“Kill them with kindness?” she murmured. “Well, ’twill take more than that, MacLachlan, to do me in. You ought to know Scots are made of sterner stuff.”
“It is more my fear, Miss Hamilton, that hard work might do you in first,” he said quietly. “I have it on the best authority that children should have both a governess and a nurse. Do you agree?”
Esmée was taken aback. “In a perfect world, aye.”
Sir Alasdair twirled the card from between his fingers, and flipped it faceup in front of her. The ace of hearts. “Then may your world, Miss Hamilton, ever be perfect.”
For a moment, she could only stare at his elegant, long-fingered hand, which was warm against the white starkness of the card. She was beginning to feel a bit unsteady. She did not like being alone with this man, his perfect hands, and his low, dark voice.
“What do you mean?” she finally managed.
“I mean to hire a nurse,” he said. “Wellings will have candidates in a day or two. Pick whomever you think best.”
Esmée didn’t know what to say. “That is generous, sir,” she answered. “I hardly know what to say.”
“How about
I shall be forever in your gratitude?”
he suggested. “Or
I am your deeply devoted slave?”
Esmée did not like the way his words washed over her, warm and suggestive. “I think not.”
MacLachlan gave his slow, lazy shrug. “Then perhaps you could simply pour me another cup of coffee,” he proposed. “I emptied mine nearly ten minutes past.”
Esmée looked down, mildly embarrassed at her oversight. His cup sat empty on the edge of the table. He lifted it, and thrust it in her direction. Instinctively, Esmée seized the pot. But somehow, the twain did not meet, and next she knew, MacLachlan had jerked back his hand, splashing coffee down his fine clothes.
“Christ Jesus!” he shouted.
After that, she was not perfectly sure what happened. She must have leapt from her chair. Somehow, she had her handkerchief, and was on her knees by his chair, dabbing impotently at his straw-colored waistcoat, never thinking what a fool she must look.
“Oh, I am so sorry!” Esmée scrubbed furiously at the silk.
MacLachlan had drawn back in his chair to survey the damage. “Bloody hell, that was hot!”
“Oh, have I scalded you?” she asked. “Are you hurt?” Inexplicably, Esmée wanted to cry. This felt like the last straw.
“I shan’t be scarred for life.” MacLachlan settled a warm, strong hand on her shoulder. “Really, Miss Hamilton, it is quite all right. Stop scrubbing, please, and look at me.”
Esmée’s gaze trailed upward. “Oh, no!” His cravat, too, was splattered. “Oh, this is ruined!” She plucked desperately at the folds as if drying it would help.
MacLachlan lifted her hand away and grasped it securely in his. “I’ve suffered worse,” he said, leaning over her, so close his breath stirred her hair. “Now do get off your knees, Miss Hamilton, before someone barges in and draws a bad conclusion—which, given my reputation, might too easily happen.”
She did not quite absorb his words. “I beg your pardon?”
MacLachlan sighed, then somehow pushed back his chair and drew her up with him. They were standing mere inches apart, her head barely reaching his chest, and her hand still caught in his. For a long moment, he was perfectly still, his gaze intent on their entwined fingers. “My dear Miss Hamilton,” he finally said.
“Y-Yes?”
His mouth curled into a smile. “I think it safe to say you are the most relentless nail-biter I have ever known.”
Her face already aflame, she jerked the hand from his and thrust it behind her back.
He seized hold of the other one and held it resolutely. “Indeed,” he said, peering at it, “I am not at all sure these
are
fingernails.”
She tried to extract her hand, but the scoundrel just grinned. “You have quite vanquished them, Miss Hamilton,” he said, still looking at her fingers. “They are actually receding, like the French retreating from Moscow.”
Esmée was still distraught over having doused him with hot coffee. “’Tis a vile habit,” she admitted, tugging at her hand. “I would I knew how to stop.”
He lifted his gaze to hers and held it for a long moment. “What I would know,” he said quietly, “is what it is that troubles you so much that you feel compelled to chew them to the quick.”
He would not release her hand, though he held it quite gently. “I just do sometimes,” she said softly. “It means nothing.”
“Esmée.” The chiding affection in his tone unsettled her. “My dear, you really are troubled. Why? How can I help?”
Suddenly, she felt her chin quivering. “Do not you dare,” she whispered, tearing her gaze away. “Do not you dare feel sorry for me.”
