AnchorandStorm (14 page)

Angus’ knees gave out and he sat back down again, stunned. He had not counted on this. But the thought again occurred to him that if the son were his, there was nowhere else he would want to go. If he couldn’t acknowledge the boy as his own, at least he could watch him grow and perhaps help guide him through life after Callander was gone.

“I want to talk to yer lady first.”

He found her in the rose garden. She sat in the sunlight, a book open on her lap. But instead of reading, her eyes were closed. She had her elbow propped up on the ornately carved back of the stone bench and her hand rubbed her forehead as if it hurt. In that moment, he realized Callander wasn’t the only one feeling the strain of their predicament.

“Milady?” he said softly, so as not to frighten her.

She startled anyway, both hands grabbing her book to keep it from falling off her lap. “Oh Angus, I didn’t hear you.” Then, obviously realizing why he was there, she looked away from him and blushed to the roots of her hair.

“I didna mean to frighten you.” She made a dismissive gesture and he asked, “May I sit?”

“Of course.”

He took a seat on the bench opposite her and began, “I spoke with Lord Callander this morning.”

Before he could continue, she shook her head. “Please, Angus, don’t say anything more.” She again closed her eyes and clasped her book in both hands, her knuckles white with the strain. “I must apologize to ye. Dear God, what ye must be thinking of us. ’Tis a preposterous thing we’re asking of you. I don’t blame ye for saying no. If ye can forgive us and try to forget that this ever happened, we’d be most grateful.” Finally, she turned to face him, her expression pleading. “Edgar thinks so highly of ye, I know he doesn’t want to lose ye.”

Now it was Angus’ turn to shake his head and stop her protests. “Lord Callander explained the situation to me. ’Tis not preposterous.” Then he couldn’t help but smile, as he said, “More than a wee bit unusual, certainly, but not preposterous.”

She again blushed and looked down at the book in her lap.

“And I havena said no.” Her head snapped up and she stared at him as if unable to believe what he had said. “I told him I must talk to you first.”

She nodded and waited for him to continue.

“Why are you agreeing to this?”

Tears glistened in her eyes and she looked up at the sky, as if that would keep them from falling. “I love my husband.”

“Aye, so ye’ve said before.”

“He wants a son. It’s the only thing I can possibly give him.” She met his gaze, frankly. “I have nothing else.”

He wanted to scoff at her, she who now had so much, but he realized this was the one thing that all of Callander’s money could not buy him. “So ye’re willing to sleep with another man, to prove ye love him?”

“If that’s what he asks of me.”

Before Lord Callander’s accident, he would have said,
Aye, milady, ye’ll do anything he asks of you, just so long as he keeps you in luxury.
But seeing Em’s expression, it occurred to him that if a woman’s heart could actually hurt—a physical pain, not just an emotional one—her face would look like this.

So he grudgingly admired the “sacrifice” she was making. To please her husband, she would lie with a healthy stronger man, one who could accomplish what Callander dare not risk. In this arrangement he was to be little more than a stud, no different from Tar being put to Jezebel or one of the other brood mares. So why did it matter who did the deed?

“Why me?” he asked.

She smiled and shook her head, again avoiding his gaze. “Because ye were familiar.”

“Familiar?”

“Aye. That first day I saw you, ye took my breath away. Ye were all the braw lads I’d grown up with, all the strong chieftains who fought so bravely and deserved better than they got. I-I thought I would feel more comfortable with you.”

He laughed at that. “Comfortable? We’ve been at each others’ throats ever since that first day. I made my opinion of ye clear from the very start. Why would ye think I would want to make love to ye?”

She flinched and he realized his words had sounded harsher than he had meant them. He opened his mouth to apologize, but before he could do so, she said, “I didn’t think ye would. I just felt ye were the only one we could trust—not because Edgar holds yer indenture, but because I think you are a good man, Angus. Ye helped me so much when Edgar was ill, I thought perhaps any hard feelings between us were over.”

