Heather and Velvet (38 page)

P
rudence held her breath, half expecting to find iron bars on the window and a horde of slavering rats to greet her.

Instead, warmth and light billowed onto the landing. She gaped. Torches set in wall sconces scattered pools of light on the clean-swept stone floor. Crackling tongues of flame licked at a yew log on the hearth. A kettle of herbs simmered over the fire, scenting the air with the pungent aroma of pine. A spray of holly nestled on the windowsill, its red berries gleaming like rubies amid glossy green. Tears came to her eyes when she saw her own night rail draped over the rickety bedstead.

She glided into the tower like a sleepwalker, unable to resist a chamber prepared so artfully for comfort and welcome. Now she knew why Sebastian had sent Jamie ahead. The seductive coziness of the chamber was undeniable. It would be easy to pretend it was not a ruthless mercenary who would come to her bed, but a cherished lover, intent on her delight.

She undressed and slipped the night rail on with trembling hands.

She padded to the window. A sparkling blanket of frost veiled the warped glass. She unlatched the window and pulled it open. Icy wind whipped tears into her eyes. The corner of the chamber jutted over the cliff itself, giving her the curious impression that she was suspended in mid-air. She snatched a breath of the wind, fighting the sensation that she was falling, spinning helplessly into the vale below. Jamie had once told her Dunkirk was perched on the edge of heaven itself. It was easier to believe hell lurked at the bottom of the dark abyss.

She tried to imagine the vale below drenched in the myriad greens of summer. Closing her eyes, she could almost smell the heather, its aroma sweeping through the window on a summer breeze. Then the tower would be a nest for lovers, a comforting haven standing sentinel over the harsh peaks and rolling moors.

She propped her hip on the windowsill, hugging away shivers that had little to do with the cold. Her fear ran deeper than any she had known before. She had fought for control her entire life, swallowing her passions and building an icy shell no man could breach. Until a gray-eyed bandit had tumbled off his horse and into her heart.

What did Sebastian want from her? Was she nothing to him now but a road to respectability? Did he want a wife or a duchess? A hostage or a lover? Was he going to keep her imprisoned in the tower like some triumphant Scottish chieftain of a century ago? Would he come to her in the dark, velvety folds of midnight, weaving his erotic sorcery until she was driven to her knees, helpless to resist and begging for any scrap of affection he might toss her way?

The wind swept her hair from her face. She had known there were risks when she and MacKay had fostered their scheme. But she had felt she had nothing to lose. Nothing but herself.

She leaned farther out the window, drinking in the sustenance of the crisp air, letting it blow through her brain to wash away the stale fog of betrayal and fear.

•  •  •

Sebastian climbed the steps with a weary tread, the triumph of his homecoming marred by a dismal pall of memories. He expected to hear his father’s laughter come rolling down the narrow stairwell, echoing with the bite of cruelty.

His breath caught in his throat as he slipped through the door and saw the window across the chamber ajar.

His frantic footsteps had carried him halfway across the tower before his panic shamed him. Prudence lay on the still-made bed, her dark hair rippled across the thin heather tick, her lashes flush against her cheeks. He walked toward her, drawn by the innocent sprawl of her limbs, and gazed down at her. Did he only imagine it or were her lashes damp with tears? The night rail was tangled around her long legs. The soft cotton cupped her breasts and outlined the slender curve of her waist.

She stirred. A gentle fragrance wafted up from the heather tick. He ached to ease himself over her, to mold her body to his own. She was his bride. Not a man in England or Scotland would decry his possession of her. But did having the power to take her give him the right? A cold wind buffeted his back. Prudence curled into herself. He drew the thick quilt up over her and tucked it under her chin. His lips brushed her temple, but she did not stir again.

He turned to latch the window. How long had he dreamed of this moment? he wondered. To stand in the bastion of his own castle. To have Prudence in his bed, her soft hair unhampered by pins, her delectable body free of petticoats and corsets and stays. He craved nothing more than to bury his face in her hair and hold her tight against his pounding heart.

Would she even want him? He had dragged her away from her tidy comforts and brought her to this dirty hole. He had insulted her, embarrassed her, and stolen her precious innocence on a coarse blanket in an animal’s den a few feet away from a score of sleeping thieves.

