Seductive as Flame (15 page)

The bawdy words of the folk ballad “The Wanton Trooper” came to mind in playful affinity with her impassioned mood, and Zelda was humming under her breath as she opened her bedroom door.

“I was beginning to think you’d already left,” a familiar voice unpleasantly said.

The melody stuck in Zelda’s throat. Coming to a halt, she decided that at least one reason for Dalgliesh’s marriage was now blatantly clear.

Violetta—shockingly voluptuous—was lounging on Zelda’s bed, her artful pose reminiscent of Goya’s
The Naked Maja.
Goya’s lover had been painted unclothed, but Violetta was nearly nude, her curvaceous form clearly visible beneath the sheer lace of her white peignoir. Her heavy breasts were almost completely exposed save for small scraps of lace cupping the fleshy weight. There was no question either that the color of Violetta’s pubic hair matched her golden coiffeur.

Zelda was surprised she’d walked through the house in such a state of undress. Was Lady Dalgliesh an exhibitionist? Had she expected to find her husband here? Did such unblushing dishabille appeal to Alec? Or was Violetta simply making her assets known to a rival? At which thought, Zelda silently groaned. There was no rivalry, no need for this confrontation.

“You might want to shut the door.” A soft, dispassionate directive.

You don’t have to speak to her,
Zelda thought.
Go, leave, walk away.
Whatever the cold-eyed woman had to say, she didn’t want to hear.

“If you leave, I’ll simply tell everyone here what you did last night with my husband. I can give them details. I know him. And I have no compunction. None at all.”

Zelda briefly considered whether what Violetta said to others mattered. She also
reconsidered
involving herself with Dalgliesh. The first issue was easily dismissed. As for Dalgliesh . . . he was less easy to dismiss or, in fact, resist.

Regretfully, deplorably, he was impossible to resist.

So she stepped fully into the room, shut the door, and coolly surveyed the woman who was wife to a man who deserved better. Or maybe not, with Dalgliesh’s reputation such as it was. He and his wife might be exquisitely well suited. Not that any of it quashed her runaway longing. She wanted him still, and the fact that his wife was staring at her with palpable hostility was disagreeable but not prohibitive. “Very well,” Zelda said. “Speak while you may. A footman will come for my luggage soon.”

Violetta shrugged. “It makes no difference to me if he hears.”

“It does to me. I’m not interested in theatrics or an audience or actually in anything you have to say.”

“But you
are
interested in my husband,” Violetta said in a poisonous murmur.

“I’m not alone in that regard,” Zelda calmly remarked. “As I understand, he’s in great demand.”

“With sluts like you.”

“A novel assertion from someone like
you.
Did you enjoy sex with Mytton last night?”

“Of course. Would I bother otherwise? Now then.” A steely edge entered her voice, knife sharp and biting. “I hear you’re going to Crosstrees. Don’t look at me like that. What are personal maids for if not to keep one apprised of the latest news.” Violetta spread her arms across the pillows piled behind her, deliberately showcasing the ripe plumpness of her breasts. “So taciturn, Miss MacKenzie. Apparently Alec’s not interested in you for your conversation.”

“You’ll have to ask him where his interests lie.” Surely that pose was better put to a man.

“I already know where they lie. Although you’re just one in a long line of females ready to spread their legs for him.” A wicked amusement flickered in her eyes. “Alec
is
quite sensational though. Physically, of course, he’s magnificent. But he has a certain genius as well, don’t you think, when it comes to, shall we say—technical flair?”

“Why are you telling me this?”
Does she think I wish to share intimate specifics with her?

“In the event you thought you were the first. I didn’t know how unenlightened you were, coming from the remoteness of the Highlands.”

“Not that unenlightened,” Zelda drily said. “Unfaithful husbands are hardly rare.”

“Ah, perfect. Then I’m sure you can find someone else to warm your bed. I suggest you stay away from my husband and, more importantly, my son. For your own safety, of course.”

“You can’t be serious,” Zelda said, mildly surprised as before by Violetta’s threats.

“But I am.”

“You must be deranged or supremely foolish. Or just plain silly.” Zelda softly sighed. “This is too melodramatic for my taste.”

