Scottish Brides (14 page)

His eyes held hers. “Most wives would prefer that their husbands worshipped something other than their opinions.”

His tone was even more provocative than her glance.

“Indeed?” Rose smiled brightly. “I must remember to discuss the point with Jeremy.” Her eyes still on Duncan's, she gestured airily. “Who knows what else about me he might feel moved to worship?”

Something changed in Duncan's eyes. For an instant, she thought the flames were back—before she could be sure, his gaze dropped from hers. She felt it sweep over her like a warm summer wind.

Her nerves tightened; excitement flickered across her skin.

“I think,” he drawled, his voice two tones lower, “that I could make an educated guess.” His gaze slowly rose; reaching her face, it locked with hers. He stepped toward her.

Eyes flying wide, Rose stepped back. And came up against the window frame. Duncan continued to advance; she hauled in a desperate breath. “Indeed?” It took effort not to squeak.

His gaze dropped to her bodice, which was straining as she couldn't release the breath she'd sucked in. “Hmm.”

He halted directly before her, with a bare inch between them. With her spine plastered to the window frame, Rose struggled not to quiver. “Well? What?”

Slowly, he lifted his head—until his gaze locked with hers again. Rose forgot her struggle to breathe, forgot not to quiver—she lost all ability to think. A tangible force, his maleness reached for her, wrapped around her, locked—and held her at his mercy. She couldn't blink, could not break free—like mesmerized prey, quivering to the core, she watched his darkened eyes and the glint within them that she'd mistaken for flames.

Then his lips curved—teasingly. “I've forgotten the question.”

He looked down on the words—at her lips.

Rose felt them soften, felt them part.

Slowly, Duncan lowered his head—

They both heard the step outside the door an instant before it swung open. Jerermy entered.

“Ah!” His face lit up. “There you are.”

Supported by the window frame, Rose fought down the urge to press a hand to her heaving breast. “Yes—” Her vocal chords seized. Nodding, she cleared her throat and tried again. “Here I am.” She steadfastly ignored the potent presence lounging against the other side of the window.

“We were just discussing,” he purred, “the prospects for riding.”

Rose shot him a scandalized look; he turned to her and grinned. “Not today, I fear—perhaps tomorrow?”

The question was so pointed, she had to answer. “I sincerely doubt it,” she managed.

“Oh, I don't know,” Jeremy chimed in. “Nothing like a brisk gallop to stir the blood.”

“Indeed,” Duncan agreed.

“You were looking for me?” Rose determinedly cut in. She managed to keep her tone light, if brittle.

Jeremy smiled engagingly. “It started to rain, so we cut short our walk. I wondered if we might pass the time to lunch about the billiard table.”

Rose smiled. “An excellent idea.” Deciding her legs were now steady enough to risk walking, she started across the room.

“Rose.”

Duncan's tone sent tingling shivers streaking down her spine. Rose halted; slowly, she turned back.

“You forgot your book.” He held it up.

Rose looked at it, clasped in his long, strong fingers, then looked at him. He made no move to bring the book to her. She drew in a quick breath. “I'm no longer interested in reading it.”

With that, she swung around—and saw Jeremy smile at Duncan. “Care to join us, Strathyre?”

Rose froze; she could hear her heart beating. After what seemed an interminable age, she heard Duncan's voice, cool, but with an undertone just for her: “I think not. I have other skills to hone.”

Almost giddy with relief, Rose nodded vaguely in his direction—and escaped before he could change his mind.

 

By dinnertime, she'd convinced herself she'd made too much of the entire episode. No matter what the circumstances, no matter what the provocation—no matter what her fevered brain might have imagined—Duncan would never lay a finger, much less a lip, on her. He certainly wouldn't ravish her. Not Duncan. He might threaten all manner of retribution, but he'd never, in all their shared years, ever physically retaliated.

Except once, but that had been a sort of mistake.

As she waited in the drawing room for the gentlemen to return, her impatience hidden behind a serene mask, Rose reviewed all she had seen of Duncan from lunchtime onward.

