Some Like It Wild (18 page)

She broke off their kiss, her eyes widening with shock. “Why, Mr. Kincaid, have you no shame?”

His mouth curled in a wicked leer. “Haven’t you heard that we Scots are a savage lot cursed with insatiable carnal appetites?”

She fluttered her lashes at him. “I suppose a timid little English miss could never hope to satisfy a big strapping Scots lad like you.”

“Probably not,” he said solemnly. “But I don’t think that should stop her from trying, do you? Perhaps if she let him have his way with her at every opportunity, he might even be able to get rid of his sheep.”

As he began to move within her, Pamela sighed against his mouth. “Why do I feel sorry for the poor sheep?”

Crispin slipped through the darkened corridors of Warrick Park as silently as a ghost. There was a time when he would have been terrified to leave his bed once the lamps were extinguished. When his mother had first brought him to live here after his father’s death, he had found everything about the immense house foreign and frightening.

They had only been living there for a few short months when his uncle had taken to his chair and never risen again. To a painfully shy, undersized nine-year-old, that chair had seemed like some sort of living monstrosity. He had been haunted by nightmares where he fled down one shadowy corridor after another, unable to escape the shrill creaking of its wheels. If it had ever caught him, he was convinced it would have gobbled him down without leaving so much as a bloodstain on the expensive carpet.

His mother had delivered daily lectures on how he must strive to ingratiate himself to his uncle. She promised him that if he would be a good boy and win the duke’s favor, Warrick Park and all of its treasures would someday be his—a prospect that horrified him more than she would ever know. He was plagued by new nightmares then. Nightmares where he was the one imprisoned in that chair for all eternity.

Crispin desperately wanted to please his mother but found it impossible to please the duke. No matter how hard he tried, he could never sit up straight enough or eat neatly enough or answer quickly enough to please his uncle. His every
attempt—no matter how earnest—was greeted by a mocking rejoinder or a scathing set-down. That was usually followed by a private scolding from his mother or a stinging slap if she felt he had been particularly clumsy or slow-witted that day.

He had been fourteen when he had finally accepted that he would never win the duke’s favor. From that day forward, he had stopped trying. He would greet the man’s caustic insults with a sarcastic retort, honing the rapier-sharp edge of his own tongue. He surrounded himself with a circle of acquaintances who believed him to be polished and clever and always ready with a sly quip or a witty
bon mot
. He devoted himself to gambling and drinking and seducing women of easy virtue and any other decadent pleasure that might cast the shadow of scandal over his uncle’s good name.

Eventually even his mother had been forced to accept that his uncle would never love him. Crispin might be the man’s legal heir, but he would never replace the son he had lost.

The son who had now returned to whisk that inheritance right out from under Crispin’s nose.

Crispin’s furtive footsteps paused in front of his cousin’s bedchamber. He pressed his ear to the door, listening for any hint of movement within.

What he heard instead was a strangled groan, as if someone was in the mortal throes of agony. “Och, Cookie!” a man exclaimed in a Scottish burr so thick it was nearly unintelligible. “It feels
like ye’re goin’ to break me spine in two when ye squeeze me that way. But whatever ye do, don’t stop!”

Crispin straightened, wondering if he was losing his mind. He had arrived back at Warrick Park on his horse only a few minutes before the duke’s crested carriage had come rolling up the drive. He had cursed his ill timing until he saw both his cousin and Miss Darby disembark from the carriage and head for the Doric temple at the edge of the lake. He had waited until he was sure their moonlight tryst was going to encompass more than just a few chaste kisses before setting off on his own quest. So how had the two of them managed to sneak up the stairs and into the bedchamber without his knowledge?

He pressed his ear to the door again. “Ah, me sweet Cookie,” purred that throaty masculine voice, “once yer me bride, we’ll play hide-the-sausage-in-the-puddin’ every night o’ the week.”

Crispin straightened more abruptly this time, torn between fascination and horror. Those were hardly the words he’d imagined his stoic cousin using to court the lovely Miss Darby.

His bewilderment was interrupted by a muffled yet rhythmic banging, as if an iron headboard was repeatedly striking the wall. That was when he realized the noises weren’t coming from the main bedchamber of the suite but from the connecting dressing room just down the corridor. The dressing room currently occupied by his cousin’s hulking valet.

Crispin swore beneath his breath. Those passionate moans and savage grunts might very well mask the sounds of him searching his cousin’s bedchamber, but what if they didn’t? He certainly couldn’t afford to get caught red-handed by the gold-toothed barbarian. Being dragged away from his “pudding” prematurely might put the beefy giant in a very foul temper indeed.

