Pleasured (18 page)

Damon crossed his arms, staring broodingly out into the dark night as his carriage jounced along.

Damn it all! Why had he come tonight? He had known Meg might be there. It would have been unthinkable at home for a woman like Meg to mingle with the local gentry. But this place was odd. And, really, there was no woman like Meg at home—or anywhere else that he had seen. The
last thing he had needed was to see her, though questions had teased at his mind all day: What color dress would she wear? Would it be the same blue one with the lace that flirted across her breasts? He could picture her in gold to match her eyes. He had decided not to attend—what use was it to meet the local gentry when he would be leaving in a few weeks? There was little point in staying; the closeness that he had established here with his daughter had been set back by her fascination with Meg Munro.

Lynette did not argue or pout, but he could feel her withdraw, once more uncertain of her step around him.

That, too, was Meg Munro’s fault, as were the long, sleepless nights and the heated, vivid dreams when he did manage to sleep, dreams that always ended with his waking up sweating and hard and surging with lust. In those early mornings, desperate and hungry, it had taken all his will not to rise and go to Meg, to beg her to relent and take him into her bed again. He knew he would probably have done so if he had had the least idea what Meg wanted from him, what it would cost him to win her.

Despite his firm intentions, he had in the end gone to the party, telling himself he should get out of the house. It had been agreeable to meet another Englishman adrift among these Highlanders. Jack Kensington was pleasant, easy. Familiar. Then Kensington had led Damon across the floor to meet his wife, and there was Meg Munro, standing beside her. He had barely noticed the tall blonde beside her. How could anyone make an impression next to Meg’s vivid beauty?

Damon’s heart had skittered in his chest, and he had known that, no matter how he tried to deny it or hide it, she
was what had brought him to the party. The nagging, restless itch that ate at him. Desire for Meg was a fever in his blood. And she hated him.

She was the most difficult, impossible, frustrating woman he had ever met, as foreign to him as the farthest star. He ought to be glad to never have anything to do with her again. Yet even as he walked to her, even as he braced himself to face her wrath, her coldness, her indifference, whatever she chose to fling at him, deep inside him hope whispered that he could find what had turned her against him and make it right.

Well, he had certainly found out the answer tonight, and it gave him no peace. Damon let out a low groan and sat forward, bracing his elbows on his knees and sinking his head onto his hands. The vehicle rolled between the magnificent open gates at the entrance to his castle grounds, and Damon sat up abruptly and rapped on the ceiling. The coachman pulled the team to a stop.

“No. Do not get down.” Damon motioned to the coachman as he stepped down from the carriage. “Drive on to the house. I will walk from the gatehouse.”

“Aye, my lord.” If the coachman thought the earl’s command was peculiar, it did not show on his face.

As the carriage rolled away, Damon turned toward the small stone cottage. The gatehouse was dark, but Damon rapped on the door anyway, then again, with more force. “MacRae! Answer the door, man. It is I, Mardoun.”

There were noises inside and a moment later a bolt slid on the door, and it opened. MacRae had taken the time to pull on breeches and a shirt, but his feet were bare and his hair stuck out in all directions. In one hand he carried an
oil lamp. “Come in, my lord, come in.” He stepped back, gesturing inside. “Pray, sit down.” He set the lamp on a table and turned the wick higher, illuminating the room.

“I’ll stand. This should not take long.” Damon leveled a cool gaze at MacRae. “Did you burn a tenant out of his home last week?”

MacRae shifted, his eyes wary, and he said in a careful tone, “I evicted Wes Keith from the croft he worked, aye. He was stubborn. Defiant, so I took steps to make him leave.”

“And those steps were to set a torch to the thatched roof while the family was still inside?”

“Sometimes it is the only way, sir.”

“You have done this before? You have burned the homes of several crofters?”

“Those that wouldna leave, aye. As I told you, sir, they are a stiff-necked lot. I have had to use force to evict them.”

“Burning their homes and all their possessions? Lighting a fire while there are still women and children inside?”
Meg.

MacRae set his jaw mulishly. “Sir, you dinna know how these people are.”

“I am learning how
you
are.” Damon took a step forward, looming over the man. “There was a dying woman in that house.”

“These people are wily, sir. Deceitful. They always have some excuse not to go, some reason you must wait.”

“I should think that a woman on her deathbed would be sufficient reason to hold off.”

“How was I to know she was dying, my lord? Like as not, the whole thing was a pretense, a delaying tactic. Indeed, we still dinna know.”

“Miss Munro told you she was dying.”

