Highland Rogue (27 page)

“You were?”

“Aye. That was one of those clues I should have figured out. A man who’s in love doesn’t spend all his time thinking about another lass and wanting to kiss her every time he gets half an excuse.”

She heard what he was saying. She wanted to understand and believe, but her guarded heart refused to grasp it.

Ewan seemed to sense her doubt. “What I felt for Tessa was the fancy of a lad for a lass, because she was bonny. What I feel for ye is the love of a man for a woman who’s bonny … and clever, and passionate and proud.”

He removed his hand from the door. “If all ye can ever feel for me is what I used to feel for Tessa, then I guess there’s no more to be said and I’d ought to get out of yer lives before I cause any more trouble for all of us.”

Had she misunderstood him—hearing what she so desperately wanted to hear? Or if she had heard right, what could have made him say such things? “I told you, I don’t want your pity, Ewan, if that’s what this is about.”

“Ye think I’d tell ye I love ye, because I feel sorry for ye?” He sounded as though he had never heard anything so foolish.

“I don’t know. Would you?”

“No!” He slammed his palm against the door. “—Haven’t ye listened to anything I’ve said, lass? I’ve finally figured out that it’s not right to mix love up with other feelings. Not ambition. Not rebellion. And sure as hell not pity!”

Claire drew back at the severity of his outburst. The fierce strength of his declaration felt like a golden hammer pounding against the thick sheet of ice that had long encased her heart. That ice had been her prison, but it had also been her protection. Could she do without it?

Ewan’s blast of outrage seemed to dissipate as quickly as it had erupted. With slow, tender restraint, he raised his hand to her cheek. And when he spoke, the gentle sympathy of his tone warmed her. “Look, I know plenty of men have had a hand in convincing ye that ye’ll never be loved for who ye are—starting with yer own pa. I hope wherever he is, he’s having to answer for that foolishness.”

Her father had not been the wisest of men. She had rescued Brancasters from enough of his mismanagement to know it. Yet she had idolized him and craved any love he had left over for her. Could she accept that he’d been wrong about her?

“I’m not asking ye to believe me all at once,” murmured Ewan. “I’m only asking ye to pretend for a few minutes that ye believe. Would that be so hard?”

Slowly, Claire shook her head. Had she not done a good job of pretending when they’d first come to Strathandrew? Too good, perhaps. The movement of her cheek against the palm of his hand felt so comforting, she soon found herself nuzzling into his caress.

“Good.” The corners of Ewan’s wide mouth curled in a slow blossoming smile that melted more of her ice palisade. “Then tell me this—if ye could believe that I loved ye, could ye love me? Not just wanting me to serve ye in bed, but as a partner ye could trust and respect, as well?”

Fear told her that was too dangerous a question to answer truthfully, without the convenient excuse of drunkenness. As Ewan had said, she had nothing to lose except her pride. But pride was important to her. In the past, it had enabled her to carry on when she’d been tempted to surrender to despair.

“I’ve never felt any other way about you.” She struggled to coax her voice above a whisper. “Though I made an awful botch of it last night, trying to tell you so.”

As if it possessed a will of its own, her hand rose to graze his cheek. “I find you a most desirable man, and I would give most anything to … enjoy your company in bed. Never as a servant, though. A master, perhaps. A teacher. But not a servant.”

Ewan hoisted his shoulder, to catch her hand between it and his cheek. “In that case, I reckon I could stay at Strathandrew a wee bit longer.”

The breath she’d been holding escaped in a soft, hopeful sigh. “You could?”

“Aye. Ye see, I need to mount a campaign to convince ye of how I feel about ye.”

With their hands still pressed to each other’s cheeks, he lowered his face to hers, angling his lips until they were poised in a perfect position for a kiss. “It’s going to take a great many walks in the hills, I reckon. More billiard matches in the evenings. I’ll have to brush up on my Burns to recite ye lots of love poems.”

Like the enchanted hill water, his gray eyes sparkled with rainbows, tempting her to chase a dream.

“It all sounds too good to be true.”

“That’ll be part of the challenge. To make ye believe it’s good enough to be true. To make ye believe ye deserve it to be true.”

He chuckled—a sound as sweet and intoxicating as hard cider. “Lucky for me, I’ve always enjoyed a challenge.”

