Pleasured (14 page)

Damon brushed his fingers down the side of her face, watching their movement on her skin. Meg saw desire darken his eyes. He bent to kiss her, then kissed her again. He raised his head. “I must go,” he said hoarsely. “Or else—”

“Or else what?” She slid her hands up his chest and linked them behind his neck, watching him all the while.

He spread his hands out on her sides and slowly moved them down until they rested on her hips. “You know what.” He stepped closer, pulling her against him so that she felt the hard, pulsing evidence of his desire. “I will want to make love to you all over again.” His fingers curled up, gathering the material of her skirts in his grasp. He dropped his head to rest against hers. “To be inside you again. To feel you hot and tight around me.”

The huskiness in his voice, the little hitch in his breathing, sent heat spiraling through her. Boldly she pressed herself against him. “Then surely you should stay, not leave.” She went on tiptoe to kiss him.

Letting out a low noise, half laugh, half growl, he swept her up in his arms and, kicking the door shut behind him, started across the room.

13

D
amon set Meg down beside
the bed and peeled her clothes from her piece by piece, caressing and kissing her flesh as if she were a rare treasure. When she was completely bare to his gaze, her skin rosy with rising ardor, he dropped his hands and stood, watching Meg with a hot, hungry gaze as she unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it off, then roamed his chest with hands and mouth and tongue. His skin flared with heat beneath her touch and the muscles of his stomach quivered, but he made no move to hurry her untutored exploration. She used her tongue and lips and teeth on his flat, masculine nipples as he had on hers and was rewarded by the low growl of pleasure from his throat, the fierce surge of his flesh against his breeches.

When her fingers went to the buttons of his trousers, he drew in a short, sharp breath. Meg slanted a teasing look up at him, and though she knew the answer from the unmistakable reactions of his body, she asked, “Am I too bold? Would you rather I did not?”

“Bold women suit me well.” He slid his hands over her hair. “You may torment me at your leisure.”

Meg smiled and continued, sliding her hands inside the breeches and pushing them down as she curved her hands over his buttocks. She had never dreamed how exciting his body would feel beneath her hands, the pleasure of learning the different textures of his skin, of seeing his arousal deepen with every movement she made. She lowered his breeches, her body sinking with them, so close her full, loose hair brushed over him. Damon hauled her to her feet and kissed her deeply.

He laid her on the soft bed and leaned over her, bracing his arms on either side of her. “I have been dreaming for days about lying in this bed with you.”

He slid in beside her and began to make love to Meg with slow, patient deliberation. What had before been a feverish, hungry explosion of sensations was now a long, delectable slide into pleasure. Taking his time, he moved with painstaking care, seemingly determined to arouse every inch of her body into a fervor. Desire ratcheted up inside Meg, growing and spreading in a way she had never imagined, until she dug her fingers into the sheets beneath her, her body bowing up to him, as small, breathy whimpers fell from her lips.

Then, at last, he entered her with the same maddening, delightful care, magnifying their pleasure with each slow stroke until it seemed almost too much to bear, and finally they tumbled over the edge into a dark, blissful chasm of release.

When Meg awakened the next morning, she lay for a few minutes, gazing up at the ceiling and trying to pull some order out of the myriad thoughts and emotions tumbling about in her. Even though she had expected Damon to have gone back to Duncally, she had a little sting of disappointment that she lay in her bed alone. But beyond that, she felt—well, no use denying it—she felt wonderful. Every inch of her body was warm, relaxed, and pleasurably alive. Awakened. It seemed as if until this day, the world had, unbeknownst to her, been tinged with grayness, and only now did everything blaze forth in its full color. Her cottage was beautiful. She was beautiful. Damon was beautiful.

Laughing at the absurdity, she sat up, curling her arms around her jackknifed legs and resting her head upon her knees. Damon would no doubt bridle at such a description of him, but he was beautiful. It wasn’t only his handsome face or the strength and grace of his long body, though those things were excessively appealing. It was the way he touched her, kissed her, the desire that shone from his eyes, the gentleness that leashed his hunger. At times in the past she had wondered if she was too particular, if she was waiting for a perfection that would never come, but she knew now that she had been right in doing so. Nothing else could have matched last night.

