Pleasured (6 page)

“I know, Papa. Mama and Aunt Veronica thought you would not come for me . . . afterward. I heard them talking about it. But I knew you would.” Lynette smiled a little shyly and slipped her hand into his, and Damon experienced the sensation in his chest that he had never felt for anyone but his daughter, the tendril of emotion that curled around his heart, part pleasure, part pain, and entirely vulnerable. She added encouragingly, “I remember that you brought me Pudgie.”

“Pudgie?” He gave her a mystified look.

She giggled.

“Yes. He was brown and had big, black button eyes and he was ever so fun to squeeze. You brought him to me when you came back to the hall one autumn. I still have him.”

“A bear. I do remember him.” Damon laughed. “I bought him for you in Germany.”

“He slept on my bed for years. Well, actually, sometimes I get him out still,” she added confidingly. “When it’s stormy.
He’s rather a sad sight, though. One eye is all scratched, and there is a patch on his arm.”

“Perhaps I should buy you a new one?”

“No,” she said scornfully. “I’m much too old for one now. I’m almost grown.”

“At thirteen?” He smiled. “Well, then I suppose Pearl will have to suffice.” He gave her hand a squeeze. “Come, let’s visit your new horse.”

They started forward again, and despite being thirteen, Lynette gave a little skip as they walked to the stables.

Meg scrambled higher on the rocks, the basket on her elbow banging clumsily against her leg. She paused, poking about, searching the crevices. Turning, she took a look at the sliver of beach between the rocks and the ocean. The tide was starting to come in. She would have to hurry. Gathering her skirts to her knees, she tied them in a large knot, set down her basket, and clambered up.

She was rewarded for her effort by finding bearberry growing between the rocks. Snipping off a clump of the plant, she began to climb back to the shelf where her basket sat. As she set her foot down, the whicker of a horse and the accompanying jingle of its bridle startled her, and she whipped around to see a rider on a large bay horse gazing up at her from the foot of the rocks. The Earl of Mardoun.

“Oh,” she said, stiffening. Her nerves danced, and she clenched her hands in her skirts in an effort to control them. “You.”

“Yes. I.”

Blast the man; he managed to look elegant and cold and powerful despite the wind’s having ruffled his hair. Her fingers twitched to reach out and smooth the strands back into place. What an idiotic notion! “What are you doing here?”

Her comment sent the dark slash of his brows higher. “I might ask you the same thing, as it is my beach.”

“
Your
beach?” The arrogance of his words, delivered in that crisp accent, the aloof, haughty set of his face, all raised her hackles. “Och, I see.” Her accent thickened. “You own the shore. Nae doot all the rest of it is yours, as well.” She flung her arm out, pointing to the gray, rolling water. “The ocean maun belong to you. Aye, and the sky, too. Should I ask your leave to let the sun shine on me? Will you take me in for poaching these sprigs from your rocks?” She flung the branch of bearberry in her hand down into the basket at her feet.

His eyes widened a fraction, and his horse danced beneath him. She braced for him to blast back at her in anger, but he only studied her for a long moment, then said, “Clearly you have taken a dislike to me, Miss Munro, though I fail to underst—”

“You fail to understand!” Anger surged up in her so fast and hard it was a wonder she didn’t leap off the rock at him. “Aye, what right would I have to be insulted just because you treat me like a doxy? I’m not a lady, am I? Being born in a cottage instead of some fine house makes me of no more notice than the dirt beneath your feet.”

“I would say rather that you were of a great deal of notice to me,” he shot back. “And my invitation had nothing to do with your birth.”

“I’m sure you would have sent an invitation to your bed to some duchess you just met.”

“Frankly, I would not send an invitation to my bed to
any
duchess I’ve met.” For an instant humor glinted in his dark eyes.

“It is all a fine jest to you. Would you feel the same if a man had made that sort of suggestion to your sister? Your daughter?” She felt a spurt of satisfaction when his mouth thinned, his face turning to granite. “But a common lass like me, that’s a different story.”

“It had nothing to do with your station, I can assure you.” She had finally goaded him into raising his voice. “I asked you because I found you desirable, though at the moment I cannot imagine why.”

“And because you desired me, I must jump into bed with you? I should feel gratified that you dispatched your servant to fetch me, as if I were a dog or horse you had purchased?”

“I sent Blandings because I believed it would create a good deal less stir than my riding up to your door for all to see. I apologize for thinking you might appreciate the discretion.”

“You thought I would appreciate your thinking I was a common whore?”

