Amanda Scott (27 page)

When she looked at him, something flickered in his expression, and she felt the warmth from his fingertips slide all through her body, making her nerves tingle and her knees feel as if they were made of soft, warm wax instead of flesh and bone and sinew.

Kintyre removed the glass from her hand and set it down on the side table again, holding her other arm lightly with his free hand while he did so.

She did not move. For a time, even breathing seemed unnecessary.

Now both his hands were on her upper arms, warm through the sleeves of the soft robe she wore. Not only was the powder gone from his hair, but the curls were gone, too, leaving it swept severely back from his brow and tied at the nape with a black ribbon. He had taken off his frock coat and wore only his white waistcoat over his shirt and breeches. In short, the London beau had disappeared; the Scotsman had returned.

She stared at his broad chest as if she were counting the silver buttons on his waistcoat. When she looked up at him, his dark gaze seemed to penetrate to her soul. He was going to kiss her again. She knew it as if he had told her so.

His lips touched hers, but it was not the tender, light kiss she had experienced after the wedding service, just before the parson had presented them to the wedding guests as man and wife. His lips felt like fire against hers, and his arms slid around her, drawing her close, so close that they might have breathed as one, if she had been aware of breathing at all.

As a child, with little experience of kisses other than the times she had come upon a pair of servants in a shadowy corner, she could remember wondering about them, about how men and women knew how to kiss. How did they fit the parts together, noses, chins, and all? How could they see well enough once they got close together, so as not to miss and kiss a corner of the mouth instead of straight on? It all had seemed complicated, not to mention messy, and rather an odd thing to do.

It did not seem odd now. It gave her a tingling feeling that swept from her lips through the rest of her body, to her toes. When his tongue touched the opening between her lips, it surprised her, but she did not resist, and the tingling increased. The tips of her breasts were afire, and when he stroked her back, she pressed against him, not sure whether she was trying to ease the fiery sensation or increase it.

Moments later, when he released her, she felt dizzy.

He smiled, but his voice sounded gruff. “Do you still want your wine?”

Warmth flashed to heat, and she was sure her cheeks must be ablaze, because the rest of her was. Shaking her head, she said, “I feel unsteady enough as it is, sir.”

“Should we perhaps go back upstairs?”

“We shall do as you please, sir,” she said. “A wife owes her duty to her husband, I know, although in truth, I know little about just what that means.”

“Such a lack of knowledge is not unusual in a bride,” he said. “I will teach you all you need to know.”

“Do you know so much about it, then?”

“Aye, enough to be getting on with, at all events.”

“How did you learn?”

He chuckled. “A dutiful wife does not ask such questions of her husband, at least not about things that took place before their marriage.”

“Oh.”

“Convenient for husbands, is it not?”

“I suppose it might be,” she said, still not certain what all
it
entailed.

Putting an arm around her shoulders, he said, “You will understand better shortly. Come along now.”

Sir Renfrew Campbell was not a member of the Cocoa Tree in St. James’s Street, but Mr. Coombs was, and it amused Sir Renfrew to meet at the place rumor identified as erstwhile headquarters for Jacobite activity in London. Nowadays it was a private club as exclusive as any, and few members admitted any loyalty to the Stewarts. Most, in fact, bore them no more loyalty than Sir Renfrew did.

“She is going back to Scotland soon,” his companion said gloomily.

Sir Renfrew had, he decided, made a useful acquaintance in young Coombs. The lad was besotted with Bridget himself, and could not seem to talk of anything else, but that suited Sir Renfrew’s plans quite well—or it had suited them until now. However, Mr. Coombs had come to him straight from the wedding at Faircourt House, in a state of flat despair.

“When does she leave?” Sir Renfrew asked.

“A fortnight at most. She said her aunt intended from the outset to return to Edinburgh by mid-June, but one did think that when her family saw how popular Lady Bridget had become, they would linger. She says that they will not, however, that unless she can induce MacCrichton to offer for her, they will leave as planned.”

“And
can
she induce him, d’ ye think?”

