The Capture of the Earl of Glencrae (26 page)

At least with respect to the black filly.

Her rider was a different matter; all in all, he had a better chance of predicting the black filly's behavior than he had of predicting hers.

Witness the incident outside the tavern; while his protectiveness hadn't come as any shock to him, he'd expected her to jib, not to smile gratefully. His previous experience of ladies of her ilk, not inconsiderable, had taught him that any overtly possessive behavior was likely to earn significantly more than a frown. Instead, she'd seen, smiled, and been the soul of reasonableness.

How he should interpret that he had not a single clue.

The skies remained clear. As they rode, he surveyed the countryside, instinctively scanning for any threat.

“Tell me more about the castle.” She edged the filly nearer. “About the people and how the clan works.”

An eminently sensible question; he put his mind to answering it.

She was attentive and intuitive; her questions led him into a wide-ranging and detailed explanation of how the clan system worked, of the community dynamics within both castle and keep, and who was who at the castle.

“So the vast majority of those serving in the keep are clan, or at the very least connected?”

“Griswold is the only exception.”

“Hmm. At some point, once we decide exactly how to trick your mother into believing what she wants to believe, we'll have to define what help we'll need from which staff, who we trust with what, and so on. But for now, what about those in the castle overall? How many live within the walls?”

They rode on and he gave himself up to answering her every query as completely as he could; her clear focus on learning all she might need to know once they reached the castle was both encouraging and reassuring. He felt increasingly confident they—he and she together—would succeed in hoodwinking his mother and reclaiming the goblet.

That growing confidence eased the burden weighing on his shoulders.

“All right.” Deciding she'd absorbed all she could about the castle and its occupants for one day, Angelica turned her mind to another area she needed to know more about. “What are the primary sources of income to the clan?” She met his eyes when he glanced at her. “I saw the contracts and legal papers you've been dealing with. There's obviously enterprises other than just farms involved.”

He cocked a black brow at her, but his lips remained relaxed. “Do you know much about farms?”

“A bit. My parents' estate is all farm-based—farms, orchards, sheep, cows—all those sorts of things.”

He nodded and looked ahead. “We have the farms, too, but the additional, not so usual to a Sassenach enterprises are . . . well, there's at least three major ones, and various cottage-based businesses as well.”

She listened, drawn into his world as he described a raft of agriculture-based industries she'd known must exist, but of which she'd had no real understanding. The horses cantered on, hooves drumming as their long strides ate the miles, while he talked, and she questioned and learned.

L
ater in the afternoon, they reined in as they approached a bridge spanning a decent-sized river, then walked the horses across the bridge, their hooves clopping sharply on the stone.

Angelica studied the range of hills that ran across the horizon ahead of them. “Is Perth this side, or the other?”

“The other.” Dominic had swiveled to look back at their company. Facing forward and settling in his saddle, he said, “This is the river Earn. We're about five miles from Perth. The road takes us through a pass up ahead, then on into the town.”

She straightened. “Perth! I just remembered.”

He looked at her warily. “What?”

“The Fair Maid's house is there, isn't it? I mean, it's real, so we can see it.” Enthused, she looked at him, saw his nonplussed expression. “Catherine Glover's home in
The Fair Maid of Perth
.” He still looked blank. “Sir Walter Scott's latest novel.”

“Ah.” His expression cleared. “I haven't read it.”

“It's only been out for a little while, so you're excused, but do you know where the house is?”

He hesitated, then said, “I heard some talk of it in London. We can check at the hotel, but if it's the house I think it must be, then yes, we might be able to take a look at it.”

“This evening? If Perth's only five miles on, we'll be there in less than an hour.”

“Possibly.” After a moment, he said, “We'll need to leave at the crack of dawn tomorrow—I want to reach Kingussie tomorrow night. So as you've set your heart on seeing the place”—he glanced at her—“it would be as well if we went this evening, before the light fails.”

“Excellent!” Facing forward, she saw the end of the bridge nearing. She lifted her reins. “Do we trot on?”

“Not just yet. The horses need a spell.”

She grimaced, but resisted pushing. His huge chestnut was the strongest horse she'd ever seen and looked like he could gallop for hours, but Dominic had been careful of all the horses, slowing to trot, or jog, and sometimes walking for stretches to rest them.

