Chapter Seven
She’d fantasized of something like this. It had dimmed since her debut, but the experience of arriving at the Devonshire home on the Duke of MacAvee’s arm almost exactly matched that fantasy. Or it would . . . if she could banish the image of Iain’s teeth. Long, and tipped like fangs . . . belonging to a wild animal.
Tira shivered in the foyer, five steps above the Devon family grand ballroom, holding her cool satin skirts with an even colder hand and watching the reaction below them as heads turned and conversation stopped. Iain was at her right, her hand resting atop his bent forearm. The Earl of Devonshire had a major domo who possessed a large projecting voice. Iain and her names and titles were perfectly modulated, and with the silence descending below them, easily understood. It seemed everyone listened and watched as Tira Coombs, the spinster daughter of Earl Coxton-Coombs, made her entrance with her fiancé, Iain MacAvee, Duke of MacAvee, Earl of Glencairn and Blannock, chieftain of four clans, and owner of seven castles along with all surrounding lochs and glens.
Seven?
Good heavens! What man needed so many? And for what reason? There were taxes to be paid on every building and land cultivated. The amount of funds and manpower needed to maintain a castle and surrounding lands was enormous. It had to be and she only had Coxton-Coombs Hall for comparison. And he owned seven? How was such a thing possible in these times?
“Centuries of conquest, lass . . . along with grand bargaining skills and a patience to match.”
She stumbled. Iain caught her perfectly with a tightening of his arm against his chest, holding her upright without even looking. Having her mind read and then being clumsy wasn’t part of her fantasy. She felt him move something beneath his sleeve, the knot of muscle teasing her fingertips, and then he turned to her. This time he caught the stumble exactly as she made it, since the steps ended before her descent.
“Doona’ fail me now,
leannan
.”
“Fail . . . you?” She was going to do worse if he breathed much more on her exposed neck, sending trills all the way to the soles of her feet with his whisper. She was going to lose her ability to stand, and then she might even swoon.
“With this purgatory you’ve set me to.”
“Purg . . . atory?”
“I’ve a room full of Sassenach and na’ one weapon on me.”
“We’re not at war.”
“A Scotsman is ever at war. And ever ready for one.”
“Truly?”
“Aye.”
“With the English?”
“They started it,” he replied.
“I’m English, Iain. Mostly.”
She got another breath touching her flesh and a resultant tremble in her knees. She tightened her grip on his arm and that just seemed to make the flesh she touched harder.
“Aye. But soon you’ll be MacAvee clan.”
“What . . . will that make our . . . offspring?” And where were her wits? Tira felt the blush rising and worked at controlling it before anyone else spotted it. She couldn’t believe she was speaking of children! In a roomful of observers?
“Bairns?”
He drew back as if surprised. And then he looked stunned. And then his lips fought another smile. As if having children was an abnormal part of wedlock.
“You don’t want children? Heirs to all those castles?”
“Heirs?”
He said the word as if it were foreign.
“See? This is what our time together was to bring out. Our differences and the insurmountableness of them.”
“What differences?”
“Your aversion to children is a fairly large one, Iain.”
“I’ve nae issue with bairns.”
“Then why . . . ?”
Her voice trailed slightly as the setting started intruding, as if each blink dissipated a fog about them, allowing sensation and experience back in, until the ballroom and its occupants were clear and vivid.
She caught a glimpse in a mirror set to her right, her gown shimmering with rose-shaded highlights the candlelight picked out, while the coronet of braid about the crown of her head gleamed with russet tones. It was how she wanted to look . . . and if she could just get a peek at her escort . . .
Tira craned her neck to catch a glimpse of burgundy-shaded coat and then missed her opportunity as their hosts approached. Iain turned her toward them. The slight stab of disappointment was replaced at the jealousy in her hostess’s look, before the woman turned a completely different expression upward to Iain. The countess spoke first, sounding effusive, gushing, and slightly out of breath. Tira watched the woman tip her head in order to display her creamy rounded bosom. It was obvious the countess was proud of her figure, even without the frame of ecru lace and the sapphire necklace to draw the eye exactly there.
The experience was disconcerting and exhilarating at the same time. Tira recognized the emotions exactly as she experienced them. She’d never been the object of anyone’s jealousy. And then the gossipy Lady Higginswale appeared, her plump form encased in plumshaded silk. Tira watched the Countess of Devonshire glance askance at that display while her husband bowed and then left them. It was rather like observing a play that no one else was watching.
“Your Grace.”
“My Lady . . . ?”
“Higginswale,” Tira informed him.
Iain put out his free hand and bowed slightly. For a moment Tira thought Lady Higginswale would pop right out of her bodice, and she caught her breath. But the dress held, and the woman was back upright. She didn’t even glance over to Tira. That was dismissive and meant to be.
“It’s lovely to see you out and about. Finally.” Lady Higgensale simpered it.
“And at my ball,” the countess inserted.
“Escorting the Coxton-Coombs ladies. Pardon us.”
Ophelia pulled into view on Iain’s far right, her hand on Grant’s arm. Or it could be Lenn. Tira couldn’t tell the twins apart and didn’t waste worry over it.
“And looking so presentable.”
“Yes,” Lady Higginswale added. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a Scot looking so . . .”
“Refined?” the countess asked.
“Masculine,” came the instant reply. And then the woman looked directly at where Iain’s trousers weren’t disguising much of him, if anything.