He couldn’t promise not to do worse, though, if she pushed him away. If his advances met with anger, or worse yet, a cringe of fright, would he have the courage to take her in his arms and gently allay her fears? Or would he push on,
bewitched by a sensual hunger that obliterated both common sense and decency? A fierce urgency rocked him. Time hung over his head like the executioner’s noose. How long would he have her? A week? A fortnight? His baser urges goaded him to go to her, to part her smooth thighs and take her like a captive princess on a bed of furs, his to take at his will, as leisurely and as often as he chose.

She’s yer wife now, lad. Show her what women are made fer. Make her beg like I made yer mother beg
. As Brendan Kerr’s voice thundered through his head, Sebastian’s knuckles whitened against the windowsill.

He used to sleep under that window, head shoved beneath a moth-eaten blanket to muffle the sounds from the bed. But he could still hear them. Even now.

Without daring another glance at Prudence, he started down the stairs at a brisk pace. Halfway down, his steps faltered. He had come to Dunkirk to banish his demons, only to find them clamoring around his head. With a sigh, he sank down on a dusty step and ran his finger over the scar beneath his chin.

Prudence’s nose crinkled, as she was lured to wakefulness by the tantalizing scent of tea wafting to her nostrils. She nestled into the mattress. The heat of her body had warmed it to a cozy nest. She clung to the seductive comfort of sleep, rolling on her back in an attempt to ignore the odd sensation of someone biting her hair. A needle-sharp claw sank into her elbow. She bit back a yelp. Opening her eyes, she was puzzled to find not the starched canopy of her tent-bed, but a sooty expanse of gray stone.

A pair of green-gold eyes filled her vision. She sat up, wiggling her feet to make sure she wasn’t dreaming. A ball of gray fluff and muscle teetered down her legs and pounced on her toes with the ferocity of a starving lion.

She laughed and scooped up Sebastian-cat, holding him to her cheek. A paw shot out to bat her hair. She pressed a kiss to the furry swell of his tummy, then looked shyly around the tower. A well-stoked fire crackled on the iron grate.

She sobered, stroking the cat’s tousled fur. “It seems our mysterious benefactor wishes to remain anonymous.”

She swung her feet to the floor, rubbing her bleary eyes. A cold, gray curtain of rain washed down the windowpane, but the tower was warm and cozy. She traced the irresistible fragrance of the tea to a dented brass kettle hooked on an iron spit over the flames. A chipped porcelain cup warmed on the stones of the hearth. She shook her head at the richness of the bounty.

Beneath the patter of the rain, she slowly became aware of another sound—the steady scrape of metal on earth. She walked over to the window. Her warm breath fogged the glass, and she wiped it clear with two fingers. Still she could see nothing but the cliff below. Only by unlatching the window and leaning out could she glimpse the muddy flat at the back of the castle.

Sebastian was digging furiously, slamming a shovel deep into the earth and hurling chunks of mud and snow over his shoulder. He wore no coat. His rain-soaked shirt was plastered to his shoulders. His hair hung in damp coils around his face. Water flew as he shook it out of his eyes, revealing brows drawn low in a dark scowl.

Prudence’s hand flew to her throat when she saw the leather-bound coffer mired beside him. But curiosity overcame her alarm as Sebastian backed up and ran at the coffer. He slipped once, driving his knee into the mud. He set his foot against the small trunk. With a tremendous heave, he shoved the coffer into the gash in the earth.

Prudence slammed the window shut as a hysterical giggle escaped her. He was burying it! Jamie’s words echoed through her mind.
Tight as a Scot, he is. Don’t ever forget it
.

The steady thunk of iron in mud resumed. That was one less thing to fret about for now, she thought. By the time Sebastian unearthed the trunk from its muddy grave, he would have all he needed from MacKay and would no longer need D’Artan’s ill-gotten gold. Or her.

Melancholy lodged like a dull weight in her throat, and she sank down on the hearth. Sebastian-cat bumped his head against her leg. She sighed, glancing at the empty bed.
Sebastian had not come to her during the night. Was he still angry at her? Or had the night in the cavern satisfied his curiosity about bedding her? Perhaps he had found her awkward and clumsy. She knew none of the sophisticated tricks Tricia had sworn would keep a man interested for more than one night.