His eyes heated. “I just want you to tell me what is wrong,” he insisted. Suddenly, his tone shifted. “Is it me, Esmée? Do I…distress you?” At that, he dropped her hand and stepped back.
Oh, God.
It wasn’t that.
Why did he even have to care? Why couldn’t he be the insensitive lout she expected? How could he be so blithe one moment, and so compassionate the next? Suddenly, Esmée couldn’t get her breath.
“It isn’t you,” she managed, her hand nervously toying with the strand of pearls at her neck. “It isn’t you, and it isn’t anything to do with you. Please, MacLachlan, just leave me be.”
“I’m not sure I should.” His voice was gentle but resolute. “You put on a brave face, my dear, but I begin to suspect a crack in that brittle veneer of yours. Are you in over your head?”
“I can manage!” she cried, dropping her hand. “I
can,
I swear it! Is that why you’re hiring a nurse? You think I know nothing of child rearing? And the coffee—I’m sorry—I was careless.” Her voice was taking on a frantic edge now, but she couldn’t seem to stop. “It shan’t happen again. And I can take care of Sorcha, too. I
can!”
“Miss Hamilton, this is all so unnecessary,” he said. “You are tired, homesick, and still grieving. Your mother is dead, and your responsibilities are grave. I am sure you must sometimes feel quite alone in the world. May I not show at least a little concern?”
She made a noise—a gasp? A sob?—she hardly knew which. And suddenly, she felt his arms coming around her, strong and sure. In that moment, it felt like the most comforting, most protective gesture anyone had ever made toward her.
Esmée shouldn’t have done it, of course, but she let herself sag against the solid wall of his chest, which felt like the Rock of Gibraltar. He smelled of laundry starch and warm, musky male, and suddenly it was all she could do not to bury her nose in his sodden cravat and weep. She
was
homesick. She
did
miss her mother. And she was frightened. Frightened, perhaps, of herself as much as anyone.
“Esmée, look at me,” he whispered. “Please.”
She lifted her gaze to his, wordlessly pleading for something; she knew not what. His embrace tightened. His sinfully long lashes lowered just a fraction, his mouth hovering over hers. Esmée felt her blood quicken. She wanted to melt against him, to hide inside him. Instead she closed her eyes and parted her lips. As she’d somehow known it would, MacLachlan’s mouth settled over hers, and a sense of inevitability settled over Esmée.
She turned her head, all but begging him to deepen the kiss. His mouth molded to hers, pliant and hungry. Something in Esmée’s stomach seemed to bottom out. Her toes curled, and her breath seized.
Wrong. Oh, this was so wrong.
But an inexorable force drew her body fully against his. She gasped—or meant to—and felt the urgent press of his tongue draw across the seam of her lips. At his subtle urging, she let her head fall back, wantonly opening to him.
MacLachlan groaned, a low, agonizing sound, and slid his tongue deep inside her mouth. God, it felt so strange. So wonderfully sinful. Like nothing she’d ever felt before. Her breath came fast and shallow now. She rose onto her tiptoes, and let her hands slip round his waist, then up, up the warmth of his back, savoring his warmth and strength.
“Esmée.” He whispered the word against her lips, then plumbed the depths of her mouth again. Beneath her hands, she felt the layered muscles of his back shiver, as if he were an impatient stallion.
She pulled her mouth away but a fraction. “Oh, God,” she whispered.
His mouth left hers and skimmed along her cheek, all the way to her jaw, then along the row of pearls which encircled her throat. A warm, heavy hand slid down her spine, lower and lower, until it settled hotly over her hip, circling and massaging through the fabric of her skirts.
Oh, God, she was so tired of being alone. She craved the touch of another human being. She craved
this.
Esmée gave in to the urge to press herself against him. Vaguely, she knew what she was doing was wrong. Foolish. Still, she let her fingers curl hungrily into the silk which covered his broad back.
In response, MacLachlan shoved his other hand into her hair, his fingers threading through her tresses, stilling her to his gentle onslaught. Ever so delicately, he had his way with her, sucking and nipping down the length of her throat, until his lips were set at the turn of her neck. Until she would have agreed to anything he asked. And yet, he hesitated.
“Oh, don’t,” she whispered.
“Don’t—?” The word held a wealth of agony.
Esmée tried to shake her head. “Don’t
stop,”
she choked.
“Please.”
