Scotsmen Prefer Blondes (26 page)

“You are so mad for duty that you care for nothing else,” Amelia spat out. “What of your duty to me?”

He seemed truly puzzled by that. “I haven’t mistreated you, have I? You’ll have the finest of everything in London, once we’ve settled there. Ferguson said yesterday that he has a townhouse he’ll sell us, and you can decorate it however you like.”

The Duke of Rothwell knew they were going to London before Amelia did? “You should have your precious Ferguson choose the colors. I’m sure he’s more
au courant
than I am.”

Malcolm’s lips quirked. “If we’re stealthy, we could steal the furnishings from him.”

She grinned, then bit her lip. Malcolm’s humor was too appealing, too distracting. She found her anger again and held onto it.

“You can’t treat me like a piece of baggage, Malcolm. I had a life before you, and I don’t want to lay it aside at your say-so.”

“And what, pray, was that life?” he asked, crossing his arms. “Your correspondence?”

She lifted her chin. “Among other things.”

“I haven’t asked who you write to. But know that I could burn every scrap of paper and open every letter you receive if I have a mind to.”

“I know,” she replied. Beneath her anger, she felt panic — and somewhere beneath that, unacknowledged tears. It turned her into a trapped animal, frenzied and violent. “At least I know duty is all you care for. When I’ve given you a son, you’ll surely let me seek my own pleasure like any other dutiful wife.”

She had no desire to sleep with anyone but him — she just wanted to turn his attention away from her writing. But his sudden scowl was gratifying.

“You’re not writing to other men,” he said. It almost sounded like an effort to convince himself, not a question. “You were innocent when we married. You can’t have tired of me yet.”

“I tire of this conversation already.”

He barked a laugh. “It’s your conversation, not mine.”

“Are you really set on going to London? On doing your duty rather than indulging for another few months? I thought we wouldn’t go to town until the start of the Season next spring.”

He sighed. “It must be done, darling. And if you’re so determined to be rid of me, I’d best take you with me so I can keep an eye on your traitorous body.”

His tone was a jest, but as he dropped his gaze to her breasts, his longing was real. She flushed. He may have thought her body would betray him — but from the heat she felt as he inspected her bosom, she knew it was dangerously close to betraying her as well.

She reached up and poked him in the chest. He brought his attention back to her face. “So that’s all you want?” she asked. “Duty and fidelity? Nothing else?”

He didn’t answer. She held her breath without realizing it as his hand came up to caress her face. His thumb traced across her cheekbone, remarkably gentle, and she leaned into his touch. She thought he would kiss her, would apologize, would relent...

But he pulled away. “Duty and fidelity,” he repeated. “Anything else for our class is a distraction.”

A distraction
. Of all the villains she’d ever written, none had been as cruel as this. She gasped, sucking in the air her lungs suddenly screamed for. Her rage flared up and flamed out, a bonfire smothered by endless cold.

“A distraction,” she whispered. The word etched itself in the ice on her heart, like a pattern traced on frost-covered glass, one that would return again and again at every touch of cold.

“A pleasant distraction,” he amended, looking at her oddly. “A wonderful distraction. A better distraction than I ever thought to find.”

There was a compliment buried there, but if she reached to grasp it, she only felt the thorns. “I think we understand each other, my lord.”

He eyed her warily. “Do we?”

“Yes.” She nodded, trying to be as coldly cruel as he was. “I distract you. And I’ve let you distract me for far too long.”

He hadn’t reacted yet. She smiled sweetly and aimed for his heart. “Don’t fear, though. We can set up separate households as soon as we return to London. Now that you’ve got the wife you wanted and I’m not ruined, I see no reason at all why I should stay at your side.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Malcolm should have been elated. He should have ushered her back to the breakfast room, fed her, and arranged separate housing within the hour.

He should not have felt like throttling her.

And he most certainly should not have turned on his heel, walked through the door, and locked it behind him.

