The Lady Most Willing . . . (22 page)

Chapter 24

C
ecily lurched across the snow-choked yard, finally managing to reach Robin. He lay
motionless, facedown in the snow, one arm outstretched, the other crooked beneath
his cheek. His sooty eyelashes lay thick against his cheeks. Not a breath stirred
the snow near his lips.

She cried out as she struggled the last few feet to his side and was about to drop
to her knees when a hand shot out, grabbed her leg, and jerked her off her feet. She
landed on her stomach with a whoosh, something beneath the snow catching her full
in the diaphragm, leaving her windless and dazed.

“Ha! You young limb of Satan! “ Robin shouted triumphantly, dragging her toward him
by the ankle. “A few smacks to your arse will remind you of the penalties for such
jokes. For God’s sake stop thrashing about and take your medicine like a man!”

She managed a high, strangled sound of protest. The soft hat she’d pulled down over
her hair had shifted, covering her face so that she couldn’t see him. Nor could he
see her face.

“Fine then, you bloody bairn,” Robin said, sounding disgusted. “I’ll not lay a hand
to you.
This
time.”

He transferred his grip from her ankle to the belt around her waist. She felt him
shift and realized in horror that he’d moved to sit astride her thighs. Still unable
to choke out any coherent words, she thrashed with renewed vigor. With one swift movement,
he grabbed her wrists, flipping her to her back and pinning her hands on either side
of her head.

“Now, let’s see your face, lad.”

Locking her wrists together above her head with one hand, he flicked the hat from
her head. Her hair caught in the knit of the cap and came unbound, falling free and
pooling around her head.

He stared down at her, dumbfounded. “Mother of God. What are you doing here?”

“I had to stop you!“ she snapped. “You were leaving. You were—you were
leaving
.”

“Well, yes,” he agreed, his gaze roving her face. He seemed to have forgotten that
he held her prisoner, his hands still holding her wrists pressed into the snow, his
thighs locked around her hips.

“Why?” she shouted.

“It seems the most advisable course of action. Your father will hardly like seeing
me here. This way he won’t.”

For some reason, the sensibleness of his reply infuriated her. She bucked, trying
to unseat him, and in doing so shoved her loins straight into his. At once she felt
the evidence of his masculinity. Very stiff and obvious evidence.

He drew his breath in sharply through his teeth. She barely heard. The brief contact
had incited a maelstrom of sensations at the juncture of her thighs, an ache between
her legs that was a potent pleasure, a tickle that was a throb . . .

Swearing beneath his breath, Robin swung his leg from over her, rising in one fluid
motion to his feet, as he snagged her upper arm and hauled her effortlessly upright.

For the first time, he seemed to realize what she was wearing. His eyes narrowed and
his jaw set. “Where did you come by that clothing?” he demanded.

“Catriona Burns found them.”

“And she gave them to you? To
wear
?” he asked incredulously.

“Yes,” she said defiantly. “They are a sight more comfortable and two sights warmer
than what I was wearing. And they cover me modestly!”

“That they do not,” he ground out. “You are wearing boy’s clothing. The jacket is
too tight over your . . .” His gaze dropped to her breasts and he seemed to forget
whatever he’d been about to say, ending with: “That clothing is too tight.”

“Exactly,” she retorted. “Being compressed into a masculine outline cannot be called
provocative.”

“I assure you, there is
nothing
masculine about your shape,” he said grimly. “Those pantaloons fit your legs like
a second skin from calf to knee to . . .” This time his dark gaze brushed where the
material stretched across her groin, the look as effective as a touch in bringing
the molten lick of desire rushing back. He turned his head, directing his gaze at
the stable wall.

“What is wrong with that woman?” he muttered angrily.

“What woman?” Cecily asked, hands on her hips.

“Catriona Burns. I thought she had more sense. Is she trying to ruin you?”

“Ruin me?” Cecily echoed disbelievingly.

“Yes,” he said, his gaze returning to her face. “You can’t appear in public in that 
. . . those . . .” He waved his hand in the general direction of her clothing.

“This is hardly public, and yes, I can and shall,” she assured him, her ire rising
at his tone.

She had always done the acceptable thing, made the conventional reply, allowed herself
to be guided by society’s expectations and rules. But lurking in her heart all these
years must have been a hoyden simply waiting for the right man to lure her out: a
man who did not obey all of society’s dictates, who recognized a person’s value before
being told her assets, who was quicker to laugh than to judge.

Robin was that man—even if he was currently doing a fair imitation of his cousin,
Oakley. Or at least, Oakley as he’d been before he met Fiona.

“
No
,” he said fiercely. “You shall not.”