But it was too late. His warm mouth was no longer pressed intently against her neck. The only sound was that of his breathing, which was rough and audible in the room. Slowly, he lifted his head to look at her. A brilliant shaft of late-morning sun slanted through the window and across his shoulder, heightening the gold in his hair. Bringing her back to her senses.
“Esmée.” His eyes swam with despair. “Oh, Esmée. Oh, God. I am…”
She backed away slowly, mute and horrified. His hands slid down her arms, all the way to her elbows before falling away. His gaze tore from hers. Silhouetted as he was against the morning sun, MacLachlan looked like an angel. Like Lucifer come down to tempt and torment. And he had! Oh, heaven help her, what had she done?
Esmée turned and ran.
Lydia was on her knees in the schoolroom, stacking alphabet blocks on the worktable with Sorcha when Esmée burst back into the room. “Hello, Miss Hamilton,” she said. “The young miss is awake now, and in a rare fine humor.”
Esmée looked at her wildly. “Thank you,” she managed. “I shall…I shall just be a moment.”
Ignoring Lydia’s questioning look, Esmée hastened past and into her bedchamber. She closed the door behind her and fell back against it. God. Oh, God. She covered her mouth with her hands.
What had she done?
She glanced almost desperately about the room and caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror opposite. Her hair was disheveled. Her face deathly white. Anyone with sense could see what she’d been about.
Esmée looked away. Dear heaven! And why was this room so cold? She shivered, and ran her palms up her arms. She could still feel the warmth of his hands high on her arms. Could feel them sliding reluctantly down, lower and lower, as she stepped back.
Esmée laughed bitterly. Well, of course he’d been reluctant to let go! She had been such an effortless prize. A ripe plum, dropped unexpectedly into his hands. What man would say no to something so easily tasted? Certainly, Alasdair MacLachlan wouldn’t. He probably hadn’t said
no
to an easy pleasure in the whole of his life. Now he would doubtless hope for more. And it was her fault. She had surrendered to her traitorous emotions.
Like mother like daughter.
Esmée’s face began to burn with shame. That, no doubt, was just what MacLachlan would be thinking at this moment. And he would be right, too. That was Esmée’s secret. Her fear. Her shame.
She would never be the beauty her mother had been. No, their similarities went deeper than that. A rashness of temper. A wit too quick. A tongue too tart. And the other. That aching hunger. That foolish loneliness which pierced the heart like a cold fear, overwhelming good sense and restraint.
Like mother, like daughter.
God, how she hated those words.
A sudden screech cut through her self-pity, snapping Esmée back to reality. Through the nursery, she could hear one of Sorcha’s all-too-familiar tantrums interspersed with Lydia’s firm voice. As usual, the rare fine mood had been short-lived, and now, something wasn’t going Sorcha’s way. Perhaps she was not settling in so well after all.
Esmée dashed into the schoolroom to see that Sorcha had decided to clamber up on the window ledge. She had managed to take hold of it, and was flailing and kicking at Lydia for all she was worth.
“Let go, miss!” said the maid sharply. “You must let go!”
Sorcha screamed bloody murder.
Eschewing Lydia’s restraint, Esmée simply grabbed the child around the waist, and hauled her ruthlessly backward. “No, nooo!” Sorcha screeched. “Look
out,
Mae! Look out!”
Esmée set her down forcefully. “Och, ye little jaudie!” she scolded, giving her a swat on the rump. “I am ashamed of you!”
In response, the child proceeded to stomp her way to the worktable and, with surprising strength, backhanded all her blocks into the floor. Chunks of wood flew and bounced, rolling into the corners and under the chairs.
It wasn’t the end of the world. It wasn’t even especially out of character for Sorcha. But this time, Esmée burst into tears. Lydia rushed to her side. “Oh, miss, I am so sorry,” she cried. “I turned my back but an instant, and she got away. ’Twill never happen again, I swear it.”
Esmée sobbed even louder. “But it will happen again!” she bawled. “Because I can’t teach her any better! It just gets worse and worse! I don’t know how to be a mother! I don’t know what to do to make her behave!”
“Oh, no, miss!” said Lydia. “’Tis naught to do with you, I’m sure. Truly.”
“But she used to such a good child,” said Esmée. “Before her mother died, I mean. Yet these last few weeks, she is just getting worse and worse.”
Lydia patted her sympathetically on the arm. “I’m sure, miss, that the child misses her mother,” she said. “But ’tis unlikely that’s her trouble. ’Tis just her age, more like. They get this way. A mind of their own, and all that.”