Taming the Heiress (34 page)

"I expect he needs to apologize," Dougal growled.

"I need not apologize for asking the lady to marry me," Frederick said. "She was on the verge of saying aye when you interfered."

"Is it true, Lady Strathlin?" Dougal asked, barely audible.

"I—well, he did ask—"

"Is it true?" Dougal demanded. "Were you about to accept?"

She looked at Dougal, with his strong and fierce heart, and at Frederick, whose heart seemed cold and vicious. She loved one and loathed the other. And she had to protect them from each other.

"He asked." she whispered. "I am considering. He did me no harm. Let him go."

The silence then was tense and brittle. Dougal kept his grip tight, his posture confining, while he clearly seethed. He did not look at Meg.

"Mr. Stewart," Sir John Shaw said, walking toward them. "Sir Frederick has had a bit too much wine, I think. He meant no harm. He's a good lad, Mr. Stewart, and cares for the lass—for Lady Strathlin very much. If you please, sir. Let him loose."

Suddenly, Dougal let go and stepped back.

Tugging at his coat, Frederick glanced at the onlookers and then glared at Dougal. "You will regret this, sir."

"I believe you will be the one to regret it, should you ever threaten this lady again." He flickered his eyes toward Meg, then fastened his glare on Frederick again.

"Our business agreement, sir," Matheson growled, "is at an end. I withdraw my offer."

"So be it." Dougal tugged at his shirt cuffs.

"Madam," Frederick said, "we will continue our discussion at some other date. I am grateful and flattered that you desire so fervently to marry me—"

Meg gasped. "Sir, I did not—"

He held up a hand. "I understand if you feel embarrassed. Ladies should not indulge in more than a glass or two of wine. It sets their heads to reeling. Nevertheless, I am honored. But after this evening, I must reconsider my proposal, in light of your appalling misconduct."

"Sir, I have never misconducted myself!"

"No?" Frederick murmured. "Not even once, long ago?"

She gasped. Dougal stepped between them, indicating that Frederick should say no more. Meg prayed that Dougal did not guess Frederick's reference, and prayed equally that Matheson would never learn the identity of her little son's father.

"Good night. An excellent party, otherwise." Matheson gave a curt bow and turned. The crowd by the door parted, and he walked through, shouldering past Guy Hamilton.

Guy gave him a dull blow to the stomach with his elbow, enough to make Matheson grunt and turn toward him.

"I beg your pardon," Guy said. "Are you inviting me to spar with you, sir?"

Frederick muttered under his breath and left, storming through the conservatory and out the front door. Meg heard it slam even from where she stood in the darkened garden.

Dougal stood near her, watching as the remaining gentlemen took their leave of her. He said hardly a word, nodding his thanks and farewells. She was grateful for his silent presence. Her limbs still shook so that she did not feel ready to walk back to the house as yet. Relieved to see the last few guests leave without ceremony, she was glad for now just to stand in the dark, quiet garden, in the moonlight, with Dougal.

She glanced at him when they were alone. "Dougal—"

He inclined his head. "Lady Strathlin, thank you for a pleasant evening. Apart from the last few minutes, it has been enjoyable."

"You're leaving?" she asked, her voice quaking.

The smile that played at his mouth was the small, private, fond smile that she had missed so very much. Seeing it made her heart surge, filled her with warmth, made her want to cry.

"I cannot stay," he said. "Madam." He bowed and turned, striding through the garden.

She picked up her gown to follow him. "Dougal, please."

He opened the door for her, and waited while she stepped into the shadowed conservatory. She could hear the chink and clatter as servants gathered the dishes and glasses inside the house, and Mrs. Larrimore directing the maids.

"Please," she said, and laid her hand on his arm. "Do not go. Not yet." She watched him in the darkness, the air around them heavy with the scent of roses and gardenias, with earth and stone. Heavy with need, desperate for forgiveness.

He looked down at her. "What would you have me do, madam?" he asked, leaning close in the shadows. "Stay with you?"

"Yes," she said breathlessly. "Yes."

Chapter 20

He growled something low as he pulled her back into darkness with him, behind the crowding ferns in pots, behind the glossy gardenia leaves and the drowsy, drunken scent of roses.

Her gown floated like clouds around her as he took her into his arms and kissed her, his mouth tender and hungry over hers. His hands were strong yet gentle on her bare shoulders.

She looped her arms around his neck, crying out softly in sheer, desperate relief, and gave herself into the kiss, opening her lips to him, his mouth insistent. Her tongue danced over his, slipped away, sought again. She leaned her head back and felt his mouth trail hot along her jaw, the length of her throat, his lips caressing the upper swell of her breasts, breath heating the space between her breasts, above the snug edge of her corset.

One hand snugged against her waist, pulling her hard against him, so that her skirt floated outward, its cage tipping backward like a ringing bell, the silken tulle crushing against his thighs. She pressed deep into his arms, torsos tightly meeting, and even through layers of silk and netting and cotton and the light, flexible cage of her crinoline, she could feel him against her, hot and hard and so blessedly familiar.

She sighed into his mouth with deep contentment and moaned breathily as his hand slid upward, rounded over her confined breasts, found the soft swell above the edge of her bodice. Her body pulsed and wanted to weep everywhere for him, for want of him. She wanted to tear away the layers of the exquisite gown and feel him like steel and fire against her.