The clouds had broken by then; the weather had progressively improved. As she and Jeremy had risen from the luncheon table, Duncan had come up, Clarissa on his arm, and suggested a stroll through the gardens. She'd smiled and kept her hand firmly on Jeremy's arm. But Duncan had been charming—and nothing more. At no time during the long, thoroughly enjoyable ramble, nor during the protracted afternoon tea in the parlor once they'd got back, had she seen so much as a fleeting glimpse of the prowling predator she'd faced in the library.

Which meant he'd been teasing her, scaring her—putting on a very good show to intimidate her into keeping out of his hair, keeping her distance and keeping her tongue between her teeth, at least with respect to his proposed marriage.

She swallowed an indignant
humph
as Clarissa came to join her before the open window.

Clarissa frowned at the soft twilight outside, and shivered delicately. “It's sort of eerie, isn't it—that odd light? Not proper daylight, but not night.” She flashed a gentle smile at Rose. “I fear I'm rather sensitive to atmosphere. I find all this”—she gestured to the mountain peaks looming over the valley—“dreadfully cold.”

Rose bit her tongue, swallowing the advice that Clarissa should not inform Duncan that she thought his home “dreadfully cold.”

“Luckily, there doesn't seem to be any real reason Strathyre needs to spend time here—the estate contributes very little to his wealth, I understand.” Clarissa turned and scanned the long, elegantly appointed room. ‘‘The house, of course, is magnificent—such a pity it isn't in Kent, or Surrey, or even Northamptonshire. Still”—Clarissa flashed another of her sweet, confiding looks at Rose—“I dare say, seeing it's so grand a residence, it won't be too hard to find a tenant.”

Rose only just managed not to choke. “Hmm” was all she felt it safe to say. Clarissa remained beside her, idling away the time until the gentlemen joined them; Rose considered long and hard but, in the end, said nothing.

It wasn't her place to puncture Clarissa's bubble, and given Clarissa's open lack of appreciation for Duncan's home—his ancestral seat—she couldn't believe he would be such a nitwit as to offer for the girl. In all logical matters, she had absolute confidence in his good sense. If nothing else, his drive for perfection—especially strong where his home was concerned—would see him, and Ballynashiels, safe from the tragedy of him marrying Clarissa. She didn't need to say anything more on that score.

Which should make things simpler. It wasn't on account of Clarissa that she intended to beard the prowling leopard tonight.

From the corner of her eye, she spied movement by the door; together with Clarissa, she turned as the gentlemen strolled in. Duncan was the last, in company with her father. Inwardly grinning, Rose turned aside, a smile curving her lips as Jeremy approached.

She neither looked at, nor smiled at, Duncan. She wanted to get him alone; she had a shrewd idea how to manage it.

Clarissa drifted away, pausing by the
chaise
where her parents sat; Duncan joined her there. Rose bided her time until the tea had been dispensed, and some of the older members of the party had retired, before leaning closer to Jeremy and suggesting, “Let's stroll on the terrace. It's stuffy in here, and the breeze is so mild.”

She directed Jeremy's gaze to where French doors stood open to the deepening twilight, fine curtains wafting on the breeze. “The terrace stretches down the side of the house—there's a lovely view of the loch from the end.” She started to stroll, steering him, unresisting, toward the French doors.

“I suppose . . .” He looked down at her. “As long as you don't think it improper?”

Rose smiled, very warmly, up at him. “I'm quite sure no one will even imagine we have any impropriety in mind.”

Except Duncan.

They strolled past him as he conversed with Mrs. Edmonton and one of his aunts, Clarissa still on his arm. Without so much as a glance in his direction, with her gaze—indeed, all her attention—apparently fixed on Jeremy, Rose allowed her escort to hold back the curtains and hand her onto the terrace.

The air was cool, the breeze as mild as she'd intimated; the sky was a wash of muted pastels, with soft clouds gathering about the peaks. Strolling the flags, Rose closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath, scented with pine and spruce, and wondered how Clarissa could fail to appreciate the magic of Ballynashiels.

“It's such a peaceful place.”

Rose opened her eyes and smiled at Jeremy. Together, they stopped by the balustrade and looked out across the well-tended lawn, host to a grouping of old shade trees. Beyond lay the shrubbery, a conglomeration of deepening shadows.