They studied each other for another moment, then he stood and cocked his head toward the honeysuckle arbor where they had met the night of the party. “Come here.”

She followed him until they were hidden from the house, among the vines and flowers that were her signature scent. It was one of the reasons he had been sitting there that night, the perfume had made him think of her. He had been regretting the way he had treated her and vowed to himself that if Callander would not release him from his indenture or sell it he would make it up to her. But he never dreamed this would be the way he might do it.

He took her hands in his. “Ye’re asking me to make love to you and I’ve barely ever touched ye. Would ye have me buy a pig in a poke?” He leaned down and caught her mouth with his, gently at first, then harder, more demanding, forcing her mouth open and reveling in the taste of her. Her arms came around his neck and she pressed herself against him. Her breasts brushed his chest and he felt her nipples peak with the contact. His cock hardened painfully in his breeks.

When they separated, they were both breathing hard, as if they had ridden fast over the hills. “Let me know when the arrangements are made,” Angus said and walked away before he threw her down on the ground and took her there and then.

Chapter Thirteen

Weston let Angus in by a little-used side door and took him upstairs to a bedchamber, which Angus assumed was Em’s. If the manservant knew the purpose of Angus’ visit, he of course gave no sign of it. He was as taciturn and unblinking as usual, now that Lord Callander was out of danger.

The fire burned brightly in the grate, spreading warmth throughout the room. The bed curtains of cream and green brocade had been tied back and the bedsheets turned down. Angus bent and ran his hand over the soft linen pillow slips. It had been a long time since he had felt such fine fabric. He noted the expensive furnishings and ornaments scattered around the room, which rivaled those he himself used to own.

Putting those thoughts from his mind, he opened the bundle he had brought with him and began to change his clothes.

Now he stood with one foot propped up on the hearth, staring at the ornate cloisonné clock on the mantel. Waiting, wondering if this was really going to happen. Over an hour had passed and he was beginning to doubt it.

Finally, he heard the sound of the latch being lifted on the adjoining bedroom door.

Emily backed into the room and closed the door but still stood facing it, afraid to turn around. This was the room Edgar had designated as hers to use if she ever felt the need, but she never dreamed she would be using it for a purpose such as this. She had wanted to go to a different wing of the house altogether, but Edgar said that if his son were conceived this night, at least it would happen close to his own bed.

She knew Angus was somewhere behind her in the room, but where? And in what state of dress? Fully clothed and sitting comfortably in a chair…or lying nonchalantly naked on the bed?

She leaned her forehead against the cool wood, hoping it would ease the heat welling up in her cheeks. Although she was wearing her nightdress and a heavy velvet robe, she felt naked herself. She wished she had worn a dress and all the underpinnings…or, better yet, every dress she owned.

Now that the time had come, her courage threatened to fail her. How could she ever have thought she could go through with this? She would send him away and explain it to Edgar, she was sure he would understand.

From somewhere behind her, Angus cleared his throat. “Milady?”

She took a deep breath, turned around…and froze in shock. “Angus, my God, what—what are you doing?”

He stood at the foot of the bed, dressed in his usual creamy-white linen shirt, the laces hanging loose to reveal the muscles of his upper chest. Over this, however, he was wearing the
breacan-féile
, a belted plaid in soft hues of tan, brown and black. It was secured around his narrow waist with a wide, brown leather belt and at his shoulder was a pewter brooch, worked in the design of a Celtic cross. His strong legs were bare beneath the hem. Once again, Emily had the sensation of traveling back in time, before the Rising, Culloden and “Butcher” Cumberland had destroyed the Highlanders’ way of life.

He spread his arms out at his sides, as if offering himself to her. “You said I was familiar to ye. This is what ye’re familiar with. Had ye known me before, this is how I would have looked. I thought it would make ye feel more comfortable about tonight.”

“But-but you could be arrested. Ye ken ’tis against the law now and someone might have seen ye come in.”