She'd wondered if he might become more autocratic and dictatorial in the aftermath of last night. However, she'd seen no sign of it, although he was still watching her, studying her—learning her ways. She didn't mind that at all.

Indeed, in all practical aspects she felt they were making commendable strides in determining how their union would work. Accommodating each other's foibles was crucial, and learning how to do so—when to stand firm and insist, and when to give way—would take time.

She had, she thought, done well thus far in accommodating his protective tendencies. Even if there was a possessive vein creeping into his protectiveness, it would be wiser, she felt, to work with him rather than directly oppose him. She'd always understood that learning to cope with possessive protectiveness was the necessary price a lady had to pay to be the wife of a certain type of gentleman—if she wanted him to see her as his, she couldn't complain when he acted as if he did.

However, as she'd learned at her mother's, aunts', sisters-in-laws', and cousins' wives' collective knee, there were ways to cope with, meaning manage, that unavoidable outcome. Namely by giving way when one could reasonably accommodate it with no real loss of freedom or will, but holding firm when matters threatened to cross that line.

He picked up the pace to a jog-trot, then a canter. Fluidly adjusting, she shifted Ebony to the faster pace.

With the rising breeze in her face, and him riding beside her, her heart rose, buoyed, light. She felt confident she knew in which direction they were heading. Perth was merely their immediate destination.

Chapter Thirteen

“T
hat's it.” Dominic halted on the pavement at the point where Blackfrairs Wynd met Curfew Row, and tipped his head at the house across the street.

On his arm, Angelica all but jigged. “It's
exactly
as I imagined it.”

Her pleasure shone in her face, reward enough for his efforts in hunting down another guest at the hotel, an old lady's companion who was a devotee of Scott and who had confirmed the site of Scott's Fair Maid's house.

“I must write to Henrietta and Mary—they're such champions of Scott's work. They'll be eager to visit us just so they can stop and view this house.” Having changed into a walking dress and put on her bonnet, she tipped her head back to look up at him. “Can we cross and go closer?”

He obliged, escorting her across the narrow street. The house stood directly on the street, allowing her to walk along the front wall, covertly glancing in through the window.

Halting before the door, she looked up at the stone lintel. “ ‘Grace and Peace'—just as Scott said. That's the motto of the Glovers' Guild, apparently.” She sighed.

“Back to the hotel.” He steered her on. “It's quite a walk.”

“But it was worth it.” She hugged his arm, leaned closer. “Thank you for bringing me here.”

He squelched the urge to kiss her, there in the middle of the street, blocked his awareness of her breast brushing his arm. “It was probably wise to walk after half a day and more in the saddle.”

And even that perfectly innocent statement set his libido slavering, evoking the sensation of him lying in the saddle of her silken thighs.

He fixed his gaze ahead. “This way.” He hoped she didn't hear the deeper tone in his voice.

They strolled back into Castle Gable, past Horse Cross and the remnants of the old city wall, into the top of Skinnersgate, then turned into Barret's Close.

She looked up and around. “It's like Edinburgh, isn't it? All these narrow, twisting lanes.”

“Mmm.” He was hoping Perth would be like Edinburgh in another way, as well. Throughout the day he'd fought to keep his mind from dwelling on their previous night's activities; riding when aroused had never been high on his list of acceptable tortures. Courtesy of her questions and the physical separation of riding, he'd managed well enough. Until they'd arrived at the King's Arms and he'd organized rooms for the night.

He'd taken two large bedchambers—one for her and one for him. He was reasonably well known at the hotel and had no wish to generate unnecessary gossip; as Angelica had a maid with her, and they were traveling with a group of his staff, the image he'd arranged to project was that he was escorting his chosen bride to his home.

Of course, having separate rooms didn't mean they would be using both beds.

It was at that point, when she'd retreated to her room to change, and he'd gone into his to change his coat and had seen the huge bed, that his libido had broken free of all restraint and proceed to run amok, playing havoc with his concentration.

Slowly filling his lungs, he lectured himself that he was no stripling to be led by his cock. Emerging into George Street, he escorted Angelica across, then down George Inn Lane and into the long cobbled yard that led to the King's Arms . . . as he set eyes on the hotel's façade, his rampant libido threw up an image of the four-poster bed in his room, with Angelica, clad only in her silken skin, lolling upon it.

