whom. But she tried not to concern herself. After all, she had enough to fret about without concentrating on what people would do and think.

  Like Ian Fairchild.

  Like whether Ian Fairchild would be satisfied if she offered him a position as her business manager.

  And like whether it would snow in hell this week.

  As time went on, the world became a colder place to mystical creatures such as selkies. The pact became more significant; its confidentiality of utmost importance. Fionnaway’s people, isolated by the rugged fells and crashing sea, spoke but little with the rare stranger who wandered by. They earned a reputation as hospitable but reticent. They didn’t care. They had the stones to help them through the rough times, and they kept their shoreline pristine for their selkie conspirators.

  Chapter 11

  Alanna slid off the tail of the cart as the woodcutter pulled into the courtyard of Fionnaway Manor. Her heart thumped hard as she contemplated her next actions; the actions that would change her from a witch to Lady Alanna in the most picturesque way possible. It had to be done. She knew it did, but once she had begun, there would be no going back. She would never be anonymous again.

  “Come on, now, whatyer doing?” the woodcutter nagged. “Ye canna just stand there in the courtyard o’ Mr. Fairchild’s manor. He’ll have ye moved along.”

  She glared at him. If she had needed incentive, he had given it to her. Mr. Fairchild’s manor, indeed!

  Spreading her arms, she called, “Good people, I call on you to see a miracle!”

  The women working in the manor garden straightened. The maids in the dairy came to the door. The men replacing brick in the aging walk-way stared at her. Kennie stepped out of his smithy and glared at her.

  “I am well known in Fionnaway as a shape-shifter, and now I will reveal my secret!” She gestured to the children who played alongside the pond, and they cautiously crept close.

  One of the bricklayers snorted and went back to work, but someone spoke from the top of the broad marble stairway that led to Fionnaway’s great door.

  “Stand and listen to her. You’ll learn something.”

  Alanna looked up, right into Ian’s gaze. He watched her as if he, too, longed to hear the truth about her, and pettily she hoped to shock him so much his brown eyes would turn green—turn like his ring.

  But the servants were gathering, the woodcutter waited, and Kennie held a mallet menacingly in his fist.

  “Sometimes shape-changing is easy.” She loosened the tie that held her hood in place and pushed it back.

  Everyone took a step backward at the sight of her burnished red hair. The women gathered their children close to their skirts.

  Then she heard someone whisper, “’Tis the MacLeod mop.”

  “Aye, it is.” She blessed the whisperer with a smile. “The MacLeod mop. A head you’re as familiar with as your own.” Pulling a rag out of her pocket, she limped toward the well.

  “Dunna let her go there!” Kennie shouted. “She’s a witch. She’ll curse the well as she cursed me.”

  “Dunna be daft, man.” Mrs. Armstrong stood close to the clothesline. “Canna ye see who she truly is?”

  A murmur began as Alanna dipped her cloth into the full bucket, and grew louder as she washed her face. She peered into the bucket to see her reflection, but Mrs. Armstrong spoke from beside her. “Ye’ve missed a spot on yer chin, m’lady.”

  “M’lady,” one of the dairymaids said. “Grace called her m’lady.”

  “More of the miracle,” Alanna proclaimed, untying the rope from around her waist and shrugging out of her cloak. She loosened her hair so it fell all around her shoulders and shook the wrinkles out of the dress. The embarrassingly old-fashioned bodice fit too tight around the bosom, but the one that suited better, Ian had torn that night when she’d tried to slit his throat. “The shape-shifter has become Lady Alanna!”

  “The shape-shifter,” Ian said ironically, “has always been Lady Alanna.”

  She turned to him on the outskirts of the circle. She hadn’t surprised him. Those threats in the witch’s hut had been directed especially toward getting her back to Fionnaway. Into his hands. And she had, indeed, made a rare fool of herself. “You always knew, didn’t you?”