Her fingers curled around the warm porcelain cup. Tricia was in Edinburgh and she was here. Alone at Dunkirk. With Sebastian. And she possessed one talent that all of Tricia’s illicit rendezvous had never taught her—making herself indispensable. It had worked on Tricia’s doddering husbands and it had worked on Papa. Even at the age of three, she’d been known to toddle up with his misplaced spectacles clenched in her chubby little hands. A simple enough task when she’d been the one to hide them.

A wicked grin teased the corners of Prudence’s mouth as she gave the rest of her tea to Sebastian-cat and rose to dress.

Sebastian trudged through the muddy courtyard, his shoulders bent against the weight of the rain. Exertion had warmed him while he dug, but now the dying winter chill sank deep into his bones. He skirted his father’s grave without a glance. His gaze drifted to the stone tower, lured by the siren memory of a warm, crackling fire and Prudence nestled deep in the heather tick. Rain trickled into his eyes. He blinked it away. A pillow. He would have to ask Jamie to steal her a pillow.

Shaking off a shiver, he ducked into the damp hall, his hands fumbling to peel off his sodden shirt.

He froze at the sight of a meager flame licking a handful of sticks on the hearth. The wet wood hissed and sputtered.

“God’s whiskers!” The genteel oath drew his gaze to a rickety bench.

Prudence stood on tiptoe on its back, swiping down cobwebs with a long stick crowned by a wad of material that looked suspiciously like a satin petticoat. Her old dun dress was festooned with webs. Damp tendrils of hair escaped
from her loose chignon. She caught her tongue between her teeth with a puckish grimace.

His hands fell limply to his sides as he was transported from the drafty hall back to a summer morning in an old crofter’s hut, a morning redolent with honeysuckle and alive with the lazy hum of bees.

Prudence bounced on her toes to dislodge a recalcitrant web. The bench swayed with a dangerous creak. Jarred out of his reverie, Sebastian crossed the hall in three strides, wrapping his arms around Prudence’s waist as the bench collapsed on a splintered leg.

He lowered her slowly, savoring the indolent slide of her warm body down the hard, wet length of his. She still clutched the stick with one hand. Her other hand curled into a fist between them and pushed him away.

“Sorry about the bench,” she said, a trifle breathlessly.

Scowling, he kicked it. “Better the bench’s leg than your own. How did you start the fire?”

“I caught a dragon and yanked his tail.” When Sebastian’s scowl didn’t lighten, Prudence admitted, “I carried down a stick from my own fire.” She tucked a finger between her lips.

He caught her hand and unfolded it. A shiny pink burn marred her knuckle and a blister puckered the smooth web between thumb and forefinger. Her hand was halfway to his own lips when she jerked it back and tucked it in the folds of her skirt.

He glowered at her. “From now on, if you want a fire started, you come to me. Do you understand?”

She bobbed a curtsy, mocking his brogue with devilish skill. “Aye, me laird. Whatever ye wish.”

Sebastian bit the inside of his cheek to hide his smile. If only she were sincere! What he wished for was the courage to throw her over his shoulder, carry her back to the bed, and make hot, delicious love to her all morning long.

She dropped her gaze as if she could read his thoughts in his sparkling eyes.

Suddenly her eyes went wild; her lips trembled with rage and a shriek tore from her throat.

Sebastian leaped backward as she swung the stick between them, ramming the end into his chest.

“Out! Out of here right now!”

He backed away, mystified by her sudden passion. Was he going to be the only Highland laird ever murdered by a petticoat-wielding wife?

She stalked after him. “How dare you? Just look at that! You’ve the habits of a wild beast. It’s a shame, a disgrace, a …”

Sputtering into incoherence, she lowered the staff and waved it wildly at his boots.

He looked down, half expecting to find an adder twined around his leg. Mud caked the cracked leather soles, and a perfect trail of goop led back to the door across her newly swept floor.

He threw up his hands in surrender as she backed him into the courtyard. The heavy door slammed in his face.

He reached for the handle, fully intending to storm back in and plant a muddy footprint in a more auspicious place. His boots sucked at the stoop. He glared at them, then bent to jerk them off. The water puddled on the stoop sank into his woolen stockings. He started for the door, heard the warning slosh, and hopped up and down on one foot to peel off his stockings, swearing all the while.