Some Like It Wild (19 page)

P
amela rested the back of her head against Connor’s shoulder, watching the first lavender rays of dawn streak the eastern sky. Connor was sitting with her nestled between his splayed legs, his back propped against one of the temple’s columns. A damp chill had come creeping across the grass with the morning mist, but it was impossible for her to feel cold with both Connor’s coat and his arms wrapped so tightly around her.

She knew they needed to slip back into the house before some over-industrious servant spotted them. But she didn’t want the night to end. If she ever had to sleep again, she wanted it to be in Connor’s arms.

It took her several drowsy, delicious moments of watching the wispy clouds melt from lavender
to peach to realize Connor was whistling ever so softly in her ear.

A smile touched her lips. “I remember that tune. It’s the one you were whistling on the journey to Castle MacFarlane—‘The Maiden and the Highwayman.’ I insisted it must be a tragedy since the Scots were such a dour lot, but you said the highwayman seduced the maiden into his bed only to discover she was a lusty wench who couldn’t get enough of him.”

“Sounds just like someone else I know,” he murmured, slipping his hands beneath his coat to fill them with the plump softness of her breasts. Over her husky hum of pleasure, he said, “If you must know, I left off the last verse. The one where he shoots her through the heart because he believes she’s been unfaithful and then turns himself in and begs to be sent to the gallows after he learns the lad he saw her kissing was her brother.”

“I knew it!” Pamela wiggled around in his arms to give him an accusing glare. “Has there ever been a Scottish ballad that didn’t end in tragedy?”

He gently raked a tousled strand of hair from her cheek, the tender glow in his eyes making her heart clutch. “Perhaps you and I can write one together.”

“You’re just lucky I didn’t shoot you when I saw you ogling your sister.”

The glow faded from Connor’s eyes. “At least you didn’t have to worry about her ogling me back.”

Pamela sighed. “You can’t blame her for not recognizing you. In case you haven’t noticed, you’re
no longer a gangly lad of fifteen. And I seriously doubt she expected to find her long lost brother impersonating a marquess at a soiree in London.” She touched a hand to his beard-shadowed jaw. “You saw her last night, Connor. You did the right thing by sending her away. Thanks to you, she’s grown into a lovely young woman who’s wed to a man who plainly adores her.”

Connor snorted. “An
English
man. Apparently sleeping with the enemy has its benefits. The two of them were only visiting London. They’re currently living in our ancestral holding of Castle Kincaid, raising a flock of sheep and two wee bairns nearly as bonny as their parents. Most of the clansmen who once rode with me have now turned their hands to honest labor in the service of my sister.” He shook his head ruefully. “I spent nearly a decade trying to wrest those lands back from the English and she conquered them without firing a single shot.”

Pamela’s mouth fell open. “How do you know all that?”

She watched in fascination as the pearly glow of dawn revealed a telltale flush creeping up Connor’s throat. “I said she hadn’t seen me since the night the redcoats came. I didn’t say I hadn’t seen her.”

“Why, Connor Kincaid, you’ve been spying on her, haven’t you?”

“Only once,” he reluctantly confessed. “Two years ago, after I heard she’d married an Englishman, I traveled to Castle Kincaid to kill him.”

“You know,” she said cautiously, “most people are perfectly content to bring gifts to the newly wed.”

He flashed her a sulky look. “I stood outside in the dark and watched them through the dining-room window. I wanted to hate the bastard. But how do you hate a man who looks at your sister as if she was the most priceless treasure in all the world? All I could do was climb back up on my horse and ride away.”

“Did you ever think about knocking on the door? That’s another skill highly prized by civilized folk.”

“What was I supposed to say?—‘Hello, kitten, I’m your big brother. I’ve a price on my head and bloodstains on my hands and if you give me sanctuary, I’ll bring the redcoats right back to your door to destroy everyone and everything you love—just like before.’”

“So you let her go,” Pamela said softly, “again.” She brightened. “But it’s not too late! You could go to her now! Before she and her husband return to the Highlands.”

“And what would I tell her? That I’ve conveniently
borrowed
another man’s life? That I’m just as likely to end up dangling at the end of a noose, if only for a different crime?”

