When a Scot Loves a Lady (31 page)

She had. With her body.

He was known as a flirt, an affable cretin, but a handsome one. How many women before her had imagined him to be perfectly innocuous? She understood. If he had asked, she might have told him anything.

“No,” he said quietly. “In Shropshire I was not seeking information from you, Kitty. I only maintained the pretense to avoid having to tell you the entire truth, which was not mine to share freely.”

Her heart thundered. But this did not explain why he had not made love to her at Willows Hall. If only she could still her foolish trembling. The deep, unsullied timbre of his voice sent longing into every crevice of her body. Being near him now…

She
had
dreamed it, foolishly, hopefully—that he would come. But not like this. She had not imagined
this
.

“I see,” she replied.

“Do you?”

“I suppose I should think it all fantastical. But you haven't wasted any time in coming to the point of your call today, so I must believe you.”

He moved toward her.

Nerves racing, she pivoted, went to the door, and shut it on John's curious stare. Leam halted in the middle of the room, his dark eyes darting to the closed panel, then to her face.

She lowered her voice. “I do not understand why for a sennight in Shropshire you did not tell me the truth, but now”—she gestured to the door beyond which the footman sat, then to his elegant clothing—“you seem to be perfectly happy to tell the whole world.”

“I am not at all happy about any of it,” he countered. “I have come to London for one purpose. When that is settled I intend to return home and none of this”—he lifted his fine silk hat and gestured to the street through the window—“will mean a thing.”

She could no longer meet his distant gaze. She dropped hers to the carpet. Oriental design. Tears would not stain it irreparably. She might feel free to fall apart if he weren't standing before her.

“Do you know, Leam, I think I preferred the poetry to this plain speaking.”

“It is who I am, Kitty.” His voice sounded taut.

“Then I am astounded to find that I liked the false you better.”

This time when he came toward her she had nowhere to go. She flattened her back to the door and he halted before her, so close it would only require the slightest movement to touch him. He bent his head and spoke quietly above her brow.

“Allow me to discharge the errand with which I have been commissioned, and I will leave you in peace.” He drew a tight breath, the movement of air in the sliver of space between them stirring the locks of hair on her brow. “I pray you, Kitty.”

“All right,” she whispered. “Tell me then. With what do you believe I can assist you?”

His hand fisted about the riding crop. She could not tear her gaze away from the sinewy strength that had touched her with such tenderness and possessive passion.

“You and your mother play cards frequently with the Marquess of Drake and the Earl of Chance. Is this true?”

“Yes. But anybody could tell you that.”

“Officials in the Home Office are seeking information about Chance. They believe you may have something useful to tell them.”

“Lord Chance?” She shot her gaze up. “Whatever about?”

“He is suspected of selling information to the French.”

She couldn't help laughing. “Ian
Chance
? That is absurd.”

“My associates seem to think otherwise.”

“He is an inveterate gambler and something of a libertine, but not a sp—” Her tongue tangled, only partially because of the naïve words she had been about to say. His gaze had fallen to her lips, and quite abruptly she could think of nothing.

“The Home Office,” he said, his gaze slowly tracing her mouth and the line of her jaw, “has reason to believe the traitor is a Scot intent on rebellion. Chance's grandfather was a Jacobite.”

“But
he
isn't,” she said unsteadily. “I don't think he even knows what a Jacobite is.”

He said nothing for a moment, then lifted his gaze to hers, and the hunger in it made her weak. Now she might actually cry, from joy and pleasure and some fear. He was too changeable.

“Perhaps not.” His voice was rough. “And I think they are fools for suspecting him.”

“Then what are you doing here? And
what
are you doing here?” She could reach up and touch his perfect face and be in heaven. She could feel his heat, and pretend it was hers to own. “What do you imagine I can do about Lord Chance's possibly Jacobite leanings?”

“Tell my associate what you know of him.”

“That's all?”

He swallowed, his jaw hard. “That is all.”

“But you must know at least as much about him as I do. Don't gentlemen do a great deal of gossiping in their clubs? And you play cards as often as my mother.”

“His close friend, Drake, talks excessively to ladies. You are likely to know more.” His hand moved, Kitty's pulse leaped, and he placed his palm flat against the painted wooden door frame.

She shook her head. “Why are you trusting me with this?”

“The prince regent and the king's cabinet members were grateful for the service you rendered England last summer.”

Kitty's heart halted. “Last summer?”

He looked into her eyes. “In the matter of Lord Poole. The prince has great faith in your acuity.” He might be speaking of any matter, as though he had not held her tightly and demanded to know if she had given herself to men other than Lambert.

Perhaps she should strike him. Or rant and rail. Or simply dissolve into tears. In a moment of vulnerability she had admitted to him that she had run away from the life she had lived before. Yet here he was forcing it back on her.

She turned her face away.