And with that he picked her up, slung her over his shoulder, and began making his
way back toward the castle.

It was insupportable! Oakley cradled Fiona against his chest as if she were the most
precious thing he’d ever seen, while Robin treated her like a sack of flour.

“This is hardly proper behavior, if that was what you were aiming for,” she shouted,
her long hair swishing like a pendulum across his broad back.

“I leave the
aiming
to you, Cecily,” he replied. “You give me no choice.”

“You still have no choice, unless you plan to strip me and redress me yourself!”

She probably shouldn’t have said that. She felt the big shoulders beneath her grow
taut, and the muscular arm around her thighs squeezed a little tighter.

“God help me,” he muttered.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he said.

“You mustn’t go,” she said, trying to wiggle free of his grasp.

His arm tightened again. “What?”

“You can’t leave Finovair. You can’t just run away!” she shouted, her exasperation
clear in her voice.

“I am
not
running away. I have already explained—”

“If you leave, it will appear to everyone that you are fleeing, and if you are fleeing,
everyone will assume it is for a reason and then they will make the very
worst
assumption.” She braced her hands flat against his broad back and lifted herself
up and craned her head around, trying to see his face. All she could see was a tightly
bunched jaw in profile.

“Jesus,” he muttered.

“It would be far better if you stayed and put a good face on the thing, don’t you
see?” she said, hoping the desperation she felt didn’t find its way into her voice.

He stopped and made some harsh, strangled sound.

“Don’t you agree?” she prodded.

“Yes!” The admission seemed torn from him. “Yes. I concede your point.”

“So you won’t leave?” she said, managing to break free and slide down his body. She
felt every inch of that journey . . . her breasts pressed against his shoulders, then
against his chest: all the hardness of him and the softness of her.

“Not at once,” he choked, trying to pretend that he didn’t notice the same thing.

“Not at all,” Cecily stated, with a thrill of elation.

“I’ll be leaving as soon as possible.”

But the heat in his eyes belied his promise.

Chapter 25

That afternoon

R
obin strode into the library and stopped short. Cecily stood in front of the hearth,
silhouetted against the merrily burning fire. She still wore those damned boy’s breeches,
but had shed the jacket to reveal the fine, loose shirt beneath. Backlit by the glow
from the fireplace, one could easily see every curve through the thin material.

And she had curves.

The effect was breathtaking. Her slight rib cage narrowed into her small waist before
flaring gently out again in sweetly rounded hips. And when she bent to poke at the
fire, he could see the way her breasts jostled ripely and the delicious manner in
which the trousers’ material stretched over her shapely derrière.

Future duchess or not, Catriona Burns ought to be put in the dock for encouraging
Cecily’s crime against a man’s self-restraint.

“Hamish said you wanted to see me,” he announced with ill grace. “Here I am.”

She turned around, her eyes lighting up on seeing him. Why was she so happy? Because,
he realized, she liked him. She not only liked his kisses . . . she liked
him
. Something hard and painful knotted in his chest.

“Thank you,” she said, coming round the lumpy old sofa toward him. “I wanted to make
sure you were all right. I do hope you understand that I didn’t purposely aim for
your head.”

“Of course not. You needn’t trouble your conscience. Byron has always claimed I have
the hardest head in England. I’m fine.”

She had a beautiful smile, gamine and spontaneous, and soon he would not be a witness
to it. The claims that she was a cipher, a statue, and other, unkinder comments had
all been proven false. She was nothing like her reputation, and there was little time
left to revel in the company of the unexpected woman she’d proved to be.

One of Taran’s men had returned at noon with the news that the snow was melting quickly
and the passes would likely be cleared by the morrow. Maycott’s men were undoubtedly
already working on it. Her father would arrive and Robin would play the role she’d
assigned him.

He would contrive to look exasperated and indifferent. He might try to keep Maycott
from stringing up Taran—though at this moment he was not sure whether he wished to
succeed—and then he would take his leave. Perhaps he might catch a glimpse of her
someday in London, on the arm of whomever she married.

She stopped in front of him, her smile vanishing. “You are still angry. No, don’t
deny it. I can see it in your face.”

Wrong, my girl. That’s anguish, not anger
.

“I expect I deserve no less,” she said sadly.

“I’m not angry. I promise you. I am simply”—he cast about for some excuse for his
dark expression—“distraught that you did not heed my advice and change into other
clothing.”

“You say this because you have a care for my reputation?” she asked. And then, with
a heartbreakingly hopeful smile, “Or a care for
me
?”

A
care
. A tepid term for what he felt. But why make this harder for anyone, especially her?

“I don’t want you to suffer any consequences for merely trying to keep warm,” he answered.

