[MacKenzie Sally] The Naked Laird(book4me.org) (7 page)

“You aren’t sickening, are you?”

He should say yes, but the woman actually looked concerned. “No, I am merely tired.” He smiled. “I’m sure I’ll sleep better and my appetite will return when you’ve been able to find me another bedchamber.”

Damn. Miss Smyth’s eyes lit up. Was that a sly gleam of mischief he discerned? Surely she wasn’t going to make some salacious comment about lack of sleep and sharing a bed with Nell? It looked very much as if she was going to. She opened her mouth and horror gripped his soul.

“Miss Smyth, can I trouble you to pass the sweetbreads?”

Thank God for Miss Addison—whichever one it was. He would have sworn he’d never thank the Almighty for gracing the world with either of the annoying chits, but this one’s request could not have come at a better moment. Miss Smyth paused, shrugged, and grasped the requested dish.

“Of course, Miss Addison. I’m so happy
someone
has a lusty appetite.”

Nell started choking.

“Are you all right?” Should he pound her on the back? He lifted his hand, but she raised hers to deter him.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered when she stopped gasping. “I’m afraid a mouthful of wine went down the wrong way. I’m fine now.” She returned her attention to artfully arranging her French beans.

Damn. Her face was politely expressionless. She’d shut him out again.

If only he could turn back the clock. When she’d been young, she’d been so full of joy, of life, she couldn’t hold it in. He’d been drawn to her—all the lads had. But he’d been the laird…

He speared another morsel of venison. No, it hadn’t been his position that had given him her favor. Well, his position might have made the other lads back off when they’d seen he wanted her, but Nell herself had not cared, would not have cared had he been the lowest stable boy. She had loved him for himself.

He forced himself to chew the damn meat. It could have been shoe leather for all he knew.

When Nell had loved him, he’d felt stronger, smarter, quicker. Happier.

“Lord Kilgorn, would you care for some potatoes?”

“No, thank you, Miss Smyth.”

Why in God’s name had she lost the baby? She’d been young and healthy. She shouldn’t have had any problems. There’d been no warning. Just the cramping and then the blood.

He reached for his wineglass and took a large swallow. That was a day he never wanted to relive. She’d cried and cried as if her heart had broken. He’d felt so damn helpless.

He shoved another tasteless bit of food in his mouth and chewed mechanically.

He’d been able to think of only one solution—to give her another child—and she’d rejected that. More than rejected. She’d screamed at him, sobbed…He’d felt like a complete monster.

And then last night…

He speared a bean and shoved it into his mouth.

She’d seemed interested at first—surely he’d not been so drunk as to be mistaken in that. More than interested. She’d taken his cock in her hand…. Zeus, that had felt good. Her tentative fingers, then the silky soft brush of her cheek, the delicate sweep of her tongue—

“Lord Kilgorn, would you like some sweetbreads?”

“Wha—?” Miss Smyth was blinking at him and holding a plate of…“No, no thank you, Miss Smyth. Really, I don’t need anything else. I am quite satisfied.”

The woman’s damn eyebrow flew up and she looked pointedly at Nell. If there was a God in heaven, Nell would still be studying her plate. His faith was not strong enough to look.

“Oh, I doubt you’re satisfied, my lord.”

A certain part of his anatomy, thankfully hidden by the tabletop, agreed with her most vehemently.

She was hiding. All right, she admitted it. She was a coward.

Nell pulled the covers up higher and tried to find a comfortable position. The maids must have filled the mattress with rocks during the day.

She flopped onto her back and stared up at the canopy. She had to get to sleep—she did not want to be awake when Ian came up. With luck he’d be as late as last night—and not as drunk.

How many more days were left to this infernal house party? She could hardly wait to go home.

A sharp lump dug into the small of her back. She turned onto her side and tugged on the covers again.

Oh, why lie? She didn’t want to go back to Pentforth Hall, and she surely did not want to go back to Mr. Pennington’s amorous advances.

