If You Dare (31 page)

“Yes, you are,” she quickly interrupted, gazing up at him. “You are
very
strong. And brave.”

Her comment made him frown. “I'm wantin' you all the time, and sooner or later I will no' be able to resist. Then there will be consequences.”

“Yes, very well.”

“Are you feelin' poorly?”

“No, I feel much better now. Ignore the chair, come to bed with me.”

“Anna, do you no' ken what I'm saying? I'm no' the man for you. I doona have near the wealth you're used to.” Nor the ability to afford his growing addiction to give her everything she wanted.

“I have my own fortune.”

“Are you tryin' to insult me?”

She looked down, clearly embarrassed, and he regretted his tone. “I will no' ever be the Castilian gentleman you want. I will always be the rough Scot you think me.”

“I want
you.”

“Why do you continue to argue when you ken what will have to happen if I bed you?” he asked in a deadened tone, struggling to understand her behavior. Then realization came. “You think you can talk me from it. You think we can enjoy ourselves and then you'll be able to walk away. It might have been like that before, but it is no' anymore. You'd be forced to marry me.”

“Why do you think I want you in the bed?” she said in exasperation.

His jaw went slack. “Are you sayin'
you
want tae marry
me?”

She glanced down and nodded shyly. Marry
him?
His heart was hammering in his chest. “You would no' like being with me. You'd have to live in Scotland among strangers with strange ways.” The gulf between their nationalities was daunting. His grandmother had been English and her ways had been infused in their family, but Annalía was far from English.

He loved the difference. He was charmed by her manners and captivated by the way she spoke, but he didn't know if she'd like how foreign Scotland would be for her. He didn't
know how the Highlands would treat a vivid Castilian—who delighted in mocking a Scots accent—in return.

Why was he even considering this? As if this were the only obstacle? He was bloody
cursed.

“I can learn. You said I learn quickly.” Her voice was . . . hopeful? Couldn't be.

Best to end this. “And do you want bairn?”

“Children?” She smiled at him and breathed, “Yes.”

Now it seemed like his heart stopped. “I canna give them to you.”

She tilted her head at him, brows drawn.

“That's right, Anna—if you are tied to me, you will no' have them.”

Her frown deepened. “Do you mean you can't have children or you can't father children?”

What was the bloody difference? “I canna father children.”

“But you can
have
them. In Andorra it's very common to adopt.”

He'd never expected this. It took a moment for him to work up an answer. “You're young yet. You'll come to want your own.”

“What if
I
can't have any? The women in my family have never been fruitful. Did you not notice the age difference between my brother and me? Twelve years. My mother was an only child and her mother was before her.” She added softly, “MacCarrick, would you not want me if the situation were reversed?”

“Christ, yes, I'd want you,” he said in a rush, then wished he hadn't. But as usual the thought had returned:
Take you any way I could.
He was staggered. If he'd ever envisioned a scenario where she might come to want him, he'd always been so sure that upon learning he couldn't give her children, she would gasp, then demur, and then want him no more.

He forced himself to turn from her and strode outside,
knowing that that was why he'd been so hesitant to tell her now.

•  •  •

“What does it say?” Olivia asked for the third time in as many seconds.

“I could tell better if you'd stop blocking my light,” Aleix answered with an impatient look over his shoulder.

They'd come to Annalía's old school on the off chance that her former headmistress might have some kind of information, and had been astonished when she produced a message for him from Annalía, written in Gaelic. Aleix felt constrained to tell the woman as little as possible, so she'd left them alone in the library with an ancient English-Gaelic dictionary and a worried glance.

Apparently weary of blocking his light, Olivia hopped up to sit on the table, tilting her head down this way and that at the message. He exhaled loudly, then returned to the words he'd managed to translate so far. Definitely directions. Concentrating, he could see patterns forming. “The Square Mile? Wait . . . London proper is known as that.”

With more excitement than he'd ever seen in her, she said, “Then I believe we're going to England!” He shot to his feet, took her waist, and swung her around. She was smiling, genuinely, and it softened her whole face. A maddening urge surfaced. He wanted to know what it'd be like to kiss her.

As he was contemplating it, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his. Surprised, he set her to her feet, but the hands clutching her waist soon moved to gripping her back to bring her closer so he could return the kiss. He did, harder and more intently, and when she moaned, desires he'd thought were dead came clawing back to life in an instant. She was slim and tall, and as he clasped her tightly, molding her to his body, she fit him well.

Which couldn't be right since Mariette had been petite.

He broke away, pushing her back, breathing hard. She appeared bemused, but she shouldn't be. This shouldn't have happened. He'd sworn to wed her, but he could never give her a true marriage.

With a wavering breath he sank back into his seat, fighting to ignore Olivia and how sweet her lips had been. Somehow he attempted to continue translating. It helped when she said, “I don't even like your ninny of a sister, but I can't wait to find her. It is so fitting that she be the mouse.”

He clasped his head in consternation and returned to ordering the words he'd translated, then frowned. Annalía had copied MacCarrick's translation unaware she'd more or less written to her brother, “If you let them follow you to my bloody home, I will beat your arse.”

•  •  •

The seamstress looked very aggrieved when she handed Court the bill.

He'd been prepared to be bowled over by the statement, and he was. Shocked because it was less than in the village. “What is this? Get her more.”

