A Scandalous Scot (30 page)

Her legs were a league long, ending in shapely ankles and feet. Her hips were gently curved, her abdomen flat and adorned by a strangely alluring navel. He’d kissed her there, and she’d shivered and smiled. A few minutes later she wasn’t smiling, but moaning.

The memory of her response to him made him hard whenever he thought of it. Now, having been in that condition for more than an hour, he was ripe for her plucking.

He sat up, pulled her to him and, grabbing the placket of her nightgown, simply ripped it from her.

“Morgan!”

His name, but no other protest. Nor did she think to shield herself from him as he rent the garment into pieces. She simply lay there, making him wish he’d lit the lamps. All of them, in splendid debauchery, the better to see Jean.

He’d been celibate for a fair amount of time, that’s what it was. His condition had nothing to do with the fact her breasts lured him, sight unseen, their nipples thorny against the pad of his thumb.

After throwing the remnants of her nightgown to the floor, he leaned over her and gave into another temptation, a deep and drugging kiss.

He pulled away with difficulty, pressing a kiss against the plump curve of her breast, then licking an erect nipple. Her indrawn breath might have made him smile at another time, but right at the moment he was mindless with need.

Her body lured him to kiss it, to suckle those magnificent breasts, to stroke his fingers between her thighs and play with her tender folds. He wanted to nibble on her buttocks, roll over on his back and have her ride him until he was gasping and covered in sweat.

He’d never been as inflamed about a woman.

Both hands pressed against a breast, directed her nipple to his lips. His lips ringed it, licked at it, inciting another gasp from her when he sucked hard, then bit gently.

Her hands were beating a tattoo against his shoulders, her torso turning toward him as if to give more of herself to him.

He rolled to his back, and with less care than he’d given any woman, he pulled her onto him.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

She didn’t answer. The only sound was an inarticulate murmur. A protest? Damn it, not now.

He thrust his fingers between her thighs, felt her wetness, and almost stopped to say a prayer of thanks to a merciful God. Grabbing her waist, he raised her high enough that he could enter her.

She moaned.

He bit back an oath, took two deep breaths, and stilled, still gripping her waist.

What the hell had he done?

What words could he possible offer her? He’d been little more than a rutting animal. She hadn’t wanted to make love tonight, and he’d tried to take her anyway.

He lifted her off him, but her hands slapped at him. Her head flew back, the mass of her hair tumbling over her shoulders.

“I’m sorry, Jean,” he said, trying to explain.

Then his little wren shocked him by gripping his cock with both hands. Using her knees for leverage, she rose up, seating herself on him as if she’d done this forever. As if she’d always ridden him, demanding that he surrender.

He closed his eyes and felt her clench around him. In that instant, and with no more finesse, he erupted into her.

The wren had taken down the eagle.

Chapter 28

RULES FOR STAFF:
Your living quarters shall be maintained in a proper way, subject to inspection by the housekeeper at any time.

F
or two weeks Morgan lived an almost idyllic life. At night his every libidinous desire was fulfilled by a woman who was as passionate as she was charming. Jean constantly surprised him, made him smile, and occupied a great many of his thoughts.

He’d given her the MacCraig clan brooch after retrieving it from the strongbox, but she’d only put it in a little casket on top of the bureau. He’d met with the seamstress, who confessed that her time was being spent on Catriona’s garments. She would be more than happy to inform his sister-in-law that Jean’s clothing came first. He also gave her instructions to order whatever fabric she needed; expense was not a concern. If Jean had agreed to fittings, he didn’t know of it.

Twice, he’d brought up the subject of an allowance. The first time, she appeared surprised when he explained that she needed her own money. The second time, he merely informed her that Mr. Seath would provide whatever she needed. She only raised one eyebrow, but didn’t ask any further questions.

Once he had her possessions moved into the Laird’s Tower, he expected her to be underfoot all the time. He steeled himself to be annoyed or at the very least irritated by another person’s constant presence. Jean, however, was proving to be elusive during the day. Nor was she often to be found in the Laird’s Tower.

