My Highland Lord (Highland Lords) (33 page)

“Yes,” she replied. “I rode past i
t.”

The man smiled. “Aye, then, ye know where you’re going.”

“Indeed,” Phoebe said, and smiled despite the fact her heart was breaking. She knew exactly where she was going.

Her dear husband was holded up in a brothel. Phoebe had worried that asking the stable master where she could find the owner of the Adulusian would raise suspicion, so she had begun her search where Robbie's trail had ended: at Madam Duvall's. It was dark, but she leisurely strolled along the boardwalk and kept her hood over her hair, both unnecessary precautions. As she neared the brothel, a man turned, stared, then hurried hurried into Madam Duvall's. Phoebe realized that the Marquess of Ashlund was at the brothel. She also knew that Kiernan was being apprised of the fact that his wife was in town. In another moment, he would also know she stood across the street from his hiding place.

With a sigh,
Phoebe drew back the hood of her cloak and crossed the street to the house. She started to knock, but changed her mind and opened the door, then stepped inside.

A hulking monster of a man stood a few feet from the door and turned. "Beg your pardon, Miss," he said in a heavy Scottish accent. "But you must be in the wrong place."

Oh how she wished that were true. "I'm here to see my husband."

Annoyance flashed in his eyes. "We don't allow ladies at Madam Duvall's."

Of that she was sure.

He took at step toward her and Phoebe pulled the pistol from her pocket. He halted.

“Micah,” called a woman as she stepped out from a room to the right.

“Madam Duvall, I presume?” Phoebe asked without taking her eyes from the bodyguard.

“There's no need for the weapon, madam,” she replied.

"That remains to be seen," Phoebe said. "Please inform Lord Ashlund that his wife is here.”

“Wife? I wasn't aware His Lordship had married."

Her heart lurched. He hadn't told anyone he was married. Her re
action was stupid, she knew, but she wasn't going to deny the hurt.

"Where is he?" Phoebe demanded of Madam Duvall.

Uncertainty flickered across her face, but she nodded toward the hallway. “Upstairs. Come with me.” She started down the hallway.

Phoebe gave the bodyguard a wide birth, then pocketed the gun and followed Madam Duvall down the corridor, up two flights of stairs
, and down another corridor. Madam Duvall stopped before a set of double doors, gave a perfunctory knock, and entered.

“Lord Ashlund—”

“Yes, Letty,” Kiernan interrupted. He sat across the lavishly furnished bedchamber at a secretary, his back turned. He confirmed Phoebe's suspicions when he said, “Show my wife in.” He continued writing as Phoebe entered, and Madam Duvall left, closing the doors behind her. He laid down his pen and rolled his chair around to face her. He wore a kilt, as he had for their wedding. She couldn't halt the flick of her gaze to his muscled calves. The man could drive a woman wild. He
had
driven her wild.

“You never cease to amaze me.” He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. "Where does my father think you are?"

"On my way to London to see Adam's family."

Kiernan nodded. “And how did you find me?”

“The Andalusian.”

"That horse is likely to get me killed." Kiernan rose and strode to her. Once
at her side, he caught her hand and raised it to his lips. “Things aren't what they appear, my dear."

Ah, Phoebe reflected with a stab of sadness, if only they were as simple as they appeared.
“I suppose it's my fault you’ve sought solace in a brothel," she said. He gave her a questioning look, and she added, "I wasn't a proper bride on our wedding night."

Amusement flickered in his eyes. "I will have to remember your love of brandy, but I doubt you believe the fact we didn't consummate our marriage is why I'm here."

"What else am I to assume?”

“What indeed?” he murmured.

Kiernan reached up and she stilled when he undid the clasp on her cloak. His warm fingers brushed her collarbone and gooseflesh raced down her arms. He swung the cloak from around her shoulders and tossed it onto a nearby chair. Then, with a firm hand on her elbow, he directed her to the couch that faced the fireplace. She sat down and he lowered himself onto the cushion beside her.

“I should have told you the truth," he began, "well…before now
, at any rate.”

“What truth would that be, my lord?”

"You recall the Highlanders who have been displaced from their homes these past years? You may not be aware of it, but many are wanted criminals.”

Phoebe lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “When one plans the assassination of noblewomen…”

A corner of his mouth lifted. “I felt sure you hadn't forgotten.”

“It is diffi
cult to forget when one is threatened at gun point.”

"Desperate people do desperate things,” he replied. “But, if you recall, it was you who pointed out that Robbie's pistol wasn't loaded, and
you
stopped me from beating him to death."

"I remember," she said—and she also remembered a line from her father's letter.
You cannot comprehend the fine line between reason and desperation when all choices have been eliminated.

“Desperation does not excuse murder,” she told her husband.

“Surely, you understand how those in power might manipulate others' desperation for their own means?” Kiernan asked.

It is shocking to learn that one’s leaders are willing to sacrifice their countrymen for money and power
came another startling salvo from her father's letter.

Then it seemed Kiernan
had read her mind when he asked, "How does a man take back that which was stolen from him by his betters?”

“He-t
here are channels one goes through." She clamped down on the strange sense of indecision that muddled her brain. "Protocol.
Not
murder.”

Kiernan gave a gentle smile that caused her chest to tighten.

“Ahh," he said. "And the men who have been trampled upon should trust those in power, those who robbed them, cast them from their homes like animals—and worse—to follow this
protocol
?”

The words were barely
out of his mouth when her mind flooded with
those few rich and powerful men who rule supreme in our society have stolen our rights
.