He didn’t plan to leave her there — he just needed a few minutes to think. And it was easier to think when he wasn’t confronting those expressive blue eyes, or considering how her breasts looked better cupped in his hands than they did covered up by yards of black crepe.

Admittedly, the vibrations from Amelia pounding on the door as he leaned against it weren’t conducive to rational thought. But now that she had admitted exactly what he already realized and acknowledged that they shouldn’t be ruled by their passion, why did he feel like he was making the worst mistake of his life?

Malcolm banged his head against the door.

“Let me out before I make you regret this!” Amelia shouted. The words were muffled by the wood, but her annoyance rang through.

He grinned. He already regretted it, but whatever revenge Amelia planned would likely amuse him.

That amusement wasn’t what he wanted in a marriage. He’d always thought his wife would be a paragon, one who could preside over his dinner table and perform credibly in the ton.

Amelia was better suited to preside over a battlefield than a teapot.

Malcolm knew what kind of wife he should have looked for. But faced with a choice between Amelia in all her glory and prim, dull Miss Etchingham, his body had made the choice for him. It wasn’t just his body that wanted her, though. He could lose hours talking to her, let days pass without wanting the sound of a fresh voice.

He would have to control himself if he wanted to leave her long enough to accomplish anything for his clan. But while he would force himself to find some distance, he only needed it during the day. He hadn’t even survived one night without her. Surely they could find a compromise rather than parting ways entirely?

His wife cursed on the other side of the door. Something metallic scraped across the stones. He turned the key and pulled the door open. Amelia stood inches away from the threshold, dragging an ancient broadsword.

“Not very sporting of you to try to kill me,” he said.

Amelia grunted as she lifted the sword. “I came downstairs planning to kill you — no sense wasting this dress.”

But a laugh lurked in her eyes, and she didn’t struggle when Malcolm took the sword from her. It was meant to be wielded with two hands, and he swung it in an easy arc before replacing it on the wall. “Darling, violence will not solve our problems.”

“Neither will locking me away when the mood strikes you,” she said. “If we cannot even finish a conversation without wanting to kill each other, how can we live together?”

“Not all of our conversations end like this. We haven’t fought at all since the wedding.”

“We haven’t spent our time talking, you dolt.” He snickered at that, but she didn’t rise to the bait. “If we were accustomed to talking, you would have consulted me about London.”

He held up his hands. “I’m sorry.”

She glared at him.

“Truly,” he said.

“Do you know what you are apologizing for?”

He didn’t — he just wanted her to calm down. But he knew better than to admit it. “I apologize for not asking your opinion.”

She crossed her arms. “And if I said I wanted to stay here? What would you do?”

“Do you want to stay here?”

“I find I love the Highlands more than I expected.”

That had nothing to do with him, but he still felt a boost of satisfaction at knowing she was settling into their home. “We’ll return for Christmas. But I must go to London for the start of Parliament in November if I’m to meet potential allies.”

“So you’ve decided about Christmas too?” she asked. “Really, are you such an autocrat that you cannot even feign interest in my opinion?”

He winced. “Marriage requires adjustments. I’ll admit I’m not accustomed to asking anyone’s preferences.”

She didn’t seem mollified by that, so he went on the attack. “You know, darling,” he said, watching her face. “You’re not so good at this marriage business either. Have you met with Graves or the housekeeper a single time since becoming my countess?”

She deflated. He hadn’t seen her shoulders drop like that before. He almost felt guilty — almost.

“Your mother has things well in hand,” she said.

“But it’s not her house anymore. It’s ours. She’ll remove to the dower house when she’s finished redecorating it, and then the castle, our house in Edinburgh, and the house we’ll open in London will all be yours to manage.”

Amelia scowled. “You sound like that’s a reward.”

He spread his arms to encompass the room around them. “You said you loved the Highlands. If you want this to be your home, then make it so.”

Her eyes were stark. He knew she still had secrets — knew it even more now that they’d spent several weeks together. A woman of her passionate leanings wouldn’t have spurned the attentions of all men for a decade unless she was hiding something.