Twice, he’d found her in the garden, industriously scribbling. When he questioned her, she looked embarrassed and he let the subject drop. When she wasn’t in the garden, she was to be found flitting about Ballindair like a frantic moth. Once, he asked about her and was told she’d gone to the stables. When he arrived there, he was informed that she’d left for the home farms.

He visited those childhood haunts he’d avoided up until now, read a great deal, and went through his father’s papers, a chore he found surprisingly compelling. His father had recorded his daily activities in a series of journals, and he was going through them one by one.

The only disruption to his life came when he received another letter from his solicitor in London. Lillian was once again petitioning for the house in Paris. Once again he wrote the man and told him that she could badger him all she wanted, he was done with her demands.

One unexpected benefit of his marriage was that he was no longer disturbed by the repudiation of his peers. In fact, he barely recalled London.

He found himself anticipating night, knowing Jean would return to the Laird’s Tower from her mysterious occupations during the day.

More often than not she begged off from dinner, claiming fatigue, a headache, a lack of interest in food—a bevy of reasons he finally understood after encountering Catriona and Andrew at dinner. They purred and clawed at each other like two cats in heat, a demonstration of lust that might have been amusing if it hadn’t been so inappropriate.

Andrew was married, and his behavior distasteful. Catriona might have once been an innocent, but it was all too obvious she was Andrew’s enthusiastic and unrepentant mistress.

Jean’s antipathy for the evening meal was suddenly understandable.

A solution occurred to him, one that would ensure that his wife would at least eat dinner. He’d had dinner brought to their sitting room, and Jean was both surprised and pleased.

This morning she managed to rise, wash, and dress without waking him, a feat he found remarkable given that he’d always been a light sleeper. When he walked into the library, he was surprised to find her seated at his father’s desk, earnestly writing in a brown leather journal. She didn’t look up when he entered, or even glance in his direction when he stood in front of the desk, waiting. She merely waved to the corner of the desk.

“Put it there, please,” she said, adding a soft, “Thank you.”

“I’ve not brought you a cup of tea,” he said.

Her head jerked up.

Strangely enough, she looked embarrassed.

When she closed the ledger, he was only more curious. “What are you doing?”

Her face flamed but she didn’t answer.

“Chronicling your encounters with Ballindair’s ghosts?” He sat on the edge of the desk, amused. “Is that it?”

“It would be a worthwhile endeavor.”

Left unsaid were the words he nevertheless heard: an endeavor more worthy than any of yours. Perhaps he was being unfair. Jean didn’t criticize.

He wished, sometimes, that she would be more vocal about certain things. Her sister’s behavior, for example. Catriona needed female guidance before she ruined her life. As it was, she was acting in a manner guaranteed to bring about censure.

Jean didn’t correct her sister. Nor did she complain about her. Where another woman might castigate, she observed. He had the strangest feeling she was doing the same with him.

“Do you think me without purpose?” he asked.

She surprised him by putting the ledger down, sitting back in his father’s chair and regarding him seriously.

“You spend a great many hours simply inspecting Ballindair, Morgan. Saying hello to the staff. Enjoying the day. But there’s so much more you could be doing.”

Suddenly, he felt much as he had as a boy, in this very room, the sting of criticism as painful now as it was then.

Standing, he looked down at her. “What would that be?”

Her eyes softened, and for a moment he thought that expression was directed at him. “You could seek out Mr. Seath,” she said. “He needs assistance. You could hire someone to help him.”

She’d suggested that before, and he hadn’t acted on it.

“I doubt he’d be pleased at my interference,” he said.

She let out a sigh, and this time he had no difficulty interpreting he was the recipient of it.

“The man is ill, or haven’t you noticed?”

He nodded. At least a nod was civil, unlike the words that sprang to his lips. He took a deep breath, then managed to maintain his composure.

“I’ve been involved in Ballindair since my father’s death, madam. I’m aware of all that needs to be done.”

“Are you?”

