Mad About the Marquess (Highland Brides Book 2) (18 page)

But she couldn’t have come to Strathcairn smelling of horse and victory. He would sniff out her misadventure—which was how he would label her evening’s activity, if he knew about it, which he wouldn’t, because she would take great care to keep such a thing from him—like the great tomcat he was.

But she had to come to him. She couldn’t not. She was too keyed up, too full of the thrill of success, and she wanted to turn that thrill to kissing. “You said to meet you later.”

Quince’s neck began to tire from all the craning upwards. Strathcairn’s house in the New Town, stood at six stories tall—though what a single man in possession of both his wits and a castle in the high hinterlands to the north could need with a house six stories tall, she could not imagine. But that was the rich for you.

The window above snapped shut, and she rested her neck for the two minutes it took for Strathcairn to appear, clad in boots, breeks and shirtsleeves, at the kitchen door. “What in God’s name do you think you’re doing sneaking around my back garden, throwing rocks at my windows? Why could you not knock on the front door, like a civilized person?” His tone might have been grumpy, but he was very nearly smiling that slippery, begrudging, one-sided grin that made absolutely every trouble worthwhile.

“Oh, certainly, Strathcairn.” She gave him her own version of a slippery smile. “Next time I’ll walk right up to the front door, and ply the knocker. I’m sure that kind of straightforward behavior wouldn’t be in the least bit ruinous. Nay, I’m sure your neighbors are all as discreet and silent as the grave.”

 
He saw her point. “Come inside before one of them sees you.”

“Oh, no thank you. It’s much better—much safer, and far more atmospheric—if I stay out here.” Though she did move under the cover of one of the ornamental flowering birch trees—
Betula
utilis
—that lined the narrow walk from the house to the mews. “Much more seemly.”

“Lass, I fear I need to tell you there is absolutely nothing seemly about making your way to a gentleman’s residence in the middle of the night.”

“No,” she agreed. “But it is a grand lark.”

He tried not to laugh. He really tried, poor man. He looked up at the stars and worked to keep his mouth in a straight, stern line, but she could see the telltale white glint of his teeth in the moonlight. “You’re going to give me grey hairs.”

She gave him her most encouraging smile. “Think of what you’ll save on powder.”

That coaxed more of his smile from him—one side of his mouth curved upward without his permission. But he wasn’t entirely ready to be pleased with her. “I waited for you at the masquerade, but you disappeared. Your sister said you went home.”

“Aye.” A plausible, or at least believable, lie was best. “I am sorry. But sometimes it is best to retreat from the field of battle in order to fight another day.”

He reached out absently, as if he could not help himself. As if some other power made him want to run his hand through her hastily pinned, and still very damp hair. She had come in a rush, throwing on the first pieces of clothing that had been to hand when she had jumped out of the bath—a fitted forest green jacket and a short quilted petticoat in moss that had undoubtedly seen better days, but which were dark enough to blend into the night.
 

“And have you come here, straight from your bath, to fight?” he asked.

“Not a’tall,” she assured him. “I am all serenity.”

“That would be a first.” He let a long strand of her hair run through his fingers before he dropped his hand. “Wee Quince, as happy as I am to see you again, it’s the middle of the bloody night—”

“Can you think of a better time?”

“Aye, I can.” He was all helpful clarity. “This evening. At the masquerade. When we were safely hidden amongst half of Edinburgh.”

He had a point. “This is better,” she cajoled. “More private.”

“You’re incorrigible, wee Quince Winthrop.” He shook his head, but his smile was spreading beyond his control. “What am I to do with you?”

“You’re to kiss me of course, while the moonlight gilds my hair, and makes me irresistible. Which you already are—the moon has given your lovely ginger hair an almost saintly halo. Although I must admit, I rather hope you’re prepared to act more like a sinner than a sain—”

He kissed her to shut her up. Clever man.
 

He kissed the way he did everything—with a sort of easy, effortless control. She had thought herself so firmly in charge, calling him down to her, but the moment his lips moved over hers, she forgot all her best intentions. She forgot everything except the heady pleasure of his lips on hers.

His clever, careful hands cupped her face, and slid along the edge of her jaw, urging her to tip her head ever so slightly to the side, so that she fit against him just so. So their mouths and lips could play and taste and explore. He was all around her, his arms encircling her back, holding her tight, leaning her against the side of the house, and his mouth—his glorious, educated, experienced mouth—was doing impossible things to hers. Impossible, wonderful things. Warm, wet, wonderful things.

Clever delicious man. He tasted of brandy and apples—of the sweet, intoxicating comfort of the familiar. Of reliable warm and sure solidity.

What an inane notion. But no odder than the thought that when he held her in his arms, when he cupped her face, and drew her lips to his, she felt safe.
 

As if she could never fall. Never fail. Never let anyone down.

Never let
him
down.

Oh, that was surely the most dangerous thought of all. She would eventually disappoint him. It was inevitable. But just now, at this moment, she was too happy to worry about the future when the present was so, so overwhelmingly delightful.
 

She laced her fingers through his damp, gilded hair, tugging him closer, nearer, tighter. So close there was nothing but him—nothing but the firm press of his lips and his tongue and his scent and his weight.
 

Everything in the world she wanted at this moment.

Oh, aye, he was everything safe and solid and dangerous. But he was also challenge and excitement and pleasure. So, so much pleasure, coursing through her body everywhere his lips pressed, everywhere his hands touched. Heat and warmth and bliss stole under her skin, robbing her of breath. But she didn’t want to breathe, she wanted more of the lovely heady bliss that made her want more than just a kiss in a garden. More than just a temporary thrill.