  He didn’t answer. Word of her return was spreading. Servants streamed out of the manor and villagers ran up the hill. Somehow everyone knew, and one of the maids shouted, “Hey, Kennie, tell us again how the witch withered yer rod.”

  A great wave of laughter rose in the air, and Kennie turned redder than his forge. He would have answered, blustered and threatened, but his tiny wife stood off to the side, her fists pressed on her hips, her head outstretched, glaring through narrowed eyes. “Aye, Kennie, tell us how the witch withered yer rod. Or is it a bit o’ skirt ye’re keeping on the side that keeps ye from performing yer marital duties?”

  She started toward him. He stepped away, dropping his mallet, and ran out the gate and down the hill with his wife in pursuit.

  Ian knew the news of Alanna’s return would soon penetrate inside the manor, but he hadn’t the heart to cut short her triumphant return. And indeed, looking at her in the sunshine while she spoke to her people made him glad for this moment to collect his composure. What appeared beautiful in the moonlight almost blinded him in the sun.

  Alanna’s hair glowed like a red halo around her head, her cowlick an exclamation of independence and originality. The previously muted angles and curves and dimples of her face were radiant, and the smile she blessed her servants with roused a longing in him. That smile would soon drench him with her acceptance.

  She was delectable.

  She was the selkie and the witch.

  She was his.

  Then he saw her wince and clutch at Mrs. Armstrong’s arm, and he shoved his way through the encircling crowd. “Lady Alanna, how bad is that foot?”

  Only her startled green eyes and her squeak answered him as he swung her into his arms.

  Into his arms. It was the first time he’d touched her since last night. Since he’d brought her from her drugged state with kisses and with tender hands. His decision to lay claim on her, and through her, her property, had been made coldly and logically. That didn’t explain his bone-deep pleasure as he’d wrung whimpers from her pliant form with each caress, nor did it explain his exultation as he’d broken through her maidenhead. If a dozen men had been before him, he would have kept her, but she was his. Only his.

  Now he clutched her, restrained her as she fought his hold, and reminded her with the press of his body of the night before.

  When she relaxed, she looked at him through narrowed eyes. He saw the memories fighting to form. He saw her deny them, tamp them firmly down. He smiled almost benevolently. “Coward,” he charged.

  “I am not a coward. I’m here, aren’t I?”

  He started for the stairs. “So you are.”

  The servants broke into applause as he bounded through the door and into the entry. They approved of him, and therefore of his wooing.

  Alanna realized it, too. He knew by the sullen flush of red behind her ears, the tightly drawn lips, her stiff rejection of his touch.

  How did such a little thing manage to convey haughtiness? And why did she imagine he would care? He carried her into an antechamber and placed her on
a bench. “Raise your skirt,” he ordered.

  Her mouth rounded into a perfect O.

  Going to the door, he called for hot water. When he returned, she had her chin set so stubbornly it might have been granite. So he knelt before her and tossed her hem above her knee.

  Her granite chin shattered, and she scrambled to cover her legs. “Ian. The servants will see!”

  “The servants don’t matter. This foot matters. I will not have my bride suffer.”

  “I haven’t agreed to be your bride.”

  “You’d be a fool not to agree. I’m young and vigorous, have all my teeth.” He opened his mouth and waved his finger inside, selling himself like a horse. “See? I sing well and I’m a charming fellow in any social situation. In fact”—with a little flip he tossed her leather slippers over his shoulder—“I can procure references. Lady Valéry, who now lives in the Scottish Lowlands when she’s not setting the English ton on its ear, adores me. And have you ever heard of Sebastian Durant, Viscount Whitfield?”

  Staring at him as if he’d run mad, she shook her head.

  “Tsk. He’s an important man, my business partner, and will be one of your relatives by marriage.” He glanced up to see if she would challenge him this time, but she seemed overwhelmed by the sheer grandeur of his claims. Just as he had hoped. “Lord Whitfield would also write a reference. Probably not a social reference—mind you, I admire Sebastian, but a social reference from that pirate isn’t worth the ink it takes to write.”