Even the twinges of soreness seemed exactly right, eloquent reminders that she had entered a new world. In the past she would have scoffed at such thoughts. Perhaps she was being a bit extravagant, but she had no desire to temper her emotions. It was all far too enjoyable.

Rising and stretching languidly, she grabbed one of the
sweet-scented soaps she made and walked down to bathe in the secluded cove on the other side of the burn. Even in August the water was chilly, but she liked the feel of it on her skin. Lathering her hair and body, she washed off the soap, then floated languidly for a few minutes, thinking of the night before.

Before long, however, less pleasant thoughts began to slip in. As amazing as their lovemaking had been, Meg could not avoid that she had given herself to a man she should have despised. However skillful Damon was, however gentle he had been with her, he had not shown kindness elsewhere. He was still the man who had turned a third of his crofters out of their homes—and there was no reason to think the number would stop there. What kind of person would that make her if she ignored all that because of the pleasure she found in his arms?

Excuses for him bubbled up in her mind. Damon had assured her last night that he had not even known that MacRae planned to pull down the Troth Stone. So perhaps he had not ordered the clearances, either. It was possible, was it not, that an estate owner living in England would not be aware of what his estate manager was doing? It was tempting to think so.

Meg let out a disgusted noise and left the water, chastising herself as she dried off and dressed. Whatever was she doing, sitting about mooning over a man? Weaving daydreams about him and concocting reasons to exonerate him from guilt? She had always prided herself on being realistic and practical, not the sort to indulge in pretty fantasies.

The truth was, though she had known him intimately last night, she did not really know him at all. She must not
whitewash the man simply because his kisses turned her inside out. Indeed, it was idiotic to even be contemplating the future with him. For all she knew, she might never see the man again.

The differences between them were vast. What had been a rare, magical experience for her, ushering her into a new world, was probably a commonplace encounter for him. The Earl of Mardoun would have had countless women at his beck and call. How many times had he taken some opera dancer to bed, then returned to his mansion the next morning, never to see her again, leaving behind some little bauble as a token of his appreciation? Damon had pursued Meg eagerly before, but now that he had achieved what he desired, he might well be content and move on to chasing another.

It dismayed her to realize how much she did not want that to happen. She, the always-confident, ever-independent Meg Munro, was suddenly vulnerable and uncertain, dependent on a man’s desires, his decisions. Well, she certainly was not going to sit about, lost in memories of the night before or fretting over whether she would see him again. She would get dressed and be about her daily business.

After breakfast, Meg set out for Wes Keith’s croft. His mother was ill, and though Meg suspected that she could do nothing to defeat the specter of death that hung over the woman, she could at least give her something to soothe the pain. When she arrived at the Keiths’ croft, however, she was brought up short by the sight of Donald MacRae and his men grouped outside the small farmhouse. Wes Keith stood blocking his doorway, arms crossed and face grim. Behind him, Meg could see a child peeking around his leg.

“I’ve told you many a time,” MacRae said, his face growing red, “you canna stay here.”

“I canna leave!” Wes shot back. “I shouldna hae to. This is my faither’s croft and his faither’s afore him. We were here lang before any Englishman.”

“I dinna care if you’ve been permitted to stay here for four hundred years! That ends now. The Earl of Mardoun owns this land.”

“My mither is sick and like to die. Hae you no heart?” Catching sight of Meg hurrying toward them, Wes pointed to her. “Ask Meg. She’ll tell you how it is with Ma.”

MacRae whipped around. “You again! Dinna think you can stop me. There’s nae earl here for you to work your wiles on.”

“Mrs. Keith is quite ill,” Meg went on, ignoring the man’s words. “Surely you canna force a dying woman out of her home. Where will she go? What will happen to her?”

“That’s not my concern.”

At MacRae’s cold words, Wes Keith charged him, but two of the manager’s men grabbed Wes and held him back. “You think to hit me?” MacRae shouted, his face suffused with color. “You’re asking for transportation. How do you think your wife and wee children would do with you being sent to Australia?”