“She said you'd say that and that I should disregard your orders.”

He glowered and snapped, “Bring her more.”

The woman appeared frightened, and as she darted away she assured him she would return with additional garments.

Court had brought the seamstress to Annalía and knew the consequences and could handle them. He wasn't destitute yet. Thanks to Hugh.

How ironic that Hugh's robbing his accounts would be saving Court's arse right now. Hugh had stumbled onto the new firearms company of Horace Smith and Daniel Wesson through his work, and had believed so strongly in it, he'd uni-laterally invested for Court. Court had been prickly about his hard-earned money, but could only grumble now because
this Wesson and Smith deal had begun providing income that would allow him to chip away at his debt. At least Hugh had the decency not to rub it in. . . .

Now Anna, with her obvious
forbearance,
was shaming him. He would
make
her accept more. His brows drew together.

Oh, she was
good.

He found her as she was gathering more books from the library. “Why did you no' get more?”

“I'll only need a few dresses. Aleix will be here soon to collect me, don't you think? It will be silly to lug so much around and then all the way back home when we can return. Especially since I already have to use an entire bedroom for my dresses now.”

“You can have whatever you want.”

“I know. You are very gracious, but truly this is all I need.” She leaned up to kiss him on his cheek before she turned for her room with books under her arm. Her face had been sad.

Surely she wasn't
this
good.

H
ow could Annalía show MacCarrick how different she'd become if he hardly spoke to her anymore? She'd thought that when Hugh left he would relax some, but if anything, he'd grown more on edge.

If he was denying her because he couldn't father children, then that was simply unacceptable. Whenever she thought about his admission, she wondered if he'd been ill as a child, and her heart hurt to think of him in pain.

If he was doing this because he saw her as spoiled and closed-minded, then she'd have to force him to see that she wanted to learn, that she wanted to be better.

Annalía knew the most pressing reason why he was distant with her. So clearly they needed to get this lovemaking completed so they could be together. Decided on her course of action, she began planning. Tonight she'd bathed with the scented soaps the seamstress had brought her—the peculiar woman had returned with more clothing and
evidently everything else she could lay hands on. After her bath, Annalía had slipped on a new nightdress she'd chosen from the selection, chosen specifically for particular characteristics.

Now she was ready. She wasn't as nervous as she'd imagined she might be—after all, this would be a bold move—but she knew that this was the course she was meant to take. . . .

“MacCarrick!”

The door burst open a second later. “Anna, what is it—” He lost his voice when he saw her standing at the foot of the bed. “Go back to bed,” he ordered in a harsh tone.

It didn't faze her. She stood determined before him and tugged the left string strap of her nightgown loose. The jet black silk slid down one side, just above her nipple.

His eyes widened as if in realization, then narrowed.
“Doona do this.”

She reached back and unpinned her hair, shaking her head until it spilled down her back. Her fingers rested at the other tie strap of her nightgown, ready to pluck.

His hand was shaking as he ran it over his face. “You canna keep temptin' me.”

She raised her eyebrows and tugged. The tie was on the verge of unraveling. She thought
he
was on the verge of unraveling. His body seemed to thrum with energy and tension throughout. She could hardly wait to touch it again.

His voice low, he said, “Anna, I am askin' you, please, doona—”

She pulled it loose.

•  •  •

The nightgown dipped, hesitating over her hard nipples before floating down past her waist and legs. “What were you saying?” she asked in a purring voice.

His jaw slackened. Taking down her hair had been merciless.
The nightgown? Without the nightgown, the ground he'd managed to gain, or at least maintain, was now unrecoverable.

“If you keep pushing me, I will take you to bed, but it will no' be just to kiss you. It will no' be like last time.” He struggled to keep his eyes on her face—away from her high breasts, away from her curving hips that he wanted to clench—yet even the look in her eyes was carnal. “There will be repercussions.”

“I understand.”

“I mean it, Anna,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I will take you this night, I swear it.” How could a man not be expected to make love to the woman he coveted above all things? When she presented herself like a newly unwrapped gift? He might as well be expected to voluntarily forgo breathing. Which was impossible. Denying himself the feel of her body?

Impossible.

Like a hit, things became very clear. She wanted him to make love to her, and he wanted her desperately. The reasons he'd come up with not to couldn't withstand this. Right now, he couldn't recall a single one anyway. He would take her so long and hard that she'd regret pushing. He kicked the door closed then strode to her, lifting her against his chest, forcing her to wrap her legs around his waist.

“Courtland,” she said with a gasp as he carried her to the bed.

He sat on the edge, keeping her spread over his lap, his hands splayed against her bottom, squeezing. He scarcely believed she was naked on him, and had begun eagerly kissing his neck and face and removing his shirt as if she were hungry for him. He lowered his head to her chest, drawing her nipple into his mouth. When she cried out, he stopped, not quite kissing her, his lips just next to her skin.
“Mo cridhe,
are you tae be mine?”

She threaded her fingers into his hair.
“Yes.”

He grasped her face and met her eyes. “In all the ways, Anna?” he asked, his voice a rasp.

“Yes,” she answered without looking away. “I will be yours in all ways.”

He wanted to revel in what she'd just promised, but when he shrugged out of his shirt, she pressed her breasts against him, moaning softly and shivering from the contact, and he could only clutch her tighter against him.