Scottish Brides (12 page)

The words proved prophetic. They all glanced at Lady Hermione; she saw and imperiously beckoned them. Mrs. Edmonton sat beside her on the
chaise.

“Clarissa, my dear, your mother has been telling me how wonderfully you play the pianoforte; I do so enjoy a well-rendered air. I really must entreat you to entertain us all—just a few pieces to enliven the evening.”

“Oh. Well . . .” Clarissa blushed and demurred prettily.

Prompted by a look from his mother, Duncan politely added his entreaties. “The company would be honored.” He offered his arm. “Come, I'll open the pianoforte.”

Clarissa gifted him with a too-sweet look; his expression impassive, Duncan led her to the piano, sited between two long windows overlooking the terrace. He handed her to her seat; Jeremy opened the piano while Rose handed Clarissa the stacked music sheets. The rest of the company eagerly gathered around, shifting chairs and
chaises
to get a better view. After sorting through the music, Clarissa chose two pieces; Rose restacked the rest on the piano, then joined Jeremy and Duncan at the side of the room.

Frowning slightly, Clarissa shifted the stool, reshuffled the music, then shifted the stool again. Finally, she laid her hands on the keys.

And played.

Predictably perfectly.

After three minutes, two of Duncan's aunts resumed their conversation, whispering softly. Beside Rose, Jeremy shifted his weight, once, twice; then he straightened and, with a murmured “Excuse me,” drifted off to study a cabinent filled with Dresden miniatures.

Rose, as partial to good music as Lady Hermione, willed herself to concentrate, yet even she found her mind wandering. Clarissa's performance was technically flawless but emotionally barren. Every note was struck correctly, but there was no heart, no soul
—
no feeling—to bring the music alive.

Surrendering to the inevitable, Rose stopped trying to listen and let the notes flow past her; she scanned the company, most now distracted, then glanced at Duncan beside her.

In time to see him stifle a yawn.

She stifled a grin and leaned closer. “Seriously, you aren't going to marry her, are you?”

He looked down at her, then replied through gritted teeth, “Mind your own business.”

Rose let her grin show; his expression only grew harder. She looked away, across the room—Clarissa's first piece was reaching its penultimate crescendo. Deliberately, Rose leaned lightly against Duncan, letting their bodies touch fractionally as she brushed past him, across him, on her way to Lady Hermione's
chaise.

She heard the swift hiss of his indrawn breath, felt the sudden, brutally powerful seizing of his muscles.

Lips curving lightly, Rose headed straight for the safety of his mother's presence; reaching the
chaise,
she nodded to Lady Hermione, then turned and gazed innocently about the room, studiously refusing to let her eyes flick to Duncan, still approaching, rigid, by the wall.

From the corner of her eye, she could see his hands were fisted, that his gaze had followed her; it remained fixed, in-tent, on her. She suspected he was envisaging throttling her, closing his long, strong fingers about her neck and wringing it—his usual response to her teasing.

To her considerable surprise, he straightened; fists relaxing, he prowled toward her.

Rose quelled a frown; when she teased him, Duncan usually avoided her. He ran; she chased—that's how it had always been.

Not this time.

As Clarissa concluded her first piece, Duncan strolled up and halted directly behind her, slightly to one side. Trapping her between the back of the
chaise
and him. His strolling prowl had appeared nonchalant, yet Rose could sense his tension, the controlled, steely power behind every movement.

Clarissa held the final chords, then lifted her fingers from the keys. Everyone applauded politely; Rose clapped distractedly. Duncan clapped slowly, softly, deliberately, directly behind her right shoulder—she got the distinct impression he was applauding
her
performance, not Clarissa's.

After favoring the company with a suitably demure smile, Clarissa looked at her mother, then Lady Hermione, and then at Rose and Duncan. Rose summoned an encouraging smile; she knew without looking that Duncan was watching Clarissa, virtually over her own head. Clarissa smiled and turned back to the piano, and started her second piece.

Rose struggled to breathe, struggled to ignore the vise that, once again, had clamped about her lungs. Her senses flickered wildly, in a state unnervingly akin to panic, her mind wholly focused not on the music, but on Duncan, so close, so still, so silent behind her.

The first sweep of heat along the side of her neck and shoulder, exposed by her gown, caught her unawares. She frowned slightly, then banished the expression as the sensation ceased.

It returned a moment later, hotter, stronger, extending over more of her, from her shoulder to the swells of her breasts, bare above her neckline.

And it was her turn to drag in a quick breath and hold it, as she realized it was Duncan's gaze that she could feel. He was . . .

Rose inwardly cursed and gritted her teeth against the wave of sensation washing over her, through her, pooling heat within her . . .

In desperation, she searched for salvation. Lady Hermione was sitting before her and could not see; all the older guests were busy chatting. Even Jeremy had deserted her. He was now deep in discussion with Mr. Edmonton.

Duncan shifted—closer.

Rose's knees quaked. She gripped the back of the
chaise
as unprecedented giddiness threatened.

Clarissa ended her short piece. She lifted her hands from the keys and looked up—and Rose was safe. As everyone applauded, Rose breathed again, released from Duncan's gaze.

He stepped away from her as Clarissa, escorted from the piano by Jeremy, drew near. Before Rose could gather her wits and slide around the opposite end of the
chaise,
Duncan turned and smiled, in a languid, general fashion, at his mother, and her.

“Perhaps Rose would care to play next?”

Lady Hermione immediately swiveled to beam up at Rose. “Indeed. Rose, dear, I haven't heard you play for an age—do oblige us.”

Rose knew a trap when she saw one, but, as others turned to her and added their pleas, she had to smile and graciously agree. She looked at Jerermy. “Would you turn the pages for me?”