“Miss Munro.” The other man’s eyes were suddenly bright with fury. “That’s it! It’s her that told you! She’s wrapped you around her finger, and you’re so hot to have what’s between her legs that you’ll believe the whore’s li—”

Damon’s fist landed squarely on the man’s chin, knocking him to the floor. “You are through here, MacRae. I want you out of this house and off my land tomorrow.”

MacRae reached up a hand to wipe away the blood trickling down his chin. “My lord,” he whined, “I was doing what you wanted. You told me to clear them out.”

“I did not tell you to burn people out of their homes!” Damon thundered. “Or to haul a woman off her deathbed and leave her lying on the ground. You have attached my name to your contemptible actions and made
Mardoun
a byword for cruelty. I will not stand for it.”

“You were happy enough to get the money from it.” MacRae scrambled to his feet. “I never heard you asking any questions before about how it was done. Not until Meg Munro threw out her lures to you. You will live to regret this. You’ll learn what she’s like. What she’s after. She’ll lead you around like a bull with a ring through his nose, and all the while they’ll all be laughing behind their hands.”

Damon’s eyes were cold and flat. “Well, you will not be here to witness it.”

18

T
he walk up the long
driveway to the house was not enough to ease the jittering nerves in Damon’s stomach, so he turned to his study and the decanter of brandy that waited there. Stripping off his jacket and slapping it down on a chair with a good deal more force than was necessary, he poured a large glass of brandy and sank down in the comfortable chair behind his desk.

Dismissing MacRae had relieved some of Damon’s pent-up emotions—and planting a facer on him proved even more satisfying. But it did not stop the images that preyed on him: the burning house—with Meg inside, a thought that turned his gut to ice; the old woman, wasted and weak, pulled from her bed and laid on the ground like some broken chair; the family cast adrift, torn from all they had known.

Damon wanted to protest that it was not his fault. He had not known his manager was shoving people out in such a manner. He would not have permitted it if he had been aware. He would certainly never have ordered
his manager to do so. He was
not
the ogre that Meg had painted him.

But that did not change what had happened. Nothing could. In the end, was it not his responsibility? MacRae had acted in his name. Damon had told the man to continue with the clearances. Indeed, that very morning of the eviction MacRae had told Damon he was going to clear out some crofts, and Damon had nodded and dismissed him, too caught up in the afterglow of his night with Meg to pay attention to the man. His ignorance of MacRae’s methods was no excuse, for surely he should have known what was happening on his own estate.

But MacRae’s words haunted Damon the most—he had been pleased enough to have the profits, and he hadn’t inquired too deeply into how that was accomplished.

Even with the aid of the brandy, sleep eluded him the rest of the night. For days, frustrated desire had made his sleep fitful, but this night—even though passion had flared up in him like a volcano when he kissed Meg—that was not what kept him awake. That hunger only thrummed on a lower level, a background to the endless circling of his thoughts.

Dawn found him the next morning standing on his balcony, a whimsical walkway connecting the bedrooms on this side of the hall, its primary purpose being to echo the identical stone balustrades edging the varying levels of garden far below. Damon had frequently haunted it since discovering that from it he could see all the way down to where the trail emerged at the bottom of the hill and joined with the path to Meg’s cottage. God, what a fool he was, drawn to her like iron to a magnet, no matter how fiercely she rejected him.

Damon turned away from the view and went back in
side. His valet waited for him there, his expression an expert rendering of resignation and disapproval at Damon’s disheveled appearance. “I know, I know, Blandings.” Damon held up a hand to stop his valet’s words. “I look like hell.”

“Far be it from me to criticize your lordship.” That meant, Damon knew, that Blandings was about to do exactly that, and at great length. “But you cannot go on without sleep.”

“I sleep.”

“This is the fourth time in the past week that I have come into your room of a morning to find you already awake.”

“Maybe it’s the Highland air.”

“Indeed. And no doubt that is why your plates return to the kitchen half-full every meal.”

“No,
that
is the Highland food.”

“Ah. Which leads one to wonder what the explanation is for the substantial decrease in Duncally’s supply of brandy.”

“Oh, Blandings, do leave off. The fact that I have neither wife nor mother does not mean that you must fill the void.”

With a sigh of martyrdom, the man fell silent and set about doing what he could to remedy Damon’s appearance. When he was done, Damon went downstairs to the dining room. When he saw Lynette at the table, he paused, then, straightening his shoulders, he went forward and took his seat.

“Lynette, I have changed my mind.” She looked over at him in surprise. “I was . . . under a misapprehension concerning Miss Munro. I learned last night that I have misjudged her. You have my permission to visit her . . . as long as she wishes it, of course.” He could only hope that Meg would be fond enough of his daughter not to mention her opinion of the girl’s father.