Knowing he had only one course of action left to him, Crispin turned and slipped back into the shadows.

Crispin eased open the door of Miss Darby’s suite. There was something both alluring and wicked about sneaking into a lady’s bedchamber in the dead of night, even if that lady was not abed. Moonlight bathed the deserted room in a pearly glow. A scent that was mysterious and floral and unmistakably feminine perfumed the air.

He stood with hands on hips, surveying the room for a long moment. In truth, he didn’t even know what he was looking for. The best he could hope for was some sort of evidence he could use as a weapon to prove his cousin was not the man his uncle believed him to be. Or the man the guests at Lord Newton’s soiree had been fawning over with such disgusting adulation.

Spurred on by that thought, he strode over to the armoire and began rifling briskly through its drawers. He moved on to the dressing table next, but his search yielded nothing of interest or import, unless one could count a handful of hairpins, a
half-empty bottle of lilac water and a pair of tortoiseshell combs.

His frustration mounting, he swung around to glare at the bed itself. He couldn’t say what instinct drove him there. He only knew that as a boy he had once hidden treasures he knew his mother wouldn’t approve of under his pillow—a piece of shiny quartz he’d found in the garden, a robin’s tail feather, a book of naughty etchings he’d pilfered from his uncle’s library.

He slid his hand beneath the pillows and bolsters piled against the headboard. Nothing. He was withdrawing it when he heard a telltale crackle coming from one of the large feather pillows. He slipped his hand inside its satin cover, his fingers quickly locating a folded piece of paper.

As he unfolded it, a primitive thrill of excitement shot through him.

It was a well-weathered broadsheet—the sort the authorities nailed up on trees and posts when they were searching for someone who had committed a terrible crime. Someone like the nameless highwayman sketched on the page.

A nameless highwayman with a steely gaze and a telltale dimple in his rugged jaw.

A more casual observer might not have recognized the outlaw in the sketch, but Crispin had seen that steely gaze before, had faced it over the length of blade he had believed would end his life.

He returned the pillow to its place, smoothing out its satin cover. If Miss Darby slept with the broadsheet beneath her pillow, she must believe it
to be very dear indeed. But it would be even dearer to the Scottish authorities. A bitter smile touched his lips. And dearer yet to him.

“What are you doing here?”

Shoving the broadsheet into his waistcoat, Crispin whirled around to find Miss Darby’s maidservant standing in the dressing-room doorway.

A
lthough Crispin would have thought it impossible, the young maidservant looked even more enchanting than she had on the staircase.

Her short, buttery curls were tousled and her dusky blue eyes heavy lidded from sleep. Moonlight sifted through the folds of her nightdress, rendering them translucent and hinting at the svelte curves beneath.

For a moment, Crispin could only stare, struck mute once again by her radiant beauty. He still couldn’t shake the sensation that they’d stood gazing at each other in just such a way at some other time, in some other place.

She folded her arms over her chest, giving him a sleepy scowl. “I asked you what you were doing here.”

“I came to see you,” he said, blurting out the first words that popped into his head.

“Me?”

He nodded, regaining both the use of his tongue and his ability to improvise. “When I saw your mistress at the soiree tonight, I realized you’d be here all alone.”

Her face brightened. “You were at the soiree? Oh, tell me all about it, won’t you? I was positively sick with disappointment because I didn’t get to go. Was there dancing? And French champagne? And little iced cakes shaped like hearts?”

Crispin was puzzled by her reaction. It would have been odd for even the most devoted of maidservants to accompany her mistress to such an event.

He drew nearer to her, unable to resist the temptation. “Had I known you fancied French champagne and iced cakes, I would have smuggled some out of the party for you.” He held out a hand to her. “I’m afraid all I have to offer you is a dance.”

She warily eyed his extended hand. “How are we to dance when there’s no music?”

He cocked his head to the side. “There’s always music. Can’t you hear it? Why, I hear it every time I look into your eyes.”

“Perhaps your ears are still ringing from when we bumped heads on the stairs.”

Crispin grinned and withdrew his hand, curiously relieved that she wasn’t to be so easily charmed by his flattery. But her next words sobered him abruptly.

“I know why you really came here tonight.”

“You do?”

“You came here to seduce me. You thought, ‘Oh, the pretty little maid is all alone. Think I’ll sneak into her room while her mistress is gone and give her a tumble.’” She arched one silky eyebrow, challenging him to call her a liar. “Am I wrong?”