“I will change as soon as we get word that a carriage approaches,” she said. “But
for now, well, what can it hurt?”

“A great deal,” he answered. “You would not want it bandied about London that not
only were you closeted for four days with men unrelated to you and without a proper
chaperone, but that you also sashayed about in a pair of tightly fitted breeches.”

She bit her lip, and he had the distinct impression it was to keep from laughing.
He could hardly blame her. It was absurd but, damn and blast, he
had
become Byron!

“Who’s here that would describe the scene?” she inquired. “Catriona Burns is distracted
by her duke and upcoming nuptials, as is Fiona with hers to Oakley. And I do not think
either Bretton or Oakley is the type of gentleman who’d waste his breath tattling
about a lady’s choice of clothing.”

“What?”

“I do not think your cousin or Bretton—”

“No, of course not. I meant, what did you say about Miss Chisholm and upcoming nuptials?”
he asked, frowning.

“ ’Tis true,” she said. “They told me themselves—or rather Oakley crowed about it—outside
in the stable this morning just before you appeared.”

His head was spinning. She must have read his confusion for she spoke again, in slow,
distinct accents. “Lord Oakley has proposed to Miss Fiona Chisholm and she agreed
to marry him.” She gave a light trill of laughter as she crossed the short distance
between them. “It looks like your uncle’s mad plan has met with unexpected success.”

She stopped and tipped her head back to look him squarely in the eye. “Except in your
case, of course. And if I recall correctly you were the target of all his machinations.
Ironic, isn’t it?”

“Very.”

“You must feel a bit left out,” she teased.

“I am not the only one who failed to fall victim to his machinations. Marilla Chisholm
has also escaped heart whole.”

Cecily’s lips flattened and her expression grew haughty. It seemed that she did not
like Marilla. “Yes,” she said, ”though I doubt she’s feeling precisely triumphant.
But if you are congratulating people on not succumbing to Cupid’s arrow, you must
certainly add me to your list. I, too, remain unbetrothed.”

“But that’s only for the time being,” he said, and before he could think better of
it, added, “Have you given your choice any further thought?”

She regarded him with an unreadable expression. “Comte de Rocheforte, are you perchance
offering me your advice? Your
real
advice?”

“Good God, no,” he said, thunderstruck. “Of course not. I would never presume.”

She laid her hand against his chest in an unconscious gesture of appeal. He felt the
imprint of each finger. “I wish you would. I have only my sisters to act as my advisors—”

“And I am sure they are far better qualified than I to guide you. Besides which, they
are privy to your innermost feelings.”

“So might you be,” she said, her voice low and husky. His heart thundered beneath
her palm, and he was seized by the impulse to sweep her into his arms and kiss her
far more thoroughly than he had in the frozen corridor above.

But he didn’t move. He didn’t say a word, and after a few seconds, she sighed, letting
her hand drop from his chest.

“As far as being dependable counselors,” she said, “they are silly girls, moved to
raptures by the cut of a gentleman’s coat or the way he sits a horse. The youngest
fell in love with her young man because he styled his hair à la Brutus.”

He could not help but laugh at that, and she grinned, edging closer once again. “You,
though, with your reputation as a
bourreau des coeurs
, you can offer me invaluable insights: how to know if a gentleman will be faithful
and guard my reputation, become a playmate, advisor, and tender lover.”

He
would. But how could he say such a thing? Everything about his past refuted that claim.
And even if he were, how could he convince her father?

Lord Maycott, it’s true I’ve bedded a fair number of women, but none of them were
virgins and none of them were living with their husbands when I slipped under their
sheets. All very up-and-up, don’t you agree? And yes, my title was restored by a regime
that could just as easily rescind it tomorrow. Still, it’s a title, what? And no,
I haven’t any wealth to speak of, but happily, I will inherit this splendid castle,
and there are a few rocky acres in Bordeaux that in, oh, a decade or so, may make
enough profit to buy a small cabriolet. But in the meantime I daresay we’ll make do
with your daughter’s dowry—not that I care about her inheritance. How could you possibly
suspect otherwise?

He should have laughed at the thought of it. He should; he couldn’t, had his life
depended on it.

“Robin?”

She had no idea what she was asking him. He scraped the hair back from his forehead,
looking anywhere but at her.

“Am I wrong, Robin,” she said, “in thinking there is sympathy between us? That even
in so short a time, we have recognized in one another a friend?”

He could not resist the appeal in her voice. He looked down at Cecily and instantly
became caught in the somber depths of her eyes, her earnest expression.

“If I am wrong, pray, correct me now. I shall not take offense,” she said. “Only be
honest with me,” she added, extending her hand.