“That was a particular case.” She copied his impersonal tone, while inside she disintegrated as though there were no real Kitty Savege after all.

Silence met her. When she looked up again, she almost expected to see Lambert. But instead it was the dark-eyed Scot she had given herself to during a Shropshire snowstorm and who, it seemed, was using her only now for the first time.

“Was this your idea, to involve me?”

He shook his head. It was a small sort of relief to know.

“Then whose?”

“Jinan Seton did work much like mine. After he encountered you at Willows Hall he suggested to—”

She pushed past him into the center of the chamber, a sob trembling in her throat.

“I will consider it,” she said. “Or don't I have a choice?”

“Of course you have a choice.” In his gaze she did not know what she saw. Determination. Solemn intensity. Perhaps regret. “Kitty, you can refuse. Please refuse. I will make your excuses and that will be an end to it.”

An end, another end with him, this time permanent. He had come to town to do this and when it was finished he would leave. If she declined, she would not see him again.

She knew nothing sinister of Ian Chance, only that he trounced her mother at whist every week and had a different stunning widow on his arm every month.

“If I can provide information that will convince you he is not guilty of treason, I will do what I may.”

He seemed to consider that. Finally he nodded. He took his hat into both hands as though in preparation to leave. “Come to the Serpentine at nine o'clock tomorrow morning. Are you able?”

“Am I able? Am I awake, rather.” She tried to grin without much success.

“At that hour fewer will see you unattended by a chaperone.”

“I will have my maid.”

“No. Ride. Accompanied by your groom.”

“You sound as though you are giving me an order.”

His brow creased. “I am.”

Now she could not help smiling. “And yet I did not give you permission to.”

“The next time I shall make certain to ask first.” The corner of his mouth lifted. The deep familiarity was still there drawing between them, a silent, restless binding.

She tried to fight it with reason. “What am I to expect?”

“I will be there,” he only said. And that was all it required for reason to fly and the pleasure of two spirits attuned to each other to overcome her. A breath escaped her that might have been a sigh.

He crossed the space between them, took her hand, and lifted her fingers to his lips.

“Kitty,” he said softly, brushing the lightest kiss across her knuckles, sending her last shred of resistance to perdition. “I am terribly sorry. You cannot know how sorry.”

She struggled against the heady warmth of his touch, holding back the words she longed to say. That sort of disclosure would not serve anyone well, least of all herself. And he did not want to hear it. He had made that perfectly clear at Willows Hall.

She tugged her hand away.

“Thank you,” she managed. “I deserved an apology for your dishonesty.”

“I mean that I am sorry you are involved in this now.”

“That's all right.” She spoke to cover her confusion. “It was only your delivery that lacked finesse. But perhaps if you gave me orders in that horrid accent with your dogs at your heels I might be more inclined to submit to your authority.”

“You have already submitted, although I doubt it had anything to do with my authority.”

He seemed to realize what he had said at the same moment as she. They stared.

“I am sorry, Kitty,” he repeated very low, quite beautifully.

“You said that already. Several times.” Their brows nearly touched as he bent his head. Her breaths came short. She could still feel his touch beneath her clothing, on her skin, and inside her body. She wanted him there again more than she could bear.

“I am full of remorse, it seems.” His voice was rough.

“And I, it seems—” She struggled for breath. “I must repeat myself as well.”

“How so?”

“I must say, ‘This is a bad idea.'” She forced the words through her lips because her heart could not bear this teasing. If he would not truly have her, she did not want this. “

‘You should go now.'”

“I should.” But he did not move. “I will leave,” he whispered huskily.

“When?” She could lift her face and he would kiss her. So she did.

“Shortly.” He did not kiss her. “Now.”

“Why? Because you are after all a gentleman and not a barbarian?”

“Because you, Kitty Savege”—his voice was taut—“are a luxury I may not allow myself.”

The door creaked open.

They jerked apart. Kitty turned to the window, heartbeat flying.

“O-oh!” the maid stuttered. “Begging your pardon, mum! But your lady mother sent over a note with the request you're to read it right away, so… I'll leave it on the table.” The door shut.

Kitty peeked over her shoulder.

His knuckles were white around his hat brim. “I will take my leave of you at this time.”

She took a series of quick breaths. “All right. But I will not play games like this. If you leave now, you will not be calling on me again. Are we agreed on that?”

The briefest pause. “We are.”

She blinked, lost in desire and confusion, her chest aching. Perhaps she should not have offered an ultimatum she was not prepared to live with. He was, she understood now, a man of firm convictions. “Fine.”

“Viscount Gray will accompany me to the park in the morning. You are acquainted with him, I believe.”

She nodded, not trusting her voice.

“Then, until tomorrow.” He bowed, and left.

Kitty sat down, folded her shaky hands between her knees, and rested for several minutes in the company of her triumphant self-respect. Then her heart shoved aside her self-respect, and finally she cried.