T
hey changed for dinner; it was that sort of hotel. He waited outside her room, and when she emerged in another new evening gown, this one of pale blue and white, with her silk shawl over her elbows, he offered her his arm and led her down to the private parlor he'd hired.

He seated her, then, clinging to impassivity, retreated to the safety of the opposite side of the round table. It was ridiculous; he'd managed to keep his impulses regarding her in check, libido subdued and under his control, for all their days in London, and even through the journey to Edinburgh. Yet now, having had her twice, his more primitive self was literally champing at the bit to have her beneath him again.

Unsettling wasn't the half of it.

Luckily, at an establishment of this caliber there were always serving staff in the room, private or not. He could, of course, send them out, but he wasn't that stupid. At present they provided the only real bulwark against his primitive self breaking loose and suggesting that Angelica replace the dishes currently decorating the table.

The first course came and went; she instituted a discussion about Perth, the River Tay, and the town's history, all of which he knew enough about to keep the conversational ball rolling.

The second course passed with a quick sweep through Scottish history, a cursory one given she knew so little and needed to start with the bare bones; her inquiries bolstered the image that she was his willing and eager Sassenach bride-to-be, keen to know more about her new country.

Then the dishes were removed and dessert, a trifle topped with clotted cream, was placed before them.

He sampled a spoonful and finally looked directly at her, something he'd avoided since they'd met upstairs, and found himself gazing into green-gold eyes that already looked more intensely emerald . . .

Could she read his mind?

Or . . . the notion that she was experiencing the same compulsion he was roared through him.

Even as he watched, she put out her tongue, passing the tip over her lower lip, swiping up a sheen of clotted cream.

The image of her spread upon the table flashed back into his brain; if he asked . . . looking into those emerald-gold eyes, he doubted she would refuse.

Looking down at his plate, he wondered how quickly he could make the dinner end.

She pushed her barely touched trifle away.

He met her eyes, arched a brow.

Her smile was determined. “I've had enough food.”

Glory be.
Setting down his spoon, he stood. Waving the footman back, he walked to her chair and drew it out, offering his hand to assist her to her feet.

She laid her hand in his and rose; clasping her fingers, he set her hand on his sleeve and turned her to the door.

Bending his head, he murmured, “I assume you don't wish for tea?”

She met his eyes. “I was thinking of something more . . . enthralling.”

His answering smile felt tight. “We're going to walk through the foyer and up the stairs as if we're merely intent on getting an early night. Nothing more exciting than that.”

He straightened.

Facing forward, Angelica nodded. “An unenthralling, unexciting, early night.”

Nothing was further from her mind. She'd never felt like this before, as if she was burning from the inside out, consumed by fiery wanting. Her breasts had swelled beneath her bodice and she'd grown unaccountably warm. She'd forgotten to bring a fan, but in the dining parlor she'd needed one more than she ever had in any ballroom. She hadn't realized that a single night's excursion into physical intimacy could lead to an addiction, but that was what this felt like—a driving craving to have his hands on her again, to have him deep inside her again. To feel the pleasure rolling through her as . . .

Cutting off the thought, she fought down her impatience, ignored the urge to hurry,
hurry,
and matched her pace to his as he strolled through the foyer; with an easy nod to the clerk behind the desk, he started them up the stairs. She battled a near-overpowering impulse to drop his arm, pick up her skirts, and race up to her room . . . if she did, he'd be on her, on her heels and capturing her, in an instant; the arm beneath his sleeve was steely hard, locked with a tension she now recognized as a symptom of desire.

Intense desire.

She'd been thrilled, beyond delighted, and enthralled by his attentions over the previous night. Now she knew the basics, she was eager to explore further, yet from the moment he'd escorted her to the countess's suite that morning, she'd had so much else to fill her mind . . . aside from the moment in the tavern parlor, she hadn't entertained a single heated thought all day. She'd noticed that his touch, along with his attitude, had grown more possessive, but the flare of heat whenever he touched her—to lift her to her saddle, in taking her hand, or when his hand brushed the back of her waist in that peculiarly male, proprietorial fashion—seemed, not muted, but easier to deal with.

Her equanimity had been perfectly even-keeled, until, dressed for dinner, she'd walked out of her room and had seen him leaning on the gallery balustrade, waiting for her.

He'd turned his head, seen her, and straightened. She'd walked to him—and the only thought in her head had been to get him out of his evening clothes and have him sprawl naked in her bed so she could have her wicked way with him.