She turned over onto her stomach. If Ian truly thought she was engaging in such activities with the man, why had he allowed the disgusting toad to retain his position?

The answer was painfully obvious—he didn’t care. He was completely indifferent to the possibility that his estranged wife was trysting with his estate manager.

And she wasn’t crying. She was angry, that was all.

She wiped her face on her pillow. She
had
to go to sleep before Ian arrived.

Perhaps he’d decided to keep Lord Dawson company. The baron had looked completely forlorn after Lady Grace left the drawing room. Was the girl right to marry her neighbor? She obviously loved Lord Dawson—and he loved her.

Yes, indeed. Without a doubt, Lady Grace was being very wise. Love didn’t guarantee happiness. She had loved Ian beyond all reason, and here she was, in this hellish limbo, married, yet not. Love was far more trouble than it was worth.

She turned to her back once more. Surely she could find a position comfortable enough to let her drop off to sleep?

She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, but sleep still eluded her.

Perhaps the problem wasn’t so much a lumpy mattress as a, well, lumpy conscience. Was it really love causing her misery—or was it fear? Was she afraid to let Ian back into her heart and risk the pain of conceiving and losing another child?

Yes. Yes, she was afraid. And it was too late now. If only she had reined in her temper last night, when lust had drowned out the terror—

Was that the doorknob turning? Dear God. She lifted her head to stare at the door. He couldn’t be coming up this early, could he? It wasn’t possible—

Yes, it was. The door creaked open. She shut her eyes, dropping her head onto the pillow. If she couldn’t sleep, she’d pretend to. She heard some rustling…

“I know you’re awake, Nell.” The voice had come from very close by.

Her eyes flew open. “Ack!” The man was standing right next to the bed, his chest naked for all the world to see. Or at least for her to see. The candlelight turned his skin golden and gilded the fine hair curling over his chest, over his belly, down to—

At least he still had his breeches on.

“I
was
asleep.”

His damn eyebrow arched up. She’d never been able to lie to him successfully.

“What are you doing here?”

He smiled slightly. “Isn’t it obvious? Getting ready for bed.”

“Bed?” Her voice squeaked. She tried to take a calming breath. “You don’t really mean to…you aren’t going to…” Another breath. “You don’t plan to share this b-bed with me, do you?”

She should try for a little courage, but her heart was pounding too quickly for her to think.

“Actually, I do.” He glanced away. “As I discovered last night, the floor is quite uncomfortable.”

“Well—” Nell glanced at the other pillow. It was much, much too close. The bed was just too small.

“Unless you’d like to take a turn on the floor? I warn you, though, Motton desperately needs to replace the carpet. It is rather thin.”

Nell looked down at the rug. “N-no…”

“I didn’t think so.” Ian shrugged. His muscles shifted in a very distracting fashion. She wanted to touch him exactly as she had last night.

Dear heavens. Well, it was his own fault, parading about without a stitch of cloth covering his chest. There were reasons men—polite men—kept their shirts on. Well, men like Ian. Pennington was a different case entirely. The thought of his scrawny chest stripped of shirt, waistcoat, and coat stirred the senses in a completely different—a completely unpleasant—manner.

What if she rolled over in the middle of the night and landed up against Ian? What if her face touched his warm chest; what if her bare hand found his smooth, strong back? What if—

What if she just threw herself at him right now?

How brazen could she be? She wanted to cradle the lovely organ she’d touched last night. She wanted to feel it deep inside her. She shivered.

“Are you cold, Nell?”

“N-no.”

“Hmm. Actually, you look rather flushed. You aren’t sickening, are you?”

Would he sleep on the floor if she said she was? “Yes, yes, I suppose I might be.”

Dear God, he put his hand on her forehead and then on her cheeks. His fingers were large and slightly rough. “You don’t feel hot.”

She certainly did. It was a wonder his hand didn’t burst into flame. “Uh.” She should say something…what? “Um.” She pulled her head back, breaking their contact.