  “He…he’s a pirate?” she stammered.

  “According to anyone who’s ever tried to cheat him, he is.” Accepting the basin of steaming water from Mrs. Armstrong, he tested it with his knuckle. It had cooled sufficiently in its trip from the kitchen, and he placed it on the floor and dunked in Alanna’s foot.

  She recoiled from the warmth, then relaxed. “So what kind of reference will he give?”

  “Financial. You’ll not wed a pauper. Monetarily speaking, you’ll be making a good match.” Reluctantly he lowered her skirt, making sure the hem didn’t brush the water. “A very good match.”

  Color returned to her complexion as well as that fierce vitality. “If you’re such a catch socially and financially, why aren’t you wed already?”

  “I should have known you’d think of that.” He relaxed back onto his haunches. “My father’s family are Fairchilds, and I admit your in-laws will be a trial. But”—he held up his index finger—“I’ve met your cousins, and I can say the same.”

  She wondered how the events of her homecoming had escaped from her control. She’d had it planned. She would present herself as Lady Alanna, everyone would be thrilled, she would show her weasel-like cousins they weren’t going to inherit anytime soon, she would look in on the dying Mr. Fairchild and express her polite commiseration on his condition and wish she could have been more help…she would by heavens show Ian the Interloper who was in charge.

  Instead she sat in an antechamber alone with him with her foot in a basin of warm water.

  And it was all his fault. Since the moment she’d first laid eyes on him, he’d done nothing but interfere with her well-considered strategies. Turning away from his handsome, watchful, know-it-all face, she tried to recover some of her dignity. “Brice is a coxcomb and Edwin is a…well, he’s not scintillating.”

  “Not scintillating? You’re never that polite about me.”

  There were answers she could give. But not in front of Mrs. Armstrong.

  As if he understood, Ian ordered, “Bring us some bandaging cloth, Mrs. Armstrong.” As she bobbed a curtsy and left, he said, “Speaking for the people of Fionnaway—welcome home, Lady Alanna.”

  He was presumptuous. He had no right to speak for the people of Fionnaway. But he didn’t sound haughty. Coaxing, rather, as if he sympathized with her desire to be in charge.

  He continued, “Cook is preparing a great feast in honor of your homecoming. Mrs. Armstrong has set the maids to scrubbing the floors and preparing your room.”

  Of course he would want her in charge. He wanted to marry her. Once that momentous occasion occurred, he would be in charge of the one who was in charge. How advantageous for him.

  “This morning I went and spoke to our Mr. Lewis. He has agreed we should make merry this evening.”

  She laughed shortly. All that conversation with Mr. Lewis about whether she should return, and he had already ruled on a celebration for her. “Thank you.”

  Bracing herself, she looked up. Ian’s gaze never wavered from her face as if he judged her emotions by the expressions she couldn’t contain.

  “I’ve ordered a barrel of fine wine tapped.”

  Her father had been concerned she fulfill his responsibilities so he would not be forced to fulfill them himself. Mr. Fairchild had been concerned about her lands and wealth. Mr. Lewis was concerned she protect the pact. But this man, this Ian, gave the impression of being concerned about her.

  “Perhaps we could make this a double celebration by solemnizing our wedding,” he said.

  Concerned about her? Nay, ’twas the familiar landlust. Feeling gullible, she reached out to box his ears.

  He ducked and rebounded. “No? Later then. And here is Mrs. Armstrong with the bandaging.”

  Mrs. Armstrong handed it to him, curtsied, and hurried out as if she couldn’t wait to leave them alone.

  “May it please your lady if I bandage your ankle?”