He blinked. “Clearly I do not understand how things are done here, but I assumed that since you were, um, the sort of woman that you are, you would not be averse to—”

“The sort of woman that I am! What
sort of woman
would that be?”

He looked at her oddly. “The sort who—” He made a vague gesture. “Damnation! The sort of woman who lives alone in the woods and does not marry, but takes men into her bed as she chooses.”

She clenched her fists, her back rigid. “So because I am
a free woman, I am a trollop? Because I do not choose to shackle myself to a husband, because I choose what man I wish, I am—what did Gregory call them?—ah, yes, Haymarket ware.”

“What else do you expect me to think?” he snapped back. “The bold way you look at a man, the way you speak, the way you go about dressed like that.” His eyes flickered down to her legs, bare and shapely below her hiked-up skirts. Suddenly the heat in his eyes was different, just as his voice had changed, growing lower and softer.

The air, moments earlier simmering with tension, was now charged with something more than anger, an unmistakable sexuality weaving through the heat of their emotions, intensifying, altering, confusing. Meg was conscious of her heart pounding in her chest, the flush rising up her neck into her face, the breath moving through her throat. She could feel the warmth of the sun on her legs, the ocean mist on her face, the breeze that teased at her curls.

She realized that, amazingly, insanely, she wanted him to rise up in his stirrups and pull her down onto the horse with him. With an effort of will, she jerked her eyes from his and stepped back. Avoiding his gaze, she pulled at the knot she had made in her skirts, usually such a loose and easy thing to undo and now tightly twisted. Or perhaps it was that her fingers had become uncommonly clumsy.

It came loose at last, and she twitched her skirts down. The silence stretched, underscored by the steady rush of the ocean, and she cast about for something to say, some way to end this awkward situation. She thrust her feet back into her shoes and picked up her basket. Looping it over her arm, she forced herself to lift her head. Mardoun was watching
her, had been watching her, she knew, the whole time. Meg did not often felt embarrassed, but she did now. Though she didn’t know why—he was the one in the wrong, not she. But somehow, knowing that in his eyes she was a low, licentious woman, she felt the sting of shame at the way he looked at her—and even more shamefully, she was aware that something in her stirred at the touch of his gaze.

And
that
was such an irritatingly, unthinkably wrong thing that it gave her the impetus to turn her head away from him, seemingly cool and unconcerned.

“The tide,” she gasped. She had been so distracted by their argument that she had not paid attention to the water’s moving closer, and now it lapped around his horse’s legs, his hooves entirely immersed. “The tide has come in. We must leave. Now.”

5

M
eg put her hand on
an outcropping of rock and started to climb down.

“Here!” Damon coolly assessed the situation and edged closer, holding up his free hand while with the other he controlled the now-restless horse. “Ride with me.”

“No!” She stiffened. “I can walk. ’Tis not yet deep.”

“Don’t be nonsensical. Your shoes and skirts will get soaked.”

“I have been wet before.”

His eyes darkened and his face subtly shifted, and she knew that she had misstepped. Now she was picturing herself in soaked clothes, the material plastered against her body. She felt sure he was envisioning the same thing. His voice was gruff. “Get on. Devil take it, woman, I will not ravish you.”

He thought she was scared of him? Meg had too much pride to let that stand. Avoiding his hand, she crouched close to the edge of the rock and slid onto the horse behind him.
It was awkward, made even more so by the basket slung over her arm, and she could not avoid grasping his shoulders to steady herself.

The earl turned the horse, heading back in the direction from which he had come minutes earlier. The hoofprints were gone, covered by a steadily rising water. Whether it was the encroaching water or the extra passenger, something made the mount skittish, and he danced sideways from the surf rolling in, so that Mardoun had to rein him in. Meg could not avoid wrapping her arms around the man to stay on the jittery animal.

She clung to him, pressed against his back, terribly aware of the heat of his body, the scent of him, the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. She could feel the movement of the horse beneath her. She had gotten on astride, as it was easiest, so her legs were immodestly parted as she sat behind him, and she could not keep from thinking about how Mardoun was seated between her legs, flush against her, in as intimate a way as she could imagine—well, not the
most
intimate fashion, but that thought made her flesh heat even more.

Meg had ridden once or twice behind Andrew or Gregory, but it had not felt like this. Indeed, this embrace seemed closer, more sensual, than any of the times when a man had taken her into his arms and sought to kiss her. On those occasions, it had been easy to push away from the man with a laugh or a scornful remark. Her insides had not turned to warmed, malleable wax; no ache had been deep within her. Her skin had not tingled everywhere it touched the man.