"Oh, God," she whispered against his mouth, as his lips found hers again. Her knees were weak beneath crinoline and petticoats, and she clung to him, arms circling his neck, her fingers threading deep into his thick hair.

He smelled of spice and wine, of vanilla and strength and caring, and she loved him. God, she loved him. His hands were divine upon her, caressing, lightly teasing her so that she shivered and craved.

He framed her face in his palms and kissed her deeply, once more, then tore himself away, breaths coming hard.

"Lady Strathlin," he rasped out, "I must go."

She grabbed his coat sleeve. "Stay with me. I beg you, do not leave. Dougal, please," she ended in a whisper.

He stopped suddenly, cold as stone. "Do not beg, it does not become you. What do you want?" he murmured, looking down. "A night? Or forever?"

"Forever," she whispered. "You know that."

"But that would require trust," he said. "Honesty. Commitment. And it would hardly do for you to marry someone else. I wonder if you can manage that."

"Dougal, let me explain."

"Or is this another game that the lady finds amusing? Forever becomes a day or two, until the game is no longer interesting? Bare feet were pleasant last month, and this month it is precious gowns. Is that it?" His tone sliced through her.

"It is nothing like that."

"And now and then, there is the engineer to provide entertainment." He stepped away.

She moved after him. "I know I made a terrible mistake with you. But I never meant to hurt you—"

"Madam," he said, "do not make a fool of the man who loves you. He feels foolish enough already." He paused. "I think we are done." He turned.

"No, please," she whispered, her voice, her heart, breaking.

"I apologize for any inconvenience to your person or to your lovely gown. Good night." He inclined his head and stepped through the ferns, fronds brushing his black-clad shoulders.

She glided with him. "Listen to me."

"Lady Strathlin," he murmured, so softly she hardly heard, "you are beautiful—alluring. I will never forget the sight of you tonight." Then he turned.

She pushed through the ferns after him, her gown brushing along a shelf of potted green plants. "Will you not hear my explanation? I listened to you," she said firmly, as he strode away. "I gave you the chance. And I forgave you—all of it."

He stopped then, standing in the aisle between the roses and the gardenias. Meg caught up to him in a few steps. His broad back was turned to her, blocking her passage.

"Why did you do it?" he asked woodenly. "Why did you keep the truth from me about who you were?"

"When I saw you on the island, I realized that you were... that we had met before."

"On the sea rock."

"Yes. For years, I had... hated you, I think, yet I had also loved you. Loved the memory of you. Do you understand?"

"Aye," he said gruffly. "You loved the dream of me, as I loved the dream of you. Go on."

"So I thought you were the horrid man who had used me cruelly on the rock, and I did not want... anyone to know. And I did not want you to use me again... like that."

"I never did." He leaned down.
"Never."

"I know that now. Not then."

"Yet once you realized that I was not the ogre you thought me to be... you still kept the truth from me."

"What could I do? You despised the baroness. You did not trust me... as Lady Strathlin. If you learned who I was, you would not... I feared you would not... love me," she said, and she began to cry in great, gulping sobs, salt tears and the scent of roses and his broad, black, turned figure, cold and unrelenting.

"I always loved you," he murmured without moving.

"And I love you," she whispered, starting to sob again, aching for the feel of his arms. "I do love you."

He did not answer, stood so long she reached out to touch his arm. "And if I were to ask you again to marry me—what would you say?"

She caught her breath. She must tell him about Iain before anything else transpired.

And then she remembered that Frederick knew about Iain.

Even if she married Dougal, even though Iain was their son, Matheson knew of his illegitimate birth. He would spread that word. He would find proof in the records of the island kirk, even though the minister had promised secrecy. Frederick would see that the baroness was thoroughly ruined.

That damage would affect Dougal as well.

"I will give you an answer... later," she said in a small voice. "Let me think on it. I beg you."

"Too much in the balance, is there, madam?" he asked. He glanced down at her over his shoulder. "We cannot let an untitled gentleman come too close to the accounts, can we? Or is it that you have already promised yourself to Sir Frederick? Perhaps you did not want to be saved from your wee garden interlude. I should not have interfered."

Murmuring protest, she reached out to him, but he walked away. With a fast, angry stride, he left the conservatory and crossed through the drawing room to the front door, where she heard the butler inform him that a handsome cab was ready and waiting to take him home.

Meg stood in the darkness for a long time. She thought she would never inhale the fragrance of roses and gardenias again without feeling her heart break.

* * *

Perhaps he should not have come.

Hat in hand, Dougal stood in the front entryway of Strathlin Castle after being admitted inside by a surly butler who had hastened off to deliver the message to Lady Strathlin. Several days had passed since the soiree on Charlotte Square, days when Dougal determined he should never see Meg MacNeill—Lady Strathlin—again. But he had one matter to attend to before he could try to endure that painful sentence.

Yet each time he had picked up her leather journal and the publisher's cheque to send them to her, his hand stayed. Finally he had decided to bring it and leave it for her. But the old butler had tottered off before Dougal could voice his intentions.

Now he turned slowly, gazing at red mahogany paneling on walls that soared to ornately carved ceiling beams at an impossible height; crystal chandeliers in full gas flare, though it was yet daylight; polished carved furnishings set on plush Turkish carpets; and a march of stately portraits that lined the upper gallery above the grand staircase that divided the front hall.