Pleasured (12 page)

“But you will change the situation, won’t you? You will turn them around and they will be more like the people at home.”

The unquestioning confidence in Lynette’s face as she looked at him made his heart squeeze in his chest. “I shall do my best. I plan to put in an appearance at a wedding celebration tomorrow night.”

“And you were on their side this afternoon.”

“Hopefully that will repair some of the damage, though I would have done so in any case. History has value, even when it’s not your own.”

“Papa, who was that woman? The one at the stones? Do you know her?”

“I have met her a time or two.”

“Is she Red Meg? I heard one of the maids talking about Red Meg; it was something about a toothache. She said Red Meg was a witch.”

He shrugged, a smile in his voice as he went on, “I have been told that ignorant people attribute to magic what is in reality skill.”

“Oh, I don’t believe in witches. Anyway, she is far too pretty.”

“Witches cannot be comely?”

His daughter laughed. “Of course not. They must be old and have warts and such. Did you not know?”

“My education is obviously lacking.” Damon smiled at her.

Every day Lynette’s manner with him had changed further, becoming warmer and more at ease. Coming to Duncally had been the right thing to do; he was sure of that now. In a new place, without the reminders of her late mother, he had been able to recapture his relationship with his daughter. Amazingly, he found that she had become dearer to him than ever. The daily rides with her had revealed Lynette to him as a person in her own right, not just the sweet child who was his daughter, but a girl almost on the verge of womanhood, bright and witty and wonderfully interested in everything around her. It chilled him to think of what their relationship would have become as time made them ever more strangers to one another. He had almost let the most precious thing in the world slip through his fingers.

“They have so many wonderful tales here!” Lynette went
on. “I found a book in the nursery about the first Baillannan.”

“The house across the lake?”

“No, the laird. That’s what they call him, too. There was a spirit in the loch and she fell in love with him.”

“Ah, yes. Of course. The spirit in the pond back home took a terrible fancy to me.”

Lynette’s laughter trilled out. “It’s a legend, Papa. They are always like that. There’s lots more—faeries and trows and kelpies and selkies.”

“Good Lord. You are speaking a foreign language.”

“They’re magical beings. Cook told me all about them. There’s even a story of a treasure.”

“A treasure! What sort of treasure?”

“I’m not sure. It happened during the rebellion, you see—the Uprising, they call it. She mentioned it, but then I think she remembered, you know, that I was a Sassenach, because she started talking about something else.”

“A Sassenach! I can see that you have become quite the Scotswoman.”

“Well, we are that as well. She told me about our family, too.”

“Cook seems a veritable fount of information.”

“She says there’s nothing about this glen she doesn’t know. Cook’s very nice. She gives me a treat when I go down to the kitchen.” Lynette cast him a twinkling smile. “I always make friends with the cook.”

“Wise girl. Then tell me, what did you find out about our ancestors?”

“One of them drowned his nephew in a vat of wine. The nephew was plotting to overthrow him, you see.”

“A pleasant lot. Perhaps we should go back to those trews and sulkies.”

“
Trows
and
selkies
, Papa.” Lynette laughed. “They’re strange, magical beings. And at night they come creeping out. . . .”

11

M
eg hummed along with the
familiar tune as she glanced around the people gathered in the Griegs’ barn. There were two fiddlers, one of them her father, as well as a drummer and a piper, and dancers moved nimbly across the floor. The bride had taken to the floor with Gregory Rose, and the groom was in a cluster with Coll and a number of other men, laughing and downing “wee drams” of whiskeys that grew larger with every round. Poor Mary would be lucky if her Sam was able to carry her across the threshold at the end of the evening.

Away from the dancers, people gathered in knots of conversation, and laughter rang out now and again even over the music. Everyone, Meg thought, was eager for a chance to celebrate, including Meg herself. Ever since the confrontation the day before at the Troth Stone, an unspent energy had fizzed inside her, seeking release. She looked forward to an evening of dancing and conversation.

She wore her best blue gown, with ruffles of precious lace
along the neckline and edging the short, puffed sleeves. In her hair she had fastened a delicate comb of twining stems and flowers, her prized possession, not only for its beauty but because it had once belonged to her grandmother.

The reel wound to a close, and couples trailed off the floor. A soft ripple of sound near the doorway caught Meg’s attention, and when she turned to look, she saw that the Earl of Mardoun had just walked in. He was the picture of elegance and taste in his exquisitely tailored jacket and breeches. Nothing was too formal or showy about the severe black-and-white garments, and even the onyx tiepin nestled in the intricate folds of his snowy-white neckcloth was subdued so that he did not look too out of place among the other guests.

Meg took a quick breath, her pulse suddenly loud in her ears. The earl was the last person she expected to see tonight. She wondered if his presence here indicated courage or stupidity.