For the first time, Pamela felt the dawn chill creep past the warm, cozy circle of his arms and into her heart. “As long as the duke believes you’re his son, that will never happen. You’ll still have everything I promised you—riches, respect—”

“And all the willing women I care to woo?” he finished lightly.

She inclined her head, stiffening in his arms. “That was part of our bargain. And I intend to honor it.”

He brushed the silky curtain of her hair aside, leaving her with no way to hide her taut jaw and the heat she could feel rising to her cheeks. “And what if I only care to woo one woman?”

“Then that’s what you should do.” Pamela swallowed, his words cutting her heart to the quick. Somehow the idea of Connor courting a wife was much more painful than imagining him with a procession of mistresses. “Once I’m gone, the duke will expect you to find a more suitable bride. From the way the women were eyeing you tonight, I’m sure you’ll find no lack of prospects.”

“And just who would you deem a suitable bride for a no-count highwayman masquerading as the son of a duke? Because I’m thinking an actress’s daughter born on the wrong side of the blankets who can lie to a man’s face without batting one of her pretty eyelashes might be just what he deserves.”

Pamela jerked her head up, gazing at him in disbelief.

“When he lapses into brooding, as Scots are wont to do, she could give him a sound lashing with her saucy tongue. And when he loses his temper and begins to roar and stomp about like a wounded bear, she could lose her temper and roar right back at him.” He stroked his thumb down
her cheek, his crooked smile achingly tender. “I guess what I’m trying to say is that I can’t think of any more suitable bride for such a man than a hot-tempered, conniving little baggage with more courage than common sense and a touch of larceny in her soul.”

His smile faded, leaving her mesmerized by the smoky depths of his eyes. “Stay with me, Pamela. Share this gilded cage with me. Be my marchioness. Be my duchess someday.” Although she would have thought it impossible, the husky timbre of his voice deepened even further. “Be my wife.”

Pamela drew in a shuddering breath as Connor’s face swam before her eyes, veiled by a mist of tears. She knew in that moment how her mother must have felt when the audience surged to their feet and burst into thunderous applause.

“I don’t suppose you’ve left me any choice,” she said, hiding the swell of emotion behind a prim sniff. “After all, you have compromised me. Ruined me for any other man.”

“Numerous times,” he agreed, not looking the least bit sorry.

“I could hardly go to another man’s bed after I let a dirty, thieving Highlander put his hands all over me.”

“And in you…” he whispered, curling the fingers of one hand around her nape and drawing her mouth to his for a long, lingering kiss while his other hand slipped beneath the coat to have its way with her. By the time he broke away from the kiss, they were both breathless. “Are you sure you
won’t mind squandering your precious reward on a dowry?”

Pamela slipped one thigh over his, straddling both his lap and his arousal, which was once again straining against the beleaguered seams of his breeches. “Oh, I intend to make you earn every penny. You’re not the only one willing to pay for their pleasures.”

As her eager hands reached between them, freeing his arousal so it could nudge against the dampness of her curls, Connor groaned. “I was right, wasn’t I, lass? Sleeping with the enemy definitely has its benefits.”

Pamela rose up to her knees, then slowly sank down, her breath catching on a shuddering whimper as he impaled her inch by glorious inch until she was filled to the brim with his sleek, thick heat.

She cupped his face in her hands, holding herself utterly still so she could exult in the sweet, wild pulse that began to beat where their bodies were joined before whispering, “Why don’t we find out?”

Although the sun was peeking over the edge of the horizon and the stables and kitchens were beginning to stir, Pamela managed to slip up the back stairs without being seen. She had only one near miss near the second-story landing, when the muffled thud of footsteps coming down the stairs gave her just enough time to dive into a narrow broom closet.

She emerged with cobwebs in her hair only to
recognize the generous backside of the buxom cook who had caught Brodie’s fancy descending the stairs. Pamela would have almost sworn the woman was humming a bawdy Scottish ditty beneath her breath.

She climbed the rest of the stairs with a smile flirting with her lips. Once she was safe in her suite, she eased the door shut and collapsed with her back against it, breathing a heartfelt sigh of relief.