“No, and I, for one, cannot think why she would want to do so. He has little interest yet in marriage—less than most, thanks to his fortune—and when we tease him about her infatuation, he just asks us not to speak unkindly. As for my own cause, I believe it is lost. She will have none of me.”

Since Sir Renfrew had long since deduced that much for himself, and since Lady Bridget’s patent lack of interest in Coombs was the sole reason he had encouraged the young man to continue his pursuit, he made no comment. His quick mind was turning cartwheels, however.

His hopes had so far borne no fruit. He had trusted that by undertaking the trip to London, he would be able to charm so young and inexperienced a lady into seeing how sadly she had mistaken his character. That his efforts had not budged her from her original assessment was disappointing, but he was not averse to a change of course and had decided one might prove beneficial even before Kintyre’s note had arrived. This news from Coombs made his choice much clearer.

W
HEN THEY ENTERED HIS
bedchamber, Michael saw with amusement that Chalmers and Miss Munn had tidied up and drawn the curtains. The wood basket held a larger than usual supply of logs for the fire, and once again there was wine laid out on a side table, along with a plate of buns and sweet biscuits. The coverlet on the high bed was turned down invitingly. He glanced at Penelope and saw that she, too, was observing these signs of welcome.

When she caught her lower lip between her teeth, he thought again of what he had done in marrying her. She was a practical lass, though; that much was clear even in the little he knew of her. She was not flighty or impulsive, nor, despite her childhood belief in ghosts, was she a misty air-dreamer. He had heard it rumored that the Countess of Balcardane possessed the gift of second sight, but he had seen no indication that his bride was anything other than practical and down to earth.

“If you are wondering where Cailean is,” he said, “I told Chalmers to put him in the dressing room tonight. He usually sleeps on the hearth.” He saw no point in mentioning the times Cailean had chosen the bed over the hearth. With luck, the deerhound would show restraint now that its master had taken a wife.

She turned toward him, and he saw hesitation in her expression, perhaps even alarm at what lay ahead. “You’ve no need to fear me, lass,” he said gently.

“Had I feared you, sir, I would not have agreed to marry you,” she said. “Indeed, I fear little that I can see or understand. If I seem frightened, it is only that I do not understand the sensations I’m feeling, nor do I know what I am to do.”

Still believing that he would frighten her if he claimed his husbandry rights at once, he said, “It is early yet Perhaps we ought to see about feeding you before we go any further. You said that you ate very little earlier, and I own that with all the chatter at table, I don’t recall what I ate, myself.”

“Everything on your plate, and more,” she said, chuckling. “I did see, sir. You appeared to enjoy a most hearty appetite.”

Realizing that another appetite was increasing by the moment, he moved away from her to the side table and poured wine again for both of them. Before handing her her glass, however, he put buns and some cheese on a plate, then drew the room’s two armchairs up near the fire. The bedsteps served as a table between them to hold the plate and their wineglasses.

Pleased with his efforts, he stepped back and indicated one of the chairs with a gallant gesture.

“Sit down and eat, lass. You’ll need sustenance.”

“Will I?”

“Aye, and shut the door.” He watched her turn to obey him, then move across the room, and he was conscious, as he had been before, of the exquisite grace of her movements. The pale golden robe swirled around her feet. It fit her slim figure snugly at the waist and was fastened cunningly somehow at the side. He found himself trying to imagine the clasp or the arrangement of buttons that would release it. He did not think she wore much beneath. His body stirred just thinking about that.

Taking a deep breath, he sat when she did, and after she had taken a few bites of her bun, he said, “Tell me more about your childhood, lassie. I would know more of my bride’s beginnings.”

She froze, holding the remains of the bun halfway between her mouth and the plate.

Pinkie was still chewing bread and cheese, and the food seemed suddenly dry in her mouth. Had he learned somehow about Daft Geordie and Red Mag? Was that why he showed such a sudden interest in her past? No one in London had shown any interest in her parents, and in her concern for his predicament, she had given little thought to her own. Nevertheless, she could not lie to him.