It was absurd to be thinking of such things. The earl’s opinion of her was worse than low, and she viewed him with
equal contempt. He was the last person for whom she should feel a physical response, and yet her body traitorously softened as she clung to him.

Their mount came to a halt, and when the earl tapped his heels against him, it only made the horse shy to the side. Meg felt the muscles of Mardoun’s back move beneath his jacket as he tightened his control of the reins, forcibly turning the horse’s head. Meg peered around his broad back. They had reached a large boulder that jutted out from the base of the cliff, narrowing the beach to a sandy strip. The horse had to edge around the boulder, stepping into deeper water, and that obviously unnerved him. For a moment, Meg thought the animal would simply balk and they would have to ride back in the other direction, from which there was no easy path up the cliff.

However, the earl’s will proved stronger than the animal’s, and after a shake of his head, the horse started around the rock, stepping cautiously into the rolling water. A larger wave crashed in, hitting the mount’s belly. He reared, and Meg felt herself sliding backward. She clutched at Mardoun, but the panicky jumping and kicking of the animal tore her hands from his jacket, and as the horse leaped forward, Meg went flying backward.

She saw a fleeting glimpse of the gray sky above her before her back hit the water hard, knocking the breath from her, and a wave rolled over her, sending her under.

Damon had spotted Meg Munro as soon as he rounded the outcropping, her red hair a streak of color against the gray
cliff. He had known he should turn around. The woman had made it clear she wanted no part of him, yet he had let the horse have its head, unwilling to turn away from the sight of her climbing over the rocks, skirts pulled up to her knees, exposing her shapely calves.

The horse had ambled on under Damon’s loose hold until he’d pulled it to a stop at the base of the rocks, enjoying the view as she made her way back down. He had seen a number of female legs, and her trim ankles and leanly muscled calves were among the best. Indeed, he thought, they might very well be the winner. And the rounded derriere above those lovely legs was an even more enjoyable sight. She had pulled the skirt forward tightly when she knotted it above her knees, and the fabric was stretched across her buttocks, showing each delectable movement as she climbed down.

Then she turned around, and he had been struck all over again by the beauty of that face, those large, golden eyes. He had realized that he had no idea what to say. He must look a fool, gaping at her like a callow youth even though she had rejected him as surely as if she’d slapped his face.

She had no such problem, immediately lighting into him, and her sharp antagonism had set the fire to his own temper. The ensuing row had been in equal parts confusing, enraging, and arousing, the heat of it all swirling in him until he was unsure whether he wanted to shake her or pull her into his arms and stop that luscious, provoking mouth with kisses.

God, but it was annoying to have her rail at him and yet all the while feel that rich voice with its soft brogue creep through him like honey, thick and sweet. How could he de
fend himself when he was too entranced by the shape and movement of her lips or the tantalizing view of her legs bared to the knees? He had been relieved—no, it was nearer to elation than relief—when they noticed the tide and he had had a good excuse to get her onto the horse with him. He had intended to cradle her in front of him, his body already tightening in anticipation of that firm bottom against him, but she had thwarted him—of course—by sliding onto the animal behind him. Still, it had been delicious in its own way to feel her tight against his back, her arms circling his chest, her thighs opening around him.

He had been hard as a rock as they rode away, his mind frantically searching for some way out of this situation that would end with her in his arms in a bed. No doubt that distraction had contributed to his losing command of his mount for an instant when the thing reared and bucked in fear. But that arousal had vanished, his body turning ice-cold as he felt Meg’s grasp on him slip, then break, and she flew out into the water.

Cursing, he yanked the horse’s head down, hard and sharp, and jumped off even as the animal’s hooves returned to the ground. The water broke around his knees as his eyes searched the gray water. He saw her bright head come up, and she struggled to stand, the water not yet waist deep around her.

“Meg!” He started toward her as another wave hit her from behind, knocking her legs out from under her and sending her beneath the water again. It was too slow, too cumbersome, trying to run toward her through the waves, his boots filling with water, and he leaped forward into the water in a shallow dive and swam toward her.

The water was murky with sand stirred up by the crashing waves, and his boots and jacket were heavy encumbrances, but he found her. Grabbing her hair, he hauled her up by her arm. They floundered to their feet, lurching and stumbling, spluttering. His arm around her, Damon started toward shore, but once more a large wave struck them, sending them under, and he felt the fierce tug of an undertow dragging them out.

Damon struck out to the side, not fighting the pull, but moving across it. She was swimming, too, but he dared not let go of her lest he lose her again. Her soaked skirts dragged at them. So did his jacket and boots, and he cursed himself for not pulling them off before he plunged in. But how could he have taken the time?