“You seem . . .”—Jeremy gestured—“very much at home here.”

Rose grinned. “I am.” Removing her hand from his sleeve, she leaned on the balustrade. “Ballynashiels feels like home.”

“But you live in Edinburgh with your father, don't you?”

“Yes, but—” Rose broke off; she and Jeremy both turned at the sound of a footstep.

Rose met Duncan's dark gaze and smiled serenely. “Have you come to take the air? Come and join us.” She waved him forward. “I was just telling Jeremy how I used to spend the summers here.”

Duncan hesitated, then strolled over. “I see.”

“Indeed.” Exuding guileless innocence, Rose flashed him a smile. “Even you must remember.” She turned her laughing glance on Jeremy. “I was forever under Duncan's feet.” She proceed to describe, in terms both humorous and brief, an abridged but not untruthful history of her visits. Jeremy was entranced, as she'd intended him to be; Duncan listened silently—the suspicious cynicism in his gaze, only she could see.

“So that's how I know Ballynashiels so well.”

Jeremy smiled his underapproaching; he glanced at Duncan. “She must have been quite a handful.”

Duncan looked at him, then looked at Rose. “Not as much as you might think.”

Rose responded with a look of mild amusement, then turned her back on him and faced the mountains once more. With a graceful sweep of her arm, she encompassed the landscape. “It's so wild and beautiful—and untamed.”

His gaze on the mountains, Jeremy murmured in agreement.

His gaze on Rose, Duncan said nothing at all.

Suddenly, she shivered, just as Jeremy turned back to her.

“I say,” he said. “You're cold. We'd best go inside.”

“Oh, no!” Chafing her bare arms, Rose smiled pleadingly. “It's so pleasant out here.”

Jeremy frowned. “But you might catch a chill.”

“Perhaps”—Rose tilted her head—“if you were to fetch my shawl . . .”

“Of course.” Jeremy straightened. “Where is it?”

“I think . . .” Rose frowned. “I
think
I left it in the drawing room.”

Jeremy grinned. “Never fear, I'll find it.” With a bright smile, he strode for the French doors and disappeared inside.

Duncan watched him go, then turned his gaze on Rose. “What are you up to?”

“Up to?” For one instant, her face remained a picture of abject innocence, then she dropped her facade and smiled at him, with that teasing, taunting smile she reserved just for him. Turning, still smiling, fingers tightly trailing the balustrade, she strolled down the terrace. “Why do you imagine I'm upto anything?”

Duncan watched her retreating form, then inwardly shrugged and strolled after her. “Wild, beautiful and untamed. You may fool all others with your social facade, but I know you, remember?”

“You've missed twelve years—you don't know me at all.”

“I could quote that back at you, with greater accuracy, but some things never change.”

“Indeed?” Rose stopped at the end of the terrace, where the balustrade curved in a semicircle, and swung to face him.

Duncan slowed as he neared, struck by the vision of her, set against the backdrop of the darkening mountains, the slate waters of the loch. A familiar tension had infused his every muscle by the time he stopped, directly before her. He looked down at her, studying her eyes. “You're as recklessly hoydenish as ever.”

Rose grinned. And wondered, now that she'd got him where she wanted him, just what to do next—how to lure the leopard into revealing his spots.

His attempt to intimidate her in the library had whetted her curiosity, raising it to impossible heights. She'd never encountered the particular power he now wielded; she wanted to learn more—at least enough to counter it, or, better yet, enough to wield it herself. At the moment, she felt at a disadvantage, as if he'd found some special place in the countryside and hadn't yet shown her. She intended to drag his secret from him.

Turning back to the view, she slanted him a considering glance. “I have to say I was taken aback by your choice of Clarissa; she seems so cool, so reserved. Not at all the sort of lady with whom I'd imagined you dallying.”

When Duncan said nothing, she risked a quick glance at his face; his gaze was fixed on her, his expression unread-able. He appeared, to her chagrin, to be entirely at ease—not precisely relaxed, but definitely in control, his lord-of-the-manor mask firmly in place.

Her eyes on his, she raised a deliberately arch brow and let teasing amusement lace her tones. “Somehow, I imagined the ladies you would favor as having a little more fire.”