  She stared at the head bent over her foot, felt the competent warmth of his hands, and blinked back a stupid rush of tears. If she were some common man’s daughter and he a lad come a-courtin’, life could be so much easier…

  He looked up, and the world dissolved in a cloud of gray. The storms of the ocean she loved originated in those eyes; wind fresh off the sea and towering clouds and waves whipped with turbulence. A deep breath gifted her lungs with the tang of seaborne air. An updraft lifted her and she soared, not free of her body but contained within it and free of the demands of earthly order. She felt the slap of the spray, heard the roar of the deep, smelled the brine, and saw, within his eyes, the sweet, passionate appreciation of a man.

  His hands moved toward her slowly, giving her a chance to back away, to slap his face. She didn’t. She just watched, mesmerized, as he cupped her breasts.

  Her breasts. By the stones, he didn’t respectfully take her hands, or brush her lips with a tender kiss. He boldly touched her breasts—and she let him. More than let him. Sighed as if she had wanted such a touch, imagined such a touch. Exalted in the skin left bare by the tight bodice. Closed her eyes to better savor the sensation of his thumbs, rubbing her nipples tight with the pleasure.

  “Alanna.” His voice sounded like a dream she’d had, almost corporeal in its sensual depth. His body pressed against her knees. His breath whispered across the expanse of her chest. His lips settled in the curve of her neck.

  She shivered from his warmth, shivered from the way he tasted her, and all the while his fingers stroked her breasts. Jamming her knees together, she tried to stop the softening deep in her body, but he knew. He must have, for he crowded forward, parting her legs so that she held him between her thighs.

  Flattening her open palms against his chest, she thought she should protest. She would protest.

  His mouth moved up to the place behind her ear, and she felt him murmur, “Alanna.” One of his hands moved to her bottom, and he crushed her closer, right to the edge of the seat. She was open to him, without defense, her full skirt riding up.

  He moved his hips against her. She whimpered, a quick little sound, and she bit her lip to stifle any others.

  “No.” He kissed her mouth, licking the place she had bit. “Let me hear. I love to hear you, Alanna.”

  Her lips. Her breast. Her bottom. Her loins. He was everywhere, melting sweet and hot like honey on fresh scones. She flexed her hips, trying to get more of the seductive sensation. If she did this right, if he moved just so, she would be in flight, high above the clou
ds, skimming the waves, tasting and smelling freedom…with him.

  Her hands came up and gripped his sleeves, holding on. His body gave off heat like a stove, and she was warmer than she’d ever been in her whole life. At the same time, her nipples tightened even more, anticipating…anticipating.

  He pulled away from her so suddenly, her eyes flew open and she almost protested.

  Almost, until she saw his tight, disdainful expression.

  Then she fell to earth like a bird pierced by an arrow. Hot, hateful color swept her from her toes to her forehead, but Ian impersonally straightened her bodice. He pulled back, leaving the imprint of his body on hers, leaving her cold and wanting, and picked up her half-bound ankle. Acting as if these sublime moments had not happened, he bent his head once more and began wrapping her foot.

  She wanted to bunch her fist and hit him, or act indifferent with as much skill as he did. But a sound at the doorway brought her head up, and she stared in disbelief at the apparition silhouetted there.

  The hated, husky whisper of Mr. Fairchild struck her like a blow. “My beloved ward returns at last.”

  Gradually knowledge of the pact became a tale, then a legend; finally only a few of the villagers and fishermen truly believed in it, or in the existence of selkies. The MacLeod became the sole keeper of the pact, discouraging gossip and chuckling at the old stories, while all the time knowing the truth and the seriousness of the matter.

  Appointed by the MacLeod, a safeguard watched over the stones and their hidden location, and when the time came, the safeguard carried the stones to the south to be sold. Then, insubstantial as a shadow, the safeguard returned to Fionnaway, taking care that no one should discover from whence the stones had come.

  The MacLeod knew about the human safeguard.

  No one knew of the guardian selkie.

  Chapter 12

  “My dear, dear ward, where have you been?” Leslie asked. “I never gave up hope during all the years you were gone seeking your pleasure. These old knees have stiffened with rheumatism as I prayed on the cold stone of the chapel for your safe return. This old heart has nearly died from lack of your nourishing affection.”