This time, it was she who turned, and backed him against the garden wall. This time it was she who fisted her hand through his damp hair, and pulled his mouth down to hers. This time it was she who pressed her weight against the solid warmth of him.

“Aye,” he whispered into her hair.
 

It was all the encouragement she needed to guide his hand to her rib cage, to press the warm heat of his palm against the underside of her breast.
 

He stilled. “Are you— Are you not wearing stays?”

“Nay.” She ducked her head down against his chest, afraid that he might see the excitement, the anticipation, and the need to be thrilled written across her face. “I am not.”

“Oh, devil take me, Quince.” His hand snaked around the curve of her spine, pulling her tight so he could bury his face in her hair. “Your hair is damp,” he breathed into her ear, “and you smell as fresh as the dawn, all golden and dewy. All I can think of is you, in your bath, naked and warm and wet and—”

She kissed him to stop him from saying anything more incendiary. She was throwing herself at him, she knew, but when he talked like that—on the cusp of his breath, with all the words roughened up as if he’d taken them on a roll in the heather—she wanted to be naked and warm and wet and in his arms.

“Quince.”

“Aye,” she answered, even if he had not asked anything. Because she would do anything for him. He made her so happy, he almost made her want to be good.

Oh, holy thunder claps.

That was the most dangerous thought of them all. That was the impossible, wishing its way past the reality of the life she had chosen—she had chosen to be bad just as assuredly as she had chosen Lord and Lady Digby to rob. And wanting it to be otherwise was just wishing into the wind.
 

And there was so much more possibility in being bad. And in being bad with him. Why should she not have everything she could want from him while he was close and willing and backed up against a wall?
 

Before she could think better of the idea, she guided his hands to the contours of her breasts, and then set her own fingers to the buttons on the front fall of his breeches.

“Whoa, whoa, lass. I don’t think you know—” His hand fisted into the material of her jacket, holding tight.

She ignored his halfhearted protest, and slid her hand into the placket, and found just what all the fuss was about. She wrapped her hand around the heat of him.
 

He sucked in a hiss of air. “Devil take me. You do ken what you’re doing.”

“I do,” she assured him. “I’ve always been prodigiously curious.” And never more so that at this moment. His flesh was soft and amazingly hard all at the same time. Curious indeed. “And I have been prodigiously curious about your cock.”

“Jesus God, lass.” His voice was all breath and dark whisper. “Where did you learn such a word?”

“I’m nineteen, Strathcairn, not some green girl. I’ve heard all about cocks from my sisters—the wicked married ones. It’s amazing the things people will say to each other when they don’t think you’re listening.”

“You’re incorrigible. For a lass who didn’t ken how to kiss a few days ago, you’re going a damn fine—” A sound of inarticulate pleasure drowned out whatever else he had been going to say when she grasped him more firmly.

“Like this?” she asked.
 

“Aye, lass, aye.” Another near-moan tunneled out of his chest. “Two hands for beginners,” he advised, and then sucked in a long breath as she wrapped her second hand around the lovely length of him. “God help me, you’re a quick learner. So quick, I may have to—”
 

“My lord?” a voice from the house broke into the privacy of the darkness.

Strathcairn froze for the merest fraction of a second, before he pulled her around behind his back, shielding her from sight—just as he had done earlier at the masquerade—while he swiftly put his buttons to rights. “Don’t speak,” he ordered in a harsh whisper. “Or show your face.”

There was an uncomfortable clearing of throat, and then the voice tried again. “Your pardon, my lord.”

“What is it?” Strathcairn finally answered.

“The Lord Provost is here, sir.”

“What in hell does the magistrate want with me this time of night?”
 

The question was purely rhetorical, but with her head held pressed to Strathcairn’s chest, the words rumbled ominously through her, chilling her to the bone.

There could only be one thing.

“He did not say, sir.” The messenger paused. “Though it appears most urgent, my lord. A number of other gentlemen have come with him.”

“Thank you. I’ll be there presently.” Strathcairn’s voice was everything calm and polite, but she could feel a livid stillness come over him, a wary pent-up power, like a tomcat scenting a rat.
 

He took a deep breath, but didn’t release her. “Something has come up.” But then he placed a kiss in the sensitive hollow under her ear before he whispered, “Wait here by the bench, and I’ll be back as soon as may be to escort you home.”

Quince wasn’t the sort of girl to wait quietly, nor was she the sort who wanted or needed an escort home—she’d just been out on the high road robbing a carriage, thank you very much. And she also could not resist the temptation to listen to every word that was said. So she found herself a shadowed spot to conceal herself near the open terrace door, and hoped the conversation would carry.

“My Lord Elder.” Strathcairn’s voice, crisp and polished, entirely parliamentary, without the least bit of Scot’s burr. “What brings the Lord Provost to my door this time of night?”

“Something more than a missing snuffbox, I assure you.”
 

“I am all attention, sir.”
 

Quince scooted closer, setting her ear to the door casing.

“A highwayman, my lord. Attacked Sir Harry and Lady Digby, of Fairleith Manor, and robbed them in their carriage in the wood beyond the Coast Road.”

“Bloody damn Frenchman.” Sir Harry himself could be heard in Strathcairn’s entryway. “
Monsieur
Minuit
, he called himself. Riding a huge black horse. Took everything, cool as you please.

“Well, damn him indeed.” There was a wealth of warning in the volatile mixture of anger, astonishment and—most revealing—satisfaction in Strathcairn’s voice.

A warning she would do well to heed, instead of being absolutely delighted at this version of herself. Her disguise had succeeded beyond her wildest expectations.

“Why come to me?” Strathcairn’s voice again, civil and cool. “Surely this is a matter for the local magistrates, and presents no great mystery. Lay the fellow a trap, and you’ll be done with him.”