Bustling forward to greet him, Mr. Grieg wiped his hands down his front and bobbed his head in a succession of uncertain bows as he stammered out greetings and thanks to the visitor. Mardoun replied with a smile and a few words, then turned to make his bow to the bride’s mother. Meg wondered if the earl thought that after unceremoniously tossing half his crofters out of their homes, he could now win them all over with his charm? She had to admit that he seemed to be doing an excellent job of it with the Griegs.

Nor could Meg deny that she, too, was shamefully susceptible to the man. Unconsciously, she rubbed her thumb across her fingers, remembering his touch upon her hand.
She thought of the other afternoon in her cottage, of Damon’s hands on her, his mouth. She recalled the heat in his eyes. The heat in her.

“Sae that is himself, eh?” a voice sounded in her ear, and Meg jumped. She whirled around to see that Dan Grieg, the bride’s brother, had come up behind her. “My faither will be talking aboot this for weeks. I wonder why Mardoun is here.”

“I wondered the same thing.”

As she watched, the earl turned his head, his eyes sweeping the room. When his gaze fell on Meg, he stopped, his eyes locking with hers. Meg swallowed and forced herself to turn her head away. “Take me out for the next reel, Danny.”

Dan blinked in surprise, but recovered his wits enough to take her hand and lead her out onto the floor. Throughout the dance, Meg kept her eyes firmly on the other dancers, determined not to look for the earl. But when the reel was over and she turned to walk off the floor, there he was, only feet from her, his lips curved into that ghost of a smile that did odd things to her stomach.

“Miss Munro.” He bowed and came closer.

“My lord,” she replied stiffly. Beside her, Dan Grieg—
the coward
—slipped away into the crowd.

“My lord?” Mardoun repeated, shaking his head. “Surely we have progressed further than
my lord
.” He offered her his arm, and Meg could see no way out of taking it.

“I do not know what else to call you.” Her voice came out shaky, and she only hoped he could not feel a similar trembling in her fingers on his arm.

As they strolled away, he bent his head closer to hers and
murmured, “Usually when I have bathed with a woman, she calls me Damon.”

Meg pulled in a sharp breath. “We have not—I have not—”

“Been with me while warm water poured all over us?”

“That is not the same as bathing—you make it sound terrible.”

“I did not mean to. I assure you I found it delightful.”

Meg was certain her cheeks were bright red now, and she could not meet his gaze.

“Your face is flushed,” he went on smoothly. “It
is
rather warm in here. Perhaps a bit of evening air to refresh you?”

She realized that Mardoun was steering her toward the wide doorway. “No. I am fine right here.”

“Do you think I am trying to lure you outside for carnal reasons? I am not . . . though I must say it is rather an enticing notion.”

“Perhaps for you.” Meg jerked her hand from his arm. “But not for me.” She turned away, heading for an empty spot along the wall, but maddeningly he followed her.

“I am crushed. Have you not even a word of kindness for me after I ensured the preservation of your—what did you call it, a truth stone?

“It’s the Troth Stone. Couples used it to become betrothed. They stand on either side and clasp hands through the hole in the stone, then pledge their vow to marry.”

“It sounds a delightful tradition.”

Meg frowned at him, suspecting that he was mocking her. She crossed her arms, her jaw setting pugnaciously. “Am I supposed to be grateful to you because you did not destroy a sacred place?”

“No, I do not expect your gratitude, I assure you—though it might surprise you to learn that there are some who would, in fact, feel some appreciation for my deciding in their favor.” Annoyance edged his voice.

“We should not have to beg you for the favor. The ring is not yours. Those stones belong to the earth.”

“And that piece of earth belongs to me.”

“Oh, yes, I know. As does everything else—and that is all that is important.”

“Not
all.
” His eyes glinted suggestively as he leaned in toward her. “I value some other things as well.” He straightened, going on lightly, “I have no interest in destroying an antiquity. Indeed, my old professor would have had my head if I had let MacRae tear down something so old and meaningful.” He paused. “I do apologize that my man tried to tear down the stones. I promise you, I did not order it; I did not even know what he was about. And I have made it clear that he must obtain my approval before he does any such thing in the future.” He smiled at her. “Come, Meg, could we not call a truce? This is a party, after all.”

“Very well. I will agree to a truce,” she said stiffly, though she was reluctant to lower the shield of her antagonism.

“Perhaps we could seal our agreement with a dance.” He glanced toward the couples in the center of the floor.

“You don’t know how.”

“It sounds not unlike a waltz.”

“It’s a strathspey.”

“I believe we could make a waltz out of it. ’Tis an elegant dance. I could teach you.” He reached down and took her hand in his. “I hold your hand, thus. And put my other hand on your waist.” His fingers curved around her side.

Heat stole through Meg, and her heart gave a crazy, little leap. She stepped back, pulling her hand from his. “It does not matter. The next dance will be a reel.”

