A Highland Duchess (10 page)

Here and now, she was being given a chance to be anyone she wanted to be.

She could be the woman she’d been for the last four years, silent, reserved, pretending to be untouched by Anthony’s depravities. Or she could be the Emma she’d never been, the woman grown from her girlhood, someone capable of kindness, generosity, compassion. A woman with excitement about life, enthusiasm about each coming day.

The Duchess of Herridge whispered to her to remember who she was. But Emma spoke. “Emma,” she said. “I’ll simply be Emma.”

A footman passed not ten feet from them, and Ian turned his back to the man, effectively shielding her. The tinkle of glasses on a tray echoed loudly for a moment before fading away.

The air was warm, sultry. The soft breeze of the morning had acquired heat and a delicate and powdery scent from the roses.

He reached out his hand and touched her wrist.

“Who is Emma?”

Dear God what did she tell him? That she wasn’t quite certain herself? One thing she did know—Emma was a girl much more approachable than the woman she’d become.

He took another step toward her, and she wanted to warn him that he stood much too close for propriety. But she kept her hands in front of her, still linked by his fingers on her wrist, as if he measured the effect of his touch on her.

Her heart was beating almost as fast as when she’d left the room and crept down the stairs. But this was not fear. Instead, it was something else, another sensation she’d never felt—longing.

She moved her hand, turning it just slightly so his fingers rested against her palm. Another movement and she would have entwined her fingers with his, until they stood linked by hands and silence.

Did Ian feel the way she did right at this moment? As if something strange were happening? As if by simply declaring herself to be someone other than the hated Duchess of Herridge, she’d somehow truly freed herself to become that person?

He took one more step, bending his head down until she could feel the warmth of his breath on her forehead.

“Who is Emma?” he asked again.

“Does it matter?”

“Do you never talk about yourself, Emma?”

What was there to say? That she’d once been a foolish girl, an improvident one, who’d run through the house with her voice raised in laughter. Years of training had modified her behavior until she was decorous to a fault. She could restrain herself so much that people who’d witnessed her demeanor under intolerable conditions labeled her Ice Queen.

Except now, here, in this place, in this darkened garden, with this man standing too close, she suspected that the Ice Queen might be melting inside. The woman who was beginning to emerge was not as restrained or as capable of resolve. At least, not around him.

He was not Anthony—that thought rose above everything.

Anthony was cruel and vindictive. Ian was solicitous and kind.

Anthony was old; Ian was strong, vigorous, and young.

Anthony delighted in the debasement of others. Ian thanked his servants.

Anthony had made her shudder in revulsion. Ian stole her breath.

Anthony lived his duchy. No one within his sphere was allowed to forget that he was the Duke of Herridge. Ian cloaked himself in mystery.

Anthony was incapable of humor unless it was at someone’s expense. Ian laughed at himself.

Ian was much taller than she. Her chin came barely to his shoulder. She might reach out and kiss his throat if she wished.

The Ice Queen would never do something like that. The Duchess of Herridge would never kiss a stranger.

The Emma of her girlhood, the optimistic child with shining eyes and bubbling laughter, had not breathed life, had not emerged for so very long that her sudden reappearance now was startling.

She should put her hand on his chest and push gently, so he understood he was much too close.

Then he did something surprising. Ian stepped back and stretched out his hand, simply that. A gesture of conciliation? Friendship? Or something more?

He beckoned her, welcomed her, urged her without a word spoken.

She should have excused herself and returned to her chamber, burying herself in the books she’d been given. Instead, she placed her bare hand on his palm, stretching her fingers over his hand, feeling the calluses on his fingertips. When he gripped her hand tightly, she didn’t pull free.

He urged her out of the shadows into the faint illumination from the lamps in the corridor.

“I should not have brought you here,” he said. “Not to my home. Not to this garden.”

What did she say to that? Was he warning her? Should she flee now? How strange that she didn’t want to, that her blood felt heated and her cheeks flamed with warmth.

He glanced downward, stopped, and turned to her.

“Where are your shoes, Emma?”

To be confused was one thing. She tucked that emotion away to examine later. To feel embarrassment was another thing entirely.

She looked down at her bare feet as if surprised to find them suddenly shoeless.

“My room,” she said. “Your room.”

He was smiling. “I didn’t notice you were barefoot,” he said.

The Duchess of Herridge would never have appeared in public in such a shocking lapse of decorum. Emma, however, might well have tossed her shoes away in a show of freedom.

Perhaps she’d become Emma, just Emma, from the moment she’d been abducted.

“I’ll see you to your room,” he said.

Your room
. For the first time, she fully realized that she slept in his bed, slept where he had slept, put her head on his pillow.

He led her to the stairs, as if she were a child and couldn’t find her way, or perhaps they were both children, giving each other comfort in the night.

No, nothing so innocent. This brigand was temptation himself.

Chapter 9

S
lowly and together, they mounted the stairs, then wordlessly continued down the corridor, still linked by their joined hands. He saw her to the door, opened it for her, and stood aside.

This moment felt as if it were a beginning, not unlike a dance when musicians tuned their instruments in the corner of a ballroom. First came the discordant notes, then the sudden rich weeping of a violin, sweeping the dancers onto the floor, shoes sliding across the waxed boards.

Her heart beat in time as if to make up for the lack of music. Her feet ached to dance across the space between them, demand he hold her in his arms and make proper her wish to be embraced.