Malcolm doubted that he wanted to know what she was hiding, even though the question ate at him. He wanted her to tell him freely, not because she’d been caught. Still, he wasn’t above prodding a bit, if that would encourage her to compromise and keep living with him.

He strolled around her, like a wolf circling a deer, and sat in the chair he’d previously placed her in. She turned, watching him, sensing his shifting mood.

He leaned back. “If you don’t want to share my house, of course, there are other alternatives.”

“What are those?” she asked, her eyes narrowing suspiciously.

“I’ve a house on the western isles, utterly remote, that would give you as much solitude as you desire. Although I must warn you that your bed there will be quite chilled without me in it.”

She grinned before she caught herself. “You are remarkably self-assured.”

“You make it easy to be,” he said.

“Would that I could be so confident.”

Her voice was soft, suddenly uncertain. Doubt should have no place in her heart — she was too strong for that.

He held out a hand for her. When she took it, he pulled her into his lap. “Come to London with me, Amelia. I want you there, distraction or no.”

She toyed with a button on his waistcoat. “What if I can’t be what you need? I don’t want to be a mere distraction, but I never aspired to be a hostess, or a mother, or a wife.”

“What did you aspire to be?”

She didn’t answer. Was this her secret? Some hidden longing? A secret passion she couldn’t name?”

He tried to guess. “You aren’t... I mean to say...”

He cut himself off. She looked up at him, her eyes wide. He finished his question before he choked on it. “You and Miss Etchingham aren’t of the, er, Sapphic persuasion, are you?”

She paused, just for a moment, just long enough for his heart to stop. Then she burst into laughter, and the peals of it bounced off the bare stone walls.

“You thought Prue and I were lovers?” she asked when she could speak again. “Really?”

“Not really — not after everything you and I have done. But few women dream of something other than children. What’s your dream?”

She closed her eyes. When she opened them again, there were tears there, but he didn’t know if they were from laughter or mourning. “It was just a dream, my lord.”

“Tell me,” he urged, shamelessly going back on his plan to give her time.

She searched his face, looking for something. Then she said, “What if I told you I wanted to write?”

“Is that all?” he asked.

“All?” she echoed. “You really think it’s nothing?”

She looked affronted. He had just broken through — he couldn’t let her shut him off again. “I didn’t mean it as an insult,” he assured her. “But compared to being in love with someone else or committing high treason with your letters, writing seems preferable.”

“No treason,” she promised. Then she sobered. “It’s just not something I had planned to give up, and yet marriage to you...”

He kissed the side of her neck, reveling in the way she opened for him. “As long as it doesn’t cause a scandal or keep you from your duties as my countess, what’s the harm? I’m sure it’s fashionable in some circles for you to write bits of poetry or what not.”

“So if I don’t cause a scandal, I can write?” she asked.

Her voice was breathy from his kiss, but the look in her eyes said that the fate of their marriage rested on his answer.

“Yes,” he said. “I’ll even go you one better and say that as long as your nights are mine, you can use your days however you wish.”

Her eyes lit up. He almost felt guilty — it wasn’t much of a compromise, not when he knew he would need to stay away from her during the day if he was to accomplish anything meaningful in Parliament.

His guilt buried itself when she kissed him, hot and hungry. He let her take the lead this time — and she nearly broke him on the stone floor. When they finished, her black skirts were covered in dust and his trousers were hopelessly creased.

But she would go to London with him. And her secret, now that she had divulged it, was benign enough.

It was a victory. He had won their battle. But he may have lost the war.

Because looking up at her, as they both came undone, with the sunlight streaming through her hair and the light in her eyes, he realized he had fallen in love with his wife.

Bloody hell
.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

London - 26 November 2012

Amelia pushed her loathsome eggs around her plate. She should have hired a new cook, but she didn’t want to admit that they would stay long enough to need one. Malcolm sat at the head of their new breakfast table, thumbing through the morning papers and making notes in a ledger that had rarely left his side since arriving in London a month earlier. His fingers, when he came to their bed at night, were almost as blackened by ink as hers.