A gasp and a shriek came from the doorway of the house, and Wes’s wife cried, “No! Wes! Dinna do it.”

Meg went to Mrs. Keith and took her arm, turning her back into the house, saying in a soothing voice, “Here, the children are frightened.” She pointed to the young boy and the girl only slightly older, holding the baby of the family.

Millie Keith, tears coursing down her cheeks, took the
baby, jiggling her to hush her cries. “I dinna ken what we’ll do, Meg. My brother will tak us in, but he canna feed us all. And when will they force him off his land, too? Nae, it’s the end of us.”

“Come, let’s see to Wes’s ma.” Hoping to distract Millie, Meg took her arm, steering her into the next room, a cramped, dark space where an old woman lay on a narrow bed. Meg’s heart sank at the sight of her, but she said only, “Good day to you, Mrs. Keith. I brought you something to ease the pain a bit.”

The woman, who Meg knew was not as old as she looked, peered at Meg. “Janet?”

“Nae, it’s me, Meg, Janet’s daughter.”

“Oh, aye, Meg.”

Meg managed to coax a sip or two down her. As Meg stood up and handed the bottle to Millie, shouts erupted outside. Whirling, they hurried into the next room. “Get out!” Wes shouted, pelting through the front door. “Get the children out! They’ve set it on fire!” He shoved past them, going to his mother.

Meg snatched up the little boy, grabbed the girl’s hand, and ran for the front door. She could hear the wicked whisper of fire on the thatched roof above her head. Neighbors had gathered outside, and two men ran into the house to help Wes. Meg handed the two children off to one of the waiting women and turned back to see Millie emerge from the house, followed by Wes, carrying his mother. The other two men stumbled out after him, arms filled with the few bits of bedding and furniture they had managed to save.

The roof was blazing now, and fire had begun to eat its way down one of the supporting beams. Meg ran to MacRae
and grabbed his arm. “Stop this! How can you do such a thing!”

He turned his cold gaze on her. “Too late. We could nae stop it now if we tried.”

“You are a monster!” Meg was rigid with fury. “That woman is dying! You could have at least waited, let her end her life with a bit of dignity. It is inhuman to turn her out—and three children as well. Mardoun could not have wanted you to—”

“The earl? Hah!” MacRae let out a crack of laughter, his eyes glittering with malice now. “Whose orders do you think I act on? Did you think he would stop the clearances just to get under your skirts? All that matters to him is profit.” MacRae shrugged. “Anyway, there’s no need for him to please you now, is there? He got his reward last night.”

“What!” Meg sucked in her breath, the blood draining from her face. MacRae could not know about Damon. How could he?

“You’ve played out your game there, Meg. You’d have done better to turn to me. I’ll be here long after the earl has returned to London.”

Meg drew back, fury and disgust swirling in a turmoil inside her. “You are a vile, despicable man. I would say I hope you rot in hell, but there’s no need. That is clearly your destination.”

14

M
eg could do little enough
for the Keith family. The roof of their house collapsed in flames, and they could do nothing but watch as their possessions and home burned. Glancing at the others around her, Meg saw not only sympathy and grief for the Keiths, but also a panicky fear. If the Keith croft had been taken, how long would it be before the earl took their homes away as well?

Meg had awakened this morning in such happiness that the world had sparkled. Now she felt hollowed out, spent, wrung dry by her impotent rage and bitter sympathy. MacRae was scum and Meg took nothing he said for truth, but she doubted that he had lied to her just now. How would the man know Damon had lain with her unless the earl had told him? She pictured Damon tossing off a careless remark about her, the two of them laughing in that way men had when talking about sex, and her heart twisted at the thought.

Reason also told her that Damon must have approved
MacRae’s plans to oust the crofters. Damon had assured her last night that the estate manager would not act again without Damon’s permission. She had been a fool, letting emotions and passion color her thinking.