Having taken care of the first and mildest of his duties this morning, Damon went to his study after breakfast and removed a small bag from a drawer, pocketing it, then set out for Baillannan. It was a shorter trip across the fields to Baillannan than all around the loch, as a carriage would travel, and before long the massive, gray house loomed up before him. A groom ran out to take the reins of his horse, and Damon turned toward the house. He caught sight of a man striding up the path to the house from the other direction, and Damon stopped, letting out a low curse.

Coll Munro.

Damon clenched his jaw and waited. Coll lifted his head, saw Damon, and also came to a stop.

“You!” Coll spat, and charged Damon. Damon did not move aside, just knotted his fists and waited. He could not fault Munro for disliking him, but he’d be damned if he would back down before the man.

Coll was faster than Damon would have thought a man his size could be, and Damon barely had time to raise his fists to block a blow before Coll slammed into him, knocking him to the ground. Damon tasted blood as Coll’s fist landed, but Damon blocked the next blow and launched his own fist back into the other man’s face. They rolled across the ground, punching and grappling. Damon barely felt the blows; it was wonderfully gratifying to be able to hit something, even to take a punch in return.

Neither man heard the shouts behind them. When someone grabbed Damon’s arm, he surged up and back to fight off this new opponent. The other man blocked his blow with an upraised arm, then neatly grabbed Damon’s arm with both his and twisted it up behind his back. A small
man grabbed Damon’s other arm, and though he shook him off, a second groom joined him, and Damon staggered back under their combined weight.

“Bloody hell, man!” Jack roared. “Will you stop!”

Damon ceased struggling, the fever of battle cooling. He looked across to see Coll Munro in the grip of the Kensingtons’ squarely shaped butler and a groom, with Isobel Kensington standing in front of Coll to block him.

“Stop it, Coll!” Isobel snapped. “Will you shame me in my own house?”

“Ah, Izzy,” the big man said sullenly, sounding so much like a scolded boy that Damon let out a little chuckle.

“I’m glad you find it so amusing.” Isobel swung around to face Damon. “I fail to see the humor in going about starting brawls in front of my home.”

Jack’s grip on Damon’s arm relaxed and he shrugged out of Jack’s grasp. Straightening his jacket, Damon swept Isobel an elegant bow. “I sincerely apologize, Mrs. Kensington. In truth, I did not come here today to start a fight.”

“You’ve got a great amount of gall showing up here, Mardoun,” Coll said, shaking off the others’ light holds on him.

“I did not come here to see you, Munro.”

“I’m not sure why you
are
here, my lord,” Isobel interrupted crisply. “But if you have business with my husband, I’d suggest you get it over with and quickly. Coll is right. You are not welcome at Baillannan.”

Damon’s brows lifted as Isobel turned, taking a firm grip on Coll’s arm, and steered him to the house. Damon glanced over to find Jack regarding him expressionlessly. “Well. Mrs. Kensington is very, um, forthright.”

“’Tis her nature.” Jack almost smiled. He regarded
Damon thoughtfully for a long moment. “I must ask what you intend to do about Coll.”

“Do?” Damon blinked. “I have no intentions regarding Coll Munro other than to stay as far away from the bloody madman as possible. Every time I’ve seen him, he’s tried to hit me.”

Damon’s words surprised a short laugh out of Jack. “I understand the problem. Still, I should not like for him to be arrested.”

Damon scowled. “Do you think I would bring the law down on him for getting into a mill with me?”

Jack shrugged faintly. “You are a nobleman and English.”

“Well, I’m not the sort to press charges because a fellow drew my cork.” Damon realized that blood was trickling down his face, and he pulled out his handkerchief to wipe his face. “You talk as if you were not also those things.”

“Oh, I’m English enough, but no nobleman.” The brief flash of Jack’s smile held no warmth. “I am not a ‘member of your club,’ if that is what you thought.”

“I know that.”

“You do?” Now it was Kensington who looked surprised.

Damon shrugged. “Don’t worry; you’re quite good. But one can tell—your demeanor, while impassive enough, lacks that certain quality of utter indifference that is essential to a British gentleman.” Damon grinned, then winced at the pain it caused in his upper lip. “Ow. Bloody hell, that Munro has fists like rocks.”

“He is someone I prefer to have on my side. I assume you had a reason for coming here today.”