Was she questioning him?

It seems she was, because she continued. “Or has Mr. Seath merely kept you informed of what he’s already done?”

“Isn’t that the nature of a steward’s job?”

She took another breath, put down her pen and stood.

He thrust a hand through his hair, eyeing her with some caution. With her pink cheeks and flashing eyes, Jean looked to be in a temper.

She stepped closer, poking him in the chest with an ink-stained finger.

“That’s just it, Morgan, can he perform his job?”

“Then it’s time he was replaced.” Even as he said the words, Morgan knew he’d never strip the man of his post. William Seath had served Ballindair and his father admirably.

When he said as much to her, she only nodded.

“He’s been loyal to Ballindair, Morgan. It’s time you were as loyal to him.”

A dozen remarks flew to his lips, silenced by only one thing—surprise. What other woman would have championed the steward with such fervency? None of his acquaintance.

“What would you have me do?”

“Do what he’s done all these years. Tally the daily figures, inspect the crops, horses, and cattle. Meet with the stable master and the overseer of the home farms. Give the weekly allocation to the housekeeper, approve the quarterly bonus, inspect the buildings, approve the uniform allowance, order cloth and supplies.”

“How the hell do you know so much about what he does?” he asked, amazed at her knowledge.

At first she looked as if she wasn’t going to tell him, then she sat down at the desk once again, staring at the leather-tooled blotter.

“I’ve been bringing him his ledgers and reading the reports for the last week,” she said. “He’s been too ill to leave his bed.”

He hadn’t known. Worse, he hadn’t made it his business to know.

He sat on the corner of the desk once again.

“That isn’t a compilation of your encounters with Ballindair’s ghosts, is it?”

She shook her head. “I was always good at sums,” she said. “I thought I would tally the month’s figures for Mr. Seath.”

Her words embarrassed him, an emotion with which he thought himself familiar, especially over the last year. This, however, was different, as if he’d failed in some elemental duty, or failed her.

His wife had as much as accused him of being a dilettante, and perhaps he had been. He hadn’t understood the situation. Nor had he visited his steward, a man who’d faithfully carried out the duties of his office with more diligence than the Earl of Denbleigh.

This library had seen some of his earliest failures, revealed to his father. Now, it seemed, to his wife. He didn’t like to fail. He didn’t like the heat at the back of his neck or the uneasiness in the pit of his stomach. Nor was he enamored of the thought that he was being shamed in a way no one had managed in either London or Edinburgh.

His wife had done what he hadn’t. Without a word, without a complaint, silently and cheerfully, she’d taken on the responsibility he’d blithely ignored.

He extended his hand, and she looked at him, confused.

“The ledger, Jean,” he said. “I’ll take it to Seath. While I’m there, I’ll see if he could tolerate an assistant.”

“You’ll hire someone, then?”

He shook his head. “I’ll help him for as long as it’s needed.”

They exchanged a long look. She handed him the ledger, and he stood, tucking it under one arm.

At the door, he turned back to look at her.

He’d entered into this marriage for a variety of reasons, and had been prepared to be a proper husband. He hadn’t known then that Jean was no ordinary woman.

“You were a very good maid, weren’t you?” he asked.

Her blush deepened. Did the question embarrass her?

“I tried to be,” she said. “Why do anything without it being your best?”

“Thank you,” he said, and wasn’t certain why he was thanking her. Perhaps it was because she’d called him to task. Or perhaps because she’d expected more from him, and in doing so, demonstrated her trust in him. She believed in him, although she’d never uttered the words. By her actions, by her look right at this moment, she conveyed her certainty that he would act in a decent and honorable way.

No one else had ever given him that unconditional acceptance.

J
ean watched as Morgan left the library. Once the door closed behind him, she folded her arms on the desk and lay her head down.

This was misery.

She couldn’t do it.

She had to do it.

How, though? How did she go one day to the next knowing the life she was living was a lie? She was no more married to Morgan than Catriona was married to Andrew. The only difference was the world didn’t know it.