They slipped away from the undertow, and he turned toward the beach again, going with the water, letting it lift and carry them in until he could stand once more. They waded in, falling down on the wet sand not far from the rocks where they had originally set out. He staggered to his feet, reaching down to pull her up, but Meg was already rising. He looked up the beach and saw that the outcropping of rock that had proved their undoing was now lapped with water, blocking the beach in that direction. No doubt his riderless horse was halfway back home by now. He whirled, searching the other direction.

“Where’s another path up?” he asked, starting that way though he could see nothing but cliffs and rocks.

“You’ll only find the channel to the loch that way. Come! Follow me!” She grabbed his hand and darted up the beach. He followed, his boots squelching and sloshing with every step.

She slanted across the sand to a jumble of rocks and began to climb. He heard the rip as she stepped on her skirt, and she reached down, impatiently grabbing up the hem and continuing to climb, the torn piece of her petticoat trailing along behind her.

He looked up at the sheer cliff face above them as they climbed. “Where the devil are we going? Do you plan to perch on the rocks like seagulls through high tide?”

“You’ll see,” she panted, not stopping.

When they topped the last boulder, Damon saw a hole behind it in the side of the cliff, dark and half his height. Meg plopped down on the rock, catching her breath. She skimmed her wet hair back from her face, twisting and squeezing the mass, dark now with moisture. He dropped down beside her.

Even after the tumble in the water, she was beautiful, drops clinging to her lashes and skin. He watched a stray drop trickle from her temple down over the curve of her cheek, traversing the soft skin, rosy from exertion. He thought that if he drew his finger across her cheek, she would feel like rose petals. His groin tightened.

Damon looked quickly away. What a foolish thing to be thinking, stuck on top of a pile of rocks above the ocean. He pulled off his boots and dumped the water from them, setting them aside. He ran his hands through his hair, dispelling the water, and glanced at Meg again, squeezing water from her skirts. Her fingers were long and slender, and he could see their strength as she wrung out the fabric. It was easy to imagine those fingers on his skin.

If he continued to think like that, it would prove a trying time as they waited out the tide. He wondered how those
hours would unfold. Would they sit here in silence? It would be pleasant to look at her, but equally difficult to keep his thoughts from straying to the erotic. If she had not taken such a dislike to him, the hours could have passed quite enjoyably, but he doubted that he could repair the damage done.

Clearly he had taken a serious misstep with the woman, but he was confused as to exactly where he had gone wrong, much less what it would take to melt her resentment. He should not have sent her an invitation via his valet, of that much he was certain. But had the offense lain in sending Blandings? Had Blandings said something insulting? Done something? Damon had to admit that his valet could be something of a snob.

Or was it the note itself? Had his wording been clumsy? He could not remember precisely what he had said, but he was certain it had not been anything blatant or crude. It struck him as decidedly peculiar that she would resent an attempt to be discreet, but what seemed to anger her most was that he had sent her a note at all instead of showing up at her door. Was it that she wanted others to know he desired her, that it gave her a certain cachet to be the object of an earl’s attention? His assumption that she was a woman of easy virtue had infuriated her, yet she had readily admitted that she wanted no husband, that she chose men as she pleased. So it was not actually an issue of her virtue, but of the way he’d acted regarding her virtue. Perhaps she wanted him to play a game, pretend that he thought her a maiden who must be seduced into letting him into her bed.

He cast another look at her through his lashes. He did not like to engage in pretense, but the thought of seduc
ing Meg Munro struck him as delightful. Unfortunately, he had already put himself at a grave disadvantage. She despised him, and whatever he said to her only seemed to make the situation worse. What was it she would want? He counted himself a sophisticated man, and it was rather dismaying to find he wasn’t sure what to do when it came to a simple country girl.

“Are you all right?”

“What?” He turned toward her in surprise.

“Any cuts? Sprains? Anything broken when your horse tossed you off?” She surveyed him assessingly.

“I wasn’t ‘tossed off,’ ” he corrected, affronted. “I dismounted so I could save you from drowning.”

“Save me?” She raised her eyebrows. “I didn’t need ‘saving.’ I am quite able to swim out of three feet of water.”

“Yes, no doubt that is why I saw you go under twice.” Sweet heaven, this girl was prickly. “Clearly the undertow had no pull on you.”

“Yes, well . . . it was rather forceful.” Meg looked abashed. “I was frightened.” She paused, then added in a softer voice, “Did you really jump into the sea to help me?”