Meg stayed to help care for Mrs. Keith until Millie’s brother arrived to carry the family and their few possessions back to his farm. When Meg approached her home, late in the afternoon, her heart was heavy within her. Her happiness of this morning had been shattered, and though she could not completely drive out some small, stubborn flicker of hope deep inside that Damon would come to her and explain, somehow set things right, she knew that was mere foolishness. As she walked into her bedroom, her eyes immediately spied the small, flat box lying on her pillow. She came to a dead halt, her stomach clenching. She had to force herself to pick up the calling card that was tucked beneath the box. Across the ornately printed title was penciled the single word
Damon
.

Inside the box, resting on a cushion of black velvet, lay a necklace of gold and amber, lovely and elegant and worth more, probably, than anything else in her cottage. At the sight of it, something hot and choking pushed up in Meg’s throat, anger and shame mingling with a bitter disappointment. Here was the answer to any lingering hopes she had about Damon. He had dropped off his payment for sleeping with him. This was the bauble she had imagined him tossing to some ladybird in London as he left her after a satisfactory night. Did the man carry such things about with him on the chance that he would need to compensate some doxy on his travels? She wondered whether he had brought it over
himself or handed it to his snooty valet to deliver. Her cheeks burned at the thought.

Meg closed the box, her fingers tightening around it until her knuckles went white. Turning, she slammed out of the cottage.

Her fury did not dissipate as she hurried up the path to Duncally. If anything, it grew, gathering strength with every step, each bitter remembrance of Damon’s arrogance and cruelty. And her own blind passion. She did not pause as she crossed the terrace and walked through the back door of the elegant house.

“Meg!” A footman, one of the locals hired from Kinclannoch, goggled at her as she strode down the hall. “What are you doing here?”

“Where is he?” She pinned the young man with a look that would have given pause to a far more confident man than he. “Tell me where Mardoun is.”

“I . . . uh . . . his study.” The footman pointed down a side hall. “What—wait—”

Meg took off down the corridor he’d indicated, ignoring his weak protest. The door to Damon’s study stood open, and she saw him at his desk, a quill in his hand and paper before him.

“Meg!” He looked as astonished as the hapless footman as she entered, and he jumped to his feet. A variety of emotions flitted across his face too quickly to discern, ending in a slight frown, as he dropped his quill and came around the corner of the desk. “What is it? What’s the mat—”

“There!” Meg slung the box down on the floor at his feet. His stunned expression gave her some small measure
of satisfaction. She rushed on, “How dare you? How could you believe that I would accept—that this was why I—” She broke off, her voice too clogged with outrage to push out the words.

“What the devil?” He gazed with a stupefied expression at the box, which had popped open and was spilling out the amber necklace. “Meg—”

“I don’t want your bloody trinkets!”

“Trinket?” Damon raised his head, irritation edging his voice. “You call this a trinket?”

“I don’t care if it’s the queen’s necklace. I am not for sale. You are a vile and heartless man, and it sickens me that I let you into my bed last night. It will not happen again.”

Damon went white around the mouth and his eyes blazed. He drew himself up to his full height, setting his chin at that contemptuous tilt she had seen before. “I see. Then I must apologize for presuming too much. I assure you it will not happen again.” His voice dripped scorn. “There are doubtless an ample number of women here who will warm my bed as well as you.”

Meg felt as if he had slapped her. That was silly; he was merely putting into words what she had already known was his opinion of her. There was, she realized, nothing else to say. She whirled and fled from the room.

Damon stood staring at the open doorway as Meg’s footsteps retreated down the hall at a run. What the devil had just happened? He had set out this morning in buoyant good cheer. This was the last way he would have expected the day to end.

It had been damned difficult to pull himself out of Meg’s bed before dawn. He’d been tempted to snuggle down with her in the soft, warm darkness and wake up to make love to her again. But he could not. If he was seen exiting Meg’s cottage in the morning light, it would further damage her reputation, which had already been unfairly impugned. Besides, he could not stroll into breakfast with his daughter dressed in only his shirt and breeches from the evening before.