Anger shot through her. “You condone murder under any circumstances?”

"I should ignore the innocent who are murdered by their masters, yet bring to justice those men who strike back at their murderous overlords?" he said, but might as well have repeated her father's words,
Ironically, had I known then what I know now, I would be guilty of their accusations.

The tears she'd
held in check since discovering Kiernan was in Dornoch burned the corners of her eyes. It was as if he had read her father's letter. But that letter lay in the bottom of a drawer in England.

“How can you understand?" she demanded. "You’ve never faced hunger, cold, the prospect of no home.”

“Perhaps not,” he agreed. “But Ashlunds are also MacGregors, and MacGregors live under threat. You will remember Zachariah and his men.”

Phoebe drew a sharp breath. She had taken Zachariah for a man who double-crossed an employer
, who had masterminded the kidnapping of a wealthy marquess. But Kiernan inferred that the employer wanted Kiernan MacGregor the man, not the British nobleman.

Phoebe lifted her chin. “Kiernan MacGregor may face many dangers, but what chance is there the Marquess of Ashlund will ever stand accused of treason?”

Kiernan didn't break from her stare. “After today, very great. You see, I am confessing to you my part in aiding criminals escape the fate their government would impose upon them.”

“You are in league with them,” she cried.

“In league with them for what, a plot to kill a woman hundreds of miles away?"

Phoebe glared at him. “The duchess would not be so blasé about the plotting of her murder.”

He gave a short laugh. “She would like nothing better than to send those men to the gallows for something that never happened.”

“You're twisting the truth. Their plot to murder
anyone
is a crime.”

“Can you so easily judge
and condemn a man who has had even the most basic rights denied him?” Kiernan asked.

Would it shock you to hear that I relish the day I shall destroy my accusers? They have taken all I hold dear: you, our darling Phoebe and, lastly
, "my freedom," she said out loud. Surprise flickered in Kiernan's eyes, and she added, “I am not their judge. The law must deal with them."

“You mean the law dispensed by people like the duchess,
or perhaps those gracious men in the House of Lords? Say, Lord Ronald Harrington, who makes the very laws that protect them?”

“Lord Harrington?”

You cannot know how my accusers make even the most abhorrent criminal look like one of God’s angels. I sorely underestimated the depth of their deceit.

Her head swam. Surely her father hadn't meant—

“You think I'm wrong to slip the hangman’s noose from around the necks of accused criminals?” Kiernan asked.

Just as I did yours,
she knew he was thinking, and could no longer hold back the tears.

“Damnation, Phoebe.” He pulled her close.
“I’m not as bad as all that, I promise,” he said. “I've been a terrible suitor and a worse husband. Finding me here is inexcusable, and my confession in such surroundings…”

His confession? He had confessed to aiding criminals. Criminals he believed were victims…just as his kinsmen David had been? Winnie was right, Kiernan hadn't forgotten.

“I shouldn't have left you only a day after our marriage," he said.

She became aware of the heat of his fingers around her waist. Phoebe shook her head in an effort to clear the haze in her mind.

"And, while I forgive you, you are correct," he said. "We didn't consummate our marriage."

He shifted and
the moist warmth of his lips touched her throat. His mouth moved in what seemed infinitesimal increments along her neck. Shivers raced along her flesh. His mouth slid onto her ear.

“This is, perhaps, not the most fitting place,” he whispered, his breath skimming across her skin, “but you have me at a disadvantage. Your touch drives me wild.”

She vaguely remembered trying to drive him wild, stroking his engorged member—that she remembered too well—but he'd gotten the better of her.

“Technically,” he went on, his deep voice moving over her like silk as he ran his tongue along the edge of her ear, “this isn’t our wedding night. Therefore, it’s not as if I’m a complete cad. Can you forgive me for, yet, one more transgression?” His mouth glided across her cheek. “I promise to be a better husband afterwards
.” He covered her mouth with his and dragged her against him.

Her breasts, crushed against hi
s chest, ached. She exhaled, her breath mingling with his. A soft moan emanate from her throat. He slid a hand up her back and ran his fingers along her neck just below the hairline.

Phoebe shivered.

He pulled her to her feet. Her legs felt like rubber.

"Steady, sweetheart."

He turned her until her back faced him and pushed aside her hair. With one arm around her waist, he held her close while kissing her neck. She was vaguely aware of him unbuttoning her dress, but the sensation of his mouth on the sensitive skim of her neck muddled her brain. A moment later, he pushed the dress from her shoulders and it slipped to the floor. He grasped her chemise and began pulling it over her head.

"My lord," she cried, but he had the garment off her and a chill raced across her flesh.

He turned her and her skin heated when his gaze dropped to her naked breasts.

"Sir," she began, but he cut her off with a kiss, then lifted her into his arms and crossed to the bed. He laid her on the mattress and she knew she should push him away, leave, run as far away from him as she could. But when he lowered himself onto her
, a dizzying current spun the room. Then he kissed her and she was sure she was drowning. He trailed kisses along her cheek and down her throat to her shoulder.

“Sweetheart,” he said, and Phoebe felt herself floating between the real and unreal.

He filled her senses.

Kierna
n shoved off of the bed and in seconds had his boots off. He rose, loosened his belt, then unwrapped his kilt. Phoebe's heart jumped in the instant before the plaide dropped to the floor and she couldn't tear her gaze from his shaft. He was just as he'd been that night in his chambers: thick, rigid, and—heaven help her—in definite proportion to his size. He began unbuttoning his shirt.