“I wore my breeks and changed when I got to this room. And there’s only you and me here now. Ye’ll no’ report me, will you?”

“Of course not. But how did you get it? And where?”

He looked at her through narrowed eyes. “I have my ways.”

The realization that he didn’t trust her not to turn him over to the authorities hit her like a fist to the chest and she fell back against the door. “Oh Angus, for God’s sake, I was only curious. How could ye think I would ever do such a thing?”

“No, I suppose ye wouldn’t. Then ye would lose yer stud.”

Those words were like a blow to her stomach. “I can see this was a mistake. Good night, Angus,” she said and turned to open the door.

Suddenly he was behind her, engulfing her, his strong arms braced against the door on each side of her head. “I’m sorry,” he cried. Then more softly, “I’m sorry,” his warm breath stirring strands of her hair. “Don’t go. I promise to behave myself.” He bent and nipped lightly at her earlobe. She heard the smile in his voice as he said, “Or misbehave, if that’s what ye want of me.”

She turned around but still leaned back against the door. He was so tall that all she could see was an expanse of plaid-covered chest. “I always forget how tall you are.”

“Lord Callander and I are of the same height, when he is able to stand upright.”

Emily didn’t want to think about Edgar at the moment. She reached out her hand toward him but, overcome by a feeling of shyness, quickly pulled it back.

“’Tis all right,” he said, “you can touch me.”

With the backs of her fingers, she smoothed the soft fabric, tracing the pleats up to the brooch at his shoulder. Then she laid her head against his chest and sighed. “I’d nearly forgotten what a
plaid
feels like.”

He combed her hair with his fingers and wrapped his other arm around her to hold her tighter. “Mila—” he began, then stepped back and held her away from him, looking down at her. “Am I to call you ‘Milady’ tonight?”

She gave a short, embarrassed laugh. “No, I don’t suppose so, given the circumstances. You may call me ‘Emily’.”

“No,
he
calls you ‘Emily.’ I shall call ye—Em.”

She stared up at him. “That’s what my da called me.”

“Aye, I know. He told me. May I call ye that?”

She nodded, unable to speak.

The clock on the mantle chimed midnight. Angus turned his head to look at it, his expression seeming a cross between agitation and fear. “We had best get started then.”

She shook her head. “’Tis all right. We have the night. Though ye must be out before cockcrow.”

He looked surprised for a moment, then nodded and held out his hand. “Come to me, Em.”

She stepped forward and placed her hand in his. He bent and scooped her up in his arms, then carried her to the foot of the bed and set her down. He knelt before her and unhooked the fastenings of her robe. As the material slipped down over her shoulders, she felt a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room. Just the light touch of his hands over the sleeves of her nightdress made her shudder…but with desire or fear? She couldn’t tell and she wasn’t quite ready to find out.

When he began to untie the ribbons of her gown, she grabbed his hands. “No,” she cried, holding his gaze with her own, hoping he’d understand. “I want to see you first.”

“All right.” He gave a slight smile, stood and took a step back. Emily rose up in front of him and loosened the brooch at his shoulder, letting the tail of his
plaid
fall behind him. She reached out to undo his belt, but her shyness overcame her again and she hesitated.

“Shall I?” he asked.

“Please,” she whispered.

He unclasped the belt and caught the yards of freed woolen material with one hand, tossing it nonchalantly into a nearby chair. Now he stood in only his shirt, which came to just below his hips, leaving his legs exposed to her gaze. The firelight caught in the fine hairs there, giving them the appearance of burnished gold.

Emily was struck by how long and straight and strong his legs were. She hadn’t realized she was staring at them until Angus, looking down at his legs too, said, “Is something wrong? They’re clean.”

“What?” She gave an embarrassed laugh. “Oh no, I’m sorry, I didna mean to…it’s just that…may I touch yer legs, Angus?”

“Aye, if ye want. Though I don’t know why ye find them so…oh.” He stopped as if he suddenly realized why she was so taken by the sight of his legs. “Aye, do whatever ye like.”