Jeremy smiled warmly and offered his arm. Rose took it, quelling a twinge of guilt; she'd only asked him to ensure that Duncan wouldn't hover at her shoulder while she played. If he did, she was quite sure her fingers would tie themselves into knots; if that had been his plan, she'd spiked his guns.

With barely muted pride, Jeremy led her to the piano stool. Duncan, with Clarissa on his arm, followed more slowly. Rose quickly selected her piece—a sonata, one of Lady Hermione's favorites. She settled the music on the stand; Jeremy took up his stance beside her.

Rose drew in a deep breath, then laid her fingers on the keys and let them free. She kept her eyes on the music, yet she played from memory; she had no need of the sheets to guide her. Which was just as well.

Duncan had led Clarissa around the piano; they now stood directly before her, watching her play.

To Rose's immense relief, the music protected her, acted as her shield as she lost herself in it. The delicate, haunting air, so evocative of the wild country surrounding them, rose up and wreathed about her, then wrapped her in its spell. She let her lids fall and gave herself up to it, to the magic of the wildness, the compelling beauty of the sound.

About the room, not a whisper was heard; not a cough or shuffle marred the magic. Rose held the entire company in thrall, effortlessly harnessing the power Clarissa, for all her technical perfection, had not been able to command.

For Duncan, his gaze fixed on Rose, the comparison was inescapable. Without thought or consideration, Rose gave her heart and soul; she played with an emotional abandon which, he inwardly acknowledged, was an inherent part of her, the Rose he had known quite literally since her birth. The realization affected him powerfully.

His jaw hardened—all of him hardened; possessive lust ripped through him. He wanted her—desired her—driven by the sure knowledge that Rose would love in exactly the same way. With her heart and soul. With complete and utter abandon.

He dragged in a tight breath and found it insufficient to deaden the sudden pounding in his blood. He set his teeth and tried to wrench his gaze from her—and failed. Beyond his will, his eyes devoured her—the rich abundance of her coiled hair, the warm cream of her complexion, the soft, suggestive curves so temptingly arrayed in amber silk.

Mesmerized, he let his gaze linger; under the fine fabric, her nipples peaked. He glanced up and saw her lashes tremble. Lust roared again; with an inward curse, he swallowed it whole and fought to unfocus his gaze. They were in his mother's drawing room, under the eyes of more than thirty of his relatives, as well as his no-longer intended and her parents, and Rose's prospective husband and her father.

She was driving him demented, but for the first time in their shared lives, it wasn't—entirely—her fault.

Duncan gritted his teeth and endured.

Eventually, the sonata came to an end. Rose struck the last chords lovingly; a sigh rippled through the room. As she lifted her fingers from the keys, the company returned to life.

So did Rose, thankful that she didn't blush all that readily. She smiled and looked around, everywhere but at Duncan.She even managed to exchange a mild glance with Clarissa without focusing on him.

“Rose, dear!”

She swiveled on the stool to face Lady Hermione.

Who smiled beguilingly. “If you would, dear—
The Raven's Song.
There's four of you to sing it.”

Rose blinked, then inclined her head. “Yes, of course.” Swinging back to the piano, she looked at Jeremy. “Do you know it?” Her gaze moved on to include Clarissa; both she and Jeremy nodded. Rose didn't bother asking Duncan; his mother's favorite song was as imprinted on his brain as it was on hers. At the edge of her vision—where she carefully kept him—she saw him shift, drifting around the piano to her left. Clarissa drifted right, until she stood beside Jeremy.

Rose set her teeth and reached for the keys. If Duncan ogled her breasts again, she would hit him. A second later, the introduction rolled out. They all started in time and went carefully through the first verse, all listening, gauging each other's voices. Jeremy's was a mild tenor, restrained and light; Clarissa's soprano was thin and reedy, wavering a little on the sustained high notes.

Duncan's singing voice was as she remembered it: a deep baritone, rich and powerful, capable of imparting a surging cadence reminiscent of the sea. Rose heard it and, for the life of her, could not stop her own voice, a warm contralto, from merging, interweaving, soaring above, then sliding into the resonance of his.

They'd sung this song, together, in this very room, for years; as memory was overlaid by new experience, Rose could hear the difference, the added depth and power in Duncan's voice, the softer, more rounded, more sensual tones of hers, melding into an even finer, richer, more compelling aural tapestry than they'd previously managed to create.

She concentrated on the notes, and sensed him following her. By the time they started the final verse, their voices dominated, stronger, more assured, more enduring.

They held the final note, then, by perfect, unspoken, mutual accord, let it die.

The room erupted with wild applause.

Rose laughed; smiling, she glanced up—and met Duncan's eyes. His lips were curved, but his eyes weren't laughing—they were focused, intently, on her. A thrill streaked through her and left her lightheaded—she told herself it was simply exhilaration, compounded by breathlessness. Turning toward Jeremy, she swung about on the stool and stood.

Giddiness struck—she swayed.

And Duncan was there, by her side, steadying her, shielding her from the room. His fingers gripped her elbow—and burned her like a brand. Rose sucked in a breath and looked up. And was trapped in his eyes, in the cool blue that now burned with a million tiny flames.

Flames?

Rose blinked and looked away. She'd never seen fire in Duncan's eyes before. Drawing a determined breath, she steeled herself and looked again.

He met her gaze with a look of limpid innocence.

Not a flame in sight.

Rose resisted the urge to narrow her eyes at him. Instead, keeping a firm hold on her curiosity, she retrieved her arm and, with an airy nonchalance that was entirely feigned, glided away from him.

She tried not to notice how fast her heart was racing.

Two

 

 

 

Duncan's prediction proved accurate; the next day
dawned drizzly and gray. Drifts of fine mist shrouded the mountains, enhancing the aura of isolation, of being cut off from the world.