She remembered with shocking clarity the feel of his fingers on her body, stroking over her arms, her breasts…

He’d used to sleep cuddled up—well, tangled up—naked, warm, and relaxed after coupling. Did he still?

She moistened her lips. Could he smell her desire? Could he hear it in the way her breath hitched?

He withdrew his hand. “Are you afraid, then?” His voice was harsh. “Are you worried I’ll force myself on you?”

No, she was worried she’d force herself on
him
. But she couldn’t say that. How mortifying. She simply shook her head and kept her eyes on her hands even when Ian made a short, disgusted sound.

“Will this make you sleep easier?” He went to the hearth, picked up the poker, and laid it down the center of the bed. It was dark and hard; traces of ash smeared across the white sheets. “And I will keep my breeches on and stay on top of the sheets.”

“Oh.” Her disappointment was an egg-size lump in her throat, but she couldn’t have Ian thinking she lusted for him like all the London women. “Splendid. Perhaps I shall be able to sleep tonight after all.”

She glanced up. Ian’s face looked like granite. His brows snapped down when his eyes met hers. “
You
had the bed last night. I would have thought you’d slept soundly.”

She felt herself flushing. “It is difficult sharing a room with you.”

His face grew even grimmer, if that were possible. “Well, with any luck, this will be the last time you’ll be forced to do so. I intend to insist Miss Smyth find me other accommodations tomorrow.”

“Good.” The thought made her stomach sink. How was she going to go back to Pentforth Hall and ever find any contentment?

He was going to go bloody, raving mad.

Ian strode across Motton’s well-manicured lawns. If he didn’t get out of that damn bedchamber—that damn
bed
—he was going to start foaming at the mouth. Bedlam would not be large enough to contain his insanity.

Last night had been pure hell. He’d slept hardly at all. Every time he’d start to drop off, Nell would make some small noise. She’d tossed and turned constantly. He almost suspected her of purposely trying to torment him. She hadn’t been such a restless sleeper when they’d been young.

He glared at an innocent squirrel that had had the audacity to dart across his path. Any closer and he’d have stepped on the brainless rodent.

When they were young, if she’d been restless, he’d had a very efficient—a very pleasant—way of calming her. A thorough bout of lovemaking had always made them both wonderfully relaxed. But obviously that solution had not been available to him last night, damn it all to hell.

The bloody poker was not the only hard object in that bed.

He reached a large oak tree and turned back toward the house. This was ridiculous. He’d already taken his horse out for an hour ride, yet he was still as…tense as hell.

His horse was not what—whom—he wished to be riding.

Should he try the inn? Surely he could find a woman to cure his problem there—

No, damn it. He didn’t want a whore, he wanted Nell. Zeus, did he want her. But she didn’t want him.

It was a damnable coil. Seeing her again—smelling her, hearing her, touching her—had brought all the old longing back. That was why he hadn’t visited Pentforth again. He’d known the only way he could live without her was to try to forget she existed. He’d never been completely successful, even after all these years, but he’d been able to keep the need to a manageable level of discontent.

Now it was a damn, raging fever. He might not survive this blasted house party.

He had to divorce her. It was the uncertainty of the situation—yes, the
hope
—that was the problem. Once he took steps to end their marriage…well, it would be final. Like death.

If he didn’t get his own room today, he
would
die.

He approached the house. Hmm. There was a traveling carriage on the drive. How was Miss Smyth going to handle this? She would have to rearrange sleeping accommodations now or magically find an empty room. He smiled slightly. This should be interesting.

A knot of people clogged the entry hall—Dawson, Lady Grace, Miss Smyth, Motton…Nell. His eyes were drawn to her like iron to a magnet. Damn. He forced himself to study the scene instead. There was a good bit of brangling going on.

The Earl of Standen had arrived to drag his daughter home. Why he was doing so remained a bit of a mystery and, frankly, Ian didn’t care what the man’s reasons were. If Lady Grace departed, her room was suddenly free for him, though he wouldn’t be at all surprised if Miss Smyth concocted some asinine reason why he couldn’t take it. Well, he was not going to be hoodwinked again. He would insist, most strenuously.