Tira stiffened. In her fantasies, she’d been envied for the man at her side. She’d
wanted
a man that other woman coveted. She’d never thought through the consequences. And Iain was oblivious or something. Not so the guardsmen about them. They were clearing throats and shuffling feet and grinning. As if having women fawn over Iain was normal. Tira narrowed her eyes and tightened her fingers and immediately felt the hard knot of muscle rotating beneath her digits.
“My thanks, ladies.” Iain’s reply came in a low tone that gave her shivers. She only hoped the other ladies didn’t have the same sensation.
“I’m having a gathering at tea on the morrow, Your Grace. You’ll be receiving an invitation,” Lady Higginswale said.
“No. Please. You must visit me for tea.” If their host had stayed at his wife’s side, he might’ve been able to prevent the low, evocative tone the countess used to proffer her own invite.
“His Grace has yet to finalize plans with me, ladies. I believe he’ll be unable to attend to anything save that,” Aunt Adelaide moved in, inserting right between Higginswale and Iain.
“I thank you for the invites, ladies. Truly. But I only take tea with one woman. My Tira.”
With that, Iain turned toward her, lifted her hand to his lips, and stole her ability to breathe, think, and do anything other than fall.
His Tira needed to do something other than look up at him with liquid pools of green that dominated his world anymore. Everything on him reacted, in full view of a good section of high Sassenach society . . . and in these accursed trousers. Not that he cared. Society changed; morals and strictures adapted to each wearer of the crown; but he knew his Tira cared, and that meant he did.
Iain groaned and pulled her toward him more for concealment than the loverlike embrace it appeared. He noted only absently how she came as if she collapsed into him.
The slight blush that bloomed up her cheeks matched her gown and sent torment atop nuisance, and suffering atop that. She was such a beauty. Lush. Womanly. His loins weren’t the only thing craving her. His teeth were elongating at the glimpse of pulse beating in her neck. The perfectly formed skin shaded with an infusion of fluid.
“Perhaps . . . we’d be better served . . . dancing.” Her lips moved, drawing his eyes, but his ears let the words slide right through until she walked two steps from him toward where couples were rotating.
Dancing?
Was the lass insane? He couldn’t dance. He couldn’t even walk. Iain held back, unmoving until she was forced to stop and turn back.
“Aren’t you escorting me?”
He watched her lips make those words as well, but couldn’t hear them over the rush of sound in his head. He shook his head. She frowned and that he didn’t want.
“I canna’ dance, lass,” he told her.
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve seen you. You dance divinely—I mean very well. You’ve danced with me. Five days ago.”
“What the duke means is he canna’ dance right now.”
It was Rory speaking for him. Grant and Lenn were busy keeping a tight rein on Tira’s female relatives, exactly as he’d tasked them. But Rory? The man known as a practical jokester? Iain swallowed, worked at tamping the near consuming desire and craving his body was experiencing, and wondering why, if fate had to give him these emotions back and the woman to cause them, why couldn’t the same fate send the ballroom into oblivion, the crowd into the same, and gift him with one bit of privacy and a bed? Or even one of the shadowed benches they’d placed along the wall.
Iain’s eyes went wide and his nostrils flared as he glimpsed one of the benches the moment he thought of it. It wasn’t possible but the plague of lust got even wilder. He held the air and concentrated, sending power to alter time, mute the surroundings, and encase him, allowing him to move without awareness. It was futile. Nothing worked. All he could do was tremble in place, locking every muscle as he fought feral and primitive need no maid should face, displayed with probable accuracy in the damn English trousers if the fabric’s tight grip on him was any indicator.
“Whyever not?”
Rory cleared his throat before replying. “Modesty, Miss Tira.”
“Wh-wh-what?”
She’d turned her attention to Rory, but that little stutter of hers tied Iain’s tongue worse. He moved his right hand to encase the one she had atop his left arm, and then worked at making certain his grip wasn’t enough to break bone. He pulled her closer to him, needing her skirts for concealment even if it came with torment over just a hint of her scent.
“When a man . . . uh . . . desires a woman, he . . . uh.”
There wasn’t a way to explain to her what tortures Iain was suffering, but it was almost amusing to hear Rory try.
“We—we have to do something aside from standing here waiting for more women to act . . . I mean, react. Is it always this way?”
“What way?” Iain had a voice but it was croaked. Harsh. She looked toward him, sent a blaze of fire right through his chest, and turned back to Rory.
“More times than na’,” Rory answered for him again. The snipe.
“Truly? You’re saying everywhere he goes women react like this?”
“Well . . . most times ’tis na’ an issue.”
“Most times?”
“His Grace does na’ stay about to endure the attention.”
“You
are
saying women react like this?”
“And some gents.”
“Rory.” Iain’s threatening tone needed work as the upward wink his man gave him clearly showed.
“Is that why he’s been absent?”
Iain struggled with the intoxicating sensation of her nearness, enduring a mingling of scents from the braid at the crown of her head just below his chin, the cool weave of her satin dress, the unmistakable aroma of woman; and where she’d tipped her head, he could see the heightened pulse in her neck . . . thickening, going a bluish shade with life fluid.
“Nae. The weather is to blame for that.”
“How so? It’s been beautifully sunny and warm. Unseasonably so, actually.”
“Exactly.”
Every word she uttered damned him further. Each inflection of her voice, every nuance of her face, the minute brush of her breath across where the cravat thing should be enough protection. Everything about this woman called to him and made him ache for her, increasing the desire and lust until the Sassenach-designed trousers grew to a painful level.
“Exactly . . . how?”
The swift glance from Rory should’ve alerted him if Iain had control over his body anymore. Or could gain it. Or find one bone in his body that wasn’t hungering.