“Yes.” Damon folded his handkerchief, keeping his eyes on his hands. “I—Miss Munro advised me of some things,
practices of my steward . . . that I was not aware of. I—there is a crofter. Wes Keith. I wanted to talk to the man, but I realized that I had no idea where to find him. I did not like to ask one of the servants.” Damon shoved the piece of cloth into his pocket and lifted his head, jaw set. “The only person I could think of who might know the area well enough and who would be likely to tell me was you.”

“I see.”

“I was, you see, unaware that Mrs. Kensington would be, um . . .”

“My wife is very fond of Meg Munro. Everyone here is.”

“So am I. Unfortunately, she is rather less fond of me.” Damon took a step forward, fixing his eyes intently on Jack. “If you don’t wish to tell me where Keith is, it does not matter. I can find out another way. But I’m damned if I’ll let you think that I would ever in any way have intentionally hurt Meg Munro. I have—she is—oh, bloody hell, I’m not discussing her with you or anyone else.” Damon turned and started toward his horse, still held by the highly interested groom.

“Mardoun. Wait.” Jack started after him. “I have no idea where Wes Keith lives. I’ve barely been here long enough to know the names of my own crofters, let alone yours. But I shall ask Isobel; there’s no one in the glen that she and Coll don’t know. I’ll have my horse saddled; there’s no hope of me giving you directions.”

Damon thought sourly that neither Coll nor Isobel would be likely to help, but to his surprise Jack emerged from the house a few minutes later and mounted the horse that had been led out of the stables for him.

They rode in silence for the most part. Kensington
seemed to have no need for social chatter, and Damon found that the burst of energy from the fight was swiftly draining from him. His jaw was beginning to ache, and the sleepless night was catching up with him. The narrow track they followed widened out, revealing a distant vista, one of the bleak and oddly beautiful views of hills and glen that one happened upon so often here. Closer to them, dwarfed by the magnificence behind it, stood a low, thatch-roofed house of the same dun color as the landscape around it.

As they approached, a man stepped out of the door, another man right after him. A curious blend of defiance and resignation was on their faces, and their postures were those of men braced for the worst.

Jack nodded to them. “Good day to you, sir. I am looking for the house of John Grant.”

“I am Grant,” the man in front said tersely.

“I am Jack Kensington. My wife sends you her regards.”

Grant nodded, though his gaze lost none of its wariness. “She is a fine lady, and we thank her for the things she sent.” His gaze slid over to Damon.

“The Earl of Mardoun asked me to guide him to your croft.”

“Aye, I see him.”

“I am looking for Wes Keith.” Damon dismounted, turning toward the other man.

“I’m Keith.” He crossed his arms, regarding Damon stonily. Behind him, two women and several children had begun to trickle out the door. One of the women held a baby in her arms, and a toddler had a hand firmly clenched in her skirts. One and all, their faces were etched with dread.

Damon, looking at the house, at the man, at the clump
of people, was suddenly at a loss for words. He cleared his throat. Finally, simply, he said, “I have come to apologize to you, Mr. Keith.”

Had the situation not been so grim, Damon thought he would have laughed at the stunned expressions on the faces before him. “I have been . . . lax in my oversight of my land. I chose a steward poorly and did not inquire too much into how he was governing Duncally. As a result, things have been done in my name”—Damon’s voice hardened under a fresh spark of anger—“things that were wrong, that I would not have had happen.” He took a step forward, his eyes on Keith. “I am sorry for your loss. For the house, the possessions, the uprooting of your family.”

“It’s little help now, is it?” Keith’s voice held more despair than accusation.

“No, you are right, it’s not.” Damon reached into his pocket and pulled out the bag of coins he had taken from his office earlier. He held it out to Keith, who gazed at him blankly. “Take it, man.” Damon waggled the bag impatiently, then thrust it into Keith’s hand. “It will not bring back what you lost, but it can, at least, help you to replace your possessions. If you wish to return to the croft and rebuild, you may. If you would prefer to emigrate, I will provide your passage.”

“I . . .”

As Keith continued to stare at Damon in shock, one of the women stepped forward and took possession of the bag, thrusting it into her pocket. “We thank you, my lord. Wes . . .”

“Aye, we do.”

“And pray give my best wishes to your mother,” Damon went on awkwardly, starting to move back to his horse.

To his dismay, Mrs. Keith invited him in to speak to Wes’s mother in person. Damon could see no way out of it, so he followed the woman into the hut, ducking his head to pass through the low doorway. Inside, the hut was dark, airless, and cramped; his head almost brushed the ceiling. His gaze went to the corner of the room, where a woman lay on a pad on the floor. She was pale and gaunt, so still and lifeless that he would have taken her for a corpse already were she not watching him. His gut clenched, but he strode forward and squatted down beside her.