“But the house party isn’t over yet,” Motton was saying. He smiled at Standen. “Why don’t you join us? I’m sure we can find you a room.”

Find Standen a room? Bloody hell!

“Ah, so there
are
extra rooms?”

Ian was finally going to get his own room. She was delighted, of course. It had been exceedingly awkward and uncomfortable sharing such a small space—such a small bed—with the man. She had hardly got a moment’s sleep since she arrived. She—

She didn’t feel delighted. She felt tired and depressed.

Nell closed her eyes and leaned back slightly on the garden bench, turning her face up to the sun. Bees buzzed nearby; the jumbled scents of flowers hung in the air. The day was full of life…

Life that was passing her by. She squeezed her eyes more tightly shut. This was the end. She could feel it. When Ian left this house party, he was going to begin divorce proceedings. She tried to swallow the large lump that had suddenly appeared in her throat.

Stupid! This was what she wanted, wasn’t it? It was
good
Ian would finally be taking steps to end their sham of a marriage. It was time she finally got on with her life.

A life that extended, gray and solitary, year after year, for as long as she could imagine—

“Are you all right, Lady Kilgorn?”

“Wha—?” Nell jerked open her eyes. Lady Oxbury stood before her, a look of concern on her face.

“Are you quite all right? I don’t mean to pry, but, well, I see you’ve been crying.”

“Crying?” Nell put her hands to her face. Her cheeks
were
damp. “Oh, no. I am just…overly warm. It’s a sunny day, after all, and I’ve been sitting here….”

“Lady Kilgorn…” Lady Oxbury sighed and shook her head slightly as if shedding reservations about whatever she was going to say. “Do you mind if I join you?”

Nell did mind, of course. She was not eager to be gifted with some unsolicited advice, but she couldn’t find the tact—or energy—to politely decline Lady Oxbury’s company. And the woman had already settled herself on the bench next to her.

“I wouldn’t normally…I don’t usually…oh, fiddle!” Lady Oxbury looked Nell straight in the eye.

Nell dropped her gaze like a frightened rabbit to stare at her hands clasped in her lap. This was
most
uncomfortable.

“You must know everyone—even Miss Smyth, I dare say—is aware of your unconventional—your
unfortunate
—situation.”

“I’m not certain what you me—”

“Of course you know what I mean. You have lived apart from your husband for a decade.”

“That is not so unusual. Many couples of the ton live apart, don’t they?”

“Yes, but not many of those couples married so young—and for love.”

“Er…” She really, really did not wish to discuss this, especially with a virtual stranger. “We
were
very young, too young to—”

Lady Oxbury made a disparaging sound. “And you were very much in love, were you not?”

There was no point in lying. “Yes. But as you say, we were young, too young to know better. Too young to sustain—”

Lady Oxbury actually snorted her disgust this time. “Balderdash! You are still in love.”

Nell gaped at the older woman. Was she to be allowed no pride? “How can you say such a thing?”

“Because it’s true.” Lady Oxbury pinned her with a gaze that brooked no nonsense. “Don’t bother to dissemble. I’ve seen the way you look at your husband. Your feelings are not a secret—except, apparently, from him.”

“Ohh.” She closed her eyes. She was going to expire from embarrassment.

“And he loves you.”

“
What
?” Nell’s eyes flew back open—truthfully, they almost started from her head. “You must be—you are—mistaken.”

“No, I am not.” Lady Oxbury leaned forward. Nell thought for a moment she would grab her shoulders and shake her. The woman’s gloved hands did rise from her skirts briefly.

What did one say to such a statement? “Oh?” A weak response but the only one Nell could manage.

“Indeed.” Lady Oxbury shook her head decisively. “But, like most men, he will probably refuse to acknowledge his feelings unless forced to do so.”