“What you were dancing earlier with that most fortunate man? A country dance, I think; I can manage that as well. Still, I can see that you are quite set against dancing. Do you not care for music? I confess I have no ear for the bagpipes, but I thought the fiddler seemed rather accomplished.”

“The fiddler is my father.” She had the satisfaction of seeing she had surprised him.

Damon turned to look at the musicians. “Is he now? Then he has more than his music to be proud of.” Studying Alan, Damon went on, “Ah, yes, I can see the resemblance to your brother.”

“Do not say that to Coll.”

He glanced back at her curiously. “Yet I would think your father is a man most would term handsome. Your brother is not fond of him?”

“Da is . . . a wandering sort of man. We did not see him much.”

“Some would consider that an advantage in a father.”

What was she doing, standing here talking about her family with the Earl of Mardoun? Coll would be furious if he knew she had revealed anything of him to a stranger, much less to a man he held in contempt.

“Yes, well, excuse me, but I must, um . . .” She turned aside, glancing vaguely around the room. “I should go,” she finished lamely.

“I can see that you have urgent business . . . somewhere.”

Meg narrowed her eyes in irritation. “I don’t know why
I bother with courtesy for you. Shall I just say that I do not wish to talk to you?”

“You may say that, yet I would swear it is not true. But I will not argue the point.” He shrugged. “You do not wish to talk. Nor does dancing please you. There must be other things we could do.” He slanted a sideways glance at her.

“There are not,” Meg told him firmly.

“We managed to find some the other afternoon.” His low voice curled through her like whiskey. He reached out to take her elbow, then with a feather touch ran his fingertips down the underside of her arm. “I could remind you.”

Meg was jolted by the unexpected heat that shot straight into her abdomen and blossomed between her legs. She pulled away. “No.” Meg heard the hitch in her voice, and she mentally cursed the weakness. “Lord Mardoun—”

“Damon.”

“Lord Mardoun,” she repeated firmly. “Other women may be flattered to receive your attentions, but not I. I am not some dangling fruit to drop into your hands at the slightest wind. I am not loose or weak. I am not easy.”

“I do not think you are easy.” A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Indeed, I believe you are quite difficult. But the hardest fruit to reach is often the sweetest, is it not?”

“I am sure I wouldn’t know.” She lifted her chin. “I do not know what you hope to obtain by plaguing me like this. Indeed, I cannot understand why you came here at all, since you are clearly a man who values sheep more than human beings. Perhaps you should try conversing with them instead.”

It gave Meg some gratification to see Mardoun’s eyebrows shoot up in astonishment. Without waiting for him to recover enough to respond, she whirled and strode off.
Heading straight for her brother, she grabbed Coll’s arm and pulled him onto the dance floor. Coll, nimble on his feet despite his size, was happy to oblige, and he’d downed enough whiskey to then be cajoled into singing a lament with their father.

By the time Meg looked around the barn again, the earl had gone. That was a relief, she told herself. But she found that the evening had lost its sparkle.

Damon stood on the upper terrace, gazing out across the gardens. He took a last sip of his brandy and contemplated going back inside to pour another glass, but he found himself reluctant to leave the view. Drenched with moonlight, the gardens dropped down the hillside, revealing a view in the distance of the narrow slice of road to the village. The scene was lovely and peaceful . . . and Meg Munro would take the road on her way home from the wedding celebration.

He had, he thought, played his hand well tonight with Meg. He had teased a little, but not pressed. Reminded her of the passion between them the other afternoon, but had not acted like a man desperate to bed her—no matter how hot his blood had been humming through his veins. They had actually had something resembling a conversation. But that tart remark at the end from her about people and sheep had left him floundering. He’d never before had a woman criticize him about his estate practices—and what the devil did his decision to bring in sheep have to do with her, with them? Meg seemed to be grasping for reasons to resent him.

But that was better, surely, than indifference. Meg had responded to him physically; he was certain of the light that had sparked in her eyes, the shiver that had run through her when he slid his fingers down her arm. He had left the festivities early instead of making a cake of himself by hanging about watching her, as he had been tempted to. It had been a beginning.

The trouble was, he wanted so much more than a beginning. Damon shifted, one hand absently rubbing his chest. A breeze wafted over him, lifting his hair and teasing over his torso, cool and soft. He had removed his jacket and waistcoat and the constricting neckcloth when he came home, but still he was warm.

Damon set his glass aside on the balustrade and wandered down the steps, restless. It would be easier to see the entire road from the lower terrace. He had stood there looking out often enough these past few days, especially in the evenings when the soft half-light of the gloaming turned the landscape dreamy and seductive, and he had caught sight of Meg once or twice. He was acting a fool, he knew. Had anyone told him a month ago that he would be loitering about the gardens, hoping to catch a glimpse of a country girl—indeed, of any female—he would have laughed. Still, he could not leave just yet.