She knelt before him and ran her hands up his calves to the back of his knees. Above her, he gave a soft moan. She laid her head against the firm muscles of his thighs and felt them tighten under her cheek.

“Christ, lass, what are ye doin’ to me?”

She looked up to see his shirt tented outward just above her head. “Oh my,” she said, feeling the urge to tease him, “did I do that?”

She could swear he growled at her. “Ye’d best get on wi’ it before I lose my mind.”

She giggled and reached for the hem of his shirt as she stood up. He raised his arms over his head to help her, then took the shirt from her and threw it on the chair with the
plaid
. As he turned back toward the light, Emily gave a small shriek of anguish when she saw that his chest and abdomen were covered with an assortment of scars that almost rivaled those on his ankles.

“Oh Angus,” she said, reaching out to touch a thin silvered line on his upper chest, “how did you…?”

“Prestonpans. We won that one.”

“And this?” she asked, pointing to a still reddened gash under his right arm.

“Culloden.” The one word was all he needed to say. No Scot living, especially one such as Angus, who had survived the slaughter and its devastating aftermath, would ever be able to hear that name without shuddering, as Emily did now. She tried to think of a way to steer them back to the matter at hand, but she was intrigued by a perfectly round, shiny scar on his upper belly. She stroked the circle lightly with the tip of her finger. “What about this?”

“The biggest, nastiest, smelliest bull my father ever raised. Once I was able to stand upright again, ha, let’s just say, we dined well that winter.”

Emily giggled then grew serious as she realized she still had her hand on his belly and that she had been caressing each part of his body as she inventoried his wounds. Now she was only inches away from his risen flesh and she wasn’t sure what to do next.

Angus made the decision for her. “Keep going.” The pleading tone of his voice made her look up into his eyes. In the flickering glow of the lamps at the bedside, they shone like sapphires. “Touch me.” When she still hesitated, he said, “Surely he’s taught you how after all this time.”

“I know how,” she replied, suppressing a slight twinge of anger at his remark. There was no place for anger in this situation. She needed this man and what he could do for her. Best to let his taunts roll off her back and get through this night. She would worry about how to face the morning when the time came.

Still holding his gaze with hers, she stroked him lightly with the backs of her fingers. His breath hissed out and he bent forward, reaching up to grab the canopy frame. He was so close to her now that it seemed natural to lay her head against him. The golden curls on his chest felt soft and warm against her cheek. She was becoming lost in the scent of him—that fresh linen, leather and sunshine smell that she always associated with him. But tonight there was another—a clean, familiar smell—and Emily had to bite her lip to keep from laughing again as she realized he had used Mrs. Lamond’s laundry soap to bathe with.

He brought one hand down and combed it through her hair, then began to nuzzle her neck. Gooseflesh rose up on that half of her body and her knees went weak. She felt the moisture flowing between her legs, as she wrapped one arm around his back to steady herself. Her fingers moved over the tip of his hard flesh and, encountering a bead of his own fluid, she smoothed it around the head of his shaft. His groan of pleasure was a vibration under her cheek. She then grasped him more tightly and began to massage him, while she took one of his nipples into her mouth.

He inhaled sharply and pulled away from her. “Stop, Em, stop now,” he moaned, grabbing her hands.

The look of agony on his face frightened her. “Did I hurt you?”

He gave a strangled laugh. “Ye’re killin’ me. And if ye don’t stop now, I’ll no’ be able to fulfill my purpose here tonight.”

Emily felt the heat rise in her cheeks. “Oh I see.”

“But ye don’t have to stop touchin’ me altogether.” He placed her hands on his sides and pulled her close. As his lips closed gently on hers, she caressed his back then grew bold and dropped her hands lower to smooth them over his taut buttocks. She felt his flesh pulsating against her belly.

He raised her face to his and his dark blue eyes bored into hers. “Now it’s your turn.”