Swallowing her food, she said cautiously, “What do you want to know?”

“Well, I already know that your father followed the prince and died in his cause, and that eventually you and MacCrichton went to live with Balcardane. However, I also know you bear no kinship to him. Are you, then, kin to his lady?”

“No,” Pinkie said, “but she took us with her when she went to live at Balcardane Castle, and when our uncle died—the previous Laird MacCrichton, that is—our Chuff inherited his title and estate.” There was much more to the story than that, of course, but she hoped he would be content with the brief outline.

“How did the countess come to have any say in the matter? Why did you not live with the laird?”

“He was a cruel man, that’s why,” Pinkie said. “Chuff did not like him, and I was afraid of him, and so we went away with Mary, and then Himself kept the laird from stealing us back. And when the laird died, there was no one else who wanted us, so Mary and Himself just kept us.”

“There was more to it than that,” Kintyre said with a chuckle.

Pinkie said, “Surely you do not want to hear about every year of my life.”

“Not all at once, perhaps, but Balcardane could not have taken control over a fortune the size of MacCrichton’s without legal authority to do so.”

“I suppose not. I do not understand exactly how he did that.”

“Nor would I expect you to understand such things. I did hear rumors about the MacCrichton fortune being lost after the rebellion, however, and then found again. Was there any truth to that?”

“Aye, they hid it before they followed the prince, and then our father died, and only he knew the secret; but we found it again. Do you want that last bun, sir?”

“I do, indeed,” he said.

As he reached for it, she said curiously, “I have heard that you are trying to get a law changed in Parliament—something to do with the deerhound law—and that Lord Menzies and others are trying to help. Is it prodigiously complicated?”

Kintyre grimaced, but the diversion succeeded, for he said, “Not really. Menzies wants the law changed as much as I do, and his title is not merely Scottish, like mine, so he has influence. The problem lies in getting men who have no stake in the matter to understand the consequences of restricting ownership.”

“It does seem odd that only certain people can own dogs like Cailean.”

“Not just odd,” he said. “It’s potentially disastrous. The breed will die out. The object was to keep their value high—and their stature, as well—by allowing only men of high rank to own them; but since we no longer have a Scottish royal family, or clan chiefs with any power, and only a handful of earls, marquesses, or dukes to own or breed them, the dogs have already become exceedingly rare.”

“Could you not sell puppies to English earls?”

“Aye, we could, but few in England want so large a dog. Deerhounds were bred to hunt stags, so nowadays there is little need for them here. Private herds are small and are rarely hunted for sport. Scotland still has deer in the wild, and shooting is still a favored pastime there. Englishmen go to Scotland to hunt. If I could sell dogs to men of lower rank, the breed would flourish, but many members of Parliament think the notion frivolous. They believe that we want to change the law of exclusive proprietorship simply so that we can exploit the breed for money. They talk of its noble heritage, and spout other such nonsense. When the deerhounds are extinct, it will do no good to say we told them so.”

“What will you do about Cailean?”

“I must return him to Glenmore, of course, little though I want to. I sold him for the money to bring Bridget to London, as I think I told you, and I must honor my agreement. It was hard enough to part with the old fellow the first time, however. I don’t know how I shall do it again.”

She reached over to squeeze his hand, and he turned it over and clasped hers within it. Again, his touch sent warmth through her body, a melting glow that stirred the tingling sensation again. She wondered if he felt something similar.

He looked at her, and she saw the warmth she felt reflected in his eyes. His lips parted, and he turned in his chair so that he faced her more directly. “Finish your wine, little wife,” he said, his voice low-pitched and gruffer than before. “I would know more of you.”

He did not let go of her hand, but she could easily reach her glass with the other. She did not look away. She felt as if her eyes had lost the power to shift away from his. His were darker than she remembered, so deep a blue that they looked almost black. Reflected candlelight flickered in their depths.

A spark cracked in the fire, and a log shifted. She watched him over the rim of her glass as she drank the remains of her wine.