He slanted her a glance from beneath his lashes, struggling to look abashed. “I’m afraid not. I’m an incorrigible scoundrel and you’ve no choice but to send me on my way with a scathing rebuke and a hearty slap.”

“What about a kiss?”

He jerked up his head, believing he’d heard her wrong. “A…a…a
what
?”

“A kiss. I’ve no intention of letting you seduce me, but I might be persuaded to send you on your way with a scathing rebuke and a kiss.”

He drew closer to her, his nostrils flaring at her sleepy, feminine scent. “And how might I best persuade you?”

“Well, first I’d have to deliver the rebuke.”

He waved a hand at her. “Be my guest.”

She rested her hands on her slender hips, glaring daggers at him. “How dare you sneak into my room at such an indecent hour? Just because you’re a handsome, wealthy gentleman with women throwing themselves at your feet, that doesn’t give you the right to force your attentions on a helpless servant. I may be only a maid, but that doesn’t mean I’m not a lady as well and don’t deserve to be treated as one!”

“Very impressive,” Crispin murmured, still beset by the eerie sense of having played this scene before. “I’ve never received such a brutal set-down. My ears will be stinging for days!”

“As well they should,” she agreed with a feline little smirk.

The wariness returned to her gaze as he reached to cup her cheek in his hand, stroking its downy softness with his thumb. “Perhaps you’ll allow me to make amends by proving I can treat you like a lady. By convincing you that I would be satisfied with nothing more than a chaste kiss from your lips.”

Crispin was lying through his teeth. He knew such a kiss would only whet his appetite for more. He leaned forward and touched his lips to hers—the broadsheet forgotten, his cousin forgotten, everything forgotten but that tender rose of a mouth blooming so sweetly beneath his.

That chaste kiss soon turned into a lingering caress. By the time Crispin lifted his head, they were both breathing hard.

She backed away from him, an enchanting blush coloring her cheeks. “You’d best go now. If my mistress returns, I can promise you she won’t be very happy to find you here. I wouldn’t want her to…send me packing.”

“Nor would I,” he confessed, pressing a palm to his chest. “I believe it would break my heart.”

She grabbed his elbow and steered him firmly toward the door. “You should be ashamed of yourself! You’re doing it again!”

“What?”

“Trying to seduce me! Those flowery words may charm the weak-willed women of your acquaintance, but I should warn you that they have no effect on me.”

“Are you so sure about that?” he asked, daring a devilish grin.

Her answer was to throw open the door and shove him backward into the corridor. “Don’t bother coming back…” She cast a guilty glance over her shoulder, then whispered, “…unless you know my mistress is out of the house.”

She flashed him a brief, dazzling smile before closing the door in his face. Crispin rested his brow against it, chuckling when he realized he had failed once again to acquire the maddening creature’s name.

“What have you done, Crispin?”

His heart lurched as he wheeled around to find his mother standing at the end of the hall like some ghostly white lady from one of his nightmares.

She glided toward him, the hem of her dressing gown rippling behind her. Holding out her hand, she said, “I know why you came here. Did you find what you were looking for?”

The sweet face of Miss Darby’s maidservant rose up in his vision. He gazed at his mother’s outstretched hand, remembering only too clearly what had happened the last time he had trusted his fate to her hands.

“Nothing. I found nothing.”

His mother’s hand whipped across his face, de
livering a vicious slap. “You’re my son,” she hissed. “Do you think I don’t know when you’re lying?”

Something in his eyes made her take a nervous step backward. Her hand darted upward to flutter around her throat like a pale dove. “Forgive me, son. You know I need to keep a better rein on my temper.” She blinked a sheen of tears from her dark blue eyes. “It’s just when I think about all I’ve endured to protect you and ensure your future…all I’ve sacrificed…”

Crispin slowly drew the broadsheet from his waistcoat and handed it to her.

She unfolded it and scanned it quickly, her hands beginning to tremble with excitement. When she lifted her head, her eyes were glowing with pride. “Oh, my darling boy, you’ve done well this time, haven’t you? Archibald won’t be able to ignore this—or you. He’ll have to admit to the world that he’s made a terrible mistake and that you are his only true heir. Everything we’ve ever wanted will finally be within our grasp.”

“Everything
we’ve
wanted, Mother? Or everything
you’ve
wanted?”

Before she could answer, Crispin sketched her a curt bow and went striding back into the shadows.