Despite the unaccustomed tug of reluctance at leaving Meg, it had been a most pleasant walk home, the dark damp air tinted with a woodsy scent. He had even stopped to enjoy for a moment the sight of the misty loch as the sun rose behind him, slanting light on the great gray stretch of Baillannan on the other side. Unfortunately, he had run into MacRae as he started the trek through Duncally’s garden. Though MacRae had been his usual obsequious self, Damon had, with irritation, caught the knowing glint in the man’s eyes. Damon had been quick to nod and send the manager on his way as MacRae began to drone on about turning some croft or other to sheep.

But even that encounter had not been able to dampen Damon’s mood long. As he went through the routine of washing, shaving, and dressing, he happily contemplated what he might give Meg, some jewel to express his admiration, his gratitude—all the things bubbling inside him. If they were in London, he would go out this morning and find a necklace or bracelet that was adequate for her beauty. He would have been able to stop by a flower market as well and buy a posy, just for the opportunity to watch her eyes light with pleasure as she took it and drew in a deep breath of its scent.

Since he was here in the wilds of Scotland, that was impossible. In any case, she was surrounded by flowers. But it occurred to him that some jewelry might be stored away here that would do—surely at least a brooch or cameo or bit of ornamentation she would like. After he returned from his ride with Lynette, he had gone through the safe in his study. Nothing there seemed right. But upstairs in his bedroom safe he had found exactly what he wanted: a lovely creation of gold and amber that would echo the radiance of Meg’s eyes. He pictured it around her creamy throat and regretted the lack of matching earrings to grace her earlobes.

He had been restless after that, unable to settle to anything, and finally, deciding it was foolish to wait until evening, he had set out for Meg’s cottage. He had found the place empty, and he’d waited a while, roaming around the place, going down to the loch and back. Finally, feeling a bit odd at intruding, but not willing to leave yet, he went inside. As it had the other day, the snug place closed around him warmly. He felt Meg in every part of the room—the scents, the herbs, the bottles and jars of mysterious substances, the soft, welcoming bed, the brush lying on her dresser along with the elegant comb she had worn the night before. He sat down and passed the time daydreaming about Meg.

It had struck him that he was acting like an adolescent in the first throes of infatuation. Indeed, he did not think he had been so callow even when he was nineteen and over the moon about the actress who had become his first mistress. It was absurd. Besides, Meg might not return for hours. She did as she pleased, not answering to anyone. And
what would a woman as independent, as fierce, as desired, as Meg think when she returned and found Damon cooling his heels, waiting for her? Might she not find him weak? Lacking in dignity? Something of a fool?

He was, after all, the Earl of Mardoun. Perhaps he ought to act more like it. Finally, he had given up and returned to Duncally. He had debated whether to take the gift with him or leave it as a pleasant surprise for her, until finally, disgusted with his indecision, he set the gift on her pillow, signing one of his calling cards with a pencil he found lying about and tucking it under a corner of the box.

Next thing he knew, Meg was storming into his study and throwing the thing at his feet as contemptuously as if he’d offered her a rag. She had called him vile. Heartless. Her words had stung—no, more than stung, they had cut him—though fortunately he had managed not to show it.

The woman was mad. Utterly, howlingly mad. There was no other explanation. What other woman would have acted, not just unimpressed, but absolutely
offended
at the gift of a necklace of such beauty? The piece would not have been appropriate for a young girl whom one was courting, at least not until one was engaged to her. But why would Meg have been concerned about the propriety of it when she had slept with him the night before?

Damon thought of Meg as she had been the previous night, warm and pliant in his arms. He had been shaken by her innocence, her passionate response. This afternoon, she had changed into a termagant, raging and furious. She had acted as if she hated him—no, there had been no acting about it; she
did
hate him.

With a twist of his mouth, Damon bent down to pick up
the box and shove the necklace back inside. His finger trailed over the cool, smooth ovals of amber. It was just as well, really, that he was rid of a woman so unstable, so impetuous and changeable. Her absence would not change his life. It had only been one night of passion, after all.

Still—he snapped the box shut—Damon could not deny the empty feeling in the pit of his stomach.