“As if I care what you think,” Violetta replied, oversweet and smiling. “As for my sanity, I’m quite sane. More pertinently—I’m dangerous. Disregard my warning and you’ll discover just
how
dangerous.”

Good God.
The woman was clearly irrational or perhaps—hopefully—only angry and lashing out. “You should take up these issues with your husband.” Zelda’s voice was deliberately neutral. “I have nothing to do with the state of your marriage.”

“Oh, but you do.”

“You’re mistaken. And that, too, you should discuss with your husband. As you said, I’m only one in a long line of women he’s entertained.”

“But never flaunted.” The last word gritty and hard and exasperated.

“I’m sure you’re wrong. About that and everything else having to do with me.” But the words
never flaunted
echoed Alec’s admission last night and warmed her heart when she should know better. When Alec Munro was the least likely man to consider a woman more than a passing fancy.

“This isn’t a debate.” Each word was tart with temper, inflexible. “I’m not here to debate you. I’m here to tell you to stay away from my husband and my son!”

The sudden knock on the door was relief and deliverance. “The servant’s here for my luggage.” Another sane person, thank God. “I suggest you leave or
I
might embarrass
you
.”

An unpleasant trill of laughter issued from Violetta’s cherry-red lips. “You embarrass me? Impossible. But you’re unwise to ignore me,” she added, sliding off the bed and stepping into her white satin slippers.

“As you are to think you can frighten me.” Zelda turned to open the door. With a smile for the footman, she waved in the direction of the armoire. “My luggage is over there.”

As the liveried servant entered the room and moved toward her luggage, Violetta sauntered past Zelda in a whisper of silk and a fragrant whiff of perfume, indifferent to the presence of a male servant viewing her barely clothed.

“Oh, by the way,” she said over her shoulder as she strolled away. “I took your scissors to your clothes.”

Stunned, Zelda momentarily stopped breathing. Then a second later rage flooded her brain, and only enormous self-control stopped her from throttling Violetta, who was still within range. One second more and her temper had cooled enough to reconsider making a scene in the hallway. Let her go. She had more pleasant prospects before her—a holiday with a delightful man, for instance. A man of marked sexual versatility and seeming indefatigability.

After which pleasing reflection Zelda’s composure was restored enough to address the footman gathering her luggage. “A carriage is waiting at the side entrance,” she said. “A small trap, I believe. And may I say, I appreciate you arriving so promptly.”

“You’re welcome, ma’am. Sorry about your clothes,” he added, wheeling her trunk toward the door. “Everyone steers clear of Lady Dalgliesh, ma’am. In case you didn’t know.”

“Thank you for the warning.” Unfortunately, he was two encounters too late.

“Everyone feels right sorry for his lordship.”

“Indeed. I can see why.”

“Give him my best, ma’am,” the footman quietly said, walking out the door. “Tell him Ned sends his regards.”

“I shall.” Zelda was amazed how quickly rumor spread through the staff. Not that she was unaware of the below stairs conduit in every household, but still—she’d not even known Dalgliesh at this time yesterday.

It was remarkable.

She smiled. But not as remarkable as the bonny earl.

Nor as remarkable as her reckless, headstrong, utterly thoughtless, covetous, and avaricious passion for the licentious Earl of Dalgliesh, who could have given Don Juan and Casanova a run for their money.

It was totally mad, of course, for someone who’d always been sensible.

Mad, bad, dangerous, and God knows—irresistible.

 

T
EN MINUTES LATER, Zelda and John were riding at full gallop over the colorful, autumnal downs, the air fresh in their lungs, the sun brilliant in a cloudless, blue sky, their mounts running powerfully and smoothly beneath them.

“It’s just over that yon hill, my lady!” John shouted, waving his whip westward.

“I’ll race you!” Zelda shouted back. She gave Blue his head, and the huge roan leaped forward as if he’d been standing still. “Good boy, sweet, sweet boy,” Zelda crooned as he picked up speed. She experienced the rush of pleasure she always did riding full-out, but today, with the prospect of seeing the man who made her heart sing, she felt rapturously happy as well, flushed with joy—on top of the world.

He was waiting for her.