Tamping down the eruption of desire had taken all the self-control she'd had.

Now . . . her self-control was running decidedly thin. Frayed, and fraying.

They reached the head of the stairs and he turned them along the gallery.

She locked her gaze on the door to her room. Just a little further—

“In here.”

The gravelly order brought her up short. She heard a click, then he drew her across him, steering her through an open door. He followed; his hands grasping her waist, he pressed her back against the wall while he pushed the door closed with one foot.

And then he was there, hard, muscled, and radiating heat, his heavy body trapping hers against the wall, holding her captive. For one fleeting instant, their eyes met, then he bent his head and his lips captured hers.

Searing, demanding, the kiss was nothing short of incendiary; it instantly set their passions alight.

Within seconds the blaze was roaring.

She reached up, sank her hands into his hair, held tight as the kiss raged, as desire, freed, erupted and raced through them.

When he released her lips and bent his head to press fire along her throat, her hands sunk in his hair, she hauled in a shaky breath and managed to get out, “My room. Shouldn't we—”

“No. Here.” He laved the spot where her pulse pounded. “The bed.”

He closed his mouth over the same spot and she shuddered. Forcing up her lids, she glanced across the room . . .

Whispered, “Oh, my.”

The hotel had given him the best bedchamber, a stateroom containing a massive four-poster bed hung in the royal colors of crimson and gold. The wide expanse within was large enough to accommodate even him. Large enough for them to roll in, wrestle in, without any danger of falling off.

His hands slid up to close about her breasts, to knead with an urgency impossible to deny, to possess by touch laced with unassailable right; lids falling, she bit her lip against a moan at the surge of heat his masterful, blatantly possessive caresses evoked.

He found her nipples and squeezed. Her knees turned to jelly; if he hadn't been holding her up she would have slid down the wall. She clutched at his shoulders; after seeing that bed, the only coherent thought left in her head was to get them out of their clothes and rolling naked on the silk sheets.

Raising his head, he took her mouth in a kiss so openly ravenous she gasped. His tongue plundered, stroked, claimed; she seized his shoulders and returned his fire, sent her tongue to tangle, to duel with his.

The engagement spun out of control; passion spiraled and desire shrieked.

Abruptly the mating of their mouths was not enough.

Nowhere near enough to appease the demand thundering in their blood.

His hands released her breasts and streaked over her body, claiming, provocatively shaping.

Finding strength in desperation, she slid her hands from his shoulders, reached for his lapels.

He broke from the kiss, brushed her hands aside—so he could set his fingers to the buttons closing her bodice.

Letting her arms sag, she struggled to catch her breath.

Something ripped.

He swore.

“Never mind,” she got out. “You paid for it—I have others.”

He glanced up, caught her gaze; his eyes were crystal clear, burning with intent. “You're sure?”

“I'll have the modiste make another. Just get it off—”

He closed his hands and ripped. They both stilled, for a fraction of a heartbeat frozen by the unmistakable, unexpectedly arousing sound.

Then he wrenched his hands apart and buttons rained to the floor.

Releasing the hanging halves of her gown, he seized her by the waist and pulled her to him, away from the wall. He stripped the gown's remnants and the folds of her shawl away; the instant her arms were free, she wrapped both about his neck and levered herself high enough to capture his lips—to kiss him with all the pent-up passion in her soul.

Dropping the ruined gown, Dominic closed his hands about her waist, held her up on her toes as she ravaged his mouth, transparently bent on issuing an entirely unnecessary sexual challenge.

Intent on ravaging her back, intent on doing much much more, he looped one arm under her bottom and hoisted her up; she immediately wrapped her legs about his waist, levered herself higher against him, and applied herself to frying his brains with her ardor.

All she had on was a filmy chemise, silk and so fine it concealed nothing; no real barrier to his touch, it became a tantalizing, shifting layer between his hands and her skin. But her new position left the heated haven between her thighs riding just above the head of his already fully engorged erection.

And as she shifted against him, pouring her passion into the kiss . . .

He mentally cursed, then with his other hand palmed the back of her head, held her immobile as he wrenched control of the kiss back, then settled to devour her. To claim her mouth, her lips, to sup and seize with unrestrained hunger, to fill her mouth with the heavy repetitive thrust of his tongue, evocatively mimicking the possession to come.