Which curdled in her throat when she saw Sophie curled up on the settee in her dressing gown with her legs tucked beneath her. Her sister had a rather peculiar glint in her eye. Pamela usually only saw that look when Sophie had spotted a chocolate confection or a particularly lovely length of ribbon she intended to have, no matter the cost.

Knowing that her sister rarely rose before ten without being cajoled or threatened, Pamela felt her heart sink. “What are you doing up so early?”

Sophie cocked a knowing eyebrow at her. “What are you doing up so late?”

Pamela opened her mouth to invent some story about a drunken coachman or a broken axle on a carriage wheel but closed it just as quickly, knowing it was hopeless to lie to her sister. She and Sophie might bicker like maiden aunts most of the time, but no one knew her better. Even before their mother had died, there had been so many times when it was just the two of them.

Pamela slowly crossed the floor and sank down in the wingback chair by the window, dropping
her ruined slippers to the carpet beside the chair. Connor had insisted on carrying her across the grass to protect her from the fresh dew.

She could remember all of the times she’d sat up all night while Sophie slept, waiting for their mother to creep in at dawn—slippers in hand, lips swollen from a stranger’s kisses, eyes still so glazed from the pleasures of the night it was as if she could barely see the little girl who had been waiting so patiently for her to come home.

“I suppose there’s no help for it then,” she said softly. “You must think I’m exactly like Mama.”

“I most certainly do.”

Pamela bowed her head, Sophie’s words stinging even more than she had anticipated.

“You’re proud. Passionate. Determined to make your own way in this world without bowing to any man.”

Pamela lifted her head as her sister rose and came over to kneel beside her chair. Sophie peered up into her face, her blue eyes wide and guileless. “You share her strengths but not her weaknesses.
Maman
was always thinking of herself, while you think far too little of your own good and far too much of the good of others. You’re loyal and kind and generous and the most devoted sister a girl could hope to have.”

Pamela gazed down at her sister’s beautiful face through a haze of tears.

Sophie squeezed her hand. “She may have been the toast of the London stage and adored by any number of wealthy and powerful men, but I never
saw a single man look at
Maman
the way he looks at you.”

Grinning through her tears, Pamela tucked a wayward curl behind Sophie’s ear. “You know—once I become a marchioness, I do believe I’m going to promote you to housekeeper.”

For Pamela the rest of the day passed in an agony of anticipation as she waited for the night to come. While a long, hot bath and an even longer nap soothed away much of the tenderness lingering between her legs, a tantalizing ache remained. An ache she now knew only Connor could ease.

She wasn’t sure what was going to be the most difficult—the hours they had to spend apart during the day or the hour spent sitting across from him at supper, playing the role of chaste lady to his courteous gentleman.

The minute she strolled into the dining room that evening and Connor rose to greet her, his smoky eyes aglow with appreciation and a new coat stretched taut over his broad shoulders, she knew the answer.

“My lord,” she murmured, bobbing him a demure curtsy when what she really wanted to do was throw herself into his arms and kiss him insensible.

“My lady,” he replied stiffly, offering her his arm so he could escort her to her chair.

Even that brief contact was torture. As she slid into her chair, he leaned down and whispered, “I wish you were the main course.”

He retreated to the chair directly opposite hers, leaving Pamela with a provocative image of herself laid out naked on that linen-draped table, with Connor free to partake of her at his leisure.

He lifted his wineglass in a silent toast to her while the footmen served the first course and the duke and his sister continued their incessant sniping. It took Pamela several minutes before she realized they were discussing the ball that was to be held in a few days to reintroduce the duke’s long lost heir to the
crème de la crème
of London society.

“Now Archibald, you need to stop fussing and fretting, and leave all of the planning to me,” Lady Astrid was saying.

The duke shot Connor a mischievous look, resembling a wizened little boy. “That’s all well and good, but don’t forget that I have a surprise for the lad.”

“Don’t we all?” Lady Astrid purred like a cat who had stumbled upon a saucer of particularly rich cream. She seemed to be in an unusually fine humor, which set off warning bells in Pamela’s head.