CHAPTER 12

D
ALGLIESH WAS INDEED waiting for Zelda.

With a rare impatience.

A novel impatience.

A frightening impatience, if he’d allow such introspection.

But he waited with a sense of joy as well. And for a man who’d viewed the world of late as devoid of jubilation, the feeling was immensely satisfying.

As for the captivating Miss MacKenzie having wrought such a revolutionary transformation in so brief a time, Alec suspected life would return to normal once the lady left for France. In the meantime, he decided with a grin, the prospect of her company was bloody enticing.

A servant came running out of the house as he paced in the drive.

“They’re ridin’ over the last hill, my lord. Comin’ fast, Maxwell says.” Alec had a man on watch in the east tower.

“Thank you. Will you see that Mrs. Creighton and Master Chris are informed? Tell them Miss MacKenzie is in sight.” Creiggy had suggested she keep her charge in the schoolroom until Zelda’s arrival was imminent, and thus avoid the constantly asked question:
Is she here yet?
“And see that Rowan alerts the kitchen. We’ll be in the breakfast room shortly.”

“Yes, sir.”

“That will be all.” He hoped to have a few minutes alone with Zelda. They’d have little privacy the rest of the day. Chris was excited about Zelda’s visit; he’d talked of little else. The earl smiled. Not that he wasn’t pleased that Chris liked Zelda; he was.

The sound of riders approaching from the east and riding hard was faintly heard at first and distant. They’d have to come up the drive or chance jumping the wide, deep ha-ha, and John had more sense than to put Zelda at risk. Or more aptly, he knew Alec would disapprove.

As the drumming rhythm of galloping horses grew louder, Dalgliesh waited, his gaze trained on the point where the drive disappeared into the shadowed forest planted by long-dead Munros. After running a fingertip over the loose tie of his cravat, he snapped his shirt cuffs into place, then raked his fingers through his hair—as if it mattered that he be well turned out for his visitor, as if he were sixteen and waiting for his first female guest.

He shook away the adolescent memories and momentary unease. Zelda was a wild, impetuous woman. They were both long past juvenile games. And the reason he’d invited her and she’d accepted was unequivocally adult.

There.
Sanity restored. His head came up, the thundering hoof beats closer now. They were very near. Very.

A second later, the horses and riders exploded out into the open where Capability Brown had manicured nature into acres of exquisite vistas, the thoroughbreds racing neck and neck, the horsemen careening headlong around the final curve of the drive, both whipping their mounts to more speed.

Zelda was laughing, even John was smiling—a rarity.

But Miss MacKenzie wore conventional female riding garb today, black, severe, tailored. Nor did any flame-red hair blow in the wind, her unruly hair tied back and barely visible beneath her black homburg. Although she rode astride as usual, rode full tilt as usual, with her customary madcap recklessness. In fact, she almost came out of the saddle as she leaned forward to press her cheek against her roan’s neck and urge him on. The brim of her hat caught on the bridle, tilted askew, flew off, and sailed away. Then her hair came loose, unfurled in a silken blaze, and as Blue took the lead and rocketed toward the house, she whooped in delight.

Alec smiled. Ah—now there was the woman who’d matched him in wildness last night. No conventional female in conventional riding garb, but an untamed, headstrong beauty with prodigal, insatiable desires and a body, as he well knew, made for pleasure.

And she was
his
for the next few days.

If he lived
, he whimsically reflected.

She was riding straight at him.

Unmoving, his booted feet fixed on the raked gravel of the drive, he watched the distance between them swiftly narrow.

He trusted her horsemanship. Or
maybe
he trusted her horsemanship, he corrected with no more than a dozen yards separating him from a half ton of racing horseflesh.

At the last second, with uncanny intuition, Zelda hauled Blue to a brilliant, rearing, plunging, back-on-his-haunches stop. Gravel flew, flailing hoofs churned the air, tore up the drive, and horse spittle from heaving lungs sprayed far and wide in a warm, wet trajectory.

Smiling faintly, Dalgliesh wiped the spittle from his face with a swipe of his hand and watched Zelda leap to the ground while Blue was still curveting and chopping the air. Landing lightly, she flew toward him, her long skirts leaving a trail in the gravel.