How could he refuse her? He enveloped her hand in his own.

“You asked my advice. Here it is,” he said. “Choose the gentleman whom your father
most approves, a man who can command his respect, and to whom he will be overjoyed
to entrust your future.”

The firelight licked at her tresses, turning them into polished mahogany. “My father
wants my happiness. He would approve whomever I loved.”

He gave a short, humorless laugh. “I would not wager a single penny on that assumption.”

He was pulling her gently but inexorably closer as he spoke, his body having a will
separate from his mind. She showed no signs of resisting. But then, as she herself
had said, he was good at this.

Of their own volition, his fingertips traced a path up the gentle valley of her spine
to the back of her neck and beneath the heavy knot of hair, scattering the pins holding
it in place. Her loosened tresses cascaded down over the backs of his hands, cool
as silk and just as fine. A fragrance of lavender and soap, homely and yet incredibly
erotic, rose from the unleashed tresses. Without thinking, he leaned closer to breathe
in the scent.

She regarded him somberly, the delicate fabric of her blouse shivering with each breath
she took. She wet her lips with the tip of her tongue, and his gaze fell on it like
a thief on a jewel. In his mind he was tasting her again, plumbing the sweet depth
of her mouth.

“He would accept my decision,” she whispered.

His lips curved in a slight smile, distracted by her beauty. “Only if it were the
right decision. Take someone like me, for example.”

“What of you?” she asked, her body very still.

“What if someone of my stamp were to approach your father and ask for your hand?”

Her gaze searched his, but he barely noted it, drawing a feather-light stroke along
the line of her jaw with the backs of his knuckles. Unable to stop himself, he went
further, outlining the plump curve of her lip with his thumb. She trembled. He shifted
closer.

“Let us say that some brain fever takes you and you are persuaded by whim or madness
that you are in love with someone of my ilk.”

“Let us say that,” she repeated, in an odd voice.

“How would your father react?” He went very, very still, awaiting her answer as though
his life depended on it, even though he already knew what it must be.

Her mouth curved in a partial smile, and she drew in her breath on a tiny sob and
gave a small, shaky laugh.

“But the point is entirely moot,” she said, eyes sparkling with . . . merriment? “I
would never ask my father—”

“There you are!”

Robin’s hands dropped and he fell back a step, feeling as though he’d taken a blow
from a battering ram squarely in his chest. Fool.
Fool!

“I have been looking everywhere for you!”

With neither interest nor urgency, he looked around. Marilla Chisholm sailed into
the library. He greeted her interruption with a vague sort of relief. At least she’d
spared him the remainder of that sentence:
I would never ask my father to accept a man like you.

“I swear for so small a castle, people do a marvelous job of getting lost in it,”
Marilla prattled on. “But no matter, I found you. We are going to play a new game
and we need you to— Good heavens!” She stopped dead, her eyes growing round. “Is that
Lady Cecily behind you? Whatever— Oh!” Her hand flew to cover her mouth. “
Whatever
are you wearing, Lady Cecily?”

Cecily glared at Marilla.

“Now you know who would tattle about your apparel,” he said softly before turning
to Marilla. “Lady Cecily is preparing to enact a scene from
Romeo and Juliet
for tonight’s entertainment. She is to play Mercutio.”

“Oh,” Marilla said, doubtfully.

“Wasn’t it clever of her to dress as a young gentleman to bring veracity to the role?”
he asked, the hollow in his chest growing with each passing second.

“I suppose,” Marilla said grudgingly. “But we are not doing theatrics. I have another
game and you
must
play,” she said. “I refuse to leave unless you come with me.” She glanced at Cecily.
“You can come along, too.”

“Thank you,” Cecily replied, but her gaze never strayed from Robin’s face and her
brow furrowed as she regarded him.

Was his pain so evident? Poor dear girl. She had probably thought they would laugh
together at the idea of him proposing to her and now he’d revealed himself, and being
a tenderhearted young lady, she would be distressed that she had unwittingly caused
him pain.

If he stayed here in the library with her, if he even refused to join the party, he
had no doubt she would hunt him down and tender an apology, or worse, console him.

“We must hurry along. The others are waiting and you have no idea how long it took
me to find them all and gather them into one place,” Marilla said. “All these couples
billing and cooing as if they are the only people in the world, and no one else matters
or needs to be entertained.” She sniffed.

“I suppose you haven’t heard that Lord Oakley has offered for my half sister? Apparently,
he must have some sort of fascination for women who wear spectacles. Rather peculiar,
if you ask me, but I suppose there’s no accounting for a gentleman’s quirks.” She
shook her head, and without another word, hooked her arm through Robin’s and began
tugging him toward the door.