His lips were so close to hers, she could feel their movement as he spoke, and the warm whisper of his breath. If he didn’t kiss her soon, Claire feared she might swoon or scream or otherwise embarrass herself and spoil the moment. She would not bid him, though, like a mistress bidding a servant. Instead, she waited, trusting that he would satisfy the desire he had kindled.

Ewan did not disappoint her. Nor did he keep her waiting and wanting.

His lips closed over hers, unhurried, but not uncertain. With a deft swipe of his tongue, he beguiled her mouth open, then treated her to a kiss that put Claire in mind of Mrs. McMurdo’s cranachan trifle—soft, sweet, rich … and mildly intoxicating.

“I reckon it’s only fair to warn ye,” Ewan murmured when he had sated her with his kiss. “This sort of thing is going to be a key strategy for convincing ye how I feel. And this …”

The hand that cupped her cheek began a slow, delightful descent, down her neck, toward her bosom, where it came to rest in a tantalizing caress. “It was everything I could do to keep my hands off ye, that first night we played billiards. From now on, unless we have company, I’m not even going to try.”

Her mouth went dry and her knees grew weak just contemplating the prospect. They grew weaker still when Ewan’s lips followed the trail his hand had blazed down her neck.

“I’ll serve ye notice about something else, too.” His words became kisses against the sensitive flesh of her neck.

“And what might that be?” Her question emerged in a breathless whisper as she inclined her cheek to nuzzle against his hair.

The hand fondling her bosom made way for his approaching lips by sliding down to her waist.

“If I catch ye wearing a corset again,” he threatened in a husky purr, “ye’ll leave me no choice but to take off yer clothes and relieve ye of it.”

A hot, sweet shiver rippled through her.

“I’m wearing a corset now.” She arched against him, painfully self-conscious of such wanton behavior, yet reveling in it at the same time. “It’s a very tight one. Laces up the back. Fiendishly difficult to get off. I doubt you could if you tried.”

“Do ye, now?” Ewan glanced up at her, the fires of sweet sin blazing in the depths of his eyes. “That sounds like a direct challenge to me. I’m afraid ye leave me no choice but to carry ye over to that bed and prove I’m more than a match for laces and whalebone.”

She did not protest as he hoisted her into his arms and strode across the room, flinging her down upon the bed. But after he’d thrown off his coat and begun crawling toward her with lithe, predatory grace, she could not resist a further teasing challenge.

“You aren’t still bashful about carrying on like this in my father’s bed, I hope?”

“Hang yer father!” Ewan swooped in to kiss her with fierce, wild ardor worthy of some romantic Highland chieftain of old. Claire wondered what sort of challenge might provoke him to make love to her among the ruins of the ancient castle. Perhaps even wearing a kilt?

Who’d have guessed Claire Talbot had it in her to be such a beguiling little minx? Ewan thanked heaven he’d discovered the truth in time!

He kissed her hungrily as he wrestled with her clothes. “If this damn hook doesn’t give way soon, I’m afraid I might tear yer pretty dress.”

She grappled for his hand, caught it and raised it to the neck of her gown. “Rip away!” she urged him with a wanton chuckle. “I believe it might prove quite stimulating.”

Stimulating
—the word all by itself stimulated him. Let alone having Claire whisper it in his ear in that seductive tone while the backs of his fingers pressed against her breasts.

Highland passion waged war on sensible Scottish thrift and trounced it soundly. His fingers tightened over the cloth and twisted. Then he gave a good, hard, sudden yank. The sweet screech of rending cloth almost made him lose control of himself.

“There now!” He pulled the gown off her as he’d done last night. Only this time with a more cooperative partner and far less indecision on his part. “I’ve only a dozen or so layers left to peel away.”

Claire gave a giddy, infectious laugh. “Would you like some help?”

“I told ye …” Ewan kicked off his shoes, then pried off her slippers and tossed them onto the floor. “I like a challenge. Besides, undressing’s half the fun. It’s near as good as taking the pretty wrapping paper off a present.”

Claire’s carefree bubble of laughter shattered. “I hope you will not be too disappointed by what you find under all the pretty wrapping.”

That would be his greatest challenge, Ewan realized. Not bringing her pleasure in bed, but convincing her she pleased
him.
Persuading her that she deserved all the tenderness he could lavish upon her.