How very handsome he was, his Celtic heritage showing in his high cheekbones, sharply angled jaw, and chiseled features.

Who was Ian, the brigand? Scientist, abductor, or simply a sorcerer, conjuring up a spell, throwing up a handful of dust and having it return as diamonds?

If she didn’t move, he was going to kiss her. If she didn’t say something now—something strict and proper—he was going to embrace her.

When he reached for her, she didn’t step back, and when he lowered his head, she only closed her eyes and waited.

He kissed her as if he’d never kissed anyone before, as if a kiss were something to be savored, a rarity. Tenderly, delicately, slowly, he explored the shape of her mouth with his.

She was almost dizzy from it, enough to reach up with both hands and rub her palms against the soft fabric of his jacket, to feel the firmness of his muscles beneath the cloth, sensing the strength and the tension in his shoulders and neck.

The door frame pressed against her bottom, but she wouldn’t have moved had someone shone a lantern on them. This shadowed and silent moment, near desperate with desire, was something she’d never forget.

She swayed, a helpless sound escaping her.

Kiss me more.

He kissed her as if he’d heard her entreaty, as if he were starved for kisses and she was the only one he would ever kiss for as long as he lived. She hooked her hands around his neck as he gripped her waist.

She could feel the heat of his palms as if her clothing were not a barrier.

Abruptly, he pulled back, his mouth no longer on hers. His breathing was harsh, his eyes dark.

He reached up slowly, giving her time to understand, and unlaced her hands from around his neck, allowing her to step down from her toes.

“Do not presume upon my honor, Emma,” he said, his voice rough. “It’s not made of stone. I’d say it’s more like sand around you.”

She lowered her head, closed her eyes, and willed her heart to cease its riotous race. What had she done?

Kissed a man. Kissed a man in utter delight and desire. Instead of shame, she only felt wonder.

She clasped her trembling hands together, taking a step back. Should she feel ashamed? She didn’t, and she wouldn’t.

She glanced up. His look was so intent it seemed to vibrate between them.

“From the moment I climbed into your window I’ve wanted to kiss you senseless,” he said. “I didn’t know that just being around you would render me the same.”

“Senseless?”

His lips quirked in a half smile. “Without a doubt,” he said.

He bent, pressed his lips against her forehead, an avuncular gesture that managed to be tender, also.

Turning at the door, he gave her one last look. Instead of speaking, however, he simply left her, closing the door behind him.

S
he thought about the kiss all night. She thought about it when she should have been sleeping. Instead, Emma paced from one side of Ian’s bedroom to the other, conscious of two things. She’d never before shared a kiss that left her so confused, and she wasn’t acting like a prisoner.

The fact was, ever since she had been abducted from her home, she’d been treated with greater care than at any time in the last five years.

Why wasn’t she afraid? Why wasn’t she terrorized?

Not every man in the world was evil. She’d had the misfortune to be married to one of them. Nor was her uncle a sterling example of character. But her father had been a good man, a man who cared for those around him, and acted with decency toward all. Ian seemed to be of a similar nature.

He was to be married. So was she, if she acceded to her uncle’s wishes, which she had no intention of doing. She’d made that decision earlier this evening.

No longer would she be subjected to a man’s will.

She lay her forehead against the door, feeling the wood cool against her skin. She huffed out a breath, impatient with herself. Longing kept her awake. Longing and something more, a need, a wish, a yearning.

She was no stranger to passion. She’d witnessed its effects on people from the very beginning of her marriage. She’d seen the dark side of passion, as well, and watched what people would do in order to express it, to feel it. She had felt it herself, sometimes brought about by Anthony’s herbs and potions. Sometimes, despite herself, her body had experienced pleasure.

But she’d always felt dirty afterward, as if she’d surrendered something more important. As if, in experiencing ecstasy, she’d relinquished part of her soul.

The kiss she shared with Ian had promised something more.

She checked the lock again, a habit from her marriage. Such an action was silly, since Anthony could easily have commanded a footman to break through the door. He’d never done so, but she knew better than to ever expect her husband to act the same from one day to the next.

What about Ian?

Would he be the same tomorrow?

And would she?

I
n two months he’d become a husband. No doubt soon after that he would find himself a father. Both roles decreed that he behave with some correctness. He’d acted rashly, with an impetuousness he’d never demonstrated, even in his earlier years.

First, he’d abducted a duchess. Secondly, he’d kissed her. Now, he was prowling the corridors of his home, his mind fixed on doing more than that.

Although it was too damn late—both in matters of time and inclination—to be regretful of his actions, he could use these sleepless hours for something worthwhile. Namely, finding his second cousin.

If anyone else other than his mother had asked him to check up on Bryce, he would have politely declined. But when his mother set her mind to something, both he and his sister obeyed. Bryce was the only one capable of ignoring the Countess of Buchane.

But then, Bryce was capable of a great many things, not many of them admirable.

When Bryce wasn’t attending one of his favorite clubs, he unashamedly frequented music halls. Ian visited two before he found his cousin at the third, a place no more substantial than a roof over an inn yard, its interior consisting of one long gallery, and twice as many people as it probably should hold.

The audience, predominantly working men and women with a smattering of aristocrats and women who plied their trade on the street, was robustly singing “Champagne Charlie” at the top of their lungs. The air was smoky, the noise cacophonous.