“Oh,
muirneach!”
He gathered her into his arms, glad of a chance to marshal his self-control. “I’ll let ye in on a wee secret.”

“What secret?” Her tone sounded doubtful, but she nestled into his embrace clad only in her petticoats and other underclothes. “And what does that word mean—
mor-nuck?”

“It means darling one, or favorite or beloved. Ye can also use it to mean a loving touch.” He demonstrated by cupping her breast in his palm. “And this is the secret. When a man loves a woman, however she looks—tall, tiny, slender, stout, dark, fair—
that
becomes the yardstick he measures beauty by from then on.”

“I hadn’t thought of it that way.” Claire searched his gaze, perhaps seeking to weigh the truth of what he’d told her.

Ewan was able to stand her scrutiny with perfect assurance. Where he had once reckoned golden curls the height of perfection, they now seemed a bit too obvious for his taste. The soft, tawny hue of a fawn suited him much better these days.

“Now that you mention it, though—” Claire raised one long, slender forefinger and traced the tip over his full, brooding brows, a feature he’d never been particularly proud of “—I’ve often thought certain gentlemen of my acquaintance needed a stronger brow to be truly handsome.”

“There, ye see?” Ewan caught her finger and lowered it to his lips, planting a kiss upon the tip. “Ye knew that in yer heart, even before I told ye. I promise ye, I
will
like what I find. And I’ll leave ye in no doubt of it.”

“Now …” In a sudden movement, he sat up and tossed her across his lap, reaching for the laces of her petticoats and corset. “Are ye going to let me finish unwrapping my parcel?”

Perhaps the way he handled her tickled. Or perhaps his reassurance had sunk in, freeing her to become playful again.

She twisted toward him until her hand could reach the buttons of his shirt. “I have some unwrapping of my own I’d like to do, and I’m rather impatient about it.”

Ewan laughed as he untied her petticoats and she fumbled with his buttons. A woman like Claire would make every day and every activity a fresh, zesty challenge. He only wished he’d been wise enough to recognize it years ago.

“Hold still now!” he said when he’d shed his shirt and she her petticoats. “I don’t need any distractions while I figure out how to unlace this corset of yers.”

The sensation of her wriggling over the lap of his trousers was a potent distraction, indeed!

He wrestled for several minutes with the intractable undergarment until the laces gave way at last.

“There!” He pulled it off her, then threw it with some force toward the hearth. “Remind me to light a fire and burn the fool thing, will ye?”

“So you conquered it, after all.” Claire threw her arms around his neck and rewarded him with a firm, confident kiss. “Resourcefulness is a fine quality in a lover!”

Ewan savored the intoxicating sensation of her breasts against his bare chest, with only a flimsy barrier of linen and lace covering them. “Aye, and in a husband, too. I warn ye, Claire, I want ye for my wife. But I’m willing to wait until ye’re convinced I really do love ye.”

The news of his fortune would surely convince her, as it had dissuaded Tessa from her misplaced fancy for him. He didn’t want to get into all that now, though. He just wanted to bring Claire the pleasure she’d denied herself for so long. And to satisfy the desire that had been building within him over the past several days.

Before his mention of marriage could alarm her, Ewan sought to divert her by fondling her breast through the fine linen of her undergarment. “What do they call this thing yer wearing?”

Claire did not answer for a moment, her eyes closed, relishing the sensation of his intimate touch. When she finally heeded his words enough to reply, her voice was husky with desire. “A chemise, I think … or a camisole.”

“It’s very pretty,” Ewan murmured. “Almost worth the bother of shifting that miserable corset. It’s a shame ye have to cover it up with outer clothes.”

A look of disappointment twisted Claire’s delicate features when he lowered his hand from her breast. When he slipped his fingers beneath her chemise and began again without even that delicate fabric to muffle his touch, she wriggled and heaved a long, rippling sigh.

“Ye like that, do ye?” As if he needed to ask.

“Mmm.” She nodded, and the strong, steadfast blue of her eyes seemed to shimmer with heat.

He dropped a soft kiss on her neck, then nuzzled her ear. “I’ll let ye in on another secret.”

“I like your secrets,” she replied in a breathless whisper. “Tell me.”

He nudged the bottom of her chemise up with his wrist, to bare her bosom for the attention of his lips and tongue. “I’m just getting started.”